Free Pulp Magazine Featuring Pulp Fiction, Art, and Crime Stories

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #4

Online pulp magazine featuring short fiction, crime stories, artist and author interviews, comics, and music articles.

Not sure what Twisted Pulp Magazine is? It's a collection of some cutting-edge pulpy writing, art, and more. In the hot cookin' new issue of the pulp magazine, we interview artists Jessica Van Hule, Lou Patrou, and author G. Wayne Miller. It also features comics from Mark Slade and Thomas M. Malafarina, short stories from A.F. Knott, Andy Rausch, Matthew Lennox, Kara Kittrick, and Chauncey Haworth, as well and a fond review by Lucy Hall of drummer, Perry Morris.

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Editorial: Issue #4
Ten Questions For Jessica R. Van Hulle
Polar Bear by A.F. Knott
10 Questions for G. Wayne Miller
Janitor Joe: Lemon Logs Will Kill Ya
Remembering Sorcery Drummer and Cult Icon, The Remarkable Perry Morris
10 Questions for Lou Patrou
Someone to Hate by Andy Rausch
The Man Who Could Not Stop Spitting
Vampires of the West Coast Chapter 3 by Kara Kittrick
Of Eons and Stars Part 6
Charles!: Emerson Lake and Palmer Appreciation Society

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Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue 004 Compressed_page-0004

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Interview with Jessica R. Van Hulle

Jessica Van Hulle is nationally honored for the fine draftsmanship and emotional richness of her art, having exhibited in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, and Seattle.

In addition to Illustration and Fine Art, Van Hulle added Fashion Design to her creative repertoire in 2007.

She has been designing sexy Halloween costumes, lingerie, and high heel shoes for several industry-leading international companies since then.

These experiences, artistic loves, and philosophical interests culminated in her launching her own fashion design, art, and lifestyle brand, “The Lady Jessica” in July of 2011.

What is your earliest memory of art?

Finger painting a black and teal seahorse when I was in kindergarten.

What inspired you to be an artist?

It’s just something I’ve always done. Then when I was a teenager, I realized that it might be possible for me to make a living as a full-time professional artist by doing tattoos. I never got far down that road. I had an opportunity to go to Art School and I pivoted into Sci-Fi/Fantasy Illustration and Figurative Fine Art.

Do you listen to music while you work and what/or who do you listen to?

I actually don’t often listen to music while I paint by myself, I listen to audiobooks. They lower my anxiety and help me sit and paint for long periods of time. I do listen to music when I’m painting in a group with others. Then it is generally something upbeat and accessible, to keep people enlivened and not distracted. Depends on the crowd but it can be pop-punk, psychedelic rock, 80’s new wave, darkwave, reggae, rockabilly, and even 1940’s jazz if everyone is feeling fancy.

Do you think your environment, where you live, has an effect on the type of art you produce?

Not really. I think it affects the quantity of work I produce. For example, if I hate where I am, I just don’t produce. If I like my environment I tend to create more.

You have many styles and genres of art. Which one do you like best?

I really do. I’ve created several distinct portfolios because I do a wide variety of work. My favorite style is Realism with some stylization, in oil paint with nice brush work and chiaroscuro. My favorite genre is Figurative with some kind of mythical or sci-fi/fantasy twist, even if it’s just an unusual color. Photorealism offends me.

Is it easier for you to create if given an assignment or does it get in the way of your creativity?

It’s easier for me to work off of a clear idea or a design brief, rather than just sitting down and going. That being said, I also enjoy the art therapy process of doing a big crazy doodle and then “pulling” images I see out of it and refining them.

What long-term goals do you have?

I’d like to own a massive creative empire where I can just make beautiful and interesting things, come up with a huge variety of brilliant ideas, and have a reliable support staff implement them and manage production, etc.

What is a piece of art are you most proud of?

“Switchblades”. It was the most challenging and I just love it.

What was the strangest commission you took on? Or the oddest thing you’ve ever been asked to create?

I don’t often take on commissions. But the oddest thing someone asked me to design (I’m a fashion designer too) was adult-sized baby onesies for – ahem – “baby play”. Needless to say, I turned them down.

What projects are working on now?

I’m working on a series of large-scale deity paintings. I’m working on a Ganesha right now.

More about Jessica R. Van Hulle

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Polar Bear

A Short Story Written by A.F. Knott

A quiet morning shift at a corner store turns into a small apocalypse when a stranger with a long-barreled gun strolls in and decides to rewrite the day. With spare, freakish details the story ratchets dread into the ordinary until it snaps.

“He was looking for something, no doubt in my mind.”

The man sounded like a hedge trimmer to the clerk. He heard hedge trimmers every day now, when he wasn’t at the store, out the window of his upstairs room. The hedge trimmers and lawn mowers were the reason he asked for the early morning shift, so he could be at the store before all of it started up. He didn’t so much mind the man’s voice sounding like one of them as he did the real thing. The real thing went on and on and on, and every day it went on. That was the difference.

When the man came up to the counter, the clerk had just started smelling himself. He was wearing the chain’s vest with the red and blue patch and had left his name tag on the bed. He’d forgot to wash the vest because he started watching a comedy on Netflix, then watched a second and stayed up until midnight. The vest’s armpits got soaked in sweat the day before when he was unloading the truck. When the man walked up, he was thinking about having to wash the vest that night. The man put his things on the counter and started yacking like a hedge trimmer.

