#SLOVENLY RECORDS

[voodoorhythmrecords]

[thoughtswordsaction]

The Anomalys - Down The Hole LP (Slovenly Records)

When it comes to channeling the feral energy of late-sixties garage rock and blending it with the raw edge of seventies New York punk, few bands do it with as much fervor as The Anomalys. Their latest release, Down The Hole, is a blistering reminder that rock ‘n’ roll is far from dead—it’s alive, kicking, and foaming at the mouth. This album is a visceral ride through a sonic landscape that’s as…

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

SWEET JANE IN HER FINEST SPACE ACE DISGUISE -- THIS IS PURE SUPER-SEVENTIES DESIGN.

PIC INFO: Spotlight on a Jane Birkin-KISS/Ace Frehley mashup piece, the final flyer/poster design for a DIRTY FENCES gig in Barcelona, Spain, on November 26, 2015, and reportedly inspired by "Sophie Primrose obsessions." Artwork by Barcelona-based graphic design collective, Branca Studio.

"Satisfying a youthful obsession with early KISS and MÖTLEY CRÜE, then discovering the fortunate truth of THE DICTATORS and RAMONES, DIRTY FENCES have finally slammed into the Slovenly path with the new album, "Full Tramp.""

-- BRANCA STUDIO, c. fall 2015

Rest in perfection, Jane Birkin (1946-2023), another legend lost -- keep on rockin'!

Source: www.instagram.com/p/74awXIj__E.

[gunslinginggreasehound]

Wingfield Park, Reno, Nevada June 2023 DEBAUCH-a-ReNO

[slovenlyrecordings]

THE MONSTERS UK TOUR 2024

13 Nov 2024 UK — NORTHAMPTON — THE BLACK PRINCE

14 Nov 2024 UK — RAMSGATE — MUSIC HALL

15 Nov 2024 UK — BRIGHTON — THE ALBERT

16 Nov 2024 UK — STOCKPORT — AMP

17 Nov 2024 UK — GLASGOW — BROADCAST

19 Nov 2024 UK — EDINBURGH — CABARET VOLTAIRE

20 Nov 2024 UK — NEW CASTLE — CLUNY

21 Nov 2024 UK — STOCKTON — NE BAR

22 Nov 2024 UK — SOUTHEND — TWENTY ONE

23 Nov 2024 UK — LONDON — THE MOTH CLUB

[bandcampsnoop]

6/18/23.

I would have thought that by this time we would have had a lot more posts that mentioned Slovenly Recordings (Reno, Nevada). Suprisingly, it was only three.

The fourth brings us Spitting Image (also from Reno, Nevada). Slovenly tends to garage/post-punk, and this definitely leans punk/post-punk. I was reading about their release on my Bandcamp app last night, and I remember sitting up while reading that they sound like/are influenced by the likes of Wipers, Gun Club, Television, Gun Outfit, The Men, Spiritual Cramp, and Protomartyr.

I've been listening to this a lot today. It's a fitting way to end the Davis Music Fest. Slovenly band Th' Losin Streaks are playing today.

[dreamofhircine]

The other pilot tasted neutral. Inoffensive. Clean with only the faintest hint of an antiseptic mouthwash, something its handler probably applied manually every morning. It was unlike the mechanics surrounding us, whose greasy fingers were twisted in our hair and pawing at our bodies as they all urged the two of us to kiss harder, deeper, messier.

The mechanics tasted like they looked, slovenly, unwashed, rank with barracks-brew liquor and off-date ration packs if we were unlucky or the sickly-sweet flavored protein drinks they liked to have when they used the makeshift gyms if we weren't. The other pilot was like flavorless slurry, like the salty electrolyte drinks our handler would make us choke down between actual meals.

We looked so much alike, which is probably why the deck crew made us do this so often. Stripped down to show off our neural ports, our scars, our burns, the kill-tally slash tattoos running down our thighs they urged us on to mime a passion with one another that never reached our eyes. The dead-eyed stares we shared probably helped them all get off, too.

It was just another part of the job, just another way to ensure that We, the Us towering a dozen meters above locked into the repair cradle, would receive particularly attentive care in the maintenance bay. The machines scanned us passively, sensors always faintly tracing us even in the standby state. Sensor-clusters recording us writhe against each other in the circle of leering, jeering handsy crew. In thermal, in night vision, in radar ping and acoustic tracks. Something that would be passed around on illicit data-pads later, uploaded to unsanctioned intranets across the ship.

We could even feel Us, through the limited remote interface module at the base of our spine. Pulses of Our gaze as We logged our position, our continuing degradation. That would be just for us, though. A shame We alone would carry, secret from the crowd. We blushed at the thought. The other pilot did the same, tracing down the same grooves so well-worn into our own mind.

A particularly oil-slick hand was in our hair, tugging at the poorly dyed teal stands. Sharp, painful, insistent with need for something more than the show. Dragged away from soft lips and soft flesh to a harsher, rougher embrace. A chance to finally feel something real, something that could damage us, that could make us cry.

We smiled. A real smile. Our mech would be repaired by first light for sure.

[pygmi-cygni]

Lucky Number Seven

what's that you say? I already have a series that I've been ignoring for one (1) month?

poppycock, I tell you.

a/n: I missed poe, so I figured I'd throw another bone. I'm aiming for three parts but it miiiight extend to four. if I exceed five something is def wrong.

cw: nothing right now, mostly just the intro chapter. later the series will contain themes of violence, torture and angst (with a happy ending!), but all fandom appropriate.

onward! pt. 2

It was always a possibility. As thin as a hair and stacks of odds against it, but still a possibility.

