Blood Tits 1: Behold the Sins of God: Blood Tits, #1

By Soren Saxil

They have burned books before. Blood Tits is the one so hot, it'll catch fire on its own. A face-melting barrage of extreme porn and ultraviolence that'll catapult Humanity to new echelons of self-comprehension and heal a broken world. The only summary that can do it justice is summary execution. Recipes inside.

 

"Beneath boiling skies of red, Lucien Thorne at last obtained a clear view of his adversary. She radiated infernal majesty. Blood covered every part of her body, dripping from her moist funbags and ham-hams."

 

"Every part but her eyes, where in the white there glowed the red irises of an albino rabbit."

 

"She smiled."

 

Cruora. In a world askance to ours, she rules an empire of gore. Reading Robert W. Chambers' 1895 work The King in Yellow inspired her to create her own stage show:

 

B L O O D T I T S

A Burlesque Metal Öpera in 6.66 Parts

 

Her costume in this stage-bloodsoaked sexxxtravanganza is that she wears nothing but blood. In the interests of modesty, however, it is a lot of blood. There's also Lucien Thorne. A man so driven, he owns a leather trenchcoat with a swallowtail cutout that lets you see his ass, but is too poor to buy a shirt. He is a drawing brought to life by the death wish of a child. His quest? To end the world's pain. They make out and kill God.

 

Blood Tits is a novel published in instalments. What you get with this, the first installment, is 8729 words of the wildest freak shit to ever sear itself into your brain—until the next instalment.

 

"A landmark work of novelistic ambition." —The Journal of Important Literature

 

"The next Homestuck." —News City News

• Language: English
• Publisher: Soren Saxil
• Release date: May 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9788797331408

Book preview

If this were an audiobook, it would be narrated entirely by screaming. It is possible that you won't be able to handle this much awesome right away, so this book is structured such that as you progress through it, your face will start out only gently rocked, and will be increasingly rocked over time. If you're not into heavy stimulation, I advise you to read something else, because this one goes hard.

You may need to sit down for this one. Don’t worry about having a whole seat; you’ll only need the edge. Look up: is there overhead space for fist-pumping? Also, for a multimedia entertainment experience, put on Flood I by Sisters of Mercy now.

It’s important that you’re comfortable, because of what you are in for. The night wind in your face. Stench comes in. Then, cacophony. Greasy lights flicker. Hot—cold—numb—aching: your hands tremble, drawn on lined notebook paper. The night wind penetrates your no. 2 pencil body, drawn onto this alley, trash, smog and rain. Onto the world.

You breathe in, for the first time. Your pencilled lungs fill in as the world infects you: black and grey and dead. Then you can scream—at the gunmetal sky; at the Heavens sobbing upon gargoyle-haunted cornices and aircraft warning lights.

For you, Lucien Thorne, entered this world invested with knowledge of your purpose. The death wish of a child. A drawing of violence and frenzied animation—steel and fire, cleansing contumacious flesh! Product of a nausea and an anomie immanent to the human condition—get of a supernal Weltschmerz 13.8 billion years in the making! Your leather trenchcoat is wet; it clings to your pulsing muscles. Your wraparound mirrorshades are whipped by acid rain. You were born. When can you die?

Your hands—the hands pencilled in—now scarred skin and throbbing gristle. Each clenches a serrated silver-plated kukri knife. You scream, Lucien Thorne, for you can not use them for the one thing you wish—yet. You entered this world invested with knowledge of your purpose.

It’s happening. It's no-shit happening.

B L O O D  T I T S

You were born to read this. Life emerged to create this. Blood Tits: capstone to the edifice of Life. It came from the concrete jungle. From the smoke, the dirt, the grime. They could not contain the anger: it grew and grew in time. They could never bind it. It was a monster: a monster with the ferocity to battle a god. Its name? Lucien Thorne, for thus was he labelled with a no. 2 pencil.

—

They were almost men. Skin draped over not enough flesh. Their mouthes