Sunday, May 31, 2015

It's Gonna Happen

I have decided, thanks to an untreated headwound and a desire for self-inflicted suffering, to attempt to critique (and ridicule) one of the longest and most self-pitying of Pacione's works... The infamous: Game Over Which is nothing but a revenge fantasy-screed, and strangely enough, one of Pacione's last attempts to do fiction. It features pretty much all the Pacione standards, including Gary Stu's and strawmen, people talking to themselves, teleporting characters, and barely constrained heaving male lust for other men.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Review of Dark Dealer

Review of: Dark Dealer
by: Nicky “Spackleback” Paicione

I’m going to be honest. Originally I had walked away from everything to do with Nickolaus “I Want to Fuck my Sister” Pacione. I decided that the slimy little git wasn’t worth my time. I had a lot of other things to deal with, and he wasn’t on the list.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, I kept getting harassed by him. He would post digusting comments on anything I put up on any site, made horrific claims about me, from child abuse to murder to him claiming I was not actually a veteran of the military.

But, like people keep trying to convince those of us who have to deal with the disgusting little troglodyte, I tried to ignore him. To take the high road.

But, as of today: FUCK THAT NOISE!
You see, one of the great things about the internet is that when someone goes at you, you can always choose to fight back. I’m the type to fight back, rather than just lay there and take it like a sheep at a Scotsman Meetup.

So, with that in mind, let’s move one.

This particular “Story” by Spackle Back Nicky is the lastest in his attempt to become relevant to the world of writing in the real world like he is in his own mind.

He intially titled this “Stygian Dealer” and flat out told me in emails that he knew he was ripping off the title to one of my old TTRPG works. I told him I didn’t care and to go away, since books often have the same titles, but no… he had to keep right on going.

So, I’m going to use it’s original title:

Now, normally, Clippy the Paperclip would join me, but he lost his long battle with Pacione induced depression last year, blowing his head off with an apostraphe, leaving behind MS Word and Powerpoint as survivors.

Dark Dealer
By Nickolaus AbLert Pacione

Right here the little mouth breathing idiot mispells his OWN GODDAMN NAME! AGAI N! I mean, make no mistake, gentle reader, I’ve misspelled my name. Of course, I was either so drunk that dwarves were following me around trying to put a keg-tap in my ass or I was suffering a head wound, but hey, we’ve all done it, right?
Dedicated to Kim Kowalcyzk

This dedication is the literary equivelant of waking up in a Motel 6 with a dead tranny hooker.

“Children will always be afraid of the dark, and men with sensitive minds to hereditary impulses will always tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck may glimpse…”
-- H. P. Lovecraft
Supernatural Horror In Literature
By the dead god’s assholes, I feel for poor Lovecraft right here. It’s bad enough he was afraid of black people and was once attacked by a roving Rrenchman, but now his name has to be in this inane drivel?
That’s like getting bitten by a rattlesnake who then gives you scurvy and leprousy.
The thing I have been called disparagingly by a zealot, a merchant of the macabre – something that I would never be able to do again, well; the fuck with him.

See, he used to try to write stories, but the past few years his ‘stories’ have all become just masturbatory fantasies where he writes long screeds against perceived enemies. He reminds me of that guy that stands outside my local 7-11 with his horned Viking tinfoil helmet, except the homeless guy smells better and wears better clothing and has a cool tinfoil Viking helmet.
Actually, Pacione is nothing like that guy. That guy I’d at least give a couple bucks to.
He has NEVER been called a “merchant of the macabre” by anyone, anywhere, outside of him wiping the grease off of his mirror and whispering it to himself while holding a flashlight under the fifth chinfold on his neck.
I am a dark dealer and the kind of things I do paints a horror of the soul. The illness inside everyone doesn’t want to face. What dwells in his nightmares, breathing and wandering became a horror writer’s playground and the muse for black metal acts who can’t stand assholes like him – show me a zealot and I will show you a believer who is actually cool.
Or for fuck’s sake, this kind of meandering drivel is why nobody reads his shit. It isn’t that he has bad ideas, or that he wrote fan-fiction, or that he smells so bad that his stink remains attached to word documents, it’s that he….
Mark my words, gentle reader, this is probably going to be 13K words of him yelling at people who couldn’t give a shit less about him.
Which is really gonna make it hard to milk this lolcow.
“You shall never write a dark tale again,” he said.
WHO SAID? Who the fuck said this?
Great, we get 13K words of Pacione talking to himself. Maybe I’ll go back and critique his old works instead, at least those were funny.
“I will always have an idea wandering around in me and will draw dark subject matter from it. As my former classmate called me and Edgar Allan Poe on word, fools,” I responded.
Great, now the fat fuck is talking to himself.
I shall be this zealot’s guide into Stygian as the realities I stare at are like Christ going right into the bowels of hell himself, what nightmares breathe and what nightmares dwell – I am the voice of these things and the voice of those who can no longer speak because they were forced to die by their own hand because of something the crimes the wretched bitch known as The Mom had never been tried for and thrown out.
Ok, now he have him claiming… something?
Oh, and throwing the MySpace Mom in there so he can profit or gain recognition about something that happened that he had nothing to do with.
Christ, this is the reason people dislike him so much.
Well, that and his cyberstalking. His calling people IRL, his threats, his cowardly way he attacks people, and that he stinks, he’s ugly, he’s greasy.
Madness shall be thy guide – how this man speaks in King James English; spouting scripture every other word that comes out. Sheep in wolves clothing and hiding behind a painted smiling face – someone who called me evil because I’ve been designed to be a Stygian dealer, the horrors of the surreal and phantasmagorical
I’m sorry, every time I hear Phantasmagorical I think of….

Except he wishes he was as cool as Troy McClure.
…sigh… I gotta review this shit? Why again?
Oh, yeah, because I keep touching myself. Dammit.
What might be the pure and lovely to some – is downright hideous and dismal to another,
For Pacione that would be: Shampoo, clean laundry, clean sheets, clean blankets, shaving, personal hygiene, warm water, showering.