The intelligence division didn't wander out into the fight. That was the joke - they were the only ones 'intelligent' enough to leave well enough alone. But sometimes, they needed brains and capable hands. And you had two for two, so your sign-off was a go.

Not the dream position to be in, but you didn't have a choice.

That terrifying reality rattled in your brain with every rock and root the transport speeder went over. You clutched a blaster to your chest, staring blankly at the empty bench in front of you. The two officers on either side of you were mumbling prayers.

Seven in total. Lucky in every instance outside of this. The top intelligence officers the Resistance had to offer. For the first time in decades, reporting to the tiny group of actual soldiers and pilots hiding a few kilometers outside a very active Imp base.

You took a deep breath, rubbing the tattoo on your thumb. It wasn't much of a tattoo - just a pair of dots. It was meant to be three, but you could only take the pain of two.

Looking out the window, you swallowed nervously.

"D'you think we'll get medals?"

Turning, you saw the newest member of your team. Tonks, you called them. Short, scrawny, with moony grey eyes. Good with numbers and not much else.

"What?" Your brow furrowed.

They shifted closer, face curious. "Y'know, medals. For being brave and stuff."

You rubbed your neck. "Uh...not sure, kiddo. I don't think medals are gonna be the focus of this mission." The statement came out a bit crueler than you intended, and you winced.

Tonks swallowed, shrinking back into the corner. Oops.

The sweltering swamp air made you gag. It felt like being inside a sprinter's sock; damp, hot, and smelling of rot. Sticky pools were collecting under your arms and the heavy straps of your protective gear.

"Holy Maker," one of the officers groaned, shifting the massive bulk of a transcriber over his shoulder. You did not envy him.

The sun was high and beating down on your neck. Underbrush creaked and slopped under your boots as you trudged through the thick sludge. Tension was high, and the hairs on the back of your neck were straight up. Tonks stumbled behind you, mumbling all the while.

"Are...are you reciting code?" You swiveled to raise an eyebrow, nearly tripping into a pile of mud.

They sniffled, wiping sweat from their upper lip. "Regulation protocol. Rules calm me down."

Ah. My mistake.

Snorting, you hurried to catch up with the rest. Falling behind would do nobody any good; the suns were setting fast and the squelching mud was becoming a freezing, slick sludge. You'd skimmed the records of life on this planet, and you were not inclined to meet any of them.

Nal Hutta, named "Glorious Jewel" for reasons that escaped you, was a polluted swamp planet home to the slovenly species of Hutts. The Imps, likely enamored with its sewage and decrepit appearance, had decided to operate a communications base and a trading port. Allegedly they were allied with the smuggling captains and frequently used the back alleys to discuss trade operations.

This made it a seemingly easy target for the Rebel fighters, but you had quickly realized the Hutts were more equipped than you thought.

Hence the arrival of translators, cartographers, code breakers, and one (1) weapons specialist arriving in a cramped armored vehicle five hours away.

Logic.

Another wave of nausea threatened to overflow as the pockmarked ground belched a glob of slime. Your eyes were watering from the stench, and the sound of retching could be heard in front and behind you. For being a small planet, it was densely humid, and the temperatures fluctuated wildly. Your tongue was dry as Tattooine, but the mold beginning to grow around your water jug was not appetizing.

"The bacterial growth rate is astounding," one of the biologists murmured into a receiver, handing back swabs of growths to the research assistant. You made a face, dodging the slimy sticks of nastiness.

The craggy hill your group was mounting came to an abrupt peak, evidence of a fire burning ash down the side. You took the opportunity to shuck your pack, stretching out your tired muscles.

Tonks was vomiting off to the side, shaky hands bracing their scrawny knees. Sighing, you removed their glasses and wiped them on your pants, grimacing. They nodded a thanks, swallowing back bile.

The rest of the journey was equally as uncomfortable. You'd soaked through your clothes with sweat, salt and mud caked around your boots and pants. The soiled clothing chafed against your thighs, and you couldn't bear a step longer. One of the younger officers had lost his boot in a sticky puddle, and was now hobbling around with a crutch.

"Hey...hey, hey hey!"

Tonks' voice carried from a ditch, excited and bright. You stumbled behind the crowd, trying to see what Tonks had found.

A chimney with smoke trailing into the dark sky. Squinting, you peered around the ground and cried out triumphantly.

Canvas tents, well hidden by debris, tucked alongside the mountain ridge. It looked to be a few minutes walk.

"Oh fuck yeah," you breathed, starting off at a fast pace down the craggy side. The officers followed, groaning in relief. The ruckus of twenty officers rushing at the small camp alerted a few guards, who approached with blasters raised.

One of them, a stocky blonde, clearly recognized one of your crew, and broke into a grin. You watched, dazed, as they clapped each other on the back, other soldiers coming over to greet the group. Knowing you were safe, exhaustion had begun to set in hard. A bone-deep ache shuddered through your body, your boots tripping over each other. An unfamiliar pair of hands steadied you, and a woman said unintelligible words to you, eyes worried.

You mumbled something incoherently and sunk to the ground, eyes rolling back.

When you woke, it was still dark, but your clothes were clean and your hair was damp. You sat up and immediately regretted it. Stars swam in your vision, blurring the small light source next to you until it looked like Van Gogh.

