the-hold.com
issue 20 may 1999

Copyright 1999 by ShadowWall Press
All works copyright their individual authors

Goo's HOLD archives   Check out back issues of this fine mag

BE AFRAID!!!

Welcome, all my friends, to The HOLD that never ends. This issue we're discussing the darker side of things, so if you came here expecting something uplifting and/or inspirational, i'd suggest hitting that old "Back" button on your browser. Otherwise, follow me and discover the dark side of the force...

Contributors:
trellis
Scott Holstad

Columnists:
Cait Collins
Dolomite

Editor: Daev

Webmasters:
Funkmeistergoo (archives)
The Almighty Daev (current issue)


RANTING

     Welcome back to another Ranting, fellow followers of the almighty Dark Lord. What will the one called Dolomite speak of this time? How about the ones deemed Wannabes?

     Now, I can understand the idea of some wannabes, like the ones that just want to be a slut and become a prostitute. Hell, I even like those wannabes. The wannabes that I truly detest are the suicidal wannabes and the absolutely pathetic satanistic wannabes.

     Now, the problem with being a suicidal wannabe is that you have to say that you have made the attempt at suicide. Also, you can only screw up suicide a few ties without being considered a complete idiot. You could say that you tried to hang yourself in your basement over one of your pipes down there, but your shoelaces couldn't hold your weight and they snapped. Okay, that happens. It is somewhat excusable. If you try and fail again, you have to try a different approach to suicide. Let's say that you tried to swallow too many pills and downed them with alcohol, but you just got sick and threw up the pills before they could take effect. Oh, well... that sometimes happens... sort of. Any failure after that makes you completely inept and anything gained from this little "suicidal period in your life" is lost.

     If you are one of those suicidal wannabe pussies that continues to fake suicide for attention after your third attempt, then I have only one thing to say to you... GET SOME FUCKING TESTICULAR FORTITUDE AND ACCEPT THE FACT THAT YOU ARE JUST ONE BIG FUCKING LOSER!!!!! The insane have the right to end their lives early, you simply have the right to be killed by one of the insane with a rusty spoon dug into your chest, waking you from the unconscious stupor that you were left in after you passed out from the sight of the blood that occurred when your hemophiliac ass caught your four-inch dick in your fly because someone walked in on you while you were jacking off to some gay porn you fucking fairy!!!! If you keep saying that you are going to commit suicide and don't, then ole Dolomite has only two words for you: assisted suicide.

     But even the lower than the I-can't-commit-suicide-because-I-am-a-fucking-pussy bastard is the I-say-I-am-a-devil-worshipper-because-it-makes-me-interesting bastard. Half of these little priest-wannabe boy fuckers can't even draw a decent pentagram, let alone paint one in goat's blood before the blood dries from the freshly slain offering to the almighty Dark Lord. What type of intelligence wants to be satanistic anyway? That's like wearing gasoline-soaked clothing to a bonfire. Do you really want to piss the Prince of Darkness off? You are the reason why Hell is so warm you fucking maggot! He gets so angry at your wannabe ass that he actually spurts flames from his very being, thus alighting Hell. You probably even secretly hope to go to Heaven too. Well guess what? You're not getting anywhere close thanks to one of those Christian commandments! Thou shall not worship false gods. Sound familiar? When you die, God will personally send you to Hell, laughing as he does so. His laughter will bellow like thunder as he sees Satan make you some demon's bitch and that demon does the old pick-up-the-sulfur trick on your ass. And I, too, will be laughing, right beside God. "Why there," you may ask? Where else would his personal bitch reside? Not in Hell, for God and Satan can't share bitches. Every schoolboy knows that.

     I will end this bunch of asinine bitching by saying simply that it doesn't show intelligence to be a wannabe. If you are a nerd, build a great and profitable corporation, marry a supermodel attracted to your nerdish self simply because of your immense wealth, and then hire some guys to beat up all those jocks that made fun of you in high school. Then show them a picture of you and your naked wife. If you are a loser, get drunk off cheap booze to forget about it while simultaneously proving it to everyone. If you are a natural born prick, be like me and express you prickish views in a non-violent manner. Then find a prostitute and fuck her brains out. That really takes out one's aggression.

