Randy X. Porter, a strapping and dynamic young writer, burst quite unexpectedly onto the literary scene this year. Honestly, no one was expecting him...and if they were, they should have prepared snacks, as he was quite hungry when he arrived and there weren't even crackers. A man of great passion and enormous talent, he startled readers with his retention of trivial details and useless minutiae. His fixation with the female breast, combined with his love of sleazy 1960s detective and spy novels, gives him a two-fisted writing style that few can match...and fewer still even attempt to.



According to his highly-fictional author biography, Randy was born on a pirate ship in the West Indies in the year 1567, where he was traded to the natives for tobacco and exotic spices. He made his way to England, where he ghost-wrote and punched up scripts for his illiterate actor friend William Shakespeare. In a freak snow-boarding accident (having just invented the sport), he fell into suspended animation for nearly four hundred years and was revived by Sherpas in 2002. In the decade since, he's been struggling to make his way as a fast-food cook and writer of improbable fiction.



His other interests include an unhealthy obsession with manual typewriters and a love of seeing monkeys dressed in human clothes. "Nothing funnier than seeing a monkey wearing human clothes," he might often be heard to say. More frequently than not, his writing reflects the issues that haunt and concern him. There will almost always be a highly-intelligent cat, or a slutty large-breasted woman, a monkey wearing human clothes, or a typewriter. And death, lots of death. These are the things that matter to him.



