Welcome back, gentle readers! It is, Warlord Ralts, recently released from the psychiatric ward after my many reviews of the Fat Goth Horse's many gibberish-esque works. I reinstalled Word, and brought the file up containing the donated review copy of this story and within 15 second the paper clip was standing in front of me with dynamite around his waist threatening to blow up my operating system.
Luckily I talked him down, and he went off in the custody of the WinSock files to undergo counseling, and was thus excused from the following horror:
The Witch’s Party
OK, the title isn't that bad. Perhaps this won't be too bad. Well, having reviewed Fat Horse Pacione's work again, the fact that his name isn't in 72 point bold repeated like 12 times in neon red flashing letters makes me somewhat nervous, almost as if he's embarrassed by this story.
This can't be good.
It was Halloween of 1997 when I was invited to a Halloween party in Naperville, Illinois, and I had no idea what was in store for me because this was an actual party helmed by Goths.
Oh God, and it starts. First of all, how the hell do you not know what is going to happen at a Halloween party, no matter who it is "helmed" by. I mean, I went to a Halloween orgy, and I knew what was going to happen, because I knew the people who were running the party.
And "Goths"? Well, knowing Mr. Pacione's habit of trying to make out the goth subculture to be surrounded by ghosts, goblins, and fat stenchmonsters with mouths full of shitsickles. Oh, wait, the last part is true when Pacione's around. Anyway, it might be much more amusing to imagine the "Goths" as Visigoths, straight from their raping and plundering tour of Rome. But, on with the story:
I thought it was regular Halloween Party, but what I wasn’t expecting that the party was actually ran by actual witches.
DUN DUN DUUUUN!!!
In typical Pacione fashion, he's just blown his load all over the fucking place. You know, they say writing is a lot like sex, and if that's true, in Pacione's case, his past girlfriends probably had him firing greasy man-goop on their bellies following by a sobbing apology more often than his greasy pork mini-sausage befouling their nether regions.
But witches? OK, knowing what scares Fat Horse (Women, fat people, falling off a fence, cats, paying his own bills, moving out of the basement, vaginas) they could be just Wiccans, or they could be Scooby Doo witches. Doubtful they're going to be Shakespearian witches, because that would be cool.
They invited me because they said, “What’s a Halloween party without a horror writer?
Umm, a Halloween party? A party without a bloated misshapen man-child stinking up the joint and clumsily pawing at anything he might think has a vagina?
Nick, you’re going to this.”
And once again we see that his characters are, like the man himself, gutless fucking wonders who have other people tell him what to do.
Here I am the Christian of three years at the time this story is told.
Obviously the witches are planning on sacrificing him at the party, since they need a victim who willingly arrived. They'll obviously strip naked, dance before him, slice their nipples with blades and make him drink deep of the blood flowing from their bosoms, before one after another riding him to take his seed deep inside of them so that they could bear the child of Satan at the next harvest moon. Once he is sated, they shall slit his throat and drink deeply of his life's blood, the leader of the coven riding his dying erection and using his last orgasm as his body shudders into death to quicken her demon seed.
Oh, wait, that would actually be cool. Trust me, this is going to suck.
I was working as a baker at Bagel Street Cafe during this time of the party.
This is how we know it was fiction. How much you want to bet that he tells us constantly the character is a baker, but does not describe on fucking bit about the job itself. Research and Pacione aren't very well aquainted, much like him and personal hygiene.
I always loved Halloween because it was a time to capture the imagination of the things that wander in the night or the things that are crawling within the shadows.
Like all true Christians everywhere, he loved Devil's Night/All Hallow's Eve/Halloween. And notice, he fucks up again, calling Halloween " to capture the imagination of the things that wander in the night or the things that are crawling within the shadows." in other words, Halloween captured the imagination of said creepy crawlies, not the narrator. Nice fucking prose, dipshit.
This was when I first started getting serious with writing dark fiction, and this was something that would end up inspiring me some way or another especially when I was dating a solitary witch at the time.
OK, this made me smile. So, we've got a writer writing about a writer who writes dark fiction. Of course, he was dating a solitary witch at the time. This makes me giggle. Just wanted to point that out.
I did a reading for a public access channel at the time so I saw a little bit of fame from this but not the money.