"What the fff..." you smacked your lips, tongue like sandpaper. A rustling to your left made you jump.

Tonks peeked their head in, grey eyes bright. They gave a toothy grin and handed you a glass of liquid.

"Oh, hi! Don't worry, Marfa washed you off. Drink this, it's good." Their gaze was shiny and a little unfocused, and you took the drink with a bit of apprehension.

"Are we bunking together?" you croaked, wiping the foamy blue drink from your chin. It was good, mild and sweet, but definitely alcoholic. Subtly you set it aside, reaching for water instead.

Tonks nodded, hands fluttering excitedly. They launched into a recap of the last few hours, babbling about the base and the soldiers and a thousand other things you did not have the energy to keep up with.

When their energy and stream of words seemed to die down a bit, you mumbled about taking a piss and stumbled out of the tent, rolling the tension out of your shoulders. Your feet were steadier and a cold drink of water sounded great.

Despite it being the middle of the night, quite a few Rebels were still out, huddled around fires and under rooves. Some laughed and joked, dancing poorly to music, while others talked with hushed tones and pursed lips. You watched it all, amazed. It was far from the few bases you'd been on before - all grey, stoic, cold.

Smiling, you watched an animated game of cards between two pilots. One of their helmets was holding bets, stacked almost to the brim with credits and meal tickets.

Your smile wavered as you tilted your head to catch the insignia. Black.

Black Squadron was here?

The heat of the nearby fire sapped from your bones. Stumbling backwards, you ducked back into your tent and hissed, "Tonks! Who've we met at base?"

They blinked. "Wh-"

"The squadron. Who are we going to work with?"

"Black Squadron. Dameron's. Did you not read the debrief?" Snorting, they returned to their game of solitaire.

Your mouth felt like Tatooine's deserts as you shakily sat down. Tonks didn't notice your existential crisis, continuing to puzzle through another bad hand.

Poe had grown up with you, on Yavin. You weren't friends, not really. Just flowers that grew in the same garden and occasionally fluttered past each other on windy days. He was always too reckless, too fast. You preferred the late bloom to the hot summer flashes, unfurling your leaves in gentle spring. A strange dance had emerged as you orbited each other's circles, never going any farther than a hey or a good morning.

Well, you'd tried. Once.

And....failed.

But that debacle was successfully locked up in the box of 'do not fucking open this ever under any circumstances' and that was where it would stay.

Your thumbs ran worry lines over the rough lip of your canteen. That grudge had calcified among your bones, growing into your ribs alongside your heart. It might be wise to let it go, but the scar tissue had healed and it would hurt more to rip it out. It didn't bother you any more - the Resistance was so big you hardly saw him. You saw more than enough, all the posters and photoshoots polluting your media feed.

Until now.

You swallowed back another gritty mouthful of blue something and tossed your cup onto the sheets.

Well, it seemed you couldn't avoid him any longer. Three years you tried. A valiant effort.

Bring it on, flyboy.

You woke early the next morning. Morning dew clung to the tents, slicking up the encrusted slime into rivers of sludge. Nothing, not even sunrise, could make this planet appealing. It was frigid out. You wrapped elastic around the hems of your close to keep the heat contained. The end result was a striking resemblance to a Hutt. Futile anyway, for it would be boiling temperatures within the hour.

Standard protocol mandated an officer meeting by 0800 this morning. It was 0530, so you had time to kill. Usually you’d go for a run, but this terrain didn’t welcome any wandering off. You decided to take advantage of the quiet and explore the camp you missed yesterday.

It was smaller than you expected, but spread out. It looked like there were two cohorts of pilots that arrived; Red Squadron, whose camp was well-established, and Black Squadron, whose setup looked fairly new. Dameron must have landed within the last few weeks. It puzzled you why Red would even need any assistance – they had the highest ratio of trained fighters to licensed pilots. They were nicknamed ‘red’ for a reason. Their commander, Shayla Din, was the best staff fighter you’d ever met.

You shoved your hands deep in your pockets and crept along, tallying the tents as you passed. Forty. Two people per tent…eighty-ish. That was a small crew, but you could make it work.

A small hill approached. You muscled your way to the top, nearly stepping in a rat carcass. The ‘fog’ you’d assumed earlier appeared to be the gas from a nearby geyser, kept low in the atmosphere by the temperature. Well, that’s disgusting. No amount of soap and water could cleanse your body after that discovery.

Turning, you began your loop again.

And paused.

One of the tents was illuminated, and a very familiar head of curls sat outside buckling his boots.

A bucket of cold water crashed over your nervous system, sending your heartrate into the stratosphere. You wished, for the first time, to be absorbed into the grimy mess of the ground, sucked away into blissful death.

Anything was better than seeing his face.

You stood, frozen, watching as he dusted off his soles, stretched, and turned. And saw you. And saw you. And for a brief second, for the first time in three years, you felt like an anxious little greenhorn, shaking in the presence of a Commander. Poe’s gaze, even from here, was harder than Beskar. Clean and sharp like a blade, cleaving the strength from your bones and leaving you in a heap of quivering insecurity.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here,” he hissed, closing the space in three long strides.

Your mouth was glued shut. Ignore him. Just keep walking, don’t even look him in the eye.

His deep brown eyes met yours with seething confusion. Swallowing, you tilted your chin, deciding to stare at his ear instead.

“I’m one of the seven that came to help, Commander.” Your voice was smoother than you expected. His rank had the desired effect, his jaw twitching with irritation. Poe stood, a little too close, before grabbing your elbow and yanking you behind him.