All of those will make him flee like Dracula from a hooker covered in crosses, garlic, and a Twilight T-shirt.
in other words something with pink curtains and covered in pastel is heaven for someone who Luke might bleach their lawn being he read Poe on audio. I want to do that to any zealot who shoves that asshole who died in 2000 still preaching 14 years later on; he’s already twanging his fucking harp – and that is not the same way I see God at all, and he’s the same God this zealot believes but it is just a fucking religion to him. Staring reality in the eyes scares the shit out of him because it is like a children who will always be afraid of the dark – some who believe in God never outgrew their fear of the dark in some ways, that fear they pray that it passes that something is always drawing near like a still beating hideous heart under the floorboards. Monsters they seek and they summon, a monster they shall become – the abyss staring at them back when they look in the mirror.
Sorry, did he say something? I fell asleep.
“You want to say I will never write a dark tale again, sit in the diner with me in Carol Stream, Illinois, and I will show you a Stygian world that mirrors reality – the real world I am not sullied by and you try to mold people into a Sunday School lesson,” I say as I sip my coffee and take a bite of my steak.
I know I fell asleep, but how did we get to this diner? Why are we here?
Wait, is Pacione trying to bum a meal off me. Goddamn it!
I don’t believe in fairy tales, but at the same time I was the Brothers Grim with reality. Welcome to my nightmare you zealot and do I really scare you yet – horror breathes, horror grows from the depths and shadows of anywhere and everywhere. It can be in the neighborhood or my old street in Glendale Heights as horror did happen there when I was 16, you want to say that Christ can deliver me from this madness – well this madness is the cross I shall bare as I had battled a stigma since I was 22 years old and the mental graffiti that lingered from this.
Is there a story in here somewhere?
He says to spread the gospel in every nation right, but what about the ones this zealot would ostracize – these ones they ostracize are my children and my children’s children. The world is black and stygian – where Utopia had long been molested by corruption and an industry is a damn cesspool so I will show a world where a faith is born out of a light forged from one’s own fears and demons – casting their own shadows, casting the horrors born of time and scars of time don’t heal as Christ does heal. My friend, The Christian Woman, had opened her eyes to see a faith that’s more realistic than the world the Pastor’s Spouse or the zealot with the painted smiling face had seen – as the blackened shadows from the sky shall reveal what God had gave me among the den of fools. When it is born among the fellowship of those like me, the Stygian dealers yet showing the world that Light cast shadow – realities and subject matter that the mainstream are scared shitless of, the church has a lot more to worry about than Slayer. Carl Jung calls these narratives our shadows, our dark side as everyone has these – even when one has a sincere faith, and Believers have a dark side.
The ideas this zealot and the Pastor’s Spouse have of a church – it is like Willow wrote being that a church as a mausoleum. I will not fit your “mold” or someone else’s fucking clone – I believe yes, but not the same as I was 18 or 19 years of age. I see things where people are afraid to go – what they fear, is something I am not afraid of and that is what H.P. Lovecraft feared and that is the fear of the unknown. When they wander alone in the madness, waiting in the dark with the barrel of a loaded gun – do they either call upon God or say fuck the world, decorating the wall with their brain matter in the process after giving oral pleasure to the barrel of the pistol before pulling the trigger. This new decade – the rules of the game had changed, people who are coming to God have long hair and tattoos now and are reading works by Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft – as I am the curator of The Library of Unknown Horrors and the ringmaster of Tabloid Purposes. They called me many names like they did with Lucifer himself, an archaic entity born out of a Gnostic heresy who had read those Gospels -- yet at the end of the days I am praying upon my knees to He Above, the zealot might had seen a black snake of rebellion in me but what I do is not a rebellion nor conformity, but a corrosion of conformity.
OK, about the only thing notable in this is his claim that he prays.
Prey is more like it. Constantly looking for underage girls to pose in bondage gear and change in his filthy bondage sleepsack he bought used off of eBay.
Think about that. He bought a USED bondage sleepsack off of eBay. I mean, I don’t mind bondage, hell, it can even be fun, but for FUCK’S SAKE, don’t buy used shit with someone else’s jizz all over it.
Cheap motherfucker. No wonder he was bumming food off me up there.
“I rebuke you in the name of Christ – get behind me o den of devils,” he claims as I make these dark, surreal and macabre revelations that that are seen from the eyes who had seen a Miss Linda or world where people hasn’t quite crossed over to the other side as a Christian college and a haven for the New Age are right in the middle of each other.
What the shit does this all mean?
And a book I read revealed that a very blasphemous kind of Satanist also lived there too – who said the greatest way a Christian to serve God is to become an altar of a Black Mass, a fucked up way to go especially when they deny killing infants and sacrificing virgins on SJR. This zealot and the Pastor’s Spouse had just put us back in the new Dark Age being reborn where superstition had hidden science – where medicine had been thrown away; praying for the black plague to once return for blasphemers of the Holy Ghost to take their lives as they are praying for death to breathe new life. Your fucking stigmas had put us back in the dark ages once again – where you claim that I need to turn my life over to God, I already know Him pal and he’s coming back to reach out to the freaks and the geeks, and the sideshow oddities that were cast aside and thrown away.
Holy shit, the amount of sheer stupidity in all of this is just mind-boggling.
I don’t even know how to answer any of this stupid shit. Instead I’ll just fall back on the old standby: Fuck you, Pacione, you suck.
As I am part of the island of misfit toys; where I was cast aside and thrown away –
Actually, you kind of checked out. You became a disgusting slobbery troll and society wants nothing to do with you. You aren’t part of the Island of Misfit Toys (notice correct usage), because that would assume that you were cool.
No, you are standing in the Garbage Pile of Self Inflicted Stupidity.
a pariah by my peers and classmates who said I had the wrong friends and listened to wrong music claiming I am too old to listen to heavy metal music.
Wait, is he saying that people are telling him he’s too old to listen to heavy metal?
Bitch, I’m older than you are, and nobody has told me that line of shit.
What actually happened is you tried to use a heavy metal fan page on Facebook as a place to spew your bile and hatred and pimp your ‘writing’ and got told to Get the Fuck Out.
It had nothing to do with age, and everything to do with you being a disgusting pervert who some people claim steals his sister’s panties and jerks off into them.
I am of the Island of Lost Souls where people played God with my health, pumping medications in me and a bitch saying I needed decades of therapy.
OK, he NEEDS those medications.
A little public service announcement: Do NOT drink alcohol on high doses of Seroquel. It causes micro-strokes. Going on and off Seroquel will cause kinesthesia and other problems.
And Peaches, you DO need decades of therapy.
Where some say I need to give up as a publisher and give up as a writer, a Stygian Dealer,
Two things…
He absolutely does. I mean, he no longer writes fiction, instead he spends his time writing shit like this. All it is is a bunch of masturbatory bullshit where he tries to justify all his bullshit. He can’t get submissions bcause of his predatory stupidity, so he steals public domain works and reprints them without any changes.
As for Stygian Dealer, once again, he has no idea what that actually was, so he thinks that Stygian just means darkness and blackness (which it basically does) instead of what I’d originally used it for.
How do I know he took it from me? He emailed me crowing about how he was going to steal my (out of print) title so that any time someone googles it they get his drivel.
No, I’m not worried. One, it’s out of print. Two, well, it’s a different genre. Three, I’m not really threatened by anything a balding basement dwelling child predator fat fuck threatens me with.
my advice to the zealot and my momma told me this – expand your horizons and take the fucking blinders off your face my life is not your fucking toy you can break an throw away here, as some are saying I am taking a creative license with God’s Word – well He called us to co-create with him and not a bystander.
Oh shut the fuck up.
You see me as I am sitting in this diner with my thoughts wandering in my head, as you might see me when I just turned 20 years old and studying Philosophy in college;
Because I have a time machine that will take me to timelines other than my own? He went to college for less than a year, flunked out, and got an F in his philosophy course.
If I had a time machine, I sure as shit wouldn’t use it to go see him.
I might use it to punch his mother in the stomach.
walking in the diner
And promptly chasing out the paying customers by bugging everyone for change so he can buy something to eat.
after the Pastor’s Spouse’s bedtime
Where she’s probably getting well-fucked and he’s just jealous.
and I am guessing the zealot goes to bed at 7 PM too and his church is in the country –
He’s really obsessed with other people’s bedtimes, isn’t he? Plus, what kind of insult is this?
This is the kind of crap you’d be embarrassed to say in 5th grade.
I don’t exactly see the country church signing Amazing Grace,
Signing it? Is it the church for the deaf? Or are they printing up the sheet music and signing it for people?
as I sometimes hear an industrial metal act singing this as one did during the wake of September 11, 2001,
Ugh, and he tries to get cred off of using a tragedy in his works.
this is the heart of the new decade – the nexus of the new century but the mind of someone who was the still beating hideous heart of the decade of despair. Salvation you offer man, but self-damnation you give – meaning you are the dark soul in the heart scaring someone in the hands of a loving God.
“Nick, if you were to die where you would wake up? What exactly would you sincerely say standing before God as he asked – why should I let you in Paradise?” the zealot asked.
Ugh. I can’t even follow this shit.
“What kind of question you would ask trying to sound clever and thought provoking?” I respond with a question of my own as I gulp down my coffee and look in the journals. He really doesn’t realize what kind of gruesome cargo and mental graffiti I carried in the depths of my mind – and the depths of his soul as he looked in abject terror as I presented my own question as some questions are true and answers are false and what he may not want to see, he will see.
Oh fucking please. Every single thing Pacione has written wouldn’t scare my bunny slippers or dust bunnies under the bed.
“What are you writing in that composition book and may I see it?”
Asked nobody ever.
he responds. I hand him over my composition book and looked in his own dismay that I have written my own haunted palace.
Sickness and faith had became of me
Death had seen my reality and friends had gone
Madness sings a subtle sad song -- blind had see
Horror of the soul shall become the scars of me
The zealot, I shall call him Isaiah Brendan here – looked at what I scrawled in the pages of this journal and gave me a dirty look. He had short cropped hair and wore a blue suit much like the zealots like Johnny Miracle crying on the television screen and responded like the woman at Faith World Outreach when she read some of my scribbling in the pages or the composition book.
“Something that evil should never be written,” Isaiah claimed as he was pulling out his King James Bible pulling out John 3:16 – saying God love the world he gave his only son, well it the King James doesn’t fit all here. Evil to him – to me it is pure and lovely, art in my eyes as it is a horror to others as it is the words spoken by cemetery poets and madmen.
Anyone who quotes John 3:16 I automatically assume doesn’t actually own a Bible.
“What you never read The Mask of Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe? Reading a little Poe is good for the soul man – it is not going to hurt you as you seen things from a midnight dreary; even Poe wrote about Italians. And wrote about Quacks in his day, reading William Hope Hodgson or H.P. Lovecraft is not going to hurt you either – time to seek the things outside of the pews and see where the map ends,” I smiled with a very dark look in my eyes. If he knew what God had done – on Poe’s death anniversary, seeing something I penned and compiled joining the worlds of literary immortality as these tomes I edited, museums in print God used to have a hell of story to tell.
Sorry, I fell asleep, did I miss something?
“Literature outside of The Bible will not reach these reading eyes,” he said shielding himself with his Holy Book.
OK, let’s be honest. This has never been said by anyone outside of a living caricature or a strawman. Yet Pacione goes on and on about someone who was probably trolling him in real life. Nobody says shit like this. No-fucking-body.
With his eyes he stared at me like I was drawing pictures of a catacombs or seen dreams within old churchyards and Gothic cathedrals as they would be in the streets of London or the dark and grimy landscape that was Baltimore, Maryland.
Has he ever been to Baltimore?
So dark. So grimy.
“What have you done that brought people to Christ?” he responded, sort of echoing the things that the pastor’s spouse had pulled out on me – therefore calling Edgar Allan Poe and I, fools, on his 205th birthday. As she is an ignoramus; ignorance is the poison cast upon eyes of authors – and philosophers as well. God I experienced wasn’t in the pews in the church – but he was no different from a church than either a haunted nightclub or outside the street of Christ Hospital when a Good Samaritan had given me the shoes upon his feet – I will ask in Oak Lawn, Illinois, at the age of 30 who does this?
Anyone who’s a decent person, you goddamn mouth breathing troglodyte.
It’s called charity, and people do it all the time, Pacione. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re mystified by basic human decency.
I will not take Scripture and pound it over someone’s head like he would, as I sat there with my coffee – looking out to the darkness of this February night, as it was the anniversary of when I got stabbed.
Stabbed? AHAHAHAHAA! Stabbed?
He scratched the back of his neck with a ballpoint pen and tried to claim some teenagers did it. He also had an ambulance carry him away because he managed to draw blood.
“Let me say something here if you haven’t read Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. When you look and see demons around every bush as well – you see someone who writes dark and ebony imaginations as the feathered bird Edgar Allan Poe had penned when it Quoth it’s words nevermore,” I replied.
“Who wrote that you quoted?” as he looked on with a sense of horror – a trembling fear was growing in his eyes as I revealed a really cryptic quote.
Oh fuck you, Pacione. NONE of that is cryptic. Everyone has heard that shit to death. You have to learn that shit in 7th grade, and I was a backwoods hillbilly.
“Friedrich Nietzsche – the philosopher who some claimed was insane for saying God is dead,” I replied, “I do read actual literature outside of the Holy Bible as we have the God Above we both adore – The Raven was a poem I read when I was fourteen years old, and this was a week before I became a writer. Exactly one week before my writing period began.”

