Astonishing Adventures Magazine Issue 2 by Astonishing - issuu
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Table of Contents Editoral Rants
John Donald Carlucci...............................................................................3 Biographies..............................................................................................4
Auslander: A Taste of Treachery
Michael Patrick Sullivan..........................................................................6
Timothy Gallagher................................................................................83
Christian Dabnor..................................................................................100
The Original Pulp Monkey Racing Against the Rose Interview: Paul Malmont Conscience for Ransom Shallow End
Tigerbone Wine
I Want To Sleep With Humphrey Bogart Beauty and the Beast
Great Moments In Pulp TV Interview: Ron Fortier
Captain Smith and the Numbers Game
A Dish Best Served Cold
D.A. Madigan........................................................................................102
The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother Pulp Christmas
The Dark: Who’s Afraid of the Dark?
Art Cover “The Dark”
Roll Over
Beauty and the Beast
The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother The Dark: Who’s Afraid of the Dark?
Issue #2 Volume I Eiditor in Chief John Donald Carlucci EditorJDC@Gmail.com
Editor Timothy Gallagher
EditorTimGallagher@Gmail.com
Editor Katherine Tomlinson AAMDragonlady@Gmail.com
Layouts: Roger Alford Publicity: Greg Stephens Website: Joe Richardson This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. All right belong to the original artists and writers for their contributed works. December 15th, 2007
“Story Title”
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Editorial Rant
Well, this sucker is a little late. Sorry about that little pulpsters. Life happens and we wanted some very special things for our baby here. The print version is now available at Amazon! Whoo! I can’t tell you how happy this makes all of us at AAM. I also want to say that there are changes going on here at AAM. Editor Tim is now the EIC with Katherine taking his place and I’ll be moving to publisher because we are expanding. Look out for the AAM’s new sister magazine Enchanting Tales From Hell. Yup, we are launching a pulpy little horror title. Whoo again! Also coming is our new book imprint Astonishing Adventures Books. Man, I must have scads of free time on my hands. When will I get enough time to play World of Warcraft? That priest of mine won’t get a mount all by himself. I also want to send out my deepest thanks for the excellent work from Joe Richardson with his magnificent webwork, clapping of the hands for Roger Alford and his wondeful layouts for the magazine, and the insideous PR from Greg Stephens! I also want to thank all of the artisans and writers who contributed to this issue. I hope we lived up to your expectations. One final thanks to Tim and Katherine. You guys are the wind beneath my wings - sniff. EIC JDC PS: I like the nude nouveau womin!
The Links Astonishing Adventures Magazine! Astonishingadventuresmagazine.com Submissions Guidelines Astonishingadventuresmagazine.com AAM STORE www.cafepress.com/aamagazine Myspace page www.myspace.com/astonishingadventures
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE
Biographies John Donald Carlucci
Editor-in-Chief and former boy-in-a-bubble, JDC continues to search the world for evil-doers and the perfect cup of hot chocolate. He thinks the evil-doers are hiding it from him. Not that everyone is out to get me. No, that would be paranoid. EditorJDC@gmail.com
Tim Gallagher
Editor Tim Gallagher, despite being a charter member and president of the He-Man Women Haters Club, constantly finds himself besieged by lust-crazed females. His most aggressive stalkers - Salma Hayek, Monica Bellucci, Gong Li, Tina Fey, Kristen Bell, Zhang Ziyi, Eva Green, Kim Kardashian, and Misses January through December - have been ordered by the Court not to come within 500 yards of him, and Tim is relieved to say they have all complied. Tim has the distinction of being the only person (outside the Mike Mignola universe) to be beaten-up by Hellboy. That’s right - Hellboy. Or more precisely, the heavy, 1/4 scale Hell-boy figure that stands on a shelf over Tim’s bed. Except for the night it decided it wanted to leap off the shelf and punch a sleeping Tim right in the head. Tim and Hellboy are no longer speaking to each other. When not crossing the globe battling the forces of evil, Tim relaxes in his secret sanctum, reading his prized pulps and comics, or watching Godzilla stomp the heck out of Tokyo for the umpteenth time. He can be reached at editortimgallagher@gmail.com, or at www. astonishingadventuresmagazine.com. Unless you’re one of those women on the list above. Then make no effort to contact Tim at all. EditorTimGallagher@Gmail.com
Katherine Tomerline
Katherine Tomlinson is an Army brat, an orphan, a former KGB operative code-name Katya), and a world traveler. (Only three of these statements are true.) AMMDragonLady@gmail.com
Shane Mullins
Shane Mullins is a “geek squad” consultant living in Virginia. He is a fan of pulp fiction, especially the “Black Mask” stories.
Kat Parish
Kat Parrish owns a used book store in Spokane, Washington and hosts a monthly gathering of pulp fiction
Biographies fans who call themselves “Juicers.” She thinks Stephen Collins has aged well.
Bryce Beattie
My name is Bryce Beattie, and I’m addicted to pulp. I got into it many years ago, and I just can’t break free. When I was a kid, some careless adult left a tape with several “The Shadow” shows lying around. After I listened to that, I was hooked. Pretty soon, audio just wasn’t enough and I moved on to to the paperback stuff. At first it was just detective fiction, then I started reading old Conan stories and yarns about John Carter of Mars. Now I’m pretty hopeless. I tried to quit once, but soon afterward put on a lot of weight, so I started back up. Now, I’m so deep into pulp fiction that I write my own. You can find it and more at my blog. www.storyhack.com
Christian Dabnor
At an early age, Christian Dabnor was captured by the Steam Pirate Captain Ronson. He was made to perform various musical numbers for the Captain’s amusement, until, the Captain was killed in a boiler accident. Scared that he might be blamed for the accident, he decided to make himself as obscure as possible, by working in IT in Cannock, England, land of trees, opticians and murder. Should you wish to contact him, his email is skidiot@ btinternet.com.
Margaret Ronald
Margaret Ronald grew up in rural Indiana and now lives outside Boston. She attended the Viable Paradise workshop in 2004 and is a member of BRAWL, a Boston writers’ group devoted to science fiction and fantasy. Her fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Realms of Fantasy, Helix, Fantasy Magazine, and Ideomancer.
Phil Beloin
Phil’s short fiction has appeared in Short Stuff for Grownups, The Storyteller, Words of Wisdom, and soon in NEWN and spintinglermag.com. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and children. He loves emails. Try him at zipp@snet.net.
Nate Clark
Nate Clark is 38, single, and baching it happily in Padua, aka Louisville. He was introduced to sci-fi by his father’s collection of old pulp ‘zines and E.E. ‘Doc’ Smith, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Andre Norton softcovers. You can read more of his insane ramblings at http://tfhf2.blogspot. com, or http://thegrassisbluer.blogspot.com.
Roger Alford
Roger Alford is a writer and filmmaker. His produced plays include two staged “radio dramas,” The City Burns at Night and The Sheik of Hollywood. He created the
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popular Internet mash-up video, Twilight Zone: Planet of the Apes, which Marc Scott Zicree (The Twilight Zone Companion) said was “great fun” and “genuinely plays like [an] episode” (evidenced by the number of YouTubers who think it’s real). His screenplay Blood in the Water (aka Storm Tide) is recommended by Script PIMP and was named a 2nd-round finalist in a Script Magazine Open Door Contest. Additional screenplays were named as quarter-finalists in the Screenwriting Expo Competition, and he’s hoping for great things with his latest “opus,” Gangland Hollywood (shameless plug). His work has been discussed in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, US News & World Report, The Dennis Miller Show (radio) and Inside Edition. Websites: hollywoodnoir.blogspot.com and www.lightningbugfilms. com.
Tony Sarrecchia
Artist and humorist extraordinaire. http://www.creativetony.com/ Please only contact the above contributors concerning serious business or polite conversation. No solicitation allowed.
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“A Taste of Treachery” By Michael Patrick Sullivan
T
he Auslander wasn’t entirely sure he was even in the right place and already he had deprived two men of some of their teeth. The dive seemed familiar two him. It was the kind of place where old, spent men go to hasten their death and numb the pain at the same time. Of the three sad examples he found in the dump, he was sure that the wrinkled, smelly mess at the far end of the bar had achieved that goal. Rather than be conspicuous by having a look around without drinking, the man with the white shock of hair and contrasting black trench opted to order something. He spoke just one word. “Beer.” There was a subtle suggestion of a second syllable in the word. A slight change in the vowel sound. It was enough the for the 4F-rated barman, who clearly wanted to go kick Nazi butt overseas as a form of legalized murder, to think that it was said with a German accent. He wasn’t wrong in noticing it. He was only wrong in bringing it up. That barman and a me-too drunkard who was itching to punch something would be seeking immediate dental care, after they woke up. The quick and definitive action must have been just enough to rouse the dead, as the man with cadaverous qualities at bar’s end raised his head, looked at the black and white man and struggled to mumble some words. “Who the hell are you?” He gave the only answer he ever gives. “Ich bin ein auslander.”
“Oh.” And the man returned to his own personal undiscovered country. Since waking up several weeks ago with no memory of who he was, a wallet full of false I.D.s and the nagging suspicion that, prior to regaining consciousness that night, he was on the wrong side of the biggest war the world had ever seen, The Auslander had unusual dreams. These dreams led him to places where he felt he was needed. Places where Hitler’s war machine had come stateside to commit acts of subterfuge, sabotage and murder. His most recent dream led him to seek out the brick-hole bar and its back hall. Outside a black-painted door, The Auslander stood silently and listened. He couldn’t make out the conversation being held behind the door over the sound of a boiler on its last legs. He did make out two words, though. The only words he needed to hear. “Sig heil.” He readied the Luger he’d taken from one Nazi agent unfortunate enough to have met with this lost son of the Fatherland and steeled himself. In the split second just before the strange foreigner busted through the door, he saw in his mind the flurry of bullets he would loose on those unsuspecting on the other side. Upon clearing the threshold, as the doorknob bounced off the interior wall with a sharp thud, The Auslander found that that is exactly what did not happen. A tall, stern-looking man in a black leather naval coat and jet black hair met his gaze. Before
“A Taste of Treachery” The Auslander could acquire a target and squeeze the trigger, the black-clad man spoke, “Major?” The word felt right. There were flashes in The Auslander’s mind upon hearing it. The sound of clicking heels. And this man’s face. This blackclad man’s face. There was a name as well, and he’d resolved to speak the name, for while it was familiar, he didn’t believe it belonged to him. If he was wrong, it might not bode well for a situation that finds him with a gun drawn. “Kurt.” ‘We were not expecting you, Herr Major.” The other men, all dressed not unlike longshoremen, stiffened in respect. “The operation has been put into place.” He knew it would be easy to kill those men where they stood, but perhaps it was too late. Events had been set in motion, and despite his dreams leading him to the Eastern Seaboard, to Philadelphia, and to a rat hole bar where German saboteurs were congregated, the dream did not reveal to him why. “Very good.” The Auslander slowly holstered his Luger under his coat. “This mission is very important to the Fuhrer.” The words came out smoothly to the ears of Kurt and his comrades. It didn’t change the fact that he felt unnatural saying them. “I’ve come to check on your progress.” “Surely you don’t mean to inspect—“ “Is that a problem?” “We dare not risk returning to the trap. We could reveal its presence.” “Of course,” The Auslander covered, “I didn’t realize you were so far ahead. Excellent work.” He smiled in satisfaction, belying the fact that his state of mind was the exact opposite. He had to find out what this trap was, what its target might be and how much time he has to locate and disable it. His only tool was the cover identity. His own identity, apparently. Of which he knows nothing. A cover identity that prevents him from simply asking for the information. He would have to piece together the information he needed from context in conversation. He would need to be
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who he once was and he might have to do it for an uncomfortable amount of time that, in truth, would be anything more than another minute. “It’s been some while, Kurt.” “Jawohl, Herr Major.” “Much has happened.” “The Indiana project?” “A regrettable failure.” “But one aspect of your grand plan.” “If you are through here…” Kurt dismissed his men and ordered them to radio silence; leaving The Auslander alone with a man he likely once called a colleague and perhaps even a friend. “We should talk.” The white-haired man pulled a chair to sit, but was stopped abruptly by the foreign agent. “Not here, Herr Major. I know a place. I think you’ll enjoy it.” The Auslander had spent the several sentences he’d exchanged with the Nazi saboteur mapping the room, performing a mental inventory of its contents with regard to what could be used as weapons if and when needed. It was now familiar ground to him, and the change of locale would strip him of what little tactical advantage he had. Resistance would be suspicious. He gritted his teeth behind his lips for a moment, steeled himself and said, “Let’s go.” Kurt had taken an automobile, likely by legal means so as not to arouse watchful eyes. In it, he and the man of black and white drove out of the city to a nearby suburb to a small building off the highway. Its style was that of an Austrian alehouse. There was no name on the building, but a space where there clearly had once been a sign. The only word to be seen on the building was the one made of neon tubes in the front window. “Open.” Kurt led his “colleague” inside and nodded to a barmaid who glanced upon him from serving another patron. She nodded and he proceeded directly to a corner booth. “Many of the residents in this area are descended from German and Austrian settlers. The food is here is just like home and there are no
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sidelong looks or glances.” The nameless man of mystery was put somewhat at ease by Kurt’s explanation. The constant paranoid awareness that ran though his mind as he tried to maintain his cover with the Nazi was not a new sensation to him. In his travels he strove to disguise his background, sometimes not as successfully as needed. It would not be a problem here. “Eisbein mit sauerkraut.” Kurt said to the barmaid as she stepped up to take their order. The Auslander was mildly surprised by his openness with the language. “Scweinebraten.” He said it almost without thinking. The dish must hold some meaning for him. A specialty of his mother’s perhaps. He could feel himself letting go a little too much, and while he risked carelessness in the face of a man who would likely kill him if he could read his thoughts, he could also feel parts of himself returning. The barmaid took her leave. Kurt spoke in his native German. “It’s good to let the guard down and relax. I found this to be very much a safe haven in that way.” The man in black and white nodded. “I can see that.” He was able to empathize all too well, having lived in the shadows, trying not to be noticed as he tracked down Nazi sabotage plots which he may well have designed. It appeared to The Auslander that his true, though lost, identity is that of Kurt’s superior officer. It was not unreasonable to think that he is the architect of the very plans he sought to destroy. The barmaid returned with two steins of beer. “Danke,” both men uttered nearly simultaneously. “There’s only one thing I like better than the sauerkraut here. Kurt gestured to the barmaid as she made her way to the kitchen. “Watching her walk away.” Kurt leaned to make the most of the opportunity. The white-haired man glanced only briefly, but nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid I have to turn our talk to that of…business. If only for a few moments.” “Of course. Hardly the time or place for a
purely social call, eh? A report then?” Kurt took a swig of beer and leaned back in his chair unevenly. “Your man in the Department of Navy came through.” If there had been wheels in his brain they would have screeched to an abrupt stop. Fortunately for the amnesiac foreigner there were no such wheels. As shocking as the revelation he just heard may have been, there was no time or allowance for reaction. He filed away that knowledge and this mole, or American traitor, would be dealt with another time “He clued us in to a new weapon of some kind. Even he didn’t seem to know all the details of how it worked, but he knew that it would be a threat to the Fatherland. What information he was able to furnish us, though, was clear and enough that we were able to devise an act of sabotage as you ordered.” The Auslander contained a wince. “Experimental equipment is being delivered by convoy to the Philadelphia shipyards where the prototype is to be installed and tested,” continued Kurt. “The convoy is required to make regular radio reports at predetermined checkpoints. One of the final such checkpoints is the Delaware River Bridge. The reports are to be made on a very specific frequency.“ The plan was now all too clear to the man with the shock-white hair. “And that frequency is also keyed to an explosive you and your team have planted on the bridge.” Kurt nodded with a devilish smile. “At a key structural point. Not only will the experimental equipment be destroyed, the bridge itself will be rendered impassable. I also imagine there would be several civilian casualties.” The Auslander kept up the charade. “My report to the Fuhrer will be favorable indeed.” “I’m sure it will. My plan will, doubtless, bring glory to the Fuhrer, the Fatherland and you Herr Major. Only, I can’t live with one of those.” The man in black and white was thrown by the comment. So much so that he forgot to swallow the beer in his mouth for a few seconds.
“A Taste of Treachery” It was then that he noticed that the taste wasn’t quite right. “I have worked too hard and risked too much for you to take credit for my work,” Kurt said plainly. “Instead, I will take credit for yours. I will convey the misfortune that befell you to our SS superiors and inform them that I have assumed oversight of our operations here.” “My misfortune?” The Auslander asked in dread of the answer. “The people here don’t agree with Herr Hitler’s policies,” Kurt explained. “Some thing they will come to regret by war’s end, but for now it is useful to me. They hate us. They blame us for the treatment they receive at the hands of these Americans. They say we have taken the Fatherland down the wrong path. I gave Greta the signal. Let her know that I had identified you as a Nazi spy. The worst kind of German in their misguided opinion. She poisoned your beer.” “The beer I switched with you when you weren’t looking?” The Auslander smiled like he was holding all the aces. Kurt’s self-satisfaction turned to grave concern. He waved the barmaid, Greta over. She shifted her eyes toward the man of black and white with the same sort of self-satisfaction that had just vanished from the actual Nazi spy. The Auslander stood up and intercepted Greta. “Nazi pig,” she seethed. “I am not the Nazi at this table,“ he whispered, “and I’m about to prove it.” The Auslander turned to Kurt. “We’ve known each other a long time, Kurt. Long enough to forgive many things. Many things. What kind of poison is it? There may still be time.” “An extract of Hemlock. It grows in this area.” “Good enough for Socrates, good enough for…” He half-hoped Kurt might finish the sentence with his name. He didn’t. “There isn’t much time.” “There is for you. I never switched the beers. I just wanted to know what sort of death I had to look forward to.” There were no aces. Just a pair of deuces.
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Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. “Mein Gott,” he uttered under his breath. “I’m sorry it came to this. It’s not personal.” As long as you’ve done what you say you’ve done— “—I have.” The Auslander clicked his heel against the hard floorboard and looked directly at Greta though speaking to Kurt. “Heil Hitler.” His eyes were a void as he said those loathsome words. She saw it. She understood it. Kurt instinctively raised his right hand and repeated the salute. “Heil Hitler.” Before the last syllable had fully escaped his tongue, his eyes darted to Greta. Her eyes were wide. She could scarcely believe what she’d just heard. The Auslander was relieved that his plan to reveal Kurt had worked. With his guard down, a panic and relief instilled, and freely speaking German, his natural reflexes rose to the surface, allowing the trench-clad stranger the opportunity to expose the truth. “This man is the Nazi. I said I would prove it. You heard what he said.” Greta looked at the foreign stranger with a mix of panic and regret. “The poison.” “Don’t worry about me” The Auslander put up a booted foot to Kurt’s knee as he attempted to lunge for escape. “Deal with him as you see fit.” He turned and brushed through the crowd that approached Kurt with a bloodlust growing in their eyes. He pulled Greta from the path of destruction, though not for her own safety. “I need you to make me eggs. Just the whites. Several. And I need a bottle of red. I need them now.” He gently shoved her behind the bar, toward the open kitchen door, as if to express urgency. “There’s a Nazi spy in here and you’re concerned with eggs and—” “—I’m concerned with using the egg whites and the tannin in the wine the counteract the alkaloid poison you fed me so that I might go and diffuse the bomb he set. Go! Schnell!” And as an afterthought, “Bitte.” He wasn’t sure how he knew about the
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Hemlock antidote. Perhaps something in his training that rose up through the murky sea of his mind like a life-preserver broken free of a sinking ship to rise up beside the struggling sole survivor. He wasn’t even sure it was correct, but it was too detailed a thought to dismiss. It was also the only solution he had. Greta set a glass of red wine and the bottle it came from on the bar behind the leaning stranger. He picked up the glass, took in the bouquet and enjoyed its rich taste as he watched a mob of proud Germans remove a stain from their world once and for all. Perhaps the fact that he had fooled them for so long played some part in the quality of his screams. The Auslander’s only regret was that he didn’t get two names from Kurt. That of the contact in the Department of the Navy and that of himself. “It’s just as well,” the nameless foreigner
thought to himself. “If I knew who I was, I might once again become who I was.” It was his greatest fear. “What’s your name again?” Greta asked, knowing full well she never got it before. His oversight led him back to the same answer he’s always given. “Ich bin ein auslander.” He never learned the outcome of the experiment in Philadelphia. He only knew, firsthand, that the equipment didn’t blow up on the Delaware River bridge. It allowed him to rest easy. As easy as he was able, for his dreams revealed to him that his work was far from over. Though he awoke rested, he also woke up restless and headed directly to the Thirtieth Street Station where a train would take him to his next mission. Whatever it might be.
“The Original Pulp Monkey”
“The Original Pulp Monkey” By tim Gallagher
T
he story of the Monkey King, known formally as THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST, dates back to the Chinese Ming Dynasty, sometime around the 1590s. It is the fictional-ized account of a real monk, Xuanzang, who lived in early seventh century China, and made a trip to India - literally a
The DVD cover for THE CAVE OF SILKEN WEB.
journey to the west - spending thirteen years there visiting Buddhist shrines and collecting scriptures. He returned to China to great acclaim, and built Big Wild Goose Pagoda to store the scriptures and icons he had collected during his journey, THE JOURNEYTOTHE WEST covers Xuanzang’s journey, but with quite a bit of embellishment. The story opens with the introduction of the Monkey King, (or “The Handsome Monkey King” as he is called by his simian subjects), also known as Sun Wukong, or simply Monkey. Monkey spends a great deal of time learning magic and how to fight, and eventually becomes so powerful that he can defeat all the forces of Heaven. Only Buddha himself is able to stop Monkey, and traps him under a mountain for five hundred years. As penance for his - pardon the pun - monkeyshines, Monkey is released from his prison to accompany and protect Xuanzang during his long and danger-ous journey. Monkey carries out his duty armed with numerous magical abilities and his famous weapon, the “willfollowing golden-banded staff,” that can shrink to fit in his ear or grow to gigantic proportions. It weighs 13,500 pounds and, in a parallel to Thor and his magic hammer, Mjolnir, only Monkey is strong enough to carry the staff. The two haven’t travelled far when they encounter three other characters who become disciples of Xuanzang and join him in his quest. First is Pigsy, a very obese pig monster who was once a decorated
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE Xuanzang hoping to redeem himself. His enormous appetite, for both food and women, constantly gets him into trouble, and Monkey and the rest of the gang spend a lot of time rescuing his big, porcine behind. Pigsy’s weapon is a nine-toothed rake. The next to join is Friar Sand, or Sandy, a former general in the heavenly hosts who dropped and shattered a crystal goblet of the Heavenly Queen Mother. This earned him banishment to Earth in the form of a river ogre, and when he first encounters the others it’s as an adversary. Monkey and Pigsy finally manage to subdue him after an epic fight, and Xuanzang wins him over to the cause. Sandy joins up, becomes the baggage bearer of the expedition, and the straight man to Monkey’s and Pigsy’s antics. Sandy uses a weapon known as the “Crescent-Moon-Shovel.”
The original poster for THE CAVE OF THE SILKEN WEB.
soldier in Heaven until he got drunk and made a pass at a beautiful moon goddess. He was banished to Earth as punishment, and joins Monkey and
Finally, there is Yulong Santaizi, the third prince of the Dragon King, who was origi-nally sentenced to death for setting fire to his father’s great pearl. He is saved from execution by serving Xuanzang, mainly by being transformed into the monk’s horse. Once that happens he doesn’t do much for the rest of the story, but stays with the gang from the time he’s introduced in Chapter 15 until the very end in Chapter 100.
Our heroes: the Monkey King, Pigsy, Xuanzang, and Sandy/Wujing.
“The Original Pulp Monkey”
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Checking the crystal ball to see what’s on the menu. “Ooh, we’re having monk for dinner!”
While nominally Xuanzang’s story, the real star of THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST is Monkey, with the everyone else being relegated to sidekick status (or in Yulong Santaizi’s case, even worse than that). However, that doesn’t mean that Monkey’s in charge. Xuanzang is his master, and Monkey has to obey him. The gods made sure of this by placing a gold circlet around Monkey’s head which he can’t break or remove. If Monkey misbehaves, Xuanzang can recite a certain prayer and the circlet will cause great pain. The character of Sun Wukong dates back to before written Chinese history, and is well known throughout Asia. Some believe he may be based
on the Hindu monkey god Hanuman. Regardless, he has remained the most popular character for centuries, (and arguably the most popular story in the world) delighting young and old with his antics as he journeys across strange lands and battles all forms of monsters and demons, including such baddies as: the Black Bear Demon; the Yellow Wind Demon; Red Boy; Tiger Power, Deer Power, and Goat Power; the Black River Dragon Demon; Demon Woman; Green Lion Demon; the GoldNosed White Mouse Demon; and the HundredEyed Taoist. Monkey has been portrayed in various media all across Asia. He has been the subject of cartoons
The red Spider Demon; apparently, the only one with a boyfriend.
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(the main character of DRAGON BALL, Goku, is based on Monkey; Son Goku is the name the Monkey King is known by in Japan), video games, comic books, television shows, animated and live action movies (THE FORBIDDEN KINGDOM, the Jackie Chan/Jet Li movie due in 2008, is supposed to be based on the story of the Monkey King). There have been several adaptions of the story into English, including the four-volume, heavily annotated THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST by Anthony C. Yu, and the very popular, abridged version MONKEY: A FOLK NOVEL OF CHINA by Arthur Waley (I heartily recommend both). Or, if you want to read all 1,400 pages of the epic now, there’s a free .pdf download in English at: www. chine-informations.com/fichiers/jourwest.pdf.
canonized for the excellent job they do making the extensive Shaw Brothers library available again, but that’s an article for another time.) The colors are brilliant, the images are sharp, the sound is clear; Celestial Pictures put a lot of love into restoring this film. The story, based on an episode in the book, concerns the Seven Spider Demons and their attempts to capture Xuanzang and devour him. (This was actually a common motivation for many of the monsters encountered in the book; Xuanzang was very handsome, and anyone who ate his flesh would become immortal - so half the monsters wanted to marry him, and half wanted to consume him). The Spider Demons are played by a bevy of sexy Shaw
Red Spider Demon’s boyfriend, a horny demon.
What concerns us most today, however, is one of the most wackily enjoyable film versions of Monkey that I have been able to run across: the film THE CAVE OF SILKEN WEB.
Brother contract starlets, and each wears their own distinct color. When first we meet these vixens, they are innocently dancing about their cave in their leotards and just enjoying life as spider women do.
Originally the third part of four movies based on THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST, produced by Hong Kong’s Shaw Brothers studio between 1996 and 1968, THE CAVE OF SILKEN WEB (1967) is the only one that I’m aware of that is currently available in the United States. It is distributed by Image Entertainment, and produced by Celestial Pictures, which remastered the film from the original print. (Celestial Pictures should be
Then Monkey and his gang are spotted in the demons’ red crystal ball. At first the women/ demons are excited that there are people in their neck of the woods. Then there is some sisterly kidding as one of the women mentions that Pigsy is kind of attractive (this chick needs glasses). Then suddenly, they begin singing about how they want to eat the monk Xuanzang (with such lovely lyrics as “It’s a deadly trap to kill them! To kill them!”).
“The Original Pulp Monkey”
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Pigsy breaks into song.
Yes, these gals have set their sights on a meal of though, as there is only so long one can watch monk meat, and nothing’s go-ing to stop them. naked, jiggly man-boobs. Then Monkey and the gang are introduced. The actors playing Monkey (Chou Lung-cheung) and Pigsy (Peng Peng) wear minimal make-up or appliances, yet do a wonderful job portraying their anthropomorphized characters. This is Chou Lung-cheung’s first outing as Monkey (Yueh Hua played the role in the first two films; the rest of the gang were played by the same actors throughout all four films), but his mannerisms and movement really make you believe he’s a man-sized monkey. Peng Peng is so por-cine in appearance he doesn’t really need the fake pig nose or pig ears. He could use a mansierre or even a shirt that closed in front,
Xuanzang is wonderfully played by Ho Fan, giving the right balance to the pious, yet bumbling monk. It’s kind of weird that an actor who played a holy man in four children’s films would later become the director of sexploitation movies; I guess a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Sam Tin rounds out the cast as Friar Sand, in the film referred to by the Chinese name Wujing. He does as good a job as he can with the role he’s given but, as in the book, Friar Sand pretty much takes a back seat to Monkey and Pigsy. His character is given an important task in the film, though, which
Sandy, Xuanzang, and Pigsy pray that the pizza guy shows up before the Spider Demons eat them.
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Monkey captures the red Spider Demon.
we’ll get to soon. So the gang is just going about their business, unaware that the Seven Spider Demons want to make lunch out of the monk. The demons know of Monkey and realize they can’t match his power in a straight-up fight, so they have to use trickery to trap the monk. Luckily, each Spider Demon is more attractive than the next, and they split the group up by luring the lusty Pigsy into a trap. Pigsy is only too willing to follow the comely wenches through the woods. At one point, he stands on a cliff and sings of how he wishes to
marry them. Even when he’s trapped and knows he faces certain doom, Pigsy can’t keep his libido in check. Never-theless, his capture eventually leads to Xuanzang himself being captured. The Spider Demons drag him back to their cave, with Monkey and Sandy/Wujing in hot pursuit. In a demonstration of web-spinning that would put Peter Parker to shame, the Spider Demons seal off the cave entrance with impenetrable webs. Even Monkey, with his great powers, can’t get past the webs. The one time he tries, he’s disintegrated! (He gets better, though.)
The Spider Demons demonstrate that their antiperspirant is still working.
“The Original Pulp Monkey”
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The rest of the movie deals with Monkey trying to get into the cave to save Xuanzang, Pigsy trying to score with a spider babe (he even impersonates Xuanzang at one point), and the Spider Demons planning their menu with Xuanzang as the main course. Along the way a (literally) horny red devil shows up, The gang carries a giant red birdcage just in case they apparently the boyfriend of the red Spider Demon. need to capture a Spider Demon. They make whoopee on a spider-web, and then we flame-thrower. Mon-key works to keep the Spider find the Spider sisters aren’t as loving a family as we Demons occupied so they won’t have time to throw Xuan-zang in the giant stew-pot they’ve got cooking on the stove. Of course, it all comes together for the big series of fights at the end. I won’t give away any more of the plot, so I’m not saying if everyone survives. But there was one more movie in the series, if that’s any consolation. Monkey reacts to a Spider Demon saying a bad word.
were lead to believe. Red Spider Demon plots with her boyfriend to steal Xuanzang for himself. Soon, the treachery becomes so rampant that Spider Demons are (again, literally) stabbing each other in the back to claim the monk for themselves. Monkey learns of a weapon that can penetrate the webs and destroy the Spider Demons. Sandy/ Wujing sets off to fetch the weapon, a sort of Taoist
While THE CAVE OF SILKEN WEB was made as a children’s film forty years ago, I certainly wouldn’t
Back before Hoover and Dyson, you had to vacuum using a Ming vase.
recommend it to anyone under ten years-old today. There are a couple of instances of blood on swords after characters get stabbed, and the horny demon rather lustily disrobes his spider girlfriend, although there is no nudity. All in all, though, it’s still rather tame compared to what’s on television these days.
Watch out, Monkey! She may be sexy, but she’s a SPIDER DEMON!
That said, this is a seriously whacked-out flick that I thoroughly enjoyed. I haven’t enjoyed a psycho ‘60s Asian kids’ flick this much since THE MAGIC SERPENT. Watching Monkey and the gang have a silly adventure was a great way to spend an hourand-a-half. The special effects, though hokey by
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The Monkey King ready for action.
today’s standards, were pretty cutting-edge for their time, and still hold up well. The acting is fine, with everyone appearing to enjoy their individual roles. Nobody in the film would win an Academy Award, but nei-ther do they play down to the material just because it’s a childrens’ film.
Pictures to remaster the other three movies in the Monkey King series and make them available in the United States.
Search this movie out and see for yourself how the Chinese took their own pulp character and put him on the screen. Certainly it worked much better than THE SHADOW, DOC SAVAGE, or THE PHANTOM. Now all we need is for Celestial
Xuanzang tries to resist the Spider Demon’s charms. “You only say you love me because you want to eat my flesh!”
“The Original Pulp Monkey”
Some more pictures just for the fun of it.
The Monkey King battles the Spider Demons (they fight like girls!).
Pigsy: future spokes-pig for Playtex Cross-Your-Heart bras.
“Uggh! Who let this guy into the cave?”
Monkey and Sandy contemplate kicking Spider Demon butt.
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You get two - count â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;em, two - Monkeys for the price of one!
Monkey and the Taoist flame-thrower.
The Spider Demons react to seeing Pigsy with his shirt open.
“Racing Against the Rose”
“Racing Against the Rose” By Margaret Ronald
T
he most beautiful ship in the galaxy had returned to Umbria Station. Janna pressed her face against the shieldglass of Hub Two, where the Rose Nebula was docked with the other fast ships, and stared at the ship that should have been hers. The most beautiful ship in the galaxy. But like all beautiful things, the Gentry owned it. At the thought of the Gentry Janna scowled and rubbed her belly. She slapped her ID into the dock portal as the Rose’s pilot opened the caudal hatch. Tomlin Donnell looked just the same as when she’d last seen him, damn him: gold hair in disarray, a scruff of stubble that was the result of too long in space, and a reddened, weary look around the eyes that disappeared when he saw her. “Janna! Janna, love, I just left a message for you –” “Go to hell, Tom.” She steadied herself against the Rose’s landing ramp, angry at Tom, angry at how out of breath she was, angry at herself for how she wanted to collapse against him. Goddamn hormones, she thought. “How could you do this to me?” “Do what? I haven’t – Janna, I would never –” He blinked, finally seeing her, and his eyes went to her seven-months belly. “I trusted you. I even told you why it was so goddamn important – the station doctor stopped prescribing blockers, and I didn’t have the money –” Her voice broke, and she struck the ramp so hard her hand stung. “Goddamn you, Tom, why didn’t you tell me your contraception implant wasn’t working?” “You – you’re –” He reached out to her as if to
touch her stomach. “Not by choice!” She slapped his hand away. “When I found out, I saved up for the highclass doctor, and do you know what he told me?” She took a deep, shivering breath, remembering the chill of that doctor’s office as he explained to her why the life swelling in her wasn’t hers in any legal sense, not to raise, not to abort, not even to name. “Indenture law, Tom. Because your implant crapped out, I have to bear this child to term and then hand it over to the Gentry.” Tom shook his head. “No. No, that can’t be. My shunt was working fine; the Gentry doctors check it every year –” The blood drained from his face, and they both reached the same conclusion just as the dock portal opened again and a commotion swarmed in. A gaggle of station teens, their eyes wide with near-religious ecstasy, surrounded a tall woman in iridescent blue. She smiled and sparkled, moving with a grace that no unmodified human could possess, and if her hand rested on anyone’s shoulder for a second, that person nearly fainted from the honor. “No,” she said, laughing, “I can’t give out autographs right now . . . Yes, I’m sure . . . no, I’m afraid he’s not with us, but,” and here she leaned down to touch the lips of a trembling teenager, “I think I can talk him into visiting, once he knows he has such devoted fans here. Perhaps we can discuss it later, on my ship.” The girl burst into exhilarated tears, and Methv of the Gentry smiled benevolently at her worshippers.
