The steady hum of the exhaust fan canceled out the Phish album that Chester was playing at a lowered volume over the kitchen stereo. He was still sulking next to the prep sink, a frown carved into his face, as he recalled being yelled at by Stacy minutes earlier. He kept his eyes off of Clayton, who was ripping off bits of lettuce and throwing them in the deep fryer.

Clayton and Stacy. Stacy and Clayton. It turned his frown further downward.

Whatever it was, Chester never asked, as he didn't want to know. He had seen Stacy lead Clayton off to the bathroom at Gatsby's by the hand, but it was enough to explain why Clayton never got in trouble. Clayton also got to share Stacy's coke, something which Chester desperately needed at this time.

No such preoccupations entered Clayton's mind as the shreds of lettuce sputtered and spun, their moisture evaporating in the nearly four hundred degree grease. Clayton didn't even notice the smell of the fryers as he breathed through his mouth.

Outside, the sun had just sunk below the horizon, but enough residual glow painted the sky a macabre red, which reflected in the windows of now vacant cottages down the beach. The red was too deep to be mistaken for actual fire, but imbued the cottages with an enticing cozy feel all the same, especially given the cold autumn winds that were howling off the lake.

N.P. YuggothOctober 31, 2015halloween, n.p. yuggoth, stiff fiction, juggernaut, horrorComment

Maddie's Mad Wedding by N.P. Yuggoth

The beautiful summer sun shone down from the sky as Maddie's small feet passed over the freshly cut grass. Gentle notes of the wedding march played over the speakers hiding under a flair of flowers on the altar. Though she had to keep her eyes on her steps to keep from tripping over her wedding dress, she could not keep her eyes off of Trevor in his smashing tuxedo, its black and white matching his dark eyes and beard against his skin.

This was no easy feat: the veil obscured her already impaired vision, now even worse because she hadn't put in contacts, her exquisite shoes were cumbersome, and there was her father to worry about. Tradition holds that a father should lead his daughter to the altar and give her away, but today, it was Maddie who was leading dad forward, step by clumsy step. Only half way to the priest, and Maddie thought she was going to be intoxicated from the drafts of alcoholic breath coming off of dad.

Even worse was the fact that every time dad had to wipe tears from his face, he lurched to the side, as if thrown off balance by the motion of his hand. Maddie tried to ignore the stares of her family and Trevor's family, convincing herself that those were looks meant for her, in awe of how beautiful she looked. But nothing could mask the sneer from her mother's and step-father John's faces.

More than a few of the wedding guests looked unfazed. Those would have been uncle Frank and Maddie's cousins, Alex and Mike, who had been celebrating with dad until the wee hours of the morning. Mike was, mercifully, passed out, whereas Alex's head bobbed back and forth to the tempo of the wedding march, his eyes nearly bleeding from the THC he had ingested at breakfast. The groomsmen were equally as wrecked, victims of Trevor's bachelor party. Luckily, Maddie's bridesmaids had done a good job of disguising their hangovers and trysts with make-up and perfume.

“Careful, daddy, there's a step,” Maddie whispered as they reached the altar. Dad fumbled, and turned back, taking a seat next to his ex-wife.

N.P. YuggothSeptember 28, 2015n.p. yuggoth, stiff fiction, wedding, fiction, phil collins, against all odds, marriage, rockComment

An Erotic Evening With The Juggernaut by N.P. Yuggoth

Ginger's blood is pumping. It feels as though the veins in her temples could explode. She holds Sandy's hand gingerly as they skip off to the bathroom. The restaurant is bumping tonight, as it is Taco Night.

But Ginger has something else besides tacos on her mind. Actually, she does have tacos on her mind, but not the Mexican dish. And she's not going to be feasting at the grand buffet made up of thrice reheated meats and stale tortillas out in the dining room. No, she will be chowing down in a sordid stall in the ladies' room. Dear, innocent little Sandy is going to learn a whole new meaning of the term Taco Night.

N.P. YuggothJune 13, 2015stiff fiction, fiction, juggernaut, n.p. yuggothComment

Death To Ukrainian Prostitutes by N.P. Yuggoth

It's Thursday night in Upper Michigan. A rainy, shitty night in mid November with nothing to do. I've been staying with my brother and his wife for a few weeks. And though I am quite fond of my sister in law's cooking, I really want to get some pizza. After all, my brother and his wife are off doing something tonight. I'll have to fend for myself.

I haven't been to the local pizzaria for a long time, and I love their sauce. The last time I was up here, I ate here at least twice a week. Taking the ferry over to the mainland, and driving up over the Mackinac bridge, I was thinking of nothing but that pizza. How did I actually forget it for the past two weeks? Oh yes. Deer season. Waking up at the fucking crack of dawn. But not tomorrow. Deer season is over.

