The Impotence of Being Nickolaus

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In his latest whinefest, attention whoring, incoherent rambling, Nickistiltskin regales us with his latest bad idea: his new full length non fiction piece (of tripe).

Two artists came forward to wanting to illustrate the book,

I’m not sure wanting to cover it in graffiti rife with penises is the same thing, but hey, it’s his delusion.

 I will be doing some of the illustration duties.

Yes, because his artwork is so much better than his writing. This is much like saying dog poop is better than cat poop.

The background of the body of the book is my illustration from 2000.

So he won’t even being doing anything new, but recycling past bad work. At least when the Fremen in Dune recycled their own urine it was useful.

 and taking pictures that were taken by the ex-room mate of me and pictures that were taken as I was going out to Scott Davidson’s birthday bash in 2011 as C. Pacione took the picture of me in the full denim and a leather blazer that my cousin loaned me as I was staying with them in their Ravenswood condo.

So he’s either confused about what taking pictures means, or he’s taking pictures of other pictures. In either event, nothing scream bad ass horror author like a blazer in a condo. totally goth!

 I am looking for artwork that is a balance between Tourniquet and Cradle of Filth with the dark imagery of their music and lyrics portray.

So he wants illustrators to rip off the work of other people? Yeah, that will go down well.

This is not going to be an easy project to pull off

The only thing he can pull off is…nah, that’s too easy.

I am going to introduce my name logo for this book in this post here so you get to see the ominous nature of the logo for the book.

The fact he’s writing anything is ominous enough, but want to guess what isn’t in the post like he said?

 I am doing everything via HTML here.

Geocities graphics coming right up!

The hard part is getting all the artists in tune with what I am trying to accomplish with this masterpiece.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!!!! Masterpiece!! Wait, I need to catch my breath! He can’t even get in tune with being coherent, much less get an artist worth a lick of salt to understand his utter ineptness.

 The full length ties together Collectives, Collected, An Eye In Shadows, and Dirty Black Winter — then the anthologies will be tied together.

Oh you naughty devil, always thinking of bondage. I imagine them bound together in a sleepsack that  only shows stains under blacklight.

 It is the Nickolaus Pacione companion as written by Nickolaus Pacione himself.

lolwut? Lloyd too busy to put it together?

 As for Melany, you know nothing about my friends in Chicago.

Nicky, we all know your friends in Chicago: they consist of your left and right hand.

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Heart of A Poet, Mind of Roadkill (with talent to match)

The first sale I ever made was a poem for the anthology DEATH IN COMMON.  While the antho is no longer in print, my poem is available in my sampler DETRITUS. It was probably the hardest I’d ever worked on anything in my life. There were probably 20 drafts and half as many versions.  The editor (and a friend) Rich Ristow was incredibly helpful and patient, making my contribution FORGOTTEN SON something I take much pride in.

Nikita also wrote a poem. While it’s not as bad as some other work I’ve reviewed…oh who am I kidding, it’s shit. The piss poor writing aside, it also details his feelings about 9/11. As the anniversary draws closer, I thought it appropriate to critique: THE SEASONS OF BLACK SEPTEMBER. A big thank you to Lewis for pointing this out to me.

Note: All misspellings and double commas (!) are from Nicky. 

Prologe: Reminders of Forever

no more
one more
emptiness
that I cannot ever tell,,
no more
one more

No more, yes! One more? Dammit. For someone who frequently uses expressions like I cannot ever tell, you never seem to stop babbling.

no more
one more
one more horror in the sleep
no more
one more

Patterns I am sensing. Talent, I am not.

years to come — cemetery graves,

As opposed to say,  the bakery graves.

I watch the towers fall
I watch the many die
no more, one more
one more mourning

I’m going to guess he had a rainman like obsession with one more.  Nothing wrong with repetition if it serves a point. If it’s the only words you know however…

I. Clay and Dust

I am one — yet no one, 

Can’t argue with that.

when angels cry their blood,,
only then we begin — crucified,,
impaled by our thoughts — slaved,
lead into salvations — enslaved,,

I’m not sure he knows the difference between crucifixion and impalement.  I’d settle for either rather than have him go on. And yet he does, trooper of turds that he is.

dying — this is my suffication,
horror — flames melting my flesh,,
decay — blackness of hell around me,,,

Not sure what suffication is, but it can’t be any worse than an eternity of having this read to me over and over.

melting flesh — flowing blood, clay and dust,,
full blood moon — raising brighter in black,,

Melting brain overflowing with illiterate scibblings.  full stomach about to raise and splatter.

