The Transmogrifying Prepuce of Eros

by Artoria Sahnow

Egosch, foremost artist of esoterica and infamous horror, was sermoning again and on the matter of precision, once more for the new learner, young chap brought in of late months to pitch-silent wooden Ghennsberg. Within the forest-bordering workshop, the new lad, Franz Wandlunger, echoes playing in his ruddy ears, nodded affirm of the statement. A simple mistake: yet it was perfection required, and like most the prospect of labouring art under Egosch was as good as it should think to be; yet with no name attached, and only a modest sum after a year.

Latest piece to be seen, a variation: girl, jewel skin and tawny hair, enveloped within shrouds of enclosing aberrant nightmare, pulsing fleshy beast; the artist’s impression of daemons; it was this recent style that had drawn Franz, as he had always been overtly fond of Egosch and his oft-hidden erotic miasma of the visual, nasty sort—youths in the embrace of horned satans, brutal black-scaled dragons; and that would have been cause enough to travel to Ghennsberg, yet it was these beyond the Palest Hell creations of newest year that drew his soul; he saw in them a form beyond the trappings of skin, the rotten flesh bestowed by insane fathering spirit; to get close to the mind who brought them forth and portrayed them so elegantly, so he, too, might craft a perfect form in image.

Yet it soon became clear that Egosch did not take students. He hired replicators to craft once more and again, et cetera, copies of his oils and etchings; none stepped within his artist’s fold, kept away at all costs; they were mere observers of pornographic product, consigned to drudgery. Franz set to discern the workshop, to see unfinished drafts; yet, he could not, and in frustration, had fumbled a brush.

“These are the great erotic works of our time,” cried Egosch, “and they cannot be befuddled by amateur craft. You must be vigilant in consistency—perfection, indeed!”

With the dressing down complete, Egosch took Franz aside.

“What is it, boy? I had been told of your skill with a brush and a knife, and yet you cause this ruckus.”

Franz turned from the artist’s maleficent coral.

“Address my sight, boy,” the artist confirmed.

“I am sorry, great Egosch. It was a simple mistake, and not one I shall repeat.”

“You must let me know if there are any problems working here. I am open to helping you, as I must, your benefactor. I am, thus, a father; and you a son. So speak to me.”

“I had hoped that you might take on students. I became distracted from the realisation that it is not to be, and faltered.”

“This is a journey only I can take. If you wish to copy my style in your own work, as you copy it now, then have at it; yet you shall not do it here. These are my works, and your hiring made this clear. The workshop is for the artist; the workroom, for the copyists. Is this clear?”

The boy nodded. Released, the replicators took Franz to a tavern serving unfiltered ale. As they mocked him, he watched their brown teeth chattering; and beyond those bleak maws, the tonsil-flesh, into the gut-flesh, and was almost sickened from his drink entirely, if not for its future need.

“Simple, dark Wandlunger thinks he’s too neat to muck dung with the rest of us,” scowled Brecht, mighty of shoulder and bald. “When is your next fuck-up, Franz?”

“I shall not make another mistake,” his words a stutter, and they fell to the ground. Bretor crushed them underfoot.

“No, you shall not. Our pay is eager to be docked for this, Moor,” cooed skeleton-pale Evert.

“I am no Moor. I am no man at all. Be scowled.”

“Indeed you are not,” said Brecht. “Little Franz the pervert. Do you wish to speak again?”

The staunch, sweaty man gulped ale from the flagon, much of it sinking his shirt, showing carved form, rosy as skin of one of Egosch’s doomed youngmen.

“I should speak all I like, fool.”

Franz was to continue, yet was swiftly cut short by the fist of Brecht, who slunk him sharply to the boards. Franz let out a cry, that of a boy, and was reminded of the child-flesh that came before the man-flesh, and its wretched translation. And before another note, Evert and the other colleagues were surrounding, getting a kick in edgeways. Franz proned, a hedgehog without pins, awaiting silence and the end of suffering.

“Blasted idiot Moor. No man at all, indeed you are not, indeed you fucking are not.”

Franz Wandlunger, still dripping sanguine mucus, crept through the alleys of tacit Ghennsberg, tail between his dripping legs. One of Evert’s boots had let the day’s urinal guerdon from his bladder, wasted upon the salvage of the drinking hole. Tempted to secure it, Franz took his beating alone and stole. No folk passed him, and with no ruckus, entered the boarding home and ascended.

From door ajar came a voice:

“Franz? Are you well? Hello.”

Fieke, round and skin of marble, watching and waiting. Her gown was open a touch, to sexualise; Franz turned from the sight. She was the landlord’s daughter, just nineteen, and a year older than Franz himself; her coils often draped her breast, golden.

“Perhaps tonight you would take company?” she continued, as she did many a night. Wandlunger without a word frowned and closed his door, occluding the unsightly, beautiful lady-flesh.

Water he drank, in copious volume, whilst sketching a being of his own devise: three arms, this one, no face; yet with its body he knew not what. Left it blank. His imagination was a pauper’s, next to vile, introspective Egosch. What muse slept in his mind, what marvel of modelling? What could he be, Franz Wandlunger, puritanical only in talent? Three arms and no face… a worthless folly, next to the bulbous, palpating pustules of the great workman. He retrieved from under his bed a copy by his own hand: elfin boy, younger than Franz himself, engulfed within flabby folds, the corpulent limbless daemon consuming the youth soon entirely.

