Saturday, August 29, 2009


I wrote this just about 2 years ago after watching Dawn of an Evil Millennium, Damon Packard's amazing cerebral ganglia-fuck. It's available on "Experiments in Terror" along with some other incredible shorts including the one and only Virgin Sacrifice by JX Williams. It's available here.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning with a reoccurring vision of a massive fleshy toxic bag floating above my bed, just lightly tracing a path along the ceiling. It's covered in patches of hair and teeth, fingernails, and goose-bumps. I wonder if it's inspired by one of those giant tumors that a team of tele-visionary surgeons might remove from a desperate Croatian village-woman who has no other option. That parasitic tumor is eating her alive. Her DNA is out of control, the sack writhes and twists, vestigial lips and crooked teeth part to silently scream out as the scalpels begin to carve away at it's mutant sovereignty.

Maybe it's the same big beast that bobs above my bed breathing and inhaling any of the goodness that my heart has. If I lay there for too long looking up at it as it fills itself and expands, my heart will calcify in my chest, my pulse will die, and all that will remain will be the microscopic echoing snaps within a crispy crustacean beneath my breastbone. I don't want to be one of those lonely heartless men. Those guys used to come into the bookstore where I worked and we'd talk about James Joyce, Gurdjieff, and 1970's pop psychology. They lost it sometime long ago.

These days they might be living in a subsidized apartment or if they're lucky maybe an old friend might lend them a room in their basement. Each day they will come out of their caves to get coffee and shamble around the used book store. They'll talk to me about an old medieval text that I've got to check out because the world we're living in today is just history repeating itself. Then, they'll start talking about porno. At night they will travel in packs and scatter like a gang of scared teenagers outside the movie theatre when the cops tell them they can't hang out there.

They've still got a ember of their dignity though, when you press the rewind button on their life, you'll see it in incredible flames scorching anything that touches their restless curiosity. But where are they now? They'll tell you that time passes by so quickly, that they used to be handsome, and that you can be as idiosyncratic as you want to be when you have your youth, but by the time you're old and ugly, no one wants to hear a word that you say.

You're self-aware coughing dusty gray-haired animals and really there's only one thing I want to know from you– when did your home disappear? I just want to know when it was that your seas dried up or when your forests burned down.

So I wake up these mornings in the new room that I'm staying in on a mattress salvaged from an old pull out couch. My lower back always hurts. This morning I escaped the beast again. I always do, but some days I can feel my heart still crystalizing when it sends those cold poisons into my guts. I have to admit these days have been bad. I'm anxious and feel wasted. I'm trying combat it by lifting weights again, maybe get the 25lbs back that slipped off me when I was too stressed out to eat over the past 6 months. I go to the shop and I draw, or I work on the computer. I talk to Jane as much as I can and just wish I was back in Dublin with her. At night I go back to the room and I draw some more. I try to develop new inking techniques, I read books while I'm sketching, I think about colors. I have no idea how to relax, its a state of existence that I've completely lost.

I don't have much food in the new place. I'm still not used to gathering supplies or other simple things like doing laundry regularly. I can pump my own gas, but there's a variety of simple skills that I've realized are fairly beyond me until I get my shit together. Last night instead of going grocery shopping when I was done at the shop, I called Frank and went to Julians for something relatively cheap to eat. Afterwards we went back to his apartment where I often find myself easing out of consciousness in a smokey haze while trying to digest some sort of obscure cinematic treat on his tv. In the spirit of Halloween, we decided to watch Experiments in Terror. It is nearly Halloween, it was perfect for the season. In the midst of several amazing short films was a piece by a filmmaker named Damon Packard. The 1988 short film is called,


I lied there on the couch, shoes still on, barely breathing even and when that film came on. I couldn't move, I didn't want to blink. What I saw were the manifestations of that big morning beast's own thoughts vomiting, slurping and gurgling, tripping, falling, destroying. It was a purity of thought, ingenious chaos, nothing missed, every piece of time fully contracting and pulsing like a slippery disembodied sphincter. Packard's film was it's own language, it made absolute sense to me. I didn't feel inspired by it, I felt validated and isolated and scared. I saw that big beast rising up from behind the TV. It hovered above me as I stared into it's countless maws. I felt nothing. My heart didn't hurt. This film was made by someone who was able to survive some sort of cataclysm and actually build a structure out of the ashes. It was so goddamn smart and gross and funny. This guy let his beast overtake him. It's obvious. You could see straight into the brain of Damon Packard. That is the purity of art.

I woke up in my bed early before dawn. I was confused that I may have still been on Frank's couch, but there I was and like the morning before there was the big beast hovering and I was just laying there staring up at it.

When did my forest burn down and when did I start running away from this thing? I don't want to be obsessed or possessed. Packard's work scared the shit out of me. I saw that beast's mind on the screen. How the fuck can you walk the line? How is it possible? Is there anyone who has ever been able to do it?

