Advanced Praise for my cerebral meat "Zak Ferguson is the love child of no one and nothing, a self-made mutation, an unstoppable force, a literary outlaw of underground fiction. Every page of My Cerebral Meat pulsates with anarchic energy." Paul Curran (Author of Generation Bloodbath) She puts the gun to the side of her head, the left temple and pulls the trigger. She staggers, as if the bullet hadn’t just travelled through skin, muscle, matter, bone, brain, blood, vessels, arteries, and come out the other side. A smile creeps into her usually tight-lipped plastic surgery lookalike facial construction. She then falls. Crumbles. And then dies. Spasms kick in and her legs judder, kick, shakes. The blood isn’t gushing, it is merely leaking, with occasional pipe burst styled gushes. She didn’t want to fuck, she wanted the gun, and by wanting the gun, she put on the fuck persona, and it didn’t lure me out, not to the degrees I had expected, but lured the gun from its holster, slipping into my waistband, poking up, the hilt offering her a glimpse of that of which she had never had, and the gun well and truly delivered what she had always wanted. A bullet in her brain. A true fuck. Penetrative without phallus. An explosion without getting impregnated. A release better than any orgasm she could ever attempt at performing or attaining and expressing from herself. She fucked herself vicariously through that metal tool of destruction and war. She relocated the politics of gun ownership and their place in society. She had reconstructed everything we know about guns and their usages and purposes by using it as a transcendental fuck that brought her closer to death and peak existence. Entering a state whilst a foreign body, not made of meat, or extended from a male, was travelling, pushing, forcing, making way, shoving her feelings, her aches, her traumas, her experiences out. The exiting of the bullet was smeared in every foolish thing she had done. The bullet