His bladder was, at last, full. He revealed his lanky cock and, staring at his own work—Egosch’s fine art—took the necessary tugs. It took not long, as ever, before he released, and the coagulation of piss and semen glid sylphlike through the barren space, coating his lips, and sinking down his longing throat. The cross-stream of yellow urine and silky milk merged across his tongue, nose, eyes; at last, at last—! Yet, it was not the perfect storm, as only ale crafted the claggy spume he craved most; the sickening, rude Evert and his cloddy boot had stoled his golden moment.

Not a movement on the bed. His aching back supported his chest’s ponderous wax and wane, the liquid still loose and languorous, a marginal stream escaping his hands as he rubbed it in and licked it off. Salt. Not just the sputum of his penis, but that of his eyes, too. He tried to dredge an animal howl from his empty guts, and all that emerged was a petty sighing croak.

The next day was his last under the employ of Egosch. For inside that solemn workroom, the artist was blazing with fury: his workshop intruded, the key absconded with the thief; and every finger, led by Brecht and Evert, pointing at one Franz Wandlunger. He cried resigned innocence as Egosch bellowed.

“Failure you are, despight my view at once! If I were a father, then now you are an orphan! If you do not return the key within the day, I shall be forced to have you arrested.”

The artist would not hear of Franz’s whines. Brecht threw Franz from the workroom with a cruel wink.

That day of employment lost sunk low on the horizon, for the hours had been cursed stalking the stream that swept Ghennsberg past, awatching kidren aplay, and how pleasant they seemed in mood, with no fear of hunger on their heads, and they kept far from bleak-mooded Franz. Past the church, steeple chiming with a smile, and the racket of the market, until a sheer rain fell and, soaked to his core, Franz returned home, spurned the affections of slender Fieke, and musturbated until his naked form was covered head to toe in glutinous seed. Lying upon his bed, he drank vast gulps of water and surreptitious ale, and, angling his flaccid cock upright, spurted geisers of foamy urine all across himself, that bony brute form of hatred, his rough cotton sheets sodden through, and soon asleep upon them.

When he woke it was dark, and still raining. From his slatted window, he could see no movement upon the waterlogged streets. Retrieving a fire poker from the downstairs place, he left the boarding house, with not a cloth on his back nor legs. Skulking across the town, only rats and chasing cats crossed his sole path, backways all soaked in muck, then mixed with the piss and semen dripping from his legs, cleansed in unwelcome rebirth.

Brecht lived on the other side of Ghennsberg, a shadow’s long throw in the maelstrom. Drenched hair frizzy and wild, he found himself at last outside the abode of nemesis, and he knocked. Knocked again, firmly. There was a clunk as the portal unbarred, and as the darkness within became apparent and a figure now in view Franz brought the sabrous rod up and around to the tune of a skullish crunch; standing astride on the threshold, it was not Brecht, but an elder man, lightly snowy beard and wide green eyes, in an oddly-patterned floral nightgown—his groinal member was erect, and as he fell, the wrinkled limb sprang forth ejaculating wantonly and his bowels evacuated, watery black excrement bursting across his thighs, and the man only had a simple and petulant groan in his chest, and he lay on the ground grumbling and twitching, and the wound on his head bulged and prolapsed, pink coiled patterns thoughtfully on show; yet his cries swelled as did his shit and sex liquid pool, the stench noisome in the quietude of the home, outside it was still raining—softening his grunts and mortal belches; to quell the old timer, Franz inserted the rod into his eye, which burst and gurgled up around the iron bar, a pulpy matter transluscent and viscous. The man made no further sounds.

Further inside, a cry, distinctly that of hateful Brecht:

“Petrus? Is there trouble?”

Stepping through the old man’s slushy dung, blood-sorbed Wandlunger calmed in the shade of the house and held firm the poker. Then could be seen the mighty form of Brecht, striding forth, nude as the night. Seeing the poor elder, he ran, and fell to his knees.

“Petrus! Petrus, awake, please, awake.”

His voice held no malice, higher-pitched in this sudden onset of grief; yet it uttered not long as the poker once more sailed. The mountain crumbled, inert and facedown in the excrement. Franz swung the stick until the villain’s head was fully mixed with his lover’s shit, a red, pink and brown soup sprinkled with molested shards of scullbone. Wandlunger collapsed and sighed, closing the door, allowing the salty streams of sight their secretion. Look at these living corpses; even in their stillness they mock me; begone, stinking scum of skin—! Franz could not be like them; they were as detached as his own false hide; and they must had of course been fucking before his approach, cock stuffed raw in bloody arse, as vile as the birthright ritual of procreation, a cock to a cunt is as putrid as any anus; sick, sick, and sick.

He picked his own sore bones up and sludged within the home. The bedroom held his rightful property: hidden unwisely within the dead man’s clothes found the artist’s silver key.

Still with skewer in hand, he found himself at the workshop of Egosch. Beyond the workshop, the forest. Commune of wooden cocks hairy with pubic leaves to fuck the sky. Bush, foliage of flesh. He was within the studio. A draft lingered, darkness all beset. Franz stumbled about witlessly, drowning in unfinished drafts. These were they: his now, his own Egosch stash, a collection of crying youths carved and oiled, even in the meagre light a perfection untold.

Wandlunger upon a desk a lamp discovered and lit. Staring closer. Immediately masturbating. Shooting dregs upon the craft. His own models, his studies, those he had replicated one hundred over. He covered them all, dry by the end, as was the sky, only crackling thunder the score, and prior a strife of shattered levin cleansing light into the lonely gallery of unfinished visual glossolalia.

