8 Tales of Darkly Psychotic Horror. You are cordially invited to attend the 10th Annual Pornographer's Party. This year's theme shall be horror and madness with our usual liberal sprinkling of black humour.
The festivities will include:
* A gigolo, invited to a remote island by an aging socialite with a terrifying secret.
* A soldier who discovers his true calling amidst the wanton horrors of war.
* A truck driver who inadvertently rescues a porn baron one dark and storm-swept night - and discovers the nightmare that festers beneath the skin-trade.
* A gameshow host forced to participate in a nightmare version of his own game.
* A recluse who likes his ladies on the large side, and will stop at nothing to feed his fetish.
...And more...so much More....
Please join us on this Unholy occassion and together let us plumb the depraved depths of the human psyche. With Best Compliments: The Royal Society of the Damned
Excerpt from SHAME:
He’s shackled to some kind of hot seat, isolated in the cone of a solitary spotlight - all around him darkness.
The plastic cuffs that bolt him to the arms of the chair allow minimal movement, enough to prevent his hands going numb, not enough to grow ambitious. Within easy reach of his right hand is a large red buzzer, a snarl of wiring exposed beneath the bell cap.
Adam winces as certain aspects of his predicament quickly become clear.
’Is somebody there?’ He calls out, hating the falsetto sound of fear in his voice, not used to the tremor.
‘Somebody is always here, Mr Gage!’
It’s the sound of the TV oracle, not Bernie himself, obviously not Bernie, but someone imitating Bernie’s unique vocal talents; you’d have to know Bernie personally to tell the counterfeit from the original.
Adam’s eyes stalk the shadows. ‘Who is it?’ He barks, ‘who’s out there?’
There’s a black bubble of terror in his chest, slowly working its way towards his throat, he tries to belch it up but his mouth fills instead with the taste of last night’s Peking duck - absolutely vile second time around.
‘Whoever you are, whatever you want, you’re not getting away with this, I can assure you!’ That’s it; he’s beginning to thaw now, his voice regaining some of its customary authority, outrage is the best way forward, a full dose of celebrity gall, if it could rattle the almighty studio execs what chance did an ordinary mortal have?
‘I suggest you reconsider your position,’ he shouts, ‘I’m Adam Gage, friend, the most powerful man on British television, if that doesn’t scare the crap out of you then how about the fact I personally lunch with the Home Secretary.’ He pauses for effect, before continuing. ‘Come on, let’s talk, let me go and we’ll forget this ever happened, aye, no one was hurt, makes sense if we quit whilst we’re ahead.’
No reply - bastard’s probably mulling it over - if there’s more than one kidnapper then Adam may have sewn discord amongst them, that might be a good thing, or it might be a bad thing, at this point there’s simply no way of knowing.
He takes stock of his surroundings.
Beyond the single spotlight that illuminates him the darkness gathers like a shroud, nothing distinguishes itself besides the smell of sawdust and welded metal, recent bodywork, recent paintjob too; Adam senses he’s in a mechanic’s workshop, a fairly large space, probably soundproofed.
Safe to assume then that he’s in a non-residential area, somewhere with a lot of privacy, somewhere a man can scream for days and never be heard….
His stomach knots with terror, he starts struggling again but the cuffs bite deep. After a while he stops struggling.
He stares down at the red buzzer.
‘What the hell is the buzzer for?’