I suddenly hate Edgar Allen Poe.
“Heretic, dark dealer – merchant of evil in my eyes; I bind you Satan in Jesus name. I pray that you never write this rubbish anymore as it is that of work being of the babbling pagans and hypocrites,” he responded in a tone that sounded like either Benny Hinn or Kenneth E. Hagin as his body is rotted in the coffin as his soul is in Paradise in his eyes of twanging harps and everyone looks like a pussy. He may not realize I can sound like someone from either TBN or TV38 (back before they became TLN,) but he makes Christians look like nimrods and assholes – it’s okay to read books and watch movies, I invite Isaiah Brendan to actually watch a movie with me at Icon Pictures in Chicago and the movie I want him to see with me is What Dreams May Come as written by author Richard Matheson before he died.
Oh for fuck’s sake. Right in the middle of this imaginary conversation he wants to invite people to the movies and shit like he’s trying to arrange a date.
“I am not a hypocrite and introduced Christian heavy metal performers to actual literature,
He’s full of shit. He’s never done jack or shit like that. I’m sure next he’ll tell us all about how he trained Navy SEALS not to eat books. Which is impossible. Nobody can teach a snake eater not to eat a book.
where I learned they are actually cool and talk literature with them as I can also speak of my faith man. Maybe you can learn from us; the wicked generation,”
Why does it sound like he’s about to proposition this guy for some gay sex in the bathroom.
I smiled with a darker look in my eyes – a look warm but at the same time frightening, the eyes of a Stygian Dealer.
Seriously, are they going to kiss?
He may not like the fact I pulled out Iron Maiden’s Murders of the Rue Morgue with a copy of the short story it was based upon – the horror in his eyes of someone who was more informed, someone going into a faith in God who has a dangerous mind. He may have been seeing me as I might have blasphemous glare in my eyes – almost if I revealed the bowels of hell and the Hounds of Tindalos with my knowledge of Gothic Literature.
“I bind you in Jesus name,” he screamed
As Pacione took all of his hard cock up his greasy ass.
as I revealed what I said as everything revealed in the night are the nightmare in his realization that he was dealing with an author who was much more updated with Edgar Allan Poe traits and H.P. Lovecraft’s fears had been conquered for him addressing Robert Cormeir’s subject matter – giving what he wrote some more venom. He is afraid of wandering in places filled with crimson velvet and walls of pale grey as the living room of the house has a painting of the late Richard Burton Matheson as this old dark house was on Bloomingdale Road in Glendale Heights, Illinois, and D. Justin Mowrer might fear looking at this oval portrait as some drawings have the Hounds of Tindalos. These dark perverse revelations actually seen upon the walls --- the dark visions he vehemently protested as such scarlet horror seen in the eyes of someone an aging 30something who outlived Robert E. Howard and growing close to the age of an author who died at the age of 38 from Chicago, Illinois, as well actually coming up with vague and archaic visions.
Sorry, did I miss the gay sex? I went in to the kitchen to make a hot pocket.
“I am what yet to come,” I actually replied realizing the nightmare I had when I was 20 years old was one seeing me as I wrote The Cabbie Homicide. As I had been looking upon the old photographs and the oil painting of S. L. Wickham captured this particularly frightening nightmare to life. Someone who had been called a hybrid with the horrific realities drawn from my mind – wandering and breathing in the pages of a bleak December like Edgar Allan Poe when he wrote The Raven, and in the November of 2009 where a friend had succumbed to a disease that has no cure but the cure being that of death when it is too late. The nightmares seen among his eyes – the demons I took on as my own, not the supernatural demons in the pages of The Bible as they are legion and many but facing the blasphemous demon known as Stigma – shame, and being cast aside like the island of Misfit toys by those who believe in the Church as it has the fucking pragmatic legalism.
Isaiah Brendan looking on in abject horror – knowing he would call me wretched and the bastard born from the whore of Babylon, that I wasn’t the tempest enchanted by the words spoken by Edgar Allan Poe when he said quoth the raven nevermore as he recites that the man here. I address have a God in common we both adore – even the Maven bows before the Prince of Peace but the place of worship has a hard time taking someone as me as I became with a faith that takes on The Werewolf Order addressing his “God” – the Temple of Set a “pussy.”
“Children are always afraid of the dark, and zealots never outgrew their fear of the dark or explain the unexplained away. Well man, the paranormal is just common dinner conversation in the Pacione household,”
oh for fuck’s sake.
He calls himself “The Maven” like he’s some 3rd rate supervillain that couldn’t take Superfriends era Aquaman in fight. Hell, The Maven would probably lose a fight against Gleek.
I laughed; almost taking on traits of Vincent Price when he was playing in The Last Man On Earth when he called the vampires in the climax – freaks, mutations.
Showing that he missed the whole point of the goddamn movie.
“You’re a lunatic,” he screamed.
“Lunatic? No – just someone who is a well rounded reader who got his tastes of literature from the music he loves,” I replied casually and looked at him with a look that scared the photographer when I was 17 years of age. He looked at me like way I mentioned Tabloid Purposes IV to D. Justin Mowrer – that I am the embodiment of the many faces of the fear the unknown, as I am the tabloids become flesh sort of like how Rod produced and created The Twilight Zone in the 1950s addressing issues as Racism, Hypocrisy. Bullying and mental illness if the issue is right – as the lines of good and evil are now blurred where evil can look like a Soccer mom or a pastor’s spouse unleashing a heresy without knowing they did.
“Afraid to stare reality right in the eyes – see it as we’re part of the real world, as strong language exists in real world. We’re not a G-rated Society anymore pal, the rules had changed,” I added.
…sigh… He has no idea…
“You….are an entity of sin…” he screamed.
Well, he’s right. According to what people close to him have revealed: He tries to lure underage models into doing unsupervised shoots in graveyards in bondage gear on their own dime, he used to peek in on his sister showering and steal her panties, and lots more disgusting things.
“An entity of sin you claim? Sorry – I am a Christian saved by grace, but just someone who doesn’t sugar coat it and will swear at a pastor’s wife because she is a fucking fake saint shoving zealots down my gullet. You show me a zealot I will reveal one who is actually cool – I guess you are not ready for that yet,” I smiled.
He’s just showing himself to be a smarmy asshole.
“These things I have written unto you that believe on the name of Son of God; that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God,” he started shouting at me when I mentioned that. “You are spouting 1 John 5:13 – yes I can do that to, but I am not going to stoop to your level. That would be the King James Version of this; but I am not showing outright hatred for the world though existing in it and finding common ground where I can actually open the dialog,” I replied. “Demon,” he responded. “Was Poe or Lovecraft evil in their day? Poe – I think he was writing in some aspects about his life, H.P. Lovecraft was a fiction writer who had a weird Parthenon – creating horrors that rose from the clay and sea when he created the entity called Cthulhu. Sit down and read a story like Call of the Cthulhu and you might learn something --- expand your horizons and you might like something new and shiny,” I smiled as I casually gulped my coffee in that Carol Stream Diner.
How does someone “casually gulped my coffee” in a fucking diner? That would be something like casually sip or casually drink, not what he’s fucking talking about.
No wonder Clippy killed himself. This stuff is robbing my will to live.
“You’re evil! I live to crush evil and darkness – you shall not produce any more books and succeed with them either,” he responds.
“You are wishing the fate Lovecraft and Poe both suffered and didn’t deserve for what they’ve done – both were gentle souls in their time, but me; someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley when I was either nineteen or when I was 28 because they are both me. The author who deserves that fate is the one who calls a disabled person a ‘retard’ or degrades the mentally ill by saying they need decades of therapy. I didn’t have the breaks as a writer others have man – look where I fucking lived, Crossway Books was in my backyard and writing Gothic Horror – you have to sometimes create your own,” I said calmly but looking at him with a darker look in my eyes – sort of how I look at Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on my door when I was 20 years old as I would darkly call them murderers or seeing them as Children of the Damned all grown up.
“Lovecraft didn’t do it for God so he deserved his fate,” he replied.
“Have you even read a Lovecraft story?” I asked growing pissed at what he said of HPL.
“I only read the Word of God,” he shuddered,
“Christians are reading Lovecraft too man – they might understand why he was critical of religion of his day and might had blasted Republicans in his day. But how would he feel if a Republican got him in a public high school to be read for future generations because of project I developed for a story I wrote and got published in England,” I replied in an even more casual tone and smiling.
This man is evil, Isaiah Brendan thought.
“Like H.P. Lovecraft I explore the fear of the unknown and I play with real places like Richard Matheson – real haunted places are my favorite places to create terror with fiction. Then writing a short story where I have a UFO flying over Moody Bible Institute – I was just being funny, the things within the tabloids are sort of my inspirations and the seeds for genre fiction,” I chuckled.
“That is not of God,” he screams.
“I am not a preacher and on the pulpit – I am an entertainer and my courtroom when I address people who lie to me and accuse me of stealing is the court of public opinion, and it was H.P. Lovecraft who wrote – ‘If religion were true, its followers would not try to bludgeon their young into an artificial conformity; but would merely insist on their unbending quest for truth, irrespective of artificial backgrounds or practical consequences.’ Well he was talking to the outsiders and outcasts writing that – I gravitated to HPL because he was treated like a pariah as a child,” I replied, “Going to that Glen Ellyn, Illinois, bookstore when I was 20 – finding Lovecraft changed my life and we wouldn’t have this conversation now would we?”
“I rebuke you Satan,” Isaiah Brendan screamed growing frightened by what I revealed to him.
I actually calmly recited this from my blank book – and the horrors grew in his eyes when I reveal my personal haunted palace. That it was almost two years I first took that pilgrimage to Richmond, Virginia, seeing my projects as an author join the first project in the library in Richmond.
Lunatics and madness become the faith when it falls
When one preaches in the daylight and the choir
Prayers spoken upon the lost fell upon the deafened ears
Horror seen in hypocrisy and illness unseen, speaking to walls
Damnation and redemption die within the suicide of years...

