A while back I remember reading about a B-movie exploitation-flick producer who kept a drawer full of lurid and trashy film titles, ready to be emblazoned over whatever poor film fell into his grubby mitts. I think he might have been a fictional invention, of either Kim Newman or Neil Gaiman if I was forced to guess. Anyway, through a weird quirk of wormholes and other weirdness, this drawer has crossed time, space and the 4th wall, and taken up residency in one of the deeper recesses of my brain.
My short story titles are getting worse. Okay, so I've already used such gems as "The Biggest Tits in the World" and "The Orgy of the Pink Flesh". The last one was even supposed to be vaguely serious.
This weekend I completed a short story entitled "Vampiric Boobies". I'm currently working on a story called "Don't Fuck The Flowers".
In my scrapbook of ideas I have such delights as "Bloodfuckers of Romania" and "The Giant Pussy on the Wall". Not to mention my epic full novel idea - "Porno Fighters from Planet Earth".
Chances of ever being taken remotely serious as a horror writer: nil.
Gonna have to face the awful truth. I'm the reincarnated soul of a sleazebag exploitation skinflick producer from the sixties. There's no hope for me.
Fuck it. Let's have fun. :)