Tom Nardone is a little nervous about his neighbors this Halloween.

He's not sure how thrilled they'll be with his burning, barfing, bleeding pumpkins.

Nardone, who lives in a Detroit suburb, recently moved from "a really arty neighborhood," which welcomed his mutated gourds, to "a fancy-schmancy town," he said. "I don't know what the neighbors will think."

Nardone, 37, president of an Internet retail company, is chief executive mutilator at ExtremePumpkins.com, a Web site that he created to counter the proliferation of bland, cute, "Martha Stewart-y" pumpkins that dominate the Halloween decor scene.

His demented designs include cannibal, roadkill-eating, electrocuted, drowning-in-a-bag, brain-surgery, moldy-beard, radioactive and "my head is on fire" pumpkins.

Nardone, a father of three kids younger than 3, is particularly proud of his latest creation: the crying-baby-with-soiled-diaper pumpkin.

Particularly egregious to Nardone are painted pumpkins, usually sold in supermarkets, that sport colorful cheeks, smiles and eyelashes and are useless for lighting up. Jack-o'-lanterns, he said, "should have flames and require knives."

What makes a pumpkin extreme? "Anything that is disgusting, gross or frightening," he said. Or blazing.

Nardone's site generated so much buzz that the Penguin publishing company contacted him about writing a book.

"Extreme Pumpkins: Diabolical Do-It-Yourself Designs to Amuse Your Friends and Scare Your Neighbors," a paperback that came out in September and has already gone through several printings, contains detailed directions for making 20 of Nardone's favorite extreme pumpkins. Much of the information is available on the Web site, but the book packages the instructions with lots of extras.

For example, along with stunning/shocking (depending on your sense of humor) color photographs, readers learn how to create pyrotechnic effects with kerosene, charcoal lighter fluid and glow sticks. The book also offers tips on carving techniques and tools.

Nardone favors power tools. He dismisses common kitchen knives, recalling childhood memories of anguished attempts to form triangle eyes and round mouths that instead resembled jagged gashes. Plus, he said, power tools are essential "because I'm lazy. I don't want to spend a lot of time carving pumpkins."

His power tool kit includes a jigsaw (for smooth cuts and irregular curves), reciprocating saw (for deep cuts and tough flesh), router (for flaying) and drill (for perfect holes). Non-electric steak knives and giant spoons are recommended for detail work, cleanup and goop removal. For those without a power arsenal from Sears, Nardone suggests hand tools that work too, including pumpkin-carving kits available in stores.

Handy sidebars are scattered throughout the book, such as instructions for disposing of a pumpkin carcass, preparing fake blood using household items like cornstarch and corn syrup, roasting pumpkin seeds, and making caramel onions (fool your friends, who will think that they're apples).

Nardone also provides disturbing but entertaining trivia about mold, electrocution, decaying bodies, roadkill and other topics related to his pumpkins' personalities.

Or check out pumpkin haikus and a chart that lists what your pumpkin's characteristics reveal about you. For example, if your pumpkin is huge, "you have too much self-esteem"; if it's lopsided, "you've considered plastic surgery."

Nardone, who began experimenting with Halloween yard decorations in 1995 when he bought a house, started off with mangled scarecrows before turning to pumpkins. Each year, he carves from 20 to 50 pumpkins for public demonstrations and media appearances, and sets up 10 or so at his home on Halloween night.

One that works well for TV crews, he said, is the brain-surgery pumpkin, which features brains made of cream-colored expanding foam insulation erupting from the pumpkin's top.

His signature creation, the puking pumpkin, is "the epitome of easy to make," Nardone said. Just scalp the pumpkin and remove half its guts (seeds, membranes, etc.); carve eyes, nose and a gaping mouth; then pull some of the remaining guts through the mouth. Variation: Make the guts even more gross by adding a can of chili or strained peas.

A fan favorite, Nardone said, is the cannibal pumpkin — a menacing monster pumpkin ingesting a baby one (it's pictured on the front of the book). People are intrigued with the design "because they like big pumpkins but have no idea what to do with them," he said.

A sure-fire winning entry for office-sponsored carving contests, Nardone said, is the burger pumpkin. To create a poppy-seed bun, cut a pumpkin in half and glue the seeds on it, then fill it with 2.5 pounds or more of real ground beef along with lettuce, tomatoes and other fixings. Do not, he said, put this supersized hamburger outside unless you want a visit from all the neighborhood varmints.

Through his Web site, Nardone holds an extreme pumpkin contest each year, inviting people to send photos of their Halloween handiwork. He receives about 200 entries each year and posts the best 20 or so on the site.

Many submissions, he said, "are pretty impressive, but some look just like Cinderella's pumpkin. I'm like, Did you not see the Web site?'"

The book also includes safety tips (e.g., "Don't ever put a pumpkin on your lap to carve it" and "If you need to burn stuff, always do it outside"), and emphasizes that these projects are not for children.

Nardone said all the sidebars he included in the original manuscript didn't make the final cut, including "10 Facts You Didn't Know About the Church of Satan." (For example, "Instead of the Eucharist, you get cookies.")

Penguin Books, he said, thought that the list would offend people.

Instructions for Nardone's satanic pumpkin, with a long red chili pepper for a tongue, begin on page 83.

On the Net: www.extremepumpkins.com.