2018 KillerCon Deadite Press Gross-Out Contest: The Winning Entry
WARNING: The following short story contains graphic depictions of scat play and child abuse. It is not intended for minors or easily offended adults.
***As I mentioned in Monday's post I am now a back-to-back Gross-Out Contest winner! After winning the 2016 contest at the World Horror Convention in Provo, Utah with this piece, I managed to win again at KillerCon in Austin, Texas this past weekend. This year's contest was hosted by Deadite Press and the prize pack was rather handsome, including:
- 4 EC Comics
- "Magic Casket" by The Slow Poisoner CD
- "DC House of Horror" comic signed by Ed Lee, Brian Keene, Mary SanGiovanni, and Wrath James White
- SUNDANCING by Brian Keene
- Script of Brian Keene's "Ghoul"
- Flashing Mouth Light
- The Death Nut Challenge box of spicy peanuts
- A collection of "Dinosaurs Attack" trading cards
- An unopened blister pack of Garbage Pail Kids
- Two Garbage Pail Kids figurines
- A Buddy System pin (courtesy of Christine Morgan)
- Sex patches
- Cthulhu breath mints
and, perhaps most apropos of all:
- A Godzilla figurine
My thanks go out to the listeners, judges, other contestants, and, of course, the inimitable host Jeff Burk. Now, if you have a weak stomach or a sense of decency, read no further. You've been warned.***
“Everybody Poops. Especially Godzilla.”by Stephen Kozeniewski
A thick, cheesy brown fog rolled into town that morning. It seemed that Godzilla had been struck by another bad bout of diarrhea.
No one knows quite why Godzilla chooses to use our rustic town as his personal restroom, but I think it’s just our geography. We live in a perfectly concave valley, almost a crater, surrounded by mountains. Basically our small town is shaped exactly like a kaiju’s toilet bowl and now Godzilla’s various bodily excretions have become an integral part of our weather patterns.
I actually don’t mind days like today, when we get a little splash of Godzilla’s colon gravy. Sometimes my seven-year-old daughter Sophie and I will sit on the deck in our rain slickers, sipping tea, watching the dogs chase each other out on the lawn, turning their coats brown. Sometimes I joke that we have yellow labs most of the time, but chocolate labs on Taco Tuesdays. But, no, the diarrhea fog is not nearly as bad as the constipation.
Now I suppose a fancy city doctor might claim the fix for constipation is a spoonful of Metamucil, but out here in the country we know the simple ways are still the best: all you have to do is jam your thumb up in there and wiggle it around, removing each of those little Dippin Dots one at a time.
So, ‘round these parts, instead of filling up the water tower with laxatives and trying to convince Godzilla to drink, we just pay the local kids nickels to coat themselves in Vaseline, shimmy up Godzilla’s leg, and act as his thumb in the asshole, if you know what I mean.
For a while our best asshole spelunker was the epileptic kid who lives over on 7th, Timmy Mason. You can imagine what a natural advantage he had shaking those bowel movement loose, what with those fits of his. But then one day Timmy didn’t come back. Well, the truth is, he did come back, we were just never able to get him out of that giant, calcified lizard shit. We jackhammered at it for days, but had to give up. They had an empty casket at his wake, but to this day once a week like clockwork Mrs. Mason leaves a little bouquet of flowers at the foot of that big old log jam where her son still rests.
Anyhoo, that’s why I stopped letting Sophie be a browneye girl for nickels. Oh, don’t make that noise. I still let her have fun. Why, I remember just last May Sophie came tear-assing out of the house, crying “no school tomorrow, no school tomorrow, there’ll no be no school tomorrow ‘cause of jizz!” And, sure enough a glistening white goo coated the land. I mean, Godzilla’s still a man, you know. Before I knew it, Sophie was out in the yard making cum angels on the lawn and trying to catch falling sperm on the tip of her tongue. We even got into a jizzball fight. That little rascal hit me right in the eye. And at the end of day we built a little man with a corncob pipe and a button nose out of chunky globs of radioactive lizard semen.
Lately, though, it seems that Godzilla’s not the only kaiju who’s been getting in on the action. I thought I’d seen everything in this town, but last week when I went to go fill my swimming pool for the season, I saw that somebody had beaten me to it. Instead of water and chlorine my pool was full of thick, clotting menstrual blood. But I’ll tell you more about that in my next reading “Are you there, Godzilla? It’s me, Mothra.”