II. Ashes and Blood Flow

when we allow all the blood flow,,
the question without the reason,, 

Blood flows, that’s what blood does (along with other amazing things but I won’t bore you with my lack of scientific tidbits), but what is with these double and triple commas? No doubt he’ll have some excuse though it still boils down to lack of knowledge of and talent.

death in the end is only the beginning,,
take the tour of hell my friend — here it is

Could have told me that in the beginning and saved me from reading this. Fucker.

III. Untold Omen

dying tomorrows, lost my sorrow,,
of what hope is sinking forever,, 

My hope of you making sense sank long ago. I know the feeling.

where our truth turned into the lie,,

Or in your case where the lie turned into a greater lie.

IV. Seasons of Rust

as it comes where I walk alone, 

I could say something really disgusting about this, but then I’d never sleep again. Suffice to say everything he does is alone.

fires — were we have no more control,,,
time — as it ticks slowly down into night,,,
horrors — as they cannot be defined,,,

Crap, we’re back to the undefined again. Though if a word could ever describe this work, undefined is as good as any.

V. Stygian Skies

do we see inside our own demise
gathering in the travels to stygian 

Umm, yeah, I got nothing for this bit of nonsense.

as it remains the memories of the day of Black September,,,

The best I can suggest is remember those who lost their lives, but forget this turgid, incomprehensible, waste of time. It does far more of a disservice than anything else in recent memory.

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Getting Submissions The Pacione Way

First, you start by posting a self pic giving the camera your stubby middle finger. Follow this up by making a face as if you just pooped your pants. Third, make sure it’s so low res that it appears blurry and blotchy (though in this case, it’s an improvement). Since he’ll scream if I use the picture here, go take a quick look. http://unclefossil.wordpress.com/ Note: I am not responsible for any ill effects you may succumb to by viewing said photo. Proceed at your own risk! 

Once that’s done, refer people to wikipedia because you’re too incompetent to say what you want. Assure potential submissions that it will take 5 editors to make it coherent, then confuse them by calling yourself an executive producer.

Also, make sure you let everyone know your crap will be the lead story, no matter how much better other stories may be (let’s face it, anything will be better than his).

Refer people to a social network to get ideas for characters. Since Nicky has no clue how to create a character, he thinks everyone is as ignorant as himself.

Finally, pimp your own work in a lame attempt to make sales.

Do all that, and you can be as successful as Lake Fossil Press!

Leave Ablert Alone!

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Yes, the spelling on Albert was intentional, as that’s how Nikita once spelled his own middle name on one of his poorly formatted, unreadable pile of printing he calls a book.

I got an email from a friend, a non writer , I might add, asking why it is I keep picking on Pacione.  “He’s obviously unstable and mentally unbalanced, it’s a little sad.”

To this I respond: Yes, it is a little sad. However, any sympathy I may have ever felt for him, evaporated when he continually spews his hate. There is a big difference between being mentally ill and a raging asshole. There’s a difference between being someone who needs help and someone who not only doesn’t want it, but thinks you’re persecuting him for offering any assistance. I will always sympathize with someone who has a mental illness, but not with someone who uses that as an excuse to behave the way he does. When he attacks people, calls them names, threatens them-that’s not mental illness. That’s assholism.

In 1993 I was diagnosed with Major Depression Recurrent.  I was given a prescription for antidepressants and have taken them since then.  That’s 20 years.  Not once did I ever blame anything on my depression. I’m fully cognizant of everything I say and do, and so is Nicky.  It would be so easy to blame something, anything-for my mistakes, however it all boils down to me knowing what I am doing.  I accept responsibility for my actions, and when I can, I try and rectify them. Sometimes that works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

Nikita, on the other hand, will blame everything and everyone, and not look at the real problem-himself.  In fact if it was just the rage he exhibits, or the the name calling he loves to use (albeit badly), it might be different.

But he preys on others. He’ll use and abuse unknown writers, those just starting out and don’t know any better. He’ll refuse to pay them, publish their stories without permission and then go after them relentlessly when he gets called out on it.