That was the revelation, the levin: apocalyptia engorged, never to know peace once more; and why? Why should he?—what in sod was it?—other than… beauty—

—it lay atop stone altar :hermetic within lacunae recesses of artist studio: fleshy nay not fleshy but bulbous and pulsing —amorphous was coined to fathom this thing this hideous carmine wonder;; constructed by whom by whom— was this indeed the work of egosch— and if so by what material did it move in such demisquamous undulations and secretions, ,as it leaked all around a diaphanous lymph upon its now cerulean twisting bulk and (franz stepped ever closer to) its glory its impossible perfection—! in form effluent ebullitions halycon astounce in swollen pungent regality—! and if this were not a mirror then why continue why live why breathe

Franz found himself upon the floor once more. And if it had all been a crashing vortex of dream then he would have finished himself there and then. Yet he was quite awake. And above him the workshop was lit up and a voice enlivened: Egosch himself was present.

“So, you have seen my muse… you have gazed upon daemonia personified—dementia incarnate. Since you shall not see out the night, Wandlunger, I would tell you of this most fortunate discovery.”

The embittered artist was wielding a blade, and had stolen away Franz’s poker.

“In the woods one night, there was a great flash… a comet, they said. Yet the artist’s eye is closer than that. I knew something was amiss… so I followed it out, for I heard a great distant crash. There in a clearing was a sailship with no sail. It was forged of purest steel; yet, of no human construction. It was not large, a sphere; within was this foul creature…”

Egosch signified the thing upon the altar. Franz’s eyes still could not focus entirely upon it, for it shifted and morphed constantly; its shape was impossible, infinitely chaotic, as unstructured as flame; in colour it coded itself by the second; and of its limbs, it had many, and none.

“You have of course—smart lad you are—recognised it from my work. I took it from that smouldering steel sphere—cleverly hidden later in the brush, I might add—and rehomed it here in my domain. For nigh a year I have worked with it. I have found ways to command it. It can hold many a shape for many an hour if given the right encouragement… which is to say, the boon of sustenance. Tonight you shall join my gallery, lad, although I will change your face for the public, as is my wont. Yet, it is fortunate… I have never carved a Moor.”

Egosch continued his sermon. At the same time, thoughts came to Franz; thoughts that were not his. They told him to slay the artist. So he did.

The scuffle was over without much fuss. Egoch was distracted, gloating, aged. Franz lept and grasped the iron shaft from its location and swung up and around, splitting the artist’s jaw asunder, and he fell back as his blade clattered, forwards, sideways as the poker struck once more and once more again, et cetera. Into the folds of the unspeakable, and what was left of him thought to cry out as a slurping prepuce unfolded and enveloped.

As nature, Franz grasped a knife. In precise strokes he sketched efficiently and with grace. The carving, finished in under an hour: the last gasps of Egosch. A face still choking out, and all Franz could think to do was put his penis in its broken mouth, and caress until seminal fluid shot across the dying craftsman’s bloody lips.

Thoughts again in his head: a hunger of gratitude, a plea for lonely sympathy, an unending plight of an ageless being, exiled and released across the spheres. Wandlunger sat by the beast and caressed its flesh; which was not flesh at all; like pressuring the lake’s articulated ripples and receiving resistance. It was firm yet tender, and Franz cried to watch it unfurl slowly, weakly. Its body was dry and crusting, a hardened shell where there ought to be unrestricted waves. The thoughts told him of betrayal and slavery, of oceans of man-fish, sleek mammalesques and krakens, and this being but a facet of unending deep. No sky, no land; simply water and stars.

This land bore those who were not constrained by land’s material; the ambit of ocean let those inclined to stretch forth in consuming liberty. Franz ached. So it was simple: he had been gifted cruelly to the wrong sphere, to waste away in man-meat than extend forth righteously as he must. Please feed me; please take me to water, the thoughts uttered. The artist had kept the being on a starvation regime; it was perishing in the aether of the plane, for usually it would feed hourly in surround of life-giving liquid.

“But I cannot,” groaned Franz, “for you are too wondrous. I have just found you, and now I must give you away? I must know you. Please.”

He had to look away from its churning, bubbling form; it overwhelmed his senses on the primordial level, filling him aflutter, feeling his grip loosen… he had to look away, or else go mad from the beauty.

The night was still fresh, the weather clear. Franz dragged the mighty form of Brecht along by the legs, a nightmare quest, believing to be caught any moment. He could not take it. He found a dark alley and hid the corpse amongst refuse and rubble. The old man would be no good; the thing must be fed just as Egosch portrayed.

Across town, he stole back into the boarding house, and, silent-footed, returned to his room and dressed. Then a gentle knock on the opposite door. It unlatched.

“Oh, Franz? You come for me?”

“Fieke, I must have you at once. You shall accompany.”

Ghennsberg, shrouded in low-clinging penumbral fog, sang not for the couple as they crossed the streets towards the forested borderlands. Wandlunger spoke of a secret place where their flesh may meet, and Fieke sighed and blushed.

“Come, come… we are nearly there.”

So cold, damp inside the studio. The being enlivened, sensing the tender flesh.

“What is this?” Feike lilted cautiously.

“A work of art. Look, closer.”

As the landlord’s daughter gazed upon the being, Franz pushed gently, watched her cascade into hoary hummocks. Her clothes dissolved, her bare body coiled with sticky members, her mouth stalled, her eyes agape. Franz tingled all across, grinning lucidly as the Tarot’s Fool. For the sweetest, swiftest three hours, he cut across red oak, forming its impossible outline, its amorphous excess, its grim glory. One aspect was missing: the consumed girl. Her absence made the image pure, untainted by skin-meat; mixing his ejaculate with coloured oils to enamour the being’s lusty lugubrum.