As Melody Graves wrote in her story The Looking Glass, voice is the voice of praise and the sound of blasphemy – it enables us to speak and the word processor enables us to compose things a little faster than in the day of Poe or Lovecraft, the age of the weblog and yellow journalism lack journalist responsibility. Where some will not engage someone on an intellectual level – as this zealot is seen here bringing us back to a time of an age of superstition – as what Isaiah Jeffery Brendan would call someone like me, one where he had called me a merchant of evil as an author aka a dark dealer. I just challenge him to see the world through my eyes and turn the camera upon himself, as this is the point of view that God has seen us – I’ve shaken off the dust of years in realities some don’t want to see when someone ostracized the freaks and deviants in the world, yeah someone like this I would personally bleach their lawn.
“Isaiah let me ask this question – would you evangelize at gunpoint? Pointing a loaded gun at their head forcing them to receive Christ; I am not going to pull the Pascal’s wager shit either if I am going to speak about God here – just be creative and let it come out through my characters,” I responded.
“You know about the Pascal’s wager?” Isaiah asked.
Holy shit, I fell asleep again.
“All too well and refuse to pull that shit on someone either – I just don’t want to be a Christian that is an asshole about it,” I responded basically saying in a term that is not Christianese. I guess I disturbed his comfort zone a little bit here as he is having well I am guessing he is in his 60s when he said I would never write a horror story again – well getting in his head, became his horror tale I wrote just for him making it every line a nightmare where he shall sleep with one eye open. I am not driven by vane deceit as the one pastor’s wife suggested when I told her I was going to study Philosophy at College of DuPage, but my nightmares from Iowa had made themselves manifest when I was getting ready to go to Ontario and before I appeared on the radio in Joliet, Illinois.
Once again, he failed the one philosophy course he took.
And ‘vane deceit” makes me think of weirder things.
Holy shit is he goddamn stupid.
I sipped my coffee and looked at some of my manuscripts thinking about that fucking fake saint who was the ex-youth pastor had said in Mason City --- what the Pastor’s spouse and this zealot pulled opened old wounds from that boogeyman. I kept being haunted by that asshole’s blank pages comment and the horror that unfolded on February 10, 1999, as it was after the events I wrote Mental Graffiti in August that year before returning to Glendale Heights, Illinois, aka my version of Stephen King’s Castle Rock, Maine – a densely populated Castle Rock, picture Castle Rock Maine, with nearly 30,000 people and you will have my hometown from my teenage years and my boyhood home of Roselle, Illinois. I tell this as I am revisiting Carol Stream, Illinois, as I did during the events of A Late Night Appointment. This zealot, Isaiah Brendan, I kept having memories of that motherfucker from Iowa – so I was showing great restraint from not socking him.
“So I am not blowing up at you and you’re going to pull out that dead Kenneth E. Hagin shit on me – as he might be on still preaching in the video archives, someone like that is dead as in he went playing his harps in heaven. Leave his rotted cadaver in the ground as he is like a flowering cadaver when you have those fucking videos up after he’s gone – true my ex-classmate pulled these out, and saying I need to take a plunge in a baptismal pool. There’s nothing memorable about that if you’re going to be baptized – look at what Head did when he got baptized, he went to Israel,” I replied.
“It’s shameful for men to have long hair and tattoos,” he claims.
OK, let’s just cut this shit here.
There is literally nothing in this ‘story’ that justifies it as a story.
He’s just sitting in a diner, arguing with a strawman.