A reading? As in sat there, on a chair, his cheese laden asscheeks drooping off the sides, and read from a book in his high pitched and lisping voice? I refuse to believe this, even PBS has some standards.
I felt like the complete outsider at this party,
You were, they were human, making you a
everyone was in long capes and dresses
Even the men?
(The ladies resembled something from the 19th Century Gothic, or from the story Masque of The Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe.)
Once again we see Mr. Pacione's brilliant descriptive voice in all its richness. Notice how he tells us how the lace looked, what material the dresses were made of, how they fell about the character's bodies, and gives us little details on each character to impress them into our imagination.
Oh, wait. He NEVER fucking does this. Instead, he tells us what they resemble, without any description. Mr. Pacione, I pray that you never witness a crime, for your descriptive talents would allow the Elephant Man to escape when you described Dracula to the police.
The men were wearing a little more dressy takes in black
But I thought they were wearing dresses?
– something I would see years later at the Metro when I did a shoot there.
It wouldn't surprise me that Pacione or one of his characters would go on a shooting spree. Oh, wait, he means photography! OK, so he's a horror writer, a baker, and a photographer. Well, at least he's not a Marine who can swim through 100mph water.
I felt like the odd man out because I was the one who had the blue collar take,
Notice he's not describing jack.
and at the time when I was going to this party I was working as a baker.
Second time he's told us. So, he went to the party dressed in his baker's clothing? An apron spattered with semen... I mean flour?
I had the vampire hours meaning I was up by 1 AM,
Ah, yes, vampire hours. I hear the late shift referred to as "The Vampire Shift" all the time...
the kind of hours that I would spend writing before I had to go to work. I started work about 2 AM, so I often took a half hour to write before leaving.
Oooh, a whole half hour to jump around bellowing and flinging feces onto a page! Why, his intense envisioning of the Lord of the Rings would be done in no time at that rate!
Type O Negative blared from the speakers at the party
A well known witch band.
and another would sit at the piano and play the theme for Halloween.
So a speaker would sit at the piano and play the theme from Halloween? Another what?
Christ, Nick, you suck.
I truly felt like Ted Nugent at a Feminist rally.
Doubtful. Ted Nugent would be getting a ton of pussy, where you are probably going to be frightened by a moth or a some shit. See, he's trying to talk about feeling out of place, but his metaphor sucks.
I learned one thing when helming a site on FireFly.
This had to have been a Tripod site with horrible flashing font and graphics and sparkles.
What he's trying to do is make himself seem "in the know" about Sci-Fi.
(As of writing this they’ve been a dead site for eleven years – I was the second generation host of the venue Shadow of Darkness – I turned it from a vampire role playing venue to a hardcore horror venue.)
In other words, he ran off all the V:tM players, and then howled around on an empty board claiming it for himself.
Notice that he doesn't notice that all he did was destroy other people's creativity, probably out of jealousy.
What I learned from there was expect the unexpected and this was something that I became very familiar with over time.
Ummm... WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING? Oh, wait, it's to show the audience that nothing will phase him at all, because he's learned to expect the unexpected.
I will say the things people don’t have half the grapes to say or will say them so openly.
Ah, now we See how he's a tough guy. He speaks him mind, while insulting everyone who doesn't open their mouth to spout off whatever half-baked thoughts he has.
When at this party, I wanted to make some remarks but I knew if I said them – the people at the party would stop what their doing and collectively say, “Fuck You!” I expected them to say it but they didn’t – everyone kept to the corner of the couch and would hold séances to see if they could communicate with DD Home.
So everyone crowded onto the corner of the couch? What a fun party.
They didn’t pull the witchboard out until later, but I knew they were playing with things they weren’t supposed to.
So the witches didn't pull out the witchboard? Or are witches not supposed to play with a board named after him.
It wasn’t my place to do so, I was their guest. A year to the day later from doing the first ghost hunt and a month after doing the second.
Where we these ghost hunts? What did they have to do with? Was a ghost seen? I can't wait to find out!
I started to feel a little spooked by the idea they were pulling out the Witchboard at midnight – yet it was a Halloween party full of real fucking witches, who’d fucken thought, and I felt like I actually stepped into the depths of the unknown into the pages of a Lovecraft story or someone else’s Gothic horror works.