“Seen him move over onto the yellow median and I’m thinking he’s going to make a left, but he didn’t make a left. He kept inching along the median. I slowed down because I was afraid to pass him on the right. Me, afraid. I’m following him and he keeps driving along the median, and I’m thinking, son of a bitch, he’s getting me irritated. I kept watching the car and getting more irritated. Red Taurus. And he wasn’t drunk. The car wasn’t moving like a drunk was driving it. So, what I was saying—it moved like he was looking for an address, slowing down, speeding up, like a zoo animal. You seen a polar bear at the zoo, what they do? They pace. They pace and they tear fur out. You see what zoo polar bears look like? It looks like it has some kind of disease, but it doesn’t. Well, it does, I take that back. It’s a mental disease. They all look like that from tearing their fur out with their teeth.”

The man finally stopped talking, and the clerk looked at what he had on the counter: a roll of toilet paper (their generic brand), a wrapped cheese Danish, and a pint of the yogurt culture drink, strawberry. The man pointed with his chin over the clerk’s right shoulder.

“You hear the gulls?”

“They’re here every morning,” the clerk said.

“I know they are. They shit on my car once. You hear what they sound like? All of them together, and there’s about fifteen on your dumpster. I counted them. Karrkarrkarrkarr, like the world. They sound like the world.”

“Could be,” the clerk said, but he said it softly.

“Could be, right? Could be,” the man said, then stopped talking, scratched behind his ear, and asked the clerk, “You know something?”

The clerk didn’t answer but met the man’s eyes. The man’s eyes were narrow, blue all around, his skin tight, his face tight, and there was no difference that the clerk could tell between the man’s sclera and the man’s pupil, both of them black. The clerk had been learning his medical words. He’d been studying parts of the eye that week.

“That red Taurus is parked right outside your store, right out in your parking lot, same one. By the ice machine.”

The clerk craned his head only a little and looked over the man’s left shoulder, over the magazine rack at the ice machine outside, and saw the red Taurus.

“And you see that crow on the post there?” The man turned and nodded to the bird on the parking post just outside the front doors. “You see what he’s picking at?”

The clerk turned his head again and saw the crow the man was talking about. The man was right. The crow was picking at something.

“Something elongated, right?” the man asked.

“What is that?” the clerk asked. “A hot dog?” The bird was half blocked by one of their signs on the door, their Fourth of July sign the manager hadn’t taken down.

“Do you see any mustard on that hot dog?”

The clerk turned and looked again, leaning forward a little more.

“No… just…”

“Just what?” the man asked. The man cocked his head.

The clerk leaned a little farther forward, putting both hands on the counter. This time he squinted.

“Just… is that even a hot dog?”

“You tell me,” the man said.

The clerk saw what it was in the crow’s mouth just as the store manager came out from the back with a few cartons of cigarettes. The manager came behind the counter and stood, back to the clerk and the man, opened the first carton, and began restocking the packs. The clerk was about to say something to the store manager, changed his mind, and rang up the man.

While he was doing that, the man said, “You ever see a buoy—a channel buoy—in the current, how it moves? It tilts, the channel buoy tilts with the current and rocks back and forth as the water runs around it.”

“Will that be all?” the clerk asked the man.

“No,” the man said and nodded toward the crow again. The clerk turned and watched the crow tilt its beak up in the air, the finger sticking out of its mouth.

“Looks like he’s got a cigar in his mouth, from this angle, the way the sun is hitting it. Like that bird is leaning back in an easy chair enjoying a smoke, maybe even grimacing a little. Am I right?”

Because the finger was in the light now and clear as day, the clerk turned around—he almost jerked around—and took the manager’s left shirt sleeve in his right hand and tugged on it. He was about to say something to the manager when the crow tossed the finger up in the air and opened its beak. The finger dropped down the crow’s throat half an inch. The crow opened his beak again, tossed its head up, and the finger slid down the crow’s throat.

“Like the Titanic, right?” the man said.

“What the fuck, man,” the manager turned when he felt the clerk’s hand on his sleeve and was looking down at the clerk’s hand. The clerk let go as the crow lifted into the air, flapped its wings, and flew away. The clerk turned back to face the man.

“Did you see any mustard on that hot dog?” the man asked.

The clerk watched the crow grow smaller and smaller, flying away over the highway, and said, “No mustard. You want all this in a bag?”

“Bags are five cents now,” the manager spoke over his shoulder. “Be sure to charge for bags, man,” the manager said. “Bags aren’t free.” He kept pushing cigarette packs into the empty slots.

“Yes, please,” the man said. “I would like a bag, thank you.”

The man looked past the clerk, over his left shoulder at the back of the manager’s head, and asked, “What do you think is in the trunk of the red Taurus? And it is red, isn’t it? I’m a little color-blind.”

The clerk nodded, but only slightly, the man watching him.

“Thank you. I thought it was. You remember the King of Sparta in the movie, when he turned and looked at his wife? He didn’t have to say anything, but he needed to know if he should kick the Persian messenger into the bottomless pit. She didn’t nod, exactly. She did what you just did, but the message was clear in her eyes. Her face moved, I would say, ever so slightly.”

The man shaped a fork from the second and third fingers of his right hand, placed his palm over his mouth so the two fingers rested on his cheeks, either side of his nose, pointing at his eyes. “She answered with her eyes, ‘Yes, this is what you have to do.’ And both of them knew full well what kicking that guy into the bottomless pit would mean. You remember that scene?”

“Yes,” the clerk answered.

“I bet you do. I could tell you were a fan,” he said. “She didn’t exactly nod, is what I am trying to say—like you didn’t exactly nod.”

The clerk did the same thing, almost nodding.

“Ok then,” the man said and pulled up his shirt, taking hold of the gun’s handle. He pulled up and kept pulling up because it was a Buntline. He had to lift his right hand almost level with his right shoulder and bend his wrist. The barrel was fifteen inches long. The pulling up took all of a second and a half, then another long second as he rested the barrel on the clerk’s left shoulder. The man then made a chsh chsh sound, like someone might make calling a squirrel over in a park, holding a peanut. The clerk dropped to the floor as the manager half turned—but not fast enough—the bullet passing first through his left temple, out the other side, through a pack of Marlboro Lights, across the aisle behind the cigarettes, through the coffee cups beside the Jakarta thermos, across the aisle behind that, through a plastic-wrapped microwaveable double cheeseburger, and into the cinder block wall.