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Janna clenched her fists, then, as the child within her shifted, dragged one of the prybars from the ramp. “You thieving bitch!” she yelled, and lunged for Methv. Methv’s entourage scattered. Methv only smiled and touched a thin strip of metal hanging off her belt. As Janna raised the prybar, an invisible hand caught hers, staying the blow. The same barrier seized the rest of her body, leaving her imprisoned in mid-leap. Immobilizer field, she thought. Damn. Methv waved her onlookers away. “Please, a moment’s privacy.” The crowd dispersed, but only as far as the shieldglass, some pressing against it much as Janna had. A few of them tried to stay, the ones who bore the faintest resemblance to Methv: a similar foxy, sculpted look about the face, a similar engineered grace, easily distinguishable from true Gentry by the remnants of surgery scars along their hairlines. These Methv did not even dignify with a glance; aspirants were disdained by Gentry and lesser folk alike. Ignoring the aspirants by the door, Methv looked Janna up and down. A poisonous smile rose to her lips. “Wonderful. I seem to have won my wager.” “What did you do to me, Methv?” Tom brandished the cargo manifest at her as if it were a club. “Oh, very little, Donnell. Come over here and catch her; I don’t want her contents damaged.” He glowered but did so, reaching up to Janna’s limbs with an apologetic tenderness. “Ernunn bet me two habitable moons that you wouldn’t sire a brat, and I told him he was wrong. It’s so lovely to be right.” She ran a sequence on the immobilizer box, and Janna dropped into Tom’s arms. She coughed and pushed away from him. “Right,” she muttered. “What makes you think anything you’ve done is right?” Methv regarded her with her head to one side for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “I know you! You’re old Carter’s daughter, aren’t you? I wondered what happened to you.”
The familiar shame flooded through her at being called “Carter’s daughter,” at the assumption she would share his fate. “You don’t even – you just don’t get it, do you?” “She does,” Tom murmured. “She doesn’t care.” The Gentrywoman shook her head, still smiling. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you. However, it does occur to me that perhaps I haven’t been quite fair to you. After all, you didn’t know anything about our little game before getting involved.” “Neither did Tom, and that didn’t stop you from involving him.” Methv’s eyes flashed. “If you are Carter’s daughter,” she said silkily, “then I seem to remember some gossip . . . you’re building your own ship, aren’t you? Straight up from nothing, the way he did. It’s so nice when children follow in their father’s footsteps, even if they can’t quite match his skill.” “The Thorn’s every bit as good as the Rose Nebula,” Janna snapped. “Thorn? What a pretty name, if a bit derivative. Well, if it’s as good as you say, then perhaps . . . a race?” “Janna, no!” Tom caught her arm and pulled her back. A flicker of a frown crossed Methv’s face, and she tapped the immobilizer again. “A race,” she repeated as Tom froze. “From here to Roxburg station – that’s close enough that it shouldn’t hurt either ship, right?” She gestured to Tom. “I’ll even lend you my pilot.” “And if I win,” Janna said slowly, “Tom goes free, and the indenture law no longer covers his child?” Methv smiled. “But if you lose, you and the Thorn are mine.” “I want it in writing.” Methv exhaled sharply. “I’m making you a very generous offer. Answer me now, or I’ll rescind it entirely.” Janna glanced at Tom. His face twitched, the most the immobilizer would allow. There was a
“Racing Against the Rose” trick – there had to be a trick, when the Gentry were involved. But she’d made a decision in that doctor’s office, when he told her that the child wouldn’t be hers. The Gentry had stolen one child’s inheritance, but they wouldn’t steal another child. Until Tom arrived, she’d been desperate enough to consider fleeing in the Thorn. Now she might not only save her child, but Tom as well: Tom, who’d been the one bright thing about her years on Umbria . . . “Done.” She offered her hand. Methv regarded Janna’s hand as if it were coated in organic waste, and bowed instead. “Done.” The crowd of people outside gasped so loud the sound carried through the shieldglass, and the aspirants muttered harshly among themselves. Janna turned and glared at them. “We’ll begin starting at station perihelion,” Methv said. “Now go; I must have the Rose made ready.” She swept past them, tapping the immobilizer. Tom slumped forward. “No,” he breathed. “Janna, that’s how they caught me – I challenged her to a race, and she beat me.” Janna’s stomach went cold. “Well,” she said with an optimism she didn’t feel, “you’ll be piloting a better ship now. Come on.”
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couldn’t diminish the momentary peace. “We could just leave now,” he whispered into her hair. “Take this ship, get out of here, stay low and away from the indenture hunters . . .” “No,” she whispered, then leaned back to look up at him. “No. Never mind the hunters; we have to do this. To prove to the Gentry that they can’t have everything. To take something out of their perfect hides.” He smiled. “Janna against the Gentry.” “Something like that.” Tom shook his head. “That’s why I love you, you know; you always saw straight through them.” “So did you. I always wondered why; all the other Gentry’s-men I’d met couldn’t get enough of those bastards.” Tom let go of her and walked up to the Thorn, regarding it as he might a difficult navigation problem. “I was like that, for the first few years.” He shivered, though the air was too warm for Janna. “It was everything they said – it’s a whole different universe for them, you know? That much money, and reality changes to suit you. “I had this friend in the same situation as me, indentured for life. She was . . . We were close. And then one day this Gentryman found her ‘insufficiently overjoyed’ by his attentions. So he sold her for parts.” Janna blinked, then had to suppress a wave of nausea as his meaning became clear. “That’s – I better ship,” Tom echoed as they had no idea.” entered Hub Twenty-Six. “Better by what “Neither did I. Indenture: even the name’s definition?” a fiction, like everything else about them. It’s “Mine.” She patted the pocked side of the slavery.” He looked over his shoulder at her. Thorn. “She’s not the Rose in looks, but in every “What about you?” other way she’s her equal.” She pointed to where She took his hand and placed it against the the shield regulator hung off the side of the ship side of the Thorn, savoring the warmth of it, the like a black wart. “That’s my own work. I’d always cool metal below both their hands. “Once,” she had issues with the Rose’s design, so –” said, “there was a brilliant engineer, so good he Tom caught her arm and pulled her to him. made millions. He built his dream for his only Janna started, then relaxed against him, closing child, and one of the Gentry saw it. And smart her eyes. The low hum of the dock’s equipment, as he was with starships, he didn’t know anything the almost subaudible whine of the forcefields, all about money or the Gentry. The result was that dwindled to silence. Even the baby, who couldn’t the Gentry got the ship and he got nothing but decide which of its parents it wanted to kick, worthless paper.” And his daughter got stuck on
“A
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the last station where he could find work, and watched him slowly die. Tom’s brows furrowed, and she tried to smile. “Didn’t everyone tell you, Tom? You’ve been piloting my father’s ship.” “I’m not sure what to think about that,” he said after a moment. “In particular, I’m not sure what he’d think of the use we put his bunks to.” “As I remember, we didn’t even make it to the bunk.” She grinned at him. “We’ll get through it, Tom. We have to.” Any response he might have had was cut off by the hiss of the dock portal. “Am I late?” a bright voice called. The two of them turned to see Methv, in shimmering red and gold this time, standing to one side of the port hatch. “What are you doing here?” Janna asked. “I’ll be accompanying you.” She gave the Thorn much the same look as she’d given Janna. “After all, I don’t want you just taking off, never to be seen again.” She flashed a knife-edged glance at Tom. “Hadn’t even considered it,” Janna said. “I’m sure. I did, however, make sure to bring this.” She took a stylus from her belt and drew a line in the air, and a document in glowing crimson letters – perfectly coordinated to Methv’s clothes, Janna noticed sourly – unspooled from the air. Tom stiffened. “What is it?” Janna asked. “My contract,” he said, as if it burnt him to speak. Methv smiled. “Call it an incentive.” Janna touched Tom’s hand to reassure him. “All right. You’ll be down with me in the engine room, then?” she added as she toggled open the Thorn’s passenger ramp. Methv’s smile froze. “I’m sorry?” “If there’s cheating,” Janna said over the drone of the ramp’s hydraulics, “it’s easiest in the engine room. Illegal boosters, aleph-space translation, that sort of thing. There’s only so much that can be done up top, you know.” And damned if I’m going to leave you alone with Tom.
Methv glared at her, but Janna had been staring down disapproving looks for the last five months, and finally Methv tossed her hair back. “Of course.” She stalked up the ramp and disappeared. Tom gave Janna a despairing look and followed her. “You’ll have to leave the immobilizer on the bridge,” Janna said as she maneuvered around the crates of uninstalled datacards that lined the passageway. “And why should I do that?” “Immobilizers are designed on the same principle as shields, and most shields are on the same pulse code as the engine controls. That’s why the regulator’s on the other side of the ship. If you accidentally switched that thing on, the engines could go out of alignment or stall out. An accident like that could scuttle the ship and us with it. Besides, it’s not like I can do anything to you in my condition.” “This place is a sty,” Methv muttered, but removed the box from her belt. “It’s not quite complete,” Janna admitted. “Console’s there, Tom. Let me know if anything seems unfamiliar.” “Looks fine,” he said weakly, staring at the nest of wires. Methv set the immobilizer box down and caressed Tom’s hair absently as she turned away. His jaw clenched. “Engine room’s this way,” Janna said, and waited until Methv slid past her. The engine room was cramped even under the best circumstances, though it was the one place where Janna had been careful to leave the floor uncluttered. She had to – between the two alephsculls on either side and the central shieldglass bubble over the main engine, there wasn’t room to spare. Methv took one look and muttered about how some people couldn’t live up to their father’s skills. Janna gritted her teeth and checked the drive. “Pull up a seat,” she told Methv. “Or a crate. Not there,” she added as Methv kicked a crate next to the aleph-sculls. “Try over there.” She pointed to a spot by the door and switched comms on. “How’s
“Racing Against the Rose” it look up there, Tom?” “Janna, what the hell kind of seat is this? There’s something digging into my back no matter which way I turn.” “Sorry. Redesigned that last week. It’s much more comfortable if you’re pregnant.” “Hah. The console looks good, by the way. Just messy.” “Thanks.” She thumped the calibrator until it remembered its job. “Everything’s fine down here. Send to Umbria Authority for permission to lift.” “. . . Got it. Looks like they heard about the race already.” Methv rolled her eyes and took out her stylus. A thin screen flickered in the air in front of her, and the tinny, artificial music of a cheap game filled the air. “Get us out and sunward, then. Engines aye.” “Aye.” The Thorn twitched under her like the back of a cat, and a few of Janna’s tools dropped off the shelf. The warm smell of dust vaporizing rose up from the engine hatch and was gone as they got up to speed. “Approaching perihelion . . .” Tom’s voice crackled over the link. “There’s the Rose . . . wonder what lunk she’s got piloting it.” “Only the best, Donnell,” Methv said, and laughed at his startled silence. “Ignore her,” Janna muttered. “How’s our path?” “Should be – God!” She glanced at the comm speaker, even through its gray mesh showed nothing. “Janna, there’s – there’s at least ten of those drones, the recording vultures. How the hell did they get here so fast?” Methv smiled. “Never mind how they got here,” Janna said. “Can you thread a path around them?” “Easily.” He paused, then spoke again. “I really hope you have someone good piloting the Rose, Methv. Otherwise she’s going to end up banged all to hell.” “Your concern is touching,” Methv murmured.
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“Probably a bunch of aspirants, all fresh from surgery,” Janna muttered. Methv snatched a sealbulb from the wall and hurled it at Janna’s head. “It is insulting enough that I have to be down here with you,” she declared. “Don’t insult me further by implying I’d associate with them.” “Sorry,” Janna said without thinking, then crimsoned. She glanced down at the churning gray of the engines. “All set down here.” “Getting signal from Rose Nebula . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .” The engines flared to life, and Janna grabbed hold of the security bars as acceleration shoved her back. Methv regained her balance with a contemptuous wiggle. Janna’s fingers went numb, and her stomach rolled over. Fine time to be getting sick, she thought. She steadied herself against the console and looked away from the tumbling vertigo of the engines. Her stomach lurched, and this time the crates shifted as well, telling her that it wasn’t just pregnancy. “What was that?” Methv demanded. “Ship’s gravity flickering. I hadn’t quite gotten it – ‘scuse me –” She stumbled past Methv, dragged a sealbulb from the floor, and heaved what was left of her lunch into it. That’s all right, she thought; I hadn’t liked lunch anyway. “Tom, what are you doing up there?” “Drones are in the way. I’m having to do some tricks – get out of my way, you –” He fell silent, and Janna tried to keep from retching again. “The good news is that the Rose is having as bad a time as we are, and her pilot’s total crap. We’ve got a chance . . . damn.” “Damn what?” She eyed the stats scrolling past on the monitor and stuffed the sealbulb somewhere it wouldn’t rupture. “Looks like the Gentry managed to call the drones off. The worst of them are retreating, and we’ve got a clear line.” “No, it’s good.” Methv’s game flickered as Janna walked through it. “Get ready to push the engines to their limit.” “I can only go so fast before we flip over into aleph-space.”
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“That’s not a problem.” She knelt by the aleph-sculls and checked their readouts. Methv rose to her feet, the game forgotten. “No translation. That’s exactly the kind of cheating I was talking about –” “Calm down,” Janna said. “It’s nothing like that. Switching to dampers now,” she added, hooking up her latest work to the aleph-sculls. A bank of sensors went off in protest; she silenced most of them. “Dampers? What . . . oh.” Tom laughed. “Damn, you’re good.” “What are those?” Methv asked. “Translation dampers,” Janna said absently, keeping an eye on the screen. “They suppress the aleph-sculls, keep you in realspace even if you reach translation velocity . . . My father made some notes on the subject, but he’d been going the wrong direction.” “You’re very like your father.” Janna glared at her. “I’m not about to repeat his mistakes.” Methv smiled and returned to her game. Janna turned back to the console, unnerved. I should have kept her up top with Tom, she thought. No, I should have left her off the ship entirely. The Gentry enspell you; they’re notorious for it. The thrumming of the engines increased until Janna’s bones seemed to be singing along. “That’s done it, Janna,” Tom said. “They’re dropping behind . . . ETA Roxburg Station is ten minutes.” “I’ll buy you a drink –” The ship lurched under Janna’s feet. “What the hell was that?” Another shudder rocked the Thorn. “They’re shooting at us! Those bastards – they’re shooting at us with my guns!” Janna spun to face Methv. “You murdering –” “I told them to do what was necessary.” Methv scrolled up her game. “You thought the dampers were necessary; they must have thought the guns were. Though,” she added as a third shot shook the ship, “if they’d known I’d be down here, I believe they’d have given it a second thought.” Janna grabbed for her tools, for a blade, anything – but just then the engines made a noise
like a barrel of angry cats. Sparks flung themselves against the hatch, and brilliant colors flared under the shieldglass. “Ease up!” Janna yelled as the stink of burning filled the air. “We’re out of alignment! Ease up!” “If I ease up we’ll lose!” “If you don’t we’ll die!” She pulled down the environmental control panel and sent the extinguishers where they needed to go. The engines’ shriek tapered off, and a white mist billowed against the shieldglass, leaving black pockmarks all down the hatch. “Damn,” Janna muttered. “We’re not dead in space, but half the turbines are offline. Didn’t you have the shield up?” “Only the dust one,” Tom said, his voice raw through the static. “I didn’t think they’d shoot –” “Get the gunshield up and open a channel to the Rose’s computer.” “You want to talk to them?” “Not on your life. I want to get to their computer. Bring the guns on-line while you’re at it.” “Guns aren’t going to help,” Tom said, but the nearest screen blinked to a communications profile. “She’s got all her shields up. God, she’s passing us already . . .” “Leave that to me.” Methv laughed. “You’re not going to try to hack it, are you? We’ll be here all month.” “Hack isn’t the right word. They’re just like immobilizer fields: if you know the right sequence, you can switch them off.” “And you’d know them, of course.” Janna looked up and smiled. Methv went pale. She sent a few access codes to the Rose and smiled as the error screen came up. Even after so many years, it was familiar as an old friend. “I know that ship inside and out,” she said, tracking her way through the systems. “I damn near learned to read on her plans . . . Ah. Shields. Tom, pick a target and ready the guns.” He was silent. “I can’t do it, Janna. That’s my ship. I can’t just fire on her, no matter who’s piloting.”
“Racing Against the Rose” She sighed. “We both know you’re wrong, Tom, but I don’t have time to convince you. Reroute targeting control to me.” “You can’t do it,” Methv said, gliding over to her. “And why not?” Janna set in coordinates for the Rose’s exhaust port; the one part her father hadn’t bothered to improve. As long as it looked good from the outside, he’d said, why should he care about the ship’s waste? Janna could have told him: there was a particularly obscene name for firing at your enemy’s exhaust ports. A good shot could knock the engines off balance, but leave the life support systems intact. Right about now, she thought, their crew should be hearing that same little chime, the one my father demonstrated for me, as the shields shut down. He’d thought that ship was the greatest thing in the galaxy, and so did I . . . As if reading her mind, Methv leaned close. “You won’t do it because it’s your father’s ship,” she said. “Because it’s the Rose Nebula, the queen of the skies.” She reached out and turned Janna’s face to her. “Because it’s one of the few really beautiful things in this galaxy,” she said, her eyes luminous. Beauty. That was what her father had wanted, had sought after first in the Rose and then in Methv and then, after she was gone, in overdoses of whatever he could scrounge. What Janna’s grueling life on Umbria had stripped from her. What the Rose had always been to her. How could she dare to shoot at it? She took Methv’s smooth, uncallused hand. “It stopped being beautiful the moment you touched it,” she said, and fired. Methv shrieked, but too late: a blaze of light whited out the screen, then diminished to show the Rose trailing plumes of crystallizing steam from its wrecked exhaust. Over the link, Tom sighed. “You’ve got her,” he said. “We’ll pass her in no time.” “Filth,” Methv said through clenched teeth. “You’d smash the stars themselves if you thought it would profit you.”
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“Send a message to Roxburg outspace control,” Janna said, sidestepping Methv to check on the damage to the Thorn’s engines. “They’ll get a retrieval crew out here.” Biting her lip so hard it bled, Methv turned and swept past her. Janna stayed behind, one hand on the scorched hatch. It was ugly, like the rest of her ship, but it’d hold together. I’d rather have ugly and reliable than beautiful and false any day, she thought. False . . . “No reason to trust her,” she muttered, and pulled down the internal comm screen. The immobilizer had a signal of its own, weak, but traceable nonetheless. After a few minutes’ work, she pocketed her toolkit and climbed up to the bridge. She didn’t get more than halfway through the hatch before she heard Tom shouting, and smiled grimly. Methv was seated on a crate by the console, Tom’s contract glowing in front of her. Tom ignored the expanding pinprick of light that was Roxburg Station. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Methv, but –” “Games, my dear Donnell, are too much fun to give up . . . and come to think of it, you’re not very good at them. For example, I seem to remember that your indenture was never stipulated as a prize for this race.” Tom’s hands clenched into fists. “But you said I could go free –” “Did I say so? No. She did. All I said, if I remember right, was that your cow and her barge would be mine if she lost. And honestly, I’m not sorry to have escaped that prize. But letting you go?” She shook her head. “You assume too much.” “So do you,” Janna said, stepping forward and laying the tip of her micron blade against Methv’s throat. “For instance, you assume that that immobilizer is going to work.” Methv groped at the immobilizer, but to no effect. “Don’t depend on devices to keep you safe from an engineer,” Janna said. “Especially one who happens to be both irritable and pregnant.” Tom raised his hands. “Janna, you can’t –” “You won’t kill me,” Methv said thickly.
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“You’d be fugitives – the Gentry would hunt you down –” “You’re right,” Janna said, and shifted the blade so its tip now grazed Methv’s hairline instead. Methv strained back, against Janna’s belly. The baby obligingly kicked her in the head. “But you know, my guess is that no matter how quickly you heal, you’ll still have a few long-lasting scrapes . . . and I know exactly where the aspirants have their scars.” She leaned close to Methv’s ear. “And no matter how you hide it, there will always be those rumors: is she really Gentry? Does she really deserve to be one of us? Take your pick, Methv.” Tom’s shock faded, replaced by admiration. “Janna, you’re wonderful.” Methv spat. “Donnell, if I’d known what kind of a woman you’d choose, I’d have sold you for parts long ago.” “Sign the indenture release.” Janna put a fraction more pressure on the blade. Methv bared her teeth, but ran the stylus across Tom’s contract. “And send it.” The contract winked out, and Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll take us down to the dock.” “Do what you like, Tom.” Janna said, never moving the blade. “You’re a free man now.”
T
hey shoved Methv out the cargo ramp, tossing the immobilizer after her. Methv’s curses – enough to shock the younger members of the crowd waiting for her – were drowned out by the Thorn’s takeoff. “Shouldn’t take me long to repair the engines,” Janna said as they took off. “Knowing you, no time at all.” Tom cast a glance over his shoulder. “I thought you said this ship wasn’t complete.” “It’s not. I hadn’t yet worked a way to control the dampers from up here, and I couldn’t run it the usual way without a pilot.” His smile widened, and she touched the back of his neck. “Are you volunteering to complete the ship?” “I am. On one condition.” He nodded towards the back of the ship. “Refit the crew quarters. There’s no way we’ll both fit in one of those bunks.” Janna laughed and put her arms around him. “What makes you think we’ll make it to the bunks this time?”
Interview: Paul Malmont
Paul Malmont By tim Gallagher
L
ast year I read a quick review of a new novel entitled The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril by Paul Malmont, wherein the reviewer couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say enough good things about the book. Supposedly, it was a pulp adventure, but featured real-life pulp writers as the protagonists. My interest was piqued, so I purchased the book.
entertained, that it swept me clear along from first page to last.
The story is set in the late 1930s, when the pulps were at their peak. At the top of that peak were Walter Gibson and Lester Dent, the #1 and #2 pulp writers of the time, and the creators of the most popular pulp characters: The Shadow and And couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t put it down until I finished it a few Doc Savage. hours later. A rivalry exists between the men, each the polar Now, that in itself is a feat, as I am not a very opposite of the other. Gibson is a short man with fast reader. But The Chinatown Death a dark past and a thirst for White Horse Whiskey; Cloud Peril moved so briskly, and kept me so Dent is a robust giant with a thirst for life and
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adventure. Though they take different paths, they are drawn into an adventure as great as any they have ever written, involving bizarre deaths, Chinese fighting tongs, fog-enshrouded islands, opium dens, and a mysterious decades-old unsolved murder. Along the way, they meet or interact just about anyone and everyone who was in the pulp and slowly emerging comic book business, including H.P. Lovecraft, L. Ron Hubbard, Robert Heinlein, Stan Lee, Talbot Mundy, and two Jewish teenagers from Cleveland trying to sell an outlandish comic strip about a strong man in a cape.
AAM: You’ve lived for a time on an Army base in Taiwan, as well as various places in the USA. Were you an Army brat? PM: My Dad was a civilian working for the army. What he did is cloaked in secrecy – but it had something to do with supporting the military-industrial com-plex.. As far as I know he was never involved with Area 52 – which is even more top secret than Area 51.
The novel is a pure, unadulterated blast that I enjoy more with each reading. It is, along with the many excellent pulp reprint magazines available today, one of the reasons the magazine you’re now reading exists today. The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril got me so excited about the pulps that I wanted to get into the act. I had to find out what made first-time author Paul Malmont tick. So I contacted him, and he graciously agreed to allow me to pick his brain. The interview was conducted by e-mail during the course of a couple of weeks. Sit back and enjoy it. Then, if you haven’t already, get his book and read it. You won’t be sorry.
Walter Gibson, (aka Maxwell Grant) creator and author of The Shadow ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE: Let’s start with your background: reveal AAM: Did your dad make you sign a nonto us the amazing secret origin of Paul Malmont. disclosure form before talking to you about his work? Or did he give you the line “I could tell PAUL MALMONT: I live in Brooklyn with you what I do, but then I’d have to kill you.” my wife and two boys. I’m considered something of a near-mythological creature like PM: Honestly, his work was probably just too Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster in that I’m an uninteresting for me to take too much in-terest advertising copywriter who’s actually written in. the novel he said he was going to write, and then got it published. Many people say it’s imposAAM: During what time period did you live in sible for me to even exist. Yet there is evidence Taiwan? to the contrary.
Interview: Paul Malmont
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PM: I lived there from 1970-75, from the ages of 4-9. For much of that time I had great freedom from my parents to explore the villages and rice paddies beyond our neighborhood. My friends and I rode our bikes past the water buffalos and discovered secret groves and ancient temples.
try – even at a young age.
AAM: Was this the basis for the scene in THE CHINATOWN DEATH CLOUD PERIL of Zhang Mei’s childhood where he played in the old temple as a boy?
PM: I’ve lived in New York for 23 years and I really love Chinatown, because more than anything, it smells like my childhood. It’s not very big and I’ve spent a lot of time there, used to live near there in the east village. Nevertheless I did have to walk the streets to get the geography of the era down. You can see some of the locations on my Flickr feed from my website –
PM: Yes, exactly. I found an old temple in the woods, abandoned and creepy, with one statue still there – and he had a hole carved in his stomach. I can only assume now that the hole somehow symbolized enlightenment of some nature.
AAM: When researching and writing TCTDCP, did you roam around New York’s Chinatown (where a good portion of the novel takes place) to get a feel for the atmosphere? Or did you rely on your boyhood memories of Taiwan?
AAM: Can you tell us a little about your adventures with the Chinese opera company and your exposure to Chinese culture? PM: The Chinese opera company would set up a temporary bamboo stage on a field near our house and perform for a number of days in the nature of a traveling festival. The performers used to let us crawl around backstage and since Chi-nese operas last so long – there was plenty of time to do that. They would paint our faces in the fashion of great Chinese characters. AAM: Did you learn Chinese while living in Taiwan? Did you become very im-mersed in Chinese culture? PM: I can greet someone in Chinese, ask how they are doing, and order from 1-10 pieces of dim sum. Never had any great facility with other languages – barely have a passing facility with my own. Other than that, it was a fairly immersive experience – you are always aware that you are an American living in another coun-
Lester Dent, (aka Kenneth Robeson) creator and author of Doc Savage
www.paulmalmont.com. AAM: Your father introduced you to The Shadow and Doc Savage when you were ten. What other pulps and books did you read growing up? PM: I was a big fan of the Narnia books, John Christopher’s Tripod series, any-thing by Marvel or DC comics, The Forgotten Door by Alexander Key, the OZ se-ries, Robert Heinlein, Ray
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Bradbury. Both my mother and grandmother were children’s librarians, so I spent plenty of times in libraries and always had great recommendations from both of them.
to pretend I’m Edgar Rice Burroughs (and no, that’s not a hint that I’m doing Tarzan, or any of his other properties – just that I get to be inspired by him to do a lost world kind of story.) AAM: The premise of TCTDCP (Walter Gibson and Lester Dent having a “real” pulp adventure together) is wonderful. What was the inspiration for the story? Was this a subconscious desire for a team-up between The Shadow and Doc Savage - something just about any pulp fan longed to happen - that was never seen in the pulps?
SHADE THE CHANGING MAN - one of Paul’s favorite comics as a boy (copyright DC Comics)
AAM: As a boy, did you read any comics? If so, which series were your favor-ites? PM: Superman, Dr. Strange, Rac Shade – The Changing Man, (so I’m a Ditko fan – so sue me). In particular I was a big fan of the Marvel series WHAT IF-? Loved the alternate views of a contained history that I was familiar with. By the way – I’ve just signed a deal with DC Comics (like last week!) to start a special miniseries for them – can’t say more about that right now, other than to say that it gives me a chance
PM: I wanted to show my wife why the pulp stories had made such an impact on me. I had this big collection of old books and magazines, but I didn’t want to write something that would be viewed as a museum piece. I had written and di-rected a short movie called The King of the Magicians about, well, magicians, and it contained a small scene where Walter Gibson, Orson Welles and The Shadow had a drink. The actor playing Walter Gibson was Tony Spina, who ran Tannen’s Magic Shop here in New York and considered Walter his best friend. So he told me a few stories and I got to thinking about how interesting it would be to tell a story about him (Gibson). Since I was, at the time, a bigger Doc Savage fan, I wanted to have Lester Dent in it, as well. One of my favorite movies is Time After Time, which places HG Welles in an HG Welles story, and I thought it would be interesting to try that with these guys by way of explaining how cool pulp is and how amazing they were at being able to create these characters and keep pace with the output required by the industry. AAM: The inclusion of other pulp writers in TCTDCP as active participants in the adventure was a lot of fun. Why did you choose the authors you did (L. Ron Hubbard, H.P. Lovecraft, Robert Heinlein)?
Interview: Paul Malmont
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PM: Well, I’ll start writing it after I finish up my current novel about Jack London. It takes place in 1943 – and places all the characters, and some new ones, in a global adventure. It tells how the pulps crossed the bridge to the new genre of science fiction. All your old faves will be back – plus a bunch of new ones. AAM: From inception to completion, how long
The first team-up between The Shadow and Doc Savage (an event that only happened in the comics, never the pulps themselves), from the 1940s THE SHADOW COMICS (copyright Conde Nast Publications)
PM: Once I had committed to telling a story that was going to give a top-to-bottom overview of the pulp era and industry (at least on the East Coast) I had to take a look at who was around. At one point, Isaac Asimov was a major character, but he fell out by the end. His autobiographies gave me great insight into who the players were, and I was pleasantly surprised to find out that L. Ron Hubbard had been at the pulp game successfully for awhile at the time – so he had to go in. AAM: Did you get any feedback from the Scientologists regarding your portrayal of Mr. Hubbard? PM: I wish I had. I could use the publicity. I wanted to have Heinlein in it as well, and was kind of disappointed to find out he wasn’t writing at the time. But it didn’t matter, I fit him in – plus he’s kind of impor-tant in the sequel. (Did I mention that there’s going to be a sequel?) AAM: No, you most certainly did not. But now that the cat’s out of the bag, what can you tell us about it.
L. Ron Hubbard, circa the 1930s, prolific pulp writer and another participant in the adventure of THE CHINATOWN DEATH CLOUD PERIL
did it take you to write TCTDCP? How long did you spend researching, and what sort of research did you do? PM: Well, I made the movie in 1999 and the book came out in 2006, so there’s the math as far as how long it was in my head. It took a long time to get it right but when I finally sat down to write the draft that was somewhat close to the book we’re talking about – it took a little over a year. AAM: Anthony Tollin and Will Murray are probably the pre-eminent experts on Walter
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Gibson and Lester Dent, as well as their respective creations. Did you meet/talk with them to get their input? What were their reactions to the finished novel? PM: I used a lot of their research in my book – and say as much in the credits. Anthony introduced himself to me last year and I’ve met him a couple of times since. He seems to like it well enough. But I can’t speak for him. He’s having great success with the reprints of The Shadow and Doc Savage now, which is just great. Wil, I haven’t met, though a friend of his had me sign a copy for him at a convention. I’d love to hear from him sometime. I’ve also heard from lots of people who knew Walter, and they loved my portrayal of him. Since Dent died such a long time ago – I haven’t really met anyone who knew him – though one of these years I’m going to make the pilgrimage out to the La Plata Doc Savage convention – hopefully I’ll meet someone then. AAM: One of my favorite scenes in the book is when Walter Gibson and Orson Welles are in the movie theatre watching THE SHADOW STRIKES, and Welles is heckling the screen. Was this based on a real incident, or pure imagination?
PM: All me. AAM: What’s your opinion of the 1994 THE SHADOW film? Did you ever see the George Pal/Ron Ely DOC SAVAGE film? What did you think?
Ron Ely as DOC SAVAGE, and the rest of his crew, from the dreadful 1970s movie
PM: I thought Alec Baldwin was really good casting – I just wish the movie had-n’t been as jokey. I think BATMAN BEGINS is about the best Shadow movie never made. The Doc Savage movie starts off pretty good (not counting the theme song, of course) and then collapses into stupidity.
PM: At the time I was writing that scene there was a rumor going around that Orson Welles had once intended to direct a Batman movie in the 40’s. Turned out to be a hoax – but it got me thinking about what he would have done with The Shadow – and what I would do given the chance – and 1930’s filmmaking tech-nology. AAM: I also love the way Welles describes his perception of The Shadow, as well as his idea for the way he would make a movie about The Shadow? Was this based on actual things Welles stated, or was he providing a voice for your ideas?
Alec Baldwin as THE SHADOW, from the 1994 film
Interview: Paul Malmont
AAM: Given your insight into the character, have you tried writing a story about The Shadow yourself? Or perhaps making a film (or at least offering your ser-vices to Sam Raimi for the proposed The Shadow movie)? PM: I’m not really a pulp writer – I just wanted to write a story about the pulps, so I’m not really up for writing a real Shadow story. Besides, that was kind of done to the nth degree by Bill Sienkiewicz and company in the 80’s. Really think they nailed the Shadow’s badass nature and created something new for the character that I don’t think I could top. And if I can’t do something better, there’s no reason for me to do it at all. On the other hand, should Sam Raimi call me? Absolutely.
