Past Indiscretions: The Very Best of Splatterpunk Zine

Past Indiscretions: The Very Best of Splatterpunk Zine

13 stories of classic splatterpunk taken from the pages of the cult horror zine, featuring some of the best writers working in the field of horror fiction: Tim Curran, Brendan Vidito, Shane McKenzie, Bracken MacLeod, Kit Power, WD Gagliani & David Benton, Monica J O’Rourke, Ryan C Thomas, Nathan Robinson, Ryan Harding, Jeff Strand, Adam Cesare and JF Gonzalez.

Published by Splatterpunk Zine and available on Kindle and Paperback

Praise for Splatterpunk Zine:

“Splatterpunk Zine is 100% the real deal, and if seedy-but-brilliantly-written hardcore horror is your pleasure, guilty or otherwise, I’d say this zine is essential reading.” – Ginger Nuts of Horror”

This is an old school handmade hardcore horror fiction zine… I liked it a lot.” – Mark Sieber, Horror Drive-In

“Bantry is providing a great time for fans of horror fiction. If you haven’t jumped on this viscera-covered bandwagon, what are you waiting for?” – Sean Leonard, HorrorNews.net

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Insatiable by Jack Bantry & Robert Essig (Pre-order)

Insatiable by Jack Bantry & Robert Essig

Published by: Grand Mal Press  (http://www.grandmalpress.com/)

http://www.grandmalpress.com/Insatiable.php

From Robert Essig, author of Death Obsessed, In Black and People of the Ethereal Realm, and Jack Bantry, author of The Lucky Ones Died First and editor of Splattepunk Zine.

For some of the punks, it was just another night at a local gig.
Partying with crazy people after gigs was nothing new, but on this night there was something in the air. Was it all the tequila and weed? Something was turning the locals into maniacs . . . deviants. Something was giving them an INSATIABLE sexual appetite!
For Megan it was another late night at the lab, but when she needed another cup of coffee what she discovered in the break room would shock her to the core.
And that was just the beginning…of the end of the world!
Punk rockers, secret labs, sexy cops and animal rights activists. INSATIABLE will take you to hell and back!

“Vampires, werewolves, living dead…none of that…welcome aboard an epidemic of ‘insatiable’ sex-crazed maniacs. Taste this new virus, and you will be the next to be fucked. A high voltage enjoyable reading, between Laymon’s ‘Virus Black Widow’ and a satirical science fiction B movie.” – Alessandro Manzetti, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of NARAKA

“A ferocious adrenaline overload delivering a thick slab of gore-encrusted brutality on a platter of libido-fuelled perversity.”
– Chris Hall, DLS Reviews

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Ain’t Worth a Shit by Robert Essig & Jack Bantry

Ain’t Worth a Shit by Robert Essig & Jack Bantry

Published by Sinistergrinpress.com

Available from Amazon: https://smarturl.it/AintWorth

“You get the feeling that nowhere is safe right from the outset, lending the book an effective layer of simmering tension.” – Kendall Reviews Books

“Ain’t Worth a Shit is fast-paced, compelling, and entertaining on a sick horror fan level.” – Bibliophilia Templum

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Insatiable by Jack Bantry & Robert Essig (cover reveal)

A new novella from Jack Bantry, author of The Lucky Ones Died First and editor of Splattepunk Zine and Robert Essig, author of Death Obsessed, In Black and People of the Ethereal Realm. INSATIABLE!

Cover reveal at: http://kendallreviews.com/feature-cover-reveal-insatiable-jack-bantry-robert-essig/

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Excerpt from the novel ‘Shanti – The Sadist Heaven’ by Alessandro Manzetti

SHOTS AT THE GLORYSLOTS

Excerpt from the novel ‘Shanti – The Sadist Heaven’ by Alessandro Manzetti

(Necro Publications, April 2019)

A fat citizen, his pants down, drags himself into the Desert Siren, gloryslots room.

Places like this are technically illegal in Shanti, of course. Periodically, they are shut down, but gloryslots are kind of an old, almost-tolerated tradition; and the whores in service at the Emptier, during their fifteen days in the holy city, can put together some extra credits with these little side jobs.