When I was a kid, I got nosebleeds. I loved dripping into a cup and watching the red blood separate from the plasm. It was so dark and thick, concentrated pure powerful blood. Now I'm older and everything all fast-forwarded to some point in my life where I find myself in a battle with a deformed perception of reality left over from an unrealized adolescence. These days I sit in a room surrounded by things that are just left over, the things that I've kept over the years, the common denominators. It's all concentrated, boiled down, purity, but it's not comforting. I know why I put the things into the work that I do. I understand it's existence. I'm not trying to shock anyone, I know what I do can be gross, but if I want to, I can tell you exactly why I'm doing what I'm doing and I don't care if I sound like a complete idiot. To tell you the truth, I think I can art-speak the shit out of my work.

This short-term world that everyone is so excited about, the luxury of our existence, the luxury of being able to even produce art, so dangerous in it's entropic power. I know what I am but I don't want to evolve into a toothless disheveled mess because the life has been sucked out of me by my own work. I have no clue how to battle the beast, it's there every day. It's feeding off my obsessions, off of the concentrated powerful purity that depending on how you look at it– is the product of either my evolution or devolution. It's there and I can only imagine that all I can do to fight it is to overfeed it until it bursts. It can't grow infinitely. I hope not.
I don't know if Damon Packard would agree, but I think that he's feeding that beast. I don't know how it's working out for him. I don't know how it's working out for me either.

Monday, August 24, 2009



Fos asked me to come up a deck for the Heroin Summer series. He wanted a toxic waste thing. Funny, that's what I want all the time too.


I was asked to do a shirt by Transworld designed around "Bred to Shred". 

Here's the breast print and the original sketch.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


I recently did a short interview with Juxtapoz for their website. I was particularly angry with Brett Michaels from the night before when he really let me down on an episode of Rock of Love II.

Here's the interview.

Saturday, August 22, 2009


This story appears in Joan D'Arc's Hunter Gatheress Issue 2 2009

The Psychic Scumbag
by James Quigley

And Shannock, too! But this a squirrel means 
When rendered into Yankee phrase I ween;
(By the way, our friends might think it quite ill
to change "Shannock" into "Squirrel Hill".)

Part 1: Squirrel Hell
It's been 18 years since I left but even since then, Shannock is still Shannock. I expected as much, it's always been a sort of wasteland to me, even when I was a boy. I'm here to figure out where I can score some more conium maculatum. It's wearing off and I'm ready for another sick hit. I want this one to hurt, I want it to count, I just want to start over and wake up 13 again. I'm 34 years old now. Actually, that's not true, it's the end of March and I will be 34 in September. 

My father always got confused about his age too. He was always guessing within 5 years of knowing how old he was. Maybe I'm getting older faster. I don't know when he started forgetting but it doesn't matteróas much as I'm like my father, I'm not the same, though I can at least claim to be pickling myself in the same sort of sour brine that he was soaking in. We're side by side, living and dead, father and son, bloated and bobbing in the black drippings of a suspended adolescent sponge that wrinkles lips with its latent senility. 

Yeah, I know that I sound like a pussy and I'm going to get shit for saying this, but that animal has been squeezed dry. There's no juice left in it. 

Sometimes I really miss him. Itís still a warm pain but it's better than forgetting. We aren't the same, but I don't like to think about the differences that were between us. 


Because there's a beautiful soft solace in wearing those nicotine-stained incorporeal plasm-skins of my father's invisible coughing ghost. 

Really, it doesn't matter how old I am. The biggest difference between my father and I is that I'm not dead yet.

DOWNEY-WEAVER POST No.34 American Legion

While a nondescript necromancer sits to my father's left at the bar, a trash bag filled with moldy porno magazines and cat bones sits steaming and stinking to his right. Between each of them is an empty seat. I recall that my father doesn't remember much about that death wizard except for a set of teeth that looked to be as soft as wet chalk and, imaginably, "a bitch to brush." Along the bar sit nine empty bottles of beer, a plastic ashtray piled with True Blues filters, and behind the most ornate oak countertop ever seen by human eyes stands the glowing automatonic cyborg known as The Power-King Brainiac. According to legend, he would be my father's bartender this and every night in my re-telling of his tall tale. He's a smart guy.

Nine beers in and my dad's got to take a leak.

There are dirty walls and I feel my father's left-handed middle finger trace along a D-Day painting depicting a rolling crimson wave of American GIs cascading in slaughtered ghastly piles onto a volcanic black and sandy shore. A feral pack of washed-up porcine drinking buddies still sit underneath that painting every Sunday afternoon. "You have to pass by that crew if you need to take a piss," my father says to his youngest son.

It was in the men's room on the mirror where through my father's bloodshot eyes I read now what he once read from ancient runic graffiti scrawled in spectral snot, 

"Chester York has popped his cork" 

and he shook his head and said, well my friend, you're in for it, because the day soon comes that our shell-shocked cowboy will mumble the 3 secret words:
1    2     3


We're all going to pay...

Chester York may rule the day!

Well until then, the devil is diddling away at a teenage boy in a small bedroom that is sandwiched between the men and women's toilets. His grey stubble rubbed that boy's belly rough and rashy, red and raw. The devil might just be pederast ignorant cannon-fodder still clinging onto Chronos's dirty silver ass-hairs for too long, but to the boy, the devil's pink hellhole is a pulsing rifled corridor scarred by the shit-stained cosmic artifacts that the devil never fully digested. That boy is trying to reconstruct God out of the Devil's dingleberries.

