One of British television’s great creations, George Bulman first appeared on the small screen in 1976, in Granada Television’s hard edged crime series, The XYY Man, based on the books by Kenneth Royce. The XYY Man in question was a cat burglar called Spider Scott who was trying to go straight but regularly ended up getting caught in the MI5’s grubby web.

Doggedly on Scott’s trail was the real star of the show, Detective Sergeant George Bulman, brilliantly played by Don Henderson. Bulman was gruff and eccentric: He always wore gloves. usually had a menthol inhaler stuffed up his nose, carried his things in a plastic supermarket carrier bag and endlessly quoted Shakespeare.

It was a good series, too, but Bulman owned the show and when it ended, after two series, it was logical that Bulman and his sidekick Willis (no, not THAT Willis ) were given their own spin off show, Strangers.

Strangers –with a brilliant jazzy theme tune – started off as a pretty good, straight ahead, cop show spiced up by Bulman’s oddball character. But as the series progressed it became quirkier and quirkier, finding its form in season three when the brilliant Mark ‘Taggart’ McManus became Bulman’s boss.

The last episode had Bulman going undercover in a jazz band and featured music by Tangerine Dream and Pigbag. And the title quoted Jean Cocteu ,‘With these gloves you can pass through mirrors’- and saw Bulman trying to ditch his OCD by taking off his gloves and buggering off with McManus’ wife.

And when Strangers ended, after five series, there was still no stopping Bulman, who returned to star in his own show, Bulman. He was now an unofficial private detective working out of an antique clock repair shop with a spikey Scottish sidekick, occasionally working for a dodgy government agency or Mark MacManus. Bulman’s eccentricity was even more to the forefront in this series and the stories were comfortably off the wall.

Here’s Bulman’s first appearance in The XYY Man.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjKdl8wli7E&feature=related

Blacula, 1972

Directed by William Crain Starring William Marshall, Gordon Pinsent, Thalmus Rasulala, Vonetta McGee, and Denise Nicholas Blacula was released in 1972 to mixed reviews but ended up as one of the top grossing films that year with over a million dollars in ticket sales. It also launched a subgenre within the blaxploitation genre — the blaxploitation horror film.

The film’s trailer gives a somewhat distorted impression of the film. It opens with a good looking but hairy Blacula (he sprouts extra facial hair when he turns into a vampire) laughing as cops fire bullets into him at point-blank range or attack him in other ways. He then dispatches them with glee.

One would initially have the impression that the film was about an invincible, bulletproof African-American dude who goes around in a cape knocking off agro cops. The trailer no doubt helped draw an African-American audience, as did some posters with references to slavery. The fact that the film had rhythm and blues music on the soundtrack and even had an extended pop/soul musical number in a nightclub featuring a group called The Hues Corporation helped too. (This film gave the fledgling band, which contributed three songs to the soundtrack, its first big break. They were soon signed with a major label, RCA Records, and eventually had a 2-million selling single in 1974 called “Rock the Boat.”)

Overall, it’s a pretty cool film — kind of an early 70s offbeat romp (at times) that starred a handsome Shakespearean actor with a baritone voice and a winning manner — plus the film featured some very beautiful women in leading roles.

The story begins when the man who soon becomes Blacula runs into Dracula while in Europe protesting slavery. He’s a very good and noble African prince, and wants to end slavery. This was in 1780. For some reason he complained about slavery to Dracula, who bit him and made him into a vampire. A few centuries later Blacula is shipped in his coffin to America following an estate sale. The new owners of the coffin where Blacula is sleeping are two gay dudes (one white and one African-American). They’re bitten by Blackula in the warehouse where they are storing their goodies from the estate sale. The two gay guys become active as vampires over a matter of days. (Later in the film it only takes a few minutes after being bitten to grow fangs and become thirsty for blood.) An African-American cop investigates. The police investigation into the rising number of strange deaths and the fact that there are vampires popping up in Los Angeles is handled well. It seems like a respectful TV cop series.

However, unlike high-budget TV cop shows, the police station and props here are pretty tacky and low-budget. This film was financed by Sam Arkoff and American International Pictures — an outfit known for keeping costs low and offering thrilling exploitation fare to a teen and young-adult audience. (It’s interesting to note that in the same year that Blacula came out, Arkoff was also helped produce Scorcese’s low-budget film Boxcar Bertha.)

The director of Blacula, an African-American guy named William Crain, was born in 1949 and was a graduate of UCLA’s film school. He had some directed episodes of Mod Squad so he was already comfortable doing cop dramas. He cast the film himself and some of the lead actors had also worked in the medium Crain had done his directing apprenticeship in — television. The cool thing is that virtually every key player in the film is an African-American. The down side of this is that, being a genre film, all the characters are more or less mirroring conventional roles played by white and black people in everyday society. No one is really trying to break out of the norms of the society of the time. In this way it’s a very conservative film. One could almost make the case that the film is about the need to conform and be “normal.”

Anyone who seeks an alternative to conventional social behavior and does something too freaky — like turning into a crazy vampire — will be destroyed.

At the end of the film, during a climactic battle in the warehouse where Blacula has been living in what seems to be some sort of vampire commune, lots of hippy-like vampires (mostly African-American) emerge from the shadows and a great battle ensues with the three cops who have gone there. Other than fangs and pale skin, the group appears more like a bunch of counterculture types than vampires. Thus Blackula is, in some sense, a crime film about threats to social order and its restoration — those who break the social codes are destroyed and society is able to return to “normal” by the end of the film. Is that good?

In 1972 many people were hoping to find an alternative to the “normal” set of values that had led America into a war in Vietnam and into ecological disasters of various kinds. Could there be a “hip” Blackula who somehow rages against the problems of society and sees himself as a persecuted outcast? Crain did break through with a classic horror film featuring African Americans — and that is, in itself, a challenge to the norms of society. Yet the narrative structure and basic elements of the film echoed mainstream films. In fact that this film both offered some new thrills as well as challenges to social conventions — but was at the same time very conventional in many ways — part of why it did so well at the box office?

While it definitely had an appeal for an African-American audience, it was, to an extent, tapping into collective concerns and fears that many were feeling in mainstream American society.

The rise of horror films at this time can be seen as a reaction to the upheaval and social unrest of the sixties and early seventies. At some level people who viewed themselves as normal felt threatened and had the sense that some almost demonic “other” was invading the society or taking over. (The reaction might be against the strange hippies and ideas about their cults or alternative religious practices, or the suddenly more visible and politically active African Americans, or feminst challenges by women, or some other group seen as threatening to the status quo.)

Films like The Exorcist reflected this fear. What’s interesting about Blacula is that in some sense it played on this fear — after all, a sexy African-American vampire is running around causing a degree of social mayhem.

In posters for the film, we see him biting the neck of a woman who looks white, even though in the film this never happens — his victims are mostly African-American. Did the film tap into some fear of an emerging African-America energy and power? Probably so — but it also functioned to quell those fears by having the story end with order restored.