There’s no conflict, there’s no drama, and all he does is namedrop better writers and quote better writers like it makes him an author.
This is not a story in any sense of the word. You can’t even say it’s just a bunch of stuff that happens, because nothing happens.
It’s 10K words of jack and shit.
There’s no reason to buy this. No reason to read this.
And frankly, it just deserves ignored, which is why I’m not going to justify it by doing an entire critique, or a critique at all.
Some fiction exists merely to be fun, merely to amuse. Other fiction seeks to educate. Other fiction seeks to address problems in society or address conflict.
This does none of that. All it does is… showcase a idealized version of Pacione (usually referring to being in his 20’s instead of a 40 year old fat failure) arguing with a strawman. The worst part is, he controls the narrative, and still comes off looking like the tool.
It’s 10K words of him arguing with a strawman, ranting at imaginary enemies, namedropping shit from the Breakfast Club to Call of Cthullu to The Last Man on Earth.
He states that people call him “The Stygian Dealer”, “The Maven”, “The Human Cthullu”, and all kinds of stupid shit.
And he tries to come across as the tough guy.
And like everything else he does, he fails at it.
So, I’m going to go drink a bottle of Jack Daniels.

A Little Bit Of Data

Now, some of you may wonder why I am mainly concentrating on the old works of Nicky "Spackleback" Pacione instead of his more recent works. It is not because I don't have access to them, I do. Sadly enough, Mr. Pacione probably made enough money from me in order to buy himself a couple bars of soap and shampoo, but he probably instead spent it on sleepsack bondage porn.

The reason is fairly simple: He has stopped writing stories, and instead has been concentrating on writing long-winded screeds against his perceived enemies as well as namedropping more famous works and people. Sometimes to compare himself and his previous works to them, other times in order to denigrate them, or other time to make serious claims of abuse about those people.

Additionally the screeds he prints are largely people to imagine themselves talking to an idealized version of him at some random point in time and some random place, as well as conversations with straw-men entirely in his head.

I showed in Dark Dealer that it is very hard to critique, must less a comedy critique, a work where the author spends all the time rambling on about disconnected crap with no plot, no characterization beyond caricatures or straw-men, no conflict. Even the conversations are boring and trite enough where the reader ends up sympathizing with the supposed bad-guy and honestly wishing that the narrator would get hit in the face with an ash-tray or something.

To be honest, the screeds are boring. I'd end up saying the same things over and over, since all Pacione does is make up imaginary enemies and have imaginary conversations where he challenges random people to meet him in a diner to buy him lunch and listen to him babble on like a politician with a cratered head-wound.

So I'll be doing more and more of his old works until he at least puts out an honest to God piece of fiction instead of a fantasy where he 'pwns' all his perceived enemies somehow.

Unless they are under 5K words, then I might give it a whirl.

Review of A Whining Hunchback

Welcome back to Warlord Ralts Reviews Spackleback the Hunchback
Providing you've recovered from the microstrokes induced by reading the horrid GAME OVER by one Nickolaus A. Pacione, you've probably come here for the same reason people hit themselves in the head with a hammer. Because it feels good when you stop.

Today we will be reviewing I Want to See You In Black which I found online on a rather crappy internet site that looked like it had been done by a blind man pounding on the keyboard with his cane.

To preface, Nicky wrote this story after a classmate of his was killed in High School. Did he write this story because he was close to the guy? Did he write it because he wanted people to know about the tragedy of the death?


He wrote it to make his reputation better and to try to prove what a good non-fiction horror writer he is. He did it for no better reason that to toot his own horn.

Now, I'm not going to critique and review this with a complete eye for grammar, since, to be honest, I completely suck at grammar. That's why I have editors. I'm going to review this with an eye toward just how goddamn retarded Sparkle Pony's works are.

So, with that, let us examine Pacione's great early work "I Want to See You In Black" with an eye toward comedy.

The detail was vague

And here we fucking go...

but at the same time it was similar to the old horror films that are set at old dark houses.

Hopefully we'll find out what kind of horror film. But probably not. He probably just used this to try to set the tone. And failed horribly.

I kept having a premonition about the idea that some of the classmates won't survive after their graduation,

So... wait. He had a premonition of an idea, or his idea was a premonition? And seriously, that some won't survive after their graduation? No fucking shit. That's like looking at the babies in the maternity ward and saying: "Some won't survive after being born." Thank you Nost-tro-fucking-dom-mas.

I didn't know what that meant

This puts Sparkle Pony's stupidity right out there. How the FUCK can you not know what it means when you have the idea that some classmates won't survive after graduation? How goddamn stupid do you have to be to not understand that?

but when I was walking around in that building, I saw a casket placed an alter.

