Aptly named, Sloppy Seconds is a collection of stories, brutal and stomach turning, first birthed by intimidating, infamous gross out man Wrath James White primarily for the WHC Gross Out contest. Having read Jeff Strand’s contributions in Gleefully Macabre Tales and White’s collaboration with Maurice Broaddus, Orgy of Souls, I thought I knew what I was getting into.
First up is the story that started it all, “Morbid Obesity”. Calling it the tale of a cannibalistic, necrophiliac fat- fetishist sums it up nicely.
Promising sinister things, next is “Panty Pudding”. Ageism doesn’t seem to exist in this tale of man’s obsession with an ancient crack whore’s underwear, and the bits that hide within them.
My favorite story, “Alive” is (hilariously, offensively) wrong from the first line–“Johnny was a cannibal with an insatiable appetite for human flesh… and he just happened to work at an abortion clinic.” Absolutely not a story for the easily offended (but then, neither is any book that’s a collection of stories from a gross out contest) if it helps Johnny does get what’s coming to him.
“Felching the Worm” could be an episode of Jackass gone terribly wrong. A man’s love for his dog goes farther than even other horror writers would dare it to go. I have to admit, I had to read this one fast to make it through.
Next up, “Gigolo Crackwhore” a one night stand of a story about a male crackwhore in a leper colony.
Finally comes “Hurting Him”, a brutal, violent tale that pushes the limits of scientific possibility and will make most horror writers feel normal. A revenge tale to top all others “Hurting Him” is a disturbing ode to human rage.
Despite what one might think of these tales, even if this is the only exposure they’ll ever have, White’s gore and nausea-inducing prose is window dressing, the flash that garners the attention. There’s more to all these stories than festering sores and bodily fluids. Some are over the top, sick humor. And some are startling looks at the nature of humanity’s attraction to that which means only destruction. Most of all, these stories aren’t just gross, they’re good, perfectly paced tales with melodious word choices, fierce and tight pacing despite the path they take far past “extreme”.
Black Jack Derringer: The Ace of Spades is like one of those little four-piece Whitman’s Samplers. You end up with a good idea of what the story’s going to be, but it’s over and gone just when you’re really ready for more.
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