“What the-“

“Follow me, and don’t talk to anybody,” he gritted out, “I’m calling headquarters.”

“What? Why?”

He stopped in front of the largest canvas tent, whirling to face you. “I’m sending you back.”

Any anger simmering under the surface boiled over in a massive collision between your fist and his cheek. The satisfying thud made your heart glow for a moment, until realizing you’d just punched a Commander’s lights out.

well, let's see where this goes I guess.

tags! comment to join (please specify if you want my main taglist or just this story xo)

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma

@iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world

@ael-xander @to-be-a-sunshine @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @silvernight-m @lonelyisamyw-0love

 @unear7hly

[voodoorhythmrecords]

you want speed, we got speed!!! The Monsters with 'i love you' live in Geneva, La Graviere

@voodoo_rhythm_records @slovenlyrecordings #themonsters

@rooseveltrecords @lagraviereliveclub

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY: PUMPKIN SOUP

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

For two days you persist in your begging for a hospital stay, seizing feebly at the improbable chance of liberty through that once feared institution.

You’ve read of women escaping their keepers through a word in the ear of some sympathetic doctor or neighbouring patient, fantasising at length that you might mimic such simple ingenuity.

The obsidian eyes of cameras in their probing fleets, your blood family surging forth to embrace you, weeping in regret at their heartless desertion— in want of it you indulge in an even greater exaggeration of illness to the extremes of near losing your voice to the performance.

Yet for all that you moan and cough and writhe in the clutches of muscle cramps and drenching fever Hannibal rejects your pleas with minimal reply.

He works shifts at the office around your care, bathing you and changing sodden bedsheets twice daily by duteous hand.

You’re fed medicine and light stews when you’re too frail to take the spoon yourself, and scarcely hungry enough to swallow, have throbbing joints chafed between his palms at your slightest complaint of suffering.

All your favourite music and filmography is set up on a timer so that you need not leave the bed at the end of each recording; like a slovenly youth you loll, watching Hammer Horror pictures back-to-back, and think your captor’s house far more lush than even those lurid sets.

When you waver between frigid and overheated your jailer adapts the room to either need, exchanging one thickness of blanket for another, training a fan upon you until you cannot help but squirm luxuriously in the breeze.

It’s on the third day, held through an attack of coughing in Hannibal’s arms, that you disintegrate and softly weep with the shame of your gratitude towards him.

He lifts your chin up in his palm, his eyes moist with empathy.

“Dear one,” he says. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

“I just don’t understand,” you say, rubbing a tear from the stinging corner of your eye. “How can you be what you are and still be so kind to me?”

Hannibal smiles, all fatherly goodwill, unruffled by the gauche enquiry.

“I am many men, and one. You knew this from the moment you sat before me in my office, kicking your foot in dislike of what you saw there. With you I’ve always been open with that aspect of myself. Some among us in society define themselves primarily by the sport they favour; I, however, embrace my multitudes, as should you, Little One.”

He strides across to your window, letting in a rope of umber light like the hair of a tower-bound princess.

“Yeah,” you say. “I get that. We’re different people with everybody. That’s how we survive: by being who they want so that they’ll like us. But what I mean is— this is real. Not just a costume, or a trick. You’re good to me because you’re choosing to be. But why do you want to do all this for me when I’m not like you?”

"I have faith that you'll come around,” says Hannibal, easily. “You don't wholly detest this life as you did in the beginning. Even what you consider the most unsavoury aspects of it will soon appeal to you, if only for the briefest moment."

You scent the inference behind his words and shake your head.

"I don't want to eat Uncle Lee. Even if I was like you, Daddy, I really don’t think I could.”

Hannibal’s visage, previously neutral, lightens with the solemn interest you recognise from therapy.

“Why is that?" he asks. “What would prevent you if you shared my tastes?”

“It’d feel... dirty."

You tense up, anticipating an airy dismissal, and are surprised when Hannibal appears to digest the answer quite as seriously as any debate.

“You equate the concept of eating flesh with sex,” he says. “A fellatio of sorts.”

Recouping from a startled coughing fit, you rasp, “I mean, not always, or that’d be super weird, but in this case— maybe? But even if I saw it as just degrading him the way he did to me, eating him would make me sick. Leland’s basically diseased."

Hannibal’s brows arch.

"If he were then I wouldn't suggest such a feast."

With a weak groan you shift to face the wall.

"You know what I mean. I just don't want to eat someone so disgusting. I mean, I don't want to eat anyone."

“Or anything, for that matter,” Hannibal comments; the quickness of his answer puts you in mind of Will.

“This isn't about that.”

"Yet it isn't entirely divorced from your illness, either."

You don’t reply, wishing he’d cut you free of the conversation and leave you to the consoling darkness of your chosen music to softly decay. He will never convince you to be what he is; you’ll only ever pretend until you’re loose of this house, or under the earth. You were not built to eat.

“What if someone else were to consume Leland Frost?" asks Hannibal suddenly.

Rolling onto your back again you find that he is the one now turned away, allowing you an enigmatic angle of cheek, the dash of his jawline, a noble in stasis.

“You'd do that for me?" you ask. “You’d eat Leland Frost?”

“Without question. It would be a token of my love."

A bashfulness comes over you, your heart stuttering in blighted rejoice that you, of all women, he would not have die in a doll.