Aw shit, instead of desribing what it was like, he just tells us to go read someone else's work. Typical goddamn Pacione. I want to know more about the party! Were these real witches, the types who don't wear underwear? Do they dance naked? I WANNA KNOW!
I sat on the couch without my binder full of the works I wrote, and the ones I did back then weren’t as epic as what I was doing in the present.
Present when he's writing this story, or present when he's featuring in the story? And why is he sitting on the couch writing instead of watching the panty-less witches dance?
I never really wrote of séances until now, but looking back there was a chill in my spine knowing what they were doing – necromancy, communication with the dead. I had this feeling I should have ran, but I didn’t because I knew if I stayed I would have a hell of a horror story to tell when I got older. Something I knew then, it was going to make a hell of a horror tale to relate – one that wasn’t made up either.
Do you feel anxious to know? Or do you figure that Pacione's going to fuck this up to? Well, let's continue, gentle reader, if you haven't gouged your eyes out with a shot glass by now.
“What the hell are you all doing with that thing?” I asked with a little concern. I knew they were opening a doorway that couldn’t be closed, but I wasn’t there to preach at them for doing so
Yet he demands that they tell him, even though he wasn't going to preach at them? And if he KNOWS what they are doing, why is fucking asking? They're opening a door, duh!
– I was a guest because I am a horror writer and the baker;
Yes, because no Halloween party is complete without the baker there!
"Honey, did you invite a writer and a baker to our daughter's wedding?"
"CALL OFF THE WEDDING!"
I see the world as someone who worked blue collar jobs but having the education enough to see the kind of thing they were doing since I actually did a paper about D.D. Home.
Wait, so he's saying that blue collar workers are uneducated? What a fucking pretentious douche. This from an author who's never actually held down a job and never completed a full year of college. Is it just me, or does it make you want to punch both the writer and the narrator in the mouth?
So I had a working knowledge of the occult, but I never practiced
Occult writer, baker, occult researcher. And can you believe he's still single, ladies?
– it was just interesting material to write about in the realm of horror, and spending the night at a witch’s party it was the thing that would be in the pages if Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark.
Name drop. Take a shot.
It was a horror story waiting to be done, but it wasn’t the time to actually do it.
So he ran home a furiously masturbated.
Oh, wait, he didn't, instead we have to continue to listen to this drivel.
So I just sat there silently and observed as they moved the white eye across the board, almost if they were trying to make contact with someone that night.
OK, notice that he asked a question of the people in the room, that we know nothing about beyond the fact that theyu are all clustered at one end of a couch, from the sounds of it perched gargoyle-like on the back and arms. This party doesn't sound much like a party. And why are they using a white eye, possibly stolen from a corpse, to use a Ouija board? Why aren't they using the pointer? Oh, and on the subject, it's a Ouija Board, you gibbering retard. We all know you are calling it a witch board because you're too goddamn stupid to use Google to look up the spelling.
They had a sense of horror to them knowing something was summoned
What the shit is this supposed to mean? Pacione, you suck.
– something was going through the gate at the night of the witch’s party. Something was opened that night, and it was the lungs of hell breathing down everyone’s neck.
Oh my God, just make it stop.
I knew it at the time, but they didn’t
The baker/writer/occult researcher knew, but honest to God panty eschewing witches didn't? Either he's lying, or the witches weren't witches.
– it wasn’t my place to preach or speak because I was their invited guest. I didn’t want to piss them off by pulling the hellfire and brimstone preacher act,
Once again, he's their guest, but is he being silent out of politeness and curiosity? No. He's being silent because he doesn't want to piss them off, because the character, much like the author, is a total pussy.
living up to my Online persona GothicPreacher.
Namedrop. Take a shot. No, not a bullet, I don't get to kill myself, you don't either.
I knew what they were doing was summoning powers they had no control over.
So he stood there and watched as they summoned a great old one and the world was devoured by darkness, because he's a total pussy.
The kind of thing that would be the plot of a number of horror stories in print, some of my friends actually written some of these plots.
Oh God, attempted name drop. Two shots. Wanna bet he doesn't make any details on what these things are?
I watched and did nothing – after all, it was Devil’s Night.