Dolomite

THE FORUM

this is the 1st verse and chorus of a song trellis wrote way back in 1979

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

in a darkened room
by a faded moon
the trigger found the finger

warm flesh cold steel they met
but would he bet on a new sunrise
inside his head

your life's indentured all in vain
how can i tell you
that in the end there's but one to blame

and it is you
who sees the setting sun

and it is you
you are the one

trellis


fantasies about one new mexico poet

i
dream of killing
t*** m****i
don't quite know why
but i see him vividly
his white hair
what's left of it
his raspy high fairy voice
his bukowski toughguy mannerisms
he
and his "poetry"
make me want to puke
i
find myself wanting to

slit the inside of his
thighs and watch as
his life drains from him

put a .40 slug into
each kneecap
hammer his feet
into the ground
and make him stand there
as i pistol whip
his punk ass

pull his teeth out
with pliers
one by one

carve his limbs up
badly enough to
bleed to death
over a period of
some four days

thrust my Ka-Bar and
my Cold Steel into his
puny chest, pull out
his heart and take a
good goddamn chunk
outta it with my teeth

call me a sick
mutherfucking cannibal
if you want
but he better fucking
pray i never come to
new mexico and if
i ever see him at a
reading in socal
it'll be his last

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

it's not technically self immolation

10:10 pm. i'm reminded
of you as i blow cigarette
smoke in the air in little
ringlets and listen to new
Bowie. the dim light
makes for a horrorshow
of lightmares. sleeping
all these nights alone,
you begin to get a little
       paranoid
       stir crazy
       crazy

i don't know how much
longer i can take it
before
i pour gas around myself
in a giant smeary wedding ring,
light the cigarette and
drop it.

Scott Holstad


Site of the Month
SATAN.org

I think the name says it all...


GRAFFITI
Come join the discussion at the OLD Graffiti messageboard. The new one doesn't work, so i say screw it. anyway, the question i posed on it was this: What do you think of The HOLD on the web? better? worse? no difference?? COME ON!!


Smell ME


Smell ME by: cait collins 4-99/I

foreplay -if ya can't trust yer neighbors, who the hell can you trust? read on...