Alana he would kill, you feel, though only through some necessity to silence or remove some object in her; Hannibal enjoys her too much to otherwise let her go, as possessive of his human toys as of the treasure box of life he has built about him.

You, the daughter-pet of the man that is his lover in all but the physical, are too vital to discard. This you have over Alana, the iron guard that is to be the favoured concubine of kings.

"I know I'm not the one you love,” you mutter, keen to pretend you hadn't heard Hannibal's wistful ruminations on the matter. “Will is.”

Hannibal sits down at your bedside, making the chair rather more elegant for his arrangement within it. You cannot help but glance at his crossed legs, feeling by memory the weight resting between them.

“I'm capable of ardour for more than one being simultaneously,” says Hannibal. “Would I have invited you into my home if I were not?"

Your mouth opens, then seals again without comment.

Once, you would have stridently declared you’d rather be detested by a cannibal than held in any regard, but being that such a claim is no longer honest you can only look at the ceiling and will yourself away from that coward’s longing to be loved.

"Do you still think that you’re unworthy?” asks Hannibal, with a certain sadness. “I selected you above others because upon reading your files and the many unhappy confessions made in private sectors of your online existence I saw your resilient heart, your keen perception of unspoken truths, and a compassion for those you hold close, few though they were, at that time.

“I saw, too, a proximity to darkness that bore a forbidden allure to you, that which you resisted through an oppressed certainty that you should.

“Your passion for it, your torment in the stranglehold of conformity— you were enamoured with your own illness and its extremes: the minimum you could consume, the lengths of time you could abstain from sustenance. The symptoms, even the most repugnant of them delighted you in the provision of security they brought to an unstable universe. That craving for discipline and your adherence to it I admired.”

Hannibal pauses, watching you take in his confession with a continuing want of acceptance.

“Ultimately you recoil from my habits as you do from all eating,” he says. “In you, the consumption of human flesh is made equal to that of all animals.”

With a jolt you stare at him, wondering if he is aware that you've come to so similar a realisation about him.

"I’ll never be a cannibal,” you say. “You get that, right? I don’t want to disappoint you, Daddy, but I would never eat a human being. Not by choice."

Your captor leans into your cheek, his breath stirring a tremble of horrid pleasure down your neck almost to your breast like the venom of an asp.

"Precisely,” he murmurs. “You’ll submit in the knowledge that you must."

The quilt shifts as his arm slides beneath it with a gentle cunning. You fasten your fevered thighs against him, aware that you have not bathed since the previous night and are ripe from your bedbound decay.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “I’m sick and dirty.”

“Then when I’m finished I’ll wash you and change the sheets,” says Hannibal, looking warmly down at you under lowered lids. “You’re taut from lack of release. I will unwind you from that knot; this, too, is care for you.”

His fingers form the simulacrum of a key, your entrance the lock he means to open for his amusement. You release a shivering gasp as he pushes into you, putrescent with the guilt that this deathmonger finds no resistance in the soaking welcome of you.

He touches you where the moonlight of forbidden nerve song waxes into silver life, and he does not release you until the phantasmagoric wilds of it reform at some mad height.

Twice he walks you there on well-trained fingertips, his face in the cave of your shoulder and neck, kissing the raised presence of a vein.

You feel his temptation to bite the flesh from that junction, and there is something erotic in his restraint, the tension in him as his breath smokes your throat. His teeth raise grooves there, flirting with the meat beneath your skin, his warm tongue taking the measure of your flavour.

You catch at him, push at him, feeble and defenceless. How kindly he absorbs this little violence, pressing your fists to his pursed mouth to soften them with his forgiveness.

He will not punish you for this, allows you this instinct to resist the hunter’s dominance. That he does not fuck you with his phallus is another proof of his strength; that form of sex he might have when you’re well, and a more even match against him.

His fingers in you curl like the neck of the swan over Leda, and you hear your tears fall upon the quilt, an errant rainfall.

“So beautiful,” says Hannibal, as you croak in hopeless admission of pleasure. “It’s a pity you’re unwell. Your voice is a joy to listen to at times like this.”

You think he’d like your death screams as much, the keen blackness of his eyes glistening with the satiation of the knife. He would study you, tanned head aside, considering how he might depict your agonies in graphite to commemorate their aesthetic peak.

What painting would serve as the base of this image? The Death of Marat? Saturn Eating His Son? You’re not educated enough to anticipate where so cruelly intellectual a mind would take root for inspiration. Hannibal has never conducted a human experiment quite like the one in which you are subject, this from the subtleties of his behaviour you feel, the satisfaction he takes from a new evil.

Killing and eating those that stain his world with imperfection is no sexual act to Hannibal as it is for others of his monstrous guild, but it may become sensual in recollection of what you once were to him. Should he slaughter you he’d stroke himself afterwards into religious ecstasies, a eulogy to all the hours emptied within you.

Even as he plays the scales of your bleak rapture in the present you are sure he pictures it, the murder that has not been. His hand, in thought, around your heart, letting it beat against his wrist like the lapping tongue of a wolfess dying in the snow.

You are beautiful to him in two realms: the real and parallel, the living and the dead. He would channel his love through your body, display you like the tortured beauty of some vanquished clan, whatever wound he’d killed you by presented like a brooch, some bright red gem.

After your death, what would become of you then?

Young people of the same morbid leanings you’d once indulged in would admire the images of the crime scene as they might some rare exhibition, unaware that the man that had posed you with such elaborate direction had fucked you with that same drive.