Or because he's a total pussy. One or the other, take your pick.
“What are you trying to summon on that thing? Does it even work?” I asked with a skeptical nature.
How much do you want to bet that they don't answer? Apparently the narrator lives in a world full of cardboard cutouts, all of which do things, but only when he lets him. These aren't characters, as there are no actual descriptions, no character development, they don't even speak. They're props, that's it.
I’ve seen some weird shit and written about it in the full length, but I won’t mention the full length here.
But yet he's still skeptical, even though he went to a party with "real witches", he's still skeptical.
Or a goddamn retard.
Take your pick.
But thinking about this almost 13 years later it still freaks me out a little bit, as much as how my former room mate who is now a Born Again Christian used to mess with the Witchboard.
OK, in case you didn't know, he wrote a supposed scary story about this room mate, entitled, amazingly enough: The Roommate! in which we find out that he was frightened of the woman because he had a dream of her children having her faces. Oooh, scary!
I stepped into an entirely different world when I was at that Halloween party – I never saw so many women wearing cloaks or had a lot of pentagrams around their neck.
Yet he's supposed to be a Gothic writer, and he's never seen... oh, wait, he means he's never seen that many women when one wasn't spraying mace into his eyes.
One of them walked off with a cross necklace I wore to the party – an actual crucifix torn off a rosary.
So, now they are not only witches, but thieves. And he tore the crucifix off a rosary? That doesn't make it a holy relic, you goddamn moron, it makes it a crucifix you stole off your grandmother's prayer bead necklace, you fucking moron.
I wasn’t used to people walking of with things, so this was new to me.
In other words, this narrator has never before been around other humans, never interacted with the human race? Wait, maybe the scary part of this story is that the narrator is actually the ghost of a baker who was kept chained in the basement, deformed and horrific in appearance, where he wrote gibberish on the walls with his own feces and studied the occult through the rats that worshipped Molarham in the walls.
No, that would actually be a cool story, instead of more Pacione drivel.
It was similar to the first ghost hunt I went on, but this was something a little more disturbing.
Fuck, more about when his fat ass fell off a fence. Note we get no details on this ghost hunt, just constant reference to it. Look, Pacione, nobody has read your crap, nobody cares about your other shitty stories, and you HAVE to assume your reader has never read your bullshit, and thus explain things that you are going to constantly make reference too. This is just more proof you're a piss poor writer.
I never actually set foot in a realm of witches before this, the only exposure to witches was my ex-fiancée who was a solitary witch.
Is it just me, or does "The Solitary Witch" sound like a Harry Potter ripoff? Either way, do solitary witches wear panties?
(At the time of this party, I was just started dating her. They always seem to invite the horror writer to these kind of parties.)
No, they always invite the fat stinky fucker. Jesus, this just gets and more stupid.
I called in sick at the place I was working as a baker,
Again the shit with his baking job? Does he defeat the witches ala Spongebob with his mighty spatula and a carefully timed throw of a handful of flour? Shut the fuck up, we figured out what your job was the first five times you told us!
knowing this party would go late and it did. Some of the guests didn’t leave until about three in the morning.
OK, so where are we in the story timeline? I'm totally confused.
So here the fat ass baker/writer/occult master is taking up one end of the couch, the coven of witches and warlocks have all shrunk themselves with magic and are crowded around a witch board on the other end of the couch, and it's either right when they pulled out the Ouija board, or 3 AM, one of the two.
Sitting in on a séance is an eerie thing to think about.
No it isn't. Fuck, even Victorian England ladies used to do it, and they fainted if you jumped out and yelled BOO!
It’s about as eerie as when my mother and stepfather decided to seek out a psychic artist in the summer of 1991 they’ve seen on Unsolved Mysteries.
Namedrop and unconnected bullshit! Triple shot! Hey, maybe you'll get lucky and go blind!
That was the kind of atmosphere I stepped into when I approached this Devil’s Night party. There was nothing for me to expect, and one thing I came to learn over the years is to expect the unexpected.
Aw crap, once again, this expect the unexpected bullshit. Something tells me that Pacione just watched a movie where they said that over and over. Holy fuckballs, we're most of the way through the story and not jack and shit has happened.
There was nothing macabre at work there, but there was a lot of weird shit going around – seeing that they were all witches and I was the only Christian there.