With first daylight breaking, the creature belched, the last croak of Fieke within its bottomless belly. Two meals had embiggened the beast, and it roiled and curled its full pulpy pustule slowly around the artist’s lair with a form of childish glee. Franz looked at it, and then at his work; there was little left to achieve. Cold bile struck his gut as the thought returned, that he must free the being, or else watch it perish.

“May I not keep you here? I could feed you daily; I could…”

The thoughts spoke that it had not long left on land. This sphere’s aether was too much; indeed, even its water may destroy it, but it would certainly increase survival to swim.

“A blessing to have known you, and to be your liberator,” sniffed Franz, eyes welling to see it in less sordid, crippled state. The thoughts told him to come, to touch, to feel, to experience. It would not harm him; for how else would it find a home? It needed him, as he needed it, and it would consent.

Wandlunger finalised the portrait: a masterpiece to succeed the puritan eye of Egosch. No talent could indeed portray the beauty of the thing, its intricacies, its lone solitude, its inhuman heritage of indepictable perfection. Yet this he could with, away from Ghennsberg, foster future flashes of febrile fondness; a memory of the arcane eros alight inside. And; perhaps… his muse may someday seek him out, and visit, in whatever form it may choose… any and all would be as good as the other. Franz’s heart ached.

Approaching the being, he draped a finger across its voluptuous flanges. It shivered, stirred, shifted, a formless florescence; its pupace broke open, sanguine androgynous feelers emitting and dancing naively; Franz preened its glabrous labia as his right hand cut his cock to blissful shreds. The beast brushed aside his hand and enveloped his penis, squeezing gently, sliding its limb across the shaft, under the hood, down the slit; the pain was sharp and grand, and it took all he had not to ejaculate then and there; he let out a stream of urine, warm around the mass of malforming tentacles. Cerulean suckers attached to his skin, and he gave himself, all of it, to the creature. He was within it, around it, beside it; for the moment, he was as it was, and all foul flesh was forgotten. He was no man.

Orchid orbs crept from its pupace and sank into his mouth. The labial disc dilated, absorbing Franz’s groin; he began to move with it, a slow waltzing sway. The thought came to him then; that there may be enough shared material for his seed to fuse with its ever-gravid womb, a kemmering heat to carry new life. The thoughts uttered promises to seek his company by the river’s edge, once it had reconstituted; that together they may fuse, and flood the spheres throughout; Franz found himself picturing the scene in his mind’s eye; yet it was not just his: they were thinking together, moving together in arhythmic concupiscence, sharing body, mind and spirit; there was no man-meat, no seminal mush, no putrid pubic hair; there was one being, Franz-thing; nay, nameless; an ocean stretched out, the stars above and around it; a cosmic orgasm of fretted antiflame, a liquid love, polyform and perfected.

The time spent was unknowable; Franz fidgeted, finding himself panting and spent upon his knees. He was drained, not a drop of semen left in his bulging, burning gonads. He sat softly urinating, stroking the being’s mauve mass, which had shrunk again, that scabrous film coating patches of its pluming pulp.

“I know it is time,” he said. The thoughts affirmed, yet reminding that they would meet again.

He stood, and illuminated their journey: if the being could form into a flabby sheet and attach to his shoulders, he would stride the tangled forest to the westbound stream; there it might find passage to the seas. It had no ability to form useful land-limbs, so Franz’s meagre muscle would be the sole saviour. Yet it would be perilous, for wolves roamed the woods; and huntsmen hid the copses at such time, to spring traps for foolish does.

The being grasped his shoulders, and Franz tugged. It was yet light for its volume, yet still a challenge; yet he was adamant. Step by step, he dragged it to the door. Flinging it open, he stared into the eyes of evil Evert.

With Evert were the other workmen, seeking Egosch; and each stepped back in horror at the sight of clothesless Franz, the being draped across his back like a lunatic shawl.

“Wandlunger—what in sodding God is that?

Franz hadn’t any words. No absolution, here. He backed up, stuttering. Hoping. Hoping that they would forget, and just retreat to the workroom. Yet the skinny man followed him into the craftsman’s den.

“What have you done with Egosch, you sick lump of dung? What is this thing you carry? Is it a sack, ye? Containing the artist? Look at the blood dappled on the planks! Speak, cadful wretch, or I’ll stone your mouth out!”

The other men were collected too in the studio. One bellowed insanely, falling to his knees, that the sack was moving. That it was alive. Another screamed and fled. Evert’s visage unhinged, and he grabbed the fire poker. Franz clutched Egosch’s lost blade, and held it forth.

One of the number dashed towards the prone, constricting being, crying to tear it open to release the trapped artist. Another joined him. Franz swung the dagger to and fro, cutting at their maddened grips. Thoughts found their way to Franz’s mind: wordless terror, a child clutching at its mother; carmine tendrils curled up his legs.

Not a man in the room was sane. The sight of the thing in movement was too much, and Franz’s blade too puerile in length to abay them. Evert stood forward and swung the poker.

Once again, Franz Wandlunger awoke on the hard wooden flooring. He had dreamt of an endless ocean where he and his lover had absconded for eternity; out there, limitless, bonding in blissful blue, peaceful predators translating one another in iterative ideals. Its thoughts whispered sweet farewells, and then there was silence.

