Such Art his Art Concealed

By Adam Blomquist

The liquid foam latex he poured into and painted onto the mold had a consistency not unlike pancake batter. The section Paul was working on was her right leg. He wore yellow dish gloves and used his fingers to make sure the inside of the plaster mold was fully coated. This was his favorite part of any project, pouring the solution and letting it set. When the right leg was done he put it into the oven with the other pieces and prepared to leave for the night. The oven was an old converted walk-in refrigerator and the latex had to cook overnight before it could be worked with. As usual Paul was the last to leave. He looked around at the deserted warehouse filled with monsters in various stages of construction, turned off the lights and went home.

The job was some B-movie; it was amazing to Paul that the filmmakers had the money to afford the services of IBX Effects. He had not been at IBX long but already he had worked on several big movies. His first job for the company was making a plaster cast of Will Smith’s head; Paul felt he had escaped the cheap gore flicks of his past. No sculpts or sketches or maquettes for this job. The movie, Bloody River, called for a girl to be ripped in half. Paul was sculpting the girl and prepping the gag. Child’s play but he was still stuck with the grunt work until he gained some seniority at IBX. The sculpt was below Paul but that did not mean that he was not going to do a good job, on the contrary this latex girl would be so miraculous the director won’t even want to pull her in half, he thought. He would put days of work into something that would be on screen for less than a second, possibly not at all if the MPAA was feeling particularly picky come screening time.

The next day he arrived at the workshop early. He took the molds out of the oven and went to work constructing the woman. There were seven molds in all, two each for the arms and legs, one for the torso and head, and two for the hands. He went to work on the arms first, cutting off the excess latex and smoothing the seams. It never struck him how much like flesh the latex felt when warm and fresh from the oven.

By the time the rest of his co-workers arrived he had the hands cleaned and was in the process of attaching them to the arms. Whoever had sat for the plaster cast had very dainty fingers. Paul had figured the actress for some no-name scream queen, but with fingers like this she might actually be talented, he thought and smiled to himself.

In the time it took him to attach the hands everyone had shown up for work and was slaving away on some piece of Bloody River’s production. Howard was running wires in and out of the skeletal frame of an animatronic werewolf. Howard was a buffoon, but his connections went high up which landed him more important work than Paul.

Paul moved on to the torso. He cut the bands that kept the mold firmly in place and used a small chisel to loosen the top slab of plaster. He then carefully peeled the edges of the latex and lifted to top half of the mold to reveal the naked girl staring up at him. He had molded bodies before, and was never before struck by their realism right out of the mold. The girl was not painted or made up in anyway but the flesh colored latex could fool anyone at a casual glance.

Bald, smooth and bare the torso lie on its back before Paul peeled it from the bottom half of the mold. His fingers found purchase around her slim waist and he lifted her out, cradling her head like an infant.

“Honk,” Howard was behind Paul, and ripped him back to reality by squeezing one of the doll’s latex breasts. “Good work buddy.”
Howard was always saying things like that; little condescending bits of encouragement that would be considered kosher had Paul not had nearly fifteen years in the industry under his belt.
He ignored Howard and sensing the resentment in the air the fool sought his way over the molds and worktables back to the werewolf.

Alone again with the false girl Paul set about attaching her appendages. He took a fine brush from his kit and mixed a two part epoxy. The sealant would do a pretty good job invisibly joining the doll’s seven pieces and after it had dried Paul would go to work with paints and a sculpting knife to make the seams impossible to see on film. It was a shame that when he was done he would have to cut a hole up her spine so the on set crew could load her belly with blood and fake entrails. These amateurs would probably just use condoms filled with water, ruin the illusion, he thought with a snort of disdain.

By the time the girl was together IBX was beginning to close up for the night. Only Paul and Howard remained.
The girl lay on the table, Paul standing over her. He stared at the lines of her body, was it possible to win an Oscar for something that takes up half a second of screen time?
It was in this stage of his work where Paul always felt a bit like Dr. Frankenstein; entranced at the possibility that his experiment just could work.
“Lock up, I’m leaving,” Howard shouted. Paul, eyes fixed on his work, grunted in the affirmative. “You aren’t gonna fuck that thing right?” Howard added with a laugh and grabbed his jacket.
Paul offered a half hearted laugh and returned Howard’s wave.

