Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Ernest Hogan On Love Without Gun Control
Did I say cool - when I was talking about being blown-away by one of my favorite writers blurbing The Bachelor Machine? What I mean to say is extremely cool as he just sent me a blub for my non-smutty collection, Love Without Gun Control. Thanks again, Ernest - yer the best!
A few years ago I tried to read a tasteful literary magazine full of stories where nothing much happened, and the authors and characters were proud of it. The stories in LOVE WITHOUT GUN CONTROL are not like that. M. Christian lets the reader have it with booth barrels in story after story that set a new standard for Twenty-First Century pulp fiction. From far-out science fiction to gritty, hardboiled realities these are the kind of stories that make the reader hang on for dear life on a wild ride.
- Ernest Hogan
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Did Someone Say ZOMBIES?
Just because ... BRAINS ... zombies are ... BRAINS ... popular, I
thought I'd share ... BRAINS ... an except from my own zombie ... BRAINS
... story from my non-smutty sf/f/horror collection Love Without Gun Control.
Btw ... BRAINS...
All in all, Presidential Aide Lawrence Tucker thought, it had almost been one fucking successful administration. He thought this while pushing the snapping, squirming corpse of the Assistant Secretary of Urban Affairs on a gurney. The gurney had one squeaking, spinning wheel, and it echoed down the flickering fluorescents of Access Tunnel B2, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain.
Yeah, he thought, almost –
They’d managed to get Hubbel into the seat with a clear 65%. For the conservative middles they’d used a budget-cutting and job development plank. Rehabilitation and civil liberties had pulled in the sandal-wearers and the granola-eaters. A hands-off business tax approach brought in the big campaign bucks from the old white men. A couple of clean overseas “actions” had cemented Hubbel as a man who took no bull. The loss of Peter, his eldest, in a gangland shooting had gotten him in real firm with the bleeding hearts – that, and his tearful plea to “stop the killing of our children” as he dedicated a big hunk of the domestic budget to education and law enforcement.
At the door of elevator shaft C2, Tucker unholstered the heavy army automatic that Major Clark had given him. Hitting the cycle button, he stepped out of the way of Henry’s clutching hands. The straps were definitely not slipping, but he was being extra careful. He’d had to pump six rounds into Julie, the personal secretary to the Chairman of Foreign Affairs, after she’d slipped free a week or so previous.
Leaning back and lighting a precious Marlboro, he watched the shaft door slowly crack, then ponderously open. Thinking, once again, of Hubbel.
Even the shit that had come up acted as if it had been dreamt up by some divinely inspired spin doctor, Tucker mused. Even that paramilitary wacko had parked a U-Haul packed with fertilizer TNT in front of the White House, Hubbel had insisted on remaining at his desk. “Ain’t going to run from someone who wants ta blow me up with cow shit,” he’d said with his cool smile.
Remembering Julie, Tucker carefully pushed the gurney to the edge of the empty shaft. Popping the safety snaps on the restraining harness; Tucker lifted up his end. Flailing all the way, the corpse slipped off and hit the bottom with a meaty impact. Very meaty: Cheyenne’s basement was a fetid, undulating sea of the dead.
Yeah, it had almost been a great administration, Tucker thought. That is, until the fucking dead rose from their fucking graves. Taking a long drag on his Marlboro, he slammed his palm down on the CLOSE switch.
“Learn to fucking adapt,” Tucker said, puffing his Marlboro and clumsily twirling his pistol. Hubbel had used it as a catch-phrase, a way for people to deal with the problems of modern America. Tucker, though, used it as a mantra. He said it over and over again to keep his mind off canned pork, stale Marlboros, weak booze, canned air, intermittent power, the rising of the dead, and imminent starvation.
Tucker jammed the pistol back in its holster. Major Clark would rip him a new asshole if he caught him playing with it.
He was at the intersection of B2 and D2: The fluorescents there were more stable, jury-rigged with loops of rainbow wiring. At first, Clark had almost split a gasket. But after six months in Cheyenne the fire had gone out of the starched Major.
Nothing like “adapting” like fucking mad to make a West Point asshole shut up about “damaging military equipment.” If Moe made the lights work, then they worked. Who cared if he violated the sanctity of Cheyenne’s cold-steel guts to do it?