The clerk stayed down, smelling the burning powder, and saw the manager’s blood pooling around a carton of Virginia Slims that had fallen on the floor. The clerk heard the man rattling the plastic on the counter and knew he was bagging his items.

“Well, sir, I guess that’s about it for today,” the man said.

The clerk felt the man’s hand lay on his head for a moment, then give him a pat.

“I bought this Buntline at a show in Missouri, and they didn’t even ask me for my driver’s license. And that’s a good thing. You know why?”

The clerk answered straight away, “Because you didn’t have one?”

The clerk couldn’t tell if the man was laughing exactly but didn’t know what else he could be doing. The laugh sounded like someone turned on the garbage disposal in the sink at his mother’s house.

“That is exactly right. I didn’t have one. Good. Now, son, could you please reach down right quick and grab me a pack of Virginia Slims—one of the ones in the carton by your foot—before they all get sopping wet.”

The clerk tore into the carton with both hands, smearing himself with the manager’s blood and brain, as he wasn’t being careful with the tearing. He brought the pack across and over his head, still in a crouch, and his face got splashed and he had to close one eye.

“You’ll need to hold your head over the faucet and get all of that out of your eye and off your face. You know that, don’t you? That man might have had kuru. You know what kuru is?”

“Mad cow.”

“They’re similar,” the man said.

With one eye, he watched the man open the cigarette pack and asked, “Matches?”

“Please,” the man said.

The clerk reached into the white box of matches they kept under the counter and pushed one pack of matches across the counter with a finger that wasn’t as bloody—his pinky on the right hand.

“Obliged,” the man said, and the clerk listened to the match strike. He smelled the man’s first lungful as he exhaled it all over the counter. “Smells good, don’t it?”

The clerk said, “Not as good as gasoline.”

The garbage disposal started up again, and the clerk was looking down, waiting for what was going to happen next. He listened to rustling, then the door’s bell tinkle and heard the man say, “I’ll call 911. You don’t have to worry about that. Go wash your face. Kuru. You don’t want that.” The bell tinkled again, and there was quiet. The clerk stayed down until he heard the red Taurus start. He listened to the tires on the asphalt.

He stood up, leaned over the counter, and took up one of the water bottles in the rack, twisted the top off, and poured it over his head. The water and blood got his smelly vest wet, as well as the shirt underneath and the front of his pants. He didn’t think about that before he poured. He just poured. He tore off two paper towel sheets from the roll under the counter, dried his face off, and dropped the wad on the counter and stood, facing away from the manager. After about a minute, he heard the sirens getting closer and just kept standing.

Would you like to know more?

AFKnott.com

Amazon

Date Created: 11-07-2025
Date Modified: 11-07-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #4

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Interview with
G. Wayne Miller

G. Wayne Miller is an American writer and filmmaker, and podcaster. He is a staff writer at The Providence (R.I.) Journal and Visiting Fellow at Salve Regina University’s Pell Center for International Relations and Public Policy, in Newport, R.I., where he is co-founder and director of the Story in the Public Square program and co-host and co-producer of the national PBS/SiriusXM Radio show Story in the Public Square.

What was the first thing you remember reading?

On my own (as opposed to being read to) that would be The Hardy Boys series. If memory serves me, the first one I read was The Secret of the Old Mill, third in the series. I still have a Hardy Boys volume, though not that one.

Who are your biggest influences?

In horror, Stephen King, of course. Also, Poe and Lovecraft.

Is it easier for you to write an article or a story of fiction?

Depends on what the topic is. Some news articles are simple and quick—others, such as investigative reporting, are time-consuming and require a level of authority you don’t necessarily always need with fiction. That said, while I love journalism, my guilty pleasure is, both short and long. May I take a moment to plug my next fiction? Thanks! It’s Blue Hill, a novel that is part thriller, part fantasy, and farce, Blue Hill is mostly a novel about who and what matter most in this short life. Publication on October 6 in print, Kindle, and audio.

What made you write “We who are his followers”?

Thinking about an apocalypse, a theme in much of my fiction—and maybe others’ notably King. And here we are in a pandemic, which is about as apocalyptic as you can get.

Do you think your environment, where you live, has an effect on the type of art you create?

Absolutely. I live in New England and that part of the world is reflected in many of my stories and books. But I also am influenced by where I travel (when we could travel, alas). Rare is the trip I take that doesn’t result in an idea or two… or more.

Is it easier for you to create if given an assignment or does it get in the way of your creativity?

Some assignments are easily completed, others not. Generally, I prefer to come up with my own ideas, which usually allows for more creativity.

What are your methods for creating an article/story or novel?

Varies by genre. For a non-fiction article, I usually start with what I can an anchor—a quote, scene, person, statistic, fact, theme, etc.—that captures the essence of the story. Maybe a sentence or two. From there, I roughly outline from notes, interview transcripts, or video I have shot.

For fiction, I often begin the same way and as ideas emerge, I just jot them down, with no concern for chronology or narrative. Theme is crucial. I am constantly scribbling on note cards or paper, which I then add to the story or novel file. I also like early to establish the voice. From here, I begin to write, usually outlining. This process can be short or long, depending on the story or book and other demands on my time. Longest yet? Burnt Cove, a novel I have been working on (and off, mostly off lately) for some two decades. Not sure when I will finish it but I will.