There is hardly a soul when I arrive. The lone waitress attends to me, delivering me the meat heavy pizza that I so crave. She's probably in her mid forties and doesn't wear a wedding ring. A few lines on her face attest to her age, but her blonde locks and chipper demeanour mean that she hasn't given up on her beauty yet.

I eat over half of the pizza in silence, savouring every bite. I only pause to scan the waitress' figure for signs of imperfection. She is rather good looking, I reckon. A one time she was probably a near 10. She's now a solid 8, maintaining herself while all the other girls got fat and chopped their hair off.

I finish up and get a carry out box, not knowing how I am going to bring it back to my brother's place on my bike in the rain. There is no way I can stuff another bite into my gut. The mere thought of pizza almost makes me ill.

I pay my bill. On my way out, I notice Tom Robinson tending bar. This dude was here the first time I came around, about 4 years ago. I'm curious as to if he'll remember me or not. He's chatting with the lone waitress, sometimes looking up to watch a muted hockey game on TV.

"How was everything, man?" he asks.

"Killer, dude," I answer back.

I'm about to leave the building when I see a bearded man in a tan suit coat playing Street Fighter II. It's the only arcade game that this place has, and it's somewhat of a small miracle that the fucking thing still works. It's been out for nearly 20 years. Perhaps the owner pays for it to be repaired--there just can't be that much customer demand for a cult, early 90's arcade game.

The man's obviously quite engrossed in the game: he's pulled up a stool and has several stacks of quarters in front of him. His fingers slam the buttons from time to time with intensity. When he loses a round, he swears in a foreign language and plugs in another quarter.

Something is familiar about this man.

N.P. YuggothApril 29, 2015stiff fiction, short stories, n.p. yuggoth, fi, death to ukrainian prostitutesComment

The Continuing Adventures of Bill Top, Private Dick (#1) by Frank Maloney

As I open the door, the stench of stale beer and decade old cigarette smoke compels a tear of joy to well up in my left eye. Being a man of principle, I refuse to let it fall and wipe it away with the sleeve of my long, black wool coat. I move towards the decrepit wooden bar, noticing only two other patrons in the establishment, seated at opposite ends of the aforementioned bar. I remove my frozen leather gloves and dirty old ushank, wipe away the thin film of snot that has accumulated on my upper lip, and take my place in the middle; equidistant from the two other men. A large man, the barkeep, turns around to face me, his fat mug is greasy and--despite the frigid temperature--doused in sweat. “You wanna da-ring?” he asks in a barely audible Eastern European accent. “Yeah, yeah, thanks. Gimmie your cheapest beer and a shot of Malort.” “No Malor here,” he says. “Well, just the beer then,” I reply, not bothering to mask my disappointment and fury. No Malort? In this fucking city? The barkeep hands me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and says, “Tha-ree dollar.” I shoot him a perturbed grimace. “Three fucking dollars for a can of PBR?” “Tha-ree dollar,” he grunts again, holding out his calloused and grimey hand. I pay the fat fuck; no tip.

We repeat this exchange ten or twelve more times. Being well on my way to good and drunk, I recall that I entered this particular watering hole with a purpose. What was it again? Couldn’t be the lost dog I was hired to locate for Mrs. Adams, though maybe he is in here. “Baxter!” I shout--or slur--leaning back on my barstool and goofily turning my head from left to right and back again. I burp and hiccup at the same time, resulting in that almost yacking sound so familiar to drunks. I swallow the sour taste it leaves. No sign of the mutt. I order another PBR.

Frank MaloneyDecember 23, 2014bill top, frank maloney, fiction, stiff fiction Comment

The Second Cumming by N.P. Yuggoth

She was undressing me. I tried unlacing my shoes, but that turned out to be too formidable a task for my bumbling fingers. Razzie lit candles. Not just a few, but dozens. A huge portrait of Jesus adorned one wall of her living room. One of those Passion of the Christ type things, with the crown of thorns, and blood all over his face. More Halloween than Christmas or Easter.

Somehow, she got me into bed. I was lying naked on that bed, and she was trying to get me ready to copulate. Some guys are able to perform with a BAC of .20, but I'm not one of them. I've got to give Razzie major props: she tried. She tried really hard. But nothing happened. I only stopped her because I felt her trying to put a finger up my ass.

N.P. YuggothOctober 31, 2014stiff fiction, halloween, short stories, story, fiction, n.p. yuggoth Comment

Taste testing the forbidden fruit.