*

The garage door to the shop closed with a clatter that echoed through Paul and caused him to awake from his stupor: the epoxy was dry.
The lights overhead were florescent and gave off no heat, which is why Paul recoiled with a start when he placed his hand on the pseudo-flesh of the never-alive girl and found it warm. I’ve seen too many movies like Bloody River, he chuckled.
Taking up his knife he started peeling off the brush strokes left in the epoxy. With a gentle scraping motion he took all the drips and inconsistencies out of the seams of her joints.
He was reaching for his paint brush the moment he noticed a tiny drop of blood pearling from the seam on her left wrist. Squinting he dabbed the spot with his pinky. He then brought the finger to his tongue: salty, not sweet like Karo syrup.
The false girl was alive. She was alive and by some unseen force pulling him down to her. Paul cleared the table off and lay on top of her. She was motionless but warm.
He placed his lips on hers and was shocked to feel them part beneath his own, a warm wet tongue poking against his mouth. He undressed and her latex arms, hands and legs all encased him.
Perfect legs, perfect lips, and perfect breasts: she was a living breathing dream.

*

Paul awoke naked, a semi-dry paint brush stuck to his lower back and morning light assaulting his eyelids. He placed his hand on the girl’s stomach to find it cold, bereft of the give and take of a lover’s respiration.
The night was over. He threw on his shirt and scurried to raise his pants just as the door to the shop was worked open with a sudden jolt. It was Howard, coming to get an early start on the day’s work, production was set to begin today but the werewolf was not to be shot until the second week of production.
Howard gave Paul a suspicious wave, someone more attentive than him was a threat, especially on a day he was coming in early. Assuming a faux aire of superiority Howard inspected the girl. The seams were smooth and she now wore a wig and full makeup; the girl was screen-ready.
“Done already? Fuckin’ A. Good job,” Howard: everybody’s buddy. Paul nodded and grunted a faint thank you.
“I’ll call the boys and they’ll load this bitch in the van and have her on-set for tomorrow,” Howard made a motion with his hand, bringing it down over the girl’s belly like Jack Ketch’s axe.
Was it real or delusion, Paul had no idea. The girl was false enough upon further inspection that he raised no protest when she was collected by the on-set unit and whisked off to her impending demolition.

*

Running wires was tedious but respectable. Each animatronic puppet has a fibrous network of wires under its latex exterior; each wire represents a slight motion that can be triggered by a remote control worked by a puppeteer. A talking bear was far less sexy than a werewolf, but at least the production was A-list: this was Paul’s talking bear.
The magic hour was fast approaching; the men in the shop were cleaning up their work stations and preparing to go home. When the final jacket was zipped and the door shut for the last time Paul was alone with his bear.
With its fur off the smiling bear looked far more sinister than the concept art. Screwdrivers and pliers were Paul’s scalpels and clamps. He fancied himself some kind of robot veterinarian. As he cheerfully worked away he did not notice the sound the door made when it opened and closed slightly. Nor did he notice the wet dragging sound coming closer.
Paul did however notice the dainty fingers that firmly grasped his ankles. The hands were filthy and torn. The girl had dragged her upper body three miles from the park where Blood River had finished principle production two days ago.
Paul let out a scream and fell over backwards, the back of his head cushioned by the girl’s soft dripping simulated innards.
With jerky, almost pained, movement the girl used her arms to lift herself from under Paul, and fell upon him screaming. He was struck with the thought that her eyes were so real. Teeth gnashing and muddy, destroyed arms flailing, her tears fell, tasting salty in his open mouth.

---------------------------

Bio

Adam Blomquist is a New Yorker raised on horror movies and candy corn. He currently attends Boston University. He will be published in Shroud (Issue #7) and works as a contributor to Macabre Cadaver Magazine (macabrecadaver.com). You can visit him on the web at: adamblomquist.blogspot.com

Original Fiction

I'm happy to feature the first tale of lurid horror from the amazing Adam Blomquist. Not only is Adam a really nice guy, he also happens to be one hell of a writer. So sit back and enjoy the latest installment of Original Fiction Friday.

Young Lusty Sluts

Young Lusty Sluts: A Pictorial History of Erotic Pulp Fiction

Michael R. Goss

Almost picking up where Sin-A-Rama left off is Young Lusty Sluts. It begins with a short history of the adult paperback market with some short blurbs from some of the major players at the time. Earl Kemp is quoted and talks shit about other book publishers. The introduction chapter is short but very informative, after that we are treated to an impressive gallery of reproduced adult paperback covers.

The emphasis seems to be more on the hardcore titles from the mid sixties all the way to the early nineties. A lot of fetish titles are covered, as well as strange subject matter like satanic porn and bestiality. Every couple of pages an original book cover synopsis is featured. Overall this book makes a nice companion piece to Sin-A-Rama, but is interesting enough to stand on its own.

THE VOYEUR

By John Bray

In my teen-age years I started running through neighbors’ yards furtively peeking through lighted windows in the hopes of getting a glimpse of a girl or woman undressing. It was rare that I got a an eyeful of anything but those moments were so precious; once I actually saw a beautiful girl who forgot to pull the blinds and got undressed for bed with the light on. She took her time, too.