---voodoo lady---

     she was 57 years old and she lived across the street and on weekends she'd rent a $10 table at an arts and crafts show and sell little dolls that she made during the week.
     her dolls were becoming quite popular and she could barely keep up with the demand.
     her house was cape cod style and when she moved into the neighborhood a couple of years ago, she had it painted bright canary yellow. it looked like a gigantic two story bus and sheets hung crooked in unusual ways from the windows. it was an eyesore and it pissed the people in the neighborhood off. no one visited her she had a sign on her front door to deter solicitors. and if anyone knocked, she'd look out the window, pull her mouth far to the sides of her face with her index fingers and stick her tongue out where her front top teeth used to be and she had a bizarre way of rolling her eyes almost all the way to the back of her skull; like she was in a convulsive state, and they'd leave, instantly!
     the only time she came out of the house was when she walked her toy poodle in the mornings, in the midday and in the early evenings: up and down the street dressed in some crazy looking over-sized material draped down her every which way with psychedelic prints of flowers or paisley or western things and she wore big slippers with gorilla heads at the toes, in green. and she always had the same terry-like cloth wrapped around the top of her head and her makeup was bright and as thick as paste.
     she never said hi to anyone, and no one bothered her. they looked, stared and if she looked back, they turned the other way.
she was strange.
     then one day while I was at the curb, getting mail, she came over with her toy poodle leashed to her wrist and asked if I would help her make dolls. she was almost begging. she told me she had a special order for 35 dolls plus the usual 100 before the weekend. and it was Wednesday.
     "I'm not good at arts and crafts." I told her.
     "you don't have to be..." she said in a slow, throaty man-like voice. "...I'll show you how."
     christ, she was a despicable site close-up and she had a long plastic toothpick protruding out of the front tooth part of her mouth, rolling it around with her tongue. then she spit it out and said:
     "well, how about it?"
     "I don't know."
     "please come with me, I want to show you."
     I think I was the only person ever invited into her home beside her sister and by the time her visit was through, they were in a vicious fight out on the front lawn.
     I followed her inside. it smelled like incense and there were candles shaped like people, lit all over. god damn! there were little dolls everywhere! there were hundreds of them and I said:
     "it looks like you have enough dolls."
     "this is my private collection..." she turned and looked at me... eyes black and beady. "...don't you recognize any of them?"
     I walked over to a chair full of little dolls.
     "look at that one." she pointed.
     I looked. close. some of them looked like people I knew. incredible!
     "these look like the new married couple up the street..."
"that's them and aren't they happy together?"
     "I don't know them well..." I replied.
     "...and these two are torn at the mouth but they look like the old people that died of rat poisoning last year and no one ever found out where the poison came from..."
     "that is them." she snickered.
     "...and this one looks like Mrs. Burney next door. she just had a heart attack, poor woman, she's only 30..."
     "that's her." she laughed.
     "...well, there's pins stuck in the Mrs. Burney doll. didn't you finish sewing her?" I asked.
     "yes, but that's what she gets for telling me to go fuck myself and my dog when little gigi shit on her front lawn...."
     "WHAT? what do you mean 'that's what she gets...?" I asked!
     "I did it to them. I did it to all of them. the ones that are dead, the ones that are dying, the ones that have bad luck, the ones with good luck, the lovers, the haters ...I did it to them all."
     "did what, did WHAT?" I begged for a reply.
     she didn't answer or she wouldn't answer. she walked into the next room and I looked around and the whole neighborhood as I knew it was lined up in her living room, as little dolls: in chairs and on shelves and on the couch and in glass windowed cabinets, with locks. there were others I didn't know. they were all name-tagged and on the walls were pictures of spiders and framed ritual chants on parchment paper and a portrait of someone with the name of Marie Laveau underneath and there were statues; carved and wicked, standing in corners and containers of pins and small bottles of powdered incense, herbs and oils and potions labeled: love, money, popularity, health, psychic powers, various curses or protection...christ, this was eerie and it was scaring the hell out of me. I started for the door...
     "WAIT!" she yelled and came back into the room dressed in a grass skirt and a florescent tube top and long necklaces with hex signs and wooden crosses covering her sagging tits. and she had a bone through her nose and big gold hoops hung from her ears and the turban cloth was missing from her head and her hair stuck out and hung down to her shoulders. she looked like a zombie.
     "do you want to see the doll I made of you?" she walked over to a closed windowed cabinet. she had a key and she unlocked and opened it.
     "no." I said.
     "this is where I keep my favorites - all the nice people I know."
     "you are one of my favorites, you've always been nice to me." she said as she handed me me. oddly, the doll looked like me in a strange way. they were all made out of a simple piece of cloth and yarn or feathers stuck out of the top of the head for hair and a ribbon tied around the neck or the waist and she told me the insides were stuffed with various magical herbs, depending on the person or her mood.
     "are you a fuckin' nut or what? you're sick, you know that?" I turned and went for the door again.
     "please, don't ruin it, I like you..." she said. "…I need help, I want you to help me make my little dolls. I am the princess of voodoo."
     "well princess of voodoo, you need help all right. maybe an insane asylum would suit you. fuck you, I'm leaving..."
     "WAIT! if you leave I'll cast a curse upon you!" and she came toward me with a clear plastic container that had a big black dead spider in it and she put the container with the dead spider on the floor and started chanting some ritual shit, dancing around like an asshole, waving her arms up and down with her fingers wiggling in the air. the gorilla slippers roared as she circled around the container. she was insane! I had to think fast!
     "hey! I've got voodoo curse insurance, you can't do shit!" I said.
     "you do?" she stopped in mid chant, out of breath, astonished.
     "yea, I do, it's good for life and against all you sick cunts! your pins and evil rants and all that malarkey don't mean shit anymore. besides, I have black magic cats caged in my basement and they're trained to go into tantrum'd fits when I order them too and they'll rip yer eyes out, then go for what brains you think you have and I pray to the voodoo spirits and honor juju beads. so try to fuck with me!" god almighty, I didn't know anything about this shit, I made it up and she believed me. maybe there's such a thing, who knows…
     "GET OUT!" she yelled. "GET OUT and don't come back!"
     something scared her and I don't know what, but I got out, as fast as I could with the voodoo doll of me. her gorilla's hit the door as I slammed it shut, growling after me.
     days later I seen her packing her car with all her little dolls and bottles and the big portrait of Marie Laveau that was on her wall and her poodle gigi was carrying the bone she had through her nose and she left and I never seen her return. maybe she went to hell, who knows and who really cares!?

cait    night dAev


Town Screamer

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