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By John Hornor Jacobs

In a masterful debut of Lovecraftian horror and Southern gothic threat, John Hornor Jacobs unearths the fragility of unfastened will, the harmful energy of sacrifice, and the insidious energy of blood.

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Nothing ventured, nothing gained. ” SlingBlade [grabbing the bullhorn] “Don’t talk to this man. He has herpes simplex A, B and C. ” The fact that this exchange not only made them laugh out loud, but also got them to come hang out with us, should be all the info you need to know which grad school group they fell into. But there was a bonus: They were in nursing school. We hit the slut jackpot! Slutty nurses not only want to fuck you, they want to take care of you too. They do you, then they do your laundry.

You know how when you pine after something really badly, like a cool toy or a new car or whatever, once you get it, it’s never as good as you imagined it would be? This was the opposite. This was so much better than I could’ve ever dreamed. No possession of mine, before or since, has ever completed me the way that bullhorn did; it embodied all of the characteristics that I consider most essential to myself… and amplified them. Arguing: I was pretty good at debating with people before, but now, I had a permanent trump card.

I put the wallet back in her purse and go back to eating my cereal and watching Springer. She eventually comes out of my room, looking like she got run over by the cum truck. ” Stacey “What? ” Tucker “Uhhh… that would be you. ” Stacey “Uhhh… Yes, it is. ” She walks into my room and from next to my bed, picks up a completely different purse, one I had not seen, digs through it, finds her wallet, and throws a driver’s license at me. The name on the license is Jennifer, and the picture looks like the angry Yeti standing in front of me.

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