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mini-series wherein he brought The Shadow into the 1980s. Denny O’Neil did the same thing (also for DC) with Doc Savage a few years later, although both series were re-booted, placing the characters back in the 1930s. Have you read and/or followed any of the various comic book incarnations of The Shadow or Doc Savage? If so, which were your favorites? PM: There was an interesting Doc series where he’s trapped in time and brought forward to fight alongside his grandson. Kind of interesting because it posits that his own son would be kind of destroyed by his father’s fame. Gotta shout out to The Planetary, of course. AAM: When reading TCTDCP, it seems you favor The Shadow (or at least Wal-ter Gibson) over Doc Savage. Do you have a preference between the two? If so, why is the one character (The Shadow or Doc) your favorite? PM: I started with Doc, so he’s my favorite. The character of the Shadow, however, is more interesting. AAM: What makes The Shadow more interesting to you? And why is Doc your favorite? PM: Shades of darkness always present interesting conflicts. Doc is such a moral rock that even Dent has to have other flawed characters carry the bulk of the action. Same way I had Norma observe Dent.
The DOC SAVAGE mini-series written by Denny O’Neil for DC Comics that Paul references (copyright Conde Nast Publications)
AAM: I take it you’re referring above to the 1980’s THE SHADOW comics from DC, or at least the series following Howard Chaykin’s
AAM: You’ve been involved with such films as HUDSON HAWK, THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES, and THE FISHER KING. In what capacity did you work on these productions? PM: I was a production assistant. The lowest of the low positions. Hell, I think I was as-
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sistant to the production assistants. But it was a great fly-on-the-wall per-spective on really amazing big budget Hollywood filmmaking. Plus, I always get to say I worked on THE FISHER KING and got to watch Terry Gilliam
of. An amazing trick of deception. Just being in Grand Central station with 300 waltzers was
A poster from Paul’s short film, The KING OF THE MAGICIANS
inspiring. AAM: What is your short film, THE KING OF THE MAGICIANS, about? What led you to making this project? THE FISHER KING, a film directed by Terry Gilliam, that Paul worked on as a production assistant
work.
AAM: Mostly what I remember of my time as a P.A. was making thousands of trips to Starbucks each day. I was never lucky enough to work with someone of Mr. Gilliam’s caliber. Any neat stories from the set(s) that you can relate to us? PM: We shot a scene that I don’t think was ever used that was pretty amazing. We went up on the roof of a huge skyscraper and set up a wall with a window that Jeff Bridges could look out
PM: It was my attempt to create a Dr. Strangetype character. He’s always been one of my favorites, but I thought his origin story was kind of weak; that he never suffered enough to gain all of his tremendous powers and wisdom. I wanted to try and delve into what someone on a magical quest would lose as well as gain. AAM: You mean Dr. Stephen Strange ( A Marvel Comics character, created by writer Stan Lee and artist Steve Ditko in 1963; Dr. Strange is a mystic who even-tually becomes the Sorceror Supreme.) getting into a car accident, losing his surgical skill, becoming a pennilessdrunk, climbing the highest mountain in Tibet,
Interview: Paul Malmont
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at the Disney theme parks. I always thought it sounded like a great gig as they are still trying to tell stories that move through space as well as time and combine the best in technology with storytelling. I don’t think they’re on Long Island any more. But if they are and want to call me, the commute is not bad from Brooklyn.
Dr. Strange - Sorceror Supreme, or just a big, whiney crybaby? (copyright Marvel Comics)
and spending years studying at the feet of the Ancient One is not enough suffering to become Sorceror Supreme? My God, man, what more would you have him do? PM: A lot of his journey is about self-pity. “I can’t be a surgeon anymore. Wah wah wah.” Feh. Show me some real suffering. AAM: Where could someone view THE KING OF MAGICIANS? Is it available for sale? PM: There might be a few copies still on sale on Amazon. Other than that, it will have to live on in myth and legend. Maybe I’ll Youtube it someday. AAM: Your blog states that you’re a Disney Imagineer. What exactly is an Imagineer? Do you know if Disney Imagineering still has its facility at the East Hamton Airport (formerly Associates and Ferren)? PM: The Imagineers are historically the interesting characters who build all the great stuff
AAM: Most of the year it wouldn’t be because you’re going against traffic, although it would still take you almost two hours one-way because most of the trip is along a two-lane road. But I wouldn’t want to do it all from May through September - nothing moves at all on that road. So, as an Imagineer, do you actually build attractions, or are you more on the concept/writing end of the process? PM: Oh, I’m not an Imagineer. I just hope this novel writing thing turns into that kind of gig someday when I grow up. AAM: What books/pulps are you reading now? Who are your favorite authors, and what makes them so? What authors and/or artists influence you? PM: I’m not really reading a lot of pulp these days, particularly because I spend so much of my time reading research for my novels. Right now I’m reading a lot about Jack London for my next book which will be out next year. In general I’m a big fan of Neal Stephenson, Mark Helprin, Patrick O’Brian, Susannah Clarke, and Frank Miller. I’ve posted about a few other writers on my Amazon blog, and con-tinue to do so. I hate to admit that the last novel I read for fun was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Loved it. AAM: What are you currently working on now? Any more novels or films in the future? PM: The Wolves of Eden – a tale of Jack
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London. AAM: Is this in the nature of TCTDCP, in which Jack London embarks on an adventure, or something else entirely? PM: It’s not exactly about Jack London solving crimes – it’s more of a relationship piece – based upon the last year of his life (he died at 40) living in Hawaii. AAM: Besides the big two (The Shadow and Doc), are there any pulp characters that you would like to try your hand at writing?
Orson Welles as Harry Lime
PM: Harry Lime, the movie character. AAM: What about Harry Lime attracts you to the character? PM: He’s charming and amoral. The perfect combination. AAM: Based on how many times you reference him or place him in your work, is it a safe assumption that you’re an Orson Welles fan? PM: It is safe. AAM: What’s your favorite of Welles’ work(s)?
THE THIRD MAN, a film directed by Carol Reed, and the best known appearance of Harry Lime (who originally appeared in a novel of the same title by Graham Greene, and later in a British radio series - voiced by Orson Welles)
PM: Harry Lime. AAM: Orson Welles’ character in the film THE THIRD MAN. Which version would you write about: Lime as the bad guy he is in the movie, or the con artist from the lighter-toned radio show?
PM: TRANSFORMERS-THE MOVIE. I’ve seen it almost as many times as I’ve seen CITIZEN KANE (which is a lot). [EDITOR’S NOTE: TRANSFORMERS-THE MOVIE is not the live-action film that was released this past summer; it was an animated film released in the 1980s, when the TRANSFORMERS animated TV series was at the height of its popularity. Mr. Welles voiced the character Unicron, the villain of the piece. It was his last performance before he died in 1985.] AAM: In TCTDCP you state that Lester Dent
Interview: Paul Malmont
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AAM: I know fans can be prickly when they think someone is messing with their favorite character(s). What were some of the other things people were upset about? PM: One man showed up at a reading with a whole type-written list. Lovecraft fans get upset about his publishing credentials. The only pure mistake I’ll cop to is in the hardcover I have Siegel and Schuster from Chicago- when everyone knows they’re from Cleveland. My bad – I fixed it in the paperback. THE AVENGER magazine; the Avenger’s author was Kenneth Robeson, a house name owned by Street and Smith Magazines, and the pseudonym under which Lester Dent wrote Doc Savage. Street and Smith used the Robeson byline in an attempt to attract Doc Savage fans, but Dent did not write these stories; they are, instead, credited mostly to writer Paul Ernst (copyright Conde Nast Publications)
went on to create The Avenger (and at one point, even takes on the appearance of that character when he believes his wife is dead). Although The Avenger appeared under the Kenneth Robeson byline, he was actually written by Paul Ernst. Was this a mistake, or was this a bit of dramatic license on your part? PM: Will I get my dramatic license revoked? I liked it my way. Believe me, it’s not the only change that I’ve heard about. Don’t get me started on the people who are upset about that I included a Shadow decoder ring when there really weren’t any. All I’ve done, according to them, is perpetuate the myth of the Shadow decoder ring, yet again. AAM: So, I imagine you got taken to task by writing in TCTDCP that The Shadow was really Lamont Cranston? PM: Not really. No one seemed to care about that. That whole Cranston/Allard thing is so convoluted anyway that I think people just skipped over my gloss on it.
AAM: Finally, do you have any advice to the aspiring pulp writers of today? PM: Try and do something different. The great pulp characters are generally free of inner lives, though not outward manifestations of neuroses, but audiences expect a little more inner depth from their heroes – so I would tell a pulp writer that they should explore the psychologies of their heroes – just a little – in between the mayhem.
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE The Black Spectre in
“Conscience for Ransom” By Roger Alford Born into a wealthy family, young Brent Gregor’s life was shattered one fateful Halloween night when an intruder’s bullets took his parents and left him unable to walk. Young Brent became a brooding recluse locked away, forever alone, in his family mansion. When he reached adulthood, Gregor spent much of his vast fortune searching the world in vain for a cure. His far-reaching efforts led him to an old gypsy woman who offered a fantastical proposition: by joining with a mysterious entity known as the Spirit Force, Gregor could summon it when needed to not only walk again, but to harness phantom-like abilities: superhuman strength and agility, the power to hide unseen in the shadows, move objects with his mind, and easily pass through locked doors. In return, he vowed to stand for the righteous, to fight evil, and bring justice to those who have none. Now...like a ghost, he moves through the shadows of the night, bringing evil-doers to justice! When criminals and lawbreakers are marked with his trademark “X,” they know there is no escape from... The Black Spectre!
J
ulius Kennelly took a long, final puff on his cigar while lounging on the firm, dark leather couch in his ornately wood-paneled office. It had been another good day, among what seemed lately to be an endless stream of good days. With the nation’s economy still struggling to recover, and the war in Europe that loomed ever closer, he had taken over a long line of businesses, and each for a song. Like cherries for the picking. On this night, he would take his mistress to Vicedomini’s to celebrate. No need for reservations. They always kept their best table ready for him. He was the controlling owner, after all. Julius got up from the couch and stood, as he did each night before leaving, and gazed out of the large glass window. From his viewpoint high atop the Kennelly Building in Downtown Terminal City, he could see the whole metropolis stretched out before him. And each time he peered out, more of that city belonged to him. It was a very good feeling. Almost as good as seeing his own finely-chiseled features reflected in the
glass, perfectly superimposed over the landscape. To Julius, it looked just like a scene from a movie. One in which he was the author, producer, director, and star. Julius snuffed out his barely smoked cigar and gave a call to his very personal secretary. He smiled as she knocked on the door, admired her long legs as she rushed in with his long overcoat, and gave her a firm pat on her shapely posterior for a job well done. Before the words “Good night, Dorothy,” escape his lips, she was already on his phone calling down for his car. It, of course, would be there waiting for him before his private elevator reached the ground floor. Life was good for Julius Kennelly. “Good night, Mr. Kennelly” rang like a chorus as he walked brusquely through the vast lobby that looked like it had been carved from marble by Rome’s greatest artisans. The Doorman echoed the final greeting as he held the door open for Julius to pass through.
“Conscience for Ransom” While his car was there waiting as expected, something unexpected was there waiting for him, as well. Three large men in dark overcoats quickly surrounded him. From first glance, Julius quickly assumed that they worked for the Southside mob kingpin (and Julius’ sometime partner, out of necessity, of course), “Vito Spats” Gennaro. It was a very safe assumption. The leader of the three pulled his coat open to reveal a tommy gun safely tucked inside. “Mr. Kennelly, we been waiting for you,” the man spoke. “We’d like the pleasure of your company, if you don’t mind. What’dya say we go for a little ride?” He nodded towards their own car, which was parked in the center lane and blocked Julius’ limousine from leaving. Julius well knew that with times being as tough as they were and Prohibition having been over for several years, the underworld had to find new and different ways to earn a living. Kidnapping was one of those ways. They didn’t seem a bit bothered by the number of witnesses who watched from the sidewalk and the lobby windows. Julius gave an agreeable nod and did just as he was instructed. He got in their car and was quickly driven away. The Doorman, Julius’ Chauffer, and the other spectators watched with mouths agape until the long, dark car disappeared around the corner. The Doorman then immediately abandoned his post to call the police.
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demands, no nothing.” She was just as frustrated as he was, if not more. But what was even more puzzling was the lack of news from the other side, as well. “What I really don’t get is that Black Spectre character. I thought he would have flushed Kennelly out by now, but he’s been quieter than the Cops.” Frank shook his head. “Think maybe he’s involved in this thing, too?” “Who can say?” Vicky shrugged. While Vicky’d had her share of encounters with the Black Spectre, she still wasn’t sure just what side of the law he was on. “Something’s behind all this, for sure,” Frank mused. Just can’t figure out how it all plays together. ” Vicky flopped back in her chair and mulled over the scant details in her mind. “The only thing I’ve got is the timing. Kennelly’s got that subpoena that just came through from Kansas City. Just his luck that he was nabbed before it got here. You think he rigged this whole thing just to lay low?” she asked. “Worth looking into,” Frank replied. “Tell you what, instead of shaking down the D.A.’s office, why don’t you tackle this thing from another angle?” “How so?” Vicky asked. “Tap into the Blue blood gossip line up there in Lakeview Heights. Those housewives and their maids up there could write a whole set of encyclopedias with all they know,” Frank early a week later, auburn-haired Daily instructed. Crusader Reporter Vicky Rose sat in editor “Now, how’m I supposed to do that?” Vicky Frank Matson’s office commiserating over their asked as she crossed her arms. “I don’t exactly mutual frustration. Four days had passed since the travel in the ‘ladies-who-lunch’ circle.” Kennelly kidnapping, and there hadn’t been the “Oh, yes, you do,” Frank reminded her. first bit of news since. Vicky had tapped nearly icky didn’t need any further clarification. all of her sources and hounded Detective Shayne She already knew what he meant, even before nearly day and night, but no one was talking. the wink in his eye confirmed it. Despite the glacier “John Brown it, Red, there’s got to be something by now,” Frank griped as he toyed with pace at which this story was moving, she well-knew that Frank expected her to jump right on it. She his ever-present loosened tie. gave a quick call down to her boyfriend, Denny, in “They’re all singing the same song, Frank,” the paper’s archives, affectionately known as “the she reminded him. “There’s been no ransom, no
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morgue,” to let him know she’d be late for their standing dinner date. She couldn’t tell if Denny was more disappointed about that or where she was going. Probably both. As much as she tried to reassure him, it never seemed to do much good. Denny had a jealous streak when it came to all matters regarding the wheelchair-bound millionaire recluse Brent Gregor. He tried to play it down, but she could see it plain as day, and no matter how much she reassured him, he wasn’t about to let it go anytime soon. Vicky drove straight over to the Gregor Mansion and was greeted warmly and gentlemanly, as always, by Bernard Worthington, Brent Gregor’s valet. Vicky did her usual onceover of the mansion’s grand foyer, which always gave her a shiver. She could easily get very used to such a home. Bernard ushered her straight into the library where Brent sat behind the desk in his wheelchair, reading, appropriately enough, the newspaper. Vicky’s smile quickly disappeared when she noticed it was the Standard. “What’s wrong with the Crusader?” she asked. “Not a thing,” Brent answered as his striking features gave way to a brief smile. “I like to read all the papers, actually. Of course, I always read the Crusader first.” He qave the paper a quick lift to reveal a rumpled copy of her stock-and-trade underneath. “So, what exciting story are we chasing today?” Brent asked cheerfully. “And how can I help?” “The Kennelly Kidnapping,” Vicky answered. She liked the way that sang off her lips. It had made for the perfect headline the week prior. Brent’s smile faded from view, though Vicky barely noticed as she launched into her “take,” before finally pausing long enough to ask Brent his opinion. “So, you think it’s the real deal, or did he rig the whole scenario?” “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him,” Brent replied. “I’ve known Julius since we were kids, and believe me, there’s no level to which he
won’t stoop. I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything like that, but I’d have to say it certainly sounds plausible.” Quite plausible indeed. Brent had many bad memories involving Julius Kennelly, from being bullied on that fateful Halloween night so many years ago when his parents were shot, to having to endure Julius’ endless torments as he went to visit his mother in the Asylum. “There’s the little crippled boy, going to visit his crazy mother again!” Young Julius’ words still echoed in the back of his mind just at the mention of Julius’ name. “But you know what really has me puzzled?” Vicky continued. “Is why we haven’t heard anything from the Black Spectre. When little Annie Brookman was kidnapped, and even that Seamus O’Daughtry, he was right on the case and had them returned in no time. But this time, nothing.” Careful not to let his conscience betray his own thoughts, Brent offered, “Perhaps this Spectre person only helps the poor and downtrodden. He’s always struck me as sort of a Robin Hood character.” “Not hardly,” Vicky smirked, then shot back, “then why did he help Seamus O’Daughtry? Or help any of the others who weren’t exactly ‘downtrodden’?” “Then tell me,” Brent asked, easing back in his chair, enticed at the thought of what he was about to hear. “Why do you think he’s been silent?” Vicky twirled on her heel, then plopped down with both hands on his desk, looking him straight in the eye. Brent couldn’t help but notice yet again just how beautiful she was. Especially her eyes. “I think he’s got something against Julius Kennelly. Who knows? Maybe if I find out what that is, I might find out who the Spectre is, too, huh? This could turn out to be quite a story after all.” Vicky’s words rang over and over in his head long after she had left. She was right, of course. It was his own history with Julius that had kept
“Conscience for Ransom” him still. As soon as he heard the news, he just assumed that Julius was likely behind his own kidnapping. And even if he hadn’t been, all he had to do was pay the ransom and that would be the end of it. One criminal paying another. As he wheeled himself around the desk, Vicky’s words rang over and over in his conscience. As much as he agreed with her, it was hard for him to feel for a man who had taunted him so much when they were children. Try as he might, he could never shake the echoes of Julius pressuring him to peer into the haunted Patterson mansion that terrible Halloween night, or his taunts in the years that followed as Bernard pushed his wheelchair to the car for one of his many visits to his mother in the Asylum. Bernard had always reminded him to be stoic and take the high road. But after becoming an adult and his own man, he found adhering to his butler’s advice a difficult thing to do. “What do you think, Bernard?” Brent finally asked his manservant and most-trusted advisor. “Is Vicky right?” Bernard answered simply, “Were it someone else, what would you have done?”
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would find him. That was the whole point. If he couldn’t hide from The Spectre, the best he could do was go where no one else could see him, either. The only thing worse than talking to the Spectre would be if certain people knew that he had. Spider dropped a few bits on the bar and dashed out into the cold night. There was a backstreet just a few blocks away that led to a near maze of twisting alleyways and dead ends, that was ideal for such meetings. It was the perfect place to stay out of sight. And it had served his purposes many times before. No sooner did he reach its dark recesses than he ran straight into the dark-cloaked figure he was expecting. As always, the Spectre appeared from out of nowhere. Just like a ghost. Of course, that was the idea. “What’dya want from me this time?” groused Spider. “You’re gonna get me killed one of these days.” Spider clutched his arm that had been broken at their first meeting. “Where’s Julius Kennelly?” the Spectre asked, wasting no time. Spider broke out into a fit of laughter. “What took you so long? I mean, everybody knows the guy’s no good, but come on! What’s the hold up?” pider Markowicz scooped up the shot “Just tell me what you know,” the Spectre glass from the bar in his small, bony fingers and demanded. tipped it right back. He’d only had enough money “Word is, they got him down at the Dells,” for one drink and as much as he wanted to savor Spider offered, still chuckling. “If you hurry, you it, he couldn’t help the urge to just swallow it right might be able to catch up with that gal reporter down. He needed the alcohol in his system, and it from the Crusader. Even she beat you to this one.” needed him. orried more for Vicky’s safety than Of course, the pleasure it brought him anything else, the Spectre rushed back immediately faded when he saw the white “X” that had been marked on the bottom of the glass. to where Bernard waited in the car just a short distance away, hidden from sight. As he jumped in, He immediately felt a shiver, and it wasn’t from he ordered Bernard to speed quickly out of the city the bourbon. Quickly, he twirled around in his to the notorious roadhouse known as “the Dells.” chair and scanned the seedy bar that engulfed Of course, the Spectre pondered as he found his him. He thought he’d be safe in there. But he knew, deep down, that he’d never be safe from The doubts once more get hold of him. It was the ideal place for Julius to hide, with drink, gambling, and Black Spectre. His little mind raced, wondering where to go. girls aplenty. But what if Vicky had been right? What The bathroom? The alley, maybe? He could try to if Vito Spats really had been behind this? It get away, but he knew it was futile. The Spectre
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was certainly just like the vile gangster to let the Kennelly family sweat it out for a while so that they would be more than willing to pay handsomely when the ransom came. Perhaps he’d let his own history with Julius cloud his thinking. Perhaps he’d made a terrible lapse in judgment. When they reached the Dells, Bernard parked a good distance away, careful to stay hidden as always. The Spectre moved quickly through the shadows towards the lights and raucous sounds that seeped from the old, clapboard building. Again, he was most worried for Vicky, and hoped that he would find her before anyone else did. The roadhouse, which sat well-outside the city limits, was two-story building with a tin roof and painted windows to keep prying eyes from gazing inside. Visitors who made it past the two or more men who manned the front door found themselves in a dimly-lit saloon with a long oak bar, tables for drinking and gambling, and girls aplenty to keep the booze flowing and the customers happy. The jazz music that filled the room was the only thing which spilled out into the night. For a certain price, the happiest of those customers could retire upstairs with the bar girl of his choice to one of many second-floor rooms that sat along a long, bare hallway, dimly lit by a single light fixture. The Spectre surveyed the entrance from deep in the nearby shadows and found three of Vito Spat’s goons standing guard. They were wellarmed with pistols in their shoulder holsters, which they didn’t even try to hide. Just as he was about to move on to the rear of the building, the front door burst open and another of Gennaro’s men called for the three outside. The Spectre reached for his two .45s that he kept under his cloak, but he wouldn’t need them just yet. The three goons rushed back inside. Something was amiss. One solitary thought entered the Spectre’s mind. “Vicky.” Silently, the Spectre rushed to the back of the
old building and scanned the premises. No guards in the back. There were several windows on the second story, all of which were dark. Fearing for Vicky, he quickly leaped to the second floor like a sudden gust of wind and through the one open window. Hands on his pistols, he was ready for whatever he would face there. The dark figure of a woman turned sharply to face him, only to find one of his .45s aimed directly at her head. She gasped a short breath, not knowing if she should be more afraid of the armed, cloaked figure before her or the footsteps that rapidly approached in the hallway outside. In the pitch dark of the room, the Spectre could see the hint of her auburn hair and caught the familiar smell of her perfume. It was Vicky. She, of course, had known who he was immediately. They could hear Gennaro’s men approaching, knocking in one door after another as they worked their way down the hall in their searching for her. In a flash of movement, the Spectre reholstered his pistols and flung his hat into the chair. He grabbed Vicky in his arms and swung her onto the bed. He lay over her, holding her tight, protecting her, trapping her. Somehow, she felt safe. “Don’t say a word,” was all he said. She only managed to give a quick nod before Gennaro’s men crashed into the room and spied the two figures entwined in a deep embrace. “Hey!” the Spectre shouted. The goons retreated quickly, closed the door, and moved on to the next room. “Don’t move,” he told her. The Spectre held her for a moment longer as he listened to the sounds outside and waited for their door to close all the way. Of course, he wished that this moment could have lasted much longer. Holding her, even for that moment, even though she didn’t know his true identity, felt like she belonged in his grasp. She stared straight at his mask, wishing she could see the features underneath. The thought immediately struck her that she could just reach
“Conscience for Ransom” up and pull it away. She silently moved her hand as he watched the door, ready to grab the skulladorned mask that covered his features. One thought quickly entered her mind as she was about to touch the cloth -– would she even know him? The Spectre grabbed her hand and stared her dead in the eye. “I told you not to move,” he admonished before leaping off the bed and retrieving his hat. In one swift, silent move, he backed against the door, his guns at the ready. Vicky sat up on the bed like a dissatisfied mistress. “So, where have you been?” she asked. “I think the better question is how I get you out of here alive,” the Spectre shot back, putting his ear to the door to listen. Outside, they heard the goons make a sudden retreat and barrel back down the hall. He couldn’t be sure if any of them had stayed behind. He moved back to the window and peered down. It was still clear, but most likely not for very long. They would have to move quickly. The Spectre holstered one pistol and quickly grabbed Vicky around her shapely waist. Again, he couldn’t ignore the thought of how comfortably she fit there. It was a fleeting thought, however, because she just as quickly pushed him away. “What about Kennelly?” she asked in a demanding whisper. “He’s right at the end of the hall.” His conscience forced him to think once again. “Is he a prisoner, or just hiding out?” the Spectre asked as matter-of-factly as he could. “I don’t know,” Vicky responded. “I got a glimpse of him before I had to duck in here. “But don’t you want to find out for yourself? Isn’t that why you’re here?” “Mostly,” the Spectre answered without further explanation. His quick glance at her eliminated the need for one. He moved silently back to the door and, using the powers of the Spirit Force, inched it open just slightly, enough for him to peer into the hall. As
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he suspected, one of Gennaro’s goons stood guard outside the door at the far end. With another wave of his hand, the lightbulb in the hallway flickered out. The goon immediately took notice and walked over to check it. Before he knew what was happening, the Spectre was on him like the Angel of Death and left him unconscious on the floor of the darkened hallway. The Spectre motioned for Vicky to follow as he glided silently to the end of the hall. Vicky looked curiously as he stood outside Julius’ door, listening, his pistols at the ready. Then she quickly joined him as instructed. Just as before, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the safety of his cloak. “Stay with me,” he instructed. She only had a second to nod before he went into action, carrying her with him. There were several loud screams from the room when the lights suddenly went out and the door whisked open. Only a few caught a glimpse of the dark figure that moved swiftly inside and immediately retreated to the darkest corner. Gunshots rang out and the one goon left to keep watch over Julius Kennelly was lying dead on the floor. When the door slammed shut and the lights came back on, Vicky found herself huddled beneath the Spectre, covering her ears. She still felt a strange sensation from being carried by his ghostly powers, her feet having never touched the floor. The Spectre had his guns aimed at a very surprised Julius Kennelly crouched on the bed. He was mostly undressed, with a five-day shadow, and the company of three equally undressed young women who obviously worked at the Dells. The room was littered with empty beer bottles, snuffed cigar stubs, and a card game that had been interrupted by a more enticing activity. “Thank goodness, you saved me!” Julius quickly blurted out, his bloodshot eyes searching for the right words to lie his way out of the situation. “Just as I thought,” the Spectre answered, grabbing Vicky up again and moving for the
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window. They would only have but a minute before there was more gunfire. Vicky dug her heels into the floor, urging him to stop. “You’re not going to leave him here, are you?” she asked. “If you really want to punish him, the worst thing you can do is rescue him.” Knowing she had a point and lacking the time to debate it, the Spectre gritted his teeth and grabbed Julius by the neck. The Spectre had heard the approaching footsteps outside the door. Vito’s goons had returned and it was time to deal with them instead. Using his powers, the Spectre doused the lights again and forced Vicky, Julius, and the girls to the floor when the door flew open. The goons immediately opened fire into the room, with no concern for who may be caught in their gun sights. The women all screamed as a hail of gunfire ripped over their heads. Just as swiftly it was silent again, with the three goons lying dead in the doorway next to their revolvers. The Spectre was the only one left standing, his two .45s smoking from the dark corner. There would be more coming in just moments. It was time to leave. With a wave of the Spectre’s hand, the window went up and the black curtains parted. He grabbed Vicky and Julius again and sailed for the window. They both felt the strange sensation through their bodies as they floated effortlessly to the ground. A long, dark car was there waiting, its door already opened for them. They only had a second to get inside before the door slammed shut and the car was riddled with gunfire from two more goons racing around the building with tommyguns. The bullets ricocheted off the glass and metal alike as the car sped out of the parking lot and disappeared into the night. ONCE they were safely away and Vicky finally had a chance to catch her breath, she glanced around to examine her surroundings. The back of the car was cavernous, with two seats facing each other. Vicky and Julius sat with
their backs to the driver, while the Spectre sat across from them shrouded in deep shadow. Vicky peered over her shoulder to get a look at the driver, hoping this would offer a clue as to the Spectre’s identity. Unfortunately, they were separated by a dark glass panel that obstructed her view. Only one thing was certain: The Spectre was a man of means. “So, this is how you get around,” she said. The Spectre’s mask did more than hide his identity as they made the long ride back to the city. It also hid his disgust at Julius Kennelly, who sat straight across from him, completely at his mercy. “Thank you... uh, Sir. Lucky you came when you did. I don’t know how much longer they were going to keep me alive,” Julius continued his ruse. He was almost convincing. This was the chance for which he had long waited. He had Julius firmly in his grasp. He could take revenge for all those years of torment and no one would be the wiser. But now, for the first time, he understood Bernard’s words. And Vicky’s too, for that matter. He would take the high road and drop Julius off at the police station. “Lucky you,” the Spectre answered. He had planned to take Vicky home last, but when they arrived at the station, she opted to get out as well. “Got a story to write,” she explained. “But thanks anyway.” As Vicky climbed out of the long, armored, black car, she made as many mental notes as she could, though the license plate was blank. As it pulled slowly away, she secretly left a mark of lipstick along the rear fender. Perhaps one day she would see this car again. Perhaps the mark would still be there. Or at least a trace of it. The next morning, when Vicky awoke in her apartment, she remembered that her car was still at the Dells. She would have to take a cab to work and arrange with Frank to have it picked up. But as she left the building, she was surprised to find her vehicle safely parked outside. And on the fender an “X” was written. In lipstick.
“Shallow End”
“Shallow End” By Philip Beloin
“I
’m pregnant,” she said. Her red hair was tangled. Her eyes glowed like cut emeralds. “It’s mine?” I said. She lit a cigarette and we shared it. When done, she asked, though the blue mist, “So you’ll kill my husband?” Well, there it was. There it was. “Yeah,” I said. A simple word. That could mean doom. “And then, honey,” she said, “we’ll be together forever.” She forgot to add rich, too.
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ohnston Pettigrew was a relatively young fella–mid 40’s tops–and pretty fit for a white shirt. He owned a pulp mill, but he ignored his nubile wife while amassing his fortune. I worked at the mill. Saw Pettigrew everyday. Like every rich guy I came across, Pettigrew oozed arrogance–and seemed downright lazy now that ship he built was floating on the backs of others. Me and his missus spent another week playing pinocle in bed before she pressed me again. “I’m thinking on how to do it,” I said. “So have I,” she said, her eyes ablaze with green. “Here’s what I want you to do.” Pettigrew loved his late night swims. Helped him relax. Helped him fall asleep after an arduous day of watching me turn wood into paper. I crouched in the saplings that surrounded the pool behind their mansion. Eyed him lapping back and
forth. Waited till he left the water. That’s when I got him. I was bigger. Stronger. Hell, I worked for a living. He was whipped from paddling around. I dragged him back into the shallow end. Hand over his mouth. The other around his chest. I held him under.
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he mill closed down. I stayed home. Perused the papers. Watched the news. Everyone was implying Pettigrew’s death was accidental. Yet the body wasn’t being released for burial. I didn’t see or hear from the widowed Mrs. Pettigrew for a week. Every bone, every sinew, even my tendons ached for her. When I couldn’t stand it no more, I called from a payphone. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “We’ve got to get together, babe.” “Not now,” she said. “Later.” She didn’t come later. But the police did. Burly detectives–three of ’em with silver shields. Sig Sauers gleamed in their holsters like they had buffed them seconds before. They took me for a ride. Tossed me in a tight room with bright lights. “You knew Mr. Pettigrew?” “I just worked for the man,” I said. “What did you think of him?” “A jerk.” “Why do you say that?” “Ain’t your boss a jerk?” “What about Mrs. Pettigrew?” “What about her?”
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“You know her?” “I seen her before.” “Where?” “She came to the mill,” I said. “Liked to bring her hubby fruit pulp for lunch.” “She’s a real pretty woman.” “Sure.” “You ever think about her?” “Not in my league, man.” “Autopsy revealed bruising around Mr. Pettigrew’s chest and mouth.” “What’s that to me?” I said. “That’s not consistent with a drowning victim.” “Wouldn’t know. Not much of a swimmer myself.” “You realize there was a rotating security camera on the back of the Pettigrew’s house?” “Nope,” I said. “They never invited me over.” “Tape’s dark but it does show a man walking out of the pool the night Mr. Pettigrew drowned.” “Why you telling me all this?” “Someone held Mr. Pettigrew under the water.” “Hey, you hear if they’re gonna re-open the mill?” It went on and on. They had nothing solid against me. I was let go.
I
called again. Same payphone as yesterday. “Babe,” I said. “The police pulled me in.” “I heard they’re questioning everybody from the mill.” “What’s this about a camera behind your house?” “Johnston had just installed it,” she said. “I didn’t even know.” “I need to see you.” “Soon,” she said. “We have to be patient.” Not me. Call it trust issues. So I shadowed her. To a bunch of stores. To the wake. To the graveyard. It was the day after her husband’s planting when she met this other fella. He was big, rakish.
Outside of the fancy threads, he wasn’t so different than me. He got Chinese takeout and they shot over to his pad.
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ow the easy thing would have been to take her out, too. But she was growing that little babe inside her. I wouldn’t chance erasing my heir to the Pettigrew accounts. I waited outside Mr. Dapper’s apartment. When he came back alone, I headed up after him. I knocked. .38 Special ready. He answered. I backed him away from the door. Shut it. “We know you’ve been stalking Mrs. Pettigrew.” “What’s that?” I said. “Mrs. Pettigrew feared for her safety. She had the security camera installed on her grounds for that reason.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You’ve been under surveillance since you were brought to the police station.” “You’re a cop?” I said. “We watched you follow her to the mall. You were outside the funeral home and cemetery. Mrs. Pettigrew is convinced that her stalker drowned her husband so he could then be with her. We pretended she was seeing me, hoping you’d show yourself.” I lowered the barrel a bit. “We were having an affair,” I said. “I don’t think so.” “She’s carrying my child.” “We were at her home last week when she happened to faint. I went to the hospital with her. Neither she nor her doctors mentioned she was pregnant.” “You’re lying.” “Give me the gun.” As he said it, I heard feet rushing up the stairs. Cars screeched to a halt in the road below. “The apartment is surrounded.” I went to deadbolt the front door. The cop rushed me. My finger squeezed the trigger.