In addition to the working lights, Moe Travel had re-rigged the air- conditioning ductwork and Cheyenne’s computer system. Now the corridors were draped with cascades of fiber optic cable and great patches of duct tape inches thick.
Moe had been a pleasant surprise, the only one Tucker could remember. Everyone else had panicked, swallowed bullets, cyanide, or simply started crying at unexpected moments. Tucker’s old college buddy, though, had simply dealt with it with by quoting “adapt” right back at them – and went about fixing what was broke.
Magenta 16. The door was painted with a mad collage of splattered paint. The crazy tie-dye had been an impulsive decorating job by a GI to indicate that the room was livable. The same GI had later stepped calmly into shaft C2 to “join his buddies.” His screams as they tore, chewed, and swallowed him alive had lasted for almost twenty minutes – till Clark calmly dropped a grenade down the shaft.
“You decent, Moe?” Tucker said. Taking a final drag, he carefully ground out his cigarette on a bit of unpainted door and stuck it in his pocket.
“Compared to you?” came a squeaky voice through the thick metal, “I’m a saint.”
If the outside was splattered with paint, the interior space was spattered with improvisation. Tucker was again struck dumb at the conglomeration of Moe’s spit and-bailing-wire gizmos that had filled the room. Shaking his head against the riot of hodgepodged gear, he said “Anything?”
Moe’s face, stained a bilious green from a ramshackle computer monitor, looked at him. “You always ask me that.”
“Only ever since you’ve been trying to crack it.”
“And I always say–?”
“‘No’. But, shit, Moe, gotta hope for something, don’t I?”
“Better fucking hope that Clark will develop a personality. Better luck than hacking this motherfucker.”
Tucker made his way through the wheezing, dripping, beeping mass of claptrap machinery. When he was next to Moe he was also a sick green from the monitor’s glow. “Did you try – what did you call it, ‘random number sequences’–?”
“Yes, dear,” Moe said, turning back to his monitor. “Yes, I did. And every other fucking trick I know. Nothing, okay? This fucker uses an eight letter combo – you know how hard that is to crack? With fucking numbers you at least get nine tries per character. But this fucker uses the alphabet so it’s 28.” Moe blinked for a second, disconnecting that part of himself as he remembered... “I thought you were feeding the dead,” he said, looking up at Tucker with pale, but strong, eyes.
“Just dumped Henry down the shaft. No one else bought it during the night.”
“Fucking creepy, man. Can’t see how you can do that shit. Still gotta blow their brains out?”
“Nah, Clark says we’re just wasting bullets.” Tucker shrugged over the first part of Moe’s question. “I got the short straw.”
“Yeah, and I get to think like a fucking dead man.” “Speaking of which, anyone fed the chief exec yet?” “Don’t ask me; I’m just trying to save all our asses.”
Btw ... BRAINS...
BURIED WITH THE DEAD
All in all, Presidential Aide Lawrence Tucker thought, it had almost been one fucking successful administration. He thought this while pushing the snapping, squirming corpse of the Assistant Secretary of Urban Affairs on a gurney. The gurney had one squeaking, spinning wheel, and it echoed down the flickering fluorescents of Access Tunnel B2, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain.
Yeah, he thought, almost –
****
They’d managed to get Hubbel into the seat with a clear 65%. For the conservative middles they’d used a budget-cutting and job development plank. Rehabilitation and civil liberties had pulled in the sandal-wearers and the granola-eaters. A hands-off business tax approach brought in the big campaign bucks from the old white men. A couple of clean overseas “actions” had cemented Hubbel as a man who took no bull. The loss of Peter, his eldest, in a gangland shooting had gotten him in real firm with the bleeding hearts – that, and his tearful plea to “stop the killing of our children” as he dedicated a big hunk of the domestic budget to education and law enforcement.
At the door of elevator shaft C2, Tucker unholstered the heavy army automatic that Major Clark had given him. Hitting the cycle button, he stepped out of the way of Henry’s clutching hands. The straps were definitely not slipping, but he was being extra careful. He’d had to pump six rounds into Julie, the personal secretary to the Chairman of Foreign Affairs, after she’d slipped free a week or so previous.