His vision returned as he stood, blood trickling down his face from a profuse gash. A cold grey mass congealed upon the ground; covered in abrasions, penetrations, bite marks, half a man stuck inside it, a final, desperate meal unfinished. Three others rolled on their backs, cackling lunacy. Evert cradled his own head, repeating some minor phrase again and once more, et cetera; the rest of the moron-meat had fled.

The knife lay not far. Kneeling down, Franz picked it up and observed the remnants of that thing that had once danced so fluidly, had chromatised calmly in eldritch pigment; it was still, and colourless. Now he only felt sickness, and he vomited, the spew splashing across Evert’s head. Franz silently pushed the man onto his back and cut his throat, squeezing so that the spray decorated his masque and graced his thankless lips. Each other dabbling lunatic followed, a fine slash across the next. His work complete, he observed his portrait of the thing: it did not capture its formidable, otherly essence. There was nothing left. Distant, down in Ghennsberg, a panic was arising, as the first church bells rang out.

He separated the half-eaten man-meat carcass from the thing’s hardened, stonelike form and lifted it. It was flat, the bottom straight as a board, yet lighter than cloth. Franz felt it might crack if he were to drop it. Through the morning mist he trudged. Penile trees still erect. His own, unstirred.

Hesternal, hesternal, hesternal; chronia concluded. Flesh reigned. No starry depths. No lux thoughts to caress, no amorphicity on this cold plane.

He lowered the stagnant, solid stone into the stream. It broke apart like sand, glittering in finality; he watched it scatter as sediment, never to bear his child, never to return; a saline memory, and not long to last, at that. Pulchritudinous aberration, angelic nightmare; dead otherling, transmogrifying dalliance, sunken muse. Franz—weary man-meat, speckled with blood, piss, vomit and semen—stood on the breezy banks, alone.



american. blow your brains out and run
to the hills, die of dysintry just-like
God intended.
the same dream every night.
that i didnt raise a . . .
all of that work. and now look at it.
what to do? and it died anyway.
blue and purple bloated with rubbing-fingered flies,
and wriggling satisfied maggots.
american. standing around this empty
house. sore lips from biting.

once it passes and i think about the bitch.
she did this. encouraged it. let it happen.

its not my fault he didnt know
not to blow his brains out. the rest of them
holding public vigil. snow falls, candlelight,
merry Christmas, white blanket
to cry a deeper red, a robin’s breast.
theyre like him. it.
the guns in the cabinet. one in the drawer.
light it up. watch.

american. so i take the gun like cold blue heaven
and take the streets, shoot them in the back like
God intended.
doing God’s work. one day . . .
no, no dream. first the freaks,
then the fags,
then the bitches.
gun them all down.
american. standing in the empty street
populated by the corpse of
degeneracy. God’s work. no dream.

plane trails like fork-dragged-through the sky,
cut fingers pressed against cotton, bleeding through.
sore lips from biting.



reeling back af.ter shot thru head.
by cop piggy gun fuck, thru head.
thanks. thank.

hiding away shadow-fygure;
and toy train set go fygure;
woe. woes.

they killed my dog. the fuckers.
                            they killed my
                                      best friend.
                      it was i who call.ed

they took my innisense.
                          hid’ng did
                          no good.
                     found and stripp’d.

waiting for the final shot/thru head
                   better than sit.ting.aro.und
        thinkin bout ho.w you an’t
                    neber going to sing, newey.

             found and stripp’d.
             fucking pigs kill’d my dog.
             go fygure. woe. wo.

Profiling a Hostage Killer, Part I

Part I of my interview with HOSTAGEKILLER: art, writing, films, culture.

Hussy’s work is sharp, brutal and would be ‘controversial’ if we had any use left for the word. He’s mostly known for posting on Twitter, but there’s a lot more to the enigmatic Hussy than 280-character fever nightmares: as well as streaming video games (freestyles included), he’s got an extensive history in the visual arts. His tweets are what he’s most known for — and understandably, as they are consistently funny, surreal, sometimes Joycean riffs on the inherent absurdities and contradictions of the modern world and internet culture, among other things — but his background is in painting.

Hussy is an artist to be reckoned with, and that can be seen in his upcoming short film, which is a short, surreal jolt of bleak satire that fuses ironic detachment with an impassioned and honest sense of humanity. Although it’s still a while off release, I decided to pester him on Twitter to see if I could, perhaps, paint the portrait of a hussy.

We spoke for almost three hours on a multitude of topics; Hussy’s style of speech, as you’ll know if you’ve ever heard him speak on stream, is a free-flowing form of “ADHD-addled rant.” Due to the amount of ‘content’ gleaned from our conversation, and to allow his affect to shine, I’ve made very few edits in the text, instead allowing Hussy to portray Hussy as Hussy should be portrayed: which is, to say, Hussy. The interview will be split into several segments; this is part one. Part two will be released soon, and the rest will follow once the short film leaves the festival circuit.

Who is Hussy?

One: I’m a man. Alright? Everybody out there wondering, I’m a man, with a dick and balls. Regular man. Two: not only am I a man, I’m just some guy. Alright? I’m just some guy. I feel like most people who write stupid shit on the internet are just some guy, even influential people — and I’m not saying I’m one of those, that would be egotistical of me, if someone out there wants to say it that’s cool, but I’m just some fucking idiot — I’m just some fucking retard; whoops, I’m just some r-slur on the internet slinging words. I don’t know. I don’t know what else there is to me, I don’t really have a more existential answer.