My father hates walking by that room, but when you gotta piss, you gotta piss.

It's last call and The Power-King Brainiac hovers above the bar. A speaker in his throat bellows a machinoid vocalization.

"Jim, you're not going to be able to drive home, here's a flashlight, take the path through Browntown."

Part II: Browntown

We can make it home through the woods. I feel sick though, I still haven't scored and the ghost skins are getting itchy. My father told me that I'd have to walk in his footsteps in order to know why he had to do what he had to do. Here I am, walking in his footsteps. He told me too many stories to remember but I know them all right now. Where I am now is a place that only used to be.

That old burnt-out trailer is still there, on the edge of Browntown. It's still smoking after ten years.

Ben lived in that trailer. My father said there used to be a dirt road but I can't see it, though there had to have been in order for him to get that trailer all the way back within those trees. I guess the old rusted truck is what he used. It's all overgrown now, but even when Ben was alive whatever road that had been still must have been long gone. Maybe the Druids used levitation to drop all of his shit out there.

It's hard to know now, my ghost sight is failing, my dad's barely there. I'm forgetting what Browntown ever was.

I'll try to remember.

Someday or sometime there was a secret place in the woods between my house and the Legion. It was called Browntown. In the middle, dead center exactly, was a deep old hole. Half of the year the hole was empty; the other half, the hole was full of shit.

The Brown Hole, as it was known, contained particular interesting properties that made it unique among other famous holes in the Earth. Like most holes it was certainly empty sometimes but strangely still considered a hole when it was filled with something. The occupation of its Hole Space occurred fifty percent of the time during our solar cycle, when it filled with pulsing pod-like wombs containing regenerated humans suspended in a thick dark brown fecal matter.

Like other shit-holes in the world, the people of Browntown never left and no one would want to visit. What made Browntown different though was that not only did no one ever leave, no one ever really died. They just got tossed in the hole and spit back out when they were ready to live again.

Thanks to modern education, we know now that what some thought was supernatural could easily be explained through science.

Brown Hole was a one-of-a-kind organic Non-structural Endocarnitive device that functioned very closely to the manmade mechanical Guderrman Womb-engine that powered the popular Kitchen Critter(tm) found in most modern American homes since the late 1980s. Its distinction as a natural phenomenon that in effect served the same purpose as an essential household product is just one of many things that makes The Brown Hole so fascinating, but it was the strength of the hole that made it so unique.

Whereas commercial Endocarnitive devices were capable of generating simple nutritive synthorganic protein slimes, the Brown Hole went a few steps further and could actually resurrect the dead.

Browntown wasn't a normal town because no one feared death, but the Brown Hole made it that way, so they were all afraid to leave. "What kind of life is that?," my dad always said to me. The people of Browntown, he said, "were a different kind of human altogether.î

Ten years ago when my dad died, I dragged his corpse to Browntown, but the place was deserted and the hole was gone. When I tried to find my way home, I got lost and never found my way back.

Now I'm in those woods again. Sleepless and sick. I need a hit. I'm dragging this ghost around and I can't see shit. I'm just running out of it all. This place used to be on the way back home, but now that there is no home, everything is the Browntown ghost town, everything is just in-between, and everywhere is nowhere.

This place had a life once; somewhere in these woods Browntown might have moved. I wouldn't know now, my dad's ghost eyes have faded away and I'm just in the dark.

What would I be if I didn't lose my home? I'd be a different kind of human altogether.

I'd be like poor Ben, smoldering bones, melted plastic, forgotten.

PART III: Benís Story

Ben's father gave him a laundromat with no washing machines. His brother Bill had sold them right before their dad went to jail. He had a lot of empty space and a good deal of electrical outlets, so he dropped a bunch of arcade games in there. When the arcade closed a couple years later, Ben turned it into a video store. The place was a mess, no system, no alphabetization, no new movies. Just weird 70s garbage, creepy shit like soft-core Nazi concentration camp sex flicks and a whole lot of porn.

By the mid 80s Ben got turned onto survivalism and started selling knives out of a glass case in front of the register, right by the dusty movie theatre-sized candy that no one ever bought. He got a permit to carry them too, but it was taken away after he got tossed in the clink for threatening a judge when he made a big stink at the courthouse, insisting that the permit gave him the right to carry even in court when he was being sued by his brother after the store closed.

Like most folks in Browntown, Ben ended up down at the flea market. Every Saturday, there he was selling his old videos for $1 a pop and getting fatter.

About a year before the trailer fire that killed him, Sea Breezes Motel gave him a job on Fridays, cleaning up after Fish n' Chip night, and Sundays, cleaning up after the Big Sunday Buffet. Ben really kept to himself that last year. Besides the flea market, you only saw him on those days at the motel. Other than that, he was holed up in that crooked old trailer, watching his old videos, smoking, and getting fatter.