Leaning back and lighting a precious Marlboro, he watched the shaft door slowly crack, then ponderously open. Thinking, once again, of Hubbel.
Even the shit that had come up acted as if it had been dreamt up by some divinely inspired spin doctor, Tucker mused. Even that paramilitary wacko had parked a U-Haul packed with fertilizer TNT in front of the White House, Hubbel had insisted on remaining at his desk. “Ain’t going to run from someone who wants ta blow me up with cow shit,” he’d said with his cool smile.
Remembering Julie, Tucker carefully pushed the gurney to the edge of the empty shaft. Popping the safety snaps on the restraining harness; Tucker lifted up his end. Flailing all the way, the corpse slipped off and hit the bottom with a meaty impact. Very meaty: Cheyenne’s basement was a fetid, undulating sea of the dead.
Yeah, it had almost been a great administration, Tucker thought. That is, until the fucking dead rose from their fucking graves. Taking a long drag on his Marlboro, he slammed his palm down on the CLOSE switch.
****
Tucker
had moved up the government ladder during a big “down-sizing” era. He’d
honestly expected to find Cheyenne looted and barren. Maybe, if they
were lucky, there’d be a thousand cans of military rations and a copy of
Life from 1963. Yeah, and a billion cockroaches who would look at them
with a “what the fuck are you doing here?” attitude.
Luckily, a couple Chief Executives had managed to squirrel away enough to make the interior of the mountain almost a comfy place. They had cable teevee (but no broadcasts – except for a pathetic Texan who’d played Coal Miner’s Daughter 73 times before the blowing his brains out), purified air, an electronic copy of the Library of Congress, a complete surgery setup, more than enough water, and food for about four months if they starved themselves. The cockroaches hadn’t given them attitude, but they did pretty much have the run of the lowest level storage rooms.
At first they’d been almost jovial. They’d wait out the rising of the dead in air-conditioned and isolated comfort. Eat their canned beef, pork, Spam, beans, and carrots for a few months then crawl out to check out the State of the Union.
Then Lawrence O’Neil (R, VA) suffered a heart attack. They found him the next day, merrily eating Slade Dole (D, OR).
Luckily, a couple Chief Executives had managed to squirrel away enough to make the interior of the mountain almost a comfy place. They had cable teevee (but no broadcasts – except for a pathetic Texan who’d played Coal Miner’s Daughter 73 times before the blowing his brains out), purified air, an electronic copy of the Library of Congress, a complete surgery setup, more than enough water, and food for about four months if they starved themselves. The cockroaches hadn’t given them attitude, but they did pretty much have the run of the lowest level storage rooms.
At first they’d been almost jovial. They’d wait out the rising of the dead in air-conditioned and isolated comfort. Eat their canned beef, pork, Spam, beans, and carrots for a few months then crawl out to check out the State of the Union.
Then Lawrence O’Neil (R, VA) suffered a heart attack. They found him the next day, merrily eating Slade Dole (D, OR).
****
“Learn to fucking adapt,” Tucker said, puffing his Marlboro and clumsily twirling his pistol. Hubbel had used it as a catch-phrase, a way for people to deal with the problems of modern America. Tucker, though, used it as a mantra. He said it over and over again to keep his mind off canned pork, stale Marlboros, weak booze, canned air, intermittent power, the rising of the dead, and imminent starvation.
Tucker jammed the pistol back in its holster. Major Clark would rip him a new asshole if he caught him playing with it.
He was at the intersection of B2 and D2: The fluorescents there were more stable, jury-rigged with loops of rainbow wiring. At first, Clark had almost split a gasket. But after six months in Cheyenne the fire had gone out of the starched Major.
Nothing like “adapting” like fucking mad to make a West Point asshole shut up about “damaging military equipment.” If Moe made the lights work, then they worked. Who cared if he violated the sanctity of Cheyenne’s cold-steel guts to do it?
In addition to the working lights, Moe Travel had re-rigged the air- conditioning ductwork and Cheyenne’s computer system. Now the corridors were draped with cascades of fiber optic cable and great patches of duct tape inches thick.
Moe had been a pleasant surprise, the only one Tucker could remember. Everyone else had panicked, swallowed bullets, cyanide, or simply started crying at unexpected moments. Tucker’s old college buddy, though, had simply dealt with it with by quoting “adapt” right back at them – and went about fixing what was broke.