An alter what? An alter-ego? It's placed on an alternative what? Oh, wait, he means "
", even though that... well... fuck it.

It's just wrong.

In that casket was a kid wearing an I.O.U. sweatshirt and his skull crushed in,

So this kid is in the casket with a huge dent in his head so it looks like a deflated soccer ball? What? And wearing an I.O.U. shirt? I don't know about you, but at all the many funerals I have had to attend over the years the people were wearing their best clothing, and the family usually had the mortician to make them look decent.

This right here tells me that ol' Sticky Back Nicky didn't even go to the funeral. That he's just making this shit up as he goes along.

blood was all drained out of his body but in a way one can see the breathing coming into the cold air.

So the blood was drained out in a way that the person is still breathing? So he's a kind of vampire?

More proof that he didn't even go. He's never even seen a fucking dead body, or even looked at pictures of them.

Seriously, read that. What he's clumsily and stupidly reaching for is "the emblamer and mortician had done a wonderful job, making it so that my friend looked as if they were just sleeping, as if I should have been able to see the faint plume of their breath in the icy air of the funeral home." But instead we get the equivalent of a cratered head wound.

Much as how a few described how he looked before they pulled the plug.

So are we going to get a description? Of course not, this is a Sparkle Pony story. In other words, even though this is his friend, he never went and saw them in the hospital.

I've seen a note placed upon his coffin, and it read -- "Don't let them pull the plug! I have my life ahead of me and I don't want to die!"

A little fucking late. He might want to have put the note in his pocket, or maybe on the life support equipment. This is just typical Pacione bullshit.
All the former classmates from when I was at Marquardt were there; everyone clad in black and wearing something close what was in The Cure videos.

I love how he tries to make it sound heavy metal, when it's actually just funeral dress. "Something close to The Cure videos, hurrrrr..." not "Everyone clad in black and wearing their Sunday best." Why not? Because Nicky "Uber-Christian" Pacione doesn't understand what the shit he talks about and has no comprehension of "Sunday best", instead choosing to think that wearing semen and food spattered clothing on his unwashed body when he crawls out of granny's basement is perfectly fine to go to any event.

You know he showed up at this guy's funeral smelling like a bag of hooker assholes smeared with sour cream and left in the sun.

I imagined it much as what they see in Tim Burton's movies.

So right about here the corpse should jump up and start dancing while singing a snappy song?

It's a funeral, not something terrifying. Hell, The Last American Virgin is scarier than a funeral.

One of them was toting a bible under her arm, and preaching to the others about the salvation from spiritual death.

Yeah, people do that at funerals. But to Sparkle Pony, it's terrifying. The comfort that people find in the Bible, and the comfort they find in the thought that their loved one did suffer a spiritual death but rather still exists in Heaven is scary to Pacione because he doesn't understand basic human nature.
To him, everyone is just puppets that he can smear his own motives and opinions, without actual feelings or motives of their own. Because he can't comprehend how it feels to lose a loved one and how one can gather comfort from religion at such a time, he thinks everyone else is merely trying to gain some kind of advantage in the name of their God or their personal ego.
But one thing was different about the time when I was living in Iowa, and the time frame of this dream.

Please God let it be something interesting. Anything. A hobo screaming at a sprinkler. A car running over nuns. Something. Anything. Please. God.

The difference being that the dream it was echoing all that was going on during the time of December 8th, 1989.

Ummm... OK. I guess. Help? I'm scared?

It was too young for a thirteen year old to be thinking about things that dark or deep in nature but the conversation about one's own mortality never came into play, but everyone was looking at it because of the death of Brian Wallace.

What was to young? Or is this Nicky trying to explain that instead of everyone talking to him, they were paying attention to this Wallace dude?

He'd never had the conversation about death before, even though he was 13? His dog Fido had never died and he hadn't been held by his mother while he cried and she tried to assure him that it would all be all right?

Of course not, and because Spackle-Back had never encountered death or had the "death talk" from his parents by 13, he assumes that everyone else did not.

I remember the clippings about his demise all too well, it played a huge part in the nightmare when it wrote itself out in my sleep.

AH! So Sparkle Pony wrote this why sleeping! That explains the shitty writing.

And just the clippings? Only what the papers showed? When I was 12 and my friend died, I was told all the details, not only by my parents, and my friend's siblings, but by the school rumor mill and the school counselor.
The type of thing that would be the perfect set up for a Gothic novel during the age of Symbolism or Uncertainty;

A funeral? No. It wouldn't. Gothic novels contain a lot more elements, but to Cum Sticky-Nicky Gothic only means people dressed all in black.

just the way it was done haunted me for quite some time and there were different variations of the dream and they appeared at various stages when I got older.

So the kid dies, he goes to the funeral, and it gives him nightmares for years?
No wonder every time he tries to carry through with his stupid ass "horror target" threat the demises he writes for people he hates read like something written by a 12 year old. He has no idea of why things are scary, of what is actually scary, and instead just goes for "oh, you died, so now aren't you terrified and going to have nightmares?" and thinks he's completely emotionally and mentally terrified his "victims" with his shitty writing.

I would actually hear them taunting in the dream saying I was the cause of his death.

So now we get to where it is all about him. Oooh, scary. In the dream people taunt him! SPOOKY! I R SKARD!
They would taunt and say, "because of something you've said; the reason he's gone --- nothing can be done to be brought back."

::sigh:: So... um... scary? Boo?
As bleak or macabre as it appears, the dream was one of the most abstract within a shadow that was cast.

That isn't bleak or macabre, that's just normal survivor's guilt dreams.

One would say of this would appear rather blasphemous in parts,

What, that dream people teased you?

That's not blasphemous.

but it is exactly how I described it back then.

Because you didn't understand the English language?

Horrors from the fever induced dreams and sickness invoked sleep.

THAT'S his fever dreams?

Ooooh, fucking scary.

What a pussy.

In my last fever dream I played cards with Jason Vorhees and we drank shots of tequila that was dribbled into our shot glasses from the nipples of exotic looking dusky skinned women with delicately slanted brown eyes and long white hair. We sat on a shattered plate of white ice, seated on chairs of bleeding bone, our cards on a table carved of glass, while around us a thunderstorm raged and purple lightning crackled in the clouds.

Not scary, no, but still definitely a fever dream.

I was expecting something to awaken out of his grave saying,

"For the love of God, let me out!"

"You never went to my funeral! It's your fault that I'm gone. I am going to haunt you for the rest of your living days!"

So he didn't go to the funeral, despite his claims above.

Consistency in writing, thy name is Pacione.
Then in the dream I saw Ms. Jacobson walking up to the coffin with a Bible in hand.


I remember it in some detail because she was clad in a black dress similar to how she would dress criteria to how she did in 1994,

Ummm... in a Bulls jersey, pants around her ass, a pistol stuck in her belt, and Nike tennis shoes? How the fuck are we supposed to know how she was dressed based on the year? For all we know, she's wearing a black miniskirt and that's it, dancing around the funeral with her tits hanging out.

but instead of the denim blue she would be wearing everything in black.

Umm... scary?

I didn't tell her about the dream relating to this

Because that would involve actually talking to a living woman, and that makes Sparkle-Pony piss his Underoos.

but it came from that chilling revelation she made years later of me.

She made a revelation of him? Shouldn't that be too him? And what was the chilling revelation? That she stole the kid's penis and kept it in the freezer to jam up her ass while she shed blood for Bhaal by slashing the throats of hobos?