FIN
***As I mentioned in Monday's post I am now a back-to-back Gross-Out Contest winner! After winning the 2016 contest at the World Horror Convention in Provo, Utah with this piece, I managed to win again at KillerCon in Austin, Texas this past weekend. This year's contest was hosted by Deadite Press and the prize pack was rather handsome, including:
- 4 EC Comics
- "Magic Casket" by The Slow Poisoner CD
- "DC House of Horror" comic signed by Ed Lee, Brian Keene, Mary SanGiovanni, and Wrath James White
- SUNDANCING by Brian Keene
- Script of Brian Keene's "Ghoul"
- Flashing Mouth Light
- The Death Nut Challenge box of spicy peanuts
- A collection of "Dinosaurs Attack" trading cards
- An unopened blister pack of Garbage Pail Kids
- Two Garbage Pail Kids figurines
- A Buddy System pin (courtesy of Christine Morgan)
- Sex patches
- Cthulhu breath mints
and, perhaps most apropos of all:
- A Godzilla figurine
My thanks go out to the listeners, judges, other contestants, and, of course, the inimitable host Jeff Burk. Now, if you have a weak stomach or a sense of decency, read no further. You've been warned.***
“Everybody Poops. Especially Godzilla.”by Stephen Kozeniewski
A thick, cheesy brown fog rolled into town that morning. It seemed that Godzilla had been struck by another bad bout of diarrhea.
No one knows quite why Godzilla chooses to use our rustic town as his personal restroom, but I think it’s just our geography. We live in a perfectly concave valley, almost a crater, surrounded by mountains. Basically our small town is shaped exactly like a kaiju’s toilet bowl and now Godzilla’s various bodily excretions have become an integral part of our weather patterns.
I actually don’t mind days like today, when we get a little splash of Godzilla’s colon gravy. Sometimes my seven-year-old daughter Sophie and I will sit on the deck in our rain slickers, sipping tea, watching the dogs chase each other out on the lawn, turning their coats brown. Sometimes I joke that we have yellow labs most of the time, but chocolate labs on Taco Tuesdays. But, no, the diarrhea fog is not nearly as bad as the constipation.
Now I suppose a fancy city doctor might claim the fix for constipation is a spoonful of Metamucil, but out here in the country we know the simple ways are still the best: all you have to do is jam your thumb up in there and wiggle it around, removing each of those little Dippin Dots one at a time.
So, ‘round these parts, instead of filling up the water tower with laxatives and trying to convince Godzilla to drink, we just pay the local kids nickels to coat themselves in Vaseline, shimmy up Godzilla’s leg, and act as his thumb in the asshole, if you know what I mean.
For a while our best asshole spelunker was the epileptic kid who lives over on 7th, Timmy Mason. You can imagine what a natural advantage he had shaking those bowel movement loose, what with those fits of his. But then one day Timmy didn’t come back. Well, the truth is, he did come back, we were just never able to get him out of that giant, calcified lizard shit. We jackhammered at it for days, but had to give up. They had an empty casket at his wake, but to this day once a week like clockwork Mrs. Mason leaves a little bouquet of flowers at the foot of that big old log jam where her son still rests.
Anyhoo, that’s why I stopped letting Sophie be a browneye girl for nickels. Oh, don’t make that noise. I still let her have fun. Why, I remember just last May Sophie came tear-assing out of the house, crying “no school tomorrow, no school tomorrow, there’ll no be no school tomorrow ‘cause of jizz!” And, sure enough a glistening white goo coated the land. I mean, Godzilla’s still a man, you know. Before I knew it, Sophie was out in the yard making cum angels on the lawn and trying to catch falling sperm on the tip of her tongue. We even got into a jizzball fight. That little rascal hit me right in the eye. And at the end of day we built a little man with a corncob pipe and a button nose out of chunky globs of radioactive lizard semen.
Lately, though, it seems that Godzilla’s not the only kaiju who’s been getting in on the action. I thought I’d seen everything in this town, but last week when I went to go fill my swimming pool for the season, I saw that somebody had beaten me to it. Instead of water and chlorine my pool was full of thick, clotting menstrual blood. But I’ll tell you more about that in my next reading “Are you there, Godzilla? It’s me, Mothra.”
FIN
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