Magenta 16. The door was painted with a mad collage of splattered paint. The crazy tie-dye had been an impulsive decorating job by a GI to indicate that the room was livable. The same GI had later stepped calmly into shaft C2 to “join his buddies.” His screams as they tore, chewed, and swallowed him alive had lasted for almost twenty minutes – till Clark calmly dropped a grenade down the shaft.
“You decent, Moe?” Tucker said. Taking a final drag, he carefully ground out his cigarette on a bit of unpainted door and stuck it in his pocket.
“Compared to you?” came a squeaky voice through the thick metal, “I’m a saint.”
If the outside was splattered with paint, the interior space was spattered with improvisation. Tucker was again struck dumb at the conglomeration of Moe’s spit and-bailing-wire gizmos that had filled the room. Shaking his head against the riot of hodgepodged gear, he said “Anything?”
Moe’s face, stained a bilious green from a ramshackle computer monitor, looked at him. “You always ask me that.”
“Only ever since you’ve been trying to crack it.”
“And I always say–?”
“‘No’. But, shit, Moe, gotta hope for something, don’t I?”
“Better fucking hope that Clark will develop a personality. Better luck than hacking this motherfucker.”
Tucker made his way through the wheezing, dripping, beeping mass of claptrap machinery. When he was next to Moe he was also a sick green from the monitor’s glow. “Did you try – what did you call it, ‘random number sequences’–?”
“Yes, dear,” Moe said, turning back to his monitor. “Yes, I did. And every other fucking trick I know. Nothing, okay? This fucker uses an eight letter combo – you know how hard that is to crack? With fucking numbers you at least get nine tries per character. But this fucker uses the alphabet so it’s 28.” Moe blinked for a second, disconnecting that part of himself as he remembered... “I thought you were feeding the dead,” he said, looking up at Tucker with pale, but strong, eyes.
“Just dumped Henry down the shaft. No one else bought it during the night.”
“Fucking creepy, man. Can’t see how you can do that shit. Still gotta blow their brains out?”
“Nah, Clark says we’re just wasting bullets.” Tucker shrugged over the first part of Moe’s question. “I got the short straw.”
“Yeah, and I get to think like a fucking dead man.” “Speaking of which, anyone fed the chief exec yet?” “Don’t ask me; I’m just trying to save all our asses.”
****
The
late President of the United States, Commander in Chief of the Armed
Forces, etc., etc., Armitage Hubbel, was eating the leg of the Secretary
of Agriculture.
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Major Clark said, watching from the other side of a sheet of bullet-proof glass.
“Since when did you wake up?” Tucker said, stepping into the room.
“You’re fucking late, Tucker – had to feed the Chief myself,” Clark said, watching the late President tear into a pale, greasy calf. Partially congealed blood splattered down Hubbel’s chest.
“Sorry, Major, was talking to Travel. Won’t happen again.”
As Hubbel chewed, Tucker noticed for the first time that the skin of one cheek (the right) was starting to sag. It stretched like a blister aching to burst, bulging and pulsing with the action.
“See that it doesn’t. What does Einstein say?”
Human blood and flecks of skin and tissue covered the front of Hubbel’s suit. Tucker absently noted that Hubbel’s crotch was one huge stain of blood and bile. The President tore into the leg, stuffing the human flesh into his mechanically chewing mouth. His hands punctured and tore loose stringy ribbons of flesh.
“The same: we’re fucked. We’ll be dead of starvation or dehydration long before he can crack the thing.”
With a few jaw-stretching bites into the fat calf, Hubbel ripped the last few strips of flesh off the bone. Working crackling tendons and gristle like bubble gum, his feral eyes whipped around the storage locker. The prez was searching for something else to eat, to fill his rotting gut.
“And to think I actually voted for the fucker,” Tucker said.
[MORE]
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Major Clark said, watching from the other side of a sheet of bullet-proof glass.
“Since when did you wake up?” Tucker said, stepping into the room.
“You’re fucking late, Tucker – had to feed the Chief myself,” Clark said, watching the late President tear into a pale, greasy calf. Partially congealed blood splattered down Hubbel’s chest.
“Sorry, Major, was talking to Travel. Won’t happen again.”
