Mark McLaughlin's Blog: Revenge of the B-Movie Monster - Posts Tagged "cthulhu"

Once upon a time, life on Earth was happy. All creatures were sea life, and all were united in the great womb of the world’s water.

Oh sure, big critters still ate little critters, but that was to be expected. And really, when they devoured each other, it didn’t matter too much — they were still a part of each other. Life was connected. Life was interactive. Life was good.

But then The Big Mistake happened.

Some scaly scroundrel washed up on land and decided to raise a family there. And it’s been downhill ever since.

Let’s face it: sea life has it all going on. The amazing mobility: venture wherever you want, whenever you want — just let the currents take you there. The streamlined lifestyle: just do your own thing! It’s so delightfully uncomplicated. Eat and poop without ever having to look for a fork or a toilet — the ocean is both your banquet hall and your bathroom!

Modern life-on-land tries vainly to recreate all the wonderful conveniences of ocean life. Millions of people get on the Internet, trying to do business and socialize across vain distances via electrical cords and cables. Pathetic!

Internet interaction is just a shadow-play, creating the illusion of actual interaction. Of course, us land-dwellers still use it because it’s the best we can expect — sad, dry-skinned, stick-fingered creatures that we are! Fish and their aquatic colleagues have no need for electronic hocus-pocus when they want to network. They just mingle with a school of their buddies, slip into a current, and zoom here, there, everywhere.

Land-dwellers are always seeking comfort. But actually, how comfortable can we be, always walking around, jolting our knees and spine with every herky-jerky step? Our dry skin is always chafing against the rough fabric of our clothes – we're all cursed to the same friction-filled abrasive Hell.

Sea creatures, on the other hand, are always comfortable. They’re floating in water, like happy fetuses in a joyfully buoyant mommy-zone. If the water’s a little too hot or a little too cold, they just rise or sink to a level with the right temperature. What could be simpler?

By now, I’m sure I have you convinced: ocean living totally rocks, while the dry life is the existential equivalent of cheap European toilet-paper ... in a word: harsh.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon definitely had the right idea, livin’ the dream in his wet ‘n’ wild world. As always, old horror movies show us the way to ultimate bliss!

So what can we do to get back in the swim? The solution is simple…

Accelerate global warming!

Buy a bigger car and drive it as often as you can! Use up all the aerosol products in the house, and then go out and buy some more (even aerosol cheese)! Only buy products that are made by huge smoke-churning factories!

Come on, gang, let’s melt those polar ice-caps and jumpstart a really strong thaw. The objective is to cover all the ridiculous dry land with beautiful, nourishing, lovely sea-water. That’s Step One!

Step Two: Tell genetic scientists to get off their academic derrieres and make with the oceanic mutagens. We aren’t getting any younger — or wetter! By this time next year, I want to see gills and scales on every man, woman, child and housepet around the world.

Step Three: Obviously, smokers are going to have to break the habit. The world is going to be one big no-smoking zone.

Step Four: Fans of Mythos fiction will know what I’m talking about when I say it’s time to ditch the current crop of land-dweller gods and switch to deities with higher moisture contents. What’s that blowing up your cellphone? It’s the call of Cthulhu and you’d better not put Him on hold.

This season and every season, the Innsmouth look will be the one-and-only big fashion craze, and trendy Dagon worshippers will be sporting dorsal fins and come-hither googly fish-eyes. Some say that many hands make light work, but worshippers of the octopus god Kugappa will soon come to realize that a cluster of agile tentacles makes every task as easy as eel pie!

Step Five: Say goodbye! — to lawn-mowers and SUVs and bumper stickers and outrageous gas prices and insurance coverage and music videos and vacuum-cleaners and hair-conditioner and furniture and styrofoam cups and washing machines and DVDs and doilies and paperclips and TV dinners and phonebooks and furnace filters and of course, bicycles. You won’t need any of those follies ever again.