“Shallow End”
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here. It’s all written down. This is what they’ll find. The truth. Not the infamy of Mrs. Pettigrew. I peer out the window. There must be a thousand policemen outside. I hear them milling about in the hall, too. And then I see her. Off in the distance. Down the block. A blob of red hair. Two dots shining like green beacons. I aim the .38 at those beautiful colors. A window shatters. Smoke billowing in room, stinging my eyes, burning throat, lungs. Door splintering apart. Figures moving behind tear gas, yelling, screaming, shoot...
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“Tigerbone Wine” By Shane Mullins
W
hen Bailey returned to camp he saw the monkeys had been at the food caches again. Supplies were flung helter-skelter across the clearing where he’d set up his tent. The shiny, sealed packages of freeze-dried stew and soup and pasta had been ripped open and shredded, strewn around the area like ticker tape after a parade. The only food left intact were the canned goods. Good thing he liked canned apricots. He wondered how they would taste with barbecued monkey meat. He looked forward to finding out … soon.
That last trip he’d been on the trail of a freak of nature, a massive tiger the villagers claimed was at least nine feet long. You don’t usually see that kind of size in a tiger outside Siberia, where the Amur tiger ranges, but Bailey had seen the size of its tracks and the estimate seemed accurate. He should have been able to clear ten thousand easy, just on the bones alone, but things had gone sideways from the beginning. For one thing, the villagers kept getting in his way, insistent that he leave it alone. The tiger’s markings, they said, marked him as something special. They lost their Bailey freaking hated monkeys. He loathed their language when they discussed the matter with him, wrinkled little faces. getting all emotional, saying irrational things about tiger spirits and very bad luck. Bailey didn’t believe He despised their spidery little hands. He abhorred in tiger spirits but he did believe in bad luck and if the whole simian reality of their existence. he could have afforded to let this commission go, he would have walked away. But he owed money, The last time they’d been on a trip together, Lina big money, to the kind of guys who didn’t offer had made a pet of a golden-furred macaque, cooing payment plans. The only way out was a big payday over it like a child. She’d named it “Bobo,” and and that’s just what Liu Xiu was offering. told Bailey he was good company when she was left alone while he was out hunting. He let her keep   Lina thought the old man was a character the thing as a pet because it kept her from nagging and out of his hearing, she called him “Loose him about having a baby. As if they could afford Shoes.” Bailey thought he was a scary old dude and another mouth to feed. And besides, Bailey hadn’t he mostly called him Mr. Liu. Bailey figured Liu had much of a father and he sure as hell didn’t have was hooked up with the Triads somehow because the father gene in him. Lina hadn’t understood, had there was no way a Communist should have had kept after him, the way women will, and sometimes that much money, even in the red-hot Chinese he had to get mean to shut her up. Bailey loved economy. Liu was old school and superstitious as Lina, so if the damn thing made her happy, he was hell. He’d been born in the year of the dragon, happy enough to live and let live. which one he never said, and every night he drank
“Tigerbone Wine” a glass of home-brewed tiger bone wine to enhance his virility and lengthen his life. Mr. Liu’s father had died at the age of 108. He intended to live longer.
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bureaucratic snafu that was going to cause. There’d been endless paperwork and fines and fees at every turn. He’d have gone home, but he was too broke to buy a plane ticket and couldn’t stand the thought of working passage on a tramp steamer. He got Mr. Liu had once offered Bailey a glass of the stuff. seasick just crossing a stream. Bailey drank it to be polite, but though it tasted vile. He made sure to hide his feelings, not wishing Things still could have been salvaged if he’d been for Mr. Liu to lose face. able to deliver the tiger bones to Liu but, as luck would have it, a government patrol almost caught Mr. Liu was a good customer for Bailey, a steady him with his load of contraband and he was forced customer who paid in a choice of currencies. Lina to ditch the bones to avoid a jail sentence. When preferred euros in those days, always one step ahead he went back to retrieve his booty, the bones had of the curve. If he’d ever really listened to her advice, been gone. they would have been rich. She was the one who’d gotten him into the trade and she was the one who Liu had not been happy. tried to get him out. “Forget animals,” she’d said. “The money’s in people.” She’d done the math. Lina had always been the ones setting up the jobs She’d drawn up the plans. After Liu paid them, and she’d always helped him steer clear of the they were going to head for Singapore to see about animal rights wackos and the anti-poaching forces. buying a boat. They had the contacts. They knew They seemed to be everywhere. He’d once fund himself facing off with PETA activists in a jungle the people. It could have worked. village too small to even have a post office. But it hadn’t happened. And it never would. Bailey hated PETA as much as he hated monkeys. Bailey had caught the tiger, all right, brought it down in a simple tiger pit. But he’d almost gone He was working as a bouncer in an expat bar when into the pit with it when the tiger leapt at him and Miss Chen showed up with a letter of introduction from Mr. Liu. She was a tawny-skinned beauty with swiped his humongous paw at his leg. striking golden eyes and her exotic looks reminded The wounds were infected and festering by the time him of something Lina used to say—that the local he got the thing back to camp. The tiger’s organs women were so beautiful they seemed like another had been turned to mush by the heat. The tiger’s species. Lina had been beautiful, but in that palehide had been badly damaged by the stakes in the skinned English rose way. The climate here killed pit, and was as insect-riddled as an old Persian rug. English roses. He was hungry and thirsty and when he found the Miss Chen told Bailey she was a practitioner camp deserted, he was not a happy man. of Asian medicine and had need of certain … He found what was left of Lina at the edge of the items. She told him she needed a man who wasn’t clearing he’d marked out. The golden macaque was superstitious, a man who would not listen to local clinging to her corpse. He’d throttled Bobo with legends about tiger spirits and such. She needed his bare hands and thrown the dead meat into the him to hunt a white tiger, a female. She wanted it jungle for the scavengers. He’d burned Lina where all—bones, blood, skin and fur. And she told him he found her, not really thinking about what a she’d pay him half a million if he could do it.
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He promised her he could.
he realized he’d probably made his last mistake.
And he was a man of his word. The monkey business with the food caches had turned out to be the only real hassle of the hunt. He hadn’t enjoyed the barbecue as much as he thought he would, though. The cooking meat had looked disturbingly human and in the end, he’d buried it with his trash.
He was not mistaken about that.
He’d had to drag the tiger carcass halfway up a mountain to deliver it to her door but the smile she gave him had been worth it. It was a smile that made him feel like a little boy watching his mother get dressed for the evening—excited without quite knowing why. She had helped him pull the tiger’s body onto the stone floor of her entry, getting blood on the silk dressing gown she was wearing. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the blood seemed to excite her. When she looked at him, the pupils in those golden eyes were wide with arousal.
He was still conscious when Miss Chen dragged him into a stone chamber and tipped him into a giant cauldron filled with heated rice wine. He drowned soon after, which was—contrary to fable—a most unpleasant way to die. Sometime later, Miss Chen emerged from the room with a decanter of pale golden liquid. Carefully pouring a glass, she lifted it in a toast to the dead man lying on her floor. Then she sipped. Tastes exploded on her tongue—earth and fire, lust and fear with a faint salty sweetness that might have been sorrow or regret.
As she poured another glass, a single blue eyeball floated gently in the liquid, turning lazily as if keeping her in sight. It was customary to eat the She moved a slender, fine-boned hand in a graceful eyeball, but Miss Chen had a delicate stomach in gesture and suddenly the corpse on the floor was her human form. She’d save it for later, a little the body Liu Xiu, his wizened body somehow snack before sleep. shrunken in death. She would sleep well. Tigers never dream. Bailey recoiled, not from the sight of the dead body but from the woman in front of him. Miss Chen laughed at Bailey’s reaction and thanked him for exacting human vengeance on Liu, who’d preyed on his own kind to increase his power. She told him she’d been trying to kill him for a long time. But it’s not easy to kill a tiger spirit. Even if you are one yourself. Suddenly, the room seemed to darken as the scene of her perfume deepened to a feral musk. Bailey thought he heard the chattering of monkeys. He thought he heard a hyena laugh. He thought he heard a tiger purr. But he might have been mistaken. In those last few moments, Bailey realized that he’d been very, very mistaken about a lot of things, not the least of which was his choice of occupation. And
“Pride Of The Traveler”
“Pride Of The Traveler” By Bryce Beattie
T
he thick curtains parted and the traveler entered the tent. An old woman was removing talismans, scarves and necklaces from ropes attached to the tent’s poles. It smelled of incense and wax. In the center of the tent was a rickety table and two stools. “Come in and sit.” The old gypsy motioned to a worn stool in the center of the room. “I am called Drabardi Fawe. What do they call you?” The man sat on the stool. “I’ve been called ‘Key’ since I was eight or so.” The woman put the last of the scarves in a trunk and sat on the other stool. “Well, Key the traveler, if you arrived later one hour, I would be gone. But you catch. What can I do for you?” “The man outside said you tell the future.” She shook her pointer finger in the air. “No, no, no.” The deep lines on her face stretched as she smiled. “He said I tell fortunes, not I see the future.” Key smiled back. “Is there a difference?” “Oh, yes.” She put her hand on the table. “Yes, indeed.” “In that case, Drabardi Fawe, read me my fortune.” “I get some things. You wait.” Key marveled at how swiftly and gracefully she moved as she left the tent. He was certain that this gypsy was by far the oldest woman in the little town, but she went with the energy of a child. He looked around the tent and wondered what it would looked when the old woman had it fully decorated with her many wares. For now it was bare. And hot.
Before Key’s thoughts could wander too far, Drabardi Fawe returned with a bowl of water in one hand, and a rolled piece of parchment in the other. She was now wearing a red bandanna on her head and quite a bit more jewelry on her neck and fingers. “Why didn’t you just send your lover outside for all that?” “Lover.” She smirked. “He is nephew. And flattery is welcome, but won’t change price. Eight pieces.” “That much?” “You have seen others, but none told you your real fortune. Eight pieces.” Key smiled. He had indeed seen several other fortune tellers in his journeys. They all gave him conflicting futures and advice, but he had always been amused. He doubted this visit would be much different. Oh, well. She was the only fortune teller in town, and she was leaving soon. He fumbled for a moment with the small leather purse attached to his belt, produced eight coins and handed them to the old woman. She reached inside her vest and produced a smaller purse of her own. She put the coins in then put it away. “Good.” She unrolled the paper. A small blue stick fell out and rolled to the ground. “Pick up the stick.” Key looked at her for a moment, then bent over and picked it up. Drabardi Fawe turned the paper over and it sat reasonably flat on the table. “Now drop stick on the floor and put your
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hand in water.” Key wondered where this was all going, but he did it. The water immediately turned a deep red, almost the color of blood. Key wasn’t startled. He was intrigued. He seen a bit of magic in his wanderings, and it always fascinated him. Perhaps this fortune would be different after all. Drabardi Fawe frowned a little. She passed a wrinkled hand over the bowl. The water grew cold and a mist began to rise from it. Within moments the mist thickened and took on a life of its own. It crawled over the edge of the bowl and spilled onto the table. It crept along the table and dropped tp the floor. The bowl continued to spew mist. The whole room grew cold. A chill ran down Key’s spine. He searched for something clever to say to break the silence and shake the chill, but couldn’t find the words. The old woman put her hand again over the bowl and muttered something. The mist above the bowl swirled about and formed a column between the bowl and her hand. Ghostly shapes formed, and dissipated in the column. Key shuttered. Something inside him wanted to jerk his hand from the bowl and run from the tent. He made a feeble attempt to stand, but found that he couldn’t. It was almost like the mist was weighing him down. He looked up to the fortune teller for some kind of sign, or better yet, some kind of help. Drabardi Fawe’s eyes were closed, and she still mumbled. The face that had first appeared soft and loving now looked frozen and cold. Key opened his mouth again, but found he couldn’t speak. His eyes lost their focus for a moment, and his thoughts became muddled and slow. Her eyes opened. She stared straight ahead. “You live by your sword.” With those words, Key’s mind cleared and his eyes focused. The mist above the bowl formed itself into two tiny personages. The figures unsheathed misty swords and fought.
“You are skilled well beyond your years.” One of the figures ran the other through, then they both swirled and disappeared. Normally Key enjoyed any compliment, but this time it was too cold and the atmosphere too creepy for him to even smile. “You are seeking a home, but none can match the one you left.” The gypsy waived her hand. The motion blew the mist off the table. Key looked around and the entire floor was covered in mist. “Now take your hand from water and put on paper.” Key felt like a weight was lifted, and he could move again. He did as the gypsy asked. “And put it in your lap. Now is time for something you do not know.” She held her hand over the wet paper. The part where Key had stamped his wet hand turned dark. A tiny flame opened a whole in the center of the palm print. It burned bright red and spread impossibly slowly. Key was transfixed. He had never seen or heard of a fortune teller doing anything like this. The flame grew and continued to spread. Key stared at the slow progress of the flame. Drabardi Fawe frowned. “Here is your fortune: You sword victories over all save pride. So conquer your pride, else it drag you to defeat.” With that she smiled and snapped her fingers. A blinding flash of flame devoured the paper, leaving only ash. The chill in the tent was swept away. Key was awestruck at all that had just happened. He had never seen magic like that before. The images of mist and fire swirled about in his head. The words of the fortune burned into his mind. He had been circled about by strangeness. He had felt the coldness of an unseen force. And his fortune was some kind of bizarre warning. Drabardi Fawe stood and ushered him to the door.
“Pride Of The Traveler” He stopped just inside the door. “What does it mean? Why do I need to conquer my pride?” Her face crinkled back into another smile. “I only tell fortunes, not the future. Ask my nephew, maybe he knows.” She put a hand on his back and pushed. Key stumbled into the bright sun. He squinted for a moment while his eyes adjusted. His head swam with visions of mist and fire. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been in the tent. It had only seemed like a few moments, but part of him knew it had been much longer. “Oh, you’re finally done.”  Key spun to his left to see who had spoken. It was the gypsy’s nephew. He was a barrel chested man with a well kept graying beard. He stood, picked up a sword, and walked toward Key. “This is a beautiful weapon, my friend. I hope you know how to use it.” It took a moment for the comment to register. When it finally did, Key smiled. “It would be a waste otherwise. Are you good at interpreting the old lady’s fortunes?” The large gypsy laughed and handed back the sword. “What did she tell you?” “Something about my pride dragging me to defeat.” Key sheathed the blade and stared at nothing in particular. “I’d suggest you conquer it, then.” Key shook his head a little and tried to shake the bizarre feeling. “No matter. Here, your aunt already gouged me for eight, but you deserve something for giving back my sword.” Key reached in his pouch, tossed the other man a coin and turned to leave. ...victories over all save pride... What pride? “Traveler, wait.” The gypsy called out. “Are you planning to use that here?” He pointed to Key’s sword. “I have to, it’s how I eat.” “Then be careful if one of the city guards challenges you. It is said the they use dark magic stolen from a vampire.” Key frowned and wondered if it was anything like what the gypsy had done. “Magic?”
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“I’ve never seen them use it myself, but then we don’t come through this town very often. Are you really any good with your blade?” Key nodded. “Then maybe I’ll come wager on you after I get this packed up.” The two men nodded a farewell. Visitors could always smell the market long before they could see it. On one corner was a man selling dried fish brought all the way from the sea. His neighbor was a spice trader who filled the air with several exotic incenses. Next to him was a more permanent structure from which a woman sold fresh bread. Countless more tents had their own unique and powerful odors. The smells all wafted and mixed together so that they became indistinguishable from one another. It could only be described as smelling like “market.” Key wandered his way through the streets, wondering how his pride could possibly drag him to defeat. Eventually the sounds of bartering and the sight of the crowds joined the smells. Key made his way through row upon row of merchant. Near the middle of the market was a raised platform. Two men were on it, swords drawn and circling. A girl knelt weeping on the ground nearby. A small crowd had gathered to watch, but they were staying clear of the crying girl. The promise of swordplay pushed out all thoughts of the gypsy and her bizarre warning. Key squeezed his way to the front. The match ended swiftly. The crying woman stepped up and threw her arms around the victor. The loser made his way off the platform, calling for someone to help bind his wounds. An important looking man with a blue snake on his tunic stepped onto the platform. “Let it be hereby known that Lady Adela is a woman of virtue, and that Marcus Archer is a scoundrel and a slanderer.” The crowd broke into laughter and more cheers. The man raised his hand to quiet them.
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“Enough.” The embracing couple made their way off the platform and through the crowd. The important looking man smiled and looked around at the gathering. “While we have such a fine crowd, are there any other matters of honor that need to be decided by the sword?” There was a lot of noise, but no one came forward. The man looked displeased. He obviously loved watching fights. “In that case, are there any of you who would duel for sport?” Key put a foot on the platform. “I have long heard stories of the great swordsman in the land of the caldera. I have come to test my speed, my wits, and blade against their legend.” The man turned his head slightly, raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “It appears we have a brave traveler. Step up, now, boy. Who among you will stand and meet his challenge?” Key stepped up and approached the man. The man lowered his voice. “Have you ever fought here before?” “No.” “Our process is quite simple. You can pick your challenger from any man in the crowd that wishes to fight. Your challenger will then pick the contest. You will fight until the conditions of the contest have been met, or until one of you forfeits. You must remove any armor except your gloves before you can begin. Do you have any questions?” Key undid his cloak. “Where do I put the rest of my things?” “You leave them off the platform over there. You needn’t worry, I am captain of the guard here, and I will make sure they are left alone. Anything else?” “No.” Key pulled off his water pouch and his heavy tunic. “Well, just one. Can I wager on myself?” The man cracked a slight smile. “Only for your own victory. Just put the coins you wish to wager in a pile in that corner. Anyone in the crowd can match up to your pile of coins. You
win, you take it.” Key pulled the remaining coins from his pouch and put them where the man had pointed. The man turned back to the crowd. “Which of you will cause this foreigner to lose his money?” The jab sparked something inside the traveler. Three men stepped forward from the crowd. Key looked them over. “Which of you is the strongest?” All three men smirked, but the middle one stepped onto the platform. He was definitely the largest, a good stretch taller than Key. He placed his effects in a pile next to the traveler’s and nodded to the captain. He looked at Key and circled to the far end of the platform. “You sure you want to let him lose all of his money on the first match?” The remark just fanned the growing flame inside Key. He pulled his blade from its scabbard. “Are you sure you want to be embarrassed by a foreigner?” The challenger spat in Key’s direction. The captain held up a hand in warning. “Watch it, Goran. What contest do you choose?” “First cut. I don’t want to waste too much time.” The captain turned to Key. “That means the first person to cut the other...” “I understand.” “Fine.” The captain stepped off the platform. “Blades up! And, begin!” Goran was taller and considerably thicker around than Key. He stood at guard with his right foot forward and circled to his own left. Key watched his opponent and pivoted enough to track Goran’s movement, but was otherwise perfectly still. Goran continued circling. He turned slightly toward the crowd. “Who does this braggart think he is? He will lose his money and be nothing but a beggar in this land.” Key remained still and silent. He fought back the urge to laugh. This Goran was sloppy and out of practice. This was going to be easy money.
“Pride Of The Traveler” The crowd began to jeer and shout. Goran fed off of their energy. “I’ll show him he has no right to use the sword in our town!” A cheers washed through the crowd. The taunting made Key angry, but it didn’t show anywhere in his physique. Besides, he’d be taking plenty of the crowd’s money today. He wanted to laugh at Goran’s skill with a sword. The tall villager probably hadn’t seriously trained for several years. His steps were too wide, his sword was too high, and he was paying more attention to his friends in the crowd than the matter at hand. Goran returned his gaze to Key. “Are you just going to stand there? Are you not man enough to move at me?” A slight smile crossed Key’s lips. Goran frowned. “Are you afraid to face a real...” Key’s shoulder straightened and his sword flashed. He snapped back to his guard position. An untrained eye might have missed the strike entirely. Goran yelped and jumped back. A small red stain was forming on the underside of his forearm. It took him a few moments to realize he had been cut. He cursed and dropped his sword, then grabbed the wound with his other hand. The crowd’s jeers dropped to mutterings. “Did you see that?” “That was so fast.” “I can’t believe it.” Key kept his guard, but spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear. “You are slow, stupid and out of practice. I wonder if there is even a man here that isn’t all three?” The crowd was infuriated. They began shouting and calling for a new swordsman. Goran gave Key a twisted look of disgust, turned and stepped off the platform. The traveler was pleased with the outcome. He relaxed his guard and stood up straight. He turned to the crowd. “Somebody take that fool his sword.” A young boy darted on stage, grabbed the fallen sword and set off through the crowd.
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The captain stepped back onto the platform. He raised his arms to hush the crowd. At length, they calmed down. He lowered his arms and flared his nostrils. “Who among you will silence the foreigner? Who will reclaim the honor of our good city?” At least a dozen hands shot up. The second duel went much the same as the first. And the third. And the fourth. With each duel, Key grew more and more brash with his commentary. And why shouldn’t he mock these simpletons, he thought. After all, he was the best, wasn’t he? The crowd just cried louder and louder in support of their hometown swordsmen. However, with each round, even though the crowd was getting larger and louder, fewer and fewer would dare bet against the traveler. After the sixth match, the captain was furious and could take it no longer. He leapt onto the platform. “You have filthied our good name long enough! It’s time someone put stop to your insolence!” The captain whipped off the blue tunic and flung it to the side. Several more men dressed in blue tunics pushed to the front. Key smirked. “So the guard has come to watch their captain’s defeat.” The captain ripped his sword from its scabbard. “The contest is until surrender!” He lunged at Key. Most other men would have been caught unawares by the shameless blindside. Key, however, had half expected it. He spun, parried the strike, and leapt to the side. “That was fairly dishonorable for a captain of the guard.” “It might be if I had an honorable opponent.” Key and the captain stood at guard and slowly circled each other. Folks from the crowd clamored to place money on the captain’s side of the betting line. A meaty hand pushed two of the gamblers
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aside and placed a large sack of coins on the traveler’s side. Key spared a single glance. Next to his coins stood the large gypsy man, he smiled and folded his arms. Key waited only a moment, and then exploded at the captain. Blades flashed and clanged with frightening speed. The two masters whirled and spun, their bodies and blades locked in a gruesome dance. The duel flew about the platform, many times close to the edge, but never did a combatant seem off balance or likely to fall from its edge. These master swordsmen were in top form, focused and furious. The crowd grew silent in awe of the savage battle. No one in the crowd had ever seen a match as passionate and precise as this, nor is it likely they ever would get a chance to see one again. The grunts of physical exertion and the clanging of steel filled the air. For a time it appeared that neither fighter could gain an advantage. After several minutes of unmatched fury, the captain began to tire. Key controlled more and more of the movement on the platform. It was only a matter of time now, and he knew it. The captain knew it, too, and so he decided to try for a final, desperate lunge. The combatants were close, and even in his tiredness the captain was faster than most. Key brought his sword left and parried just enough. The captain’s weight carried him forward. Key dug in with his heel put all of his might into and elbow strike. The blow landed hard on the captain’s chest. His feet came out from under him and he crashed backward to the platform. Key took a step back. “Do you surrender?” The captain rolled backwards onto his feet. “I have no need of surrender. Only to up the stakes.” The traveler took a step forward and then
stopped. The captain stood with his sword held at guard in his right hand, and his left hand extended. The stance was strangely open, especially for a master. Something wasn’t right. Key paused and wondered what the captain had up his sleeve. And then it began. The captain’s left hand grew dark. It was as if a shadow was gathering around it. Key’s eyes widened a little. Magic stolen from a vampire... The captain muttered a bizarre incantation and the ball of shadow grew larger. Only one chance, thought Key. He dove forward with an unguarded thrust. The captain was too focused on his spell and to tired to react quickly enough. The blade pierced the darkness and the hand. The darkness dissipated. The captain screamed in pain and dropped to his knees. Key took a step back. “Your magic is even worse than your skill with a sword. Do you want this to go on?” Key backed away, toward the edge of the platform. He had total control now. It wouldn’t matter how many times the captain could stand and attack. The captain’s face was twisted in anger and defeat. The crowd stared silently in disbelief. Key gave a smug smile and whispered to himself. “The gypsy was right, my sword really does victory over...” He was cut off by the quickly approaching ground. Two of the guard in the crowd had grabbed his boots and pulled his legs out from under him. Key’s face smacked against the platform. He dropped his sword. The crowd exploded in rage. Violent voices called for a beating and a burning. The two guards dragged him from the
“Pride Of The Traveler” platform. The traveler watched in horror as his sword and money disappeared from view. ...drag you to defeat... The gypsy was right about everything. For the first time in many moons, Key was afraid. He had to escape. The crowd kicked clumsily at him as the two guards tried to drag him away. Key turned, curled his body forward, and grabbed the boot of one of the guards. The guard faltered forward, dropping Key’s foot and grabbing for anything that might help him catch his balance. He caught hold of the other guard. The first guard fell, and the second guard was pulled off balance. The traveler thrashed and pulled his leg free, then kicked hard against the back of the second guard’s knee. The guard dropped to the ground. Key and the guards scrambled to stand in the shifting mob. The crowd pressed harder in around them. Key took a couple more kicks to the side, but got his feet under him. Angry villagers lashed out with clumsy strikes, hoping to injure the arrogant traveler. Key raised his arms in front of his face and kicked hard against the ground. At least a dozen hands grabbed at Key, hoping to stop his flight. Key twisted side to side as he swung his bent elbows. He connected with several heads and chests. The crowd pressed him even harder. In didn’t matter. He had all the momentum he needed. The crowd was furious, but they were not large enough to stop him. In a moment, the traveler had kicked, pushed and punched his way out of the mob. A roar went up over the crowd. Key ran for the first row of merchants.
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In one mass, the angry mob gave chase. Key jumped on a jeweler’s table and glanced back. His sword was no longer laying on the platform. His heart sank. He had really liked that sword. He hopped from the table and dashed under a clothier’s canopy. The mob crashed into the jeweler’s table, sending its contents flying, its owner crying and several of the crowd’s front runners falling. Key grabbed a rack of dresses and over turned it before bolting from the canopy. The crowd collided not only with the clothier’s canopy, but the tent to its left as well. The canopy and the tent collapsed. The entire market seemed to go insane at once. Merchants screamed at the crowd to stop and scrambled to gather their goods. The crowd continued to bowl over tables and tents. Panic spread fast and thick. Many of those who had not watched the duels thought the city was under attack. And in reality it was. From itself. Key sprinted between two tents and lost sight of the angry crowd that had watched the duels. In the chaos, someone overturned an iron fire pit. A neighboring tent caught fire. A stiff breeze fanned the flames, smoke billowed, and somewhere a bell started to ring. Key fled the market and took to the city streets, hoping to make it back the way he came. Townsfolk ran from their homes to answer the bell’s call. Key slowed his pace to see if he was still being followed. Everyone was running toward the market. He ran on, just to be sure. Soon, the traveler burst from the rows of houses and inns. He caught sight of the gate. Echoing down the street he heard someone shout, “Find that foreigner! Somebody close the gate!” A large wooden wagon drawn by oxen was just
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leaving the city and almost to the gate. Key sprinted. He reached the gate at the same time as the wagon. The gate was not much larger than the wagon itself. Key squeezed by on one side. He could smell the freedom on the other side of the gate. A meaty hand clamped down on his back. Key heard his assailant give a hearty laugh as he was hoisted into the air. Key was plopped down on the driver’s bench. Key turned to see who had grabbed him. It was the gypsy. A smile spread on the large man’s bearded face. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Now hurry and climb through that window.” He pointed just behind himself. Key scrambled through the small open window into the wagon. The old gypsy woman was sitting back there. Next to her lay a neat little pile containing Key’s things. Key gasped to catch his breath. The woman raised a finger to her lips, signaling his silence. The driver pulled the wooden window closed. Outside a few men were yelling, “Stop!” The gypsy stopped the wagon. “You looking for someone? A man ran by my wagon just as I left the city. He went that way.” The men must have believed it. Their voices faded quickly. Key had escaped. A smile crossed Drabardi Fawe’s wrinkled face. “I tried to warn you.” The driver popped the window open. Key gathered his thoughts. “Thank you.” The bearded gypsy laughed. “No, thank you. Those fools were betting four to one against you. You made me a lot of money.” Key shrugged and smiled back. “And that was quite a mess you left back there, too. The whole market probably caught fire. I think from now on I’ll call you Kasimir.” He laughed again, and this time the old woman joined in.
Key raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?” “Your new name.” The gypsy woman reached out and patted the traveler’s knee. “It means, ‘He who commands peace.’”
Interview: Gregory Edwards
Gregory Edwards By john Donald carlucci
I
first saw Gregoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work while cruising eBay for Astonishing Adventures Magazine: Where did things to throw my money away on. His Shadow your interest in the pulps and their heroes comes figure has been an ever evolving and popular item from? and I have envied his skill for some time. I hope these 1/6th scale wonders will astound and amaze Gregory Edwards: I would have to say it was something that emerged from several sources, all you as much as they do me.
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within a certain period. I first came across pulp magazines while working in an antique/collectibles shop. I found issues of Adventure and Amazing Stories with wonderful covers by Frank R. Paul. I
discovered a radio station that was playing old shows each night of the week - Gangbusters, The Green Hornet and my favorite, The Shadow. Naturally I followed the trail which led to the original pulps. If you took a blender and put the pulps, 20s-40s horror films, radio shows, movie serials and a few comic heroes (The Batman, The Phantom, Hellboy, The Sandman) into it, I would say that would give you a fair idea of what is running around in that particular part of my brain. AAM: What is it that attracts you to these characters? GE: That is a difficult question for me to answer without editing it. The Shadow has the strongest appeal for me. The heroes who take some aspect of darkness into them to do good strike a stronger chord than those that do not. The Shadow is more or less the archetype of the darker heroes that followed him. The Weird Menace pulps relate in that they depict more often than not - an extreme and tangible evil, which the hero must face and finally destroy. The pulp covers are a topic all by themselves, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard for me to discuss them without getting into what they represent rather than whose painting style I prefer. I respond to the hero rescuing the damsel in distress, but there are a few of the Weird Menace covers which go too far in
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terms of depicting torture - especially when there is 1. Reference materials, photographs, stills, etc. no hint of a hero who is about to put a stop to it. My attraction to heroes is that they make the bad This is usually not an easy task. Despite the internet, there are very few clear photo sources guys stop. Permanently. for my preferred genre of characters. Ideally, one AAM: Would you take us through the steps from would like nice, clear front, back and profile shots. My best resource is using the “screencap” function start to full figure? on my computer and trying to freeze frames GE: If I just shared the basic steps to make a figure from a dvd of an old film. For pulp characters, or “puppet” as I seem to like calling them - they it’s a different challenge, going from two to three would be as follows: dimensions. The Shadow’s nose was an experience in sculpting. I’m especially fond of the older Rosen
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covers where his nose was impossibly, inhumanly BIG. By the magazine’s later years, a more realistic tone had settled in. 2. Sculpting. There are countless clays available, some are air dried, others can be baked. I started with polymer clay, but have since moved onto using what are called non-drying “industrial” clays. Sculpts take several weeks to do - unless I’m really suffering from inspiration. After the sculpt is done, I then make a silicone mold of it. If the mold is useable, (no air holes or distortions) I am ready to mix up the two-part liquid resin and make a casting of the head. When the resin head passes inspection, I then paint it with a combination of acrylics, finishing off the shading and toning with chalk pastels. The head is then sealed several times to allow them to be handled. The sculpting/ casting process approaches what is done in toy manufacturing, but I try to stay relatively sane and stop so that I can not be a mad little puppeteer. The refining process from original sculpt through prototyping and final product can be a very long and expensive road. 3. Bodies/Costuming. I use a variety of commercially available bodies, each with their own advantages/ disadvantages. The heights and body types vary depending on the manufacturer. The character to be made dictates the body type and what is needed. I often have to cut down or build up the basic body proportions. The costumes or clothing are, when possible- taken from commercially made figures. The reason for this being primarily that I am rather poor at sewing. Over the years I have accumulated what seems like several tons of spare parts. scrap materials and clothing. The benefit of this is that after I get over the shock of such conspicuous consumption, I usually find I have the part, shirt or pair of shoes I am looking for. When I don’t, I either have to make it - or pay the price for a commercially made figure just to get a pair of gloves I can’t get anywhere else. Eventually, the puppet comes together. The final process is living
Interview: Gregory Edwards
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with it for a few days, waiting for flaws to present themselves. It can be frustrating, but it happens. Sometimes it’s only a small detail that is easily changed. Other times it’s a sobering reality that I have to do a completely new head sculpt.
them? GE: Too many difficulties to possibly tell you about them all and keep you sane. Sculpting a likeness is the most difficult part of the puppet process.
I have worked on a face for days, walked away in an attempt to refocus - and found myself scrapping it and beginning again. It is very easy to get completely lost in a single aspect of a person’s face. I find it necessary to step back from a sculpt you are doing for a bit and return to it. You will either see that you are on the right road - or see that you AAM: What difficulties have you experienced are not, and have to turn around and go back. It’s working in this scale and how have you overcome just the nature of the beast. There are some physical For the characters who mean the most to me, I have done as many as five versions. The Shadow, Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes, serial versions of The Batman, Tom Tyler’s serial Phantom and a character named “Jake” from a 1939 Bela Lugosi film Dark Eyes of London were a few of these.
Interview: Gregory Edwards
problems that result as well - like eye strain or neck pain that can come from hunching over a puppet for days at a time. I think the most demanding aspect of working in any small scale is achieving the level of accuracy one wants. This is a bit more difficult in non-military (or non-Star Wars) 1/6 subjects. The resources, references and existing manufactured materials are very limited. I would also say a magnifier lamp is an absolute necessity. Anyone who has painted a miniature without a magnifier and then looks at it again via a lens will understand this. More exotic characters are more demanding. A four-armed green martian warrior from Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter of Mars stories is going to take more work to produce than a domino masked version of The Spider. Photographing the puppets with props, sets and especially the proper lighting is a whole other world of challenges. I’ve yet to take photos that I’m satisfied with. AAM: What is your background in art and how did you come to express it through this medium?