As Hubbel chewed, Tucker noticed for the first time that the skin of one cheek (the right) was starting to sag. It stretched like a blister aching to burst, bulging and pulsing with the action.
“See that it doesn’t. What does Einstein say?”
Human blood and flecks of skin and tissue covered the front of Hubbel’s suit. Tucker absently noted that Hubbel’s crotch was one huge stain of blood and bile. The President tore into the leg, stuffing the human flesh into his mechanically chewing mouth. His hands punctured and tore loose stringy ribbons of flesh.
“The same: we’re fucked. We’ll be dead of starvation or dehydration long before he can crack the thing.”
With a few jaw-stretching bites into the fat calf, Hubbel ripped the last few strips of flesh off the bone. Working crackling tendons and gristle like bubble gum, his feral eyes whipped around the storage locker. The prez was searching for something else to eat, to fill his rotting gut.
“And to think I actually voted for the fucker,” Tucker said.
[MORE]
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Excerpt: Better Than the Real Thing
Now here's a treat: the great folks at 4-Letter Words not just feature a lot of my books but also just posted a sweet excerpt from my new collection, Better Than the Real Thing. Check out the story, "A Light Minute" over there ... but in the meantime here's a tease:
How are you today? was all the message said. It was their ritual, a tight tradition between them. Sasha was an night timer, a sunset-to-dawn kind of girl. Before she crawled into her “warm flannel cave and drew sleep up over her eyes” (she’d written) she always left that message for Alyx to find in her own preferred morning.
Happy, Alyx sent back with a flutter of keystrokes, love you. Another ritual, much more recent. Alyx felt it, though, with a tug of hesitation, a grip in her chest of uncertainty. It might well have been totally true, that Sasha was the love of her life – but they’d never met.
So much was known – despite all that was unknown (the sound of her voice, the way she smiled) – that Alyx was very certain about the feelings she had for the tiny, dark-haired girl with the sweet little bulb of a nose, deeply tanned cheeks and vibrant brown eyes (I’m a Mediterranean princess who likes the night): a color print of her framed neat over her machine’s monitor. Even without hearing her voice or really seeing her face (beyond the picture she’d transmitted) she knew that Sasha somehow fitted perfectly into her life. Their conversations, though time-delayed, hummed and clicked with a familiarity that belied their three month relationship.
At first Alyx was hesitant about venturing into the electronic unknown. The world was still much too loud, hard, and brilliant for her back then to learn the unfathomable language of baud, server, gateway, and the like. Jo had left her – taken her pictures, blankets, clothes, books, and herself and left Alyx nothing but her little Santa Cruz bungalow. That, and a series of pains when Alyx did anything – anything at all. Till, that is, her brother smashed open her front door, emitting a torrent of painful light and crashing street noise and slammed down a small box next to her antique computer. In a sympathetic whisper that sounded like a torrent of dishware pouring down a tin-shod mountainside, he had said, “If you won’t go out, maybe at least you’ll meet someone else.”
[MORE]
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
What Folks Are Saying About Painted Doll
Here are some very nice (and very flattering) blurbs I've got for my erotic SF novel, Painted Doll:
M.Christian's claimed BDSM science fiction cyberpunk novel is back in print - a tale of futuristic sexual submission and domination! One of the pleasures of a dystopic future is the erotists, professionals who paint their clients' bared skin with neurochemicals that induce all forms of sensation - even pain. Erotists offer landscapes of ecstasy, sexual extremes, joy, and delight. Few citizens can afford the skills of the talented Domino. Fewer still know her identity is but a mask. Beneath the facade, Claire hides from a vicious crime lord who would not only kill her but her childhood lover. But the mask of Domino is beginning to crack... Strange sexual pairings and strange sexual practices highlight this futuristic noir tale, set in a wildly imaginative erotic future, exploring who we are and the sexual awakenings that occur when we become someone else.
M.Christian's claimed BDSM science fiction cyberpunk novel is back in print - a tale of futuristic sexual submission and domination! One of the pleasures of a dystopic future is the erotists, professionals who paint their clients' bared skin with neurochemicals that induce all forms of sensation - even pain. Erotists offer landscapes of ecstasy, sexual extremes, joy, and delight. Few citizens can afford the skills of the talented Domino. Fewer still know her identity is but a mask. Beneath the facade, Claire hides from a vicious crime lord who would not only kill her but her childhood lover. But the mask of Domino is beginning to crack... Strange sexual pairings and strange sexual practices highlight this futuristic noir tale, set in a wildly imaginative erotic future, exploring who we are and the sexual awakenings that occur when we become someone else.