The man would like to enjoy the slits row on his left, which shows a dozen of holes, each encircled by a crown of red lighting stars, filled with whores’ mouths waiting for their food.

What a wonderful sucking machine! thinks the man who prefers to empty his balls in the old-fashioned way. You guys can keep your fucking nosey software to yourselves.

The other slits row, on the right side of the room, seems a hive of waving male and female butts, wagging, waiting for their unknown masters.

Maybe next time, the fat man says to himself, turning toward those voracious red, blue and black lips luring him with their swirling tongues.

He chooses the third hole, pulls down his underpants, his flabby cock flops out, and he shoves it inside.

Hmmm, baby, do your thing, he whispers, while a fleshy mouth starts working on his shiny glans. Whoa, you’re doing great, honey, now faster…even more!

Then, the whore hidden back there, a fifty-year-old skank with worn knees, screws up and bites by accident the fat man’s dick, right in the middle of the good parts.

God damn it! shouts the man, doing a back tuck off the hole.

He sees his cock bleed, limper than a slice of lox.

This is a scam! Where’s the boss? This is not over, there will be hell to pay!

He’s right: a display above the slits row, which looks like a departure & arrivals screen at a train station, claims that holes from number 1 to 3 are managed by old toothless sluts, who are required to get rid of their dentures before starting to work.

Shit. It burns!

The fat man is beside himself with rage, he bends over his trousers piled on the floor, and from a pocket he pulls out a Walther MicroQ gun, the size of a pinkie, emptying it against the thin partitions. Now there are many more holes there. The squawking voices of the whores’ platoon under attack are making a damned mess, some of them are trying to fix their huge breast implants by tucking their fingers into the bullet wounds, to prevent loss of silicone.

Alarm: security rushes in.

“Where’s the prick? Gil, you go right with your men, hurry!”

Cipriano, Security Chief of the Desert Siren, is dazed. In the holy city, all weapons are forbidden; how the fuck that bastard…

He has never had a situation like that to handle. The worst were insignificant brawls. Until a few years ago, he used to command a brigade of the Mexican Mar Rojo legion, the most dreaded mercenaries on the planet. Now, he has hanged up his combat boots and just enjoys the privileges.

Cipriano feels confused and rusted. Holy shit, his brain is not as quick as it used to be. I’m a wreck, he thinks.

And retirement is close, by now.

Shanti has always entrusted itself to technology: droids and integrated systems. Security forces—those in flesh and bones—are limited. They are scenography: camo suits, shiny weapons, big-ass tactical goggles. They enhance the safety perception in shaved-ass citizens and traditionalists. And they do a little off-the-books work in low-tier places like the Desert Siren, where you cannot rely on the official city droids.

“Gil! Gil! Do you hear me? Jesus, can’t hear shit with these things!”

The Desert Siren automatically enters lockdown mode.

The fat man in underwear keeps shooting, damaging the structure, squealing like a stuck pig: “I just wanted a pair of soft gums, not reach for the moon, for fuck’s sake.” The fat citizen is out of his mind, never mix Indian sparkling wine with Cloud 6, everyone knows.

“Get me a fucking octogenarian with orange lipstick. Now!”

The four security guards take position two-by-two on opposite sides of the room. They command the citizen to throw away the weapon and surrender.

Cipriano takes the situation in his hands; he wants to avoid further bloodshed. He knows what he is doing, he has experience and knows men. Someone on his way for a quick blowjob is not a terrorist.

And then, some riddled old slut is something you can live with. But a Shanti citizen torn apart—in an illegal place, on top of that—is not nice. Cipriano knows he risks losing his job, for a fuck-up like that.

Fuck no, I’m not going back out there, not yet.

“Sir! You hear me? You’re surrounded and outgunned…come out and let’s put an end to this!”

He orders not to open fire, to stay calm. They are four against one. Gil, on the other side of the room, relays the order to his men.

The man in underwear is out of sight, hiding somewhere behind the torn partitions Cipriano insists in his negotiation.

