Satan Burger (15th Anniversary Edition)
Carlton Mellick III
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"Carlton Mellick III is as cool as weird gets." --JOHN SKIPP
When Satan Burger was first being passed around among teenage punks and fans of weird art and film, there was nothing else like it. A book of rebellious spirit that simplistically captured the postmodern malaise of a culture obsessed with consumerism. It quickly gained an underground following, was transcribed by fans and bootlegged online, was translated into Russian and made its way around the world attracting the attention of readers bored with typical mainstream fare. Combining a satirical wit and style on par with legendary humorists such as Kurt Vonnegut and Russell Edson with the crazy punk ethos of cult film directors such as Terry Gilliam, David Lynch, and Takashi Miike, this was a book overflowing with so many new ideas and absurd philosophies that it not only launched the career of underground author Carlton Mellick III, but inspired an entire literary movement.
For the fifteenth anniversary of the release of this Bizarro Fiction classic, Eraserhead Press is thrilled to present this special hardcover edition, featuring an introduction by splatterpunk legend John Skipp, illustrations by Ryan Ward, and a new preface by the author.
Satan Burger explores a new kind of apocalypse. Not an apocalypse caused by disease or nuclear war, but an apocalypse of boredom. A plague of monotony has spread across the countryside, sucking all passion and inspiration out of everyone over the age of twenty-five, leaving only the disenfranchised youth to fend for themselves in a world crumbling around them. Featuring a narrator who sees his body from a third-person perspective, a man whose flesh is dead but his body parts are alive and running amok, an overweight messiah, the personal life of the Grim Reaper, a race of women who feed on male orgasms, and a motley group of squatter punks that team up with the devil to find their place in a world that doesn't want them anymore.
don’t accept American money." Christian and Nan stare at him for a few minutes. "How can you not accept American money in an American store?" Christian asks. "For your information, this store isn’t in America. It’s in New Zealand." "No, it’s not. It’s in America." The cashier slams the newspaper. "Didn’t you read the sign?" "What sign?" The cashier jumps over the counter to the glass of the door and picks up a small piece of notebook paper with four words written in magic marker. It
Cancer. His car was named Forward. His goldfish were named Socks, Aluminum, Bookshelf, and Paper Cut. The first choice for everything is always the right one. That’s what he says about buying things, that’s how he answered test questions in school, that’s how he watches television. His father was like that too. "First choice is best," his father would say. The father was drinking gin when Gin was born. He was drinking vodka when Vodka was born. They also had an older sister, who moved to
fried cakes with strawberry sauce. Then, walking away with a wooden bowl and wooden spoon, Cecil with his mug of beer asks us this: "Where are you headed?" We keep walking. The new rain seems to be issuing from the ground and sprinkling on the sky and clouds. Like all of the underground was so filled with water that it had to rain it out, into the atmosphere. Christian turns around to Cecil, and answers him this: "To oblivion." The act of eating cakes persuades us to catch a place for
"You’re not a deep thinker, are you?" He realizes my lack of enthusiasm. "I was into deep thinking when I was a kid, but then I grew up," I say, insulting his use of the word deep. "Are you saying philosophy is immature?" "Basically," I tell him. "To most people, philosophies are just common sense." Then I get personally mean – I’m in an odd mood I guess. It’s fun to be mean. "People like you don’t have common sense, so philosophies seem new and interesting to you, but you don’t realize that
festival. None of the peoples that attended the festival ever left, so now we have a city full of homeless oblers, aphids, kruuty pods, gobbobops, strik pickies, krellians, hontolos, muckies, turtle nesters . . . "Where should we go?" I ask him, as the sky melts like candles and drip-drips onto the empty parking lot’s swirly-thing. "I’ve got a place." Christian smiles and I follow him, up for anything. We go silently, trying to avoid Silence. The streets remain lifeless-calm the whole way to