“I wanted him alive!” “Don’t be so dramatic,” January replied. “So, I slapped the guy around a bit. He’s still breathin’, ain’t he?” “He’s brain dead!” “Semantics.” “What am I supposed to do with a brain dead brain surgeon?” “Just pay me before I make you a matching set.”
Coyote sat with tonight’s victim, and the woman sobbed. “Are you going to kill me?” “Yeah,” Coyote replied from behind her mask. “But would it help if I told you it’ll be painless?” “Could you maybe not kill me?” Coyote rose to her feet and stretched. “Painful it is, then.”
The Hayek struggled to take off, and a fleet of Ario Speedwagons rushed their position. “What’s the hold up?” Buck shouted. Styx glanced at the display. “We’re overloaded by a hundred units! We gotta dump some Duranian steel!” “Wait!” Buck ordered. “How much you weigh, Styx?”
“Welcome to Hell, everyone. Elevators on your left, stairs to your right.” “Which is faster?” “Why? In a hurry?”
Brennifer took a drag of her cigarette, and a large eye floated by. She wasn’t sure whether to scream or offer it a smoke, so she smiled and waved. The eye, upset at not being offered a cigarette, blinked something rather rude at Brennifer before continuing on its way.
Father Midnight seized the drunk man by the face, and roared, “Mira!” Flesh ignited beneath his hand. The man shrieked. “Stop!” the boy pleaded. The masked padre dropped the man, but the damage was done–a crimson mask charred into the man’s face! “He won’t hurt you anymore.”
Buck Thunder came to in the tepid musk of an Iggian po’pium den, and nightmares found him. Cries of Lynrydian widows and mothers rang in his ears. Ash from burning pits of Skynyrdese soldiers caught in his throat. His sick-of-this-shit-itis flared up. “More bowie!” he barked.
Cassie stood in the shadow of the Great Oa’kian, its leaves singing a haunting tune with the wind. “I need your heart to save my friend’s life,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t help–“ Cassie stopped listening and started chopping. “Didn’t ask.”
Dr. Fine crushed the chronopiller in his hand, and sighed. “Forgive me.” “Howard?” a voice called out. “Carolyn,” he muttered, turning to find Carolyn, her charming eyes, and all of Hilldale restored. “Are you alright? Did it work?” He held her tight and laughed. “It worked.”
The man stepped out the back entrance of a Moronikan deli, and January Embers pulled the trigger. “What the hell was that?” her sister’s voice asked. January looked through her scope at what remained of the man’s head, and smiled. “Just some work stuff. Still want that Reuben?”
“It’s a time machine!” the man said, pushing a button on his wrist and blipping away. And as the singularity left in the man’s wake consumed her and everything else, atom-by-atom, the woman had little choice but to finally take her sister’s advice and go with the flow.
In the still darkness of a room at a Garfunkian astrolodge somewhere in the Andohts System, Buck Thunder, naked with a q-knife in his back, aimed his digipistol on a naked Schrodingerian. “Did you ever really love me?” he asked. “Or was it all a ruse to kill me?” “Yes.”
Five hundred yards from the mouth of the tunnel, a second tremor struck. They only had time for a final panicked gasp before the world rained down. The air was driven from their lungs, everything became heavy and cold, and the light never looked closer.
View this post on Instagram A post shared by The Nightly Chill (@thenightlychill) on Apr 15, 2020 at 1:03pm PDT An original mini-comic based off an original sketch originally published in The Nightly Chill newsletter. Originally. ORIENTATION GIRWIN, A SCHLUBBY MIDDLE-MANAGEMENT TYPE FOR THE SUPERVILLAIN ORGANIZATION E.V.I.L., PLAYS TOURGUIDE TO A GROUP OF NEW HENCHMEN. […]
As the Hayek rolled out of quantumspace, Buck Thunder looked for a nearby blargh station. The tank was running on empty and his bladder was full, but when Buck spied a pair of Flimflammians loitering outside a Blargh-n-Thbpbpthpt, he locked the ship’s windows and kept going.
Beneath a pallid moon, upon the necro-shorewhere dreams are born, and nightmares playthere once was a kingdom of sand.But the tide rolled in, and the peasants diedfor only the rich were allowed to sail.
From atop a throne of skins and skulls, deep in flickering dark, the Withered King held court. Musicians pained. Singers cried. Tattered husks of lovers and fiends danced together at the ends of their ropes. And when the damned just couldn’t go on, that’s when the King did feast.
David Alexander, age thirty-five, was a man of little consequence. A humble night-manager at a small motel in a forgotten corner of Southern California, David’s most notable accomplishment in his largely ineffectual life was actually the way in which it ended. Unfortunately for David, due to the horrific, highly improbable manner in which he–I wouldn’t […]
He was a philosopher in the sense that he spent much of his ample free time walking up the wrong side of the escalator at the local mall, pondering the mystery of his failed writing career.
The man focused his camera on the woman, but she never heard the shutter click. In a week, her skin withered, her red hair faded to grey, and her bones turned to dust. And as a young old woman died in her bed, a striking beauty on the sand hung frozen in time upon the […]