(7.0) Captain Aneurysm Welcomes You to Radio Stigmata

YOUTHFRONT

Happy fucking birthday, America! It’s the midnight hour which means it’s time for Radiooooooo Stigmata. From God’s mouth to my heart to your ears, this is the Captain and I am ready to Bone. Your. Mind.

It’s a goddamn circus out there, Blood Brothers. There’s an oval in the middle but this tent’s got three rings. Don’t get fooled by the purple clown with the silver hair. An idle ass is the devil’s puppet-hole, as the saying goes. The Captain knows.

Time was the Captain had the devil in there elbow deep. Long time Blood Brothers know. You newbies, you can read all about it in my memoir, Zounds!: From Blood Warrior to God Warrior, that’s Zounds!, from Doubting Thomas Press. It’s a gnarly tale of sin and sorrow, little Blood Brothers, but I hope you too can see the light.

So let’s talk about the devil. Ol’ Salt…

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(6.3) Litework in the Depths of Skull Island

A little bit of YOUTHFRONT action to help you wiggle out of that holiday cheer you’ve been feeling.

YOUTHFRONT

Curt lay sweating on the bed in the hotel room. He was busy digesting an info-popper, a data file transformed into a foul-tasting jalapeno popper by the spirit of a government database. Sweat mingled with the moondust on his still-crescent face, trickling white onto the sheets. At least we’d give the maids something to talk about.

I looked at the other goodies I’d scored from the egregore. Two more poppers and a pastry, all imbued with the egregore’s data. I decided to save the pastry for Yaritza what with her birthday coming up, which left a pair of greasy poppers for Malcolm and myself.

‘Mind-leavings,’ the egregore Radhub had called them. That smelled about right. I positioned myself somewhere comfortable and followed Curt’s lead, pinching my nose before sending the popper down the hatch.

What a revolting texture. The breading held together in my fingers but dissolved into something like…

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(6.1) Roxanne Atlas wakes up in Mountie Hell

YOUTHFRONT

Mountie Hell rang with dueling player pianos. They floated above the maze of railroad tracks pounding tense, old-timey tunes. Every few minutes a stray cackle would pierce the cacophony before melting away. Thick knots of rope dug into my arms and legs. The hot iron of the railroad track rattled against my helmet.

You’re just astrally projecting, I reminded myself. It’s only spiritually real. Why wasn’t that more reassuring? There wasn’t any sign of the others in sight. I was tied up on my side facing the oncoming train. Scraps and bubbles of the real world were still disappearing from my sight as my projection completed. The train barrelled forth.

A voice called out behind me. “Torchbearer!” Dad’s voice. The other dad, the girl-dad. And Torchbearer was supposed to be me, which would take more than a little getting used to. “You gotta untie the knots!”

I…

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Feral Melodies Concept Art

Now that YOUTHFRONT is up and running, I’ve decided to resurrect an old project to complete on the side. Feral Melodies is an illustrated bible that my friend and I spent some time developing until our illustrator had to move on to other things. I’ve let it languish for a little while, but looking over my old notes I decided I had to give it another go.

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As you can probably guess from the image above, I wasn’t our first pick for illustrator. I am, frankly, pretty shit at art but I’ve decided not to let the perfect be the enemy of the good in this case. Better to end up with an overly ambitious mess than nothing at all, right?

(5.0) Deathoscope

Check out the newest chapter in YOUTHFRONT!

YOUTHFRONT

I was waiting in the backyard of a burnt-out house on the north side of town when Squatter came to get me. He was a good forty minutes late, time I’d spent brainstorming album cover concepts. Right now I had a wicked sketch of Dracula the Red conducting a band made of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln impaled on spikes. The back door of the building swung open, Squatter standing backlit in the threshold.

I held out the sketch for him to look at. “How do you like it?”

He squinted. “Lincoln should be on guitar because he used an axe.” He reeked of weed. “You ready to go?” Squatter shut the door behind him. Then he reopened it, revealing a horrible-smelling apartment somewhere in New York City. Squatter had the power to travel between abandoned properties, which often meant hanging around the homes of the recently deceased.

“Damn, you’re…

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