That triggered a lifetime of fantasies, and as time wore on I became more and more driven and less and less able to control my impulses. I risked my luck so often that it was only a matter of time before I got caught; but it took many late night scampers through back yards and over apartment house roof tops with binoculars before my carelessness tripped me up.

One night when I was hiding in a back yard, I saw the blinking red light of a police car coming down the block and in my panic to run away, my pants got hung up on the barbed wire atop a chain link fence. I got arrested for trespass and put on probation, the judge ordered me to see a therapist who called my sickness voyeurism. Repeated sessions with the therapist did nothing to cure my obsession and I pined for the day when I would catch another secret glimpse of a naked female body. After my first arrest, I wasn’t classified as a sex offender yet because I hadn’t touched anyone, but I was getting near the edge of disaster. Some people think that “peeping toms” are harmless and too timid to commit a real sex crime, but I realize now, I had been getting closer and closer to crossing that line.

When I tried to grab a woman in her driveway a few nights after watching her through her window, she screamed for help and the police caught me few blocks away. The cop that arrested me said, “I catch you around here again doing this, I tune you up good, understand?”

That time I did a ninety-day bit in the County jail. I was registered as a sex offender, and I’m still on extended probation. I had to move to a new neighborhood, but I was so driven, I began to creep through backyards again. Some people thought they saw me. I know, because police cars often arrived soon after they yelled into the dark, but I always managed to disappear before they found me.

Then I saw her. I had been hanging around a fenced-in yard, waiting for the back bedroom light to go on, when a woman, whose age I guessed to be around fifty, came into the room and snapped on the lights. She had left her Venetian blinds rolled up. I could see clearly through the window, and what a sight it was. She peeled off her blouse, slid her slacks and panties to the floor and stepped out of them. In my excitement I crept closer to get a better look. She unsnapped her bra, still facing the window. I watched as she walked around a little and I got a clearer look. Her breasts were large and pendulous, her stomach a little rounded, and her thighs were creamy and full. That sight gave me a catch in my breath. Then I began to notice something a little different about her, and I realized she was blind. She had to grope her way around the room. I was sure she lived alone; no one else seemed to be in the house, except for a seeing-eye dog that just sat quietly in the corner. Then she walked toward the window, right where I stood and lowered the Venetian blinds. I just gaped at her cleft with its luxuriant dark hair, what a beautiful sight. She felt around for the cords and let the blinds down real slow.

Something came over me and wiped out my common sense. I started to hatch a scheme. I figured, she’s blind so she could never identify me. If I was real careful and planned it well, I could have it all. I could act out all my fantasies and there was not a chance of getting caught.

I resisted my impulse to take care of my needs myself when I got home. I decided to save it for my big day. I imagined her nude in my day-dreams; when I saw her for those few minutes I had become captivated. I began to case the streets around her house in my car to plan a quick escape route. I watched her daily routine. I noted when she walked her dog, when a friend ran her errands, how far she walked and, most of all, that she was alone for most of the day.

At last, I worked up the courage to put my idea into action. As I drove around one day, I spotted her walking outside her house. My heart pounded like a snare drum. I parked some blocks away and began a casual stroll toward her block. In the daytime the street was deserted, most of her neighbors went to work. I approached her as she followed the dog along the curb. She wore a short jacket, toreador pants and sneakers. With a cane to help her feel the way and that huge German shepherd to guide her, she strolled along. I sauntered down the sidewalk until I got close to her, “Beautiful dog, ma’am.”

“Yes, he is. His name is Blazer. He’s my eyes and ears.”
She laughed at her own little joke. She was so relaxed that I thought that to gain her confidence would be easy.
“Are you from around here?” she asked
“Sure, I live just a few blocks away.”
“Just out for a stroll?”
“Well yeah, I guess, sort of.”
“I thought I heard someone coming toward me, Blazer told me when he tugged at his collar handle. “What’s your name? If you don’t mind my asking.”

I thought fast. “ Bill,..Bill Williams. What’s yours?”
“My name’s Linda.
“Nice to meet you, Linda,” I groped for small talk. “Actually, I’m a dog lover myself,” I lied.
“Yeah, used to own dogs back in the day, don’t have time now; they take a lot of care.”
“Yes, they do. Blazer, here is a very smart dog. Aren’t you, fella?” She made a small gesture with the dog’s handle and he sat right there. I noticed he never took his eyes from my face. I would have to deal with him when the time came.
“Do you walk this way often?” I asked. What a lame question. I tried to stall to come up with a plan to get into the house without causing a commotion.
“Why, yes I do Bill. May I call you Bill?” She had such a pleasant, cultured way of speaking. I was so far gone in my own fantasy that I thought I would enjoy debasing her even more now. I could stifle her screams, and watch the terror on her face. But what to do about the dog? That hound was a monster even for a shepherd. His fangs looked about an inch long when he yawned and ran his tongue over his chops. I thought I had an idea; but first I needed to get into the house.