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GE: My background in art is largely based in responding to something and then trying to teach myself to do it. I had often tried to make or improve toys I had as a child. Static models were and still are - unsatisfying to me. They can capture a specific pose of a given character, but no more. With a figure that can be posed, it allows you to create many different expressions of that character. It also keeps the “playing” part alive - which is very important if you are not a professional grown-up. When I first began, it never occurred to me to sculpt my own figures. Instead I would purchase resin garage kits just for a certain characters head and hands. The rest I would adapt from GI Joe or Action Man clothing. But the characters I responded most to were either never produced or were produced rather poorly. So I started to sculpt my own and discovered how difficult it was! My early sculpts were disappointing in retrospect, but I kept trying until I improved. When the 1/6 boom began a few years ago, it
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provided a much needed source for clothing, bodies and accessories. I got more ambitious with the types of characters I would attempt. I think the 1/6 medium came about as a result of my fondness for toys melting into everything else we’ve been discussing here. Whether it’s art or not is another matter. AAM: What are your plans for this line of items? GE: I have been doing commission work for a
small group of very appreciative people for the past few years. Unfortunately, the ratio of time/effort/ supplies vs. profit is just too imbalanced. I’ve tried to get into some production techniques like mold making, but when you are doing a character that only one or two people might wish to own, it’s not practical. I have plans for a website, but that has yet to materialize. The most successful puppet in terms of sales has been The Shadow, but even he has a relatively small following. The Shadow figures I sold via eBay were very kindly received. In general,
Interview: Gregory Edwards
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the figures I produce are one of a kind. AAM: Who would you like to work on that you haven’t yet? GE: That is tougher to answer these days. I can see several here that need upgrades (new head sculpts) but in terms of characters yet to be done, it’s more difficult. From the pulps, there aren’t many hero choices for me after The Shadow and maybe The Spider. I have a project list of Weird Menace types mad doctors, cultists, monster men and the like that would be based on either the covers or descriptions in the stories. A lot of the archetypes cross back and forth between the classic horror films and the pulps - especially the villains. The heroes transplant from format to format very easily too. A scene with The Shadow facing Boris Karloff from The Mask of Fu Manchu or The Spider tracking down Lionel Atwill from Mystery of the Wax Museum, for example. AAM: What advice do you have to offer other artists looking to start their own figures? GE: To start, it’s probably best to not get too ambitious in terms of subject. Begin with a simple
character if possible, and be prepared for a lot of trial and error. If you can find a balance between effort and patience, you will end up with something satisfying. AAM: Where are your figures available for purchase? GE: Any interested parties can reach me at desrickonyandro@gmail.com
I Want To Sleep With Humphrey Bogart
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I Want To Sleep With Humphrey Bogart By katherine Tomlinson
H
ow many actors get a verb named after them? (“Don’t Bogart that joint, man.”) How many actors can have a lisp and still be considered sexy? Long before the era of one-named rock stars, Humphrey Bogart was known worldwide by his nickname—Bogie. It was a name that instantly conjured up the image, a world-weary visage, an ever-present cigarette, an attitude of overwhelming masculinity. He looked persuasive holding a gun. And he didn’t have to hold it sideways to look tough.
Here are a few things you probably didn’t know about Humphrey Bogart: He was born in the 19th century; his middle name was DeForest; Lauren Bacall was his fourth wife. (He kept trying until he got it right—Bacall was with him until the end.) He was born to wear a trenchcoat. And a fedora. More men should wear fedoras instead of those stupid baseball caps turned backwards. You can look cute in a baseball cap but you are never going to look tough. You would never have caught
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE diner hostage. Bette Davis played a young waitress with big dreams and delivered the immortal line, “I’d like to kiss ya but I just washed my hair.” Casablanca. There’s not much you can say about Casablanca that hasn’t been said before. Its most famous line has always been misquoted. (It’s “play it Sam” not “play it again Sam.”) It famously had no script when shooting started. (Back then, that was the exception, not the rule it often is today.) You can’t call yourself a film buff if you haven’t seen it. It’s not a perfect movie (truth to tell, my favorite Bogart flick is The Maltese Falcon), but the combination of casting, atmosphere, dialogue and plot just clicked into something cinematically sublime.
Humphrey Bogart in a baseball cap unless he was playing a baseball player. (As it happens, Bogie was a baseball fan and once said that, “A hotdog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz.”) You could do worse than rent (or buy) one of the wonderful Warner Bros. collections of Humphrey Bogart movies available. A couple of hours in Bogart’s company will leave you a better man or a happier woman. Can you say the same thing about two hours of According to Jim? Here are a few movies to start with: Petrified Forest. Based on the Robert E. Sherwood play, this character-driven thriller threw Bogart’s film career into high gear. Warner Bros. had wanted the always-excellent Edward G. Robinson to play the role of Duke Santee, but whether Robinson balked at playing another gangster or star Leslie Howard refused to make the movie without Bogart (as Hollywood legend has it), it was Bogie who scored in the pivotal role of the killer who holds a deserted
Desperate Hours. Michael Cimino, the director who brought us Heaven’s Gate, remade this classic 1955 thriller in 1990, with Mickey Rourke standing in for Bogart. Rourke can be good, of course (see Body Heat) but I think we can safely say he’s no Bogart. The plot revolves around three escaped convicts who take over a suburban home while a citywide manhunt (led by Arthur Kennedy) closes in on them. The cat-and-mouse plot is taut, tense
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and terrific. The movie was directed by William Wyler, whose resume includes Ben-Hur, Funny Girl, Friendly Persuasion, Detective Story, The Best Years of Our Lives and Memphis Belle (the documentary, not the 1990 Michael Caton-Jones film starring Matthew Modine). To Have and Have Not. Hawks. Hemingway. Humphrey. You’ve got an action/adventure trifecta here. The movie was based on an Ernest Hemingway tale about two low-life characters running contraband out of Martinique who end up doing the Resistance a good turn when their business goes into the toilet do to the war. Walter Brennan played Bogart’s sidekick Eddie, and a 19year-old former model named Lauren Bacall made her debut as a nightclub singer who wins Bogie’s heart both in the film and in real life. The Big Sleep. Another Bogie-Bacall movie, this time with Bogart playing private detective Phillip Marlowe and Bacall cast as a rich girl who doesn’t like Marlowe very much at all … at first. Legendary character actor Elisha Cook, Jr. shows up in a small part. Howard Hawks, who’d directed To Have and Have Not, once again takes the reins here, and the twisty (some would say convoluted) plot moves along briskly. A classic.
The African Queen. This is one of the great, great adventure/love stories, a movie that is a direct ancestor to Romancing the Stone. Bogart won an Oscar for playing hard-drinking riverboat captain Charlie Allnut who’s persuaded by straitlaced missionary Rose Sayer (Katharine Hepburn) to launch an attack on a German warship at the beginning of World War I. The two bicker and bond during their quest and the chemistry between Bogart and Hepburn was magical. Katharine Hepburn, who knew a few things about loving tough guys, adored Bogart. Her book, The Making of The African Queen: How I Went to Africa with Bogart, Bacall and Huston and Nearly Lost My Mind, is a captivating account of life on a most unusual movie set (she was apparently the only one who didn’t get seasick on the boat) and filled with insightful observations about all concerned.
The Maltese Falcon. One of the most imitated and admired film noirs ever, The Maltese Falcon was a remake of a 1931 movie starring Ricardo Cortez as Sam Spade. (Yeah, I’d never heard of him either. Here’s his IMDB link: http://imdb.com/name/ nm0007220/.) Screenwriters who can’t talk tough without dropping the F-bomb should be required to screen this daily until they’ve memorized director John Huston’s screenplay, based on the novel by pulp god Dashiell Hammett. Mary Astor played the bad girl and the supporting cast was chockfull of actors like Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, Ward Bond and (again) Elisha Cook, Jr. This is Bonus Movies: Bogie at his best. Humphrey Bogart made more than 75 movies in every possible genre—war movies, boxing movies, gangster movies, romances, comedies, even horror.
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He could do it all, and he could do it well. It would take you awhile to work your way through his entire canon, but here are four that show Bogie’s versatility.
he famously feuded with William Holden (cast as his brother) and writer/director Billy Wilder. They remade this in 1995 with Harrison Ford in Bogart’s role as Linus. The only thing that worked was the title. (When will Hollywood learn that if you want We’re No Angels. Directed by legendary Michael to do a remake, it’s best to take a movie that’s not Curtiz, this film often shows up on television done right the first time?) during Christmas (along with its ill-conceived 1989 remake starring Robert DeNiro and Sean Penn). The Barefoot Contessa. Made the same year as Bogart plays Joseph, one of three convicts (the Sabrina, the movie co-starred an absolutely radiant others are played by Aldo Ray and Peter Ustinov) Ava Gardner in the title role. Bogart played Harry who escape from Devil’s Island at Christmas and Dawes, a has-been hyphenate who is hired to write end up helping a family that takes them in. It’s a and direct a movie for an egomaniacal millionaire, great alternative to your umpteenth viewing of It’s who falls in love with the gorgeous Spanish dancer a Wonderful Life. hired to star. Written and directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz, the movie snagged an Academy Dark Victory. This sentimental drama cast Bogart Award for co-star Edmond O’Brien, playing a PR in the role of Michael O’Leary, chauffeur to Bette man. Italian movie star Rossano Brazzi co-stars, Davis’ Judith Traherne, a beautiful young socialite four years before making a huge splash in South who’s losing her sight due to a brain tumor. Michael Pacific. loves Judith, and encourages her to live life to the fullest as she awaits her fate. A real weeper, with George Brent as the doctor who loves Judith but can’t save her and Geraldine Fitzgerald as Judith’s best friend.
Sabrina. Audrey Hepburn played the title character in this Cinderella story of a girl torn between two wealthy brothers, playboy David Larrabee and his bookish brother Linus. Bogart was cast somewhat against type in this frothy romantic comedy and
Bonus bonus movie: Play It Again, Sam. The spirit of Bogart, in the form of actor Jerry Lacy, presides over Woody Allen’s affectionate tribute to movies and romance.
I Want To Sleep With Humphrey Bogart Allen’s playing a (what else?) nebbishy film critic whose life changes when he starts taking Bogart’s advice. All the usual suspects are here—Allen himself, Diane Keaton, Tony Roberts—and the movie holds up even after 35 years. Humphrey Bogart is number one on the American Film Institute’s list of greatest movie stars of all time as well as the list compiled by Entertainment Weekly. Premiere Magazine’s list of stars ranks him #13m and we can only shudder at the thought that their editors thought 12 other people had more star power. (Tom Cruise comes in at number three. Think about that.) http://www.premiere.com/ features/2394/the-50-greatest-movie-stars-of-alltime.html Humphrey Bogart died 50 years ago but for moviegoers, he’ll live forever.
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“Beauty and the Beast” By Nate Clark
“S
’matter, Emily? You’re as tense as piano wire!” Mike observed, pouring her order. “’Sides, you never touch the hard stuff ‘til later.” He set the concoction, a wicked witch’s brew called a Waltzing Willagers in front of his latest customer. Emily was a petit brunette with huge deep brown eyes and skin like a china doll, which, given her profession, made a lot of sense. She was wearing her work clothes, and her smock had traces of the trade all over it: some fingernail polish streaked across her midsection near where her right hand might unconsciously wipe it off, a bluish-brown, vaguely finger-width smudge of probably eye-shadow a little higher and on the left side, and similar droplets of other tools of the beautician’s trade adorned her smock making it seem like Aphrodite’s palette. Emily just shrugged, lifted the drink in slightly trembling fingers, and tossed it against the back of her throat, gasped hoarsely, and motioned for another. “’Til I say whoa or you have to send for a cab, okay Mike?” she replied, not looking at him, or anything really. Mike didn’t blame her for not looking, but he morally certain that his appearance had nothing whatever to do with her reluctance to make eye contact. He knew what he looked like. Even though two years had passed since he’d had Emily herself laser off his beard so he’d never have to look at it again, not even to shave, he knew well and good that his face was no place for lingering gazes. Mike was as obviously Irish as anyone surnamed O’Sullivan ever could be, with nearly orange red hair, and blue eyes that a charitable person would say twinkled, and if they could look
him in the eye long enough to find out for sure, would find themselves right. But while anyone observing his profile from the right would notice nothing untoward, the mess that a drive-by had left of the sinister side of his face, a ghastly pucker of scar tissue that ran from just below that twinkling blue eye to his jaw-line, would, and frequently did take hostage their attention. On bad days, Mike sometimes wished that his eye had dropped to occupy that region, just so he could still experience being looked in the eye on a regular basis. Still, Em had never showed the slightest sign of anything but compassion for Mike, ever since that bloody night, when she cradled his head in her lap, waiting for the ambulance to come, simultaneously ordering and begging him not to die… She’d been there, chatting with his mom, when he’d awakened. They’d never had a romantic relationship, it had been true friendship at first sight years before, neither really knew why. Maybe it was the age difference, with her being 12 years younger, maybe brunettes just did not and could not do ‘it’ for him, who knew? But they’d known each other for eight years now, and this was the only time he’d seen her in her smock outside of work. Still worried, but needing to attend to other customers, Mike set a new Dubya-Dubya in front of her, and moved down the bar to take care of them. On his way he gave Joey instructions to half-ration Emily’s drinks until he could get back to her. Joey gave him a sour look: it was a lousy way to make tips. Mike knew he’d do it though:
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following the boss’ orders was a great way to keep your job… By the time he got back to Emily, it was getting thin in the Paper Millionaire. He brought over two mugs of coffee, just this side of Irish, and sat at the table she’d moved to. He’d noticed her shooing barflies all night, somewhere around midnight, the last of them had gotten the message it seemed, because he’d seen no one but Anne at her table since, taking orders. He sat, and pushed a mug at her. Her scowl softened as she looked up, she sighed resignedly, and flashed him a look of sincere gratitude. The mug lifted and lowered twice before she started talking. The first thing she said took him by surprise. The second blew his mind. “Mike, how’d you like to own a beauty salon? I’m getting outta this ‘berg.” She was looking his way now, searching his face, looking for… what? Suckered by the one-two, Mike was suddenly speechless. He’d planned his opening lines for several minutes, and now they were all shot, worthless. “Where?! Wha?! Huh?!” He lapsed for a second or two, then, tentatively: “What am I supposed to name it, Beauty from the Beast?” Emily grimaced and obviously burnt herself on the coffee, “Oh! I didn’t mean it that way Mike! You have to believe me!” She looked genuinely horrified at the idea of hurting him, and Mike realized that something had really shaken her. “Relax, Em. No harm done, I was just being funny. I’ve known you too long to think that of you. I’ve also known you long enough to know that you love owning your own place. Hell, you threw your Paid Up party here, remember?” That celebration of her small business loan’s final payment had been a grand affair, and bringing it up had the desired effect. Emily sat a little straighter, and the hopeless look diminished, if it didn’t actually leave. “What on earth’s gotten into you?” And she told him. The story lasted through two more mugs, and nearly to closing time. The basics were that for the last six months, this lady
customer kept coming in to get hair removed. Emily was an accredited laser technician, so this was by no means unusual in and of itself. The procedures the lady had had done weren’t that unusual either. The fact that she had had her mono-brow removed seven times now was giving Emily fits though. Mike passed a hand over his eternally smooth jaw and understood. He’d thrown his razor in the trash two years ago, and still his face was, mostly, in the running with babies’ butts for smoothness contests worldwide. “Six times! Are you sure she’s the same person? Maybe she’s a gaggle of sextuplets…” “All of them with the same bank account? Same name?” Emily wasn’t having any of it, and she wasn’t being furtive about that position either. Her body language was positively hostile now, and Mike started damage control immediately. “Well, now, you’re right there, that is damn weird, but still, that’s hardly any reason to go off and running, is it? Or is there more? Sit, sit, at least finish your coffee, won’tcha?” She had halfrisen, but was slowly settling back into the chair. “Honestly! Is that all?! Of course it’s not all! I’ve gone through four manicurists since she started patronizing my shop, four!! And I know it’s her fault! When I ask them why they just shudder, and it’s always within a day or two of her last visit.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, and she actually glanced around the now-empty bar, as if to reassure her they were alone. “Her forefinger and middle finger are the same length. I didn’t notice it until the third one quit, and then only because he said so. The last time she came in it was plain as day, and her nails were filthy and thick as an ingrown toenail.” “That’s not the worst of it either. What really creeps them out, the boys worse than the girls is the hair. It’s on her palms.” She shuddered, and drained the last of the mug’s contents. “You don’t strike me as the type to get squeamish about getting patronized by a transsexual, Em. What gives? Geeze Louise, maybe it’s just steroids. Hell, if she bothers you that
“Beauty and the Beast” much, just tell her to find another shop…” She shuddered again, and looked up at him. “I tried that, once, the second time she came in. She laughed in my face, and picked me up off the floor, held me up to her face like she was going to take a bite.” Emily made herself small, as if being squeezed at the shoulders in sympathy with the memory. “She said, ‘If I hadn’t liked your work last month, nothing would save you. If you ever speak to me like that again, you’ll learn a lesson.” “Mike, she’s an inch shorter than me, and she makes the average supermodel look like a sumo wrestler. I had her pegged for anorexia on our eating disorders parley. She lifted me like a dress from the cleaners! I made the mistake of involving the local beat cop when she came for her third visit. She left without a fuss. A week later, Tommy disappeared, and no one’s seen him since!” Emily was on the verge of tears now, and Mike lent her a hand in support. “Did you tell the police about her?” he asked, knowing the answer almost as soon as he’d asked the question. “Would you? I’m not in the loony bin, not yet anyway. She showed up the next week, and Mike, I was so scared! She knows all about me, where I live, where I shop, she was waiting downstairs when I left Amanda’s apartment building yesterday. She knows where my family lives, Mike! I figure if I leave, maybe she’ll leave me alone.” She’d passed the verge, and low, breathy, gasping sobs wracked her now. Mike came around the table and hugged her, and she clung to him like a shipwreck survivor to a piece of driftwood. Her next sentences came out in half-sobs: “Mike, tonight she came in, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I was halfway through her damn monobrow, and I tried to, I did stab her, right in the eye with the laser stylus. Her eye was healed as soon as I pulled it out. She should have been dead, but she wasn’t even hurt, Mike! She just laughed, took it from me, and finished the job in a mirror. She didn’t feel a thing Mike!” Mike was not especially inclined to believe the last. He’d had his face done, and it felt like
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hell with Emily being as gentle as only she could. The idea of doing it himself in a mirror he could scarcely believe. But he did believe that Emily believed it, and as long as he’d known her, she’d never struck him as a crackpot. But still, some of the things she’d told him were nagging at him. For some reason he kept thinking of his grandmother… Mike was suddenly glad that Em wasn’t looking at his face. “Listen Em, just wait here until I finish closing up, and I’ll walk you home, okay? Promise me you won’t go anywhere until I can go with you.” “A-all right, Mike, but please don’t do anything that would get her after you.” Emily lapsed back into silence, and Mike went back to the bar to satisfy the last-minute assault of modern-day Visigoths as state-mandated closing time approached. Finally, last call was announced, and the last round served, and about twenty minutes later, the last patron shooed out as the stools went up. Mike spent most of that time muttering to himself as he ran down a litany of signs told to him at his grandmother’s knee nearly 40 years ago: thick, filthy nails, hairy palms, the monobrow… none of them damning, but the fingers! Joey started passing a broom somewhat unenthusiastically under tables in the far corner where he usually started after hours, but Mike needed the bar tonight, for a private party. “No, Joey, forget about sweeping and all that tonight. I’ll get it tomorrow morning. Good work tonight.” Joey was as unambitious as he was good-looking, hired so the ladies could (and generally did) get their drinks without wincing. In the last six months, he’d come a long way as a bartender, and Mike preferred him breathing to a mangled corpse, so he wanted him out of the bar ASAP. Joey simply shrugged, leaned the broom between the legs of a stool on the table he’d been cleaning under, and hung his apron on the coat rack, retrieved his jacket from same, and ‘G’nite’-d Mike and Emily. Mike hesitated as Joey turned the bolt, but sighed and said nothing. No
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sense in raising suspicions with an unlocked door. Several minutes passed in relative silence. The muted clink of glasses as he cleared the bar, and the coffee-maker sound of the bubbles in the fish tanks seemed to fill the air, air that seemed to have gone leaden with a sullen, fearful anticipation. “Em, wanna join me for a nightcap?” he asked, motioning to a spot at the bar. She sighed, and rose to join him, just as the front door exploded inward. The left door sagged on one hinge, while the right cartwheeled into a table near the door and sent stools clattering. Emily screamed, turned toward the door, and shrieked. As prepared as he was, Mike could still barely credit his eyes with what stood there. Stooped over to enter, a humanoid wolf with tawny fur set one clawed foot across his lintel. It was terribly thin, nearly skeletal, at the joints, with nonetheless powerful musculature rippling under the brownand-gold striated fur of the thighs, torso, neck, and upper arms. The head was a wolf ’s gone horribly wrong. The muzzle was half again as long as a wolf ’s would be; the nose deathly white, and the eyes that glared out from under the furred brow glowed with intelligence, malice, and, most horribly, an obvious excitement. It’s head swung around to Emily, it sniffed once, and fully entered the bar. Emily gave one last croak of terror and fainted. It seemed almost disappointed, but perked up immensely as hundreds of little black pellets peppered off its snout and upper chest. Turning from Emily, the werewolf took the second barrel from Mike’s ‘crowd-pleaser’ full in the face. It sneezed. Mike, satisfied that he had Emily’s problem client’s attention, did a credible job of scrambling to the other end of the bar, reloading the obviously useless shotgun as he did. Growling cheerfully, the creature stalked him on the other side of the bar. Mike cleared the central display of hard stuff, and gave it another faceful of birdshot, simultaneously hopping onto the bar. Under cover of the cloud of smoke, he reached up over the bar, and pried something off of one of
the many plaques displayed there. As the smoke cleared, he was again leveling the shotgun, only to find himself face-to-face with the beast. He pointed the weapon at it again, yelled something incoherent. Amused, the fiend actually posed hipshot, pointing with one clawed finger at its chest, a toothy smile on its snout. It’s eyes glowed a demonic red. ‘Fore and middle of a size, the moon will show the devil’s eyes,’ he breathed. Mike fired one last time, hoping he’d gotten it far enough down the barrel. Nothing seemed different at first, but the werewolf, rather than slash him in half with one practiced swipe of its claws, sagged slightly, and looked down. A trickle of blood oozed out from a ragged ‘X’ just above and inside of its left breast. It pawed at the wound weakly, and fell to its knees. As its eyes glazed in death, Mike stepped closer, reversed his grip, and ‘rifle’-butted the wound, driving the dart he’d pried off the trophy for his performance in the Barlympics this year further into its chest, he hoped. The impact drove it onto its back, where it lay, faintly gasping. As it wheezed out its last few breaths, Mike watched, fascinated, as it shrank into a pale, achingly beautiful blonde woman, with a blonde monobrow and index and middle fingers of identical length. She glared at him feebly, one hand pressed over the wound, as her heart continued to pump blood out of the hole and onto his barroom floor. “I never could beat McNurtney at darts, sweetie. Damn good thing too. Second place never felt so good.” Her eyes closed, and her hand slid away. One last bubbly breath escaped her lips. Mike stood up from where he kneeled over her, and set about rousing Emily. Between the two of them, they ought to be able to get rid of the body.
“Tales of the Gold Monkey”
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GREAT MOMENTS IN PULP TV:
TALES OF THE GOLD MONKEY By kat parrish
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elevision embraced pulp fiction in its infancy, mining the movies and paperbacks and short stories and comics for tales they could repackage and present to their growing audience. Westerns fared well, with The Lone Ranger and Gunsmoke (which had been a successful radio drama) leading the way. Private eye shows and mysteries proved successful and gangster movies were re-imagined and served up as police dramas. Edgar Rice Burroughs’ lord of the jungle Tarzan was a huge television hit,
invented and reinvented for each new generation. (Right now, somewhere someone is plotting a 21st century version of Tarzan, probably with Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson in the title role.) What television did not offer, for the most part, was the kind of two-fisted tale that the Indiana Jones movies mimicked so wonderfully and so lucratively. There were a few attempts, like Adventures in Paradise and the British
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE and dealt with villains in between expeditions. In addition to Boxleitner, the series starred Clyde Kusatsu, Cindy Morgan and Ron O’Neal, as His Highness, the Sultan of Johore. Among the series’ writers was B.W. Sandefur, who had penned a number of Charlie’s Angels and Bonanza episodes and would go on to write for Little House on the Prairie (starring the future Mrs. Bruce Boxleitner, Melissa Gilbert) and Airwolf. The show never
import Adventures of Robin Hood (starring heartthrob Richard Greene, whose film career was all about the pulp), but for the most part, what viewers got was shows about doctors, lawyers and cops. That changed in 1982. Following the monster success of Raiders of the Lost Ark, network executives hoped to cash in on Indy fever with not one but two adventure series—Bring ‘Em Back Alive (the Adventures of Frank Buck) starring Bruce Boxleitner as a “great white hunter,” and Tales of the Gold Monkey, a genial riff on classic Terry and the Piratesstyle action, starring a then-35-year-old Stephen Collins.
really caught on, and it never really captured the pulp sensibility it was shooting for. Tales of the Gold Monkey, on the other hand, got it exactly right. Set in 1938, the series followed the exploits of soldier of fortune Jake Cutter, a former pilot in the legendary “Flying Tigers” who flies his island-based Grumman Goose seaplane into adventure each week. Everything about the production was first rate, from the writing to the casting to the period details. Even the title, Tales of the Gold Monkey, was pure, perfect pulp.
The Frank Buck show was inspired by a real-lifecharacter-turned-pulp-fiction-hero and set its stories in pre-war Malaya (as Malaysia was then called). Buck worked out of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore Collins dove into the part with relish, chomping
“Tales of the Gold Monkey”
on cigars, tilting his pilot’s cap at a rakish angle and just generally charming everyone in his path, including Caitlin O’Heaney as a chanteuse singing in the Monkey Bar while spying for the Americans. (Roddy McDowall played the bar’s owner, Bon Chance Louis, a role he took over from Ron Moody, and he brought his Roddy-ness to every scene, serving notice to everyone else that he was
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going to steal the scene if they didn’t bring their A-game.) Other regulars included Jeff McKay as Jake’s mechanic, a role not unlike his recurring character on JAG and John Calvin as the Reverend Willie Tenboom, a Dutch minister who was really a German spy. (Calvin’s done his share of pulp, and his resume includes everything from The Dark Secret of Harvest Home to Back to the Beach to Critters 3: You Are What They Eat.) The show earned an Emmy for art direction and was nominated in several other categories as well. Whatever the budget was for the series—the producers got their money’s worth. And so did the viewers. Unfortunately, Tales of the Gold Monkey only lasted for a year. Fortunately, the entire series is available on dvd. At press time, you could get the set for $43.00 from Warlock Video at: http:// www.warlockvideos.com/talesofthegoldmonkey.ht ml?gclid=CJ3n6pGL4I8CFRFjYAoduymMhA. Check it out adventure fans.
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Ron Fortier By tim gallagher
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ON FORTIER has been a professional writer for over twenty-five years. He has several novels under his belt, including the Captain Hazzard series (PYTHON MEN OF THE LOST CITY, THE CITADEL OF FEAR, CURSE OF THE RED MAGGOT, and the forthcoming CAVEMEN OF NEW YORK); HOUNDS OF HELL (with Gordon Lizzner); and WITCHFIRE, TRAIL OF THE SEAHAWKS, and MONKEY STATION (all with Ardath Mayhar).
He is just as prolific in the comic book arena, penning such titles as THE GREEN HORNET, THE HULK, POPEYE, RAMBO, MR. JIGSAW, THE ORIGINAL STREET FIGHTER (not based on the video game), and GENE RODDENBERRY’S LOST UNIVERSE. I was first introduced to Ron’s writing through THE GREEN HORNET series from NOW Com-ics back in the 1980s. This was a time when
Interview: Ron Fortier it seemed every publisher was taking old comic or pulp characters and placing them in the present day (one of the most popular such moves was Howard Chaykin’s THE SHADOW mini-series, wherein the unaged Master of the Night returned to modern-day New York, complete with a new roster of agents). What I liked most about Ron’s work on THE GREEN HORNET is that his story started with the original Hornet and Kato in the 1930s, then followed them as they aged through the decades, eventually passing on their costumed identities to a new generation. During this series we got to see the Green Hornet and Kato in their various incarnations and costumes as they appeared on radio, in the pulps, in movie serials, in comic books and strips, and even the short-lived 1960s TV series. Unlike many other such updates, this series was written with genuine love and respect for the original characters.
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in that by the time I was seven, my father got me hooked on reading comics. The first of these was a Timely Kid Colt western. I then gravitated to DC and Superboy comics, all this occurring in the 50s. My brothers and I went to a neighborhood barber who kept a stack of old (40s) coverless comics, and it was there I discovered all the Golden Age greats, from Captain America to Plastic Man to the Justice Society of America. By the time I reached high school (1960) something called Marvel Comics came along, and what a ride that was. It lasted my entire life. Ha. AAM: Have you always lived in New England, or did you move around?
RF: I’ve always been a Yankee, and most of my life has been spent right here in New Hampshire, although for a four-year period in the mid 1970s, I lived across the border in Maine. I appreciate small Ron lives in New Hampshire with his wife Val. A town life, and although big cities are fun to visit, I true New England Yankee, he’s an avid Red Sox simply could not live in one. fan, and couldn’t be happier about the outcome of AAM: Did you always want to be a writer, or was it the 2007 World Series. something you gravitated towards later in life? Ron will soon be moving beyond just writing, as his Airship 27 Productions will begin publishing his RF: Actually I wanted to be a comic book artist books in 2008, an enterprise he seems quite excited at the beginning. I mean, what young comic fan about. You can find out more about Ron and his doesn’t? And I did possess a rudimentary talent. various projects and adventures by checking out his I remember writing and drawing my own awful little comics while in grade school. What changed website www.airship27.com. everything was high school, when I came to the realization that my level of art skill was never going to be of professional status. So I made a course correction my junior year. Instead of drawing comics, some day I would write them. ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE: So, Ron, tell us a little about yourself and what led AAM: You’ve written several comic series and pulp you to the sordid life of writing pulps and comics. novels. Besides the series you already mentioned, what were your favorites when you were growing RON FORTIER: I was born in 1946, the year up? Who were your favorite characters? after World War Two ended, mak-ing me one of the millions of babies born that year. Baby RF: The true pulp mags - ala Doc Savage and Boomers we were called. This is somewhat relevant the Shadow etc. were long gone by the time
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE AAM: What was your job with General Electric? RF: I had about four different jobs during my years at GE. All were physical and out in the factory. I ended as an Inspector/Tester on a transformer production line. My job was to hook-up the transformer, after they were assembled and run voltage through to see how they performed. If they passed, they went on to shipping and the eventual customer, public and private utility companies. If they failed, I had to determine why and send them back to production for either repairing or scrapping. AAM: How did you get started in your writing career?
One of Ronâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite characters, and his finest comics work, THE GREEN HORNET.
RF: Well, I took the most common routes. I studied writing in high school and then went to work for a local newspaper after graduating. I served three years in the Army, the last in one while
I was of reading age, mid-1950s. But there remained lots of great adventure and sci-fi mags like Analog and Argosy, and I devoured those. And as stated above, I was reading all the DC titles and jumped on to Marvel when it arrived, ushering in the Silver Age. Favorite titles had to be Spiderman, the Fantastic Four, The Avengers, Justice League of America, The Flash, Green Lantern, the Blackhawks and Challengers of the Unknown...to name a few. Ha. AAM: You had a good foundation in the comic book classics. So, is writing your full-time job, or is it a sideline? RF: Having retired four years ago from a 32 year career working for General Electric, my answer is happily, yes; writing is now my only avocation, when not traveling and spending time with my grandkids, or watching the Red Sox. For over 35 years writing was the part-time job, the one I did late at night when everyone in the house was fast asleep.
An issue of The INCREDIBLE HULK penned by Ron (copyright Marvel Comics)
Interview: Ron Fortier
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saved by physics. Being so close to the explosion, once we fell to ground (and that took all of a nanosecond..ha) our proximity to blast protected us as the zillions of pieces of shrapnel actually flew out AAM: What was your MOS in the Army? and up, going over us. Only two men were hit, and RF: I was a Personnel Specialist. Which meant those were only minor cuts. But it certainly was a I could do most any clerical position, and I did moment that I will never forget. All of us were deaf about three different ones during my three year for a good ten minutes and when we took stock and realized we’d survived, just plain numb with enlistment. awe. AAM: Did you see any action in Vietnam, or were you rear-echelon? in Vietnam, from where I continued my weekly column for the folks back home.
RF: I never saw the kind of battle action you are talking about during my year in Vietnam, but I was shot at once, while on sandbag detail outside our base. And during the Tet Offensive of ‘68, I was almost blown to pieces when a twenty-foot ammunition tower was ignited by a Vietcong infiltrator. My company and I were only fifty yards away from the pile when it exploded, and we were
TERMINATOR: THE BURNING EARTH, a comic mini-series written by Ron, with art by superstar artist Alex Ross (MARVELS, KINGDOM COME) before he was famous.
AAM: Being a Vietnam vet, did you ever read Doug Murray’s THE ‘NAM from Marvel? If so, what did you think?
THE ORIGINAL STREET FIGHTER, an original comics character created by Ron and artist Gary Kato.
RF: For whatever subconscious reasons, I tend to avoid books or films about Vietnam. Oh, I know many are well done, but again, those of us who went and came home always have the ghosts of those who didn’t in our thoughts.
