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American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
01-01-2015
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
01-11-2014
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
01-04-2014
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2014
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
10-01-2013
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
07-01-2013
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
04-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
10-01-2012
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-07-2012
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-04-2012
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
01-01-2012
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
01-10-2011
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
01-07-2011
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
01-04-2011
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
01-01-2011
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
10-01-2010
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2010
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
04-01-2010
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
01-01-2010
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
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Perfect Night For Leeches - Part 1

By Jim Chaffee

One of those nights. Winter monsoon. Fucking rain so heavy flares up behind the Marble Mountains barely glowed, their phosphorescent trails wavering in the dense atmosphere like fading memories of youth.

We were exploding leeches. We’d collected them from a bunch of Marines who’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours bleeding in a paddy somewhere around An Hoa, or maybe near Hill 10. Maybe in the Go Noi. Didn’t make a rat’s ass to us where they’d been. A surprise they’d been able to medevac them at all, with the rain so fucking heavy. We stabilized the poor bastards, got them out of triage and off to surgery. All the time carefully collecting the leaches we’d picked off them, for later.

Now was leech time. Injecting the chambered bodies with acetone and lighting them, watching them explode in a mass of dark tissue and human blood. Living bombs.

Morrison came down to join us, an off-duty insomniac with no place to go. He slept only a couple hours a night, often wandering in late to see what interesting events he could become part of. The youngest corpsman in triage, he had more time in, mostly reserve, and liked to be called Pappy. Hardly anyone called him that. He looked like a kid.

A shit-load of explosions and small arms fire blasted the tedium, red and white star clusters and trails of tracers arcing into the dense night like fireworks in the deluge, all of it from near the big mountain, the one the Marines called The Chin Strap for its profile. Nui Thuy Son to the Vietnamese. It sat on the beach, on the ocean side of the battalion road. We guessed an attack on the CAP unit on the far side of the Marble Mountains but were wrong. We got a call for an ambulance.

Morrison grabbed the call, pissing me off.

At least he wore boots and utilities. One night I’d grabbed a call in flip-flops, shorts and a T-shirt, dressed like I was going to the beach. I showed up at the dump at the foot of Nui Tho Son, the Marble Mountain the Marine’s called The Crow’s Nest, a stark, naked rock outcropping rising straight up out of the sandy earth opposite the road from The Chin Strap. An ANGLICO spotter team and their 106 recoilless rifle perched on top, unseen in the night.

Actually we were near the beach, but the Marines had set up a perimeter and a bunch of guys wearing flak-jackets and helmets ran around with M-16s locked and loaded. One of those jeep pick-ups blazed like a beacon, bathing five figures scattered in the sand around it in the vagaries of firelight. From the color of their belts I could tell they were Navy, not Marines, probably security for the Seabee camp just beside the dump.

I heard someone mutter “Fucking crazy corpsman” when I hopped out of the cracker-box ambulance, dressed as I was, unarmed, with only a unit one, warily eyeing the burning truck. Helicopter gunships searched the base of The Crow’s Nest with spotlights. A couple fancy leather belts, not your standard issue web belts, smoldered in the dirt beside the flaming truck, cooking off .45 rounds. Flares drifting earthward on parachutes swaying like lamps hanging from the clouds cast a flickering luminescence over the whole scene. Shadows mutated to the rhythm of their swinging descent. The reek of cordite peppered with the pungency of scorched hair and flesh hung in the air.

Didn’t make much difference, my being there. I could see by the flare light they were a hopeless mess. Burned and staring fish-eyed at the sky, except one guy who continued to breathe, a little fire burning inside the cavity in his chest. I figured it made no sense to work on him. His bladder let loose while I stood watching, backing up my silent argument. A crowd of onlookers encouraged me to save the wounded, as if I were a god. I gave them my best I’m sorry expression and muttered “Forget it.”