What weird shit? So far all we have heard is some baker fuck who thinks he's a writer and expert of the occult blather on and on about how great he is! What the fuck has even gone on? And why would witches, pantyless masters of magic they are, invite a Christian baker to their orgy? Man, this story sucks.
There were no familiars being sacrificed that night (black cats or a dog,) though it was called Devil’s Night.
BWAH-HA-HA! Our "expert" actually thinks that witches would sacrifice their familiar? Remember when I said that research wasn't Pacione's strong suit? Right here, baby, this is proof of that all the way. He's too goddamn stupid to even use Google or Wikipedia. Sacrifice their familiars? AH HA HA HA! Pacione, you completely and totally fail.
The kind of thing people expect with these parties
Panty-less hotties in black lace? Orgies? Ritual fucking? That's what I expect!
– I heard the horror stories over the years from the church I was active with; and some of them came from people who had the occult background.
They "had the occult background"? Is that some kind of disease? Is it like "having the gay" or something? Holy crap.
I have this notion they have this constant fear of the dark, and the things that crawl in the shadows are the things that capture their imagination the worst.
Aw shit. Who has the fear of the dark? The church goers? The witches? The familiars? Scruffy the janitor? WHO?
The kind of things that horror films are made of,
Film? Holy crap, this just... just... fuck you, take a shot.
or some warped horror writer who wants to bring someone back from the dead with the written word.
And what the shit is this supposed to be?
I sometimes wonder if they tried communicating with the dead in those parties and if they reached anyone, when the communicated parties been a sleeping corpse for nearly centuries with the flesh rotting off their bones.
Umm, what? They are trying to communicate with a centuries old corpse? I thought during seances they tried to communicate with the spirits! And then, usually someone who's only been dead a decade or so.
Goddamn, Pacione, you fucking suck.
Rotting away into some decayed state,
Because rotting and decayed are different.
with their spirits either wandering the earth or burning in the depths below.
So nobody goes to Heaven or Vahalla or the Bronx in Pacione's stories?
“Are you sure you’re going to get someone dead, long been dead?” I asked with a bit of skepticism to my voice.
Great, once again the narrator is taling to the carboard cutout again. And more skepticism? Of course he's skeptic, nothing has happened and he's at a party of mannequins.
I knew these things were relatively eerie with the way they have their letters, the guys of Parker Brothers don’t really know what kind of powers they would unleash when they unleashed the talking board.
Wait, so now Speak 'N' Spells are evil? Oh, wait, these "witches" are using a fucking Ouija board they bought from Wal-Mart made by Parker Brothers? BWAH-HA-HA-HA! Oooh, scary!
I knew what they were trying to do, and in some ways it was giving me the chills thinking about it – necromancy.
Aw crap, of course they didn't answer. Because in Pacione stories, other people don't really exist.
The kind of things that would end up in the pages of H.P. Lovecraft or Algernon Blackwood – occult forces.
Double Namedrop. Triple shot!
Are we at least going to see some of these occult forces, or is the narrator going to just blather the fuck on?
Powers they communicate but have no control over; something they try to talk to – the dead, but they find themselves unleashing the holy gates of hell. They don’t even understand the dark forces that would emerge when they play around with the talking board.
Aw man, lecture time. So these "witches" don't understand the dark forces? What kind of suckass witches are these? Let me guess, they can't even fucking fly, and they probably wear panties. These witches suck.
I knew what they were trying to do, sometimes people would see the fucking heart shaped eye fly across the room.
I was expecting something like that to happen at this party, but didn’t – there was no one getting safety pins being rammed though their hand or throat.
So he went to the party expecting to see the witches getting horribly attacked by the spirit, and all he saw was a flying pointer? Big fucking deal.
Just a few fiddling around with the theme to Halloween on the piano,
That asshole is still playing? Someone needs to sneak up behind him and brain him with the Ouija board.
and going for the green colored alcohol or the vodka straight from the bottle
Green colored vodka is totally Goth.
— then follow the talking board!
Now is it a talking and walking board?
Trying to see if they can talk to the long dead or the recent rotting corpses in the ground, though they’ve been long dead – they wanted to see if anyone was listening as they ran the heart shaped eye over the talking board.