“Sure, Bill’s fine," I said. "Do you get out much?” another lame question.

She answered with sincerity, “No, not really. The neighbors drive me when I need to go somewhere, or run errands for me, they’re very kind.”
“Sure sounds like it.” Then she must have heard me take a step toward the dog.
“Don’t pet Blazer. He’s trained to resist anyone’s touch but mine.”
I wouldn’t dream of it, but I said, “No, I just wanted to get a closer look; he’s such a beautiful animal.”

I really just wanted to get a closer look at her. Her toreador pants were a size too small and the seam outlined her sex, I’m sure she didn’t realize it. I remembered what she looked like without clothes. I felt my chest tighten, I began to salivate and my mind raced. I asked myself how I was going to pull this off because I needed to do it right then; I couldn’t contain my lust any further.

Then she said something that floored me. “If you’re alone, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? It wouldn’t take but a minute to walk to my house.”
I could hardly believe my luck; she was so trusting, to invite a total stranger into her house, just like that, with hardly any conversation.
“But you must be very busy,” she said.
“Well, no, not right now.”
“I’m just a few doors down, right over here.”
“It must be difficult to be alone and have to do all that for yourself…I mean…”

She interrupted me, “Yes, I am alone, but I’ve learned to do for myself. Coffee won’t take but a moment; I make it all the time.”

We went into the house and I sat at the kitchen table. I watched her move around with touch. She knew right where everything was kept. I couldn’t keep from shaking with excitement, and I looked forward to my enjoyment. She would be frightened and do everything I wanted. I eyed the dog that sat without movement and glared at me with his amber eyes.

“Would you like some coffee cake, too?” she asked.
“No, thanks, just coffee’s fine.”

I watched her pour from a pot with a spout so she wouldn’t miss getting it into the cups, her every movement was planned. I tried to think of a way to get her into the bedroom, stifle her outcry, and slam the door. That damned dog could stay outside and I’d make my escape through the window when I had my enjoyment. I began to day-dream again about seeing her naked.

She brought the cups to the table one at a time and sat on a chair opposite me at the corner of the table. She edged closer until our knees touched. It seemed like being lonely, she had desires, too. Her willingness might spoil my fun a little, but I imagined I could make her do things she didn’t like.

She reached over and touched my face. Her fingers were soft, cool and sensitive. “I see with my sense of touch,” she said as she stroked my face. “All my other senses are heightened as well, hearing, smell, sometimes I think I have a sixth sense about people, too. You have regular features, Bill, you still have all your hair, and you need a shave.”

Her face pointed off in a direction just over my shoulder, I noticed she had a small bow-shaped mouth, with this mysterious sort of smile. Now that she had come closer I saw a gadget hanging on a chain around her neck. It looked like some sort of electronic thing with buttons.

“Your nose is straight and well-shaped,” she said as she brushed her finger tips over my face like she was reading Braille. She cupped my chin and ran her thumb across my mouth. “You have nice full, lips, too.”

I glanced over at Blazer, he bared his fangs at me, but stayed where he was. Then she moved down my shirt, “Let me guess, that’s a plaid work shirt, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” I answered

She slid her hands down over my belt buckle to my crotch. That made me jump a little in surprise as she found the zipper and began to tug at it. I slid a little forward in the chair and the zipper came undone. I had never been so excited and I thought about everything I wanted to do, but I just let her go ahead. I waited to see what happened next. She fished around and freed up my erection. “That’s nice, Bill, somewhat ordinary in size, but nice, nonetheless.”

Her delicate hand wrapped around me and she began to stroke me; she was oh so gentle. I just closed my eyes to enjoy the feeling. I was a little uneasy that she was taking control but I knew I could come back for seconds and take the rest by force. It would feel like much more fun that way. I lost my focus; I didn’t want her to stop. She spoke to me, her voice hypnotic.

“You like this, Bill?”
“Oh, yeah,” I moaned.
“It’s nice isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah Linda.”
“Blazer is watching us, isn’t he, Bill?”

My eyes were closed tight, “Yeah, I guess so.” I could feel myself getting close to orgasm. I had never had a hand-job like this. I reached over, my eyes still closed, felt her breasts, her nipples were getting hard and she didn’t pull away. I had so much fun.

“Did you know that Blazer is specially trained? He responds to secret coded commands. Special words only I and he know. You know, just in case of trouble.”
Blazer was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to get my rocks off. I wondered how she learned to do that?

“Did you notice the device around my neck, Bill?”
All I could say was “ungh, ungh.” It sounded so stupid, now I think about it. Just then words wouldn’t come to me.