Yet perhaps they would learn of it, your organs examined for such sadistic tampering, and would pity you for your miserable life.

If only you were not so afraid to die: you must be his breathing art for all your days, and that may well be worse.

Your expression must glaze with this dark musing, for Hannibal takes back his arm from the quilt and slips noiselessly into the bathroom to wash his hands of your sour delight.

Later, when you’re washed under crisp plum and ebony sheets he comes to you once more with a glass of water and a pill in his hand.

“What’s that?” you ask, straightening against the mountainous stack of pillows. “I already had ibuprofen.”

“It’s a sleeping aid,” says Hannibal. “You were coughing through the night. This will assure you rest undisturbed.”

Miserably you contemplate the calories in the little capsule before you take it, hoping it will at least grant a dreamless sleep.

In this you are disappointed; your mind walks a road of memory, revisiting a September afternoon you’d watched Leland Frost work on your father’s car, his muscled body rolling under his shirt like an orca beneath a wave.

In the dream he whistles at a passing woman, a dimple creasing his grin.

“Ah, I need a girl like you, me.”

His blond head snaps up to look at you as you shrink back towards the house.

“No, no, cher. Stay. There somebody been asking about me?”

You scuff a white sneaker against the sidewalk, dirtying the sole.

“No, Uncle Lee.”

Leland wipes his hands on stained blue jeans and rises into a crouch, his smile like the coil of an eel in rivers deep.

“Aw, come on,” he says, cajoling. “I seen her runnin’ after you the other day. That lil, lil girl that live at the end of the street.”

“She’s just in my class, that’s all,” you insist. “She’s just a friend.”

Leland spits a brown liquid under the car and laughs.

“You got no friends but me. That girl, Hannah. She don’t like you. Still she come after you. I wanna know what she wanted.”

You look at your shoes, counting the eyelets. Leland’s eyes brand your bowed temple with their questioning.

“She asked about you,” you mumble. “And I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s good,” says Lee. “But you better tell me what she asked.”

“If I knew you were a bad man. And I said I don’t know what she’s talking about, just like you said.”

Leland winks, a conspiratorial gesture.

“That’s my girl.”

You’ve had worse dreams, yet you spring from this one as though from the top stair of hell, wishing with a sickened wrench of innards that Hannibal was in the room to calm you from its frightful squall.

Angered by your own wallowing terror, you get out of bed and force yourself to stand in front of the mirror in penance. You examine your body from all perspectives, fancying you see it narrowed by your lack of appetite while simultaneously convinced that it hasn’t changed at all.

Were that you were unwell always: you’d waste to the littleness of a Frozen Charlotte, a frail perfect thing, not the child darling lumped from clay in a killer’s hands. Neither Will nor Hannibal quite understand your fervent tenacity to achieve the quality of air, nor will either help you to achieve it.

There are limits to their madness, immune as they are to any folie à deux but their own. You are a soldier of one in your aim, ground down to lose faith in the war.

In a malaise you attempt a slow lap of the room, made pathetic by your coughing and quivering progress from one end of it to the next.

Hannibal’s car sends a lasso of auburn leaves up from the wet road as he rides in under your window; hampered by time, you return to the mirror to body check again, pulling up your nightdress in the hope your stomach has by the devil’s miracle become concave, your ribs closed in like praying hands.

Disappointed, you get back into bed and arrange yourself in a believable pose of just waking for Hannibal to find.

“How did you sleep, Little One?” he asks, setting a bowl of pumpkin soup down on a tray before you.

“Not too well,” you admit. “I had a dream about Uncle Lee again. Well, a memory, I guess.”

“You’ve remembered something new,” says Hannibal. “What have you retrieved from the galleries of time?”

It relieves you that he's so attune to your need to confess, seated at your bedside with such swiftness it is as if he never left.

“There really were other girls,” you say. “I know that for sure, now. There was this one girl, Hannah— I guess she wanted my help, and I told her to go away and that I didn’t know anything. I was scared, but still. It was wrong of me to do that to her when she needed a friend.”

“You were a child,” says Hannibal, soberly. “I’ll remind you as many times as is required of me. Leland may have hurt you had you struck out against him.”

You bow your head in rejection of his comfort.

“There were other girls that asked me for help when I got older, and I never said a word. I don’t deserve forgiveness for that, and honestly, I don’t want it, either. That wouldn’t help anybody. I just wish... well, it’s stupid, but I wish I could turn back time and do it all again.”

“The past cannot be reversed, as tempted as one might be to take it upon oneself to calculate some process of correcting one’s mistakes. You are not alone in that desire, however. I, too, have considered how it might be done. Alas, it is an impossible fantasy. There’s no benefit to ruminating on such things.”

You consider Hannibal in a kind of awe. What could such a being regret if not the act of murder?

A telephone knells in the gut of the house.

“Drink your soup,” says Hannibal, getting to his feet. “I hope to see at least half of it absent on my return.”

Resisting the compulsion to roll your eyes at him you say, with a falsely placid air, “Okay, Daddy. Sure thing.”

You make reluctant scrapes with your spoon about the bowl, swilling each mouthful about your teeth ten times before you swallow.

In five minutes Hannibal comes back to you with the telephone in his hand. There is animation to his face you’ve noticed absent since his companion left to sink himself into the case again.

“It’s Will,” says Hannibal, the expected answer. “He wants to talk to you.”

“He does?” you say, wrinkling your nose. “Wow. He’s a changed man.”