Here’s the opening:

A passerby traveling the road that descends into the village of Stonington on Deer Isle, Maine, at eleven o’clock on that cloudless morning of Friday, June 8, would have observed a scene that could have been described as peaceful and pretty. Only the latter approached the truth.

Framed by a white steepled chapel to the left and the harbor and the emerald stepping-stone islands of Merchants Row beyond to the right, the cemetery with its carefully trimmed grass and abundance of weathered tombstones presented itself as picturesque in that old-fashioned New England way. The oaks and maples shimmered with fresh young leaves in a spring that last week had turned unseasonably warm, a delightful development, all agreed, after a winter that had continued stubbornly past Easter, when four inches of snow fell, ruining the egg hunt and the sunrise services. Only the irregular mound of back-hoed earth beneath an old green tarp would have brought unpleasantness into the passerby’s mind.

A new grave had been dug. And there, next to it, was its designated occupant, about to assume permanent residence.

What have you written that you are most proud of?

In journalism, my many years of writing about mental health. My 2019 Providence Journal/USA TODAY Network story “Redemption: The Fall and Rise of Mark Gonsalves” is an example: Click Here to Read it.

In fiction, tough call. So, a tie between my first horror novel, Thunder Rise, and my next novel, Blue Hill. I would name the novel I am currently writing, but since it’s not done, I don’t want to jinx myself!

What was the oddest thing you’ve ever been asked to do in your writing career?

I’m not sure it is odd exactly—and I wasn’t asked to do it, this was my idea—but a visit to a maximum-security prison to interview a man convicted of a gruesome murder. He lived mostly in isolation and I interviewed him in a large room empty of people save for guards. Creeped the shit out of me—the whole deal, location, crime, man. I left there knowing I could not write about him and I never did.

What projects are you working on now?

A new novel, as mentioned. Plus, in journalism, I am on the Providence Journal coronavirus strike team, so pretty much daily am writing about the pandemic.

More about G. Wayne Miller

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Remembering Sorcery Drummer Perry Morris

Remembering Sorcery Drummer and Cult Icon, The Remarkable Perry Morris

Written by Lucy Hall

Genres: Music

Theatrical rock, cult cinema, and raw musical talent collide in the life of Perry Morris, the driving force behind Sorcery’s pyrotechnic rise and underground endurance. Discover how this unsung hero turned music into mythology—and why his influence still echoes through pop culture decades later.

Fans of hard rock music and cult films along with fans of just plain good music were in mourning this year when music icon Perry Morris succumbed to cancer in March. Perry was the famed drummer of the theatrical rock group Sorcery

The L.A. based band formed in the ‘70s and continued their musical career into the ‘80s. They were known for their sold-out elaborate stage shows which incorporated Sorcery’s music with the use of two dueling magicians the King of the Wizards versus the Prince of Darkness.

Sorcery’s fantasy-themed act featured remarkable special effects, pyrotechnics, and dangerous stunts which took theatrical rock to a whole new level and continues today to be unsurpassed.

Show business is tough, and few hard rock acts have been able to parlay their skills to include film and television yet Sorcery did so successfully.

After appearing on a Dick Clark Halloween television special in 1982 they were a hit and asked back to appear again on the following year’s special.

In the 1978 reality-based fantasy film, Stunt Rock, Sorcery starred alongside stuntman Grant Page and provided the soundtrack. The film showcases Grant’s daredevil stunts and Sorcery’s amazing music and theatrics.

In 1984 once again Sorcery starred in a feature film when they portrayed the fictional rock band Headmistress in the rock horror, Rocktober Blood. In recent years Sorcery has had songs on Knock Knock (2015) and Death Wish (2018) film soundtracks.

In addition to his work with Sorcery, Perry was a session drummer who played with many artists in the 70s and 80s’ and was an in-house musician at Universal Studios. He was an AFTRA, SAG, and Local 47 Musicians Union member.

Morris had a background in business and he put those skills to use by booking performances, securing management, booking the Dick Clark Specials and landing the movie deal for Rocktober Blood.

Although Sorcery disbanded in 1987, projects and promotions continued thanks in large part to Perry Morris’ commitment to the band’s work.

It absolutely broke my heart to get the news of the passing of one of my greatest rock heroes. Rock Music lost the great Perry Morris, who has forever left a mark on not only music but cult movie history. He was not only a brilliant drummer but also such a kind, honest, and open person. I have met and spoke with a few celebrities who appear to go through the motions and not really care much for their work. This is part of the reason why these individuals are often forgotten. But this was not Perry. He was very passionate about his work and proud of it. For this, in addition to his unmistakable sound and talent, he will be forever remembered and sorely missed. Thank you, Perry, for inspiring and enriching our lives with your music. My prayers go out to Perry’s wife Deb and his Family.

Would you like to see and hear more? Try watching 1978’s Stunt Rock!

Date Created: 03-30-2023
Date Modified: 11-17-2025

This article has been featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #4

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Interview with Lou Patrou

Lou Patrou has been drawing and painting faces and figures since the 1960s. Patrou’s work is sometimes difficult to categorize because he doesn’t always use the same artistic language, repeat the same disciplines or follow a straight direction with his work. The only definitive thing you could say is that he is obsessed with making faces and finding new ways to create designs and forms out of them.

What is your earliest memory of art?

Drawing all kinds of faces at home when I was a teenager in Rochester NY.

What inspired you to be an artist?

There was never one inspiration that I can put my finger on. Early on I noticed a curiosity and a lot of enjoyment from doing art and have always felt those same feelings when I am doing something creative. I guess it is what is commonly called rewarding.

Do you listen to music while you work and what/or who do you listen to?