“It has three buttons. One is for an ambulance…”
What did I care about an ambulance? I should have paid closer attention. Then I spurted on the front of my pants. I felt like my heart would explode, I sat there stunned and shaking.

“The next one is for…”

Then she shouted, “FIRE ENGINE.”

Before I could even open my eyes, Blazer hit me with his front paws like a freight train. His bark deafened me. Snarling, with his huge teeth an inch from my face, the impact of his charge drove the chair with me in it back against the wall.

“I meant to mention, the third button is police. Blazer will attend to you until they arrive. They shouldn’t be more than a minute or two. ‘Fire Engine’ is Blazer’s code, by the way. He remembers you from a few nights ago. Don’t you, Blazer? That was you outside my window, wasn’t it? Blazer told me. He has a very keen sense of when someone is near the house, and he’s very protective, aren’t you, boy?”

The dog’s breath stank like a sewer and his bared teeth dripped with saliva. I have never been so frightened. “Oh, damn lady, I didn’t mean any harm. Get the dog down before he tears my throat out.”

“WAIT, Blazer. That’s his other command. He’ll just stay that way until the police arrive.”

The police, oh man, and me on probation; I hadn’t done a thing to this lady. She invited me in and gave me a free hand job without me even asking. Why did she need to call the police? Here I am sitting with my pants open, and this vicious mutt on my chest ready to rip out my Adam’s apple. How would I explain this to my probation officer?

“The neighbors mentioned that they had heard someone running around in their back yards in the dark. Then Blazer told me there was someone outside my window a few nights ago. And here you come today to strike up an inane conversation. But, Blazer gave me the same signal as he did when you were at the window. Blazer and I understand each other very well after all these years.”

“Lady, I haven’t done anything to you. You asked me in here.”
“I don’t think you’ll be running around in backyards for a while. You seem to be a man with a secret. Do you have a secret, Bill? You’ve done this sort of thing for a long time haven’t you? Now you’re getting bolder. You are a danger to the community Bill, if that’s your real name.”

Loud raps sounded at the front door. I heard a voice, “Police! Open up in there.”

She took her cane and began tap-tapping to the door, “I’m coming,” she said.
Two enormous cops came into the kitchen, “He’s right in there, Officers.”
It was the same two cops that arrested me before. “Well, look at you, what did I tell you the last time?” one of them said.

The dog from hell still had me pinned in the chair, jammed against the wall.
“You got here just in time, Officers.” That hypnotic voice, “I don’t know what he might have done. Down, Blazer.”

The dog gave me one more menacing growl and dropped his paws to the floor. She took his collar-handle and pulled him back.

One cop said, “On your feet, hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
I gestured toward my fly, “Yeah put that puny thing away, first,” one of them said. Then he pointed to the front of my jeans, “Look at this disgusting jerk, Harry.”

“Yeah, I see it,” the second cop replied. “Look at that mess on his pants. You make me sick, you scrawny little puke.”

They snapped the handcuffs on my wrists and went through my pockets.
“What were you going to do with this, you little punk?”
They reached in and pulled out a length of silk rope and a pack of condoms and showed them to me.

“It’s no crime to carry rope in your pocket, or condoms, and besides, she invited me in here, and she…”

The cop interrupted me, “Yeah right, but burglary is a crime.” He turned to Linda,

“How did he get in here, ma’am?”

Linda put on her best, smooth convincing voice, “Oh, I was so foolish. I forgot to lock the front door behind me. He must have followed me in.”
In a blind panic by then, I protested: “I didn’t follow her, she invited me in.”

Then I realized how stupid I sounded.

“Any more guff out of you and I knock all your teeth down your throat. Save your
idiotic explanations for the judge,” one of them said.

Wait officer, she asked me in for coffee,” I said. My voice broke with anxiety. Then I looked at the kitchen table, she had cleared away the cups and put them in the sink.

“Was he abusing himself in here, Officer?” she asked.
The first cop answered, “Yeah he was, he’s got… well, stuff on the front of his jeans,”

“I thought so.”
“Did he touch you at all ma’am?”
“Yes he did, he fondled my breast. Oh my, to think how close I came. How awful, but thanks to Blazer here and your coming so quickly, nothing happened to me.”

“We’ll take his pants for evidence,” one of the cops sneered.
The other one said, “Yeah, he can exchange them for an orange jump suit down at the County.”

I asked one last feeble question. “Why burglary? I haven’t done anything.”
The taller cop recited chapter and verse: “Unlawfully entering an occupied dwelling with the intent to commit a crime therein is first degree burglary, and sexual abuse is a crime; and a blind woman, too. You’re lower than vermin, you know that?”