Crain went on to direct another blaxploitation horror film called Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde, released in 1976. He directed more TV shows and a few films. Then, about twenty years ago, he dropped out of the film and television business because, as he said in an interview for mondo-video.com, he wanted to write fiction and give living like Hemingway a try (traveling and writing). He also said that he got tired of the Hollywood hustle — that is, “beating the bushes” for jobs. It sort of “wore me out” as he said in an interview for mondo-video.com. He had family concerns that he was engaged with as well. The last time he directed a film was in 1992. It’s called Midnight Fear and starred David Carradine as an alcoholic sheriff who’s investigating the horrible murder of a woman who was skinned. (Tarantino has said this is one of his favorite Carradine films and one of the reasons he wanted Carradine for Kill Bill.)

For a great interview with Crain, see: http://www.mondo-video.com/william-crain-interview

The Blackula series continued with Scream, Blacula, Scream, also starring William Marshall, released in 1973. Two notably cool blaxploitation horror films, both of which go a lot more over the top than this one, are J.D.’s Revenge (1976), and Petey Wheatstraw — The Devil’s Son-In-Law (1977). Both are very entertaining and fun to watch and no doubt owe a debt to Blackula for establishing a new subgenre, the African-American horror film.

*

More from MDJ on PMM – http://pulpmetalmagazine.wordpress.com/tag/matt-dukes-jordan/

“What happened to your arm?” I ask. He mutters something indecipherable. I don’t bug him about it. A big bump on his forearm where he missed his mark, too lazy to belt it up, I reckon.

“What’d you do last night?” I ask.

“Methadone,” he says, “And cocaine.”

The bar is filling up but his eyes are empty. He can’t concentrate on sitting here in the booth talking, wants to bolt. “Let’s take a ride,” he says. “You got a car?”

I rode with Virgo, I say, she doesn’t want to leave yet. Neither do I. Hemming and hawing, I suggest maybe in a little while.

“Alright,” he nods, wanting to pull out his little plastic bag of dope and do whatever he wants. I want to watch. But he’s gonna have to wait and so am I.

June’s a clean cut boy, disguised as a biker. Remnants of sooty grease make black smiles on the end of each finger. Tight Levis that would look ridiculous on a frat boy, old and worn, make him look even longer and leaner than he is. A goatee and a scruff on the cheeks add two years to his face. A navy serge baseball cap with The Mighty Mighty Boss Tones stitched in gold above the bill perches crooked on his crown, shadowing his face and his shadow-filled eyes.

Three quarters of an hour later, June sits on the sheepskin rug in my bedroom and rummages through his pocket for his works. I’ve caught him.

The anxiety that flattened his eyed begins to lift. Knowledge that the edge is about to be sanded to a smooth curve stills the friction that’s been gnawing his guts for the past eternity of minutes I know he’s counted one by one since we first met up at the bar.

“You okay?” I ask. We both know he is not, but will be once he’s gotten that needle in his arm. He nods.

“You got a mirror? Something to lay this out on?” he asks, his head bouncing off the cardboard cut-out glitter-covered stars that hang from the ceiling by invisible thread. I look around. The setting makes this scene all the more surreal. A stuffed Elmo from Sesame Street that giggles when you mash his belly waits and watches on the floor by the bed. Christmas lights brighten up a stormy summer night. Stark white whets are a backdrop to his glamorous darkness. A dozen feather pillows soften the blow of his hard presence.

“Here’s a picture of my mama and daddy on their senior trip to Washington, D.C.,” I say, handing over the sterling-silver framed 3X5 black and white photograph. There are white worn creases that say it was folded once in someone’s wallet. June waves his hand away, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes.

“No, you don’t want to do that,” he says. I might as well have pulled out a Bible and asked him to shit on it. “Can I use this?” he asks, picking up a small plastic-framed mirror that my mother had given me the last time I visited her down south. She said it was good to use when you plucked your eyebrows or put on mascara because one side was normal and the other magnified. Mama wouldn’t approve of this usage but she wouldn’t be surprised, either.

“Sure,” I nod, relieved he’s found something. My mind drifts. He’s got me thinking crazy but I dive in anything for the vicarious thrill. I want to see him shoot up, jab that needle in his arm, travel down the long and winding blue highways of his veins with him. His face and voice will change as the dope hits his bloodstream. The adrenaline starts pumping through me as I watch him organize. The needle is long and hard. He manages it in his long fingers with a loving disgrace.

I start thinking that I’m disappointed he’s an IV drug user because that’s going to deter me from having sex with him. He might be a clean boy underneath all that dirt, but even clean boys end up in dirty places that won’t ever wash off. And it’s clear June’s been jerking off in the face of God for quite some time now, testing the limits for reasons I doubt he even knows. Long enough that it’s made him a little or a lot crazy. I think about him getting wasted and some guy giving him head then sliding him the salami in the heat of it all. It could happen. More than possible in a world where boundaries get swept away, lines drawn futilely in a sand that doesn’t try to resist the sort of missteps lives like June’s make along the way. June’s homophobic, though, but that doesn’t mean anything. You never can tell what a man will do when he’s beyond that edge most just live on. There’s no limit to a potential spent and ignited at the same time.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his voice thick with a southern cadence, sounding as if he should be sipping on mint juleps on the front porch of a plantation a hundred years before tonight. Instead of white linen or seersucker, he’s as greasy as a wrench. You can smell his good blood, though, healthy in spite of his abuse. The smell is rich coming off him – a deep, lusty stench. “I’m not interested in sex when I do this shit.”

“That’s good to know,” I say drily. “I’m not either.”

“If I’m not fucking, I’m shooting up. If I’m not shooting up, I’m fucking,” he says, matter-of-factly – simple matter of substitution.

He began melting down the coke in a spoon. “You want some?” he asked, an afterthought, a courtesy. “I got some clean needles if you do.”

“Nah,” I say.

“You sure?” he offers once more – ever the polite southern gent.

“Why? Does it make you nervous that I don’t want to do it?” I ask.

“No,” he says, sobering suddenly. “I ain’t that complicated.”

“I was gonna say,” I return, a lilt within my monotone.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “You’ll do a line, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say.

June works fast. I don’t notice that he does it, but when I re-enter my bedroom from a short trip to the bathroom to pass time looking in the mirror at myself, applying lip gloss, then removing the stickiest part of it so my hair won’t get caught in it, he has it all out for me, ready. On the bed, lined up thick, rocky, fat on the mirror are four rails of cocaine. Moist, but rocky, I note. More like meth, although not yellow, like when my daddy and I used to do it years ago.

The stuff has a gray tint to it, dirty-looking. He ought to have good blow since he does it all the time, I think. Maybe this is the real thing. Maybe the really pure stuff looks like this. You always hear tall tales about the pure stuff. The really pure stuff. The myth. The legend. This wasn’t what I’d imagined.

Rather than break the momentum of the moment by going for the mirror, I wait a few minutes to watch him set up his rig. Besides, I’m dreading numbing out. I could say no, not do it, but I feel that familiar foreknowledge that somewhere in my subconscious I’ve already decided to do it. So I prolong the descent.

Rather than waste time tying u p his arm, he jabs the needle in randomly. The flesh rises up, a tiny but mad mountain.

“The muscle tissue won’t absorb the drug,” he explains, a look of consternation rolling across his face. “Damn.”