When I pick up a book by M.Christian, I know that I'll be surprised and delighted. Whether he's targeting horror, thriller, scifi or erotica genres, or some creative mixture, he never fails to deliver an original perspective.
- Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire
And now for something completely different...do you read erotica? The Painted Doll, by M. Christian, will give you that jolt you're searching for. The Painted Doll is about a dominatrix, but hold on! This is no ordinary "Yes Mistress, may I have another" story. The Painted Doll is set in a world unlike any you've seen. A bizarre look into a future world of sexuality and identity as we follow a dominatrix on the run. Leave it to Mr. Christian to give us a well crafted, erotic love story that you'll be slow to forget.
- Jolie du Pre, author of erotica and erotic romance.
The Painted Doll hides a kaleidoscope world behind her mask. As she removes it a splintered existence unfolds, darkly erotic, cruel and tarnished, the pearl at its centre an intense love story. Erotic, familiar yet alien, harshly compelling and eerily haunting - few writers can convey the myriad spectrum of the sensory world like M. Christian.
- Saskia Walker has had erotic fiction published in over fifty anthologies and is the author of several novellas and novels
M.Christian is one hell of a writer. He paints his universes and characters in full, living color, thrills the reader with non-stop action. A no-holds-barred storyteller, he embraces his reader at the start and doesn't let go until long after the end.
- Mari Adkins, Apex Publications contributing editor
M.Christian is the chameleon of modern erotica. One day punk, another romantic; one day straight, another totally perverse and polyamorous. But always sexy and and gripping.
- Maxim Jakubowksi is the editor of the Mammoth Book of Erotica series
With his amazing versatility and silky smooth prose, M. Christian helped forge the erotica revolution of the 1990s and he’s still going strong!
- Donna George Storey, author of Amorous Woman
A non-stop ride of precise prose and unexpected imagery. Painted Doll is another M. Christian gem; a seamless blend of the erotic with the darkly fantastic. Unpredictable, engaging, and an often startling read.
- Marilyn Jaye Lewis, author of Freak Parade
No matter how long I've been at the erotica game, M. Christian continues to surprise me. With Painted Doll, he again proves that his imagination knows no bounds. The first pages sucked me into the story, and I couldn't stop reading. Who was this woman? Who was she...really? Provocative and unique, Painted Doll is M. Christian at his finest.
- Gwen Masters, author of One Breath at a Time
Friday, June 14, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
Introduction to FuturesPast Editions eBooks
Here's a very, very. very cool video from Renaissance E Books (who I have the absolute pleasure to work with, talking about their amazing Futures-Past science fiction, fantasy, and horror imprint ... created by the brilliant Bill Mills.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
My Date with Anne Coulter
Here's a weird little piece about ... well, a very weird piece ;-)
My Date with Anne Coulter
My Date with Anne Coulter
Despite
apparent semiotic similarities, the female is, in fact, from a genus
not at all related to its common mating partner, which in no way
prevents it from various futile reproductive attempts.
This
pseudo-positive assortative mating – the preference of one gender to
seek out mates with similar or superior characteristics – has been
likened to the behavior of a unique subspecies of baylisascaris that
frequently attempts to reproduce with more developed species in an
attempt to mimic their successful behaviors. Unlike these fecal
parasites, the female is far more aggressive in its mating behaviors.
So
aggressive, in fact, that few species can survive the attempt. For many
years hypotheses regarding these common coitus fatalities were few and
far between, more than likely because of the high incidents of injury
and death among researchers who put themselves at high risk to study the
sexual activities of this unusually destructive female. Fortunately
recent experimental developments have paved the way for researchers to
safely observe for the first time the actual behavior of the species
from initial excitement phase to the inevitable conclusion of its unique
sexual response cycle.