Then say hello! — to utter bliss as the waters rise above your scaly head.

Working together, we can implement my six-step plan and reverse The Big Mistake. And in the meantime … start eating more sushi. You’ll want to get used to it now, because that is what’s going to be on the menu for the rest of your life.

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, my new collection of 25 Mythos-inspired tales, is now available.

Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly nightmares and blasphemies ... enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.

Here you will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will meet a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains.

You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, a grotesque insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time.

You will smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man. You will drink the creamy Milk of Time, an unholy substance which flows through the depths of a forbidden house of horrors known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even travel through deep space to a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you will sink your teeth into the monstrous specialty of the house.

You will find all of these horrors, and so much more ... in the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.

Check out the book's cover here:

http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

Excerpt No. 1 -- from the story, "The Embrace of Kugappa," one of the 25 horror tales in the Mythos-inspired collection, BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM:


Jasper always knew when he was dreaming, and yet the realization never woke him up, like it did most people.

He dreamed that he was on the beach of an island with bone-white sand, and before him stretched a horizon of dark green sea.

Sinuous – vines? – stretched up out of the water, huge vines overgrown with many smaller vines, and all those vines held an abundance of small, squirming things.

One of the vines swirled up out of the water close to shore, and he saw that it wasn’t a vine after all – how silly, how stupid, vines didn’t grow in oceans. It was a huge tentacle, overgrown with smaller tentacles, and those had even smaller tentacles on them, and so on in a sort of bio-fractal progression.

He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Not really. Because.

Because they.

They wanted.

Wanted him to be happy. Yes, the Great Old Ones wanted him to be happy, and Kugappa was one of the Great Old Ones, and the best way to be happy was to be like them.

Be.

Like.

Them.

Who’d told him that? Who’d told him about the Great Old Ones? He giggled – the initials of that spelled ‘goo.’ Why, that was who had told him. The goo had told him.

Before he knew it he was swimming in the dark green sea, even though he didn't know how to swim, and tentacles and tentacles-upon-tentacles were handling him, exploring him, sliding into every part of him, even into his pores, infiltrating his cells, embracing his soul...


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Excerpt No. 2 -- from the story, "Squidd, Inc.":

Henderson snapped one day in the department head meeting and began speaking in tongues: "Ulala pizani! Y'kha Shub-Niggurath ghakala! Azagga pupago ma'azu!"

Henderson's seat is right under the huge chrome Squidd, Inc. logo mounted on the wall, and his outburst was more than a little blasphemous – an affront to our disciplined business world. Or so I thought. We all looked to bulbous-eyed Old Man Squidd, our flabby corporate pooh-bah, to watch the fireworks.

The Old Man sat up in his chair (a formidable task for one so huge) and said, "By God, Henderson, I like a man with Spunk."

———

Spunk. Spunk. Spunk with a capital S became our watchword, our password, our office shibboleth.

At that time, Squidd, Inc. specialized in the production and distribution of pharmaceuticals, with interests in medical equipment and biochemical research. I was Director of Sales, and I longed for Spunk like the cartoon coyote longs for roadrunner meat.

I'd been with the company for twenty years; my hair had turned grey and my skin had grown spotty in the service of Squidd. My chair at the meeting table was choice: only three seats down from the Old Man. But did the younger Directors have any respect for my years of experience? Sorry, no. Whenever they deigned to speak with me, their smug expressions told the story too well. They saw me as nothing more than a corporate leftover – a dried-up old piece of sushi.

I wasn't about to let the matter of Spunk, and my lack thereof, cripple my standing with the company. I prayed at my desk: Gods of Commerce, I need more than just daily bread. Lead me deep into temptation and give me a magnum of champagne, a midnight-blue BMW, a penthouse office, a stock portfolio to die for, and most of all, a generous helping of high-energy, high-octane, high-and-mighty Spunk....