What about your pseudonyms?

‘HOSTAGEKILLER’ is from a dril tweet. Which I thought was funny. But it’s also more directly tied to — the first PC game I ever played was Counter Strike: Source, there’s two major maps in CS: Source, there’s de_dust2, classic, classic sandy Afghanistani-Pakistani region, bunch of boxes inexplicably, impeccable map design, on par with Blood Gulch from Halo 1 or 2, just perfect. Then there’s cs_office, which is a hostage map, de_dust is a bomb defusal map, standard competitive map, but the hostage maps are stupid, they’re nonsense, you have to lead these AI out of a building, but as a kid I would load up a bot lobby — I was probably about 8 or something — when Steam games still came in a box — but I would boot up cs_office, go to the hostages, and I thought it was fucking hilarious to shoot them in the head. Because everyone gets upset, there’s radio in the game if you’re a terrorist or counter-terrorist, both sides you’re not supposed to kill hostages, like in real life. Like when the cops went after that Fed-Ex truck or whatever, UPS truck, and there was a hostage in it and they just fuckin’ gunned down the entire truck, killed the people who stole it, killed the hostage, it’s the biggest failure to communicate possible. The proper military term for it would be FUBAR. So my name just means FUBAR; if you’re a hostage killer, not only are you a shit-disturber, and a fucking moron, you’re a chaotic entity. ‘Hussy’ is a shortened version of HOSTAGEKILLER. Most people would be like, ‘Hoss’, but there’s always a female slant to how I am for some reason, not as much in real life, but on the internet — so ‘hussy’ is what you call a harlot, maybe a street walker, or maybe just a woman who’s particularly lascivious, gives up the goods, but it’s not necessarily like a whore, a hussy is not a whore, a hussy knows what they got, if a pimp called you a hussy it’s a bit of a compliment, if a pimp calls you a whore, I mean — that’s just your job, that’s your title. So Hussy is a shortening of HOSTAGEKILLER; what else could it be shortened to? It can’t just be ‘Killer’, I’m not a pitbull.

What is an average day like for Hussy?

Alright, this is the ideal day: I wake up around 10 – 11am, I draw for six to eight hours, I read for three hours, get some exercise in there hopefully, maybe shoot out some banger posts online, I watch a movie, I go to bed. Usually the half-ideal day is simply I wake up, I draw for six to eight hours, I read for three hours, I go to bed around 2am – 3am, a reasonable time, not a god-forsaken time, I wake up, I do it again. But I’ve been incorporating more movies, which I make it sound like a chore, but I have severe ADHD so these things have to be part of a schedule, otherwise I won’t do them, as I’ve learned from the rest of my life. The least ideal day: I wake up at 2pm – 3pm, I draw for three to six hours, I read for three hours, I go to bed. Mostly it’s just that I wake up later. I’ve been consistent for at least two years, three years with this kind of routine.

What kind of films are you into?

I like talkies; I like ones where they talk a lot, but the dialogue has to be good. Not a fan of slow pacing. No — you know what, a movie can be paced slowly, but paced well — like Stalker is paced really slowly, but it’s paced really well, whereas other movies are just fucking gruelling and that’s what kills me. I found a new favourite movie just two days ago, it’s called La Promesse by Luc Dardenne and Jean-Pierre Dardenne. It’s, I guess, French neo-realism? is what it’d be called I suppose, and it’s also social realism. I’ve only watched two of their films but I’m planning on watching the rest of their films throughout the week. La Promesse is basically about this kid named Igor who’s fifteen, and his dad who’s a slumlord, who trafficks illegal immigrants in, and he makes them work on his apartments and shit, and you know he gives them “safe passage” into the country, lets them stay somewhere without papers, and the entire movie is filmed in this over-the-shoulder style — Rosetta is filmed like that too, that’s another of their films; not a lot of cuts, it cuts when it needs to. It’s immersive, it’s raw (hence the neo-realism) — I think I like very raw films. My top four Letterboxd faves are raw — except my number one, so I’ll read them out and get to one because it’s funny — Buffalo ’66 by Vincent Gallo, which is a kind-of rough and tumble love story between two morons, set in Buffalo. Next is Julien Donkey-Boy by Harmony Korine, which is basically a schizophrenic breakdown shot on video in a very degraded manner, everything looks degraded, the lights are so — something about filming on digital, something about Julien Donkey-Boy, it’s like filmed in an impressionistic manner, like Monet would be the most obvious comparison. It’s great. Then last there’s The Reflecting Skin, by Philip Ridley, which is kind of like a Malick film, I hate to compare filmmakers like that because it degrades them, but it’s a bit like Malick. Shots of open fields, golden hour, the way they speak has a Southern poeticism to it, but — number one, and all these movies are raw, but number one is raw in a different way — number one is Lost in Translation, which sounds out-of-character, I feel like people probably hear that and — and it’s also James Healey’s favourite movie, and that guy is a fucking idiot. Don’t tell him I said that, but that guy is a goofball, he’s a blockhead. Anyways, Lost in Translation, I don’t know why it’s my favourite film but there’s something — there’s a rawness to it — I’m starting to rant, but I guess that’s good, since it’s an interview — there’s a rawness to it, in so far as it is such an alienated piece of cinema. Every facet of it: where it’s set, the acting itself — Bill Murray is a perfect pick, Scarlet Johannsen is not, they could have cast someone else, but she does a good job — it’s a shoegazey film, it’s the shoegazer’s film, lots of people would pick a film by Wong Kar-wai, I like Wong Kar-wai, I don’t think he’s amazing, I think it’s a bit hokey — Lost in Translation scratched that shoegaze itch for me, supremely. It’s just this completely alienated, disconnected love story set in Tokyo, people who meet and then they’re gone, it has that early 2000s aspect to it — it came out in 2003 — but yeah there has to be that element of rawness in films, for me. Grainy, punchy, about “real problems”, and a poeticism inside of it, but I don’t like pretentious art necessarily.

