Wednesday, May 9, 2012

The Dark...Reloaded: "Things That Crawl...In Hollywood." Love, Greed...Body Parts.

"Things That Crawl...In Hollywood" is, I am sure, a direct response to that Philip Jose Farmer story with a character with a double penis, if I remember correctly, and...was there a battle involving said double penis?  Something, anything, I'm grasping at greased straws here. Well, it was something of that bizarre nature, but here I've infused that lunacy into my disgust for Hollywood and all things celebrity, and decided to go simply mad, my dears!  As in, though I mostly write serious, deep, serious, mind-expanding, er...serious fiction, with this one, the black humored lunacy abounds and it was damn fun to write [though it also taps into that deep vibe with the observations on love, perhaps].  Here's a brief sample as the hapless celebrity screw-up, Brande, realizes why exactly he's been dragged to the epicenter of...of...let's just say, anybody who has had plastic surgery, enchancements, what have you, has had those body parts fall off and mutate, take on a life of their own, and now, ah, yes, now...there's Reality TV $$$$$ to be made, so...

[and after this, an amusing tidbit about my mother] [what the HECK is my mother doing in this post? hang on...]


     “W-what’s g-going to...happen?”

     “Well,” he [ed. note: he is Merrill Thatcher, a big-time dealer in Reality TV BS] held the pad up to Brande’s face, tapping the place next to Brande’s name, and Brande cringed as he read the two words that followed his name: penis enhancement.

     “Oh, shit.” The metallic ting ting ting of a zipper being rudely wrenched apart was followed by Brande’s bug-eyed appraisal of his penis as it burst from the confines of his pants, fully three, maybe four times in length as what he had bargained for with the doctors in South America, as thick as his well-toned bicep and wiggling like an eel in his desperate hands.

     Jane Hart Rivers guffawed in bright amusement: “I loved you, not your dick. The real you.  But once again, your dick will be your downfall!”

     Brande barely heard her, distracted by the preposterous, propeller-like gyrations emanating from his groin.  Thatcher angled away from the tentacle-like lashing of Brande’s penis.  Brande tried to contain it, to no avail. 

     And then, with full-on ejaculatory force, the penis spat a steaming rope of semen at Thatcher, a dry, wiry cable that braided itself around Thatcher’s neck like a noose.

     Thatcher was swift to respond, whipping out the .44 Magnum, squeezing the trigger and obliterating the semen like noose.  “No pearl necklace for me, buddy boy!  Strictly hetero, evil dick!”

     The semen turned to liquid again, and Thatcher seemed even more appalled by this, wiping it off his shirt and soiled skin.

     The penis paused like a cobra, arched and ready to attack.  Thatcher did not want to have to shoot the penis. He wanted it in the cage.  But with the camera’s rolling, he was sure he’d gotten what was necessary for the PPV contract to kick in big time, so it didn’t really matter at this point. 

     With a mild tearing sound reminiscent of the peeling that separates two pieces of Velcro, the penis dislodged itself from Brande’s groin, lunging toward Thatcher.  Jane Hart Rivers snickered at the bizarre theatrics.

     “You can’t keep a good man down, eh, Merrill?”    

     Thatcher grabbed the penis at the base of the head as it spit and hissed just above his fingers—the mutant maw grinding and gnashing angrily—kicked the door to the cage open, shoved it in alongside Karina Payne’s breast, and slammed it shut.

     Sucking deeply on his cigar, his breathing raspy, Thatcher said, “You can’t keep a good man down, but this Brande imbecile is no good man.”  He glanced with disgust toward Brande.

     Brande seemed oblivious to what had just transpired beyond a dazed observation of the hairless mound where his penis used to reside.   He shuddered, staring in disbelief.

     “It’s gone.  There’s nothing there.  It’s gone!”

     “No, smart boy, it’s right here.”  Thatcher pointed to the cage, in which the penis lovingly snuggled up to the breast. They looked almost normal again.


Sometimes you write a line that so captures the heart of the story.  With "Things That Crawl..." this line always makes me smile, so ridiculous yet so appropo: “No pearl necklace for me, buddy boy! Strictly hetero, evil dick!”  Yes, yes, a classic, I know [he said, bowing, pants ripping as well as his deflating ego...].


So, my mother.  She bought this collection.  Of course she would, but it's nothing like what she would normally read. Sure, some of the stories might work for her, she used to read a lot of horror and related stuff and helped set me on my path as a horror writer, I'm sure.  But now she's 79, quite Christian, and I remember her saying when she first got the book, flipping to a random page and at the top of the page, a cuss-word, "I can't read this!"  Adamant...until, well, she read some of the reviews.  And for some reason beyond my imagining, she decided to read this story.  Yeah, all those body parts including wayward breasts and Brande's leaping penis.  Oh, maaaaaaaaaaaaan.  I laughed and cringed and had to laugh harder when she told me she had read it and couldn't put it down, no matter the subject matter.  She was cracking up when she told me this story.  Though I don't know if she's ventured any deeper into the collection, just knowing she read this story makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, that's the cat!  No, wait, that's no cat.  Where is this going?

No matter.  Just another taste of my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me, available via Amazon, B&N, OmniLit, Kobo and, I'm sure, more online sellers.  Check it out and I'll see you in a couple/few days with something much darker and more 'me,' though something tells me this one's as much me as any of the stories; just me in a perverse, comical mood.

Here's a lovely photo of Angelina Jolie with what looks like some pieces of her facing having fallen off...


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