Ben wasn't exactly born to lose though. That laundromat was part of the KLEAN'S Laundry chain founded by his father, Willy Gross. Ben was a spoiled rich kid, and when he was four years old, his mother thought he was so damn cute that she brought him down to a talent agency and got his ass in a canned spaghetti commercial. He worked the Browntown theatre circuit starring in a variety of plays. By the time he was 11, he had been launched into the spotlight as one of the Chewy-Gooey Gang.

The Chewy-Gooey was everyone's favorite candy bar, a teeth-pulling round green peanut butter patty covered in milk chocolate and topped in tangy sugar candy "C." When it first hit the shelves, the kids in Browntown couldn't pester their parents enough to drop the 30 cents for one, and in time the parents were hooked too. My father bought them by the case.

Every night after dinner we'd stuff ourselves with as many Chewy-Gooeys as our jaws would allow. They were sticky things that sent families through revolving dentists' doors.

Saturday nights, 7pm,  Chewy Looey and the Chewy-Gooey Gang. It was an hour of colorful mayhem featuring four ironically overweight children who were transported beyond space and time to the land of Chewy Looey, a green-bearded caveman who created Chewy-Gooeys in the Magic Tummy Oven out of rainbows and fun. Deep in the abysmal plains of the Slimy Sea lurked his nemesis, Burt Von Burp, an aquatic aviator who schemed endlessly to destroy rainbows and ruin fun. Von Burp and his horde of monstrous henchman were funny and gave the gang a real run for its money.

The misadventures of the Chewy-Gooey Gang were catalogued by the Fire Librarian deep in the heart of the Sun. It was there where each episode began with a lanky fire-haired old curmudgeon clumsily turning gears and knobs to generate a piece of paper that he'd insert into the mouth of a green and white panda with a television monitor where his stomach should have been, all the while grumbling on and on about retiring. The camera would then zoom into the panda's belly and the cartoon introduction and theme song would kick in. Over the course of the show's four-year life-span, the Fire Librarian was played by at least six ill-fated elderly men.

Ben Gross portrayed "Benny." It was perfect timing for Ben, with his red hair and freckled cheeks. Fortunately a mandate passed by the Browntown Town Committee in the 70s declared that red-headed children be introduced into mainstream society through a quota system whereby 1 out of 5 children on any television show must be a redhead.

The other children in the gang were Leroy, the black kid, Jenny, the white girl, and the male Asian kid who over the course of four years was represented by four different characters, the first two called Bonsai, the third Suki, and the fourth, Bonsai again, which obviously determined the titled of the fourth season's first episode, "Bonsai: The Return of Bonsai."

Each child possessed a magic chair, an evolved magical version of the one they were sitting in the first time they bit into a Chewy Gooey and were subsequently transported to Looey Land. Jenny's seat was a winged pink rocking chair she called Windspirit; it possessed the power of fight. Leroy's was a large reclining chair covered in moss and grass that allowed him to sleep and use his dreams to create cartoons that would do battle for himóhe called it The Dream Chair. Bonsai's chair was a simple wooden high-backed chair that transformed into a German shepherd with a green lion's mane; it was known as Fang Foo. Benny's chair consisted of a metal stool that spun him around while spraying sticky green slime in all directions. It was called Whirlwind, but we all knew its double meaning as Benny's Magical Squirting Green Stool since that was also the name of the common effect among those of us who overconsumed the candy.

Through the four years, the Chewy Gooey Gang was everywhere: action figures, a full-length film, Halloween costumes, and a fashion line, while the candy itself became the basis of numerous less profitable candy offshoots such as the Funny Fist, a candy-apple type concoction that involved children dipping their fists into various liquid candies that formed an edible shell around their hand. My own Funny Fist caused me a chemical burn on my right hand that still flares up when it's humid.

By the time Ben was 15, he was only 5'4", acne-ridden, and severely obese. His hairline began receding early, his home-schooling was barely existent, and all but one his father Willy's laundromats had gone out of business. In the end the show was cancelled due to the company's bad press from the Funny Fist lawsuits, and eventually the Chewy Gooey disappearedóand so did Ben's hope as an adult.

The story goes that Ben sat in that trailer, slowly burning for years. Some of the folks in Browntown would make the trip into the woods, knock on the hot trailer door, and ask Ben if he wanted to be put out. Every time, Ben would tell them no, and they'd go away. After awhile no one bothered, and Ben just cooked away until he was gone. Nobody knew when it was that he started roasting, but it took at least a good three and a half years before he was finally gone.

That, my father said, marked the end of Browntown.

Ben was just the start of it all. No one wanted to pick up the trash anymore. If someone croaked, they just got left to rot. To the people of Browntown, dying was better than living forever, or living at all anywhere else.

That old hole is healed and sealed. All the bones are gone.

I've got to keep moving. I'll find my way back to the main road. Shannock is still Shannock, there's not much left of a place that there wasn't much of in the first place: just old stories, and I can't tell those old stories like my father did. They just don't sound the same.

