More disturbing imagery from Warren Ellis:

She used to have eyes I could lose myself in, and then she had them replaced with laser pointers. Little red dots jumping up and down on the bedroom wall as I took her from behind. I could live with that until she had the animal voice import. The cheetah purring was okay, but the dingo noises just killed the mood. The combination of the red eyes and the gorilla sounds when she jerked off was horrible. A few weeks later, things were moving down there that shouldn’t have. Don’t be scared, she said, as stuff pumped like organ stops under her skin. Something extended itself and waved at me.

I threw up between her legs and she didn’t talk to me for a week. Which I suppose you can’t really blame her for, but still.

I knew it was over when she cut her legs off.

Had them hacked off at the knee and came home with a suitcase full of modular replacements. The stumps had little Firewire ports that plugged into the new lower leg units. She fitted what she called her Sex Legs and flexed artificial toes, feet fixed in a perfect arch to accomodate the welded-on six-inch heels. Apparently there were Segway gyroscopes in the calves to keep her upright when she walked.

I came home one night to find her in a red latex minidress and sixteen legs. Spider things were sprouted from her knees, eight legs each. She paraded on the plastic kitchen floor for me, swinging her hips. Clackclackclackclack on the floor. Clackclackclackclack.

She stuck her tongue out at me when I started retching. There was what looked like a DC power inlet on the tip.

After that, it just got ugly. I had to go. I saw her again a couple of weeks ago. She introduced her new boyfriend as Spin. His skin was cold and shiny, like white plastic coating over steel. He had a revolving drum in his stomach. She leant against him and grinned.

I’m living in my car now. My car loves me. I mean, it wouldn’t have grown a real vagina for me otherwise, would it?

A literary gem from Warren Ellis:

I had to kill the pig.

It was a GM Vietnamese potbellied pig that some freak had meatfitted with a voicebox and the frontal lobe of a grown-up crack baby.

It scuttled across the carpet on fat little legs, firing hideous acidic turds out of its fortified arse like it was Satan’s vending machine. I loaded the harpoon gun I’d borrowed from Sunil. There are a few parts of the world where you can legally hunt humans who have gone aquatic, and Sunil owed sexual favours to all of them. The pig turned, rasping “Fuckpig! Fuckpig! Fuckpig!” I’d not yet worked out whether he was talking to me or telling me his name, but it seemed to be the only word he knew. I’d been listening to it for two weeks. Two. Weeks.

The harpoon locked down into the receiver chamber, and the air compressor hissed, charging the gun.

I hefted the gun and took aim as the bastard dropped another shit on the carpet, burning another hole in it. “This is it, you disgusting fucking object. Melissa left me with a disease so unusual and horrible it does not have a name, a weird Japanese doll that sucks out its own urine, and you. I’ve had my urethra irradiated, I listened to the doll scream as I shoved it into a wood chipper, and now there’s only you left. The pet pig.”

“Fuckpig!”

The compressor stopped hissing. The gun’s chip crooned to me, for no good reason, in the synthesised voice of Peter O’Toole: “You may kill things now, young man.” I threw the receiver lock to open the barrel and fired at the pig’s smoking anus.

Of course I bloody missed.

The pig hurled itself to one side like it was an action movie hero, rolling and coming up poised and ready on its foul black trotters. The harpoon thudded into one of my speakers. I fumbled another one into the chamber and slammed down the receiver lock, hoping there was enough push left in the compressor for another shot at the little crapmachine. I waved the harpoon gun at it. You couldn’t see its eyes; they were dark wet slits surrounded by great folds and swells of warty pigflab. But you knew it was scheming. I edged between it and the clear run through my long thin apartment to the front door. I had it pinned here in the back bedroom. Nowhere to run.

It feinted to my left like Ali, with a rasped “Fuckpig!” I pretended to follow the feint, and then snapped the gun back as it launched itself for the opening it expected between my right and the doorjamb.

It realised I had it and pissed itself in mid-air, an evil green sprinkler. Twisted its immense gut around to carom off the wall. I kept a bead on it as it bounced off my bed — realised too late that it was aimed for the window.

Fuckpig! and it hurled itself through the window. I ran to the sill, trying to keep my hands away from all the broken glass. The pig had launched itself with some force, I gave it that. There was a chance it could reach the shopfront awning on the other side of my narrow market street. The odds were better that it’d miss and splatter. But I don’t like gambling, really, and this was a personal thing.

I put a harpoon through the bastard pig from arsehole to breakfast-time, skewering it in mid-air.

It dropped down into the market, landing on a fruit stand. Its guts let go and the awful flow dissolved all the apples. There was a storm of swearing in Croatian, and then the retching started.

And, you know, this is as good as the next month or so got.