Again
paralleling positive assortative mating, the female is apparently
attracted to males exhibiting dominant behavior such as ritualistic
combat, excessive fat storage, and territorial aggression. However, the
female is again exceptional in that she normally prefers sexual partners
who only manifest dominant behavior traits. In a well-documented
experiment conducted in 2002, when faced with a choice between an
extremely healthy male specimen of a similar species with only a
miniscule colorization differentiation versus a male with obvious
physiological deficits who was only apparently suitable for
reproduction, the female consistently preferred to attempt to mate with
the similarly colored male. It is interesting to note, however, that
this behavior is only common if the female is out in the open. When
isolated, the female will reverse this behavior and become extremely
sexually aggressive toward the colored male.
Once
the female has become attracted to a potential mate, it begins the
courtship by displaying a series of provocative displays apparently
evolved to stun the male to the point where sexual activity is optimal –
for the female, because, as noted, the mating activity of the female in
no way could be considered beneficial to the male. One of the early
displays involves the unfolding of the lower limbs, extending them from
the female’s protective sheath of fibers. These fibers, it should be
noted, have been acquired from the desiccated remains of other,
previous, matings. Extended outward, the limbs thus act mysteriously.
Although they clearly lack any form of healthy musculature or show any
signs that the female could act in any way as a successful brood mother,
most males are lured at least as long as necessary for the female to
continue to the next phase of her sexual courtship. Various research
suggests that there are other, as yet unknown, factors at work at this
stage in the female’s mating behavior. Semiochemicals have been
discussed, as has the concept that the female’s coloring and behavior
somehow mirrors the male’s, even though the actions of this false female
in no way reflect true actions of a sexually mature female of any
species, let alone the male's genotype. One radical theory, as yet
untested, even hypothesizes that the female relies on a form of "bribe,"
consisting of preferred nutrients or items that might make its lair
more comfortable.
Now
close enough to a potential suitor, the female extends a set of hooked
upper limbs evolved to lock around the mate’s thorax, effectively
trapping it. Although this maneuver is largely successful in trapping
the male, it should be noted that some males have been sighted who, at
the onset of this initially aggressive female mating behavior, have
resorted to severing their own limbs to escape. These limbless males can
often be seen at the periphery of the female’s territory, too entranced
by the female’s chemical lure to escape but having become too cautious
to proceed closer and risk her predation.
For
those unfortunate enough not to escape, the female begins the next
stage of her pseudo-mating behavior: the opening of the anterior
mandibles, whereby a piercing stylet extends down and outward well below
even the laryngeal prominence. Evolved with barbs to resist removal,
the stylet is capable of easily puncturing the epicuticle and even
cracking through the most hardened of procuticle. Depending on the
chosen mate, the stylet will enter the head near or even directly
through the vulnerable ocelli or directly into the core of the thorax.
Once
this penetration has been achieved, the female injects neurotoxins that
act as a sexual catalyst for her aggressive mating behavior by markedly
increasing the males susceptibility to pain. Similar in toxicity to
scorpion venom, the wild thrashing of the impaled male further
stimulates the female causing a dramatic increase in the thrusting of
the style. So violent is this activity that occasionally the barb has
been observed penetrating completely through a potential mate’s head,
though this in no way decreases the female’s aggression.
The
next phase of this pseudo-sexual mating begins with the flooding of the
male’s head or thorax with a mixture of enzymes that immediately begin
to break down all present macromolecules. Normally preceding digestion,
this activity does not continue with the removal of the broken-down
tissues. Instead the region liquefied acts as a nutritious "nest" for
the next stage.
In
an action so far too fast to be completely viewed or documented, the
stylet is removed and the hole previously punched through the body of
the male is roughly widened by the introduction of an ovipositor.
Reaching precisely to the previously mentioned digested region, the
female then proceeds to go through a gesture of egg-laying, including
the positing of a large sterile egg into the body cavity of the
still-thrashing male.
This
activity is important to note as it adds a new complexity to this
puzzling behavior. For not only is the female attracted to, and very
often attempts to mate with, members of other species, resulting in the
death of the chosen mate, but the attempt is fruitless as the female has
yet to be observed procreating in any way. Being a clearly unsuccessful
evolutionary development, having no observable biological function
aside from preying on males of other species, how the female still
manages to carry on its genes is a matter of much curiosity.
