AAM #2 - Lightning Bug Films / Lightning Bug Press

Transcription

Table of Contents
Editoral Rants
John Donald Carlucci...............................................................................3
Biographies..............................................................................................4
Auslander: A Taste of Treachery
Michael Patrick Sullivan..........................................................................6
Timothy Gallagher..................................................................................11
Margaret Ronald.....................................................................................21
Timothy Gallagher..................................................................................29
Roger Alford...........................................................................................40
Philip Beloin...........................................................................................47
Shane Mullins.........................................................................................50
Bryce Beattie..........................................................................................53
John Donald Carlucci.............................................................................61
Katherine Tomlinson..............................................................................71
Nate Clark.............................................................................................76
Kat Parish..............................................................................................81
Timothy Gallagher................................................................................83
Christian Dabnor..................................................................................100
The Original Pulp Monkey
Racing Against the Rose
Interview: Paul Malmont
Conscience for Ransom
Shallow End
Tigerbone Wine
Pride Of The Traveler
Interview: Gregory Edwards
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
Greg Stephens......................................................................................107
Mark Caldwell......................................................................................111
Katherine Tomlinson.............................................................................118
John Donald Carlucci............................................................................120
The Final Knockout
The Steward, the Kriegsherr, his Femme
Fatale & her Brother
Pulp Christmas
The Dark: Who’s Afraid of the Dark?
Art
Cover “The Dark”
John Donald Carlucci
Tony Sarrecchia.....................................................................................5
Nate Clark.............................................................................................77
Mark Caldwell......................................................................................111
John Donald Carlucci............................................................................120
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
[email protected]
Editor
Timothy Gallagher
[email protected]
Editor
Katherine Tomlinson
[email protected]
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
3
“Story Title”
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.
Digitally signed by John
EIC JDC
PS: I like the nude nouveau womin!
The Links
John
Donald
Carlucci
Astonishing Adventures Magazine!
Astonishingadventuresmagazine.com
Submissions Guidelines
Astonishingadventuresmagazine.com
AAM STORE
www.cafepress.com/aamagazine
Myspace page
www.myspace.com/astonishingadventures
Donald Carlucci
DN: cn=John Donald
Carlucci, o=Astonishing
Adventures Publishing,
ou,
email=editorjdc@gmail.
com, c=US
Date: 2007.12.22
12:44:27 -05'00'
4
ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE
Biographies
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.
[email protected]
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 [email protected], 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.
[email protected]
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.)
[email protected]
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 [email protected].
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
5
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.
6
The Auslander in
“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
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
7
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
8
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.
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.
9
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
10
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”
11
“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
12
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.
13
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.
14
(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!”).
15
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.
16
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.
17
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
18
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!”
19
Some more pictures just for the fun of it.
Pigsy: future spokes-pig for Playtex Cross-Your-Heart
bras.
The Monkey King battles the Spider Demons (they
fight like girls!).
“Uggh! Who let this guy into the cave?”
Monkey and Sandy contemplate kicking Spider Demon butt.
20
Monkey and the Taoist flame-thrower.
You get two - count ‘em, two - Monkeys for the price
of one!
The Spider Demons react to seeing Pigsy with his shirt open.
“Racing Against the Rose”
21
“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.
22
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
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.”
23
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
24
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
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.
25
“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.”
26
“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.”
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.”
27
“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.
28
“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?”
29
Interview:
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 couldn’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 couldn’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
30
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.
31
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
32
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)?
33
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
34
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
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.
35
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-
36
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,
37
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.
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?
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
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 favoriteauthors, 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
38
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
39
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.
40
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.
41
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
N
V
42
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
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?”
43
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
S
W
44
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
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
45
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
46
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”
47
“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.
J
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.
T
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?”
48
“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.
N
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”
T
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...
49
50
“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.
51
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.
52
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”
53
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
54
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.
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?”
55
“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.
56
“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.
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.
57
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
58
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
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.
59
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
60
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.’”
61
Interview:
Gregory Edwards
By john Donald carlucci
I
first saw Gregory’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.
62
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 it’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
63
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
64
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
65
66
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.
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?
67
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
68
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,
69
70
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
[email protected]
71
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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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.
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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76
“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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78
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
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
79
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
80
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”
81
GREAT MOMENTS IN PULP TV:
TALES OF THE GOLD MONKEY
By kat parrish
T
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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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
83
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. 84
Interview:
Ron Fortier
By tim gallagher
R
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
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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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 Ron’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)
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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?
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
90
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
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.
91
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.
92
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!
93
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!).
94
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.
95
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
96
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.
97
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
98
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.
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!
99
100
“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?”
101
“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.”
102
“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
103
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
104
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
105
“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,
106
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”
107
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
108
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.”
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.
109
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
110
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”
111
“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
112
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.
“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
113
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
114
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
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.”
116
“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.”
“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.
117
118
“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”
119
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.
120
The Dark:
“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.
“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.
121
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
122
cinnamon to it.”
“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.
123
“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
124
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?”
125
“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
126
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
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
127
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
128
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
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
129

AAM #2 - Lightning Bug Films / Lightning Bug Press

Transcription

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