HOT LUNCH copyright James Quigley 2008


This story appears in Joan D'Arc's Hunter Gatheress Issue 1 2008

by James Quigley

I'm digging through a cardboard box that I haven't looked through since I brought it out of my father's attic in 1998. It's filled with stuff from my first year of Junior High School. My yearbook, old drawings, a few comic books, and a video tape with the words, "HOT LUNCH" scribbled in my adolescent hand-writing. I pull the little TV-VCR combo I got at the flea market out from under the crumpled suit in my closet, plug it in and stick in the tape. The tracking is all off, the tape is crackling, and although the audio is pretty muffled, the image on the screen is fairly clear.

Its my favorite show when I was 12 years old, it's all coming back to me once the theme-song kicks in. Sounds a bit like Kenny Loggins, kind of inspirational almost.


You can't make the cut if you can't make the grade!


You gotta keep on tryin'. Yeah, don't be afraid!


It's doesn't always matter if you can't pass the test!

Sometimes it's just a matter of trying your best!

Get up and do it – now get up and go!

This is your life, you're the star of the show!

Yeah, Yeah... it's HOT LUNCH- HOT LUNCH!


Episode 31: BRIAN POPE

I always hated returning to school from any vacation. Christmas 1986 was cold and wet and I spent most of it watching Monty Python videos and reading through a stack of old Powerman and Iron Fist comics that I scored at the flea market over the Summer. My first day back was in a panic, I’d done none of my homework over the break and even worse, Brian Pope was dead and he was supposed to give me 5 bucks to laminate something for him.

All the kids knew he’d been sick but we didn’t know he was going to die. Mr. Browning told us that his mother couldn’t wake him up that morning. I sat behind him in home room since the beginning of 7th grade. The first day I met the kid I thought he was Chinese because his cheeks and forehead were so fat- it forced his eyes to narrow into slits. His hair was jet-black and shiny and many of my mornings were spent staring at the psoriatic snowfall along the terrain of his shoulders.

The principal came on over the intercom and read the announcements. We all stood up for the Pledge of Allegiance and after we were told to sit in silence and reflect on the passing of our fellow student, Brian Pope. There wasn’t much to miss about him I thought, but I couldn’t believe that only 2 weeks before I got stuck spending the whole day with him.

Brian seemed to carry his whole existence in one large WWF duffel bag that never left his side. It was mostly black at one time but over the course of its short junior high school life-span the bag had faded into a dusty grey mess that tore wide-open in home room on the day before Christmas vacation after Duke Rockwell made the last of his daily secret jack-knife cuts in one of it’s swollen sides. 

Everyone in the room saw it happen when the bell rang and Brian slung the massive thing over his shoulder. It sounded like a flock of birds suddenly flapping away from a predator. Brian flew forward and fell to one knee as the heavy innards of his giant bag projected from behind him in a wake of floppy disks, pens, textbooks, action figures, and a Penthouse magazine that I don’t think anyone else noticed. Most of the other students giggled and made their way out of the door avoiding Mr. Browning who stood up from his desk at the front of the room and commanded Brian to clean up the mess.

“I can’t find my inhaler!” Brian’s usual pale face was like a red melon and he looked like he was going to cry.

I was the last in line and Mr. Browning stopped me before I could get out the door.

“Quigley, help Pope find that thing.”

I turned around and crouched down at the spot where Brian was sifting through the 3

months worth of scholastic vomit he obviously never cleaned from his bag. I looked back at Mr. Browning’s annoyed glare and with an audible sigh sat down Indian-style lazily helping Brian to make loose piles of the bag’s former contents.

“Where are you going to put all this stuff? In your locker?”

Brian looked at me, “I don’t know, I don’t even know where my locker is.”

Before that moment I’d ever said a word to him or heard him speak. His voice was so small, it squeaked out of his little shiny red mouth in a slight spray of soft spittle that landed on his bottom lip. I could see why Duke always called him ass-face, which was mean but also true.

“What color is your inhaler?” I wanted to leave. I hadn’t done much to help clean the mess and I realized that for the past few minutes I had been doing nothing but twisting a candy wrapper between my fingers.

“It’s orange and metallic.”  He replied.

Brian almost seemed like he’d forgotten about the inhaler. There was a raw faint whistle pouring from one nostril as he stacked his floppy disks. The redness of his face had reduced and only a few pink capillaries glowed under his plump white cheeks. He seemed at ease. Mr. Browning had left the room and at some point the old janitor tossed a couple black trash bags on to one of the desks. I noticed, but I imagined that Brian didn’t. He seemed happy recollecting the debris on the floor. He was humming to himself while he finished gathering and organizing what was left of the mess.

I stood up. “I kind of need to get to class.” 

Really, it didn’t matter if I was late. My first period class was a study hall and I went to the Library every Monday and Wednesday during that time to work in the periodicals room where I secretly abused my access to the laminating and photocopy machines.

Brian didn’t look up from his handful of Ghostbusters cards. “Yea but you work in the library on Mondays right?”

He got me. “Oh yea, today is Monday. Yea, I forgot. I probably should go anyway though.” 

I didn’t want to hang around Brian any longer than I had to. Fifteen minutes had somehow already gone by and I wanted to wash my hands of the tangy stench of his old paper bag lunches and pencil shavings.

Brian leaned forward and pulled some of the piles towards himself.

“I work in the library too. Can you give me those trash bags?”