I heard her voice call after them as they led me trembling and wobbly-kneed to their radio car, “Thank you so much, Officers. You got here just in time.”


----------

Bio

John Bray in his own words:
I took early retirement from the NYPD with the rank of lieutenant. I then practiced criminal defense law for thirty years. I have a BS in Police Administration from John Jay College, City University of New York and a Juris Doctor from Brooklyn Law School. Now retired and living in Williamsburg, VA. My short story, "The Sergeant's Club" can be found at www.freedomfriends.in. Volume 1, Issue 1, under the "Twisted Tales" icon.

Original Fiction Fridays

Today’s piece of fiction comes to us from the very capable John Bray. I don’t know if Mr. Bray will be on hand for comments, but if you like the story leave a comment anyway.

Norman Saunders

By David Saunders

The amazingly prolific career of Illustrator Norman Saunders is documented in a new book written by his son. This large book beautifully displays a large portion of Saunders work, from his early pulp fiction cover art days all the way to his work on Topps’ Wacky Packages. There are many pieces that are reproduced from the original art, along with scans of pulp fiction and detective magazine covers. This book is near perfect with the one exception being what little information and artwork is given for his time spent on illustrating trashy paperbacks, which is no more than a few pages. That’s just a small gripe though, overall this book is excellent and I totally recommended it.

My Apologies

Well Friday came and went without any new fiction being posted, over the last couple of weeks I have received about a dozen story submissions that I haven’t read yet. There are people who wrote me close to two months ago and I haven’t written them back to tell them yes or no. I could give you a long list of excuses but I’ll just say that life got in the way. I’m posting this here now to let everybody know that I’m refocusing and recommitting myself to this site.

If you haven’t heard from me on a story you submitted it doesn’t mean I’m not interested. To the contrary there are stories I received weeks ago that I loved and just haven’t responded to the writer yet. I plan on writing everyone back this coming week.

As for things to come, I have a lot of content already written and have a huge pile of lurid material to still go through. Below you’ll find a just a taste of things to come.

Mexifun

I was first exposed to Ghetto Librettos about eight years ago at one of Texas’s biggest flea markets. I had just scored some classic lounge vinyl and I was making my way out the exit when something caught my eye.

There was a little table set out under the hot Texas sun, behind it sat a little Mexican woman who had to be in her seventies. What caught my eye were these little five by five inch comics. They all had wonderfully lurid covers, some were sexy, some violent, some both. I picked up a few and thumbed through them, I knew immediately I had to have them.

I grabbed about ten out of the hundred the little old woman had, some had a U.S. dollar price tag on them. I asked in English “how much?” Looking back on it now she might have understood me perfectly, at the time I thought she just didn’t understand. I pulled out a twenty and tried to trade her for the comics. She kept telling me “no, no, no”. I thought she didn’t have change for the twenty, so rather abruptly I set the twenty on the table and marched off with the small comic books.

Looking back on it now, she might have just not wanted a gringo to have these dirty little comics from Mexico.

I went home and did some research on the web, I couldn’t find a thing I didn’t even know what they were properly called. Every once in a while I would come across them in my comic collection, and do another google search. About six years ago I found an article about them on the web, found out they were called Ghetto Librettos and that they were widely read, very cheap, and looked down upon by the governing censor groups.

Within the same search results were references and reviews of a comic zine titled “The Imp”. I read a small review that said issue four of The Imp was devoted to Ghetto Librettos. It has taken me six years to track down a copy of The Imp issue four, but as of this writing I hold it in my hands. Review below.



The Imp #4 Hestorietas Perversas, Mexico’s Addictive Comics

This is by far the most complete, informative, and well researched text in the English language on Ghetto Librettos. This dense small press comic zine is everything I was hoping Anne Rubenstein’s book would be.

The author of the zine Daniel Raeburn does an excellent job discussing the Ghetto Libretto’s history, artwork, story lines, and their impact on Mexican culture. He also goes into great detail on some American’s views on these works. This book is beautifully illustrated with cover and interior art reproductions of some well and not so well known titles.

Although some of the information is outdated, for instance when this publication went to press these comics did not feature XXX scenes. That added to their charm, the way they went around about way of illustrating the stories was unique and left more room for the shocking story lines. As of now they have almost all gone hardcore. The covers are now more than merely suggestive and the story lines are mainly there to frame sex scenes.

I absolutely love this zine, the wait was well worth it in the end. The Imp Issue four can be bought at Buds Art Books, here. While you’re at it look around and pick something else up, his prices are reasonable and he ships fast. Tell him lurid lit sent you.

In celebration of those dirty little comics here are a few scans from my (now huge) collection. If you're hungry for more check this out.