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Excerpt No. 3 -- from the story, "Cthulhu Royale":

Part I. Her Majesty’s Secret Shoggoth

“Bondcraft,” said the tall, lean, dark-haired, lantern-jawed man in the tuxedo. Black, of course: a tuxedo of any other color was madness, a veritable mountain of madness. “H.P. Bondcraft.”

“Dash it all!” ejaculated W., the Minister of Arcane Defense, a balding, heavyset man. “I know your name! Why, we’ve known each other since we roomed together at the London Academy for Young Espionage Gentlemen.”

Miss Tuppenceworth, W.’s pretty blonde secretary, looked out the window of her office, which served as antechamber to her superior’s sanctum sanctorum. “Why is it that whenever H.P. shows up, the sky is suddenly filled with multi-colored silhouettes of shapely women flying about? One can see outlines of guns among the female forms, and hear music filled with saxophones and trumpets. And there’s this sort of swirly gun-barrel shifting to and fro... Decidedly odd.”

“Not at all,” W. said. “It’s that private club down the road – the Society for the Advancement of Musical, Gun-Collecting Lady Gymnasts. Their ostentatious laser lightshows happen to coincide with Bondcraft’s visits.”

Miss Tuppenceworth fluttered her lashes at the spy. “So you went to school with W.? What was he like as a young lad?”

H.P. puffed thoughtfully at his cheroot. “Though Z. is the Ministry’s resident expert on curious devices, W. also showed signs of great mechanical aptitude back then. I remember one summer, he bought one of those jolly vibrating massage chairs, and added parts from a milking machine and an automatic taffy-puller, and we took turns–”

“Now, now,” W. chided, “Miss Tuppenceworth doesn’t have time to stroll down memory lane.”

H.P. smiled. “Oh, and once, W. played the part of Juliet in our espionage school production of—”

“Come with me, Bondcraft!” W. led the spy into his office and then locked the door behind them. H.P. headed straight to the liquor cabinet, where he made himself a tequila sunrise. Swizzled, not agitated.

“Drinking on the job!” W. scolded. “And tuxedos, always tuxedos. Why? Explain yourself!”

“Why?” Bondcraft smirked. “Why not?”

“You’re a spy! You’re supposed to blend in with the common rabble.”

“Or so one would think!” H.P. drained his glass. “But because I’m usually a little drunk and stand out so, no enemy would ever suspect that I am in fact a secret agent. They’d be expecting someone sober and utterly nondescript.”

“I say! I never thought of it that way. Ingenious!” W. sat down behind his enormous mahogany desk, which was littered with stacks of papers and several anatomically correct primitive fetish dolls.

“So what’s new in the Ministry of Arcane Defense?” the spy asked.

“Some good news from our research base on Antarctica.” W. flashed a merry grin. “We’ve found and captured a shoggoth! All very hush-hush, of course – top secret! We’re still trying to figure out what to do with the blasted thing... It’s so big and squishy. It eats quite a lot ... it can change its shape ... perhaps the awful thing has some potential as a biological weapon.”

“You could always drop it on an enemy camp,” Bondcraft said, “and let it eat everybody.”

“Not a bad idea, but afterward, recapturing it would be a problem. Right now it’s very sluggish, since it’s down at that research base. The thing can’t move very fast in that frigid climate. If we let it loose in a warmer spot, we might never be able to pen it up again. We’re trying to figure out how to control the beast ... perhaps even communicate with it. Maybe we’ll find some more – the research chaps say Antarctica used to be crawling with them, back when it was less chilly down there. Anyway, let me tell you about your assignment.”

Bondcraft smiled. “Is there an international casino involved? And a sexy double-agent?”

“Silly boy,” W. said. “There’s always an international casino involved. Master-criminals cluster around those casinos like flies around a dead street urchin. And yes, naturally here’s a sexy double-agent. Vadda Fookenhottie.”

Bondcraft smirked. “Such language!”