He must have seen the janitor come in. I tossed the bags in front of him and he shifted onto his knees.

“Can you hold open the bag while I put this stuff in it?” Brian was smiling, “its going to be heavy- we should double-bag it.”

I didn’t care why he had taken so much time to organize the mess only to destroy his work by stuffing everything including his tattered duffle bag into anoher bag. In under a minute he had deconstructed the piles and was standing there with the swollen trash bag over his shoulder.

“We can go to the library together.” He said.

“What about your inhaler?”

“Oh yea, I think I actually left it at home.” Brian wiped his nose, "hey James, out of all the demons in the Monster Manual, which one if your favorite?"

"I don't know, I guess the Obyriths.Why?"

Brian smiled at me, "just wondering."

It eats the damn tape. I pull it out. It's not hard to splice it back together but there's a pretty good chunk missing.

...pile of band uniforms. The incantation seemed to be working. The band room echoed with the calls of feral cats and the soft sizzling of the dim fluorescent lights that shifted into a green swampy spectrum and cast a pale spotlight on the steaming humanoid standing before them.

"What the fuck?" Adam gurgled.

Mike's voice quivered from behind a stack of folding chairs,  "Where did he come from?"

"I don't know", I replied. "There's actually supposed to be an army of demons or something."

Mike crawled out from behind the chairs and slowly crept back towards us with his back along the wall. "That's Brian fucking Pope."

Brian stood there in a trance naked and oozing. His mouth was a gaping mess of peanut butter dribbling down from a pair of sagging blue cheeks. Below his chin a massive nest of brown hornets pulsated within his chest. His arms draped by his sides and in place of his hands two bloody feline heads generated tortured cries.

"He's going to kill us." Adam mumbled.

I made my way towards Pope. I wasn't scared, I remembered the tiny devil I invoked and trapped in a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew on the dresser in my bedroom.  "No he won't, he can't move out from within the circle."

But I didn't. Everything was in it's place. Adam and Mike didn't know what I knew, in order for the spell to work, they had to remain ignorant of the extent of their participation. I was the sole invoker of Brian Pope and although the obese infernal mutant was hungry for human flesh, he wouldn't be leaving the circle unless I commanded him to. 

I got closer to Brian. "Trust me, so far so good right? Look, I'm standing right in front of him, I don't even think he's awake." 

They cautiously drew closer and we each took our place standing on the three points of a triangle outside the circle. I unzipped my backpack and we each took out small freshly painted neon-green pipes bomb that I packed with rooster spurs and pig teeth.

I checked my watch. "After we do this we've got to get to the cafeteria before the bell rings." 

"What are we doing with these?" Mike asked.

 "You're going to place the bomb at your feet, and when I tell you to, push the button on the timer, and just run away"

Mike and Adam just stared at me. 

"Come on guys, I can't do this by myself. I've gotten us this far right?." I was fake-crying. "Just do it, we don't have anymore time."

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "What happens if we don't do this?"

"Jesus, Mike! If we don't do this before the bell rings the circle isn't going to hold Brian anymore and he's going to eat us. Hurry up you don't have a choice!" 

They both put the bombs at their feet.

"On the count of three we all have to push the buttons on the timers at the same time." 

This was it. We'd come to the beginning of the end. The past few weeks spent learning the rituals and gathering everything we needed was about to pay off. No more quizzes, no more floor hockey injuries, no more rejection from Linda, no more warm coffee milks, no more anything and especially no more Duke Rockwell.

"One- two- three."

Adam and Mike scurried out of the room, the times said I had 33 seconds. 

I reached into my backpack and took out my brother's .45. The final incantation needed to be performed. I ran to the edge of the door to ready myself for a quick escape.

"Brian Pope, turn and face me!" He spun in the circle and let out a groan. This was it.

"BAEL! Here kitty kitty– kitty-thing. Damned flea-bitten scab-eater, wasted spurious king. Wart-ridden dark dweller. Uriniparous amphibious pestering beast. Spawned of royal incest to command the true East. A feast awaits you, gather your hordes. I offer you Brian Pope's soul to you and your lords. I give to you the second death of this resurrected beast" 

I centered my aim at Brian's heart within the beating hornet's nest, I had 10 seconds until I needed to make the shot. He was staring at me. I couldn't feel guilty. This is what he would have wanted too. Everything was going to change. It had to.

The timers had counted down to the last 10 seconds. I wasn't sure if this was going to work but I was in too deep to get out. I watched those digital numbers pulse down and on :01 I took my shot. 

There's nothing worse than a walk down memory lane where along the way the sense of innocent nostalgia that you're supposed to experience is replaced by those same damn awful feelings that you've simply had all along. I'm here for nothing and I realize this but this has always been what I call my only realization. It will be the only thought in my head while I die my first death. There is no point to get to. Just a void, an endless drop, and while I'm falling (failing), I will feel empty space sliding over my skin, and I will hear the echoes of plunks splashing below me and they're eternal familiar sounds that I've always recognized. The sound of a deep pool, dirty water enveloping the dimensions of an object that I can sense only through a speeding chill that spreads out from my heart into my ribs and exhales through the clogged pores of  the skin on my chest. I will discover that I'm simply and only an object when my trajectory slows and the weight of the space around my form twists my limbs into an impossible knot. There's the place where I am, caught falling (failing), where I've kept failing just like Brian Pope, catching myself in that that big pulsing Brown Hell Hole. 