He calls himself a writer, yet has no clue about grammar, spelling, pacing, plotting, or any of the basic skills one needs to be an effective author.  He’ll self publish because no one in their right mind would want their name attached to any of his projects. He’s a parasite. An uncarng, unthinking, untalented blight on the horror community.  Google his name and his past doings are there for the perusing. I’ve only had to deal with him for 6 years, others have had to do it for far longer.

He will never change, and as long as he doesn’t, it’s my duty to warn people away from the type of business practices he utilizes.

As my meme above states, Nickolaus Pacione, you are NOT a writer!

How To Be A Professional The Pacione Way!

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In a response to something I posted on his blog, La Femme Nikita responded with this:

I am not a liar or a fraud. I just don’t publish the faggot nor will I read works from the faggot. I strongly make this suggestion, please refrain from trying to stop people from submitting to my anthologies. It is not professional.

The first thing to notice is his use of faggot twice. Nothing screams professional more than slurs about someone’s sexual orientation.  What else makes someone a professional according to Nickolaus Ablert Pacione? Let’s take a look at just a few things.

First, let’s establish that he’s been a “professional” for a very long time. I’ll go back to a blog entry I wrote on 12/3/08. That’s right, six years ago. That was when he talked about taking a shit on the grave of late writer Joe McGee, a man who in death still has more talent than Nikita ever will.  His response to myself and others in the comments, calling him on it reeks of…well, something.

Melany — I hope you have a miserable social life, well as a matter of fact you can’t hang onto a boyfriend longer than six months after you left me. And yes I am getting published in more places, just I haven’t finished writing new material to send off but should be finishing off I.O.W.A. That anti-abortion yarn that someone pirated the shit out of on AutoLame.org.
You really need to shut your mouth more often because you’re revealing too much of someone’s personal life. You’re just a coat-tail rider as much as this Scott faggot is. Your mother dying is the best day in my life. I wanted to throw a dance on her grave party. As you assholes attempted to do with my publishing company but you sadly failed to see that happen. I already been published a few times within the year but the print appearance is long overdue. Getting published on (link deleted) helped me a little bit.

And a little bit down he adds:

Nah I just got done pissing in your dead boyfriends urn.

Being a professional also entails being banned from several, websites and forums, not just once but over and over again (Goodreads three times and the yuku forums twice); having more blogs closed due to hate speech than I can count; consistently referring to women as bitches and cunts, threatening people with violence (in spite of running away like a little girl when confronted); challenging writers to fist fights-the list goes on ad infinitum.

And the last thing I’ll touch on is his new submission call. A true professional will put it up on Tumblr (because everywhere else doesn’t want his crap there), single space it in the tiniest font possible, and then not even put an email address to send a submission.

If all of that is professional, but warning people away from that behavior in a so-called publisher is unprofessional, I’ll be proud to be wear the mantlle of unprofessional any day.

Evil Airs- Another Lesson In How Not to Write by Nickolaus Pacione

Now that I’ve fully recovered from the grueling task of wading through FANDOM WEIRDNESS, I feel strong enough to wade into the diseased depths of the flatulent ferret’s writing once more. This time it’s EVIL AIRS, inspired by the time he got-wait for it-bronchitis! I’m already trembling with fear (the fear that this may do me in).

I had a bizarre dream when I passed out the past few nights.

So did I, it was so bizarre I thought that opening sentence made sense.

I found myself in a room full of mirrors sort of a hall of mirrors to describe this

Well which is it, a hall or a room? Christ, it’s not that difficult to pick one, is it?

The thoughts as they dwell inside which it is written as it is here — the narrative being as one lays within the covers of the bed of the hotel overlooking the outskirts of Joliet and Rockdale, Illinois.

The nausea as it dwells in my stomach is but a grain of sand in the endless beach that is Pacione’s  wretched writing.  I already need a lay down and it’s barely the second paragraph.

Where in the darkness that the coughing can be heard — loud enough to shatter the glass in the rooms.

Apparently this is the Ella Fitzgerald of coughing!

From the sleep are heard in the whispers of strangers — where in the night of silence had been shattered by sounds of the coughing in the sense of the mind, the impaling of ones lungs.