Yes, I always have music on to put me in the zone. Surprisingly, I have an extensive Country collection, (not NEW country), people like Emmylou Harris, Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, George Jones and from the Folk arena I listen to John Prine, Iris Demint, Richard Thompson, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan. From the Rock n Roll shelf, I still regularly play a lot of The Allman Brothers, Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Zeppelin, Cream and the Band from my past in the ‘60s.

Do you think your environment, where you live, has an effect on type of art you produce?

Absolutely, everything you see and pass by outside and live with inside your house/apartment visually influences not only your state of mind but your internal images, shapes and design sense. You are reacting to those influences all the time and may not even know it.

You have a surrealistic style mixed with Gary Baseman style of cartoon illustration. Is that the style you are most comfortable in?

My comfort and style changes with the times, plus I think get bored doing any one style or direction. I try to mix things up and look for new challenges from piece to piece. It would be like a band putting out different versions of the same album over and over year after year, never writing new material.

Is it easier for you to create if given an assignment or does it get in the way of your creativity?

Being told what to do is something I react very badly to, I can’t help it—imagine being told when to have sex or to perform on cue, it would be a real arousal killer! I only do art that occurs to me spontaneously and from there I cultivate it into a finished piece. Here’s another one, imagine telling a song writer to write a birthday song for your pet monkey, and that the monkey wears a red suit.

What long term goals do you have?

Like many artists out there, I would like to eventually gain the kind of recognition and exposure that brings career opportunities to show, publish, create editions etc. Along with creating new content in the form of drawings & paintings, I am simultaneously pursuing product development and licensing with my work and designs. I have a couple apparel & lifestyle brands that I have been developing, Hank & Sylvie and Cootie Girl.

What is piece of art are you most proud of?

Like a film maker’s response I have heard when asked this question, I always say the last creation I finished is my favorite. The cover piece is part of a series of 6 paintings called the Barney & Betty series, named after Betty and Barney Hill. They are each 30”x40”, acrylic paintings on watercolor paper. I have been working on them for over 2 years.

What was the strangest commission you took on? Or the oddest thing you’ve ever been asked to create?

I have never done one.

What projects are working on now?

I am working on a painting of a face I call Mustang Sally. It is all pop colors and extremely simplified like a graphic or icon.

More about Lou Patrou

CootieGirl.com

HankAndSylvie.com

Patrou.com

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Someone to Hate

A Short Story Written by Andy Rausch

Genres: Dystopian, Psychological, Satire, Science Fiction

When a group of the nation’s most deeply prejudiced men is forcibly transformed in a secret government experiment, their worlds are turned upside down.

Someone to Hate

by Andy Rausch

When a group of the nation’s most deeply prejudiced men is forcibly transformed in a secret government experiment, their worlds are turned upside down.

Colonel Dannis was in his office completing daily paperwork when the young corporal opened his door without knocking. Dannis looked up, irritated. “Do I need to put a goddamn sign on the door telling assholes like you to knock?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the corporal. “But it’s important.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Number Seven, sir.”

“What about him?”

“He’s awake, sir. He’s the first one.”

Dannis dropped the paper he was holding and stood. He rolled his chair back and maneuvered around the desk quickly. As Dannis approached the door, the nervous corporal apologized again. “I really am sorry, sir.”

“You did the right thing. Let’s go.”

“Yes, sir.”

The corporal stepped aside, allowing Dannis to pass, and then followed him. As the two men walked down the long tiled corridor, the sounds of their footfalls echoed. When they came to the laboratory office, Dannis opened the door and walked in, the corporal behind him.

Inside, six men, half in camouflage military garb, half in white coats, were standing, staring at a wall of monitors, each one showing a variation of the same thing. Everyone focused on one screen, seeing Number Seven trying to sit up, but only managing to move his head as he was strapped to a gurney. This man, Number Seven, was screaming, but his words were inaudible.

“What’s he saying?” asked Dannis.

“I, uh, don’t know,” said one of the soldiers, a man whose name Dannis couldn’t remember.

“Turn up the sound so we can hear,” Dannis said.

The soldier pushed a series of buttons and suddenly the sound of Number Seven’s yelling filled the office.“Get me the fuck outta here!” he yelled. “Whoever you are, get me out! I’m gonna kill your motherfuckin’ ass when I get loose! Mark my words! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

The corporal turned to Dannis. “He doesn’t sound pleased.”

Dannis just looked at the corporal and shook his head. He then looked at another soldier, Sgt. Riggins. “Riggins, you come with me.”

“We’re going in?”

“We need to talk to him.”

“What about me?” asked the chief scientist, whose name Dannis also did not know despite having worked with him for a month now. “Should I go, too?”

“You’re not needed. I’ll call you when I need you.”

The scientist frowned and his shoulders slumped.

Dannis and Riggins went to the door leading into the lab room. Dannis grabbed the doorknob and opened the door, stepping in.

Number Seven was lying on the gurney, still screaming, completely unaware of their presence.

“You’re fucking dead! You hear me?” screamed Number Seven.

Dannis walked right up beside him, startling the subdued man. Number Seven stopped yelling and just stared at him for a moment. Then, finally, he demanded, “What the hell is all this?”

“You’ve been chosen to participate in an experiment,” said Dannis.

Number Seven started bucking against his restraints, trying to get free. “Let me outta here, you fuckin’ cracker!” he screamed.

Dannis stood there, staring at him. “You won’t get loose, Number Seven, so there’s no need for this. If you behave, this will all go much more smoothly.”

“Number Seven? Why you callin’ me that?”

Dannis gave him a half-grin, which was about all the humorless man could feign. “Because here you’re Number Seven. We don’t use names here.”

“Fuck you!” screamed Number Seven. “My name is Derrick motherfuckin’ Thompson!”

“Not anymore.”

Number Seven stared at him silently for a moment, trying to make sense of it.

“Here you’re Number Seven.”