The mystery of the female's behavior concludes with the last act of its unusual pseudo-sexual mating ritual. While the order mantodea has long been accused of the same behavior, recent studies have indicated that it is not natural in the wild. In the case of this singular specimen, however,
the action has been observed – where it is safe to do so – and
thoroughly documented far too often. Whether it is a way of further
stimulating its own sexual responses or just as a way of procuring
additional nutrients, the eating of the male’s head after sex continues
to perplex researchers and remains a fertile area for further study.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Billierosie Likes Love Without Gun Control
This is very special flashback: a lovely review of my science fiction/horror/just-plain-weird collection, Love Without Gun Control, by my wonderful pal, Billierosie .Thanks, sweetie!
I am a junkie! A poor pathetic thing, crawling up the walls, shredding fragments of wallpaper and plaster beneath my broken finger nails, screaming for my next fix. Hollow eyed, I plead with M.Christian for just one more story. He’s a hard man. He turns away, telling me it’s for my own good. Then finally, finally, he relents. And I blubber my thanks through a mess of snot, spit and tears.
M.Christian sends me LOVE WITHOUT GUN CONTROL. And like any true addict, I find a vein, stick in the needle and overwhelm myself with the fix.
I’ve read all of his stories. Every tantalising word he’s ever written. I worry that one day he’ll stop. No more stories. What the hell will I do?
You see he never fails to surprise me. His stories move seamlessly from straight erotica to gay erotica and now, in LOVE WITHOUT GUN CONTROL, he gives me a collection of science fiction and horror.
In ‘Needle Taste,’ there is haunting despair, from the disciples of Owlsley, a serial killer. They take mind bending chemicals to enhance his hideous deeds. His followers can’t leave him alone and live in a desperate, deadly fascination of what has happened to those he has brutalised and killed. Prair replays the final moments of Owlsley’s capture in his mind and repeats the killer’s mantra; “the only sin is letting them go unpunished.”
‘The Rich Man’s Ghost’, reads like a fable and Christian tells the story with the skill of Aesop. Hiro Yashido sees a ghost, and to see a ghost means doom. He has not only seen the ghost, the ghost has seen him. His wealth, his overwhelming success in high finance is nothing. He will have to embrace his worst nightmare, poverty. Hiro Yashido fears nothing. He has not achieved his great wealth by walking on tiptoe. But he does fear the ghost and it’s curse. Ghosts walk between the bite and the bytes of the datasea and they are jealous. Hiro Yashido works hard to dispel the ghost’s curse and the ghost ponders on whether, or not to release him.
‘Wanderlust’, takes us out on the road. The story reads like a classic ‘road’ film and we embark on the archetypal American journey. The landscape unfolds with panoramic camera sweeps; gasping, breathtaking images of mountains, snow, jagged peaks and windswept pines. A cheap doll, embodies the idea of perfection, of absolute love. It is conveyed to the driver in his own overwhelming, Christ like beauty. He stops at a roadside gas station. The people he meets are spellbound by the ecstasy of his beauty. But sheer love has its opposite and hatred, and ugliness and the abject fear it brings, must have its say. He wants to say sorry. But all that he can do is drive away.
In ‘Orphans’, Christian gives us a drifter, seemingly, a man without purpose. He hitches lifts and meets people. Is he running from something, or running to something? He doesn’t know. Or he won’t say. What is the virus they speak of; the wasting disease that has taken their loved ones? Is it loneliness? Or is it something else? He apologises, it’s all he can do. Is this an allegory, a story for our times? Christian doesn’t tell us; but he certainly makes us think.
As if all that weren’t enough, Christian retells the story of Robinson Crusoe in ‘Friday’.
Combining Daniel Defoe’s style with a futuristic slant, the traveller’s ship crashes into the earth. Like Defoe’s hero he is stranded, like him he has to improvise to survive and like him he has his Friday.
As I said earlier, what the hell will I do if M.Christian ever stops writing? There’s a gem here, a jewel, a real talent. Where does all of this come from? Where does he get his ideas and images? “…eyes as dark as knots in old trees…” “…titles for them were as irrelevant as trying to take apart a static charge before a lightening strike…” Beats me! I’ve saved the title story until last. ‘Love Without Gun Control,’ and I’m going to read it now! Excuse me while I drool!
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