The room is dim and I ask him if he’d like me to turn the lamp brighter. He says no, although I think he would prefer the light, just so he can get his work done. Yet he also fears it, I realize, and this causes me to cock my head sideways. June doesn’t want to disturb the ambience either. He’d rather suffer through the meager glow from the Christmas lights than drench it in the rude glare of a 60-watt.

“Sometimes they run from you,” he tells me, referring to h is veins. They have had enough. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, Daddy used to date teenaged coke whores. I remember them talking about it.” A casual nod follows as I watch him idly.

“Your daddy shoot up?”

“Anything he could melt down,” I nod.

“Did he give you a lot of problems?” he asks.

“Yes,” I nod.

I lie day, belly flat against the floor. He’s a foot away, sinewy legs folded with half grace, half stiffness. He’s tall, like Alice in that little room in Wonderland. His body’s angularity defies a natural serpentine quality about him but this is the drugs, I reckon. Even snakes get stiff when they’re close to dying. June seems as close to death as a person gets without doing it altogether and it is this about him that I’m drawn to since death and life are always battling, pretending peace is one another when I know from looking at him it ain’t neither and it’s both and it doesn’t matter either way unless you believe separating the two somehow makes a whole.

June’s in between, completely. I struggle to understand him, gauging his body language against his eye movements, his appetites, his eagerness and restraint – all complicated strategies for an uncomplicated junkie whose only true drive is the next fix.

His narrow torso tapers like the throat of a snake where h is ribs decline into the hips. June and food probably aren’t friendly when dope’s aplenty and his skin stretches tight enough to prove it.

I might as well be watching cartoons on Saturday morning, the way I’m lying here watching him. Virgo walks in the room and sits on the edge of my bed, smoking a cigarette. I watch her face to see what she thinks of the situation, expecting, even after all these years, some judgment. There is none. Only a hint of a line belying subtle consternation. She’s thinking about how I always get us into these things, probably. About how I love bringing strays home. But she loves it. Deep down she loves it and is glad that it’s me and not her.

June nods towards the mirror and offers Virgo a line but she shakes her head no. “I gotta work tomorrow,” she says and June shrugs and says okay. It would make him feel better if we were all fucked up together although the less we do the more he’ll have. He realizes he’s the performer for my evening at this moment, but this doesn’t unsettle him enough to reveal it and I doubt he cares since June’s whole schtick, even the drug fiend shit, is I’m guessing at least half or more a role he plays.

He plays it better than anyone else. That’s why he’s here.

I know he doesn’t have much and I’m wondering what he’s going to do when it’s allgone and he realizes he’s got a pocketful of empty needles. I don’t wish that kind of agony on a dog but I know it’ll probably come before it’s all over.

But he does run out. I give him the couple of lines he’d laid out for me, just to keep him happy. The pain in me ain’t nothing but a twitch compared to the gnawing silence I instinctively know has him in its maw. Happy ain’t here, but happy wasn’t on the menu anyway.

I just wanted to watch what happened when June got personal.

“It it weren’t for sex I’d prefer the company of men,” he says. “It’s late. Early. Probably 5 a.m.. I’m thinking I’m sleepy and his baggy’s empty so I’m praying he’ll be able to pass out. We lie side by side on my bed in the dark.

“I don’t blame you,” I say. “Most women are pussies.”

“Do you ever have trouble pissing?” he inquires.

“Only when I was in boot camp,” I say, referring to the couple of years back when I was on probation for a drug offense and remembered how hard it was to piss with twenty women running around with no stall doors to hide you.

“I do,” he tells me. “Especially when I do heroin. I’ll just sit there…stand there….stand there,” he corrects himself, “and it just won’t come out. Then I’ll rub my ass and I’ll finally piss.”

I nod. “Uh huh,” I say, not understanding this concept but nonetheless accepting since it’s June. He doesn’t want me to think he sits down and pisses, I can tell. Suddenly he reaches for the lamp on the night table and flips it on. One move and he’s crouched bedside, rummaging through his belongings on the floor.

In spit of it all, along with his work, the thin syringes, the cotton swab, and the bent spoon, is a lone blue toothbrush, symbolizing one last reach towards purity. “Hold on,” he says. “I’ve gotta brush my teeth.”

“What’d you do to me last night while I was asleep?” he asks, making the third time, maybe fourth. It isn’t clear why he keeps asking. What does he think I did?

“What do you think I did?” I ask, irritated. He’s serious. What could he possibly think I was capable of, to draw this sort of response from him.

“I don’t know. I just think you did something to me while I was sleeping,” he repeats. “What’s you do?”

“I gave you a blow job and I fucked you up the ass with a strap-on,” I say flatly.

“God-dam,” he exclaims, a blush rising to his cheeks. Then, recovering quickly, “…and I ain’t even sore.”

This puts us into a thoughtful silence. It’s clear that he has one thing on his mind and one thing only. Dope. He asks me to give him a ride. I say okay. The sunlight makes everything different. He directs me to a friend’s house, an old decrepit shack with a crooked screen door. A good-looking girl in cut-off shorts and a white v-neck T-shirt opens it and waves him in.

“Bye, Doll,” he says. Makes me feel like I’m a 40s pin-up. “What you getting into tonight?

“I don’t know, I stammer, hedging. He seems to think he’s gotta make something happen. I’m thinking about how it’s over now, about h ow now I’m free, and healthy, and alive. But I like June. Still, committing ain’t my style.

“I’ll give you a call,” he says. “Maybe we can run around tonight.”

I nod, turn, thinking: Now, look, it’s Saturday night. Don’t fuck with Don Juan on a Saturday night.

*

BIO: ROBIN POSTELL

FULL-TIME FREELANCE WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHER FOR OVER A DECADE, POSTELL CONTRIBUTES REGULARLY TO MAGAZINES, WEBSITES, NEWSPAPERS AND ANY OTHER OUTLET SHE CAN HUSTLE HER WAY INTO. SHE BROKE INTO NATIONAL MARKET WITH BLACK BELT MAGAZINE COVERING UFC V, WHICH BECAME AN UNLIKELY NICHE FOR MANY YEARS. PENTHOUSE MAGAZINE BECAME HER COZIEST HOME, WRITING AND SHOOTING FOR ITS VIEW FROM THE TOP COLUMN FEATURING ADVENTURE TRAVEL AND EXTREME SUBJECTS/CHARACTERS. INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM IS HER GENETIC PROCLIVITY AND SHE CURRENTLY ENJOYS BUSTING CHOPS OF WHITE COLLAR CRIMINALS AND OUTLAW JUDGES.

Gonzalo Canedo was born on the 25th of December 1979 in A Coruna, a Galician city in Spain by the seacoast of the Atlantic Ocean, in the Europeans land’s end.

Nowadays he lives in Edinburgh (Scotland), where he’s studied Video Production, Media Technology and Creative Industries: Television and Art.

He really enjoys talking about himself in the third person and fiddling about with all kinds of software. His favourite tools are Photoshop, Corel, Poser and E-on Vue.

When asked about his style and influences he told me that “they are multiple as my personality“. But I know that he is influenced by Comte de Lautreamont, Joel-Peter Witkin, Attila Csihar, Einsturzende Neubaten and Alejandro Jodorowsky.

