The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

REMEMBER 85 By Marc Shapiro Screaming guitars that made ears bleed. Drugs out the wazoo in firmly packed blunts and finely drawn lines. Women standing in line, legs wide open, falling all over themselves to partake of a real rock and roll ride. This was the stuff of Jesse Brand’s dreams. The rest was his reality. His nightmare Jesse woke from a troubled sleep with a shutter and a start, hung his head over a cot that passed for a bed and puked his guts out into a plastic bucket. The bucket was the latest in a seemingly never ending addition that had marked his physical and emotional decline. It was added when Jesse realized that he did not have the strength or desire to make it to the toilet when his every morning rush of upchuck said hello to the day. Nor did he have what it took to empty the bucket on a regular basis. The stench was palpable. The stench was something he had long since gotten used to. His innards now sufficiently purged, Jesse rolled back onto his cot...

End Times at Rock ’n’ Roll Joey’s By Madison McSweeney There were about eight of us left, after it was all over. Me, Mallory, and Brent, and Fred and his three goons. And then there was Rock’n’Roll Joey. Eight of us, then, plus the cooks – but they weren’t really… us , anymore, ya know? The day we crawled out of the fallout shelter, the ground was still slick with a green goo. When we stumbled upon the last surviving strip mall, Fred took a crowbar to the door of the Dollarama, opening up an oasis of non-perishables and soaps. We had it pretty good. It was Brent’s idea to scope out the diner next door. The Rock’n’Roll Joey’s was connected to the Dollarama, on the very edge of the strip mall; Brent figured they might have some edible food lying around, and with any luck, a working oven. The front door was stuck tight, so we went around the back, and Fred once again forced the door open with that crowbar. As we crossed the threshold, I was surprised to hear the soft sou...