Horrors which lay as the eyes are seen for the gruesome cargo to bear;

Umm... what?

but even then it was a time when it was a thought that came to mind that was a question of death and life. In some shape or form, it was a shadow of what was to become or an understanding that could not be studied or explored during that time frame.

Why do I have the feeling the Pacione poorly copied this from some other work, completely misunderstanding what it meant, and he has no idea what the fuck he just said?

Go ahead, parse that? When you're done clawing out your fucking eyes, get a transplant and come on back, and we'll finish reading this with the eyes you got from the little boy in Idaho.
I remembered the details as they were told about the funeral who went to class the next day,

In other words, he dimly remembers what people who actually went to the funeral said.

the nightmares that are often the penning of them are when they say -- no son shall go before their father or mother.

So it's scary because only in nightmare scary lands do children die before the parents? Fuck, this just shows that Pacione is a closeted, basement dwelling, over-sheltered loser who has zero experience in the real world.

Guess what, Sparkle Pony, people die.

But I could just see them just looking at me in a way saying, "You don't belong here."

Here's why. Because they'd be talking and Pacione would slouchingly make his way over to them, the disgusting reek of unbathed body preceding him, his panting breath from the exertion of walking upright covering them in a foul odor of rotting food particles and horrible halitosis, and he'd invade people's personal space with his foul odor of unwashed ass, moldy clothing, rotting food, and old semen to try to listen in on the conversations they were having about the passing of a friend.

I don't know about you, but I'd give the foul hunchback the same look. Probably along with a "Get the fuck out of here, Pacione." and a healthy push.

It is in this that the memory of such paints a darker detail into the mind about the dream while Wallace stood there;

So now the dead guy is standing there in his dream?

even when everyone else was watching his body in the casket I was watching him as he was drawing his finger out -- slowly with him pointing at me. It was almost if I was the one who committed the deed.

So in his dreams, everyone else is looking at the body, but the guy's spirit is standing in front of him, and now he's scared?

So, this whole story is just about how he had a nightmare about a funeral he didn't go to and a person he barely fucking knew in passing?

Pacione, you suck as a human being.
"You've killed me Pacione!"

With your stench!
"How....... I want to know? "

I squealed, my grape sized scrotum tensing up against my shit smeared taint.
"You've killed me in the sense of the way you were or are!"

It gibbered, it's brains spilling out of its head from the horrific wound.

The nightmares that play out while I was in a fever induced sleep one can only tell what kind of madness it portrays or portrayed.

This just gets shittier.

From a rational mind, it would not always be explainable --

Let's try: Nicky knew a guy that went to his school in passing, guy gets killed, Pacione doesn't go to the funeral, eavesdrops on conversations to hear about it, gets sick from an infection after shoving a plunger handle up his ass while he masturbates, has a fever dream, then writes a poorly written account of the dream.


but from a mind that is sensitive

**cough** PUSSY! **cough**

to all things that gather from one side of madness as it is drawn from memory and nightmare. One way or another, it is a darkness that becomes a painted picture which portrays a macabre distortion -- another sense as it became or was, the idea of what haunts me about his death was that all the things that he was going to be; now are going to be never.

Blah blah blah.

"I'm a tremendous man-gina who gets scared easily."

I won't say into full detail about the actual funeral,

Because he didn't go.

but some would be able to speak of the details;

And Pacione would sneak up, surrounded by the smell of mold, unwashed ass, filthy body, and rotting meat, and listen to others speak of the details.

from what I was told a lot of people showed up from the school.

Which just shows us he didn't go, despite his claims.

Just that the old demise and the dreams as they stand; the gruesome cargo that follow from them -- waiting for the perspectives seen in a pattern of distortion.

Think about this: Just hearing about a funeral is enough to make Pacione piss his pants.

This, the guy who threatens to kick everyone's asses. The guy who claims to be "the most dangerous man in publishing", the guy who insists that everyone call him Nickolaus "Wrathchild" Pacione, pisses his pants at the mention of a funeral.

Yeah, you're obviously a tough guy, Pacione.

You probably shit yourself at the sight of sock puppets, don't you?
"He did this to me! The fucker did this to me!" he shrieked pointing the finger.

And now we're back to Nicky supposedly being at the funeral, or maybe dreaming about the funeral, or maybe this is just Nicky remembering how his stench once made someone's hair fall out when Pacione walked by. Who knows?

Who fucking cares?

I felt my heart shoot up my throat when his pale finger pointed at me with that I.O.U. sweatshirt and his Cavs;

Oooh, not CAV'S! EEEK!

the thought if this when one reads this now might not sound so chilling,

Nope, It sounds like the whining of a sheltered little man-child who lives in a basement.

but this is coming from a fourteen year old who was running a high fever.

Who was a 14 year old little sheltered pussy who would eventually end up living in a basement.

The madness within the dream painted a picture described as something only Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King would end up writing about in their works.

No. They write scary stuff.

This is just some man-gina whining about a nightmare.

Just as it would gather, a madness within a dream as the memory of someone dying being fresh within the mind.

Waaaah! I got scared!

Mortality was always a subject I wrote about for this reason because it played into one's dreams and nightmares.

Yet he has not true understanding about what is scary about mortality. Why? Because to him, other people aren't really real. They're just cardboard cutouts that either block him from what he wants, can be used to get what he wants, or can be given whatever motive Pacione assigns them. He doesn't really understand other people, because he's a selfish self-centered moron, and so he sees them all through the lens of his sheltered existence.

Which is one reason why his writing sucks.

Even the threatening emails he sends me where he threatens to burn my family alive in front of me aren't really frightening, because you know someone like Pacione would only hurt himself trying to make a Molotov cocktail.

Probably by seeing the curving nozzle of the gas pump nozzle, mistaking it for a cock, and jamming it up his own ass so that he fills his bowels with gasoline.

The gathering within the eye inside shadows.

The gathering within the eye of the fat fuck eavesdropping on people's conversations.

Things like this dream would invoke me not sleeping for days at a time,

Horseshit. Pacione doesn't have the mental discipline or the physical endurance to walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded.

namely when I would fall sick for some reason or another.

Let's see why:

Unwashed clothing.
Lack of personal hygiene
Pig-sty of a room

Oh, and desperate for attention.

That's why he "got sick", since this is the same man who once had everyone call an ambulance for him because he was sitting on the ground crying over an ice cream headache.

Hellish was the word to describe that dream as it was there,

Boring as fuck is actually the correct term. Hellish is something else.

the illness laden sleep or when I did sleep, that nightmare would on occasion found its way into my mind.

Years later, he still has nightmares about a funeral he didn't go to for a guy he only knew the name of.


A dwindling madness of a young teen with a mind of a now twenty-nine year old,

A clumsy was of saying "a young teen who has since grown into a 29 year old man."

sick---words to describe what was around back then.

Boring -- words to describe what was around back then.

Those damned dreams as they made themselves manifest within the eyes of a madness one was not able to find the words to document it.

Isn't he cute, trying to make his pussy-fied nightmare seem scary?

The dreams back then only played into the depths of the dreams that I have now.


From a funeral he didn't go to for a person he didn't know.
A rather unsettling thought as it is there now, but even then if a teacher was to read about this --- it would be a promised trip to the councilor's office to find out what was gathering in my head.

Not any "darkness" as he claims, but for the councilor to try to find out why he's such a tremendous pussy.

Not even the online journals I kept when I got older can really document the type of dreams I was having back then,

Why not? Afraid the servers that it would be posted on would melt down from electronic laughter?

even the ones now weren't as gruesome as the one were back then.

Anyone else want to punch him in the head right about now?