“Sir, we’re here to help you. If you don’t cooperate, they’ll put you on the King’s chair. You know that, right? Come out, so we can work this out. But you have to do that now…”

Finally, a voice answers, “The service here sucks, you know? Who are you to guarantee anything? I expect to be satisfied, so take your best old whore here. And don’t forget: I need gums, not fucking teeth!”

Cipriano thinks that the man is in his hands; he drops his pulse rifle and comes out in the open.

It is almost dinner time; the incident must be fixed right now.

Gil takes his face in his hands. Shit! That one has lost his marbles.

“Okay. Do you see me now? Cipriano Morales, Security Chief, I’m unarmed. Let’s end this, sir. You’ll have what you want. We’ll work it out, you’ll see.”

A dull shot. One only. Cipriano’s skull explodes. Fucking aim, not half bad.

The Security Chief of the Desert Siren stands for a few seconds more, without head. Old Cipriano still cannot believe he is going to skip dinner. And not only that.

His jaw dropping, Gil takes a breath and stops dillydallying, “Fire! I want that asshole’s balls on a tray, well cooked!”

The weapons roar full-force. The gloryslots partitions are hit and set on fire. The Desert Siren fills with smoke. The man in underwear is still nowhere to be seen in that mess.

A different alarm shrieks. Shanti red alert. Shots never go unnoticed: official forces are incoming. A PA message, gently perverse, warns about the imminent droid intervention:

 

HUMAN ACTION EXPIRED.

CITY SECURITY DROIDS ACTIVATED.

PLEASE LEAVE AREA.

 

“Let’s go, everybody out!” Gil manages to push his men away from the critical area. He well knows that Hell is about to break loose. This is going to be no joke.

Smoke, confusion, curses. Everybody squeezed against the emergency hatch. Exits locked.

The hiss of magnetic cushions, the moment has come. The iron army is out of the workshop. The ill-fated song of the IG-99 combat droids echoes.

Gallop of circuits, of multilayer perceptrons. Incandescent synapses.

Stuff which costs millions. Shanti stuff.

From its side turret, one of the two tank droids launches a minirocket, opening a breach directly into the room from outside. Red alert allows them to make a clean sweep. And do it quick.

A second launch, then another. Killer droids join the assault, guaranteeing better flexibility and attack dynamics. No-way-out sequences. Collateral damage unavoidable.

The Desert Siren flares up: crystal rain, metal shards in irregular orbits. The man in underwear, wherever he is, has no longer a single molecule whole. He is meat confetti.

Pieces of bodies scattered everywhere. The survivors slip on organic slush: blood, burnt muscle, mush of brain and liver sprayed on the ceiling.

Gil has hacked it, only a hand has gone melted. But one of his men did not make it.

The killer droids approach, frame the two surviving men in their sensors. They stink of death, too, but they are moving, they are almost whole. They are dangerous. The red alert is not stopping, the fire has blocked the security system.

It will restart in a couple minutes, too many. Altered configurations. The droids’ deterministic software condemns everybody.

Gil holds Eusebio, his brother. The younger man is not down with being executed: he opens fire against those metal bellies. Shitty energy-suckers! The droids advance in rank, and they finish the massacre with flamethrowers, like you do with bugs. Job terminated.

The city alarm turns off… With the fire out, aspirators and servo-drones begin cleaning up the place. Those citizens who are uncomfortable with the perversion-reading tech of the Emptier will have to wait for another gloryslots place to pop up somewhere in the holy city.

Many people have gathered outside the structure: voices, jokes, conjectures. From the ruined place, a long line of singed sluts come out, escorted to the whores’ clinics. A fatty is bleeding from her ass, she leaves a wide red stroke behind her. Laughter.

ONE PIECE AT A TIME

Excerpt from the novel ‘Shanti – The Sadist Heaven’ by Alessandro Manzetti

(Necro Publications, April 2019)

Malo and Brice face each other, a threadbare cube dividing them. Eyes in the eyes, teeth ready to grind. The challenge: five dishes in front of them, hidden by a dull thermolite lid.

The contents, the food, hardly visible. Ulysse, short legs, the referee of the Meat Roulette, is ready to start the game. Stubby fingers, the big ring on his middle finger supporting a threebreasted bust, languidly lying among his hairs. Five hundred credits for the winner: a long line for the competitor selection, many punch-ups outside the Cafe. Spits, broken bottles, stabs.