I don't need to watch this anymore, I know how it's going to end.


I shoot Brian Pope in the chest just as the pipe bombs explode. I'm disintegrated in a wave of hornets, teeth and bone fragments, hair, peanut butter, claws, horns, antlers, piss, snot, warts, entrails, and blood. A Putrid pizza splatter. Hamburger and hot dog doomsday. Armies of skinned toads scream in battle. Cosmic crustaceans crush cafeteria trays in their claws. This Salisbury steak slaughterhouse is alive. On the backs of winged fried chicken legs the blood golems soar along clutching the scalps of their scholastic sacrifices. Red ribs crack up through the floorboards and block every exit. Rouge waves of mucous wash the ceiling. A phalanx of goblin arses sprays an arc of putrescent living steam snakes that carve sigils in the every draining sinus. In the center of a smoldering Phoenix nest a she-wolf wet nurse drizzles her abysmal black syrup into the dead eye of a stillborn fetal cyclops floating in a toilet. The cheerleaders are suffocated by porcine scrotum skins. A new Zodiac is born where the math club is pickled and floating in constellation within the starry void of the infinite guts of a sleeping albino mastodon. Wild severed woodwose hands release themselves from the ammo-belt of a centaurian axeman who commands them to telekinetically crucify the lunch ladies with hot pink unicorn horns. Nuclear Winter ice-worms writhe beneath a Toxic Shaman's polar bear carrion headdress as he dances and shakes the crystal Death Rattle of the Winter Witches. A cabal of telepathic Jizz Wizards invokes a cum elemental from within the gurgling rancid belly of Brandy Coon. A naked indigo swan-headed hydra freshly boiled in hot grease hisses a hymn to the Crooked Serpent. Negative rainbow trolls dance in the pale skins of the soccer team. Green lighting cracks and the paralyzed offspring of half-breed hungans gobbles up the sweet and sour afterbirth of the newborn shivering Son of the Morning. The school bell rings and in the white heat glow of two rows of six billion black candles twin lycanthropic homunculi roll a spasming cocoon along a coyote-skin catwalk crushing spoiled milk cartons in their wake. Behind the soda machine a venerial dwarf hirsute inseminates the throat of a toothless jester fettered by slimy intestinal chains to the three prolasped rectums of Cerebus. Fudge pudding drapes the walls while the Great Vomit King surveys the carnage from atop his undead veal calf mount. The massacre ends when the gavage-fed Lying Septic Spirit escapes his restraints in a paroxysmal panic and bellows a bile-laced eructation bigger than Jupiter's thunder splitting a fissure in the invisible umbral skin of our known plane that will slowly replace our whole universe inside-out from this day on. 

HOT LUNCH copyright James Quigley 2008


This was originally intended to be a shirt, like Wild Death, it's one of many concepts I have for a horror film. This one is a modern urban legend-style tale of a monster called, Pizzaface. He's like Toxic Avenger meets Leatherface, how can you go wrong?

"A Slice of Hell"

Friday, August 21, 2009


LAB Boston proudly presents the last art show at 113 brighton ave! “Bare Knuckle Brawlers,” the poster show for “Died Young, Stayed Pretty.” The opening reception was Friday, June 26th from 7-10pm, and will feature the following artists: James Quigley, Jesse Ledoux (who’s been featured in B/D!), Jeff Kleinsmith, theMiracle5, Dan McCarthy, Nate Duval, Darren Pasemko, among many other local artists.

I painted a mural on the window of the space with the assistance of Andrew Labaneris, Jennifer Asch, Grace Song, and Cassie Lee. It was rough because I've been working 2 day jobs 6 days a week. I took the train up every day in the afternoon for 4 days. I don't paint much, though I'd like to paint more. This mural took a lot longer than I think it should have but I learned a lot from doing something this large for the first time and having never painted on glass. I feel pretty proud of this one. Thanks to my friends for helping me get it done.

Here's a link to the show pictures- BARE KNUCKLE BRAWLERS BOSTON

Here's some pictures from the mural painting process.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Lovepump United. Home of A.I.D.S. Wolf and others. Designed and hand printed by myself.


Kylesa asked me to make a shirt for them and I said, "yes".


This is a design for the toy company Jamungo.


Shirt graphic for West Coast weirdos Fathme.


A simple shirt design for Boston's very own Magic People.


This is a 7" record cover for the band Fruit Salad screen printed by myself.


This is a quick illustration that I did for Dose Magazine out of Canada in 2006. The article as about my generation's fear of having children. I chose to depict a giant disgusting baby destroying civilization and squishing bohemians who shun infants.


I've been friends with Brian Oakley, head honcho at Providence's Corelone Records since I was 20 years old. He's a great guy and he runs a solid record label. The Cat Brain shirt still has yet to be printed but the Zorlac-inspired collaboration with Ben Barnett of Armageddon Record Shop in Providence does indeed exist. You'll notice that it was a quick one on my part because the skull is just a modified version of one from the Samigina demonology print. Sometimes you just have to dial it in.