These first few are from the pre-hardcore days:

Hardcore or Modern Age covers below:

Carlyle Junior’s

Carlyle Junior’s

By Mel Bosworth


When I was sixteen, my first job was as a busboy at the local pizza joint. My boss was a real prick, a fat Italian named Bruno with greasy black hair and a mustache that looked like it was eating his upper lip. He used to call me an idiot and he’d always be yelling, “Bussa tables! Bussa tables!” in his shitty accent.

The third week I was there I came down with the flu. I worked two hours of my shift and then asked Bruno if I could go home. It was a Tuesday night and the dining room was empty. He told me to “Bussa tables!” but there weren’t any tables to bus so I helped the dishwasher in the back, a short Colombian kid that wore an earring he’d made from a razor blade. His name was Reuben.

I was pissed so I scrubbed the pans hard with steel wool, making my fingers raw. Reuben told me to take it easy. After about twenty minutes, I felt the blood drain from my face and my body broke out in a cold sweat. I puked on a stack of clean serving dishes. Reuben tried to help me but when Bruno saw what had happened he fired me on the spot. I didn’t think that was fair so I told him to go fuck himself and then shoved a paring knife into the soft folds of his belly.

Juvie wasn’t bad. I made fast friends and Reuben came to visit when he could. He respected what I did and even quit that same night I’d stabbed Bruno. My mother was upset but my father was proud. When he was sixteen, he got drunk and stole a lime-green Dart and ran over a cop that was giving someone a ticket. The cop lived and my Dad became a legend at Juvie, the same one they stuck me in. Some of the counselors from his stint were still there and they recognized my name. They called me “Carlyle Junior” even though my father’s name was Mike and mine was Chris. But I liked it so that’s what I named my restaurant when it opened fifteen years later.

The place was situated downtown, two blocks from the courthouse. We were open from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. for lunch, seven days a week. Three hours a day for business might not seem like much, but Carlyle Junior’s made a killing. Every day like clockwork, the fat lawyers and judges would click-clack over in their smart shoes for a hot dish. The small dining room never had an empty seat.

Over the years, I’d established a network of people I could trust and I brought them all in to work for me. We all had lives and obligations outside of Carlyle Junior’s, so the schedule worked perfectly for everyone. Reuben helped me run the kitchen. It was filled with ex-cons and old friends from my Juvie days. It was an ugly bunch back there but you couldn’t see them from the dining room. You wouldn’t be looking for them anyway. My waitstaff was nothing but strippers dressed in bathing suits and running sneakers, some of their tits so big and tight they threatened to break the knots of their tops.

The food was good but the customers came for the girls. A fat tip would get you an invite out back where you could shell out even more money for some head or a quick fuck. I kept one eye on the alley and the other on the clock; I got a cut of the girls’ earnings but when the sign on the door read “Open,” I needed them in front just as much as in back.

My regular dishwasher was a young kid named Paco. He was a good kid, but a little stupid, and when he got busted for selling meth one summer, I told him the job would be waiting for him when he got out. In the meantime, I needed to scoop up someone to fill his spot for a while. Reuben suggested we bring in his cousin Hector and I said we’d give him a shot.

Hector. The greenest of the fucking green. Hector was a straight A student who always tucked in his shirt and never cursed. His first day there, he walked in on me while I had one of the waitresses bent over my desk. Her name was Saffron and she had red curly hair and a hard round ass. The strings of the pink bikini bottom choked her thighs as she took my cock like a soda can. Britney Spears cranking through the speakers in the kitchen and dining room had drowned out Saffron’s reverse-birth cries, which in turn had muted Hector’s pathetic knock on my office door. I told him to get the fuck in or get the fuck out, but either way, I want that fucking door closed. In a panic, he jumped into my office and closed the door behind him.

I slowed my hips but Saffron squealed and pushed back, keeping me buried to the hilt.

“Don’t stop, baby,” she said.

I told Hector to turn around and give me a second. While he nervously faced the bulletin board, I finished off Saffron. But she was a squirter and a loud one too. When she came, she came like a train, loud whistles and lots of exhaust. I pulled out and she sprayed my knees. Flicking my wrist a few times, I launched a creamy rainbow onto her back. I wiped the shit up with a towel and told her to get back to the front. She staggered out with shaking legs and blurry eyes. I asked Hector what was up.

“My time card?” he asked, sheepishly.

The poor kid was scared to death and I could see it all over him in his shy eyes and slumped shoulders. I apologized for the spectacle he’d just witnessed and then offered him a candy. He studied me for a moment and when he saw I wasn’t fucking with him he took it. He was a smart kid. He reminded me of myself at that age.

I told him that he didn’t need a time card because there wasn’t a time clock. If he showed up for his shift every day, he’d get paid for the full week. I told him this wasn’t like a regular job. I told him that we take care of one another here.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Yes?”

