Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk

[Schizoid Man]

Ok, so most of you will recognise Chuck as the writer of the book that became one of the coolest :awesome: muthafuckers of a movie of all time. That'd be Fight Club. Anyway, I'm a big fan of his work because of his controversial, eye-opening, hilariously harsh style, and I'm almost done on his latest book, a collection of 23 interlinked, mostly horrifying short stories. Gruesome, some of them. Anyway, what I'm getting at is the first story, Guts. It's the closest words on paper have ever came to making me puke up, if I'd had any volatile food or a few drinks/spliffs I probably would have. As it was I spent the rest of the night hand clenched on ass trying to sleep. I'll say no more, apart from the fact that it may put you off masturbation for a while . Chuck has given readings of this story on a tour of the book in the US and EVERYTIME, someone has fainted from the sheer fucked up horror of it. I didn't come close, but I can see it's effect. Anyway I recommend Haunted to anyone, particular those who like to be shocked...anyone here read it? Had the 'Guts effect' in their own unique way? PLEASE mark spoilers anyway cos I haven't quite finished.

[Owario]

I was just about to go down to the library and get Survivor! But anyway, we already have a thread about books, so this should probably be in there.

[Lammie]

Yeah, the book starts off regurgitatingly good, and gets better as you go.

 

Effing weird ending.

[MunKy]

I heard that story somewhere else before. Also one involving the suction system of a swimming pool. Its pretty gross. But not enough to make me sick or stop taking care of myself.

[Blackfox]

I heard that story somewhere else before. Also one involving the suction system of a swimming pool. Its pretty gross. But not enough to make me sick or stop taking care of myself.

 

Try American Psycho for size then

[jayseven]

I've posted Guts on here before. Just finished Survivor last week, it's my favourite so far, along with Lullaby. Survivor also has a 'hidden ending' and a movie in teh works, like a lot of his books.

 

Fight Club is Gay. It's all an analogy for coming out! Yes indeed.

[Schizoid Man]

You've already posted Guts here?! *hangs head in shame* lol i don't know what you mean about the Fight Club analogy but for those of you well versed in his complex material it would be cool if we could dissect some of the weirder stories in Guts. Below are another two favourite shorts of mine, not in the same league as guts for gruesomeness (thats a word bitches!) but they're very compelling and weird. Written by Stanley Donwood, the guy who does all the brilliant artwork for Radiohead. Talented, twisted man people! You'll find the rest at slowlydownward.com : -

 

Fingers

 

It is only after I have been at my new flat for some months that I begin to receive mail other than bills and offers to enter prize draws.

One of my first personal envelopes contains a scrawled message from an old acquaintance with whom I was friendly many years ago. I am distressed to read that my friend is deeply unhappy, and I am disturbed further to read that if he receives no reply to the letter I hold in my hands he will feel compelled to chop off one of his fingers with a kitchen knife. Days pass, full of inconsequential incidents, until a small parcel arrives. The postmark indicates that it is from my friend. With trepidation I open it.

Underneath the brown wrapping paper is a little box which bears the return address of my friend. There is also a stamp on the box, but other than this the package proves to be empty. I open up the box, but the space within is likewise vacant. A sense of relief floods briefly through me, and my days once more assume a comfortable aspect.

One week later, another identical parcel arrives. It too is empty, and I insist to myself that I will write to my friend. Time drifts past, and eventually I have ten empty parcels. It is on a friday that I realise what I have to do.

With what I feel is admirable forethought I use my left hand to chop three fingers from my right. With the remaining two, I hack off all the fingers of my left hand. In considerable pain I place the fingers in eight of the parcels. There is a lot of blood, and this makes the use of cellotape difficult. With eight parcels wrapped, I hold the knife in my right thumb and forefinger. I look at the last two boxes.

As always, it is my inability to complete any task that drives me to tears.

 

[/b]Condiments

 

So one day I began collecting: I urinated into a large jar. I masturbated and scooped my ejaculate into a second jar. I took a knife from the drawer and made an incision on the end of my finger and squeezed the blood in thin trickles and fat drops into a third jar. I sat down with a fourth jar on my lap, and thought of sad things. Then I wept into the jar. I repeated these actions every evening, each fluid into its appointed jar. After a month, I emptied the contents of the jars into small saucepans, which I heated carefully until I had evaporated the liquid. When the pans had cooled, I scraped the residue, with the aid of a funnel, into separate salt cellars. I then tasted each of my personal salts, judging which would go best with what food.

My experiment was a resounding success. The salts seemed to impart a subtle intensity to spicy dishes, and a freshness and zest to even the most homely soup. And so my restaurant began to attract many more patrons as increasing numbers of adulatory reviews appeared in some of the Sunday supplements.

Obviously, I had to continue to produce the salts that had made my culinary creations such overnight successes. My establishment was now being patronised by celebrities as well as politicians and the merely rich.

My difficulty lay chiefly with eliciting sadness on demand. On some nights I would sit in my chair, the fourth jar on my lap, and start laughing with joy at the success of my restaurant. I would have to force myself to envisage a starving child or departing lover. I knew that there was boundless, ceaseless suffering on this Earth, but I found it more and more difficult to identify with it myself, while the prestige of my restaurant grew higher, and with it my bank balance. I found that the most efficacious manner of forcing tears from my eyes was to think of love; loves lost, love's tragedies, and love's hopelessness.

And so it was that I began to have trouble with the second jar. Latterly, my attempts at masturbation were rather more difficult, as my erotic thoughts staggered and tumbled into the despair I needed for the fourth jar. Not infrequently, I found it impossible to distinguish between sorrow and love.

After five months, I caught myself ejaculating into my lap, upon which rested the jar meant for tears. I began to find sorrow arousing, and could not cry without getting an erection. Conversely, I could not find a woman attractive without starting to weep. I worried about my salts, for my supplies were running low. Moreover, the quality of the salt from the first jar was beginning to decline, as I attempted to find solace in alcoholic abandon. I would drink deeply; and laugh, and cry. But my urine suffered. It became thin and pale, copius but worthless. The salt I extracted was tasteless.

The reputation of my restaurant would keep its fortunes bouyant for a while, but I knew that sooner, rather than later, the decline in the quality of the seasonings would be noted. I sank lower into despair. I could not run the terrible risk of sharing my secret with anyone else. I had only one reliable source of salt - that which filled the third jar. The third jar never ran out. The menu had to reflect this, and there was a preponderance of rich, red, meaty dishes, lavishly enhanced with the salt of my blood, trickled - or sometimes drunkenly spurted, gushed - from my fingers, thumbs, wrists or arms every evening.

But I was weakening. My drinking was becoming uncontrollable, I would involuntarily orgasm during the news, and burst into tears at the most inopportune moments. The constant bloodletting was making me anaemic. I resolved to return to the formula that had won my eaterie so many plaudits. Determinedly, I researched the most emotionally draining novels, the most haunting poems. I ejaculated again and again into the second jar. I drank pure fruit juice and mineral water and produced once again the golden, viscous urine that filled the first jar. I wept uncontrollably, for three-quarters of a hour, with a pornographic magazine propped in front of me. And I took the sharpest knife and drew one widening red line across my wrist.

The banquet was a success.

 

 

Nice.

[MunKy]

They were great! WHy do I like twisted things so much? Meh I dont care.