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AAM: Thankfully, you returned from Vietnam. After that little side trip, what were the next steps in your writing path? RF: I went to college and earned a degree in Business Administration, but at the same time took lots of creative writing course. It was at this time that I broke into fandom and began writing for fanzines. Eventually I paired up with artist Gary Kato, and we sold two stories to the Connecticut based comic company, Charlton. One was a sci-fi 12-pager, and the other was a comic super-hero, Mr.Jigsaw, Man of a Thousand Parts. AAM: When writing, what format do you prefer to work in: comics? Novels? Screenplays? Plays? RF: Good question, and a hard one to answer. I
One of Ron’s frequent collaborations with author Ardath Mayhar, MONKEY STATION (how can you not love that title?).
He’s POPEYE the sailor man, and he lives in a garbage can....(or so the popular ditty goes); another comic penned by Ron.
think every story has a specific format it works best in. For example, for many years I tried to write the story of how my parents met and fell in love just prior to the start of World War Two. Every time I
tried to set it down in prose, it wouldn’t work. Then after years of grappling with the problem, one day I suddenly saw in my mind’s eye my parents up on a stage and instantly realized it had to be a play, not a short story. It then took me all of six weeks to write WHERE LOVE TAKES YOU. It was performed by a local community theater group a year later. The thing to remember is prose is the only format that requires the writer to detail everything. Writing a comic script, you are doing set up for an artist; a play for actors; and a screenplay for the movie director. Each has its strengths and weaknesses. Do I have a favorite? If pushed, I’d have to say comic scripting, only because it still touches the little kid in me, and allows me to work hand in hand with talented graphic artists. That rush has never ever faded for me. AAM: Your play, WHERE LOVE TAKES YOU, is described as a World War Two romance, so I take it there aren’t any scenes of commandos attacking Hitler. What led to you to write it?
Interview: Ron Fortier RF: I’ll bet there isn’t one person in the entire world who, as a child growing up, didn’t ask their mother and father how they came to meet and fall in love. The only difference here is, as a writer, I soaked up those stories, got all the details, and eventually put them down on paper. A few weeks after the play was performed, my sister Ann stopped over the house and told me as she sat watching the scenes unfold on the stage, she began to remember the times Mom and Dad had related them to her. “I’d forgotten them until then,” she confessed. “But obviously you did not.” As to why I wrote it, well, dramatically it has a cool plot twist. When Dad met Mom he was 25 and she was all of 17. Even though love was blossoming, there was no way it would ever work out for them. Their age differences were much too drastic. Then along came the war, and Dad got drafted and off he went, gone for the next four years. He and Mom started to write, gradually at first, and by the time he was shipped out to the South Pacific, they were writing each other every single day. They fell in love in their letters. When he came home and they were married, he was 29 and she was 21, and no one cared a hoot about those 8 years in between. Ergo, had World War Two not come along when it did, most likely there would have been no Ron Fortier. AAM: I understand that it’s your favorite piece of work. RF: It is special to me because on the night it premiered, my mother was seated in the first row, along with my siblings, and the rest of the house was filled with family and relatives. My Dad died many years ago, but he, and all my grandpar-ents hovered over that theater that night, and as all those young actors played people we had all known and loved, by the time the house lights went up, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. My aunts and uncles got to see their parents again, as I did my Dad. It was a magic night none of us will ever forget. How many writers get say they got to write their parent’s love story and see it acted on stage?
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AAM: When writing, do you use mood music or other methods to get the reative juices flowing? RF: I listen to film scores when I write. Note, I said scores, not soundtracks. Nothing bothers me more when writing then listening to song lyrics. I don’t want to start singing along while I’m trying to type out an action sequence. Long ago I realized action/ adventure movies usually came with really good music scores, ala John Williams and many others. I began collecting them for just that purpose, to play while I write. They get me into the mood and then help keep me there. My music library now contains over 500 movie scores. AAM: That’s pretty much what I do to, although my library is pretty limited to the soundtrack to MASTER AND COMMANDER and the Godzilla films, the GODZILLA VS. MEGAGUIRUS soundtrack by Michiru Oshima being my favorite (which may explain why giant monsters seem to always appear in my stories). What process do you use when writing? Do you create a detailed outline? Or do you just have the germ of an idea and fly by the seat of your pants, not knowing where you’ll end up? RF: Ideas will always shape the writing process for me. Many times I do see a story in my head to its conclusion and knowing that ending, it is very much a job of creating a story plot that will get me there. I never make outlines too de-tailed as I find them confining. Sure, they are good for fitting into a set number of pages, if that’s what editor wants. But on the other hand, I like writing to be a journey of discovery and if I keep the plot’s loose, often times I’ll discover new elements along the way that I had never dreamed of when starting. AAM: I imagine the writing process is different when working with a co-writer, which you have done several times. Describe the writing process when working with frequent collaborator Ardath Mayhar. RF:
Working with Ardath Mayhar was an
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invaluable learning experience and one I took with me to other such collaborations. This being a novel, she advised me to write a loose plot outline and then kick it off by writing the first few chapters. These I would then send her with a more detailed outline of what needed to happen in the next chapters. She would write them accordingly, return every-thing to me and I would go over it. Once I was okay with her section (if it needed changes, we worked those out together), I’d then write a few more chapters and repeat the process. It took us six months to write our first novel like this, TRAIL OF THE SEAHAWKS.
her 60s, she began her professional writing career. Now she has well over 50 novels to her credit. Her beloved Joe passed away long ago and she lives by herself now, happy to call herself a hermit. When in truth she has wonderful sons, daughter-in-laws and grandkids. I don’t know her exact age, but have to believe she’s in her mid-80s. And every time we write each other, her enthusiasm for life andwriting is still as strong as ever. Again, I was just one lucky devil to have hooked up with her when I did. AAM: Do you choose your co-writers, are they thrust upon you by editorial dictate, or is it a combination of the two?
AAM: Do you prefer writing alone or with a partner? What are the benefits and/or difficulties RF: I have never had an editor stick with me with a co-writer. All the books that I’ve ever co-written associated with each method? were started by me. In Ardath’s case, it was very RF: I appreciate both a great deal. Writing alone much my being a novice and asking her to help obviously gives one the ultimate control over teach me how to write. That she did so, and wrote the story etc., but it is usually a long and lonely three books with me is still a wonder. process, whereas working hand in hand with another writer tends to speed up production a great AAM: What do you look for in a collaborator deal. The con of working with a partner is often when choosing one? times having to repeat the plot so both understand where the chapters must go. Working alone, I have RF: Now I look for those writers who I feel not no one else’s feelings to consider. Sometimes, in only have a similar style and ap-proach to writing partnerships, you can easily step on the other guy’s as I do, but also a true love of the genre we are toes, without meaning to do so. I would advise tackling. Martin Powell loves pulps as much as people with big egos to avoid partnerships. For I do, and we’ve been friends for ages. Our styles team-ups to work, both writers have to shelve their aren’t exactly alike, but when we started doing personal egos and put the story first...all the time. CITADEL OF FEAR, the Captain Hazzard book, we both were able to adjust to one another and AAM: Was Ardath Mayhar a more experienced make it work. Extremely well I might add. Now writer than you when you two first collaborated? I’ve recruited Andrew Salmon of Canada, another You make it sound like she was the “senior” gifted pulp enthusiast, and we are in the middle of our first book in what we hope will be an on-going partner. series, THE GHOST SQUAD. Andrew, being my RF: Oh yeah, although I’d be careful to use only junior in both years and writing experience, is very that word when describing this wonderful lady adaptable and lets me set the lead. We put our egos from Texas. By the time Ardath and I hooked aside and do what is good for the book. up, she and her late husband Joe had both retired. She had been a newspaper proof-reader for many AAM: Is there a particular genre that you prefer years. Once retired, she thought she might try her to work in? hand at writing sci-fi and fantasy and so, well into RF: There are two genres I seem to gravitate to
Interview: Ron Fortier all the time: action/adventure and historical. The former is evident in most of my comic and pulp work. And of course pulps are generally grounded in a specific American time-frame, so history plays a big part of the background. Recently I did a horror graphic novel set against the backdrop of World War One in Europe, which required a great deal of research, and I loved every bit of it. Next up, artist Rob Davis and I are working on an historical western comic series based on the life of a real lawman few people have ever heard of. Once again, doing the research for this project was as much fun as writing it. Finally, let me add, action/adventure is my all time favorite genre when reading and book or seeing a movie, so its not leap that it is also what I want to write when I do fiction.
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to the old days of wild and wacky fun. The late comic historian and critic, Don Thompson, upon reviewing the first ever Mr.Jigsaw strip compared him favorably to C.C.Beck’s original Cap-tain Marvel comics for Fawcett. High praise indeed, and exactly the mood and tempo we strive for in chronicling the adventures of ..”Maine’s only living super hero.” AAM: Who is your favorite character to write about whom you didn’t create?
RF: As to my favorite licensed character, that’s has to be the one that helped make my career, The Green Hornet. Getting the opportunity to handle this license for over two and half years at Now Comics was a real roller-coaster up and down ride. The AAM: Since history is one of your favorite genres Hornet has been around since the ‘30s radio days, to write about, what time pe-riod attracts you the had two cliff-hanger serials made at Universal, and most? What is it about this time period that you the highly acclaimed TV show with Van Williams and Bruce Lee. Writing the adventures of the find so in-teresting? RF: I’ve always been a fascinated by America’s Civil War. Considering all the wars our country has fought in, this one is by far the most poignant and tragic. Americans fought other Americans in a contest that would shape forever the kind of democratic union we would be. But at the same it time it revealed, with so much sacrifice, the true tenacity and strength of character that is the American spirit. No other peoples in the history of mankind have ever cherished freedom as we do, and the Civil War revolved entirely around that one issue. What is freedom? Who has the right to freedom? The causes of the war may well have been economical, but by the time it was over, it was really about those grander concepts and ideals. AAM: Of the characters you’ve created, who is your favorite character to write about? RF: Of all the characters I’ve created, alone or with other creators, I’d have to say Mr.Jigsaw, Man of a Thousand Parts is the most fun to write. Cocreated with artist Gary Kato, Jiggy harkens back
Ron and Ardath’s latest opus, WITCHFIRE.
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE and the only way (emphasis on ONLY) he can do a Green Hornet is if it is a comedy. Certainly not what I, or the millions of Hornet fans out there want to see. I’m keeping my fingers crossed this never gets made. AAM: Is there a character or series that you would like to take a crack at? RF: As a professional writer, I’m always game to tackle anything. Is there one character now being published I’d like a shot at? Hmm, tough question. I guess I’d have to say not really. Oh, don’t get me wrong here. There are quite a few titles out there that I like a great deal, but I just don’t have any desire to work on them because I think the people doing them are handling well enough. If given the choice, at this stage of my career I’d much prefer to devote my energies on my own characters.
PYTHON MEN OF THE LOST CITY, the premiere (and only) published adventure of forgotten pulp hero Captain Hazzard, given new life by Ron.
AAM: The titles of two of your novels - MONKEY STATION (co-written by Ardath Mayhar) and
Green Hornet and Kato, with Jeff Butler on art, was a thrill ride for me and I have many wonderful memories of that time. AAM: As you are a Green Hornet fan (and I’ll state right here that while I was never a big fan as a kid - was never allowed to watch the TV series - I absolutely loved your comic series), what is your reaction to the news that Seth Rogen (40 YEAROLD VIRGIN, KNOCKED UP) is writing the Green Hornet movie script, with an eye to playing Britt Reid/The Green Hornet? And do you have any ad-vice for him or the filmmakers? RF: Advice, sure. Don’t do it! I’ve seen a video of Rogen taken at the San Diego Con. He is not taking the project seriously, even though he swears it will not be a comedy. Then the news gets out they are looking to hire the comedic/martial artist from the film Kung Fu Hustle (Stephen Chow). Oh, please, give me a break. Rogen is a comedic actor
CITADEL OF FEAR, the second book in the series, and the first all-new Captain Hazzard tale in over sixty years!
Interview: Ron Fortier
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AAM: Is Port Nocturne a “shared universe,” ala George RR Martin’s “Wildcards?” Who else gets to play there? RF: Actually Mills has decided to fold up the Supernatural Crime tent. This came as a big surprise to us, especially as we were planning on reprinting Brother Grim. In lieu of this, we’ve had to do some major juggling. You see, although Mills owns the names to settings and characters, I own the actual stories. Thus we came to a mutual agreement and I’ve changed all the names to include that of the main character. Meanwhile Rob Davis has altered the character’s visual look and is painting a new cover. Come Jan 2008 we will be releasing, through Airship 27 Productions and Cornerstone Books, BROTHER BONES. We want to make it absolutely clear to all our fans and supporters that it is a reprint edition and the first six stories are the same as appeared in the Grim edition. The difference with this book, aside from Another Ron Fortier pulp, THE HOUNDS OF HELL.
GORILLA DREAMS, a Brother Grim story sound like they appeal to the pulp monkeys here at AAM. Can you give us brief descriptions of these stories? RF: Well the truth is fiction writers, especially genre fiction writers, have been using talking apes for as long as there have been magazines and comics of the fantastic. In MONKEY STATION, Ardath and I set up creating a plague that de-stroys almost 80% of humanity, but has a weird, mutating effect on animals. Horses die out, dogs grow to twice their size and certain monkeys in the jungles of South America gain intelligence. It was all a set up for our second book in the series, TRAIL OF THE SEAHAWKS, where these monkeys became major sup-porting characters. Whereas Chris Mills, who created the world of Port Nocturne took the old Flash villain, Gorilla Grodd, and made him a mob gangster. In GORILLA DREAMS he crosses paths with Brother Grim, the undead avenger.
CURSE OF THE RED MAGGOT, the third in the series, based on an original, unpublished Captain Hazzard story that was re-worked to become a Secret Agent X story (pulp editors waste nothing!).
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE What can we expect from your company? RF: Okay, we need to clear that up a wee bit. When I first hooked up with Wild Cat books, it was to put books together for them to publish, either my own, or anthologies I edited. Airship 27 was a producing team made up of myself, Anthony Schiavino and artist Rob Davis. Anthony left to start EPISODES FROM THE ZERO HOUR, leaving me and Rob to hold down the fort. Now here’s a scoop for you: a few weeks ago, Wild Cat books informed us that on the 1st of January 2008, they are deleting all the books we produced for them and will no longer be publishing them. They relinquished all rights to those titles and they now revert back to us. Meaning that in 2008, Airship 27 Productions is going to actually become a publishing venture.
A Ron Fortier and Ardath Mayhar co-production for TSR, TRAIL OF THE SEA HAWKS.
the new names and art, is the ad-dition of a seventh story that was never before published. Also, unlike Grim having been issued to a limited market, Cornerstone Books has broader distribution networks and hopefully BROTHER BONES will find a much bigger audience. And of course, Rob and I now own the property and should the “reprint/new” edition do well, we will be planning future volumes. Gee, hope all that wasn’t too confusing. AAM: You’ve recently started the publishing imprint AIRSHIP 27 PRODUC-TIONS. Why did you decide to get into the publishing game?
Ron’s comic book avenger cleaning up the streets of Boston, the Gargoyle, in MASK OF THE GARGOYLE.
Interview: Ron Fortier
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your titles anymore? RF: I wish I knew. Obviously not what anyone would call a good business decision? Then again, Wild Cat Books seems to have doubled their production this past year. It’s possible they want to focus their promotions, etc., only on their own titles and are divesting themselves of everything else. They are a great out-fit and we wish them all the luck in the world with their new projects. AAM: What elements do you look for in a pulp story (either as a writer or a reader) that you can’t find in other genres? RF: Slam-bang action without a lot of padding. Uncomplicated heroes and cruel, completely twisted villains. Exotic locales. Those are the hallmarks of good pulp stories. Sadly, today even the most successful thrillers lack many of these elements. Whenever I pick up an old 1930s pulp, I am immediately struck with the innocent sense of wonder that existed back then. We’ve lost much of that ability to be wowed today, and it filters through into our arts, to include films and literature. Ron occassionally puts down his twin .45s, takes off his fedora, and writes comics for children like PETER PAN: RETURN TO NEVERNEVER LAND here.
We will begin reprinting all those old Wild Cat editions. But we aren’t just going to slap on a new logo. Each book is going to be gone over and reedited and updated, some more than others. Some are slated to get new covers. All the reprints will be, we hope, better for our efforts here. Note the reprints will be clearly identified as such. We aren’t out to fool old readers, only to make new readers. That being the case, we will we be the publishers of the 4th all new Captain Hazzard novel, and the first novel in a new pulp series I’m doing with writer Andrew Salmon called The Ghost Squad. As you can see, Rob and I keep busy. And I’m supposed to be retired!
AAM: What authors do you read? Who are your favorites? What genres (outside of pulp) do you enjoy? RF: Outside of action/adventure, I like horror and mystery novels a great deal. Some of my favorite writers include the late Ed McBain, who passed away last year; he was my all time favorite. Then there’s Max Alan Collins, whose new mystery novel is just fantastic. I love all of Clive Cussler’s thrillers, and Will Thomas has a series featuring a Victorian detective named Cyrus Barker that I’ve become addicted to. Oh, let’s not forget Stephen King or Dean R. Koontz: two favorites of mine. I love reading, almost as much as writing, as you can see. AAM: Read any good books or seen any good movies lately that you’d recommend?
AAM: By all accounts, your books sell very well. Why then did Wildcat Books decide not to carry RF: Well, I’m truly a movie junkie and I love
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what computer technology is bring-ing to the big screen. Films like SIN CITY and 300 are just amazing to watch. Part of the magic of movies is that they transport us to places we could only imagine. As for books, as stated above, I’m a big fan of Clive Cussler’s work, as well as the Special Agent Pendergast novels by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child. These are the modern pulp writers of our time, and I’d soundly recommend any of their books. If you like fantasy, you do not want to miss D.M. Cornish’s FOUNDLING. It is one of the finest fantasy novels I’ve ever enjoyed. AAM: with?
Is there anyone that you’d like to work
RF: There are several artists out there I’d love to work and for the most part aren’t at all well known. They include my partner, Rob Davis, who worked at DC & Marvel on their Star Trek titles years ago. Rob did all the art for my 108-page graphic novel, DAUGHTER OF DRACULA, due out some time next month. There’s also Dario Carrasco of Canada. Dario and I created a character called Mask of the Gargoyle for Digital Webbing Presents. Dario is a terrific penciller. I’d also love a shot at working with an old-old pal of mine, Joe Staton. Joe has just started doing more E-Man comics, again for Digital Webbing, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Finally Rich Woodall is another newcomer with tons of talent I’d love to be teamed with. If I were teamed up with any of these gifted people, I’d be happy as a clam at high tide. AAM: Your website states that you’re shopping around a screenplay. What’s it called and what’s it about? RF: The screenplay is actual that particular version of my graphic novel, which I listed above. DAUGHTER OF DRACULA tells the gothic romance story of how, just prior World War One, young Manfred Von Richthofen came to Transalvania on a hunting trip with his father and brother, and there met the beautiful Countess
Another Ron-written comic for the kids, DAYS OF THE DRAGON (presumably not the biography of Bruce Lee).
Marya Dracula. She becomes smitten him, and over the following years keeps tabs on him as the war breaks out. Of course Manfred becomes the most fa-mous German flying ace of all time, known as the Red Baron. On the eve of receiving his Blue Cross medal, Marya shows up in Berlin at a gala given in his honor. She then seduces him and they begin a torrid, very erotic affair. (The book will be listed as “mature audience only” due to its strong sexual content). When Manfred is ultimately killed (as it happened in real life) before Marya can transform him into a vampire, she goes insane with rage and begins to wage an arcane war against Allied pilots using her mystical vampire powers. How’s that sound? We are hoping if the graphic novel takes off, it will get the attention of producers in Hollywood.
Interview: Ron Fortier
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rip-off, but there was never a second issue and when I read it, I thought I knew why. It was so poorly written, with all kinds of problems. It was clear whoever Chester Hawks (bogus author name) [EDITOR’S NOTE: Chester Hawks is believed to be one of the pseudonyms of prolific pulp author Paul Chadwick; this is not the same Paul Chadwick who is the creator of the ac-claimed comic book series CONCRETE.] was, he had simply knocked it off for a paycheck. But it had tons of potential. There were some really fun characters and clearly not simply carbon copies of Doc and his gang. Now most of my colleagues and fellow pulp fans were all bemoaning the fact that there were no new Doc Savage books being written anymore, and if one of them tried to get the rights, the price was way outrageous.
Geez, lady, ya nearly poked my eyes out with those things! An image from Ron’s forthcoming, definitely-not-for-kids graphic novel, DAUGHTER OF DRACULA.
AAM: How did you come about writing the adventures of Captain Hazzard, a character who had previously had only one appearance, and who has been described as some as a “pale Doc Savage imitation?” Did you acquire the rights to the character? [And if so, how?] Why did you bring this character back, as opposed to creating your own? RF: I discovered the pulps after coming home from Vietnam in 1968 through pa-perback reprints of Conan, The Shadow and Doc Savage. Through various fan-zines I learned more and more until I managed to get my hands on the reprint issue of the one and only odd-duck magazine, Captain Hazzard. It was clearly intended to be a Savage
Which got me to thinking: any rights to Hazzard had expired many, many years ago, thus making him public domain. So why beat my brains out dreaming of writing a Savage novel, when I could write brand new Captain Hazzard tales...and pretty much make him my own character as I go along? That being the case, I chose first to re-write the first ( and only printed adventure ) PYTHON MEN OF THE LOST CITY. It sold extremely well... and is still selling. Then I recruited Martin Powell, and together we wrote the first new Captain Hazzard novel in 68 years, CITADEL OF FEAR. It sold like gangbusters. Along about this time a fan who had picked up my first book wrote to tell me that, back in 1938, the writer had in fact turned in a second Hazzard script, only to have it shelved when the book was canceled. Not being folks to waste anything, the pulp editor then told this writer to take that story and change it into a Secret Agent X story. The writer complied. Now this same fan actually sent me the entire issue of that Secret Agent X issue xeroxed so I could read it. What a hoot it was. It was so evident it was not your typical Secret Agent X spy story, but a team adventure. The challenge this fan posed to me: could I re-write this story and turn it back into a Captain Hazzard yarn? The result was our third
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Captain Hazzard book from Wild Cat, CURSE OF THE RED MAGGOT. At pre-sent I am halfway through the fourth book, which I am doing solo, and hope to have out at the start of next year under our new Airship 27 Productions house. AAM: What’s your involvement with another fine on-line pulp magazine, EPISODES FROM THE ZERO HOUR? RF: EPISODES FROM THE ZERO HOUR is owned and was created by my good friend, Anthony Schiavino and his pal, Jason Butkowski. Anthony had been the designer on several of my books for Wild Cat and when he started this operation, he invited me to contribute something. That something was the fighting priest, Father Michael Ryan: a grizzled Marine chaplain in WW II, Ryan comes home to his neighborhood parish to find it overrun with mobsters, and chooses to do something more than pray about it. It was a fun piece to write.
Our oldest daughter, Michelle, is a gifted humorist who writes about every day life much like the late, great Irma Bombeck. Although she writes for her own personal enjoy-ment now, I keep at her to collect her essays, and one of these days am going to get them published for her. She writes very funny stuff about every day people. It’s a real gift and I’m very proud of her. As for the others, they’ve all become successful in various careers, and all of them have creative sides, ala playing in a band, or one has an amazing model railroad hobby. And I’m happy to say, our youngest grandkids have just recently discovered their Granpa writes comics and think he’s the King of the Hill. AAM: It’s great that your grandkids appreciate their comic-writing grandpa. Are you planning any comic - or other type - stories geared for them, or young ‘uns in general?
AAM: What other hobbies - besides writing, reading, and the Red Sox - keep you occupied during your retirement? RF: Well, tying in with all the above, I’m very much a movie junkie and have a huge DVD collection. I love action movies in particular and old black and white mysteries. The original 1933 KING KONG is my all time favorite film, although I also appreciate Peter Jackson’s recent, heartfelt remake. Movies are just books brought to life. My wife, Val, and I also like to travel, when time and the budget will allow. Mostly in the states, although some day I’d like to go overseas, if we can find a spot where a current war isn’t going on. AAM: You are the grandfather of six. Have any of your children or grandchildren followed your footsteps into writing and/or pulpdom? RF: You know, you would think with five kids, three boys and two girls, at least one of them would get the bug. And that’s the case, just one of them.
Father Michael Ryan, Ron’s battling Catholic priest, makes his first appearance in EPISODES FROM THE ZERO HOUR.
Interview: Ron Fortier RF: Well, a few years ago Gary Kato and I did a comic called DAYS OF THE DRAGON which dealt with a medieval world of intelligent dinosaurs. It was a big hit with the younger crowd. I’ve also a project called BULLDOZER that I’ve been playing around with. A local art teacher is doing the art and it is also geared to-wards younger readers. I still think much of the fun of comics is lost these days, and that’s what these two projects are aimed at bringing back. AAM: Okay, one final question to test how clairvoyant you are: realizing that this interview will see print after the World Series (with your beloved Red Sox playing) is over, do you have any predictions? RF: Ouch. Man, what can I tell you. As a fan and proud member of Red Sox Nation, I have to keep the faith and believe they will win the series. As a realist, I think it’s stupid to ever underestimate one’s opponents, and the Colorado Rock-ies are clearly a dynamite ball club. So here’s my prediction: the Red Sox will win, but it won’t be a sweep. I believe the series will go six games, with the Rockies taking two. God, these words are either going to haunt me (chuckle) and make me look like a fool, or a sage. Roll them dice.
Well, Ron was only half-right, but I’m sure he’s ecstatic over the final results anyway. We just won’t be giving him any “Nostradamus” awards anytime soon. Thanks for a spending time with us here in The Monkey House, Ron, and best of luck with all your endeavours!
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“Captain Smith and the Numbers Game” By Christian Dabnor
“A
h, Captain Smith, do come in, do come in. Please, take a seat.” “Thank you sir.” “Medal?” The Flight Commander waved a box in front of Smith. “Thank you sir.” Smith picked out a silver medal, with a bright blue ribbon. “This should complement my dress uniform quite nicely, don’t you think?” ”Yes, very nicely. Will you be paying cash, or…” “Charge it to my account please sir.” “Of course, of course.” He pressed a button on his desk. “Miss Jenkins, do be a dear and charge Captain Smith’s account for a Blue Star of Valour will you? Thank you. Now, Smith, down to business.” The Flight Commander linked his fingers across his stomach. “Yes sir.” “Well, that was another jolly good performance today. 5 was it?” “Yes sir, 5 of the blighters. Most tenacious they were. Almost as if they didn’t want to be shot.” “Quite. 183 all told, isn’t it?” “187 actually sir. There was the thing in Spain.” “Oh yes,” the Flight Commander laughed, “I always forget the thing in Spain. Anyway, 183, 187, all very impressive. But there is one thing…” “What’s that sir?” “The numbers boys. They’re not happy. Not happy at all.” “Oh? Why?”
The Flight Commander stood and walked over to a flipchart, on which was a tactical map of Italy. He flipped the map over, revealing a graph. “It’s this, you see. Sales of your merchandise are falling.” “Falling sir? Any idea why?” “Well, we British have a tendency to support the underdog, and, what with you being all but indestructible, people are getting a little bored. The whole rags to riches story was all well and good, working class boy comes good and all that, but now you’re on the television all the time, with supermodels, at fancy nightclubs, or driving expensive things. You’re seen as one of the cultural elite, and the working class stiffs who make up your target market simply can’t identify.” “Really sir?” “Yes, look at this.” He pointed to the graph. “T-shirt sales down 25%.” He flipped over to the next page. “Action figures down 7%. Fortunately, children still tend to support heroes.” Smith blushed. “Oh, you are a hero, no denying that. 187…” His voice trailed off slightly. “Anyway.” He flipped to the next page. “Memorial plates, down 38%it seems people are running out of room.” He laughed nervously. “So, sir, what’s to be done?” “Well, we have a new line of merchandise.” He picked up a T-shirt from the desk. It had a picture of Smith, behind him was his famous Crusader plane, with it’s distinct lightning bolt motif, and behind that, the Union Jack fluttered. Below the image was the slogan “Come Home
“Captain Smith and the Numbers Game” Safely Captain Smith.” “I… I don’t understand sir.” “Well, the boys in marketing think that if you were to fall behind enemy lines, the public would rally behind you again. Merchandise sales rocket and everyone’s happy.” “But I’m needed in the war effort.” “That’s OK, it’s all been taken care of.” “What do you mean sir?” “We’ve spoken to the enemy, and they’re quite happy to sort things out their end.” “Sort things out their end? But they’re the enemy.” “Well, yes, but war is expensive business, and we all have expenses to pay.” “You’re paying the enemy to shoot me down?” “Yes, but don’t worry, they’ll make sure you can bail out OK, and they’ve arranged for supplies and a medical team to be sent to your location, in exchange for a bigger cut of the profits from your merchandise.” “A bigger cut? You mean they already have a cut?” “Yes, of course. It’s been a most lucrative arrangement thus far. You don’t think you’ve stayed alive thus far through skill alone do you?” “Well, sir, actually, I did.” “Don’t be naïve. Remember when you were dueling with the Thunder Duke and he pulled away when he had you in his sights?” “Yes, of course sir. He had a weapons system malfunction” “Weapons malfunction? He was flying a Kestrel MKII. When was the last time you heard of one of those malfunction?”
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“Never, sir.” “Exactly. He was ordered to return to base. Anyway, when you go up next, he and his squadron will be up against you.” “What if I win?” “If you do, I’m sure we can get sales that way, I suppose, but, you see, we’ve got all that business covered.” “What do you mean sir?” “Don’t worry about that old thing, you just go up and put up a good fight.” “What if I refuse?” “Now now, don’t be such a spoilsport. We’re sure you’ll pull through it, and when you return, it’ll be to a heroes welcome. Tell you what, I’ll even throw in a free medal or two. Now, go and get some rest, you’ve a big day ahead of you.” “But..” “Come come, when have I ever let you down?” “Never sir.” “See, now run along, I’m a busy man.” “Of course sir.” Smith turned and made for the door. “Oh, and Smith?” “Yes sir?” “Good luck, we’re all rooting for you.” “Er, thank you sir.” Bemused, Smith left the room. The Flight Captain pressed the button his desk again. “Miss Jenkins? Do be a love and get the Thunder Duke on the line for me. Thank you.”
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“A Dish Best Served Cold” By D.A. Madigan
I
S
uspended in the air, thirty feet above the once heather-thick floor of a secluded mountain valley somewhere in the high Himalayas, not far from the guttering flames delineating the perfectly circular perimeters of freshly blasted artillery craters: a great white furred gorilla, strangely clad in a harness of leather straps and pouches, with jeweled gold spangling hairy earlobes and knobby, blunt fingers, rage-bloated red eyes possessing an unsettling spark of intelligence. Twenty feet away, also hanging helplessly in mid-air, a man – tall and well muscled, hair a black thick crop atop his long head, dark eyes filled with an anger to rival that of the great white ape’s, or even mythical Jove’s, anthracite skin a startling contrast to the anthropoid’s snowy fur; wearing the ragged remnants of once-tough cotton fatigues and a soot blackened pair of well worn, beautifully cared for leather boots. Pulsing in the ether around the two – the palpable thoughts of The Bodiless: We know nothing, and care nothing, for the conflicts of outsiders, the strangely silent voice reverberated directly in the brains of both combatants. But you have brought your combat to our ancestral home, and the fury of your mutual hatred fills the mindscape, causing us discomfort. We would have an end to it. The gorilla stiffened, clawing the air in frustrated outrage. “You dare not interfere with me!” it bellowed through surgically enhanced larynx. “I am the White Pharaoh! My will is supreme!”
The black skinned man mastered himself, visibly. A sidelong glance at his nemesis, hanging as helpless as he. Then, in a voice with its anger merely a well throttled thread – “I had thought this area deserted of all intelligent usage. I… regret the mistake. Release me, and my companion, and we will settle our differences elsewhere.” No, the eerily soundless voice came again, like rushing waters in both their heads. We will not do this thing. You have come among us, unwitting or not, and you have done offense to us. We will hear your justifications for this, and make a resolution. You who call yourself the White Pharaoh – speak of your interest first. “I should not have to justify myself,” the ape raged. “But very well! The White Pharaoh has never known shame. Fourteen thousand years ago, I ruled the Great Polar Empire your histories now name Egypt. It was before the Roaring Cataclysm, and my will was absolute law across the surface of the globe! When my priests came trembling before me, they advised that they could see, through their arts, the beginnings of the black rot starting to form on my brain. It was, they claimed, incurable.” As the ape told his tale, visible images – palpable renderings of his ancient memories, perhaps – formed in the air around him. The human suspended in the air nearby could clearly see a throng of dark brown skinned men in odd headdresses and robes, with crystal studded staves in their hands, kneeling before a massively muscled, utterly hairless albino man sitting on a high throne.