Number Seven was confused. He had stopped screaming. “Why Number Seven? What’s the significance?”

“There are a lot of men participating in this experiment,” said Dannis. “You’re Number Seven.”

“How many men?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Number Seven became upset, more emotional than angry. He wasn’t crying, but he was visibly distressed. “What kind of experiment is this?”

“I can’t tell you much, Number Seven.”

Number Seven became enraged again, fighting against his restraints. “My name is Derrick, you fuckin’ peckerwood!”

Dannis stared at him, remaining calm. “That what I am to you, Number Seven? A fuckin’ peckerwood?”

Number Seven grinned. “You are. And more. You’re a white piece of shit and your ancestors are all cavemen and inbred hillbillies. You ain’t shit. None of you white motherfuckers are shit!”

Dannis’ half-grin spread now, and suddenly he was smiling for the first time in years. He turned to Riggins. “Go ask the scientist for the mirror.”

“Yes, sir,” Riggins said, turning towards the door and then disappearing through it.

“What is this?” asked Number Seven in something slightly less than a yell. “What’s happening?”

Dannis stared at him, the smile stuck on his face.

Riggins returned. He presented Dannis a handheld mirror, and Dannis took it. He turned back to Number Seven.

“If I’m a fuckin’ peckerwood,” he said, holding the mirror up in front of Number Seven’s face, “then what are you?”

Number Seven looked into the mirror, seeing a face he’d never seen before. The face before him was a strange shade of white. It wasn’t white-people white, which was a kind of beige, but a different, unnatural white, like Casper the Ghost. Number Seven stared at the image, his eyes huge, trying to decipher what was happening. He studied the white face that wasn’t his and now saw that his head was shaved bald and looked like a cue ball. There were tears of, what, anger maybe, in his eyes. He looked at Dannis, who was still smiling, and heard his voice waver as he asked, “What did you do to me?”

“What? You don’t like it?”

Now there were tears cascading down Number Seven’s paper-white cheeks and he was shaking, unsure how to process this. His head turned sideways to look at Dannis, he asked, “Why?”

“Part of the experiment.”

“What is it?” asked Number Seven. “Paint?”

“No, it isn’t paint. We’ve altered your skin tone.”

Number Seven stared, unable to comprehend. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a white man now,” said Dannis. “For the rest of your life.”

Number Seven started fighting his restraints again, doing little beyond tiring himself. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you whitebread piece of shit! I mean it! I get loose, I’ll kill yer whole goddamn family, you fuckin’ white trash motherfucker! Let me outta here!”

Dannis turned towards Riggins. “Go tell the scientist to sedate him. Put him under until we need him.”

“FUCK YOU!” screamed Number Seven, his head turned, watching Dannis walking away. He was still screaming obscenities as the Asian scientist in the lab coat approached him with a hypodermic needle raised between them.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said the scientist.

“FUCK YOU!”

An hour later, the scene played out again when Number Three woke up. Dannis and Riggins were standing over him, watching him buck and scream. The Asian scientist was in the room, standing behind them.

Number Three was strapped to the gurney, bucking and screaming. “GET ME OUTTA HERE!”

Dannis just stood there, watching him, waiting for him to stop fighting. Number Three continued screaming for another thirteen minutes. Finally, once he’d worn himself out, he stopped screaming and bucking, relenting, just lying there shaking.

“You finished with your tantrum?” asked Dannis.

Number Three stared at him, weak now, saying nothing.

“You probably wonder why you’re here.”

“I do,” Number Three managed. “Why am I here?”

“What do you think about black people, Number Three?”

Number Three’s face twisted into an expression of confusion. “I don’t follow.”

“The question is simple: what are your thoughts on black people?”

“I hate niggers,” said Number Three flatly. “I can’t stand ’em at all.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re fuckin’ freeloaders, every one of ’em. They’re inferior to the white man, and they just take up space, always complainin’ and bitchin’ ’bout shit, tryin’ ta start fights. They’re fuckin’ worthless.”

“Have you always felt this way, Number Three?”

Number Three looked confused again. “What’s with the Number Three shit?”

“It’s your name now.”

“My name?”

“Yes. Everyone here has a number. Yours is Number Three.”

“Where…am I?”

“You’re in a government facility.”

“But…why?”

“You’ve been selected to participate in a very important experiment.”

Number Three looked even more confused now. “What kinda experiment?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Dannis. “You’re one of the lucky ones. Out of the three billion people in the good ol’ US of A, you were one of the few selected.”

“What is this?”

Dannis deflected. “Tell me about black people.”

“What the fuck you wanna know about black people?”

“Why do you hate them?”

Number Three looked at him like he was crazy. “Why would anyone not hate them? There’s nothin’ to like about ’em. They’re trash. All of ’em.”

“So, you hate all black people?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” said Number Three.

“Guess what?” asked Dannis. Before Number Three could respond, Dannis raised the mirror, holding it in front of him. Number Three stared at his reflection, confused. Without taking his eyes off the black face in the mirror, he asked, “What is this? What the fuck is this?”

“What does it look like?”

Number Three stared at the bald-head black face in the mirror. “It looks like a fuckin’ nigger.”

“That’s your face, Number Three.”

Number Three wanted to scream at him and tell him to stop calling him Number Three, that his name was Tommy Kincaid, to go fuck himself and lots of other stuff, but he was overwhelmed and confused. He looked at Dannis, silent for a moment before finally asking, “Is this some kinda joke?”

“I assure you, Number Three, it’s no joke.”

“I…I…,” said Number Three, staring into the mirror again. Staring at his face, he saw that its complexion was not the black of any real person he’d ever seen, but a sort of shoe polish blacker-than-black black. “I’m a nigger.”

“No,” said Dannis. “You’re Number Three.”