But he didn’t understand and that was fine. I told him I was good friends with his cousin Reuben, and if he had any questions, he could ask either of us at any time. I reminded him that he was here to wash dishes.

“Just keep it simple, Hector. You do what you’re supposed to do and we’ll be okay.”

He lowered his eyes and turned to go.

“And, Hector?”

“Yes?”

“I reward good work. You’ll learn that.”

Hector’s first week went well enough. He caught on to the routine and did his job, even with all the madness and distraction that spilled around him. But there were still lots of things he didn’t see yet because he wasn’t ready to. And even if he was ready, he might not want to see.

I hated all of my customers and they all hated me. But the one thing most of them gave me--and I gave back--was respect. They liked the food and they liked the girls. I liked keeping my ass out of prison. I provided a service for them that no one else could and they returned the favor. We were all fucking scumbags but at least I was honest about it. But every week, two special customers would come in. They’d usually get a meal and a fuck, but they also got something extra that they never knew about.

Judge Matheson was a white-haired pig with a slack leather face. He was the cocksucker who had sent me to Juvie when I was a kid, and he’d also sent up a bunch of my kitchen boys to Dresden, the gray shithole of a prison on the outskirts of the city. He thought he was above it all, untouchable. He always ordered the chicken salad sandwich and then fucked Lexie, a short blonde with brown nipples that looked like pencil erasers when they got hard. She always told us what a pervert he was, thumbing his own ass and saying she reminded him of his daughter.

John Riggs was the big shot district attorney, and like Judge Matheson, he didn’t play ball either. He’d waltz in with his pressed black suit and slicked hair, order his turkey pot pie, blast one of the girls in the ass (they charged an additional two-hundred for anal but that was all he ever wanted) and then he’d go back to sticking it to some young kid inside the courtroom.

There was an unspoken gentlemen’s agreement among scumbags that you don’t shit on your own kind. But these fuckers didn’t play the favors game. They took and did what they wanted. They ate the food and fucked the girls, but when good kids like my dishwasher Paco stood before them looking for help, they turned up their noses and screwed them over. I took exception to that shit.

So when Riggs and Matheson came into Carlyle Junior’s one balmy Tuesday afternoon, I told the boys in the back to make their favorites. I stood at the counter, smiling and waving as I watched Saffron bring over two glasses of ice water. As she leaned over the table, Matheson palmed her ass and Riggs squeezed the back of her thigh, his long skinny digits sliding under the lip of her bottom, trying to weasel a free finger-fuck. Pro that she was, she played it off cool, giggling as she swatted their hands away. But I didn’t play it so cool. I stormed back into the kitchen and asked for their plates.

“Did you make them special?” I asked the hard faces on the line. They nodded but I wasn’t satisfied. I snatched
up the plates and went down to the dishwashing station. It was time to show Hector what he’d been missing. He jumped when he saw me.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just keep washing,” I said.

I set the plates on the counter and tore the lid off the turkey pot pie and the top off the chicken salad sandwich. Then I dropped my pants. Hector, sleeves rolled up to his elbows displaying his scrawny arms, stared at me, mortified. I grabbed a handful of chicken salad and wiped my ass with it. Then I slammed the shit-stained remains back onto the plate. Salt-N-Pepa thumped throughout the restaurant.

“Push it real good!” I screamed, wild-eyed, at Hector. Over his shoulder, I could see the boys on the line laughing. Then my view was obscured by a spasm. Hector’s torso snapped like a snake and I knew what was coming. I clamped onto the back of his neck and barred his arms at his stomach. Holding his face over the exposed turkey pot pie, I whispered to him that it was okay. He puked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I let him go and then slapped the lid back onto the pie.

“Take a break,” I told him. “Go sit in my office. There’s some ginger ale in the mini-fridge. I’ll be right in.”

I watched him scamper off and then I pulled up my pants. The kitchen was roaring. Reuben burst from the freezer followed by a sticky-lipped Lexie.

“What happened?” he asked, zipping up his fly.

I handed him the plates and told him to give them to Saffron. I said I’d explain later, that I had to talk to his cousin first. His face was a crumple of confusion, but when I winked, he relaxed.

In my office, Hector sat in the chair by the door, crying like he’d done something wrong.

“Are you going to fire me?” he asked.

I took a roll from my desk and knelt in front of him. I peeled off five-hundred dollars and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

“If you feel up to it, finish your shift. If not, we’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

Then, quite unexpectedly, Hector fell forward and embraced me. As I patted his back while he sobbed, I thought of all the fucked up shit I’d done in my day.

“You’re a good kid,” I said. “Stay that way.”


About the Author
Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Western Massachusetts. In addition to writing, he is also a cat whisperer. Read more at his website, eddiesocko.blogspot.com.