“A Dish Best Served Cold” “It was, in fact, not incurable,” the ape went on. “Using the Flesh of Ra, an artificial brain was fashioned for me exactly duplicating my natural organ. Due to the regenerative properties of Ra’s Flesh, that new brain was immortal and indestructible. Bodies might wear out, but the brain could be easily transplanted into new, young, strong forms taken from my subjects.” The images became a swirling riot of churning figures – weeping priests, if such they were, begging their massive ruler to alter course – loyal soldiers, armed with some sort of energy projecting wands, cutting the priests down with heat rays, until finally a few cowed survivors agreed to comply with the will of the Pharaoh. The Flesh of Ra was a divine artifact, remaining from the Days of the Gods, a lump of glowing clay barely the size of two fists placed together. Small pieces could be pinched off and used for miraculous cures – placed in wounds, the treated flesh would heal completely and over time even fully regenerate – ruined eyes, punctured lungs, even severed limbs would regrow themselves fully, while the original mass of miraculous lifeclay would also, over time, replenish itself of the small amount removed. But the White Pharaoh had demanded the use of all the Flesh of Ra, every bit, for his immortal artificial brain – and in enforcing his will, he had doomed countless others to misery, suffering, and death, down through the generations of man… The ape went on: “Even the Roaring Cataclysm could not kill me, although my Empire was reduced to ruins and my loyal followers became a secretive cult. Through the ages my loyal priests have continued to secure new bodies for my mighty brain. Until two thousand years ago, when abruptly all human bodies began to reject my newly implanted brain, sickening and dying within hours of the transfer. My priests theorize that mankind had gradually evolved just enough that my brain was no longer compatible… but they discovered that a rare white gorilla from the interior of the lower continent was an excellent
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receptacle now. Since then, I have had these gorillas bred in secret to continue to house my supreme immortal mind. As I have roamed the world wreaking my will upon all around me, seeking that submission and awe which was only my just due as the only remaining Son of the Gods, I have frequently encountered short sighted and foolish resistance from these modern humans, who have little reverence for their proper divine masters. That one – John Commander -” – here the great albino gorilla hurled a look of brutish contempt at the dark human hanging near to him – “has become my most pernicious of foes, since we first met in Cambodia, twelve years ago.” The dark man closed his eyes as the images around the gorilla changed again. Had he watched, he would have seen the ancient golden Temple where he and his wife had first encountered the White Pharaoh, along with a squad of the Pharaoh’s mentally controlled white gorilla thralls. The Commanders had been there seeking historical relics, not wealth; the White Pharaoh had been looking for a long lost sepulcher containing traces of a radioactive element once much used as a power source by the Great Polar Empire he claimed to have ruled in prehistory. The great king ape had been much taken by Talia Commander’s beauty; she and her husband had fought furiously, but in the end they had both been captured. Talia had submitted to the white furred monstrosity’s advances to secure the freedom of her husband, and John Commander had been released in the jungle, miles from the Temple, heartsick and furious. By the time Commander had hacked his way back through the bush, the Temple had lain abandoned again – the sepulcher smashed and empty – except for the torn and ravaged body of Talia Commander. “In our first encounter,” the ape continued to growl, “I drew blood from the black brute, and subsequent analysis showed that Commander was a genetic oddity – a physical atavism, one whose body could accept the implantation of my great
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brain. Further, his own flesh would respond to the Flesh of Ra my brain is composed of, becoming effectively immortal, as well. His body holds the key to my immortality – as a human, not as a white furred beast! I will have his flesh, as is proper and fitting for humanity’s rightful ruler – and you dare not interfere!” Then: You who are known as Johncommander, the strange voice came again. Have you aught to add to this account? John Commander growled, as bestially as ever the White Pharaoh had. “Nothing to add to what we have seen,” he forced out, through gritted teeth. “That monster raped and murdered my wife. I have pursued him ever since, even as he, apparently, has pursued me. I have long wondered why, in our past encounters, he has not killed me when he has had the chance, and now I know… but I care not for his psychotic fantasies. I merely want him dead…at my hand. And I ask nothing of you but the opportunity to avenge my wife, somewhere far from here, where it will not disturb your ancient peace.” So, the voice came, after no discernible pause. Both your motivations for intruding here are base – earthly, fleshly, material – things we, who abandoned our bodies ages agone, have long since forgotten and thus cannot adequately judge. Yet the long furred one’s arrogance offends us, and damage has been done to the place where rest our former bones. We are inclined to see some repayment for this, and also inclined to grant the dark, furless one’s request, for it has been respectful. So – we will dispatch you both to a distant place, an arena where each of you will be equally disadvantaged, where you may resolve your difficulties however you choose. When one of you no longer lives, you will both be released to the outer world once more. “You have earned my enmity!” the White Pharoah roared. “I will break Commander on the wheel of my wrath, and then return, and rip all of you to –” And then, there was silence in that land,
besides the crackling of nearby flames. II
O
n a steep, snowy crag – two bodies, immobile. In the dim light of some phosphorescent fungus, John Commander shivered. He had no idea how long he had been in this dark, damp hole. His explorations were far from complete, nor could they be otherwise – there was a strip of hard, sandy rock, on which these glowing mushrooms grew, and a bay of cold, dark water, stretching off into the inky shadows. That, and a great wall of rock behind him, and nothing but darkness above. Somewhere, Commander knew, the White Pharaoh lurked. Somewhere, along this seemingly endless stone shore The ape was surprisingly sneaky for one of its bulk. Commander wondered what the Pharaoh was taking sustenance from in this place. He himself had caught several pallid mollusk-like creatures while wading in the shallows here; they had tasted foul beyond imagination, but had not poisoned him, and in fact, the vile tasting flesh seemed to be sustaining his strength. He was constantly hungry, but not appreciably weakened. He had not slept, but felt no real exhaustion. It could not have been more than hours since the Bodiless Ones had dispatched him here – but it felt like months. Commander finished arranging the head-sized blob of seaweed atop the slumped cairn of rocks. Fishing in his pocket, he took out a bandanna he knew to be red, in normal light. He tied it carefully, hoping to simulate his own thick thatch of hair. He had draped his torn fatigue jacket around the central boulder. The lack of covering made him shiver, but if he could lure the great king ape into his ambush, it would be worth it. If he could not, he feared he would die here. Commander had faced many hazards in a life of adventure, both with partners beside him and alone. He had bested many enemies – Ajax Swagger, the air pirate, with his great airborne battleship made of anti-gravity metal; Zynea
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“A Dish Best Served Cold” Quayne, the golden skinned jungle beauty who had sought to displace Talia in his affections; the Y’ruth, slavers from outer space who had sought to add him and Talia to their gladiatorial stables, Daemon Drumm, so called King of Dreams, whose drug induced nightmares Commander had nearly never forced himself awake from; and even Jack Wheedler, an evil doppelganger from a bleaker Earth than Commander’s, who had promised him an alternate world version of his beloved Talia, if Commander would merely let Wheedler take his place on this Earth long enough to murder several of Commander’s most beloved friends. But always for the last twelve years there had been the White Pharaoh, skulking, scheming, stalking, even as Commander had stalked him in return. Their infrequent clashes had always led to bloodshed but never to any final resolution. Now Commander finally understood why the emperor gorilla had indulged in such complex machinations and created such elaborate, even Byzantine seeming schemes to trap the Nubian adventurer – he needed Commander’s body, intact and unharmed. It was an advantage Commander had never known he had – until now. And he hoped it would be enough… Now, with a skill inculcated by a lifetime of peril, Commander slipped soundlessly backwards into the impenetrable darkness just beyond the pallid glow of the fungus. If the White Pharaoh was nearby, and saw the simulation Commander had rigged, and assumed Commander was sleeping… Commander, from only a few yards away, exhaled in an artfully simulated snore. His hand tightened on the sharp shard of granite he had found when he had first arrived. There was a crash of movement behind Commander. He whirled!... too late. Great gorilla hands were already closing on his throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air, hurling him towards the nearby shoreline of the lightless sea. “I will drown you like a rat,” Commander heard the king ape snarl, “and then, when we are both released, I will have my brain implanted in your body. Then
I will find these Bodiless Ones and wreak their destruction, as well. I do not know how, but my priests are wise in the ways of the spirit, and will provide the necessary means. And then –” But Commander heard no more. Thrust beneath the surface of the frigid lightless tarn, all he could hear was the thunder of his blood in his veins, as he strained to hold his breath, even as the White Pharaoh tried to crush it from his throat. Doubtless the Pharaoh was counting on the Flesh of Ra to regenerate any incidental damage he might do to Commander’s body while murdering him – Incredible cold, unutterable darkness. How long had they been there? It felt like months, he was always hungry, but never grew weak. He never slept – On a steep, snowy crag – one body abruptly stirred. Frost crystals crackled as it sat up and opened its eyes; inches of snow slipped like sand from its chest. It began to crawl towards the second body, limbs ablaze with the pain of returning circulation. From a holster at his waist, John Commander drew his pistol. If the bullets were too cold to fire, he could still use it as a club… III
“I
would surely have died,” Commander said quietly to a rapt audience gathered around his table in the Adventurer’s Club dining room. “I had never been able to best the White Pharaoh in any of our conflicts. His desire to capture me alive and unharmed had always let me escape him… barely… but in physical combat, I simply was not his equal. And if his intellect was truly 14,000 years old, as he claimed…” The dark skinned adventurer turned one hand up, laconically indicating the hopelessness of his situation. “My only advantage was his inability to master his own emotions. His kingly arrogance, and his violent temper, were his undoing.” “I don’t understand,” Gwendolin Harper,
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who had led an expedition to the hollow lands surrounding the Earth’s core, and whose beautiful companion, Geela, was a former princess there. “How did you realize it was all just a mental projection?” “Yes, yes,” Mahomet Jones, whose own fortune was derived almost entirely from his recovery of the Living Ruby of Khakartet from its ancient Lemurian tomb, “what was the clue? Merely that you had not slept? Surely you could not rely on any sense of time’s passage, in a lightless subterranean cavern…” “The Bodiless Ones had great power,” Commander said. “But they themselves had stated that they had long forgotten physical existence. It struck me, as I was ‘drowning’, that somehow transmuting the physical matter of our two living bodies through miles of earth and rock showed a mastery of physical existence, and the complexities of functional biology, incompatible with what they had said. Yet they had no reason to lie, we were completely under their dominion.” Commander paused, puffed at his cigar, then went on. “And then again, I had a similar experience a few years ago, fighting that King of Dreams jasper. Since childhood, I have always had the ability to awaken myself from a nightmare, once I realized I was dreaming. That ability saved my life when I understood that Drumm must have drugged me. It let me force myself awake, even against his soporific serums. Once I questioned the reality around me, I realized instantly that this, too, must be a dream, or a dream like state. I forced myself awake, and
found that the Bodiless Ones had merely moved us, doubtless through simple psychokinesis, to a mountainside just above their valley. They had put our bodies into suspended animation for the few moments it would take us to resolve our conflict in mental battle.” Commander rubbed his upper lip. “It was the greatest physical exertion of my life, crawling over to that gorilla in a just awakened body,” he said. “And yet, at the same time, it was nearly effortless, such was my relief at finding the truth of my situation… and my furious desire for revenge.” “And now that you have it,” wise old Maximus Merlin asked, nodding sagely at the large glass cube squatting on the table across from Commander, “are you satisfied? Has this long pursued retribution been the fine, savory dish you anticipated for so long?” Commander smiled, a ruthless, nearly vicious smile that caused a brief shudder to pass like a breeze through the small crowd around his table. “Oh, yes,” he whispered. “Oh, yes…” He stared hungrily at the decapitated, white furred head embedded in the transparent crystal cube, its visage a mask of horrified rage. The fur on one side was bloodied and torn, where something had apparently bludgeoned it repeatedly. “And if I find I do tire of it in this form,” Commander added, relishing the words in his mouth, “well… I can always break open the cube and start sticking pins into an immortal brain…”
“The Final Knockout”
“The Final Knockout” By Greg Stephens
I
t had been years since I had been in the West Side Athletic Club. As fancy as the name sounds, West Side was just another dive gymnasium on 34th Street. This one was a little different, however, as this was the only gymnasium owned and operated by Sammy Vaughn. I met Sammy when I was fourteen. My old man was working two jobs, and my mom was busy raising my four younger brothers. By the time I was fourteen, I had met a cop or two. Summer was tough on my parents, as I did everything I could to cause as much trouble as possible. Sammy was a friend of my pop. They had spent some time together in the service, and pop knew if anyone could get my attention and straighten me out, it would be that five and a half foot tall tough son-of-a-gun that took nothing off nobody. “Hey, Sammy! Where are you hiding?” I yelled as I stepped into the main gymnasium. When you come in off the street, there are two boxing rings, a lot of speed bags and punching bags, and a lot of smoke, as many old timers hung out there telling stories and smoking cheap cigars. As I headed towards Sammy’s office, he met me just outside the door. He really hadn’t changed a bit. He was still small and thin. He always looked like he was seventy years old. “Harley, is that you?” he asked, calling me by my school nickname, as going by ‘Harlan’ was a sure ticket to trouble in my grade school. “Hey, Sammy, look at you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
He grabbed me by my shoulder and steered me into his office. “I can’t say the same for you. What’s it been? Twenty years? How come you haven’t dropped by to see me?” Yeah, how come? That was a good question. Sammy was like a second father to me. Not only had he taught me to fight, but he also helped me take care of my family when pop died. He got me some really good cash for a few fights. I’m not really sure why I left the Club, or why I hadn’t seen Sammy all these years. I replied, “Eh, Sammy, you know how it is. Dad died and I had to work a lot to take care of mom and the boys. Besides, I was never going to make it in the fight game. We both know that.” Sammy gestured me to have a seat. I remember the last time I was in that office. I sat down in the same torn chair and told Sammy I had fought my last fight. Twenty years later, not only was the chair the same, but the pictures, the paperwork. Everything looked just like I left it. “Hey, Harley, let me tell you something. You were a good fighter. If you had stuck here with me, I think you coulda been champ.” Funny thing was, Sammy was probably right. I left Sammy’s camp when I was nineteen. I had won the city’s Golden Gloves tournament in the middleweight division, and even had three professional fights. Plenty of guys thought they could stand up to me, but they never saw my left hook coming. I trained six days a week after school and worked at nights. I’m not even sure I slept for five years. Sammy wasn’t exaggerating about me being champ, or at least getting a shot
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some day, because Sammy was well connected in the fight game. “Water under the bridge, Sammy. Tell me, why did you call me out of the blue after all this time?” I asked. Sammy sat down, and I could see in his face this wasn’t a social call. Sammy was a very talkative guy…until something got under his skin. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew something was wrong. Sammy put his hand over his mouth and then asked, “You ever heard of Sal Salatzo?” Of course I had heard of Salatzo. Salvatore Salatzo was known as “Big Sal” to many people in the fight game. He ran a camp of fighters in Jersey until 1943, when the New Jersey Athletic Commission stripped him of his manager’s license for fight fixing. I hadn’t heard the name since then, but the fact Sammy brought it up meant something but was cooking. “Yeah, you mean ‘Big Sal’?” I replied. “Didn’t he get popped in Jersey for taking money so his boy, McGinley, would drop a title fight?” Sammy nodded his head and continued, “Yeah, that’s him. McGinley was a big, hardhitting light heavyweight that finally got a title shot. Sal took five g’s from Peruzo so McGinley would go down in the sixth round.” “So what about him? How are you mixed up with Sal?” I responded. Sammy stood up and looked out his office window as two young boys began to scrap in the center ring. With his back turned to me, I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he had a problem. After a few minutes, Sammy explained, “I was here last Friday night. Two of my boys had finished a good three-round spar and went to sweep upstairs. Salatzo comes into my joint. I hadn’t seen him since the Blufferton fight in ’35. I had no idea he was in Chicago.” Sammy continued, “He comes up to me like we had spent the past ten years being best pals—shaking my hand and saying, ‘Sammy this’ and ‘Sammy that’. I never liked the bum and he knows it. He was always bad for the business.
Gave us a bad name.” Knowing Sammy’s habit of trailing off subject, I interrupted, “Yeah, what did want with you?” Sammy turned and looked at me, both hands on his hips. “He asked me to go in partners on this new kid named Ox Wilson. Twenty year-old kid that I ain’t never heard of in the neighborhood.” “What do you mean by partners,” I asked. “Sal wanted me to give him two g’s, let the kid train here for nothing, and teach him myself. I said, ‘What do I get out of this?’ He tells me Wilson is in line for a lightweight title match in two months in New York and that, if Wilson wins, I get thirty percent.” Sounded like Sal alright. I fought a kid in the Golden Gloves tournament that Salatzo ended up managing on the east coast. The reason Salatzo managed him, after I beat the kid in four rounds, was because I had turned Salatzo down. His sales pitch involved a lot of money, but not necessarily a lot of wins. Salatzo told me up front if I came to Jersey to box for him, I would see the lights plenty of times, but get paid well for it. Sal always had a scheme. I asked Sammy, “Did ‘Big Sal’ say what the two grand was for?” “Expenses. That’s all he said about that. He also told me if I wasn’t inclined to become partners, he knew people that would shut me down for good,” replied Sammy. “And you want me to put the kibosh on ‘Big Sal?’ Why didn’t you go to the cops?” I asked. Sammy shuffled his feet, then came and stood right over me. The sweat had begun to bead on his forehead. Whatever was going on was causing Sammy a lot of grief. He put his hands on the arms of my chair and said, “A lot has happened since you left. Business has been bad, real bad.” All of a sudden, I didn’t feel real good. I pushed past Sammy and stood up, my six foot, two inch frame towering over a broken old man who was even smaller than his five and half foot body appeared. “What are you saying, Sammy? You better level with me.”
“The Final Knockout” He lowered his head. “Harley. When things got rough, I used my connections to enter into a side business. For the past ten years I’ve been making a lot of dough selling speed to some of boxers, and they’ve been making me more money by selling to other boxers.” “Oh, for the love of Pete! Sammy, what are you thinking?” I yelled. I couldn’t believe one of my best friends was dealing junk to young kids trying to get better in the ring. Sammy put his hands on my shoulders and continued, “I sold some stuff to someone who sold it to a kid of ‘Big Sal’s’. I had no idea. Now, if I don’t become his partner, he’ll blow the whistle and I’ll go to the joint.” “Well, Jesus, Sam! Don’t you figure you should go to the joint? I mean, dealing junk to kids! What were you thinking?” Sammy did something I never thought I’d see him do. He broke down and bawled like a baby. I have to admit, the sight of that unnerved me a little, but I got myself back together. Truthfully, I didn’t have much pity left for him.
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games. I also didn’t have time for a tough-guy act. I pushed past him and said, “Don’t know if you remember me. Name’s Escobar. Harley Escobar. I fought some palooka of yours back in the Golden Gloves. You offered me a job. I told you to shove it.” He looked both dazed and confused. Suddenly, I saw the dim light bulb pop on in his brain. “Holy cow. You gotta be talking about fifteen, twenty years ago. What are you doing here? And why did you wake me up?” Big fat slob couldn’t add two and two, much less figure out the connection between me and Sammy. “Yeah,” I started. “Sorry about waking you up. I don’t know what I was thinking, figuring you’d be awake at one in the afternoon.” He sat down and poured a drink. It looked like cheap scotch. Nothing like a good breakfast to kick off a day. “You want one,” he asked. I slowly shook my head in disgust. Sal was never a winner, but he looked like he’d used up his last favors with the Man Upstairs. “This isn’t a social call, Sal. You and me gotta talk business.” His ears perked up. I had spoken the code couldn’t believe I was doing this. I pulled words to get his attention. Anything that might up to Salatzo’s apartment and just sat there, involve money was like an alarm clock in that staring at my steering wheel. How in the world otherwise sleeping soul of his. could that old bastard get himself in this mess? And “Oh, I get it. You heard I was in town. What why was I helping him? I guess I knew the answer. do you want to do? Invest in one of my guys? Blood is thicker than water. He wasn’t my blood, Shake me down and run me out of town? What is but he was the closest thing I had. your angle?” I knocked on Salatzo’s door. As I waited This guy pushed me over the line. Did he for the greaseball to answer, I looked up and really think I was the type of slug that wanted to down the hallway. One thing I had learned over go into business with somebody like him? I always the years was to always be familiar with my thought he was stupid. I didn’t know how much. surroundings. You never knew when you’d have to I grabbed him by his bathrobe and shoved make a quick exit. him back in his chair. “Listen to me you worthless “Big Sal” finally answered the door. bum. I’ve got a friend that you may know. Name’s Apparently I had woken him up. Sammy Vaughn. Owns West Side. You’re trying to “Yeah, whadda ya’ want?” he asked. hook him for two grand and free training.” “’Big Sal’ Salatzo?” I asked, making sure I had His scotch spilling and his eyes wide open, the right joint, even though I hoped I didn’t. Salatzo yelled, “What?! What’s this to you?! What His eyes opened a little wider as he replied, are you, a lawyer? A cop?” “Who wants to know?” I pushed him down to the ground and stood The one thing I didn’t have time for was over him. “No, you stupid idiot. I’m not a lawyer,
I
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and I’m not a cop. I’m telling you to leave Sammy alone and if you don’t, I will come back here and beat you to a pulp. You understand me?” I’m not a big fan of losing my temper. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so angry. I was angry at Salatzo for trying to scam Sammy. I was really angry at Sammy for being so stupid. Foolish old man could have called me if he was in trouble. I don’t have a lot, but whatever I got, I owe to him in large part. I’d have given it to him if he’d asked. I was very angry at myself for getting this deep. Salatzo pulled his morbidly obese body off the floor and stammered across the room. “Look, pal. I didn’t tell that old fool to sell crap to my boy, or anyone else. He owes a lot of people because of that stuff. I’m just trying to help society collect.” I approached him menacingly. At least, I hoped it was menacingly—menacingly enough to scare him away from Sammy. “Oh I am so sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with such a humanitarian. Stay away from Sam.” Salatzo laughed. “You know what? You can puff your chest and whatever you want. Here’s the bottom line. Sammy does his part of the bargain, or I blow the whistle. You touch me, I blow the whistle. Now get the hell out of my place.”
want any part of you!” I couldn’t see what was going on, but the next sound I heard was the sound of things crashing against the floor and walls. The next sound I heard after that was Salatzo yelling again. “You little worm! You don’t get it! There is no way out here! You want I should just call the cops and watch them haul you away right now? This discussion is over!” I started to head to the office when I heard Sammy say one more thing, “You’re right, Sal. This discussion is over.” The next sound I heard was the one sound I never expected, or wanted, to hear. A gun shot rang through the gymnasium. I ran to the office and found Sammy standing over the lifeless body of Salatzo, gun still in his hand and smoking. “Holy Christ, Sammy! What in God’s name did you do?” Sammy was just standing there, staring at Salatzo. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to do or, worse yet, what Sammy would do. Would he shoot me if I tried to take the gun? Would he shoot me just because I knew he killed Sal? Unfortunately, when Sammy looked up at me, I got my answered. In a blink of an eye that seemed like an eternity, Sammy put the gun up to his temple and fired a second shot. The guy that was a second father to me had s I left my office and headed to Sam’s gym, I splattered his brains all over the walls of his office. hated to admit Salatzo was right. I didn’t even I picked up his office phone. “Hello, operator? know what I was thinking. Salatzo’s been involved Give me the police.” with some shady characters. There wasn’t much I could have said to steer him away from Sammy. As I walked into the gym, I heard Sammy in his office. He wasn’t alone. “Listen to me, old man! You send an old, wash-up never was like Escovian, or whatever his name is, to try to ‘scare me off’? Don’t you ever think you’re going to get rid of me.” It was Salatzo. Not only did I not get rid of him, I may have made things worse. “Sal, I’m tired of you trying to run me on this. I didn’t know Harley was going to come see you. I only told him what was going on, hoping he had a way to get rid of you. For the last time, I don’t
A
“The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother”
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“The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother” By Mark Caldwell
I
watch the limitless blue. I don’t see the sky enough; I’m tied down with the mundane; everyday stuff gets in the way; by the time I see the sky daylight has gone so today is a treat. For a while I can stare up at the blue and look beyond now to the future; a better future; a future where
my enemies never see the sky again as they rot in the ground or my dungeon. Mountains and a three-hundred-foot drop terminate the short strip. The only amenities a shack and a stack of fuel drums; this isn’t a cosmopolitan airport. I normally greet guests
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in my stateroom. It gives me control and tells them who I am. Two warlords’ and an assassin’s heads in jars help. They don’t impress her; but she did severed two of them. The DC-3’s metal body catches the sunlight. It banks into its final approach. The finality illustrated by the wrecked planes at the valley’s bottom. It bounces heavily on the strip. Six hundred yards. She throws its engines into reverse. She’s fighting momentum. Four hundred. Too fast. There’s not enough runway to get back in the air. Three hundred. The brakes aren’t stopping it. Two hundred. The wheels lock. It’s skidding along. One hundred. A tire shreds. Fifty. It slews sideways out of control. Ten. It stops one yard from the precipice. She’s barely out of the plane, bag in hand, before it’s manhandled under the trees and unloading begins; crates of lightweight, expensive supplies. The bulky stuff comes over the passes. Everything a warlord’s expansion plan requires. The flying gear doesn’t flatter her. I hate sending her to do these jobs. It burns me up inside to ask her to play simple-minded fools’ lust to get what we need. “Did you miss me?” “Did you get it?” “Did you miss me?” “Yes I missed you.” “So why not say so?” “Because we have business to discuss.” “And you decided that by yourself?” She takes off her flying helmet and shakes out her long, blond hair. “Of course you get a say. And I’ve missed you.
But have you got it?” “Yes. Now be nice. I had to be nice to that small-time hood. Now I’ve got to live in this hellhole again.” “It won’t be forever. You’ve brought our dream closer. Soon we’ll live by the beach; waited on constantly; and at night we’ll sleep in the worlds’ biggest bed.” “You’re so romantic when you’re plotting world domination.” “It would mean anything without you.” “I’d kiss you right now but I’ve been on run since Washington. I need a bath. Wash my hair. Something to eat. A strong drink. Then I need to sacrifice a chicken. Then I may kiss you.” “You know we don’t need a chicken?” “Well yes.” “You’d like one anyway?” “Rituals never seem right without a sacrifice. It’d be wrong to use a bullock when it doesn’t really matter but a chicken doesn’t seem so wrong. If we don’t play with it too much someone can get three meals out of it.” “Someone will fetch a chicken.” “I was just being silly; silly; I’ll settle for the bath, the food and a bottle of scotch.” I snapped my fingers and one of the help appeared. “You heard what the lady wanted?” He hesitates weighing his answer. Yes and he risks my wrath for eavesdropping; no and he risks it for not being prepared. I like my minions’ lives to be unpredictable. It gives them less time to plot. “I did not my lord. I hope you will not mind, but I took the liberty of speaking to your former steward and enquiring of the arrangements for your lady’s last visit. A hot bath will be waiting in your quarters, delicacies have been prepared and a bottle of forty-year-old Laphroaig too. Is there anything else sir?” I’ll have to watch this one. He’s either listened or visited the last steward. I locked him up for a reason. I can’t remember what although I’m sure it wasn’t trivial.
“The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother” “Your name?” “Wu Xiong, my lord.” “Well Xiong, you are now my steward. Organise everything then shoot old steward.” I don’t know if it was the bath, the food or the whiskey but she emerges from behind the screens: a woman transformed. Gone, the masculine gear; in its place a cheongsam, silk stockings and black heels. Her wet hair falls down her back, a bottle in one hand the other behind her back she stalks me like a hack writer describes a cat moving. Slinky. Feet crossing. Exaggerating the sway of her hips. Intentions clear. She’s close. I can smell the rose petals from her bath. Painted lips enticingly pout. Breath of peat and whiskey. I close my eyes. One hand to the nape of her neck, one to her waist. It has been too many months since I’ve held. All I find is empty air. I open my eyes. She was standing back watching me with a serious look on her face. “I thought there was something you wanted.” “There is.” “Not me. Something else. You weren’t interest in me at all.” “Not true. I didn’t want the help getting ideas.” “You didn’t even try to kiss me.” “You wanted a bath.” “I wanted you to prove you didn’t care I smelt like a yak.” “Haven’t I treated you well? I brought you a bath, food and whiskey.” “Wu did that.” “I can’t win can I?” “No. And it seems to be hard for you to accept that. Maybe this will make it a easier.” A bag appears from behind her back and she sets it on my desk. I can feel her behind me, her breath beside my ear. I’m like a boy at Christmas with two presents he really wants struggling to decide which to open first. Carefully I release the straps. I want to rip off the wrapping. Inside is a functional wooden box. Protecting whatever’s inside. I don’t need to guess. My hands shaking
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I flip the catches open. Heather packing scatters on the floor. The statue gleams in the light of the lanterns hanging around the room. The light playing like phantasms beneath its surface dancing around picking out fine tracery engraved into it. Ancient symbols shine briefly then slip into obscurity. We don’t speak. I feel her closeness. She’s not moving. Not even a breath. It take me a moment to realise I’m holding mine too. Slowly she breathes out. So slowly at first that all I know is the movement of the short hairs on my neck then a faint breeze on the lobe then into my ear. She’s pressing against my back. I feel her mouth near my ear. She’s spent three month away. She’s led that man into taking the fall. She’s hungry. The statue will wait till tomorrow. She won’t. The great hall is a sight to behold. A giant cave that craftsmen carved centuries before till this great chamber was formed. Light streams in from the windows high above. Every dark recess glows with lanterns. The voices echo from the walls. It has taken a day to gather them all from the valley and from the mountain. Today I will assert my right to rule. Where they go, the word will spread. I will not be another upstart foreigner turned warlord, clothed in violence and bathed in Chinese blood. I am chosen. I am destiny. I am their glory. They will adore me. They will love me. They will worship me. I will rise on the tide till I am emperor. The statue will do that. A likeness crafted as a gift for Qin Shi Haung. Lost since the Jin dynasty. A mystical symbol. A shortcut to power. With this we will unite our people, the warlords and then all of China. No one will stand against us. Xiong signalled. Playing the loyal, attentive steward. He knows his place but I know the place he wants. He won’t move today. No he will wait as I had. He has to hope he’ll stay in my favour long enough to seize his chance. Will he try poison, a bullet or a knife? My money is on a bullet. Poison is too chancy - he might have to taste the food; a knife too personal. Such speculation though must
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wait. The chamber is full. The doors are sealed. Every entrance guarded. She carries the box guarded by my best men. Not that she needs them. She could best all of them in a fight. Really they protect the throng from her and her sudden passion. Her unexpected violence. Her mercurial moods. That hunger I so crave. The plinth has been brought from deep in the mountain and set on the dais at the heart of the chamber. Her escorts fan out in a circle facing the crowd. They will not witness the miracle itself. There is no need. There are none more loyal than that dozen. She places the box as though it held a child and not a lump of old rock. A quiet expectation spreads like a drop on a still pond’s surface. A tinge of fear. That will pass soon. Soon the world will fear my people and my people will fear nothing. My own addition to the chamber, hidden ducts, release dry ice into the room, spreading from the dais, falling down the walls. Four spotlights burn carbon rods as electricity arcs to create light. Four spotlights focusing on me. A little theatricality has its place even when you have real magic on your side. I lift the lid. I feel a rush of air as every breath is drawn. Now they know why they were brought here. Now they know who I am. Now they know their destiny. The incantations I have practiced for so many months spring from my lips as though I am not saying them. Rehearsed. Checked. Examined. Three separate experts kidnapped to assure me of their validity. If anything goes wrong all three will be dead tonight. Light dances across the jade. The air is sharp with ozone and sweat. The glow builds within. I can feel it drawing something from deep inside me. My chi flowing to it. Symbols dance in the air around it. Light shoots up. I step back uttering the final phrases. Now I will be revealed. And nothing happens. No cloaking light of truth falls upon me. No celestial messenger descends with my appointment scroll. The sun is not eclipsed. No storm rents the
heavens to announce my majesty. A minor set back. One I’ve prepared for. I signal with my fingers. A tiny sign to those in the know. Concealed lights bathe me. Wind machines stir the air. I will give them a show. Later, though, I shall return in private to know the truth. A week has passed and I’m no closer to an answer. I throw it hard against the wall. It doesn’t break. It hasn’t broken the first hundred times, so I don’t know why I’d think it might this time. “Worthless piece of junk.” “There’s no doubt it’s a fake?” “None at all.” “He tricked us into wasting time.” “But why?” “A trap?” “You escaped.” “The others didn’t.” “And would you have allowed them to live if they had?” “Well no.” “Did he think my people would rebel and overthrow me when the ritual failed?” “It’s always me, me, me isn’t it. My people rebel up and overthrow me. I spent months getting it and risked death. All you’re worried about is a rebellion.” “Whatever its purpose, Mot went to a lot of trouble. It’s an almost perfect fake. They must have the original to create such a copy. Then they created a flaw in it so subtle it only became apparent during the ritual. He exposed his connection to Énigme who we now know to be his agent or unwitting accomplice.” “We should pound it to dust and then scatter it on the ocean. It’s dangerous.” “We will my love. Tomorrow.” “The patrols captured prisoners Wu?” “The usual lower-rung types. No one really useful.” “And the shipments coming on?” “We’re ahead of schedule on small arms and machine guns, but there’s a shortage of mortars
“The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother” and ten thousand bullets were lost to the damp sir.” “That will be all Wu.” “Thank you, sir.” He’d spent the entire meeting trying not to look like he was looking at the statue. She was laid out, barely covered by a sheet and bathed in the morning sun; and he only had eyes for a lump of rock. “It’s been a month my love.” “Yes and we’re still in charge. There’s been no rebellion. We can relax.” “You can’t be thinking of trying to use it?” “What? To continue our plans? No, too risky.” “So why have you still got it?” “We’ll need it if we can’t get the real thing. Sooner or later one of the peasants will talk. If someone asks…” “You’re hoping someone will ask. You’ve a plan forming. I know that look.” “My back’s to you.” “You think I don’t know the look just because I can’t see your face?” “Maybe it can bring down one of our stupid neighbours.” “What, sell it to them?” “No. Let Xiong steal it which will get rid of him without us having to bury the body.” “Cunning.” “I’ve already had him reduce the patrols to the North to encourage him to run that way.” “Come back to bed.” “I thought you were asleep.” “I was. Now I’m awake.” “I’ll be there in a minute.” “You’re staring at it again.” “It may be a fake but you’ve got to see its beautiful workmanship.” “Come back to bed.” “What should we do with the ones we caught stealing food sir?” “Send their families three times what they
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were stealing Wu. Then put the thieves to work in the mines for six months. They can work for me to pay for it. Anything else?” “No sir.” “Xiong.” “Yes sir?” “Send word to the doctor we’re coming.” “Is everything alright?” “I’ve a temperature. Nothing serious.” “I can have him fetched.” “A day away will make a change. She’s feeling cooped up. Anyway fetching him could upset her.” “Should I have anything packed?” “No. We’ll only be away for the day.” “I’ll make the arrangements, unless you want anything else?” “On second thoughts, arrange for us to stay overnight. A little drinking and gambling may ease her mood.” The village straddles the river: little more than an inn that serves travellers on the road through the mountains, a bridge and some huts. The only special thing about the village is the doctor, the only western doctor for hundreds of miles. “So, Doctor what’s wrong with me?” “Nothing physical. I’d lay off the coffee, booze and your cigars too.” “It’s in my head then?” “Will I end up in a cell if I say yes?” “You know you’re the one person that won’t happen to. She likes me but she loves her little brother.” “That’s why she hits me when she sees me.” “So it’s in my head?” “Probably. Too much stress. Too much work. Try deputising more. Promote someone to do some work.” “The last one tried to have me assassinated.” “Promote two who don’t trust each other and have them fighting each other.” “I’ll think about it.” “Let your hair down tonight and play some cards at least.”