Is your art influenced by any particular films?

When I started the account, my primary engagement with art was paintings, visual art — and music, a lot of music. I listened to a lot of fucking music back in the day, from 16 – 21 I listened to a lot of music; but I don’t know shit about music or musicians, other than listening to it. I’ve got like… let’s see… 1043 albums. Not that bad. Not a high score or anything. I don’t know what it is with music. Okay, I guess I’ll become sincere. I’ll shed the bit. I had sleeping issues — idiopathic hypersomnia, and basically, the etymology of that term is “we don’t know why the fuck you’re sleeping so much, we don’t know why the fuck you present as a narcoleptic, what the fuck is wrong with you.” So I had that, I had severe undiagnosed bipolar II. I had severe undiagnosed ADHD. So you can imagine it was hard to engage with art that demands attention, in a certain way — narrative attention. But music is like a Dionysian attention. It flows. There is a narrative to most music, it’s hard to make a non-narrative piece of art in general, unless you’re like, Rothko. But narratives don’t have to be ultra-literal. Music, music, music — so when it comes to films affecting what I do, I’d say definitely, yes. There’s definitely films that have influenced how I operate. I rewatched Freddie Got Fingered yesterday with my girlfriend, she absolutely loved it. But that film is basically — if HOSTAGEKILLER was a dumber guy, I’m going to talk about myself in third person, he would go “Oh, Freddie Got Fingered is a Dadaist masterpiece,” — no. Shut up. It’s fucking stupid. I guess it evokes Dada but it’s not that, it’s just a stupid fucking movie, and it’s executed perfectly by Tom Green. He emanates stupidity perfectly, as a somewhat-clever man. He’s also from Ontario, as I am, so there’s something about Canadians… there’s something wrong with them. There’s something fucked up with Canadians. Especially if you’re from Ontario, you’re a fucking idot. Fucking Kenny and Spenny are from Ontario. I used to live right next to where they used to live. Let’s see, another film that inspired me. Recently it’s been Cassavetes. Something about his dialogue. I used to do advanced drama in high school — because I’m a homosexual — so I do like films with a play-like manner. Cassavetes is really clever, the narratives are interesting. Lines bleed into the next, and there’s not much going on plot-wise, really; kind of it’s just bumbling people falling into each other’s grasps. I don’t think you need much for a plot, patchwork narratives can work. I watched Minnie and Moskowitz recently, that’s a film about love, and it perfectly encapsulates the meaning, how love is basically a series of miscommunications and bumbling idiocy. A Woman Under the Influence is my favourite of his. His films aren’t shot in a painterly manner, but the way people speak feels painterly to me. To come back to the impressionism, there’s a kind of free-flowing dialogue which I appreciate. I could go on all day, but the four films I mentioned inspired me, for sure. I don’t know how films interact with my writing, necessarily. They definitely do, but music maybe has, or had a stronger hold.

How does music figure into your creative process?

The funny part is that I do think writing and music are fundamentally opposed to each other. Some might disagree with me. I used to play music all the time; recently, because I’ve become enamoured with film and literature and now that my ADHD has been tamed to some extent, less so — I used to listen to music while I drew, and I’d walk around Toronto for like six hours at a time listening to albums, especially in university. Walking around staring at my shoes, looking around. I’m often going for a feeling when I write, more so than I’m going for a specific message, so it’s a set of tonalities, and it sounds kind of absurd saying this in the context of stupid posts on the internet, but I did publish something recently (Backwater J-Sesh). Hopefully I’ll have something published in a zine some point soon, shout out to them. But music tends towards going for tonalities more, it’s more pure expression — and the thing with me is that I don’t care that much about lyrics, they’re more a vessel for the voice to become another instrument. I find most lyrics are sophomoric, and I don’t feel most musicians can even write worth half a shit regardless. It should be sophomoric, it works as a vessel. I’m going all over the place.

What is your general perspective on your writing, and how it works into the larger context of your art — how do they connect?

In relation to my writing and my visual art, I don’t even know how I connect them, you can kind of see it in the animations, I think there is a divide in myself between the writing and the art. With music giving me a basis for how I interact with art, there is a free-flow process that reflects more in the visual art than the writing, or perhaps it’s easier to understand for me and other people. Music is so ephemeral, it’s like liquid — listening to anyone talk about music is so funny, it’s pure incompetency, and that’s good, we should have that realm that can’t quite be fully described. Anyways — honestly, I don’t even think they are fully connected, I think I’m only just starting to connect them partially now. For a while, I just happened to incidentally be a funny guy, and I say funny things, my ADHD or brain chemistry or whatever compels me to be a clown and make a fool of myself, and I have a natural tendency towards being good with language and the construction of language, and I also wanted to draw funny pictures when I was a kid, teenager, adult — and I flew more into it in a manic frenzy as a late-stage teenager, and the two sides feel split to me even now.