Brice is the champion. For Malo, this is the first time. He must win, unless he wants to keep eating green shit. Slowly getting ill, ending up among the waking junk. With the lighthouse of awareness lit and his body turned off. Feeling your legs sawed off, ending up on the menu of the creative restaurants of the apocalyptic district. Either becoming a second course to be nibbled at, or surviving a few months more, in your shoes.

Ulysse, with his odd hopping walk, approaches the cube and delivers the dice to the rivals.

A flock of black faces surrounds the scene. Buzzards, audience, raptors, wretches. Drool wetting those warped snouts. Green foam, like the green shit.

Malo must roll his die first. His hands tremble: Brice is undefeated after seventeen matches. A real master of the Meat Roulette. A sudden burst of blue rain disfigured him; with that half-melted face he looks even more terrible. A draft of fire splinters which drew arabesques on his cheeks. His right ear melted away, it no longer has a shape, looks like a big purple cyst. Protoskin suits are not for all budgets.

First cast: the die rolls, shows its face to the red perblix ceiling: four. Fuck, not bad! Malo resumes breathing, his chances are good.

“My turn, now… I hope you’re not too squeamish…” Brice laughs out loud. The buzzards behind his back join the chorus, showing their vacant gums. He rubs his die between his fingertips, blows on it his rat breath. That mouth, after many challenges at the Une piece a la fois, is sealed by thick, rotten membranes.

Throw: the die runs to the border of the cube. Shit, it’s a zero if it falls! But after a final, slow tilt, it sets on the edge, a few millimeters from the abyss. From Ulysse’s open palm. Letting the dice drop on the floor, during the Meat Roulette, is bad luck: everybody knows that.

A two: this time Brice twists his grin in a weird, unnatural way. He straightens his back and farts, he doesn’t seem to worry too much: “Don’t kid yourself, dickhead, it’s just the first round. And then, I don’t mind a bite, actually…let’s see: what do we have here?”

Ulysse, the short referee, slowly lifts the lid, revealing the contents of the first dish. It’s Brice’s turn to eat: he has lost the first roll.

The spectators groan, get their noses closer, stretch their senses. They ask themselves what the fuck is that shit. A small, dark-colored lump; round-shaped, more or less.

Someone tries to guess:

One of Ulysse’s nuts! That small, it can’t be anything else. Hey, midget! You put your own balls into play this time…not that you needed them anyway…

But don’t you see how dark it is? Rat shit, that’s what it is. Those green-eyed beasts splashing around in the Rouge Seine. I’ve seen them, those bastards…

What the fuck are you saying? I’m betting ten credits that’s a nice lung meatball! Some poor devil who made an ugly end. The midget is a motherfucker…he won’t play it that easy.

Brice pushes back the buzzards, looks Ulysse in the eye. The champion waits to learn the truth about his morsel, before swallowing it. Those are the rules. Whoever gives up, whoever does not enjoy the disgusting dishes of the Apocalypse Cook, is out of the game.

The midget spills the beans with his faggot voice: “Fried green shit kneaded with mutated sperm, Brice. Not easy to find in solid form. I flaked it from the curb, not far from here, after the last boiling rain. Assholes who kept screwing on the street when the display already showed the last orange warning. The dickhead must have come right during the mess… So, Brice, are you up to it? Shouldn’t be bad: nutritious, crunchy: caramelized sperm.”

Brice grabs his morsel, he does not waste time. He detaches half of it with the vise of his right molars, and swallows. His face is frozen, no expression.

A buzzard throws up on the midget’s shoes. What the fuck! Out of here!

Malo understands that beating Brice will be hard: that animal doesn’t fear anything. Sperm is a formidable death carrier.

“So, dickhead, can we go on?”

Brice doesn’t yield one centimeter; he has swallowed the rest and now he is gulping down a glass of tequila. Everything under control.

Second dice roll: this time Brice throws first. The die finishes a tight turn and shows a three.

Unlucky day for the champion. Malo takes courage, he awfully needs those five hundred credits. His son, Patrice: his legs are so thin he could plant him in the tarmac like a road sign.

