Maybe you come to Kill Pretty for the graffiti. Maybe you crack the spine for the skateboarding and celebrity interviews, but along the way you’re going to read something by one of our writers about being abducted by the Teletubbies and having sex with all of them. That’s just the way it goes. Steve Torres reports to us from Parts Unknown.
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So you’ve been reading Kill Pretty for years. You spend all your hard earned cash on the print issue and you’re not really sure what the publishing schedule for the online version is but you know you like it, or at the very least you tolerate its existence. But isn’t there something missing from Kill Pretty? Aside from a more regular schedule and, I don’t know, more nudity. It’s you dum-dum! Do you write personal essays that your mom would disown you if she read them? Do you illustrate weird cartoons that would get you interred in Shutter Island? A third thing that’s also weird and fits in the format of a website? Then send it over!
Read MoreBeing a web slinging super hero isn’t as easy you’d think. A ild case of the beer shits and alack for real human connection come standard with the job. It’s 11:30 and my phone won’t stop ringing. Kill Pretty wants an interview with the greatest protector this city has even known and I can’t find my fucking pants. Not feeling up to going under ground without being elevated, I down two tall cans and smoke a spidey joint before carring on with my endeavor.
I ride the train for free because this city owes me. There are countless citizens I’ve saved from the clutches of monotony while strolling down the boulevard with nothing to stare at but souvenir shops and hobos pissing in the corner. When I arrive at the Highland/Hollywood station there’s a crispness oin the air with a hint of desperation, and maybe rat poop. No sign of Megatron, Iron Man, or Silver Spray Paint All Over his Face And Suit Man. They must be upstairs saving society for dollar bills like modern day mercenaries who you hire for your shitty tourist pictures hen family comes to visit you and… oh shit I blacked out for a minute.
I might have drank too much… or maybe I’m still just drunk from the night before… or maybe this weed is laced with some other shit ‘cause mother fuckin’ kids are lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of drunk asshole instead of the hero they all worship. They’ve made movies about me god damnit! I’m givin’ out thumbs ups tellin’ kids not to do drugs knowing that’s their only escape from reality unless they get bit by a radioactive spider like me… Shit, I’m doing it again. Okay I just gotta find Nacho and that bearded bastard from last night that agreed to meet me here and get this over with so I can return to my web.I’m 45 minutes late ut I know they wouldn’t leave a spider hanging…
Issue 6 of Kill Pretty may be our grimiest yet. Case in point: Squeeze The Trigger by gonzo photographer Richard Perkins and surrealist writer Jacob Shelton. With photos by Perkins and words by Shelton, this booze fueled look at the hidden world of slime beneath normal, every day America will shock and delight. Here’s a taste, but if you want to see the whole thing you’ve got to pick up the magazine.
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On Fridays we tend to run a funny little article about criminals burning in hell or people pretending to puke but today it’s all business because we need help buying a specific brick. We can’t tell you what we’ll be using the brick for, but we can say that it needs to be dense, easy to lift, and heavy enough to crush someone’s head into a big pile of goo. Let’s shop!
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Here at Kill Pretty we love crime. It’s the best. Regulars and normals may have an aversion to theft, thieves, and crime-doers but not us. That being said, we also believe that some people deserve to burn in Hell for eternity for their sins against Heaven and possibly even Christ. We’ve rounded up five thieves who deserve to burn in Hell, but not for the crime of committing crime.
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Whoa. Time flies y’all. It’s so crazy that it’s been more than 30 years since Star Trek: The Next Generation gifted viewers with that sexy ass, goo covered Klingon demon Fek’lhr. Was it even legal in 1991 to put something so hot on TV?
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It’s the Fourth of July! Go eat a firework and watch hot dogs explode or whatever.
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It’s tough to write a new article for Kill Pretty every week. Aside from coming up with a funny concept our writers also have to find a tone of voice that’s both disaffected and slightly acerbic. It’s not an easy job. Seeing how America is sliding into the July 4th weekend and Kill Pretty’s office are located in America, if you count Los Angeles as America (ha ha ha, a little joke), we figured that if we’re going to coast on one of our classic Friday articles then we might as well do it when no one is online. Without further ado here are a few pictures of people who don’t feel so well and some funny little commentary to go with it.
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I am playing Cyberpunk 2077 to finally achieve my boyhood dream: I will be an e-girl. A violent, murderous, sword-wielding e-girl. This is an excerpt from my time in the world of Cyberpunk 2077. To read about the full transformation buy a copy of Kill Pretty Issue Six.
Read MoreAs of now the cats are quiet. Maybe they’re asleep. Maybe they’ve moved on from the sidewalk outside my front door to catch a mouse for breakfast. Is that a thing that cats really do, catch mice for breakfast? Fry them up with eggs to make their mouse omelets? Or do they simply feast on whatever isn’t rotting in an alley? The cats who lounge outside my apartment at night are demons straight from Hell so nothing would surprise me.
At night I hear the cats mewling. It starts with QB1, the alley cat who’s called this neighborhood home long before I moved in. Am I the interloper? Is that how he sees me? I don’t really care, I’d just like him to shut up. Back to the beginning of this paragraph: QB1 stalks the edges of my home, meowing to alert his friends to his presence. “I’m here. It’s time to begin our ghoulish ceremony.” He repeats this sentence for close to an hour before the others arrive. When his fellow cats come to his side it’s all at once as if they dropped out of the sky or teleported into their preferred area of ritual. It would be awe inspiring if it weren’t happening feet away from my front door.
The ever growing mass of cats sits in the shape of a Maltese Cross, their faces inches away from one another, from the moment that the sun is nothing more than a glow in the western sky to the moment when the sky turns purple. The brief transition from night to day. The cats sometimes speak telepathically. About what, I don’t know. However many of their hours spent in front of my apartment are spent hissing and growling in strange accents. Maybe German? Maybe something older? I’ve stopped shooing the cats away. They return more powerful each night to continue their ritual. I’ve slowly adjusted to their presence even if they continue to make me uncomfortable. Am I under their spell? Has my nervous system adjusted to the felines? Am I smoking too much weed? I’m afraid there’s no satisfactory ending here. This is only a report from the streets of Los Angeles.
You can follow Jacob Shelton on Twitter and Instagram or read more of his work in Mindfuck or in like every issue of Kill Pretty.
Okay everyone relax. Seriously. Just be cool. You have to be chill because the rooster is here and he's super pissed!
FUCK! This was always going to happen but why is it happening today? Ugh. Why is the rooster so mad? Did you do something to the rooster? You did, didn't you?
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