Sleep of Reason
by

For Paul Campbell, drug fiend and burned-out fantasy writer, life in Glasgow is a gray, empty disappointment. Desperate for escape and inspiration, he tries a mysterious new drug and is transported to a strange world of freakish monsters, brutal amazons and weird, dangerous sex. (M/F, M/F/F, F/F)

 





Genres: , , , ,
Collections: , , , ,
Editor(s): Lon Sarver
Cover Designer(s): Siol na Tine
Cover Art Credits: Original art by Siolnatine.
Production Editor(s): Erika L. Firanc
Proofreader(s): XochitLina, Siol na Tine
Length: Novella (15,000 Words)
Chapter(s): 4
Publication Date: December 26, 2012
Serialization Date: September 24, 2016
Archive(d) on October 22, 2016
Tags: , , , , , ,

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Click Here to Read An Excerpt

A spotlight fell on a woman who slinked from the shadows with animalistic grace. She was totally naked and her skin was a powder blue in colour. Swirling tattoos like those of Maori warriors covered her body from head to foot. She was immensely tall, around seven feet, extenuated by a two foot electric blue Mohican. She strutted in an arrogant manner about the arena, her sinuous muscles playing under the sapphire skin. The woman glared in a frightening fashion at the crowd through golden cat like eyes with vertical slits. Occasionally she would pause to slash the air in front of her with her steel claws or rip at the earth with her equally deadly looking metal toenails in the way that a bull paws the ground before charging.

The crowd went wild at her appearance and she circled the ring pumping her fist in the air and occasionally stopping to strike a pose with her blue muscles glistening. Paul’s eyes never left her form. Finally she bowed and moved to the side of the ring.

Dr. Feverclaw called out again. “And now the brave challenger who would dare to claim this butcher queen’s crown. Fresh from the streets of Haythornthwaite: Mottleclutch!”

From the opposite side of the ring a large podlasp trotted on his horsey hind legs. The rubber of his suit shone wetly in the hot atmosphere. It held its spindly forearms up in front of it like a kangaroo. Each hand held a bladed knuckle duster. Behind his gas mask only his eyes could be discerned. They were large, white and unblinking with tiny black pupils. Pipes and tubes ran from the mask, down his long neck, over his rotund body, between the hoofed legs and entered his own bowels.

Both combatants moved towards the centre of the ring and eyed one another. The podlasp was far more massive than the woman.

“Remember”, said Dr Feverclaw, “there is to be no quarter given. This is a fight to the death. Only one will leave the ring alive. Now when I blow this whistle you will fight. There are no rounds, just fight.”




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