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“No one tries to beat me anymore.” “Me and my sis won’t let you off easy.” “Is there nothing you can give me?” “I can give you some pills to make you sleep, but you can’t drink if you take them.”
A quick spray of lead and I reach for my pants again. “So when did you find out it was a fake? Was it sometime important? ” I might as well finish getting dressed and find out what he wants. “It’s still there?” “Has it eaten at you since then?” “Yes.” “I thought I’d keep it around till I got the real “Xiong knew we’d be away?” thing.” “He made all the arrangements.” “You did? You didn’t want to get rid of it. “So he’s either more loyal or paranoid than Strange you couldn’t ask anyone to just take it you thought.” away. That much your steward told me. You tried to have him steal it for one of your neighbours. The pills and whiskey put me out cold. I was They offered him a lot of făbì.” dreaming about the sky, an osprey flying near “Yet it’s still here.” Lübeck. Something woke me. The statue is still “He couldn’t. He tried but couldn’t. there. If I can’t sleep I might as well have some fun, Something about it spooked him. It spooked but she’s not there. Something’s wrong. The sound everyone.” of distant gunfire confirms that. I reach for clothes; “It didn’t spook me.” something moves beyond the screens; I grab the “Or your girlfriend, and I bet that doctor bedside Thompson instead. couldn’t tell you.” A noise to the left. A figure shrouded in “We’re not superstitions.” darkness. “Good job. If you’d gone to a local doctor “You’re a hard man to get an appointment they’d have noticed the imbalance in your chi.” with.” “And that would have been bad for you?” “It doesn’t seem that way to me. My day is all “I was following your chi to your love nest.” appointments.” “And now you’ve found me?” “I tried to bribe your steward to get me in but “I’ll show you the error of your ways.” he wouldn’t do it.” “That simple?” “That’s nice to know. You don’t have an “I think so. You’ve not shot me again so it’s appointment now, so I’m going to ask you to die.” starting to work.” Six rounds from the Tommy gun and he I shot the smug bastard again. Now I have my folded. I put it down and reached for my pants. clothes I’ll see who he is. I move to where he fell. “You thought I’d die that easily?” No body. Footfalls in the tunnel. I follow them to Now he’s over to the right. the great hall. Someone’s had the dry ice machine “I had hoped.” on. I rigged all the tricks of this place, but in the “You stole something from me.” moonlight it’s a little scary. The plinth stands on “A piece of worthless fake.” the platform and on it a figure. “An expensive reproduction.” “It’s the real one.” “You have the original.” “Show yourself.” “Yes.” “And have you shoot at me?” “Give it to me.” “I’ll hunt you down dog.” “Why would I do that?” “How’s that coming on so far?” “So I won’t kill you.” “So you tricked me into stealing a fake that “You just tried that. How’d it work out?” led you here.”
“The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme Fatale & her Brother” “It made anyone who saw it more pliable to my suggestion. Thanks for the big production number by the way. Made life a lot easier. Just a few of your guards and your girlfriend who it didn’t work on. They’re fighting their way to protect her brother. She did try to wake you but those pills did their job. Now you know who she loves most.” “Since you’ve got this all planned out, what’s your next move? What stops me killing you, taking the statue and once this has blown over in a few weeks carrying on in my old, evil ways? I’ll have to send all the villagers to the mines, but I can get more help.” “I don’t think so. I think you’re going to hand this little kingdom over to Xiong to look after and then turn yourself in to the embassy in Shanghai.” “Why would I do that?” “Because this place is haunted with failure for you. Anyone you bring here will turn. It’s in the air, the water and the bedrock. I’m going to come out now and you’re not going to shoot me.” He emerged from the shadows. He’s got a pistol. I empty my gun into him. “That was Xiong. I wondered where he was lurking. I’m over here.” So I was right. He’d picked the gun. I raise mine again. “Why bother? You’re out of bullets. Now I’m going to count backwards from three. You’re going to think of the little emperor. When I reach one, you’re going to fall asleep. “Three.” So this is how it ends? “Two.” Not in a hail of bullets, poisoned food or a knife’s point. “One.” But a real sleep. A distant voice speaks to me. I dream a limitless blue.
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“Pulp Christmas” By katherine Tomlinson
I
know you killed your husband.
Most killers, they work on impulse. No advance plan. No exit strategy. But you gave the matter some thought. You’ve watched all the shows-Forensic Files and CSI and Nancy fucking Grace and you know that most people get tripped up by their own stupidity. But you, you were smart about it. The murder was what the profilers call “an organized crime.” And that’s kind of funny because one of the things your husband used to criticize you for was your lack of organization. You showed him, didn’t you?
They don’t hang people any more. At least not in this state.
I know you did it. I know you killed your husband. The only question is … why didn’t you do it sooner? I used to watch you together. I saw the way he treated you. Like a china doll. Like a pet. Like he owned you.
And you did it yourself. That took balls, girl. A lot of women would have tried to rope in some sad schmuck to do their dirty work. It wouldn’t have taken much. Not for you. Every man’s crazy for a redhead, wants to see that fire-crotch.
Yeah, you were arm candy and he had a sweet tooth. He liked to dangle you in front of other men like he was offering prime rib to a hungry dog. And not all of those dogs were tame. He wanted other men to envy him. It didn’t occur to him how much But you got good instincts. Get someone involved, they’d hate him as well. make someone an accomplice, and the next thing you know, they’ve made a deal with the D.A. and Not that he would have cared. you’re twisting in the wind. I know you know about the apartment he kept in “Twisting in the wind.” Ever think about those Greek Town, the one where he took that cute little words, why they’re so pithy? The dictionary says blonde from accounting. What is she? Twentythe phrase means “abandoned in a bad situation,” one? Just barely legal and there you are, pushing but people first used it to describe the way the …. corpse of a hanged man twirls at the end of a rope.
Well anyway, you won’t see 30 again.
“Story Title”
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The cops don’t know about the blonde. At least I know you killed your husband, but I’m not going not yet. The apartment in Greek Town? It’s in to tell. his mother’s name. Good thing she’s dead, because she never liked you. Never thought you were good Merry Christmas sweetheart. enough for her little prince. I’ll be coming around to see you after New Year’s. Deep down inside, he never thought you were good You can thank me then. enough for him either. And when you argued— and I know you argued—he liked to remind you where he met you, didn’t he? Liked to talk about watching you dance in that “gentleman’s club,” letting strange men stick money in your g-string, hoping to get the smell of your ya-ya on their fat fumbling fingers. Sometimes when he said things like that, he made you cry. He deserved to die for that alone. A man should never make his woman cry, unless it’s with pleasure. You played it just right with the cops. It was a genius move staying dry-eyed through the interrogation, but then letting them spot you “falling apart” as they left. You played the grieving widow well. Dressed in black at the funeral, you looked like a mourning angel. I wasn’t the only one who noticed how fine you looked. With that red hair. And that pale skin. You wore the diamond earrings he gave you for a wedding present. That was a nice touch. I saw your brother-in-law clocking you out of the corner of his eye. You watch out for him. He never really forgave you for rejecting his advances that New Year’s Eve. Yeah, I know you claimed you’d had one too many Cosmos that night and couldn’t remember a thing the next day. But he remembered. And as the bible says, “he pondered it in his heart.” After awhile, it was the kind of memory he would take out and poke like a bruise, just to see if it still hurt. You be careful around him. He’s no friend of yours. But I am.
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“Who’s afraid of the Dark?” By john Donald carlucci
“D
on’t worry my friend; death will soon come for you.” The alley was a cramped place where little light succeeded in driving away the blackness. For most men, the shadows would be daunting, something to be scared of, a place where the unknown hid. The man known as the Dark was not afraid of the shadows because that is where he dwelt. Lying at his feet was not a man of evil, but what was left of a victim. The low noise escaped the man’s lips could have been a cough if it wasn’t so wet and fluid. It was the only sound he made before his body shuddered and slumped to the ground one last time. Sticking from the dead man’s breast pocket was a folded piece of paper which The Dark gently removed.
“You will be avenged.” He whispered as the elasticity of the body’s skin broke and the flesh of the dead man dissolved into a pool of stinking goo.
Speeding down the night road with his headlights off, the Dark reached down and opened the hidden compartment on the dashboard that held his twoway radio. “Domo, this is the Dark calling.” “Not surprising since we’re the only two who use this frequency.” joked Dark’s best friend and confidant, nicknamed Domo.
“Who’s afraid of the Dark?” “I’ve found another victim and this one completely dissolved into liquid when he died.” The Dark was not in the mood for joviality, not after seeing another human being die this way.
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Killed in a landslide while investigating the fabled site of King Solomon’s mines, Sinjin’s last thoughts were of disappointment that the adventure had ended too soon. He was rather surprised when he woke to find himself surrounded by Michael and “I’m sorry,” The pause was long, but Domo was a his friends of the inner circle. His reprieve was due professional and he knew when to focus. “That’s to the empty syringe Michael held still stained with four in the last two weeks.” the glowing remnants of the elixir, but something felt wrong this time. That was also the moment The Dark sat staring into the night as his black the room seemed to explode with light and Sinjin Rolls-Royce Wraith silently hugged the roads at a passed out from the searing pain in his eyes. swift 100 miles per hour. The Wraith was rated at a maximum 85 MPH, but Domo was a man of many talents and he developed many of them during his wartime adventures with the man known as the Sinjin sighed as he did every time he proceeded with Dark. this ritual. The elixir was the only thing that allowed him to live on after the accident and had healed his “Let Elizabeth know that I will be attending the horrendous injuries; all but his eyesight. This was party after all.” now acutely sensitive to light, but compensated by affording him the ability to see in the dark. Sinjin “Your tuxedo will be waiting – over.” picked up the syringe and shoved the needle up his nostril. He could barely feel the brilliantly glowing green liquid as he injected it deep into his dead brain. Facing the steamed mirror in his darkened bathroom, Sinjin St. Cloud stared at his reflection and dwelt for the thousandth time on the circumstance that forced him to become the man-of-action called the “You’re certain you don’t wish me to come along?” Dark. For years he’d traveled the world working Domo asked as he negotiated the busy streets of for the reclusive Thomas Michael as his investigator Pandora City. A dark and forbidding place at times, and troubleshooter. Thomas was a scholar and Pandora held a special place in Sinjin’s heart. He researcher who pursued his indulgences at his was born and raised a Pandorian and something in own whim. His wealth and lifestyle was sustained her cried out for a protector. The Dark would be thanks to strange and arcane knowledge he alone that protector until the day he died, again. possessed. His library of ancient books was vast and few were allowed access. Sinjin was one of his “No, I’ll have Elizabeth with me as I stick my nose inner circle and long-lost maps were gleaned from in other people’s business.” these books that led to many long forgotten mines and treasures. These riches were used to support “What makes you think anything will happen at Michael’s organization and his fight against the the Good Fortune event?” enduring forces of evil. “I found this on all of the bodies Domo and I don’t Sinjin was also one of the few who was privileged to believe in coincidences.” Sinjin removed the folded know Michael’s greatest secret; that he was over five paper from the last victim and held it up where hundred years old and sustained his life through Domo could see it in the rearview mirror of the the use of the Philosopher’s stone. Michael was as Rolls-Royce Phantom III. generous with the Elixir of Life as he was his wealth. Each member of his circle was permitted to use the “A good fortune fake Chinese dollar, the connection serum and Sinjin had enjoyed the extension of his seems rather self-evident now.” Domo Said. life up until the day he died. “The bill itself has a slight oily feel with a whiff of
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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE “How do you always have these waiting for me?” Sinjin laughed as he unwrapped and ate the small chocolate.
“Is it still dangerous?” Domo was concerned, but he was a man who had looked death in the face many times in the past. He knew Sinjin would “Maybe I’m one of them medium guys like Mr. never recklessly jeopardize their lives, but one still Hayworth.” had to ask. “The famous Harry Hayworth wishes he was a “None that I can detect, but the smell and texture medium also.” Sinjin unfolded the page and may have been the result of the fake money being glanced at the stories. “What’s new Charlie?” packaged with a pastry of some sort.” Sinjin folded the bill back up and replaced it in the wax paper he “Nothing worth talking about, but there is carried it in. “The Good Fortune gala tonight is something wrong with the paper.” being held in honor of the new Chinese ambassador Song Zhe Li. All of Pandora’s upper elite were “Looks like the usual yammering to me.” invited, but no one knows who the host is.” “Not in tha paper, but da paper itself.” Charlie “You declined the invitation originally, even though poked the paper for emphasis. “It feels oily.” it’s being held in one of the buildings you own.” “What?” Sinjin lifted the paper to his nose and “You know I don’t do politics Domo, but how can sniffed. “Cinnamon.” I resist any good publicity for the Empire Republic building?” “What a curveball! You’re right Mr. St. Cloud. I wonder what they spilled on it at da plant.” Charlie “The Empty Republic building as the locals call it.” shook his head and readjusted the papers stacked Domo smiled as he caught his friend’s eye in the on the counter of his small stand. rear-view mirror. “Me. too Charlie, me. too.” Sinjin stood thoughtful “You know I hate that nickname.” for a moment before folding the paper under his arm and entering the lobby of the Empire. “I promise to never use it again.” Domo smiled again as he stopped the silver Wraith at the entrance to the Empire. Sinjin got out of the car, but leaned into the passenger’s side window. The elevator doors opened on a mass of chaos and gaiety that could only be the partying of Pandora’s “You promised that last time.” All humor left upper crust. Sinjin took a deep breath to find his his demeanor as he put on the dark glasses he center before wading out into this sea of frivolity. wore to protect his eyes from the bright lights of He had walked only a few steps when he was the building. “Stay by the radio in case there is blocked by a well-dressed Chinese man. trouble.” “Your invitation please.” His English was impeccable “Roger that.” And the Wraith pulled away from and the slight bulge under his left arm showed he the curb as silently as it had arrived. Sinjin looked was wearing iron. It wasn’t out of line for security at his watch and saw that he was a few minutes to work these kinds of events, but it did little to early before meeting Elizabeth. Walking over to ease Sinjin. Even less so when he looked about the a nearby newsstand, Sinjin picked up the evening room and could see that every server, waiter, and edition of the Pandora Post and dropped a coin in guard was Chinese also. He had attended many the can on the counter. internationally hosted parties over the years and this was the first time the support staff stateside “Been a while since you been around Mr. St. had been replace with foreign personnel. Sinjin Cloud.” Charlie said as he tossed a Hershey’s put on his most charming of smiles and slipped the miniature candy bar to Sinjin. envelope from his inside breast pocket.
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“Good evening, I’m Sinjin St. Cloud.” The Chinese man stopped opening the envelope and handed it back to Sinjin.
killer with a heel, a kick, and an elbow to the base of the skull. He wasn’t fooled by her girlish façade. She grew up wildcatting with her oil baron father in Texas and was at home being one of the boys. “I apologize for not recognizing you at first Mr. St. However, Sinjin quite enjoyed when she felt like Cloud. You are a welcomed guest and I thank you being one of the girls also. “There was this boorish on behalf of our honored host for allowing us to fellow earlier who tried to convince me to go to a hold this celebration in your building.” Tahiti beach with him. He said he liked it there because the women went topless.” “You’re welcome and I would like to know the name of our host please. My research turned up “I trust you turned him down.” Sinjin waited a nothing and I only allowed this party because all moment for the response. of the money being raised here is being donated to local charities.” “She broke his nose.” Commented the Asian man. “I must decline for the moment, but you will meet him shortly Mr. St. Cloud.” “Oh Hui, it wasn’t broken. He was just a bleeder.” Elizabeth’s impish smile was genuine to the bone. “And your name?” “I hate bleeders.” “I matter not at all Mr. St. Cloud.”
“Private people huh?” Sinjin looked at Hui with mock irritation. He wasn’t surprised. There was “I was not aware that the Chinese were so rescinding little a man could do when Elizabeth wanted to when it came to their names.” Despite himself, know something. Hooking his arm in hers, Sinjin Sinjin was growing very impatient with the whole turned the lovely woman back toward the party. affair. “Why don’t we join the fun and let this man get back to work my dear?” “We are a private people, but all will be revealed soon and…” “One moment please,” Hui stopped a waiter carrying a tray loaded with masks and handed two “Sinjin, I’ve been waiting a long time for a of them to Sinjin. “This is a masquerade party and wingding like this and I need you to show a girl a you’ll need these.” good time.” Sinjin could never figure out how she could be sultry and loud at the same time, but the “I told you before that I don’t like masks Hui.” voice from over his shoulder belonged to only one Elizabeth gave the man her most sultry of looks, person. The look of desire on the guard’s face could but was surprised at his resolve. only mean Sinjin’s date was here. “The hour of our host’s appearance is drawing near “You look absolutely ravishing my dear Elizabeth,” and the masks are a requirement of the event. You Sinjin said as he turned to take in the beautiful wouldn’t want to insult our host would you?” redhead as she left the dance floor. Her partner looked as if he’d been told today was the last “I have a question Hui.” Sinjin asked as he leaned day of his life now that she had abandoned him. in toward the man. Elizabeth Adar tended to have that affect on men. They basked in the glow of her attention and wilted “And that is?” when she lost interest. The black dress Elizabeth wore was like water the way it hugged every curve “Who owns this building?” Sinjin whispered and and possessed the most clever neckline. smiled. He watched the emotions that played across the man’s face as Hui realized he had lost “Sinjin, I’d begun to lose hope that you were going this battle. Sinjin saw that there was more anger to show.” Elizabeth pouted slightly, but Sinjin had in the man’s eyes than should be concerning such seen this daredevil take down a two-hundred pound a trivial interruption. “On second thought, we’ll
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take those Hui.”
platform near the great windows overlooking the docking area. Like a child seeing a cobra for the “Thank you, sir. My master will be so pleased.” first time, Sinjin did not have to know what the Hui said before turning away to perform his other danger was to know that this man posed a great duties. Once the man was out of earshot, Elizabeth deal of it. Sinjin was growing very uneasy with the turned to Sinjin. events that were unfolding before him. The puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together and he didn’t “I trust you noticed the abnormal number of like the picture he was seeing. Chinese personnel handling the event? There seems to be waiters at every exit.” Looking around, Sinjin could see that the guard staff had donned masks like the rest of the crowd. “I did, but that isn’t my biggest concern at the Finding his opening, Sinjin knew he needed to moment.” seize the opportunity before it disappeared. “What is that Sinjin?” Lifting both masks to his nose, the man known as the Dark could smell cinnamon on the inside. Looking around, he could “I wish to thank you all for attending. I know see that almost all of the party-goers were wearing you’ve been curious concerning who I am, but I their masks already. wish to introduce our guest-of-honor first. Will you come forward Ambassador Song Zhe Li?” “That I’m too late.” Stepping from the crowd, a very dapper looking man removed his mask revealing himself to be the Chinese government official. Slipping silently out of the cloud-filled sky, the great dirigible angled down toward the docking tower that stood outside the doors of the Republic’s ballroom. The dancers stopped and stared in wonder as mooring lines were dropped and the airship was anchored down against the cold winds.
“I’m Song, and who may I have the honor of thanking for this splendid gathering?” “I am an observer of your government and all that it has accomplished.” The man bowed slightly at the neck, but his eyes never left the ambassador.
“Did you know about this?” Elizabeth asked as she stared at the impressive figure walking down the landing ramp. “Elizabeth, find a corner and be safe, things are going to get a little hairy, sweetheart.” Sinjin gave “Not a thing my love, but I’m just glad that flight Elizabeth a quick kiss before turning away. deck is getting some use. The damned thing cost a fortune.” “Be careful.” Walking across the flight deck was a very handsome Chinese man. Dressed in a very elegant dark blue short coat and gown, the man moved with all of the authority and confidence of a king. His features were sharp and his cheekbones high. This was a man who commanded great loyalty and a face that had seen great suffering. One flash of his strangely colored grey eyes revealed that he was a man with great cruelty in his heart and blackness to his soul. Sinjin noted the Chinese sword that hung at his side and the gun bulge under his coat. The doors were opened dutifully by two servants allowing this man of men to walk to the podium on the
“Never my dear, never.”
“I thank you, but isn’t it your government also?” The ambassador said as he returned the bow. “You are mistaken, it was never my government.” “What do you mean?” The ambassador said stepping back from the podium surprised at the venom in his host’s words. “Who are you?”
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“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here Mr. Sun.” The shorter woman had to crane her neck “Please step away from the elevator.” Hui said as he to address the Manchurian. Her husband, still put his hand on Sinjin’s shoulder. standing with the minor protection of the crowd, whispered after her. “I’m feeling terribly ill Hui,” Pressing the elevator buttons in a six number combination known only “Gladys, don’t make the man angry!” He hissed. to the Dark, the door slid open to reveal only a dimly-lit shaft. “And I must really be going.” “Shut up Thomas! I will have my say!”
“I am of the Manchu and the last of the line of the true Mongolian Yuan dynasty. My lineage stretches back through the great Khans and I reject your silly rebellion.”
“I believe you were questioning my authority, madam.” Sun said without a hint of amusement. “I don’t know how they do things in Japan, mister, but this is the United States of America and I’m a tax-paying American citizen.” Gladys seemed to grow a few inches taller as she announced this to Sun. “This is not how we handing things.”
“You are the villainous Sun!” Stunned, Ambassador Song struggled vainly as he is grabbed from behind by two guards. “Well, in my experience you Americans handle things like this.” Sun said as he removed an “Yes, I am Sun, and I shall watch your sad revolution automatic pistol from inside his short coat and shot turn back on itself as China regains her past glory.” Gladys in the heart. Her body had barely hit the With a nod from Sun, the wait staff around the floor before he turned to her terrified husband. A room removed the guns from their hiding places few screams were heard and shouts from the crowd, and secured the room. but they remained strangely calm having watched a woman murdered only seconds before. The crowd melted away from Thomas leaving the frightened widower vulnerable and exposed. “You’re going nowhere St. Cloud.” Hui said as he tightened his grip on Sinjin’s shoulder and pulled “Already five seconds have passed, Thomas, and his gun from its holster. you’ve not done a single thing to avenge the death of your companion.” Sun eyed the shivering man. “It’s a hard thing in life to always be wrong.” Sinjin “A true man would have at least leapt at the killer said as he stepped through the door and fell silently with no care for his own safety.” into the dark. Hui quickly emptied his revolver after him. “I…” Thomas was shaking and sweating profusely. His life had always been one of leisure and blissfully “Stop firing Hui!” Sun commanded as the ignorant of situations such as this. He simply had Manchurian quickly walked to the open shaft. no clue what he should do and no experience with “What happened here?” how to handle a man like Sun. “Sinjin St. Cloud, the owner of this building, Sun pulled the trigger a second time and shot threw himself down the shaft master. I have no Thomas. explanation for his behavior.” Hui said with his eyes averted. “It’s a shame to have lost Mr. St. Cloud so early, but what’s done is done.” Sun said as he walked back to the restrained ambassador. Stepping from the crowd of party-goers, Mrs. Gladys Milton blocked his path.
Sinjin struggled to maintain his grip on the shaft ladder as his left arm hung limp at his side. Stopping his fall had been an abrupt and painful endeavor as he dislocated his shoulder when grabbing the rungs. Sinjin slowed his breathing
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and listened to the audible pop as the arm reseated itself into the socket. The pain was magnificent in its intensity, forcing the healing of a few weeks into mere minutes.
“A man who did that would be dead right now.” Sun said as he straightened to his full height.
“A man would have done it by now.” Elizabeth said as she squared her shoulders. Sun smiled and took Sinjin slid down the ladder until he reached the Elizabeth’s arm. non-existent thirteenth floor. It was non-existent because there was no such floor on the registry, nor “Come with me.” was there an elevator button to access it. A grand superstition, but architects always eliminated the thirteenth floor and renamed it the fourteenth. Sinjin was happy to comply with this old tradition Sinjin was far from amused when he put on his hat and the thirteenth floor became another of his and became the man known as the Dark. Ascending DarkLairs. Being extremely wealthy meant to the ballroom level 89 floors up would require boundless resources, and the Dark had hidden lairs something special. Stepping to the window, the located all over Pandora City. Dark had the perfect transport in mind. Whipping off his glasses, Sinjin stepped into the pitch black of the lair and turned on his communication console. The Republic was wired with the newest in monitoring equipment and the ballroom was especially wired for sound. As he switched his tuxedo for his uniform, Sinjin smiled at the first voice that came across the loudspeakers.
“Put your masks on.” Sun motioned to Hui and the guards donned white domino masks. Hui moved forward to place a mask on Elizabeth, but Sun waved him off. “Leave her be for now.” “What is your plan Sun?” Song said, still restrained by the two guards.
“You must be particularly proud of yourself for killing a woman and her ineffectual husband.” Elizabeth yelled as she stepped before Sun as he turned back to the ambassador.
“You and your thugs replaced our glorious homeland with the crippled thing that rots in her place. You helped the Japanese take Manchuria and you allowed that pig Puyi to play at Datong. You profit at the rape of our resources, just as there “A man should always defend his woman – even are many in this country that have also reaped our when death is involved.” Sun said as he stepped up wealth.” Sun’s demeanor remained calm, but his to the impressive redhead. It was rare to find a man focus was razor sharp. Elizabeth slowly backed who would speak to him in this way, and a woman away with the hope of finding an avenue of escape. was an even more intriguing opponent. “Where is However, Sun’s attention was not completely your protector?” distracted. “Hui, take her outside.” “I have no protector, hot stuff, but the man I love went down that elevator shaft.”
“Immediately.” Hui turned and delivered a stunning blow to Elizabeth’s face with his open hand. The impact was not hard enough to damage the perky “A wolf amongst the lambs, I must admit that this woman, but Hui had seen enough of her potential is a surprise.” Sun said as he slid his gun back into for trouble. Taking the arm of the dazed woman, its holster. “It’s a shame that one such as you should Hui quickly lead her out onto the flight deck where be with such a fool.” the dirigible waited. “You called Sinjin a fool?” Elizabeth said as she looked the man in the eye and punched the Asian in the jaw. Staggered, the he raised a hand to hold off the guards that rushed to his aid.
Decorating the side of Republic’s exterior was a number of black cables of varying lengths. These cables formed a pleasing crosshatch pattern across
“Who’s afraid of the Dark?” the surface of the building. Some critics considered the adornment to be too “modern”. The Dark merely considered them a tool and one that he’d designed himself. Many of these cables had deadweights attached that ran down through channels built into the walls. The construction teams thought the design odd, but they’d seen odder things in their years building the edifices of Pandora City. Their main function was to quickly reach various floors of the Republic when stealth was required. This was the first time the Dark actually used one of these wires and his attention was solely focused on maintaining his grip as he shot quickly to the ballroom level. Letting go of the cable just before the top, the lone avenger used his momentum to carry himself through the air towards one of the grand windows. CRASH! The Dark had no sooner landed amongst glass and scattering party-goers when he quickly dispatched two of the nearby Asian guards. Instead of pushing his advantage, the Dark walked up to the podium where Sun waited unmoved by the sudden intrusion. “I believe we have a problem here Sun,” The Dark said as he holstered his gun. Glancing to his right, Sinjin could see a dazed, but otherwise unharmed Elizabeth on the flight deck with Hui. “You’ve hurt enough of the citizens of Pandora for this evening.” “I’ve studied what little information there is available on you, Dark.” Sun said as he stepped down from the podium to confront his new foe. “I’d sincerely hoped we would encounter one another before I left this city.” “You won’t be leaving.” Sun smiled at the Dark’s bold statement. “I’m certain your plans are intriguing, but I can’t allow you to execute them.” “Interesting choice of words Dark,” With speed that caught even the Dark by surprise, Sun struck out with the tip of his stiffened fingers and delivered a devastating blow to the Dark’s throat. Staggered, Sinjin clasped both hands to his throat and struggled for air. This latest act of violence finally broke the resolve of Pandora’s elite causing
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the crowd to rush the exits from the room. A quick burst of automatic gunfire quickly subdued the party-goers as the guards regained control. “But I prefer to complete what I start.” Before stepping through the ballroom doors, Sun turned to address the crowd one final time. “I leave you with this thought to consider. You are but the first step to my homeland regaining her destined glory. You owe her for your many acts of greed and gluttony. Our paths shall never cross again.” Stepping past Hui and Elizabeth, Sun headed toward the open doors of the blimp’s loading bay. Before Hui could close the ballroom’s doors, a recovered Sinjin rushed past to confront the departing criminal. “You gained the advantage that time Sun, but I won’t underestimate you again.” The Dark said as he drew both his automatic and the sword from the scabbard on his back. “How appropriate that you wield a katana before me,” Sun said as he drew his own sword, a doubled edged weapon called a jian, from the sheath at his side. “It’s fitting that you die at my hands and not inside with the cattle.” “What?” The Dark turned just as the gas blocked the windows of the ballroom. Sinjin could see where Hui stood inside the doors facing the flight deck. He watched as the man slid slowly to the floor out of view. “Your own men are in there Sun!” “My men are loyal and believe in their cause as fervently as I do.” Sun said as he made a wicked slash at the Dark’s neck with his sword. Blocking with his gun, Sinjin angled the muzzle down at Sun and fired. Anticipating this move, Sun shifted slightly and to avoid the bullet. Sun’s own gun blocked the Dark’s katana leaving both men locked in a deadly ballet. Each fought with more viciousness and hatred than Elizabeth had ever witnessed before in her life. “I’ve been tracking bodies across the city for weeks Sun.” The Dark said as he again shot and missed his target. “The binary compound has a small window of stability and tests were required.” Sun said as he
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blinked blood from his eyes from the bullet crease awful had awakened in him as a result of that on his forehead. “Fortunately, your city has a avalanche. Thomas Michael solved problems with wealth of castoffs to draw upon.” his mind, but Sinjin now preferred the gun and the blade. He viewed evil as black and white with “Those men deserved their dignity, Sun and they’ll death as its just reward. get it when I kill you.” The Dark snarled as he head butted Sun in the face. However, both men “Again, I said no.” The Dark slashed upward froze as they heard the shriek of terror from behind. severing Sun’s sword hand from his wrist, then shot Seeing the look of sadness on Sun’s face, the Dark the gun from Sun’s other hand. turned to see a cloud of gas that leaked through the ballroom doors envelope the terrified form of his “Arggh!” Sun screamed as he lunged back toward lover Elizabeth. the open loading bay. The Dark calmly and deliberately sheathed his sword as he followed the “Sinjin?” The Dark took one step and stopped. wounded man. Walking past as the Asian struggled The horror and realization that there was nothing to tie off his terrific injury, the Dark stopped that could be done froze the avenger as the most midway between the cockpit and Sun. vicious of thugs never had. The solidity of her form gave way and her liquid remains splashed sloppily “I take it the poison that killed everyone at the across the flight deck. party tonight requires the victim to have absorbed the first component through the skin.” The Dark “You read the paper today didn’t you baby?” asked as he removed his automatic, popped in a Whispered the hollow man as he stared blankly at fresh clip, and then pointed it at the head of the what remained of Elizabeth Adar. grievously injured man. “I’m sorry for this unfortunate occurrence, Dark. I would have taken her to safety after your death.” Sun said as the avenger slowly turned to face his arch-enemy. Wasting no time, Sun aimed and shot the grieving man through the heart. “You are a true man in this time of cowards, and I grant you this quick death as repayment for the woman, Sinjin St. Cloud.”
“You are a clever, Sinjin,” Sun said through clenched teeth as he tried to regain some of his composure. “You are a worthy man to have outwitted me.” “This blimp would then release the second part of the binary gas over the city and kill thousands of innocent people?”
“It was a glorious design and only the beginning The Dark stared at the hole in his chest and of my vengeance against those who raped my wondered how if a mere bullet break a heart already country.” shattered. Now he was truly as dead inside as out. “No it isn’t.” The Dark said as he spun shooting “I reject your gift Sun.” The Dark said to his through the wall behind the pilot and co-pilot. stunned foe. He could see the splashes of red across both windscreens through the cabin door window as the “How can you still be standing? I know that I’ve blimp’s engines shifted. With the vehicle rocking killed you.” violently from side to side, Sun barely managed to grab the safety equipment on the wall with his “You have killed me Sun, but not in the way you remaining hand before being thrown out the open think.” The Dark blocked Sun’s next sword thrust door. Impossibly, the Dark remained standing in and easily knocked the blade aside. Everything the center of the loading bay with his gun pointed moved in slow motion for Sinjin now and he again at Sun. could feel the darkness that hid deep in his soul as it spread throughout his body. One of the “What have you done madman?” Sun screamed. reasons he no longer worked with his former club of adventurers was because of the changes he had “I’m trying to balance a score that can never be experienced as a result of his death. Something even.” The Dark lifted his hand to his mask and
“Who’s afraid of the Dark?” revealed himself to his enemy for the first time. The reanimated man’s face was a mass of white shriveled skin with his blackened lips peeled back in an eternal snarl. The elixir allowed the Dark to appear normal, healthy, and alive if he didn’t exert himself too much. However, he was very exerted now. “What are you?” Sun gasped. “I am the death that has come for you, I am the vengeance that your victims cry out for, and I am emptiness.” The Dark fired his gun at the safety gear that kept Sun from falling to his death. The bullet struck the compressed air-tank causing the raft to rapidly inflate. Exploding outward, the raft knocked the remaining dirigible safety equipment and Sun out of the compartment. The Dark stepped to the edge in time to see Sun disappear into the mist below. “I’ll see you in Hell soon.” The Dark called out to his departed foe. For a moment only, he marveled at how quiet everything had become. What had been chaos only minutes before had become as peaceful as a forest clearing now. Sinjin looked across the gulf between the blimp and the flight deck where what remained of Elizabeth cooled in the night air. He could feel nothing inside but emptiness as great as the space between the buildings below. The decision was easy and he’d made it moments after Elizabeth died. Securing his mask once again, the Dark looked out at the Pandorian sky-line one final time before stepping off into the mists waiting below. --Not the End To be continued
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