He has several projects in development at the moment and you can find more about Gonzalo Canedo on his website:  www.canedo.weebly.com 

He dreams of wild reeds and rivers.

Here’s what their band page says about Coma Stereo:

“Coma Stereo is a Slovenian (trans) galactic 4 piece unit. Harboured in Maribor’s cultural centre Pekarna and on many stages across Balkan and Europe. Under their belts are 3 full length albums recorded at the analogue Kramasonik studio in Zagreb. A powerfull rhythm section, floating guitar sounds and spacey synth oscillations.”

Here’s more info, bio, links etc.:  http://kaparecords.com/artists/coma-stereo/ 
Here’s the album:  http://kaparecords.bandcamp.com/album/1000-mest

It is pleasure and honor to introduce Pulp Metal Magazine readers to a true inspiration child of the imagination. She is a producer, scriptwriter, and actress, but most of all she is a storyteller. Ladies and gentlemen, vixens and wolves, meet Yelena Sabel.

Her short film P—Word Pizza was recently formally selected and showcased at the international Film Festival in Manhattan New York, and she is busy filming her first movie Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales.

You can discover more at http://sexbloodandfairytales.com/

 ***

JM: Hey Yelena, thanks for joining me on behalf of Pulp Metal Magazine today. Let’s start light before we dive deep. What is the source of your super hero powers while writing? Whiskey & coke? Café latte mochochino ala crème with triple shots?

YS:My beverage depends on what I’m writing. Yesterday while writing I was drinking hot cocoa with milk and eating pancakes that swam in maple syrup, I was writing a heartbreaking monologue and I needed to chase it with comfort food. Then the next scene was a nasty fight so I really need a shot of whiskey! And then the Sun rose, I had a double-shot of espresso to get myself together and went to bed. Yup, I can sleep after drinking espresso!

Food and drink spice up my emotions. Sometimes I don’t eat on purpose, my blood sugar drops and I have headaches and feel I’m going to faint. That is when I have an inspiration for my specialty scenes!

JM: The Lady or the Tiger. Which is behind the door?

YS: I think the writer is trying to make us feel like it’s a paradox but there is none, just my impression and I read it twice. For God’s sake woman doesn’t make sense when she’s jealous, she doesn’t follow logic. We might think even though she was jealous, why would she still want the person she loved to die? Her persona was described clearly: she was controlling and she went against her own father who was the King! What does it tell us? Just because she was capable of loving him BEFORE doesn’t mean her heart would melt and her agonizing jealousy disappear when she has to give him a sign for the “good door”! Maybe if it was you or me, we would save the guy, but don’t overlook her upbringing . Why was she even there? The author in too many words hinted that had she not been a semi-barbarian daughter of a fucked-up King, she wouldn’t even be there! Apple from the tree. It is very important what your upbringing is, you cannot overlook that fact. Your personality can differ from your parents’ but one day in the right moment it’ll comes out. It’s in your BLOOD. It would be extremely hard witnessing your lover to be devoured by the tiger, but it will…pass. It will be a horrible picture but it will only take a few minutes before he dies and then the bloody mess will be cleaned up. But it would be much harder to witness her lover being married with another beautiful woman and… live happily ever after?? So where is the question? Is the question who came out of that door? Please, it is clear as sunny day. THE TIGER. And I, yes, I understand that the writer wants us to break our heads deciding on this paradox but there is NO paradox. It is clear as a sunny day.
I like psychology, there are many studies and tests on human behavior patterns and how decisions are made and based on what. A person like her has no business of saving him. Of course, we always have to have Faith in people. We have to. But most of the time it is the tiger, the fucking tiger who comes out of that door, darling. Poor dude, I’m in tears!

JM: So, you’d feed him to the tiger. Kay.

***Interviewer’s note: Fair warning to all future potential romantic interests: Rawr***

Which leads me to my next question. So, you say Frank Stockton hints to throw us off track, but the pattern of humanity (oh, the semi barbaric spirits!) definitely gives the story a clear answer. On your website, you say “What drives us and do we really know ourselves until we’re forced into the circumstance?” I love this. And the psychology you just described in the previous question shows us that this is true. What drives you, Yelena? Is there a particular circumstance that you felt forced into that you felt you had to introspect and rethink, reset your life path? And also, do you feel the story of Sex, Blood & Fairy Tales reflects this?

(YS: Jodi, when u put this interview together pls don’t make me look like a serial killa please, I still plan to date someone some day again!!! LMAO !!!!! P.S. ( you can post this too for humorous purposes Hahahahaha )

(JM: This “plan on dating someone someday unserial killa” knows how to aim, shoot and fire. Just sayin. )

YS: What drives me.

I watched countless movies and only few left an epic mark in my heart. I remember how I felt watching those movies. I was in love with the visuals and my mind was so intensely focused on devouring those that I wasn’t able to follow the story. That made me come back to watch it again, and this time for the sake of the story. The story was so intense it made me come back to watch the movie again and this time to absorb it as a whole. Each time I was back it opened up new things to explore that I haven’t seen there before. This feeling reminds me of Love, when you want to come back to the same person and each time you the experience will be different. Watching those films I was experiencing a rainbow of the most intense emotions and movies that carried subliminal messages and had such a powerful effect on me, it helped me to change into a better person. My biggest dream is to create something as intense and powerful to not just entertain people but rather take them on a journey they will never forget and will always want to come back to!

JM: Is there a particular circumstance that you felt forced into that you felt you had to introspect and rethink, reset your life path?

Yes, there was. Growing up I watched my parents being in love and overcoming obstacles life was throwing on them, together. They were best friends, had same interests, same jobs and they were unbreakable, and I always wanted to get married to have the same thing. But that was a “Fairy Tale”. Love like that happens to you only if you’re blessed. I got married when I was 17 years old to a very abusive man who was an alcoholic and beat a crap out of me when I was pregnant on a third semester. Since that age I’ve always had a chain of unfortunate events happening to me that never allowed me to pursue my dream. So now I’m focused on my purpose in life which I believe that it is to change people’s lives through my vision. And because I’m in my 30’s now this makes me even hungrier and work harder to make my dreams come true, so I take no prisoners and I have no time for failures.

JM: And also, do you feel the story of Sex, Blood & Fairy Tales reflects this?

The story of “Sex, Blood and Fairy tales” reflects A LOT of things and many of them are based on true events but I’m not ready to go into them just yet…Some day we will come back to this question and I will be happy to answer them for you…J

JM: What can I say to that kind of passion and honesty? Wow. And of course, we respect your boundaries. I love your “I take no prisoners and have no time for failures”. If we could each bring that attitude to our work, we’d all be well… a kick ass Yelena Sabel. Can you share which “epic” movies that you mention above that have made such an impression on you?

YS:These are a few movies that left EPIC impression on me:

1. Santa Sangre

2. Pulp Fiction

3. Sunshine

4. Amores Perros

5. 4 Minutes

6. Chocolat

7. Y Tu Mama Tambien

8. Tokyo Sonata

9. Slumdog Millionaire

10. Requiem for a Dream

JM: In your world, would you say the storyteller, the actress, and the producer wear the same shoes, or do you view the art differently from each role? Which are you first: storyteller, producer, or actress?