Is anything actually going to fucking happen?
I didn’t feel comfortable with the fucking thing laying around – even when my cousin used to play with one of these.
Namedrop? Sure, why not, just take another fucking shot.
I keep thinking about what that one radio show host who’d often try to get Deicide’s vocalist Glen on the air.
DO-DO-DOUBLE NAMEDROP! Drink, motherfuckers.
(Glen actually wrote “FUCK YOU” in blood in response to that invitation. People actually becoming possessed by demons when they fuck with the Ouija board – I would watch the broadcasts early on because I knew there was inspiration for the blackened horror yarns. He cause some controversy when he said he would kill himself at 33 in honor of the song Sacrificial Suicide. I would hear the Ouija board horror stories on the air, something that I could use as some source material.)
What the shit is this? Was this him trying to justify to the editor why this story was written? Or was it just to namedrop bullshit?
Being at this kind of party, I actually felt like I stepped into an occult horror film.
Why? Nothing happened. Man, the narrator is a total fucking pussy.
I didn’t have my manuscripts with me at the time, back the I had them all in binder
I find that hard to believe, seeing this isn't a manuscript either.
– that was when I was submitting to the Prairie Light Review, and one of my college buddies was the editor at one time.
Which is probably who he gave frequent and loving blowjobs to in order to be published.
I still remember him and we do keep in touch,
He means: Still gently swap semen into one another's throbbing and sensitive anuses, their manhood spearing deeply into one another as they bite into pillows, the glitter covering their bodies swept away by their mingling lovesweat as they take turns deeply pleasuring one another, until the narrator collapses in a sweaty heap, semen leaking from his gaping rectum.
it was him who said I should submit something for it.
Meaning that the narrator should submit one gaping and well used rectum to his penis.
The editors didn’t want anything dark, so they kept me on a leash in that sense
Judging by this story, no they didn't. This isn't dark, this isn't scary, and this isn't Gothic or horror or anything. This is the disjointed ramblings of a mentally ill man with a subhuman IQ who crashed a party.
– going to that witch’s Devil’s Night party, I felt like I wasn’t in their world.
And you totally failed at bringing the reader into that world.
I was just an observer, their welcomed guest – a guest who might have some strange stories to tell about the party years later.
WHAT STRANGE STORIES?
That's it? Nothing fucking happened?
OK, problems with this piece of fecal matter:
Nobody but the narrator ever speaks, and when the narrator speaks, nobody answers, making the reader wonder if he's alone in his basement with corpses or mannequins or cardboard cutouts.
He makes reference to scary stuff, but doesn't even tell us if anything scary happened. A Ouija board pointer floated across the fucking room? That's it? That's not scary, that's shit that JR High kids do with string.
He does constant namedrops for no other reasons than to drop them. The names he drops has nothing to do with the story, except to tell the reader that the author can spell the names.
There are almost NO descriptions. The only description we have is a vague description regarding clothing, no details, no nothing. We have no idea how many people are at the party, except the autistic guy who keeps playing the Halloween movie theme on the piano. We don't know where the party is being held, what the area looks like, and apparently the couch and piano are floating in a big void.
There isn't even a story in this story. No buildup, no conflict, no resolution, nothing. This isn't a story, and it fails even grade school requirements for a work of fiction. I've been handed poorly Xerox'd stuff by homeless people that were better stories and were technically more of a work of fiction than this.
The narrator is a bad speaker, attempting to be pretentious and educated and knowledgeable, but instead coming across as blissfully ignorant and possibly mentally handicapped. He isn't engaging, you end up hating him three paragraphs in, and you have no idea what he looks like. For all we know he's a semen encrusted Lego brick.
Unable to spell "Ouija Board", the author resorts to witch board for awhile, until finally resorting to Cletus-like speech and referring to the Ouija board as a "talking board" for the rest of the story. I expected the narrator to encourage the board to return to its haunted cornfield. The lack of even a bald attempt at research makes this shit-tastic story even worse.
All in all, the story fails on ALL levels. Technical levels, this story bursts into flame and falls flaming into the ocean to kill a marooned hooker.
This is just further proof that the author is a delusional moron who imagines he's a writer, but in reality could fuck up a knock knock joke.