You take the receiver, waiting until Hannibal leaves to return your soup tray to the kitchen before you speak into it.

“Hi, Daddy,” you say.

It’s loathsome how eagerly the words spill from your lips, a breathless young girl’s gladness to hear from the object of a summer pash.

“Hey,” says Will. “How are you feeling? Hannibal told me you were laid up.”

“Yep. Chest infection. Listen to me.”

You cough to demonstrate, and Will laughs gently.

“That’s rough. Has Dr Lecter been taking good care of you?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just like he always does. When are you coming home? It’s Halloween in two days. It’ll be weird without you. It’s my favourite holiday.”

Will chuckles again.

“I’ll bet it is. I’ll try to get away. Jack’s got me pretty tied up, but I’ll do my best.”

You imagine Will in the mystery of his house, his free hand tousling the miscellaneous heads of many dogs. That home would smell of hair, and old books, of Will, the hermit fisherman; its scent is in your throat as if you were there, upon his lap again.

Certainly you seem able to do nothing else, your form enraptured with what once merely hurt.

“Have you missed me, Will?” you ask, coyly, and just as coyly he answers.

“Some of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, wriggling under your quilt.

The night Will had covered your mouth as he fucked his irritation up into you is like a sunrise of the womb, a burning, desirous giant. It is horrible what these men do, but like the snarling ache of starving you must love it against all that you know to be true and good.

“Just kidding,” says Will, a grin in his voice. “I do miss you. But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Something serious.”

The solemn shift in Will’s voice nips the smirk from your lips at once.

“What is it?” you ask. “What do you mean?”

“I got an MRI the other day. Figured it was time to get to the bottom of those seizures I’ve been having. Alana hooked me up; I guess somebody owed her a favour. Turns out I have encephalitis. I’ve been in the hospital for a couple of days. Probably going to be on medication for a while now.”

The hand gripping the receiver seems to run with fire over blood.

“Oh, God,” you say, breathless with nerves. “Is everything okay? Are you?”

“Okay isn’t the word I’d use,” says Will grimly. “You knew about this already, One. I want to know how.”

Panic drills you through with such adrenaline that you feel as though you’re above the bed rather than within it. If you expose the truth you’ll be punished severely, perhaps even lethally should it drive the two men apart.

You’d made a mistake in taunting Will over their friendship; you should have left well alone, endured their union in unstirring quiet as you’d done under Leland Frost.

“Um,” you mumble. “I know a lot of stuff before it happens. I just feel like it’s true, or guess, like you said. Or I dream about it.”

“This wasn’t out of any dream. The details were too specific. You said something about the food. Somebody told you what was going on, and what was triggering my encephalitis, because they were purposefully making it worse.”

Will pauses, and when he speaks again his tone is clipped, all controlled rage.

“It was Hannibal, and you covered for him. Not very well, but you did.”

“I didn’t know he was doing it on purpose!” you squeak. “He seemed worried about you, Will, I thought—”

“Don’t say anything else. Just listen to me.”

You chew at a loose whisker of skin on your lip, the same you’ve gnawed to the blood beneath a thousand times in conflict.

“I’m going to come home in a couple of days,” says Will. “I’m going to talk to Hannibal and you’re going to stay out of it, just like I asked you to. This is between me and him. Not you. Please don’t disrespect me by getting in the way.”

“He’ll be so mad at me,” you croak. “Oh, God. Please don’t say anything to him, Will. Just leave it. What if I’ve ruined everything?”

There is a protracted silence into which you both breathe like the winds at the end of the world.

“If anything’s ruined just know that it isn’t you that’s to blame,” says Will, at last. “Goodbye, Little One. I’ll see you soon.”

The line goes dead, leaving the phone a chill corpse in your hand.

[d4djobesemuses]

“BHHOOOUUUURRRrrrp… gffhahhHUUURRRP… ghlkkKHHRRRRUUUP…” Maho sat back on her chair, a sweat stained shirt turned barely bra only barely keeping her decent, the 518th hotdog in her right hand, her left cleaning mustard from her sweat covered chest.

When she heard the previous world record was 74 hotdogs, it irritated her, that was a light snack, and so, despite having eaten for hours and feeling quite full, Maho decided to shatter the record sevenfold, and yet, staring at the final hotdog, Maho felt nauseous, it was so monotonous and dull, the unchanging palette overwhelming her, but in spite of that fact, her belly growled, 517 hotdogs failed to sufficiently fill the blobby girl up.

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt greed and pride bubble inside her, ravenously, Maho shoved the hotdog into her mouth, moaning in pleasure and happiness.

“Ghngh… hffahh… sho fhull… ghffahh… sho fhull… but… hahh… sho hungry… hff… hard to get fhull…” Maho lamented contradictorily, groping her enormous belly, her disgust of past replaced with love and adoration, the hesitation she felt before melting into motivation, she was already half a ton, already too fat, but she wanted more, to be hungrier, weaker, greedier, unhealthier.

Maho groaned in discomfort, and suddenly remembered she actually had something even more slovenly…

Leaning to her left as much as she could, she reached to a gift courtesy of Rei, for when she truly passed the point of no return, pressing it to her lips, she began to chug, not allowing herself to rest until the gift was emptied, all six gallons of it: Fryer Oil, 198,000 calories drank in two minutes…

Maho dropped the jug, gasping and groaning, it hurt, she wanted to throw up, she felt dizzy and nauseated and heavier than ever, and she couldn’t be happier…

“Hff… I’ll… bghlk… hff… nghhlk… shtart dhrinking… NGHLK-…ghlkff… theshe every day…”

[wutheringheightsfilm]

and for the record it should be clear to everyone who read the first five pages of the book that heathcliff is a man of color because well. he is literally verbatim described as such. as in.