Part two will be out soon.

polymyalgia rheumatica (mother’s side.)

the door’s caught somewhere between here and there […]

polymyalgia rheumatica (mother’s side.)

the door’s caught somewhere between here and there,
caught in amongst debris of oft-forgotten vices,
habits stripped and consoled, afterwards.
dementia, rheumatism, cerebral ataxia,
acronyms, initials that spell a.c.d.i. | A.D.
(afterwards) caught in amongst
lolling, gagged, drawn,
sought after. the door still caught, you can’t open it.

whether it matters or not what’s on the other side.
the phrase, ‘P.T.G.’ — months’ worth.//
six minutes in. seven years prior.
it doesn’t reflect like it did. less a mirror
than acting mud.

your hand rests on the burnished glass
of the door handle. you’ll only wake up again anyway.

seven years, now. how many times will we say that until it becomes clear? still can’t bring yourself to kick it ajar. nothing so simple. murmuring static and voices on the other side. six minutes in. she’d gone deaf. seven years prior. couldn’t hear a thing. close the door on another slumping year. leaning on all fours against the wall, blood trickles down from the hole in the side of your head. something’s growing down there.

no surprise when the screaming starts.
you’d said not to look. you can’t be the only one responsible.
now she’s caught somewhere between the door
and the colossus of wrapping paper, soup cans,
beer cans, bottles, and cardboard boxes.
presents. check your watch. neither hand signs out.

the feeling recedes. you jump back into your body.
it’s not so hard now. in fact, it’s all so easy.
the knife is still stuck in there, somewhat deep.
not so hard. flashback. a memory. seven years prior.
still the door won’t open. caught between.
in amongst. then, more acronyms. check them off the list.

|o.c.d.// a.d.d.// a.s.d.|
|a.c.d.i.// A.D. (father’s side.)|
just another minute; convergence.
year when#, check it off the list,
along with other nonsense rhymes and dots, loops.

it hardly reflects at all. you’re growing. it all came so easy.
stroke the key backwards. retardation: stalled; atrophic,
and the like. note: polymyalgia rheumatica (mother’s side.)

sift through the glass hilltops, your hand still caught,
little gifts placed under a certain tree, the night before.
there she is, groping through the darkness,
only the blue light flicker that claims ownership
over the scattered vocal intonations and incessant hum
to guide her step, but unlike you she isn’t caught
on the threshold. her burgeoning body casts a shadow
somewhere between your own learnt present
and her disrobing present — your future—
naked in the eye of ever-after, and the like.

your hand still grasping that burnished glass,
no reflection, consideration.
screaming stops. no sound now. deafened.
then, two simultaneous thuds, her knees on the plain wood;
might leave a bruise.
and there you are, as usual:
on all fours, hands in the dirt and glass shards,
caught at the barrier, crawling to the threshold.
but to get there, you have to reach halfway first.
no chance. you’ll be there forever.

why do they leave?

her eyes are drawn.away when. […]

why do they leave?

her eyes are drawn.away when.
they drift close.and shift as if
they never once beheld.your
own.and why?(a simple
for each will.leave.yes.gone
[why do they leave?]
did i at once conjure.a.
n.illusion?“those years before,
when we were young, or thought
we were, when eyes amet upon
the grass, and shared in we were
rumoured wrongs, a conundrum
too simple for one like”

“i know you not,” she says.
her.eyes ar;e drawn away; when
they drift too close on.a gentle my greyish hair:
“no, i know not you nyther,” i say,
“and i am not sure i ever did.”
afforded inside my venge.ful skull’s hole
that from ’leaks grey.oozing;brain.
down my lapel.

your eyes. why do they leave?
why do they always leave?
and were they ever there to begin?


When you are lost, do not think of me […]


When you are lost, do not think of me
for I do not exist. Perhaps once
there was a semblance, what we regrettably
call a ‘likeness,’
but this has long since left,
and all you know of me
is an image long passed.

I have turned over to a realm of nothing,
simply by closing my eyes once too many times.

When you are needing, think not of me
for I am not here. And besides
loneliness is just
an illusion we show ourselves
when we are too bored
by our individual nothings.

We turn over to a realm of objects,
awash in a shallow stream of antiworlds.

We go spinning through this constructed silence.

Change O’ the Seasons

The change o’ the seasons brings with it […]

Change O’ the Seasons

The change o’ the seasons brings with it
A crushing weight: as if the descent
Into darkness mirrors the soul’s aspect
And speaks to the shadows that linger
In the brighter days.

It is in these short eras of wracked sleep
That the mind considers the limits
Of the lurid, and wonders what worth
The summer sun even holds in truth;
Thank God it is gone.

What is temp’rance in these blackened months,
When the sun does not rise at all?—
The weakened spirit is justified
In rejecting night’s cold embrace
And morning’s delirium.

When all is wrapped in Stygian dusk
It reminds the crippled soul of life’s
Purest character: that of nature’s
Indifference to stuff’ring in its realm;
Its ambivalent shrug to the wan
Countenance of man.

The Fragile Shade

If I were to treat with such a myth […]

The Fragile Shade

If I were to treat with such a myth
as that which drives your soul, what
would I find?
Only I see that tenderness, only I
see the way you breathe.
(A lie.)
But an honest one.

If I were to shelter the tragic shade
within my corset’s bounds, what
would I feel?
Yes, it is only I that gives life
to such a fragile shadow of man.
Yet not sincere.

Echo far, my lonely little life:
Echo far, my sweetest;
Echo far, my truest care—
And go beyond what I could
achieve on my hollow own.

Belief between us is shared,
but it is as if my prayers are not heard.