I moved to Boston in 2000 to go to art school. After 5 weeks I quit school. I was 26 years old and I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with the $10.000 of debt that will haunt me until maybe someday I can pay for those 5 shitty weeks. I had been living in Providence and working making 9 dollars an hour as a graphic artist redesigning logos and making cheesy graphics for a glassware company.

When I moved to Boston to go to school I got a job through a temp agency that placed me at the Boston Beer Company, maker of Samuel Adams Lager. My job was to design menu cards for the infinite number of bars that got free menus from Sam Adams in exchange for pushing their beer.

It was in a huge city building, I think on the 8th floor. Although I was 26 years old, I was still completely mesmerized with anything "big city". I was excited also to be making $13 and hour.

I was the turd in the punchbowl in that place. As presentable and straight-laced that I tried to appear, there was nothing I could to do to fit in with a staff of frat boys. Oddly enough, while on the job, you were allowed to drink as much Boston Beer Company brand beers and other drinks from a massive fridge that never went empty. This was good in some ways because I could more easily sustain things such as the ridicule I received from the diphsits I worked with for the simple act of getting a sunburn over the weekend or for wearing the same shirt two days in a row.

So when I left school I was in desperate need for money and in the course of a few weeks, combined my drawings, comics, and some half-ass graphic design layouts into some semblance of a portfolio.

Looking back at my blissful ignorance I find it pretty funny that it made perfect sense to me to cold call every graphic design company in the Yellow Pages until one of them told me they were hiring. I had no shred of professionalism whatsoever. It wasn't until I reached the "F's" that I got my foot in the door at a company called, Fiction, when a confused recently hired receptionist named Jason Sanford told me to email my portfolio to the head designer.

Somehow I talked myself into a job there, but they didn't pay me much. My days at Fiction ended up lasting a little over 2.5 years until the 911 attacks where we all sat around a tv set wondering if our business guy Joel may have been in one of the planes because he flew out of Logan at the same exact time. I rode my bike on a nearly empty Commonwealth Ave after waking up late with no idea what was going on. I got up the stairs on the top floor of our building to see the beginning of the towers falling and I watched fighter jets fly by our big rooftop windows.

It was about a year until the American office folded, but Thomas, the head design went to carry on the company in Germany where they make all sorts of commercials. I went without being paid for months in an attempt to keep the place alive. I gave up after awhile and decided that a career in any sort of agency wasn't for me, so I got back into screen-printing and began making rock posters for the friends I had made through Jason Sanford.

Anyway, long story short, Jason Sanford is the original main man behind the (literally) art rock band called Neptune. Jason has been creating instruments out of scrap metal for years. Neptune has relentlessly toured and put out numerous recordings.

When I moved to Boston and failed at school and then watched my job disappear along side Jason, it was a pretty uncertain time. I feel like Jason and I became great friends after the collapse of our jobs there and I can say that he was a major inspiration for doing my own thing.

Thanks dude!


This is the cover image from a great zine called, "I Want Your Skull". I was watching a lot old Brothers Grunt cartoons when I made this. Buy it, make it yours.


Here's a shirt design I did for the Supersonic Festival 2008 in England.

SIXPACK 2007-2009

French clothing company Sixpack and myself work together to try to make the (intentionally) ugliest fashion shirts imaginable!

... here's one that never made the cut. Poor guy.

DIPLO 2008

This is pretty cool, Mad Decent records contacted me last year asking me to do a record cover for a DJ called Diplo. I am completely ignorant of that realm and I was really surprised to find out how prolific he is. It's a great feeling of validation when your work expands into realms where you don't expect to find yourself.

A.I.D.S. WOLF 2005-2008

A.I.D.S. Wolf, featuring Chloe and Yannick the amazing duo from Seripop and two of the hardest working people I've ever known. These two have managed to completely integrate their visual art world with their musical world and it's incredibly inspiring. I've made a couple shirt designs for them over the years as well as some record covers and rock posters. I'm proud to be part of their freakout madness. Here's two of the shirt designs I've done for this gaggle of scuzzes.


I did a "select" shirt for Threadless in 2006. Behold the Party Goblin

GENGHIS TRON 2007-2008

Here's a couple designs I've done for the band Genghis Tron.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


This is a toy design I did for Jamungo. Cloven Poof- Horny biker demon with bad acne.

és FOOTWEAR 2007-2008

I've done a few designs for és footwear over the years. Here's one called Mongo. 

Every once in awhile I'll do work that never gets produced, here's an example. I was asked to do 5 shirts based on 5 different cities. I spent about 4 weeks on the project and when I was done, the marketing folks had decided in that time that they weren't interested in the "monster" thing that season. In any case, I still got paid but these designs ended up in Limbo.


I made this design back in March of 2005. It was pretty much one of my major steps towards doing shirt graphics regularly. It's a tribute to Providence's master of cosmic horror, H.P. Lovecraft.

It's available for purchase every now and then when I feel up to printing more from Armageddon Record Shop in Providence, RI.