Mauckport (Short Story)

The following story is direct kin of another short story to be found on this siteWickedly Wild


“What would you do you do when your stalker moves on?


For me, I turned to porn. Just conventional stuff. You know, some lady, probably 28, playing some 18-year-old strumpet, sucking dick so hard her slobber is dripping down onto her tits, the camera. Those undercarriage shots, ya know. just a man’s asshole and balls and veiny porn-staple cock, and drool. Its gotta be fake drool. A mouth full of lube to deal with the ferocious acting. That kinda thing. I really liked it when the guy would go down of the chick. The starlet. I ain’t a feminist, not by a long shot, and see this is why. Going down on a chick ain’t giving her power, I ain’t a pussy Muslim turning to Mecca to pray. I’m showing her how I got power over her, ya know. I’m a good person because I eat pussy. That’s all society demands of me to be better than your average red-meat tom brady run-ada-mills. “


“What the fuck you telling her about porn for, she asked how you got here.”

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Wickedly Wild (Short Story)

Alberton Sheriff Sage Sanders figured today was as good enough a day as any. Like each before it, it had passed with its own little mountains of difficulty and reward, surprisingly indistinguishable from each other. The Sheriff had always had a strong feeling for this little turn-off, a loose gravel half-circle jutting out from the old highway that one could take for hours without seeing another vehicle. It looked out over a small knoll and into the sharp mountainous geography that the Sheriff liked to call “wickedly wild”. A river with four names (and only about 4 feet wide at this junction) wandered like a drunken surgeon’s blade next to the old highway, with a plethora of fern’s, proud old pines, occasional oaks and other shrubbery sprouting in its wake. He stood with his knee’s resting against the guardrail, doing a sort of balancing act and staring out into the wickedly wild. His father had spent years wandering places like this, tirelessly searching the Pacific Northwest for signs of Bigfoot, or Sasquatch, leaving for months at a time with nothing but a motorcycle and a thermal scanner. But that’s neither here nor there. The sheriff was running through the struggles of his day, his mouth twitching like a dog having a particularly good dream.

His daughter was his first problem. Continue reading

The Painter, The Room, The Bucket of Paint, The Mural

The following piece comes from beyond the twilight zone, straight out of compton  the ethernet, internet, and othernet, it travelled via rainbow road from Asgard to bless all our eyeballs. This is the first post to grace The Peachy Kings that doesn’t come from a regular poster (I know I know i’ll get those other guys to post) so please, show some love for Isaac Birchmier, Esquire. Isaac comes to us humble internet readers via astral projection, shining rays of love and motherly (yet-oh-so-masculine) care from his home planet Xanadu, this first piece a tale of losing control and the fear that comes with that all too natural experience. Enjoy. 

The Painter, The Room, The Bucket of Paint, The Mural

By Isaac Birchmier

On the walls surrounding him were the most beautiful of scenes. Gardens of flowers—petunias, daffodils, lilacs, chrysanthemums, hibiscus, marigold, geranium, primrose. Images of deer racing through the green, the bright solar intensity casting UV beams in ocular stripes. The rhododendrons seemed almost to dance, like something out of the most picturesque Disney movie: the birds chirping in harmony, the world innocent and happy. For something like eons he sat there, happily engrossed in the scenery. He watched, enthralled, the world around him dancing and chirping and bright. He sat in the center of that scene, a smile permanently fixed on his face. For the longest time his world remained this way: perfect, sublime, beyond compare.

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FaceTime (Short Story)

Here is a selfie of Rick on Ventura Beach a few nights ago.

I sat amongst a circle of witches. Witch is such a misunderstood idea. Witch means wise one, one who studies everything on the spectrum. One who tenaciously studies. There is also the facet that we slept with angels or aliens, but do not let that cast a bad light upon us. It’s certainly brave. The fear you didn’t know you harbor is the ancient fear of someone who questions, who seeks knowledge. What is Satan if not a scholar? We discussed launching another cultural revolution at your children, and worse yet, removing the money from the counter-culture movement. An inquisition.

Here is a selfie of Rick on Ventura Beach a few nights ago.

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Excerpt from “The Finale” (Short Story)

I’m out of the room before Evan can finish kissing my ass. Evan and I have been editing the show together since PARTY CAPTAIN first set sail, splicing and snipping and gawking until the final product is the perfect temple to Dionysus and hedonism and capitalism and all things of excess. Evan and me have watched human beings come out of the darkness of societal norms and into the light of truth for three years, we have seen undeniable truth that god can not exist. Continue reading