My dreams back then were rather Gothic or grotesque,

My dreams back then were full of hot women in black clothing who usually spit on me or sprayed mace in my eyes or full of the horrible image of showering or wearing clean clothing.

but hard to describe;

I just did.

I don't think I would be able to openly write about them back then as I do now.

Oh, wait, he's referring to the dreams of his awakening homosexuality.

Back then if they only knew what were in my nightmares;

They'd know that you were a closeted homosexual who needed some serious mental health to cope with the issue that you were a self-hating gay man.

as far as some of the councilor's knowledge they would find a way to help it instead of finding a way escort someone head first into the choices that lead to their demise or madness.

And here, dear reader, is where we read about how poor Mr. Pacione, having "suffered" from dreams of hot sweaty man-love, feels that the only choice he had was suicide or madness if he acknowledged just how much he desired hard cock in his ass or mouth while he furiously masturbated his micro-penis.

Someone in the dream the councilor sat in the darkness clad in all black,

In Pacione's belief, making the dream "Gawthik"

pointing her icy finger at me -- laughing. Saying, "You will never make it past your freshmen year!"

Well, if it wasn't for special education classes, he probably wouldn't. Hell, if it wasn't for the pity of the school faculty, he'd probably STILL be in High School, furrowing his greasy and acne covered brown in a vain attempt to understand basic hygiene in Health Class.
Eyes from madness gathered in one's dreams, struggling around in the darkness to find a way out.

Help, I've fallen asleep and I can't wake up!

Hell, if there was a way to describe this --

There is, but it requires a working knowledge of the English language.

it would come close to the place of gnashing of teeth,

A mouth?

especially if the face of the devil was the guidance councilor.

So, Satan tore off her face and wears it like a mask, as if he's Leatherface or something?

The type of things that the nightmares were triggered will always come up in some form of debate in one way or another.

"Tonight, on Nightline, Nickolaus Pacione, gigantic man-gina or weeping infected pussy? Our panelists will debate about the triggers that make him curl into a hysterical ball, like fluffy bunny slippers, cartoon rabbits, and thesauruses."

In some way or another; one can hear God laughing at them as they've gone mad!

Hearing God is kind of a definition of being batshit crazy. Yeah.

The dream as it stands, the councilor and the deceased both staring in a darkness so piercing within a silent room -- way it is being extremely cold; the kind of cold that can be felt when touching the flesh of the dead when paying their last respects. It becomes the thought within a tormented memory and symbolism of the last respects.

Is it just me, or does this just show how little Pacione knows? The dead aren't really that cold when they're laying there at the funeral or wake. A little cooler than room temperature, yeah, but not the space cold 0 Kelvin that Pacione alludes to.

All that was living was now dead, and finally gone --

Not all, but all the potential of the young man Pacione is using to try to make himself seem like a good writer is gone. Pacione, of course, wasted any potential to be a contributing member of society by squatting in his grandmother's basement and snacking on the treats he finds between his hairy ass cheeks.

only to them in memory they live within dream and nightmare. Just they found their way to appear in the dreams of the people they've bullied,

And here we go with Pacione's Greatest Hit: Everyone's Picking Me!

as one last time to make the lives of the living hell in their sleep.

Help! Granny! They're bullying me in my dreams because I'm too much of a pussy to even stand up to someone in my dreams!

Such an ideal swimming around within the head of teen at that age, innocence penned as it was already lost. Gathered in pieces of life and demise as it was, or what it is, from a memory that already passed away. Pieces told and lost after the ways of faith had taken their souls away; waited among the chapel they stood -- the councilor and the deceased with the fingers pointed in one solitary direction.

Wah wah wah!
It draws into the points of horror and insanity, depths with them becoming the nightmare as it is told from a fictional reality. Everything within the dream played itself into one detail and the next,

More crybaby shit.

and how I envisioned it was exactly how it was going to be especially when a tall, fat bully was getting engulfed by winter immune bees.

Wow. That's is revenge fantasy? That someone who "bullied him" (Probably by insisting that he needed a shower) would be attacked by "winter immune" bees?
The type of thing that would be the makings of a horror film;


Hell, it didn't seem that scary when I was chasing people around with bees in Bioshock. It actually made me laugh my ass off.

or a Gothic tale of its kind but one wasn't able to imagine especially for a person of my age at that time to come up with something that ornate.

He can't now either.

Usually the nightmares back then for someone my age was of themselves taking a test in their underwear or

Cliché alert!

everything on the test was a multiple choice question --- everything was one letter or a number.

Only Pacione would be scared by that. I'd be more scared of a 500 question test that I had 15 minutes to complete that only consisted of essay questions.

Multiple choice? Big fucking deal.

The idea that one finds their book they've been studying had a face pulling out of their pages literary.

Best. Typo. Ever.

By the way, gotta love the image. Reading a book, and suddenly a face is pulled out of the book. A "literary" face.

Something as a death of a classmate ages them,

Naw. The death of a child, or a parent, or a battle buddy, or a best friend, that ages you. Some dude you went to school with and didn't know? Not really.

and I never cried at funerals or at a wake.

Because he's never been to one?

Or because people aren't real to him?
They always end up calling me "Stone Face" Pacione

Oh look, another nickname he claims to have.

That's a total of:
Iron Horse
Stone Face
Literary Danzig

And about 20 others. All to try to convince us he's some kind of badass.

What's funny is the idea that he didn't cry at anyone's funeral doesn't really make him seem like a tough guy after everything we've learned about him, but rather it just acts as further proof he's a self-centered asshole.

because I hardly shown an emotion when someone died, as in I never cried when someone passed away.

Because he's a total douche?

I made like it didn't bother me but all this time it did.

Supposedly he's Mr. Stone Face, but he still has nightmares about a funeral he didn't go to for a person he didn't know.

Some might think I am dragging on;

EVERYONE thinks you're just rambling on, Sparkle-Pony.

but in the details as it remains, the dream that waited there wandering as a hound in the fog.

A lost mangy flea bitten mongrel wandering around in the garbage smelling fog? Big fucking deal.

I found myself trying to run out of the chapel but the doors were locked.

In his dream. Remember, he didn't really go. LOL

That was the thing they found the most disturbing about me back then.

That he was a complete and total pussy who smelled like a dead hobo stuffed with sour cream and garbage left beneath an overpass in the summer?

Some of those dreams had their way of coming forth now, but more so when I am traveling around.

From alley to alley to give blowjobs to sweaty men.

I thought I would never see this particular dream again -- let alone writing about it. I take that back, part of what was written in the short story Haunted Thoughts was from this dream too.

Blah blah blah.
Deeper it falls as the mind gathers within the corners of the dream, only as they find one answer to the nightmares are not the answer at all.

Because it has a different answer?

Even when the nightmares call up more questions and looking for that answer only leads to more questions left to be asked; the things of God and Satan are often blurred when it comes in the perspectives of the nightmare or the dream.

Wait? This is it?

So this was nothing more than Nickolaus "Wrathchild" Pacione (snicker) crying to us about a nightmare he has about a funeral he's never gone to?

As a story, I rate this slightly below the badly Xerox'd manifesto I got handed out front of 7-11 in 1987.

As non-fiction I rate this as whining drivel from a basement dwelling man-child who can't take care of himself and so has to rely on the generosity of an elderly relative.

In conclusion: Pacione, you suck. Go back to sucking dick in the bus station and quit writing, since you completely and totally suck at it.

Review of... oh, who gives a shit

Review of "The Witch's Party", story by "Nickolaus Albert Pacione AKA Nikita the Goth", review by Warlord Ralts

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.


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?"
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.


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.