YS:I’m always a storyteller. When I act – I tell the story, I don’t even need lines – I tell it through my eyes and body. You don’t have to say much to tell the story, you ARE the story if you know how to tell it, and I know how to take you on a journey.

When I produce, I meet many different people who want to be intrigued and impressed, NOT interested. This industry is so jaded that no one is ‘interested’ in ‘interesting’ anymore, people want BANGING effect for their money, and they treat ‘interesting’ as ‘boring as hell’. They want to be shocked; they want their jaws to be dropped for their money.

Nobody, once again, give a shit about ‘interesting’, we have plenty of that in the world already.

So yeah, I am a Storyteller first and foremost.

JM: I am endlessly fascinated by how a scriptwriter or a producer sees a story and then brings that vision from their mind through the actors’ minds to the audience . The writer’s vision must be so strong that the actors are able to capture the very juice and steel of the story. It must be like bringing a dream to life. How do you as a writer and producer make that happen?

YS:It starts with the writer’s vision, and it stops there if you don’t have a great casting director who gets that vision and will cast you right actors who will bring that vision to life. You also need a director who understands that same vision as well, cause if one of them is on a different page and they’re still in the game – your movie is DEAD.

Since I’ve been doing my own producing, casting, directing, and writing I had no one to blame but myself if something goes wrong, but so far I’ve been happy how my vision were interpreted by my actors. Sometimes (and I love when it happens) when an actor delivers much more then he’s asked, when he feels like the character was written for him and he spices it up with his own persona so beautifully, I go ahead and adjust the scene to fit his full potential. It is VERY important that the material is written in a way that actor understands it and feels it.

If the script is shitty, if scenes don’t make sense, actors will realize it. They are not stupid, and if they are serious about their career they will not want to be a part of it.

JM: How do you feel when you see your own story on film such “Sex, Blood and Fairytales” or your recent short “P-Word Pizza?” Do you feel differently about a movie you star in verses a movie you wrote and produced? Which is more exciting/fulfilling?

YS:“…My own story”… Jodi, you’re giving away all my secrets! I wrote and produced both movies but of course, “Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales” is different. “P-Word Pizza” was a warm-up, and now that it’s completed, I’m ready to dive into the ocean of fantasy, action and animation of “Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales”(yes, some parts of the movie will be animated). It is also very fulfilling because I’m a self-taught filmmaker. I went to school for acting and scriptwriting, but cinematography, directing and editing I taught myself. In filmmaking schools they teach you a technical stuff, but they do not teach you the vision and the taste. The only way you’re actually going to learn how to make a movie is to MAKE a movie. You’re going to make mistakes and people are going to tell you that you suck, but never let that stop you from what you’re doing, keep on moving forward and keep on learning. If you have a half a brain and a good taste, you’ll realize what and when you’re doing it wrong or if it looks like shit and will learn how to fix it, otherwise you will generously give a world another piece of shit movie, and that is what I’m afraid of more than I’m afraid of death, and that is what I’m not going to let happen. I always wanted to go to school but I didn’t have the money, and today I’m actually happy I didn’t, because it wouldn’t do me any good as I’ve never done well in class, but surprisingly so I’ve always done great on tests in exams so go figure.

JM: How soon can we expect to see “Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales” released? What do you have lined up for your next project?

YS: I will give “Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales” a year to complete everything. I already started marketing the film, as it’s the best strategy to start doing the marketing before you even begin filming. The way the story goes, the way the characters are, the way they look – this film will serve a large range of audience, a huge one. I know what people like and I’m going to give it to them. In fact, I constantly research on various topics to keep myself up-to-date on what’s hot and what’s not, so there is no way this movie will not knock people off their feet.

You asked me when it’ll be released. This will depend on the distribution deal I get, I know I have big ambitions but I also know how good this project is going to be and I’m going to do the best I can to distribute it into good hands.

For my next project I have 3 feature films written by me lined up.
But when I get to that point I might want to have a partner, a co-producer. I want someone in the game with me, I’m just a tiny fragile woman for God’s sake, I don’t want to do it all alone anymore all the time.

JM:I’m sure there are more than a few authors and readers at PMM wondering if are you looking or keeping an eye out for short stories to turn into feature films?

YS: Why not? I love short stories! But first things first – I have to complete my “Sex, Blood and Fairy Tales”, but while I’m at it I’ll be looking out for a great read, please keep me posted on what’s hot at PMM! If I come across something juicy and scandalous, hey you never know!!

JM: Wonderful. Thank you for sharing your heart and time with Pulp Metal Magazine, Yelena.

 *

Blood, Sex & Fairy Tales – A Synopsis

What would you do if you had to choose between ten years in prison and selling your soul to the Devil?

Vera lives a sheltered life in Russia and her biggest desire is to become a housewife and have children. Her dreams get interrupted when on Engagement night her fiance confesses that he has been unfaithful to her.

Vera gets upset and…he dies.

Luckily or unfortunately her brother happens to be a homicide lawyer who offers her a way to escape conviction. He introduces Vera to a rich Russian businessman Michael whose beautiful wife Nadia is 30 years younger than him. Nadia has two major passions in life: shopping and reading Fairy Tales.

And once upon a time, during her reading journey, Nadia finds out that a certain Mythical Treasure which was portrayed in one of the Fairy Tales actually exists and is located in the United States.The location of Nadia’s special request happens to be a money laundering entertainment joint that has a variety of Girls and Drugs for sale for high-end clientele and is run by the Yakuza Mafia, where Vera would have to go in return to ecsape 10 years of prison.

* Jodi’s blog is here- http://www.jodimacarthur.blogspot.com/

*

1: Tell us all the main inspiration behind Mr Glamour.

With a title like that, I get the feeling there may a smidgeon of Bret Easton Ellis satire to it, am I right?

I have not read much Ellis apart from The Informers, I have seen American Psycho and enjoyed the black satire it involved. There is an element of satire to Mr. Glamour and that is an astute observation. The title itself refers to the world the novel explores, a world of men who can buy anything, and their beautiful women. And it refers to what design means. Brands and cachet, status and allure. It is a novel that has much of the exotic, erotic, sensual and luxurious, and as it takes you into its seductive heart it allows you to understand the motives of the dark protagonist who is watching everyone. He is watching his victims and the police as they attempt to make sense of a series of murders in which the killer is making a point of stating he knows what brands his victims enjoy wearing. That in itself is statement about lifestyle and what consumerism means in an acquisitive society that is propelled by the need for purchases.

Consider the nature of seduction. Its heart is often dark, and it relies on a certain amount of finery that is a distraction. The sexes seduce one another, and humanity is seduced by compulsions it has no control over, compulsions that on the surface may seem innocent, but typify the irrational forces that govern and often break lives. There is much about this in the novel. Many of the characters try to make rational decisions they cannot see through because of events that have left them feeling threatened and altered. And the killer is altering the world he targets. He exists like a shadow at the window of his victims. Until he strikes and leaves the survivors watchful and alone.

2: Why did you choose such a subject to write about?