Number Three said nothing, starting to cry, still staring at his now-black face. Dannis pulled the mirror away.

“Why do I look like this?” asked Number Three.

“Like what?”

“Like…a…nigger.”

“Because you’re black.”

“How’s that even possible?”

“We’ve altered your skin pigmentation.”

“I, uh…I…” He stared at Dannis, the two making eye contact. “How long will this last?”

Dannis smiled for the second time in both the day and the year. “Forever, Number Three. You’re a black man for life. Beyond that, really. You’re black now.”

Number Three started screaming threats and obscenities, fighting and bucking against his restraints, as Dannis turned and walked away. As he did, Riggins followed him out the door. The scientist raised the hypodermic needle and closed in on Number Three.

Eight of the fourteen specimens were awake by the time Dannis spoke to General Jackson on the telephone. It was an old-style phone with a buttons and a cord. As much money as the government was spending on this experiment, Dannis wondered why they couldn’t afford new phones.

“They’re awake now?” asked Jackson.

“Eight so far. Things are going as planned.”

“The white ones are black and the black ones are white?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This might sound funny, but…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you explain all this to me?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“No one’s ever really explained the finer points of this experiment to me. How it all works. I know the basics, that they all change colors, but what’s the point?”

“The way it was explained to me,” said Dannis, “was that the experiment is supposed to give us a better understanding of human beings and how they approach different races.”

“How so?”

“How they’ll react to other people who are now their same color, and beyond that, how they’ll relate to people who are now their old color. They wanna find out if, say, a racist white guy who turns black will start to hate the other white guys who turned black simply because they’re now black.”

“Makes sense,” said Jackson. “And probably how they’ll react to black people who are now white people. I guess that’ll tell us if they really believe white people are superior to black people. If they really feel that way, then there’s no reason for them to hate the newly-converted white folks.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

“It’s an interesting experiment though,” said Jackson. “But it seems like a huge waste of taxpayers’ dollars.”

“You know the government as well as I do. They’ll waste money on anything. Especially if it’s unneeded.”

“Ain’t that the truth. But I got another question for you.”

“Sure thing. I’ll tell you if I know.”

“How did they select these fourteen people?”

“From social media.”

“Of course,” said Jackson. “Nothing good comes from social media.”

“Apparently some hotshots up in Washington studied thousands and thousands of social media profiles for months in order to determine the most hate-filled, bigoted, racist, prejudiced men they could. White guys who hate black guys and black guys who hate white guys.”

“And the result was these men?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Interesting.”

Number nine was the first to wake up in the gymnasium. He sat up, shaking his head, which hurt from lying on the hardwood floor. Then he remembered. It couldn’t be true, he thought. It had to be a dream. He raised his hand to see if he’d really turned black. Looking at his hand, he saw that he had.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He looked around the room, seeing the other thirteen men, half black, half white, all bald and dressed in identical orange jumpsuits, scattered about, asleep on the floor. There was no sound and there was no one else in the gym with them. Number nine was the only man who was awake. He looked around, confused by what he was seeing. Where had all these niggers come from? Then he remembered and looked at them again, seeing now that they were all the same unnatural shoe-polish shade of black he was. Were they also white guys turned black like he was? He then looked around the room at the sleeping white men. There was something off about them, too. Something unnatural. Their color was off. Were they real white guys? Of course, he thought. They had to be. It was doubtful the government had the capability to change both colors into their polar opposites. And then, contemplating this, it occurred to him that when the white people woke up, they would look at him and believe he was a nigger. They might even try to hurt him.

What should he do? He wasn’t sure. In that brief second, it occurred to him that maybe he should kill the white people in their sleep. But that was ridiculous. He could never kill his fellow Aryan brothers, could he? But then, how could he even be sure they were actual white guys? Now a second thought came to him—he could murder all the black people in their sleep. This would be a dream come true for him. But then, how could he be sure they were actual niggers and not proud white Aryans like him, somehow transformed into porch monkeys? There was no way he could know for sure.

He stood up, the only standing, awake man in the gym. He looked around, searching for the scientists and the soldiers. Maybe that asshole who had made fun of him and had held up the mirror, asking him what it felt like to be a coon. Fuck that guy, he thought. Scanning the room, he saw no windows and only one door, which he was certain would be locked. Upon further inspection, he saw that there were eight—at least he thought there were eight, but there could have been more—surveillance cameras mounted on the walls around the gym.

Standing there staring at them, surrounded by diverse sleeping men, he screamed out, “WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FUCKERS?”

Crickets. No response.

Just before he started to yell again, he saw the sleeping bald men starting to wake from their slumber. They were all groggy, rubbing their eyes, moving slowly and looking around around. Number Nine stared at the cameras again and yelled out, “COME ON OUT, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKERS!”

“What’s happening?” he heard someone say as black and white bald men were starting to stand around him now. Number Nine stared at the cameras, yelling out again, “FUCK YOU, YOU NIGGER-LOVING FUCKS!”

“What the hell did you say?” asked a white man to his left.

A black man to his right said, “You’re black yourself.”

Number Nine turned to him. “Am I?”

“Of course you are, nigger,” said the man.

“I ain’t no nigger!” screamed Number Nine. “You’re the nigger!”

“Who you callin’ nigger?” asked the man, who then stopped, staring at his hands.

There was a long period where all the men stood there, looking around and taking second looks at their own hands and arms. No one knew what to do.

“Let’s separate. All the black men gather over here,” said a white man.

“Fuck you, cracker!” said another white man.

“Who the fuck you callin’ cracker, cracker?!”

This continued for a while, occasionally broken up by a fistfight between men of different shades with men who looked exactly like them and also men who didn’t, no one quite sure who or what they were and exactly who they should be fighting.