The die in his hand feels heavier.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” Brice doesn’t give him respite.

Malo watches the second dish; the outline of the next special morsel looks bigger, it will be hard to swallow that. Whatever it is. But the midget’s lids trick the eye. The Meat Roulette is a dangerous game, it can drive you crazy.

His hand shakes, the die does not come off his skin. And yet, Malo’s chances of rolling higher again are good, a three is not that high. But he cannot do it. That whitish shape in the dish, which seems to slide on the bottom with soft, primal paws, is too much for him. He thinks about Patrice, his crumbling bones. But it is really too much.

“I’m out, guys, I can’t go on.”

Ulysse lets a red handkerchief drop on Brice’s shoulder: the winner, once again. Then he approaches Malo, shoving his tongue into his ear. Malo knows the rules, he lowers his head: he must accept the consequences.

The buzzards move away, disappointed. The game has ended too soon, not even time enough for side bets to take flight.

Midget, what the fuck, choose your players better! There’s people waiting outside, ready to everything.

Malo follows Ulysse toward the backroom. He has to slow down his pace several times.

The hopping, slanting rhythm of the midget is too slow. Short legs.

The door shuts: a small room without windows. Choked oxygen. A long table, beside a PX carving machine. An old model. Obsolete technology, sharp steel. Blades and pivots. The snakes of extractor tubes. Cauterizer.

“What do you choose? Come on, I must get back there before those sons of bitches swipe everything.”

Ulysse’s faggot voice cuts deep like his shitty machine. It is not easy to choose a piece of your own body to be hacked off, to be used as a dish for the next Meat Roulette games.

Malo is shaking; he has gambled too much. In a corner of that room of madness, human pieces are heaped, packaged and sealed. Silver-colored bags of different size. Holographic tag. Meat ready for the midget’s arcane meatballs. Malo notices a hand in the pile. The lesser evil, at this point…

“My left hand…okay?”

Without answering, Ulysse turns on the carving device. The hand is good. Perfect to create several Roulette appetizers. Fried fingers, for example. Fantasy has no limits, at Une piece a la fois.

Ulysse stares at Malo’s wrist, on the tray of the machine. “We’re cutting here, okay?”

Malo throws up tears. Without a hand, finding a job in South Paris 5 will be even harder.

Patrice’s bones will fall to pieces, one by one. Son’s dust, this is what he’ll have left of him.

A few weeks, tops. Pulp to fill up a small blue box, twenty centimeters, but the child will keep screaming in his head forever.

“Stop…listen, I can scrape together some credits, I just need a couple days. I know they’re looking for…”

Malo’s words, thick with despair, are cut short by the midget. Index finger on his nose: silence, please. Ulysse locks the door, approaches and pulls down his pants. All clear: the faggot gladly exchanges one left hand for a screw.

Both of Malo’s wrists are bonded to the carving machine. He has to bend on his knees to find the right position. He arches his back, joint geometries. You cannot beat the thrill of buying a soul. Much stronger than cutting simple, mindless chunks of meat. With no longer memories to record.

Malo lowers his head, clenches his teeth. It hurts, like everything else has been for years.

Blurbs:

“If, as Umberto Eco said, ‘Reading is immortality backward,’ then reading Alessandro Manzetti’s Shanti — The Sadist Heaven is seeing mortality into a future coming apart at seams and stitches as civilization metastasizes before your eyes. The hyperreality of Manzetti’s nitty-gritty prose gives a kaleidoscopic fly’s-eye view of the Hell that is South Paris 5 and his poetic metaphors burrow into your psyche to lay mind-blowing oospores. This is an epic of stunning imagination, a veritable pleasure palace of perversion where humanity and cancer are indistinguishable.” — RANDY CHANDLER, author of Bad Juju, HELLz BELLz, Duet for the Devil, and co-editor of Year’s Best Hardcore Horror

“Manzetti guides us through a depraved and soul-scouring journey into the brutal and apocalyptic world of South Paris 5, where human flesh is the entree du jour and body packaging services a thriving business.  Here desperate degenerates play Meat Roulette, a hideous game of chance in which losers get to choose which body part will be hacked off, and teenaged girls are recruited to service the scum of an experimental detention program in the baking emptiness of the Sonoran Desert. A master of extreme horror, Manzetti describes a world steeped in cruelty and perversion with a lyricism that often verges on the sublime. For those undaunted by the subject matter, his work is an experience not to be missed! ” — Lucy Taylor, author of Dancing with Demons and Safety of Unknown Cities

About the Author

ALESSANDRO MANZETTI (Rome, Italy) is a Bram Stoker Award-winning (and 7-time nominee) author and editor of horror fiction and dark poetry.