We live in a surveillance society. That surveillance involves cameras and the internet, it involves our shopping habits being watched and analysed. Data mining is a massive industry. Your purchases are analysed all the time and trigger shopping suggestions. To that extent while people seek out designer goods they are being designed by the purchases they make, since they are connected to a perceived identity. Maybe the public is being eroded by media manipulation, a silent murder is committed by the implanted compulsion to buy, to be seen to belong to a part of a set, since it is the manipulation of choice. The killer in Mr. Glamour is targeting that at source: he is branding his victims’ skins with the letters of their favourite designer goods. There are two stories in the novel. The sub plot in Mr. Glamour is about an unglamorous suburban housewife with a cleaning compulsion and a dark secret, and she and one of the cops lead double lives in the novel.

3: How important is it for you to get right down deep & dirty into the minds of your characters in terms of plot? How do you go about creating these “people”?

It is extremely important. I have tried to explore the roots of motivation in detail in a lot of the characters in Mr. Glamour, and specifically in Mandy Steele, the partner to DI Jackson Flare, and also in Gertrude Miller, the character I have just mentioned in the sub plot. I also dug into Flare’s past and that of the killer’s. Steele has a trauma and the case acts as a key unlocking it. It pushes her to explore her sexual boundaries in private as she tries to come to terms with what she went through and what the killer is doing to his victims. In terms of their genesis, I allow the characters to talk, if you allow them to do that they develop.

4: How do you feel that your writing style has evolved since Apostle Rising? And in which direction do you see it going into the future?

I think Mr. Glamour is tighter and more muscular than Apostle Rising, and reviewers are already picking that up. I would write any novel I feel has a story, regardless of genre, perhaps not romance, no disrespect to the genre, but then who knows, if I can find a suitable romance hybrid with enough rocket power?

5: You are a deft hand at using language to express different feelings, would you ever consider doing something completely different? Comedy? Sci-Fi?

Oh yes. I think to make a story new you have to mix flavours. I want to write a Bizarro novel and definitely a sci fi at some point. At the moment I am writing the sequel to Apostle Rising.

*

****Mr Glamour in Godwin’s own words …****

Designer goods, beautiful women, wealthy men, a lifestyle preyed on by a serial killer.

A killer who is watching everyone, including the police.

Latest headlines?

No, an outline of my second novel, Mr. Glamour.

My debut novel Apostle Rising was published in paperback by Black Jackal Books last year. It was about a serial killer crucifying politicians, and sold extremely well, received excellent reviews, and sold foreign rights to the largest publisher in Hungary.

Now Black Jackal Books have published Mr. Glamour, and I’d like to tell you a bit about it. The settings are exotic, and the pages drip with wealth. The story’s told in my usual style, and my readers will know what that means. I have been told I write with a blend of lyricism and graphic description. I like to explore what motivates people and I certainly do so with the leading characters in Mr. Glamour.

The two central cops, DCI Jackson Flare and Inspector Steele, are unusual and strong in their own ways, as reviewers are already picking up. At the beginning of the novel Steele hates working with Flare for personal reasons. She doesn’t by the end, and the investigation takes them both on a journey which changes them and their opinions of one another.

Let me give you the setting if you are tempted to read Mr. Glamour …

Something dark is preying on the glitz of the glamour set. There is a lot about designer goods and lifestyles in Mr. Glamour. The killer knows all about design, he knows what brands mean to his victims. He is branding their skins. And he has the police stumped.

As Flare and Steele investigate the killings they enter an exclusive world with its own rules and quickly realise the man they are looking for is playing a game with them, a game they cannot interpret. The killer is targeting an exclusive group of people he seems to know a lot about.

The police investigation isn’t helped by the fact that Flare and Steele have troubled lives. Harlan White, a pimp who got on the wrong side of Flare, is planning to have him killed. And Steele has secrets. She leads a double life. She is an interesting woman who pushes her sexual boundaries in private. She travels a journey into her own past and rescues herself. And in a strange way she is helped by the killer she is looking for. And Flare has some revelations in store.

As they try to catch a predator who has climbed inside their heads, they find themselves up

against a wall of secrecy. The investigation drives Flare and Steele to acts of darkness. And the killer is watching everyone.

Then there is the sub plot.

Contrasting this lifestyle is the suburban existence of Gertrude Miller, who acts out strange rituals, trapped in a sterile marriage to husband Ben. She cleans compulsively and seems to be hiding something from him, obsessed that she is being followed. As she slips into apsychosis, characters from the glamorous set stray into Gertrude’s world, so the two plots dovetail neatly with one another.

And when Flare and Steele make an arrest they discover there is far more to this glamorous world than they realised. There is a series of shocks at the end of the novel as a set of fireworks go off. Watch out for the highly dramatic ending.

It is already picking up some great reviews.

Advance praise for Mr. Glamour:

“Richard Godwin knows how his characters dress, what they drink and what they drive. He knows how they live— and how they die. Here’s hoping no one recognized themselves in Godwin’s cold canvas. Combines the fun of a good story with the joy of witty, vivid writing.”
Heywood Gould, author of The Serial Killer’s Daughter.

“Smart, scary, suspenseful enough for me to keep the light on until 3AM on a Sunday night, Richard Godwin once more proves to fans of crime fiction the world over with Mr. Glamour, that he is not only one of the best contemporary writers of the procedural cop thriller around today, he is a master storyteller.”  

Vincent Zandri, author of Scream Catcher.

“Richard Godwin’s top-of-the-line psychological police procedural driven by its heady pace, steely dialogue, and unsparing vision transfixes the reader from page one.”

Ed Lynskey, author of Skin In The Game.

“Mr. Glamour is a striking effort from one of the most daring crime writers in the business. It is the noirest of noir…and hellishly addictive.”

Mike Stafford, BookGeeks Magazine.

“This first rate detective thriller will have you gripped from the start. Richard Godwin is an author not to be missed.”

Sheila Quigley Author of Thorn In My Side.

“Mr Glamour is, in every sense of the word, the real McCoy: genuine hard boiled detective fiction.  Lean, gritty, and tough, it’s a journey into the heart of darkness … you won’t soon forget. Connoisseurs of Nouveau Noir will have to add Richard Godwin to the list of writers to watch!”

C E Lawrence, author of Silent Kills.

“Involving and compellingly sinister, Richard Godwin’s Mr. Glamour portrays cops and criminals, the mad and the driven in a novel of psychological noir. Read it while snuggling with your stuffed teddy bear for comfort.”

                            – Gary Phillips, author of Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers

“This is one outstanding novel written by one amazing author.”

Fran Lewis Review.

I think Mr. Glamour will appeal to mystery and crime aficionados, to readers interested in psychological profiling and designer lifestyles, to thriller and noir fans, and to anyone who enjoys a fast paced narrative with strong characters.

Mr. Glamour can be bought now at Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

at all good retailers online and in stores in April. If you Google it you should see a range of options come up.

And you can find out more about me at my website

and my stories here

 *

Ladies & Gentlemen …

Welcome to the foggy, cobble streets & blood splattered clockwork world of the sublime Steampunktress Katy O’Dowd.

