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The Big Stupid Review

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09-01-2008
Routine by Felipe de Oliveira
Automatic Transmission by Warren Buckles
08-01-2008
The Axiom of Choice by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2008
A Pleasure Jaunt with One of the Sex Workers Who Don’t Exist in the People’s Republic of China by Tom Bradley
Making the Switch by George Sparling
06-01-2008
The War Prayer by Mark Twain
05-01-2008
About the Dog by Robert Aqunio Dollesin
04-01-2008
The Coup by Peter Schoenau
03-01-2008
Art School by Zach Plague
Consitutional Puppies by JR
02-01-2008
Selection from The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrope by Kane X. Faucher
Party Pooper from Make Me by Eli Richardson
Una Noche Perfecta para Sanguijuelas por Jim Chaffee (tr. Sonia Ramos Rossi)
01-01-2008
A Night in Cameroon by Kelly Jameson
Missile by Jason Jordan
12-01-2007
Nothing by J.R.
Sacrament by Sonia Ramos Rossi
11-01-2007
Green Mountain Incumbent by D E Fredd
When Pacino's Hot, I'm Hot by Robert Levin
10-01-2007
The Book of Ancient Wisdom by Hugh Fox
09-01-2007
Dog Days by Robert Levin
Junk-Pure by Forrest Armstrong
08-01-2007
Beefsteak Mistake, Jake by Kelly Jameson
Sand by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2007
How to Make a Baby by Robert Levin
A Rude Little Monkey by Kelly Jameson
06-01-2007
Revolver by Sandra Ramos Rossi
Brian and Mona by Jim Chaffee
05-01-2007
El Castrator by Thomas Head
04-01-2007
Alone, As Always by Jennifer Gardner
03-01-2007
Polar Regions by Gayla Chaney
02-01-2007
Two Stories of Sex Beyond Erotica: Editor's Introduction by Jim Chaffee
Photo Finish by Anya Wassenberg
Mephisto and Me by Lily Edwards
01-01-2007
Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken by D. E. Fredd
MoM by David Quinn
Full TEX Archive
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Junk-Pure

By Forrest Armstrong

view from matrix by Katalin Marton

There is a place where the matter in the air alone chokes pedestrian. Buildings run alongside a bleak road that never sees use. A body of water languid green like a dead jungle stands in the center, shattering into receding shards of glass at the first solemn touch.

At night giant embryonic bandages hang suspended from the clouds. Sinners traverse them like a catwalk with the invincibility trance up. Tonight, as I walk under the starlit sky, I see one get cocky and drop to the cement twenty yards below. He pops like a water balloon, latex skin flaring against the impact, blood whiplashing in the air like a fountain waterfall. I throw a lit cigarette into a gas well and watch the whole block ignite.

No one notices. That's the best part about living in a city that's in the later stages of decomposition. The city's falling apart everywhere; a skyscraper comes down here, a street combusts there: What's the difference?

One sinner lowers a bag of pitch black H on a fishhook with a note attached: "Pure satanic junk, straight from you-know-where: replace on hook with a twenty spot and it's yours, baby, shoot wisely…" I've seen someone try to cheat a dealer by grabbing the bag and taking off with it. The dealer doesn't usually have much to stick around for so he has no problem taking a swan dive onto the junky and snapping his spine… as long as the punk who tried to cheat him dies it was worth the suicide.

steam engine by Katalin Marton

When I step under the catwalk a shadow blocks me out. A star pulsates anti-energy overhead, light spinning into the nucleus like a garbage disposal. Thick smog the color of Satan's underbelly drapes dense around my ears. I walk through the streets in a haze…

 *** *** ** *

I stand in front of a mirror masturbating to myself masturbating to myself masturbating to myself etc., when my visage disperses and a black face like a bull with horns comes into focus. I jump back in recognition. Quiver-pull up my pants.

"What's wrong, kid," Satan says. "You knew I'd come for you eventually. Think you could live on the lip of hell forever and I wouldn't even notice you?"

"No, no, of course…" I stumble. "Drink? Tea? Anything?"

He steps out of the mirror. He's even more terrifying when he takes shape, the same sheen of power as a prize-horse. "You never touch junk, eh?"

"Not yet anyways, sir, but at your suggestion I could begin immediately—"

"You don't think my junk's any good?"

"I'm sure it's the best there is, sir, it's just—"

"It ain't about the junk. Christ, stop shittin' your pants, kid, I'm here to talk business. You're still alive and resting on the razor's edge. God's hands and mine stand equally outstretched on either side, so I ain't here to claim you just yet. Sit down."

I sit down fast and he continues, "Now listen kid, surely you assumed the Devil's got his agents, right? I got dealers laced throughout the city but I ain't omnipotent, you know? I only know what I see, and sometimes it ain't the whole story. Dealers try and skim off the top, you know what I'm sayin'? And some will go even further. I got guys I supply who think they can compete with me. So it's your job to weed out these faggots and turn ‘em in. You're an insider now. You fake dead. You walk the beltway of sinners at night and you get to know these assholes. Then you nark ‘em out."

He turns and starts to walk away.

"Do I have a choice?" I say.

"No you don't have a choice, you fuckin' loser. I'm the Devil." He walks into the mirror and again I can see my reflection, sheer-white.

 *** *** ** *

JC with wings by Katalin Marton