English publications include his novel Naraka – The Ultimate Human Breeding, the collections The Garden of Delight, The Massacre of the Mermaids, The Monster, the Bad and the Ugly (with Paolo Di Orazio) and the poetry collections No Mercy, Eden Underground, War (with Marge Simon) Sacrificial Nights (with Bruce Boston) and Venus Intervention (with Corrine de Winter).

His story collection The Garden of Delight has been nominated for the Splatterpunk Awards 2018.

He edited the anthologies The Beauty of Death Vol 1, The Beauty of Death Vol. 2 – Death by Water (with Jodi Renee Lester) and the 2019 Splatterpunk Award Nominee anthology Monsters of Any Kind (with Daniele Bonfanti).

His stories and poems have appeared in many Italian, USA, UK magazines and anthologies, among them: Splatterpunk Forever, Best Hardcore Horror of the Year Vol. 2 and Vol. 4, Dark Moon Digest, Splatterpunk Zine, Disturbed Digest.

Forthcoming books in English: The Place of Broken Things (Poetry Collection, with Linda Addison, Crystal Lake Publishing, July 2019); The Radioactive Bride (Collection, Necro Publications, Q3 2019), New Sodom (Novel, Necro Publications, Q2 2020), The Keeper of Chernobyl (Novel, Omnium Gatherum, release date to be determined)

Website: http://www.battiago.com

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PARADISE, MAINE by Jackson R Thomas (Book Review)

PARADISE, MAINE by Jackson R Thomas (Alien Agenda)

Darren and Vanis’ marriage has hit a rocky patch when they find out Vanis can’t have a baby. Vanis’ following depression results in a breakdown with their sex life and then Vanis comes home one evening to catch Darren on an online porn chat site, and their relationship deteriorates further. What better way to help their marriage heal than winning a break to the idealic Maine coastal town of Paradise.

Things really do improve, along with the couple’s sex life, and Vanis even rekindles her love for photography in the picturesque Maine wilderness. What could possibly go wrong? Well, the holiday could be a set-up and the married couple, like many before them, could be the entertainment for a deformed feral wildman living in the nearby woods!

Set on the coast in the Maine wilderness, PARADISE, MAINE a small town hiding a dark secret. Throw in a conspiracy and you’ve got a short, entertaining read for fans of Edward Lee and Jack Ketchum’s Dead River series. It’s my first time reading anything by Jackson R Thomas and there’s plenty of sex and gore to keep horror fans glued to the pages. I’ll be sure to check out Thomas’s other horror novel, THE BEAST OF BRENTON WOODS. If you’re a fan of fast paced horror fiction and you like a big dollop of gore, then you’re going to need this book. (Jack Bantry)

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Dan Henk interview

Here’s an interview I did recently with writer, artist and tattooist, Mr Dan Henk.

First, how did you become interested in the world of horror?

I’ve always been drawn to the dark side. My absolute favourite is sci-fi horror. I remember one of my earliest memories was seeing War of the Worlds as a kid, and that was the beginning of the end. The Twilight Zone and the Outer Limits quickly became my favourite TV shows. When we got a TV, of course, which wasn’t until I was in the 5th grade, but that’s another story.

What made you want to become a tattoo artist? Who inspired you?

I wanted initially to be a comic artist. A boyfriend of a goth girl who was a friend of mine owned a shop in Virginia Beach. He saw my art and offered to teach me. Even though I wanted to be covered in tattoos, I had this notion that they were all old-school based designs, and turned down the offer.  Years later, as a starving artist in New York City, another tattooist offered to teach me, and this time I jumped at the opportunity. I also knew the tattoo world better, with artist’s like Aaron Caine and Robert Hernandez breaking all previous notions of what could be done.