I had a little chat …

*

Q1: Some of the frightful night creatures reading this have no idea who YOU are, Madame. Please be gracious enough to illuminate these ignorant scoundrels.

See if Ingrid Pitt and Christopher Lee had a love-child? That. I’d be around the right age, but not as tall as my imaginary parents.

Q2: You mentioned the Prince Of Darkness (or Daddy) there.

Which of his roles was your favourite?

How much has Hammer Horror influenced your writing?

I love the Dracula movies and The Wicker Man, and Rasputin, The Mad Monk. Actually, I love them all. My Imaginary Daddy rocks. Hammer has influenced me hugely, madly, deeply. Such cheese! Such pulp! Such low budget! Bit like me, really. I remember watching The House That Bled To Death with my Granny. Scarred for life after that, seeing as I was only eight at the time. I remember hiding behind her as she waved her cigarette around – she lit one off the other – and drank whiskey and chortled as blood rained down on the kiddies at the party table. After that I used to sneak down to watch the movies on telly, Saturday nights they were on. She was my real Granny too.

Q3: Damn! I remember that bloody (sic) house! & “The Children Of The Moon”, yeah, they gave me the willies way back when.

What other cultural influences have seeped into your writing?

Think of it as a mash-up, where PG Wodehouse would write the script so Dracula and Van Helsing would be terribly polite to each other… ‘So sorry old chap, I’m going to have to suck your blood, it’s in my nature don’t you know.’

‘That’s quite alright dear fellow, but I must inform you that I have a new steam-powered stake with which I shall pierce your fearsome heart. I say! You look a little pale. Shall I fetch the salts?’

At which point (no pun intended) Don Corleone gets into a row with Rossetti and Wilkie Collins who wants to have the busty redhead all to himself; Nick Cave calls for more Earl Grey for Queen Victoria; and Tim Burton gets into a deep discussion with Stephen King about calla

lilies and the merits of cat ownership.

Actually, I could see that last bit happening.

Q4: You mentioned a “steam powered stake”, what is it about the foggy streets of Steampunk that tickles your dark fancy as opposed to other more “conventional” sci-fi?

Where do you see it going, as a genre?

 I love sci-fi, to read and to watch. I stand in awe of writers like Iain M Banks and Neal Stephenson – The Diamond Age is one of my favourite books. But write it myself? I like making stuff up without having to explain how it works in depth, so steampunk suits me for its fluidity. Plus the mannerspunk and bustlepunk aspect of it all fits in very nicely with what I write – as does the creative and adventurous side seeing as I love and use the Victorian period a lot. The foggy streets also suit as I don’t write about supernatural beings of any kind so it’s kinda nice to shroud The Bad Guys in glorious mist and murk.

As to where it goes as a genre?

Much like the adventurers and explorers who are favoured within its pages and pictures, to the stars. Being bigger than life, I think it is very accessible.

Also, that thing above about fluidity? That’s a really vague, shifty way of saying I don’t write sci-fi because I don’t understand how stuff works.

Q5: What are the essential themes of your writing?

Where do you think these themes come from?

In other words, what form does your muse take?

 I seem to centre on one theme again and again, which is the age-old one of good and evil. Except in my case I’m absolutely fascinated by evil and the fact that some really bad people can have good bits to them. Endlessly interesting, in my opinion. I’m not sure where that theme in particular comes from, but it sure as hell is awful fun to write a complete bastard.

Q6: Who is The Lady Astronomer?

The Lady Astronomer was written for son #1 who got exceptionally pissed off that I had used son #2′s name in a book I’m working on. I mean really, who outside of Ireland can pronounce Tadgh? (like tiger with a silent r in case you were interested). Is YA steampunk and is very loosely based on Caroline Herschel (1750-1848). She suffered from both Smallpox and Typhus, was a milliner, soprano, her brother William’s Assistant – he discovered Uranus, then known as George’s Star for the King who funded the build of the ‘Great Forty-Foot’ telescope – and most importantly, perhaps, became the first woman in history to discover a comet. First and last YA – devilishy difficult to write for teens!

Q7: How do you see the Irish Weird/Sci-Fi/Genre scene at the moment?

To be honest, I haven’t been home for long enough to connect much with the scene here, having lived in London for donkey’s years and soon to be splitting life between here and there again. But mostly here, you understand, to reap the tax benefits. What I do see from my time back is that the Irish crime scene is absolutely burgeoning – am very much enjoying Gerard Brennan’s work. Having said that, am looking forward to Octocon 2012 (National Irish Sci-Fi Convention) so I can meet like-minded people in the flesh.

*

Katy is an arts and entertainment journalist and has worked for Time Out, Associated Newspapers and Comic Relief and her articles have appeared in The Times (London), Metro (London) and many other arts and entertainment publications, paper and online.

Alongside writing under the pen-name Derry O’Dowd, whose first book ‘The Scarlet Ribbon’ was chosen to launch the History Press Ireland’s fiction line, she writes under her own name. ‘The Lady Astronomer’ will be out with Doctor Fantastique Books in May. She also reviews movies for STUDIO magazine, and is currently co-editing ‘Nasty Snips II’ a horror anthology which will be out with Pendragon Press at Halloween.

Katy blogs at www.katyodowd.com

And can be found on twitter @katyod

The man pushes the chair over so Lord Wilton III of Devonshire – to give him his full title, poor lamb – is kneeling on the ground with the chair on his back. The tormentor cuts the ropes that bind the prisoner, and when he is free from the chair the man pushes a knife into his back, slowly. He pulls it out just as slowly, and the Lord weeps again in pain, head bowed and blood dripping onto the floor, spittle the colour of the gown his mistress Harriet was wearing when he saw her last, Summer Sunrise Blush it was called he reminisces tiredly. Marvellous dress, showed off her blancmange-like bosoms to perfection. What he wouldn’t give to have his sore head buried between their magnificence right now.

The tormentor takes the knife and cleans the blade on a clean white handkerchief. He beckons another man over and together they pick the Lord up, and holding him under the arms pull him backwards into another room, just as bleak as the previous.

Lord W – the moniker the staff at his country mansion bestow on him below-stairs – starts to try to back-pedal as soon as he sees what is lying on the floor of the room, the man hits him hard on the head to quieten him. His wildly expensive dress shoes, only the best for our Lord and buffed to within an inch of their lives just that morning by his valet, keep their lustre though they are mired now to be sure with a drop or three of his own bodily fluids pass by a shiny wooden structure. The men let Wiltie drop to the floor and there is a noise, a tinkling of a bell.

They pick Lord W up and drop him into the coffin, richly upholstered in purple velvet. For some reason, his brain is focusing on a frayed thread, thinking how well it would complement the pink of Harriet’s outfit.

Lord Wilton whispers, though if you were in the room with your ear to his mouth you would still be hard-pushed to make out what he is saying, and he passes out. The man slaps him hard across the face to wake him and takes a glossy black rat from his pocket, holding it by the tail. The rat squeaks indignantly. He throws it into the coffin with Wiltie and the other man closes the coffin lid quickly before the rat escapes. The men look at each other and are distracted by the mad ringing of the bell that is attached to the coffin lid. It stops and all is silent.