"But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned g***** in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose."

like. it literally does not get any fucking clearer. emerald fennel is just racist

[slovenlyrecordings]

Can't believe it's been 13 years since we dropped Acid Baby Jesus' debut album "LP"! Catch them performing the record live at the Patari Records birthday showcase on 13 Oct at ARCH Club - Live Stage in Athens!

[bandcampsnoop]

3/17/24.

I remember posting about the Third Uncle release from Proto Idiot (Andrew Anderson - Manchester, UK) shortly after the COVID shutdown in 2020. Since then, bands like Freak Genes (of which Andrew Anderson is a member), Plastic Act have elicited comparisons.

I found "Leisure Opportunity" on CD at my local thrift store. I'm not sure who gave away all these CDs, but I also picked up a copy of Pardoner "Uncontrollable Salvation".

"Leisure Opportunity" was released on Reno, Nevada label Slovenly Recordings.

[isetmyfriendsonfire]

i absolutely cannot fucking stand food reviewers that record themselves in their car busting down a whole ass 3 course meal or whatever like first of all you're eating it like a fucking caveman out of your lap because a car is not a proper place to eat anything but neatly wrapped fast food second of all i know your car is dirty and greasy as fuck you slovenly hog.....

[liketwoswansinbalance]

A continuation of this post.

⸻

[One day, Rafal's students upload a video that doesn't conform with his usual content, and it causes his viewers to start turning out conspiracies. Rafal had left his phone unattended in a classroom one day, and Marialena got ahold of it. She is the ringleader in maintaining the online presence he doesn't know about, and she curates all of "his" content.]

[A shaking phone camera turns on and starts recording a red speck perched on a branch. The sound quality is poor and it sounds like Rafal is filming inside a wind turbine. The camera zooms in and focuses on a bird, and Rafal's voice is heard as the camera stabilizes.]

Rafal: Log, the second, overcast Tuesday, four hours in, stationed outside the mortuary, sighting #1 of the elusive scarlet tanager. She's a beaut, isn't she?

[Then comes the sound of heels clacking on pavement, and a second voice chimes in.]

Unknown speaker: Who's a "beaut" that isn't me? Why are you wearing that welding mask? And what are you doing behind that shrub, Rafal? You told me you were taking a stop at the mortuary, and said you'd drive us to Rhian's luncheon.

Rafal: [groans] Quiet. Just wait a little longer and I promise I'll get you a new set of earrings. I'm trying to get it on film!

Unknown speaker: That bird? I've been waiting four hours in your car, you know, thinking that all along you were checking the thermostat, so your new "acquisition" would be properly refrigerated, and now, I step out of the car to powder my nose only to find you out here! Doing God knows what in that contraption!

Rafal: I didn't want to get a sunburn and this mask was the only thing available to cover up with. The electrician must've left it last time he came around to check the lighting in the vaults.

Unknown speaker: You should've listened to me when I told you to buy a sunhat from this season's catalogue, darling.

Rafal: Please just stop talking so loudly—we can discuss this after I get my recording.

[The bird flies offscreen in that instant.]

Rafal: Shoot. Look what you did.

Unknown speaker: Hmpth, well, your neck looks as red as the silly bird of yours.

Rafal: For the last time! It's not silly! If I'd gotten useable film without all your wittering on, I could've sold it to the natural history museum.

Unknown speaker: Goodness me, if you keep pursuing hobbies like these you might as well be a fossil yourself.

Rafal: It's gone. I've lost it.

Unknown speaker: Oh, boo-hoo. Can we leave now?

Rafal: No. There's a nest. It might return.

Unknown speaker: Rhian will be mad if we're late.

Rafal: The luncheon won't start 'til we're there. Rhian always waits for me.

Unknown speaker: Fine. Be like that. Marry your rare bird instead of me.

Rafal: I never said I wanted to marry it!

Unknown speaker: Well you're spending more time with it than at your own wedding shower!

Rafal: Wait. That's today?

Unknown speaker: Yes.

Rafal: ...so that's why you told me to wear a suit.

Unknown speaker: And you've mucked it up with-with dirt and worms, and, and—what is that? EEG gel?

Rafal: Liquified organs and vitreous fluids. An eyeball burst on me.

Unknown speaker: Oh, eww. We can't go one day without you soiling something, can we? At least it's not blood this time.

[There's a shuffling sound and the phone falls to the ground, screen going dark.]

Rafal: That's it. I quit.

Unknown speaker: Oh, no. Are you sure?

Rafal: Sure. Let's be fashionably late to the luncheon and give my brother a heart attack.

Unknown speaker: Finally. Remember, you're a host this time. Try to socialize with our guests.

[There's a scraping sound.]

Unknown speaker: And, you're not bringing that tripod on my watch. There won't be any birds indoors.

Rafal: What should I do with it then?

Unknown speaker: On second thought, you could use it to film the guests.

Rafal: Would it get me out of greeting duty?

Unknown speaker: Might as well do it myself—you look too slovenly to do it now.

Rafal: Deal.

Unknown speaker: Lovely. I'd kiss you if you weren't disgusting. Oh! Look at that—your phone's still filming.

Rafal: Hell. Is it—

[The recording clicks off.]