Do you work full time as a tattoo artist? Tell us about your studio etc.

I own half of The Abyss Fine Art Studio in New York, do a week a month there, with the rest of the month spent at Third Dimension Tattoo in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. At the spots in NY I tattoo all day every day. In PA, I tattoo about 3 days a week, with the rest spent on illustrating books and magazines or writing. In both studios I have private rooms, the walls decorated with art and horror.

You jet about to tattoo conventions. What do you enjoy most about doing the conventions? Do you have many lined up for this year? Do you book up in advance? Do you get a lot of repeat customers, etc?

For a while I was doing about 25 conventions a year. Mix that with all the guest spots I was doing, and I was away more than I was home. Now I do about 6 a year, with the random guest spot here or there. The novelty of them wore off, and at this point I’ve been all over the world and arrived on the decision that I’d enjoy exotic locations more if I didn’t mix in work. A few I still do all the time, like my upcoming one in Toronto. That said, I have many repeat clients all over the world and feel bad if I never travel to their area and tattoo them, so it’s hard to cut back too much. Not to mention, I’m friends with quite a bit of the tattoo community and enjoy seeing old friends.

You’re also a writer and an artist. You illustrated your next book, THE END OF THE WORLD. Tell us about the project. What’s the book about, etc?

I originally wanted to be a comic artist, even interviewing with DC, Marvel, and Image comics. Depressing interviews with all the majors (many of whom were on the verge of bankruptcy), convinced me a better form of expression for what I wanted to accomplish would be illustrated novels. In a way it was hearkening back to my pulp magazine favourites like The Shadow or Kane. THE END OF THE WORLD is my new novel, a loose sequel to my first book, and focuses on a small band of misfits trying to survive amid the fall of the US government. Anarchy rules the streets, and a conspiracy among the surviving oligarchy involves bringing back an ancient evil.

Where did you get the idea from?

I actually had the core of the idea when I was a teenager living with my parents. I used to do full page comic book storyboards and bring them to local indie comic artists for critique. So the core of the idea existed for years, going through several evolutions before it finally erupted in novel form.

Who’s publishing it and when’s it out? Any reasons why you chose Crossroads Press?

Crossroad Press is putting it out. I started with Anarchy Books, graduated to the larger Permuted Press, with a momentary slide into the nightmare that was Damnation Books. Not happy with the ever changing standards of Permuted Press, I asked other writers for advice. Several recommended Crossroad Press, and I have nothing but good things to say about them so far. It should be out later this year.

Will there by a print version?

Of course! There will be an audio edition as well.

What’s your writing process? I imagine you’re extremely busy with your art and working. How do you go about writing?

I actually I have more ideas than I have time to express! I write down ideas as I think of them on the “notes” app of my iPhone, and I’ve found that whenever I reach a block in the story I’m writing I pause, take some time out, and go for a run. That never fails.

Along with tattooing and writing you’ve done some awesome art, such as the covers you’ve done for me at Splatterpunk Zine. Why do I not see more of your art on book covers?

Ha! Good question! But on a serious note, I do a lot. I tattoo, own a shop, train in MMA 2-3 hours a day, write, paint, and draw. I just don’t have time to pursue more. I’ve done 8 book covers, 6 album covers, 3 magazine covers, and I don’t even know how many illustrations for books, magazines, bands, and clothing companies. I did a regular comic strip for Madcap Magazine for two years, and another for TAM for a year and a half, and put out an illustrated calendar for 4 years. I tend to always have more projects than I have time to get to.

 

What do you have planned for 2019?

My new book is coming out of course, and that’s my main focus right now. I sent a short story to Dark Regions Press, just won a boxing and a month later a Muay Thai fight, and started two podcasts with my shop, one focusing on artists and entitled Third Dimension Tattoo. It’s at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9QWmCyMAg8E&t=1s  Another is on current social, political, and economic topics. It’s called Man in the Chair and you can view it at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3HjCQENC0s&t=219s
More to come I’m sure, but the year is still young!

Questions by Jack Bantry

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