Then it starts up again, but with less intensity, much like a rat is passing by the rope on the inside of the coffin that is attached to the bell.

‘Distinct touch of the Gothic to this, wouldn’t you say?’ the tormentor strikes a match on the sole of his boot and brings it to the cigar that is hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

‘When is that bell going to stop? Not helping my headache.’

‘Quit your whining, you big nancy, look the job’s a good one, and you and me and a juicy purse have a date this evening, eh?’

‘Oh would you look at that? Head has stopped hurting.’

‘That’s the spirit old man! Now, I say again, distinct touch of the Gothic to this one, wouldn’t you say? And I hurt my toe kicking that well-fed bastard.’

‘I have some salve in the back room?’

‘Marvellous, thanks.’

‘A distinct whiff of Poe you might say.’

‘Our Lord and Master does seem to be a Well Read Fellow.’

‘Quite agree old chap.’

Their Lord and Master, ah now, should they see him, giggling, reading from a newspaper that has been recently ironed by his Gentleman’s Gentleman so the print won’t stain his hands – we’ll call him G – slapping his hairy thigh.

‘Ho ho haaa!’ his breath leaves him and G comes over to slap him on the back.

‘Thank you G, perhaps a little drink, maybe my opium pipe? Was just reading about the children who found Wiltie, here let me tell you what the London Particular says:

Blah blah waffle waffle delicate disposition, oh yes, “our man on the scene say that two ragged children rummaging around in the mud on the banks of the River Thames, young and determined, spotted something in said mud and went to investigate.

Whereupon out scuttled a Chinese Mitten Crab that had been gorging itself on a fat white hand, at first thought to be a new species of maggot, but on second glance was definitely digits as affixed to one was the ring showing the family crest of the Wiltons.” Bloody marvellous G, I rather think a bottle of champers is in order!’

‘Sir.’

‘Quick as you like, I’m rather eager to get started on the next chapter of our little adventures. That Lord Archie was deliberately cheating at Bridge, I’m quite sure of it. And his scrawny titless bitch of a sister wouldn’t even return my gentle flirtation. I think she’s frigid you know.’

‘Quite. But if I may venture, sir, you will have no friends left if we continue on with our little spree. And as for the police force…’

‘Oh really G! I am disappointed. The force is a joke. Besides, the people that matter are in my pocket. And well, we’re only in the P section of the library.’

‘As you say, sir.’

‘G?’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m not sure that I understand how Lord Wilton III was found in the Thames.’

‘Well, sir, it’s like this you see. After the D for Dickens cram fat old Lord Pilkington up the chimney debacle, his corpse is still to be unearthed, pardon the pun. And you like reading about your former friends in the newspapers, do you not? Adds spice, you said.’

‘Gosh G, the laudanum and liquor must be doing their job rather too well. More I say, more! Otherwise we shall fall down in our creative endeavours.’

‘As you say sir. As you say.’

*

www.katyodowd.com

“I still don’t know what you mean.”

“Listen, Peter Cook used to say that you could have any woman in the world if you kept her up talking past three am.”

“Peter Cook? Said that to you?”

“Fuck no, you dickless wonder. Not to me. Just said, as in it was reported that he said …”

“Reported where?”

“It doesn’t make any difference! My point is …”

“You keep saying that, but you don’t seem to be getting to the point.”

“If you’d shut the fuck up and listen for a few minutes, I could tell you about it. It was Old Bill, see.”

“Bill is dead.”

“Yeah, I know Bill’s fucking dead. I’m trying to tell you what happened and why nobody knew the real story.”

“And you do? Do tell.”

“I’ve been trying to do so for the last half hour.”

“Well, I haven’t been‹”

“Just shut up for a few minutes, ass-wipe, all right? See, it’s the four am factor.”

“People not being what they were at four am.”

“Yeah, that’s it. You know Bill.”

“Not well‹”

“But you knew him enough to say he wouldn’t be the kind to shoot ten people down.”

“He had hidden depths.”

“Depths! He had a fucking lunatic within. But so do we all.”

“At four am, I’m hazarding a guess.”

“Fuck yeah. What happened was his neighbours.”

“The Grigores?”

“No, they’re great people. It was those brothers on the other side.”

“Oh, the Woods. Ha, both dumb as a post.”

“Absolutely. Stupid as a bag of hammers. Well, they’d won at the track that day …”

“What track?”

“How should I know what track? It don’t matter anyway,”

“I just thought …”

“Okay, shut up. So they won at the track that day and decided to have a big party. The works, broads and booze and all their likewise mentally-challenged friends.”

“I remember that. I think I got an invite.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Not the first time, not the last, but it went on awful late. I expect there had been a certain amount of Bolivian marching powder to keep it going ’til all hours, since they started late afternoon.”

“You need that to keep going.”

“Word to the wise, my son. So anyway, Old Bill has been having a bad day.”

“Not because of the party?”

“At first, no. His wife after threatening for twenty years, does a runner. Seems she met a new guy on line and they were running off to Budapest.”

“Budapest? Where the hell is that anyway?”

“I don’t fucking know. One of those countries that used to be Russia. Anyway, so she lights out for the territories after giving him a piece of

her mind and then … guess what?”

“What?”

“His dog gets run over.”

“Aw, a shame that. I can’t fucking stand it when people hurt animals.”

“You’re a prince. Do you march with PETA?”

“I would if I could get next to some of those naked supermodels.”

“Anyway …”

“Yeah, anyway I can.”

“Shut the fuck up. Anyway, Old Bill is broke up about the dog and the wife …”

“I bet the dog more so.”

“Maybe. Anyway, so Old Bill’s consoling himself with some the very finest Lagavulin …”

“You think Lagavulin is best? What about Laphroaig?”

“What is this? Taste test your favourite whisky night? Shut the fuck up. So Bill’s hoisting a few and feeling a right bad funk coming over him and he’s had no tea except some takeaway he could barely choke down and the music’s thumping and the people are laughing and singing a long and it goes on and on and on until finally it’s four am and he just decided that’s the end of it.”

“What’s he do?”

“He gets out that old Colt revolver …”

“That museum piece? Didn’t he say it was too valuable to ever shoot. Just polished away like he was wanking over it and tried to show it off here to the lads every Saturday night.”

“That’s the very one. Apparently it shoots just fine, because he stepped over to the Woods’ maison and whipped it out and started shooting every one in sight. Cool as a the proverbial cucumber as he reloaded and shot more of them. Hysteria, screaming, blood everywhere.”

“Well, those Wood boys were no great loss. The street’s better off with them gone.”

“Word.”

“So, what, were they too loaded to get off a shot at him?”

“I guess they were well past it. All the hoods and hookers there and nobody got a shot away at him. Things are different at four am.”

“So what happened? Cops shoot him?”

“No, he got run over.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they figure it was the same guy who hit his dog.”

“That’s fucked up. On purpose?”

“Nobody knows. No one saw it. Who’s hanging around at four am anyway?”

“Shit, You want another pint?”

“Yeah, cheers mate.”

*

K. A. Laity’s PELZMANTEL from Immanion-Press.com
“Laity is a very remarkable sorceress indeed.” — Elizabeth Hand
http://www.kalaity.com