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They have burned books before. Blood Tits is the one so hot, it'll catch fire on its own. A face-melting barrage of extreme porn and ultraviolence that'll catapult Humanity to new echelons of self-comprehension and heal a broken world. The only summary that can do it justice is summary execution. Recipes inside.
"Beneath boiling skies of red, Lucien Thorne at last obtained a clear view of his adversary. She radiated infernal majesty. Blood covered every part of her body, dripping from her moist funbags and ham-hams."
"Every part but her eyes, where in the white there glowed the red irises of an albino rabbit."
"She smiled."
Cruora. In a world askance to ours, she rules an empire of gore. Reading Robert W. Chambers' 1895 work The King in Yellow inspired her to create her own stage show:
B L O O D T I T S
A Burlesque Metal Öpera in 6.66 Parts
Her costume in this stage-bloodsoaked sexxxtravanganza is that she wears nothing but blood. In the interests of modesty, however, it is a lot of blood. There's also Lucien Thorne. A man so driven, he owns a leather trenchcoat with a swallowtail cutout that lets you see his ass, but is too poor to buy a shirt. He is a drawing brought to life by the death wish of a child. His quest? To end the world's pain. They make out and kill God.
Blood Tits is a novel published in instalments. What you get with this, the first installment, is 8729 words of the wildest freak shit to ever sear itself into your brain—until the next instalment.
"A landmark work of novelistic ambition." —The Journal of Important Literature
"The next Homestuck." —News City News