Finally, Number Seven called out, “Everyone, look at your skin. If your skin is white right now, gather around me.”

A white man said, “My skin is white, but I ain’t white.”

“Don’t matter,” said Number Seven. “I’m black, too.”

“You ain’t black,” said another white man.

“None of us are who we used to be,” said Number Seven. “Or who we really are. So if your skin is white right now, even if it ain’t never been white before, I want you to gather around over here.”

As all the newly-white men began to congregate, a newly-black man said, “What the fuck are them niggers up to?”

“We need to make our own group over here,” announced Number Eleven. “Anybody who ain’t a nigger but got nigger skin now, come on over here by me. Don’t matter what color you really are, if your skin is black now, you gather over here and we’ll figure this out.”

Soon there was a group of seven black men who hated niggers in one corner of the room and seven white men who hated peckerwood crackers gathered in another.

“What we gonna do?” asked the newly-black Number Four.

“We gotta kill them niggers,” said Number Eleven.

“But, but…,” said another newly-black man.

“What?”

“We are the niggers.”

Number Eleven stood there, considering this. “Shit,” he said. “I guess maybe you’re right. But it don’t matter. Whatever they are, that’s what we hate.”

“So we hate white men now?”

“Yep,” said Number Eleven. “We gotta kill ’em!”

“We do!” yelled another man.

Across the room, a similar conversation was occurring among the newly-white men. Number Ten was staring at his hands, talking to himself. “I was raised to hate these white Klan fuckers. My Daddy told me not to ever trust a white man, that they were all terrible.”

“They are,” said Number Seven.

“So, do we hate ourselves?”

“I’m…not sure.”

“So what do we do?”

“We gotta kill ’em,” said Number Seven. “The battle is the same, no matter what color we are. Even if their skin color is black now, they’re still nigger-hating peckerwoods.”

“Are you sure?” asked another man.

“Sure I’m sure,” said Number Seven. “The only good white man is a dead white man.”

“But we’re white.”

“That don’t matter,” said Number Seven. “We gotta kill ’em, whatever they are. They ain’t like us. If we don’t kill them, they’re gonna kill us.”

“You think?”

“Of course.”

Across the room, one of the newly-black men was telling his comrades the same thing in slightly different words. “It’s us or them. Color don’t matter no more. We gotta get them before they get us.”

Inside the lab office there was now a room full of soldiers and scientists in white jackets crammed in, all staring at the assemblage of screens. All of them were watching the fourteen men brutally fighting one another in the gymnasium.

“You think they’ll kill each other?” asked Riggins.

“Of course,” said Dannis.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” said Riggins.

“It makes perfect sense,” said one of the scientists. “People hate ‘the other’, whatever it is they think that means. Sometimes it’s different colors, sometimes it’s different religions, sometimes it’s different political parties. Hell, sometimes people of the same race or affiliation hate other subsets of their own people.”

“Everyone needs someone to hate,” said Dannis.

“It appears so,” said another scientist.

“At least one man will survive,” said Riggins. “Then what?”

“Then we kill him and start over,” said Dannis.

“We’ll do this all over again?”

“Dozens of times.”

“But why? Haven’t we learned enough from this to tell us what we need to know?”

“You know the brass,” said Dannis. “They wanna be absolutely sure about their findings. They’ll probably change a few variables here and there and see if anything changes.”

“Do you think it will?”

Dannis turned towards Riggins as a couple of scientists chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. “It’s human nature. Everyone’s lookin’ for someone to hate. It doesn’t matter who it is. If they need it badly enough, anyone’ll fit the bill.”

Riggins frowned. “That’s a pretty pessimistic view.”

Dannis pointed towards the screens. “Look at that,” he said. “This is the world we live in, Riggins.”

“But it seems like a waste of human life to keep conducting this experiment over and over again.”

“Look, Riggins, whether we do this experiment or not, they’re all gonna kill each other anyway. If it makes you feel better, look at it this way—we’re just speeding up the process.”

Riggins turned back towards the screen, watching the carnage.

“I’m gonna run down to the pop machine,” said one of the scientists. “Anyone need anything?”

“Sure,” said Dannis, fishing in his pocket for change. “I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

Date Created: 02-18-2025
Date Modified: 03-10-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #4

🔗

The Man Who Could Not Stop Spitting

A Short Story Written by Matt Lennox

Genres: Absurdist, Irreverent

In a backwoods corner of Virginia, a man roams the land with one uncontrollable urge: to spit. He spits on everything—children, cops, lovers, even fate itself. Cast out of society and eventually imprisoned, he finds strange solace in a grotesque, gooey companionship.

In the wild woods of Virginia is a species of man who has a serious problem. No he’s not sick, and, no, he isn’t angry or anything. He can’t stop spitting. I know it seems odd right? But it’s true. Everywhere this man goes he spits. He spits on women, he spits on men, he spits on old people, and he even spits on children. What kind of monster is this you ask? This man has no name. He is only known as “The Man Who Could Not Stop Spitting”. See he is believed to of had a name at one point and even a family until one morning. That morning he woke up and started to spit on his wife until she threw him out of their home.

He spiraled out of control begging for help but he couldn’t speak. All he could do was spit! He ran around town spitting on everyone and everything all while getting kicked out of every business in town. Eventually the cops were called and yes; he spat on them as well. “The Man Who Could Not Stop Spitting” is now behind bars and yes—he is still spitting. But things aren’t so bad for him because at least he can use his spit to give himself pleasure with his hand. He eventually would escape jail and he ran off into the deep woods of Virginia. They say if you hear a squishing noise followed by a “Katoo” that he is near. But don’t be afraid he is only spitting on his hand, which he is now married to.

Date Created: 11-09-2025
Date Modified: 11-09-2025