So I put that into Google translator and it said no such language known.

the description could be similar to the hotel and a hospital where it is set up like a movie theater;

Tip: before writing a story know where the damned thing is set, is it a room, a hall, a hotel, a hospital or a movie theater? All that coughing would piss people off in a movie theater. Kind of like people get pissed you call yourself a writer when they read your work.

the pages induced from the medicated slumber as they pen into the narratives from the being in the shadow of time. Understanding as it comes being from the drug induced sleep knowing that comes from the dreams —

Who wants drugs? Who needs drugs to understand this? Seriously, all I know is there’s some louder fucker coughing and breaking glass.

Foreboding minds — as one sleeps from the dark transcending into the waning daylight.

Foreboding: you use that word and I do not think it means what you think it means.

The stark descriptions of which being from the hospital and the hotels being that one can hear the vitals of the next room fading from the neighboring bed.

I need my vitals checked. I mean really, what the hell does any of this mean?

the hard coughing that impale the ribs as a rattler biting and injecting into the bloodstream.

As a rather biting and injecting what? Is it the Turd Raper of Campbell Hollow come to haunt you?

Passing slumber of the eyes which open the gates of the bizarre dreams that come among the darkening majestic — the patterns descending from the blacker cosmos; from the thoughts of which are the defining sleep of years.

So all 2200 words of this “story” is about someone being sick and and having bad dreams as they drift in and out of sleep.  I’ll be awake all night.

For one of his novels, William Burroughs took the manuscript, cut it in four pieces and then put all the pieces back together-but not in order-and THAT still makes more sense than this.

Of course Burroughs was a great writer, and Pacione is barely literate, so there is that.

Love, Nikita Style

Nikita,

I appreciate your unrequited love for me. I know how you must yearn for me, to the exclusion of others. While strong women obviously frighten you, you seem to have no problem making your intentions know with me. Your love letter to me via email is a perfect example. You even titled the message, Go Molest A Goat.

You write: .  You started fucking with me by sending me penny payments via paypal.com

Sweet, sweet boy, you were begging everyone for help, I was merely responding to your wishes. You should be grateful you got that much, as it’s far more than you’ll ever make from your writing.

and you wanted to harass the lead author on the 12th issue to get him to withdraw.

I’m not even sure who your lead victim was, let alone harass them. Being associated with you, is harassment enough.

Why does it bother you that I refuse to publish gays?

It doesn’t. Even your beliefs don’t bother me. What does is you being a raging asshole of untold proportions. Even the Westboro Baptist Church would find you repellent.

I turned into a 4theluv because of a family tragedy.

and you try to turn any tragedy into gain, so please don’t give us that lie.

       You fucked with me on Shocklines.

Those were fun times, weren’t they? Too bad you forgot your password, we could do it again.

You wanted my head

No one wants head from you, really. No one.

A lot in the mid-list mass market cocksucking party

You certainly are fixated on that, aren’t you? I guess that explains your obsession with me.

I said fuck you to them years ago.

And they’ve been silent ever since? Or have they gone on to bigger and better things, while you still can’t make one dime from LFP?

You are just pissed off because I refuse to publish a faggot.   When it comes to Lake Fossil Press, faggots need not apply.

Or anyone with self respect, talent, or a one functioning brain cell.

And then, my curly cue french fried love dumpling, you spent almost 1K words of professing your most intimate feelings. I hardly know what to make of it!

Look jackhole, I paid Ray Faraday Nelson $30.00 for his story.

A whole 30 dollars? Wow, LFP must really be raking the dough in! That’s how much a legend is worth to you? We should probably message him on FB and verify he did get paid, as we all know you don’t like to pay writers, let alone tell them you’re using their work.

I was a paying market from the very beginning. I offered payment to some of the writers of the first Tabloid Purposes, they actually refused payment.

And I was the King of Siam. Guess which one more people would believe? Let me get my crown.

I published three 4theluv anthologies so far.

So that means you weren’t a pay market from the beginning as you haven’t put anything out since your grandparents deaths. You said yourself, that’s what forced you into becoming a 4theluv market. You’re lying and making excuses again.

 One of the authors on the second namesake immortalized my old address after she read Apt. #2W.

Having your address on a restraining order is not being immortalized.

So you want to libel my company you faggot, I will fucking bury you.

I don’t want to do anything with your company, merely telling the truth. And as for burying me, I’m going to be cremated, but am sure my family will be glad to let you pick up the expense.

In the end (no pun intended), it just wouldn’t work out Nikita. You see, I have intelligence, wit and talent. And you’re…you.

Cordially,

Scott