Tom Leins

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 25, 2017


Tom Leins is a disgraced ex-film critic from Paignton, UK. His short stories have been published by the likes of Akashic Books, Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle, Flash Fiction Offensive, Spelk and Horror Sleaze Trash. He is currently working on a novella called Boneyard Dogs. Get your pound of flesh at




By Tom Leins

There were hundreds of bogs in the Old Testament badlands, but the best one was known as the Glory Hole.

None of us knew what a glory hole was back then, except maybe Curtis Corliss, and if he did, he never let on. Damn kid was a pervert even then. He knew more about sex at the age of eight than I do at fuckin’ 38. His Daddy collected pornography the way some men collect gun magazines, or ex-wives: aggressively. Curtis would rip sticky pages out of the most dog-eared magazines at the bottom of his Daddy’s stash, and bring them to school in his satchel.

Growing up without a mother, I had never seen sights like those. So much pink. Man, those images were burned into my retinas as a child. I didn’t see that much pornography again until I was in prison, and even then, it wasn’t half as inventive. From what I saw, my cellmate’s wife lacked imagination.


People used to throw old electrical appliances in the Glory Hole. Car batteries. Old shoes. Beer bottles. I once saw Old Man Summerhill throw a deformed calf in there. One of those wretched, two-headed Siamese-looking fuckers. Doc Cassidy told us it was the biggest monstrosity he had seen in almost 40 years of veterinary practice, but I thought it was strangely beautiful. I once heard a rumour that a Guatemalan girl who turned tricks at old Luanne’s place threw a pair of stillborn twins in there, but I’m not sure anyone really knows for sure.  


I have been dragging Tulip through the forest for at least an hour. Dragging him through the scrub by his wrists. At least one of his shoulders has dislocated, and his body is bloodied up like a junkie’s mattress. He is naked save for his spandex trunks and his wrestling boots. The trunks are stained with shit, but the boots look pretty new, and it seems a shame to throw them away, all told. They have his name stitched on the tongues, so I wouldn’t be able to sell them anyway – not in Testament at any rate… and I’ll be damned if I pay for the gas to drive to another county.  


I’m glad it’s winter, as I’m not sure I could manage this job in the heat. Tulip is a big bastard. Bigger than me, and bigger than anyone I ever went toe-to-toe with on the canvas. He wasn’t a wrestler, though, not really. And I’m not surprised to be hauling his ruined carcass through the woods.

Legend has it that Fingerfuck Flanagan discovered Tulip when he was working as a bouncer at a strip club called the Slop Shop. He took a sawed-off shotgun off a pair of Samoan brothers with his bare hands in the parking lot, and then worked them over so bad at least one of them ended up in the trauma unit.  


Tulip trained with us for a month, without ever making it into the ring. He wanted to bulk up in time for our Nuclear Winter ’91 pay-per-view. It was gonna be his debut. Ticket sales had been in the low hundreds, and I told him that it wasn’t worth the effort, but he was determined to make a good first impression. It was supposed to be a cross-promotional event, and Fingerfuck struck a deal with some of the boys based out of Crooked Timber to come down for a dust-up.


Tulip got hold of a tainted batch of Metandienone. He didn’t realise it was tainted until his skin started changing colour, bruising like old fruit. I don’t know what it had been cut with – I’m not sure I want to know – but the worse he felt, the more he injected. By the end of his first week on the job he had turned fuckin’ blue.


I sit down on the cracked bark of a dead tree and light a cigarette, staring at the Glory Hole. Man, we had some fun with this fuckin’ thing. I remember throwing some of Curtis’s Daddy’s videotapes in there one summer. How we fuckin’ laughed. He kept them on a shelf in his lounge-diner, in plastic boxes meant for wrestling videos.

When he found that his porno videos had gone missing he beat the fucking hell out of Curtis. Lashed him so hard he needed to wear a fuckin’ diaper to school for more than a month. Curtis’s Daddy served time for that – among other things.

My uncle Lombard told me that they were trading Mr Corliss for fuckin’ cigarettes by the end of his first day in the Big House. His ass was like a Goddamn swap-meet, my uncle used to say. Then he would laugh ‘til he coughed up lung-blood. I would laugh too – just to be polite. There is absolutely nothing funny about that shit…


I heave Tulip into the Glory Hole. He lands with a satisfying ‘plop’, but he doesn’t sink, he just kinda settles on top. Motherfucker. I poke at the bog with a branch. He seems to be wedged on top of a rusted A/C unit. I steady myself on the dirt and try to stomp him down with my boot-heel, but he doesn’t budge.

His eyes have rolled back into his head, and his ugly mouth gapes open in a permanent question. Shit. I plant both feet on his chest and kick out like I’m doing a missile dropkick off the top turnbuckle.

His chest bursts on impact, splattering me with thick, black blood. I scramble across the dead plant matter, and there is an unholy groan as Tulip sinks into the bog. The only parts of him now visible are his fuckin’ wrestling boots.


I trudge back through the forest. Back to the dingy discomforts of my orange Ford Pinto. The pale afternoon sun trickles through the skeletal trees and casts crooked shadows across the dirt. Every time they creak, they remind me of crippled wrestlers, lurching around a badly furnished locker room – all crunched spines, fractured knees and smashed knuckles.

Never let it be said that Testament doesn’t bury its own dead…




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