W. rolled his eyes. “That’s her name: Vadda Fookenhottie. We have no pictures of her on file, but it wouldn’t matter anyway because she is a master of disguise. Or should I say mistress of disguise...? Anyway, in addition to Miss Fookenhottie, you will be dealing with – not one, not two, not four, but three arch-villains.”

H.P. allowed himself a small gasp. “Not ... the 3D Cult? Dagon’s Deadly Disciples...?”


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To find out what happens next in any of those stories, read BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on Kindle or as a trade paperback.

A link to the e-book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

A link to the book's page here on GoodReads:
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

Five-star review by Bruce Blanchard of BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM:

http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

The text of the review:

Back then, H.P. Lovecraft was plying his stories to the pulp market and centering their locale around the eldritch haunted town of Arkham, just another writer trying to make his fortune. He built up a following around some of the best writers in the horror business including the likes of Robert Bloch, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard and many others who fashioned their stories around the Old Ones, those monstrous beings seeking to return and impart their own version of madness. He died and his stories almost died with him except for the devoted determined to keep alive the cult of Cthulhu, Nyarlethotep, the dreaded Necronomicon, and Arkham University. Today, almost every horror writer seeks to add his own story. Most of the stories are serious in writing about the Hounds of Hell, haunted witch houses, midnight rituals, and the mysterious inhabitants at Innsmouth. And now, let me present to you Mark McLaughlin's additions which promises, no lie!, to make you giggle, guffaw, and snort milk out your nose or which ever potable you're drinking. The humor in the book may see spurts out your ears. Isn't that an image?

Mr. McLaughlin's Best Little Witch-House is a collection of 25 stories taking what we have today, mixing in that little swirl of H.P. and coming up with the likes of Cthulhu Royale (Bond), Hound-Dog McGee (Scooby Doo), Tony Tar-Pit and Monkey-Face Joe (the Flintstones), When We Was Flab (the Beatles). You'll run across a wonderful place to stay, Pickman's Motel. Attend the healings at St. Toad's Medical Center (you've seen the commercials). Try this title on for size: The Slivering Quiver of the River Lizard's Twisted Liver-Blisters. I have nothing but Praise for the stories in this collection. These are stories mixed with the serious and take a left turn into the absurd. If it was possible, H.P. Lovecraft would be involuntarily giggling. Download this treasure. The stories don't run long. For the true fans of Lovecraft out there, The Best Little Witch-House is one bringing out your laughter. For those unacquainted with his works, check out the genre and get a good laugh yourself. You will not go wrong in downloading this book.

...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

Available as a trade paperback and on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

I'm Mark McLaughlin, author of the Mythos-inspired horror fiction collection, Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.

How much do you know about the life and works of New England horror author H.P. Lovecraft? Take the Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz and find out....

http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2848...

...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham


She felt overhead – no boards or dirt. She was out of the tunnel. Suddenly she had a horrible thought. Had all her wandering led her right back into the mansion?

She stood up, dug out the lighter and flicked it on again. The small wavering flame cast writhing shadows.

She was now in a small cave with a floor of slick gray stone. To one side was a pool with long bones and chunks of raw meat floating in it. Odd, flat, wet things were moving through the pool and around its rim. They were what made that slithering sound. At first she couldn’t tell what they were. They appeared to be shiny blankets – some beige, some pink, some olive-brown – moving aimlessly like misshapen slugs.

One worked its way toward her and she saw it was coated with fine scales, and parts of it were fringed with hair ... some parts seemed to be shaped like stockings, and those ended in flattened, boneless toes.

She screamed when she realized that the sluglike creatures were in fact living skins....

-- An excerpt from "A Beauty Treatment for Mrs. Hamogeorgakis," one of the 25 ‪‎horror‬ tales in the ‪Mythos‬-inspired collection, BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on ‪‎Kindle‬ for just $2.99 (also available as a trade paperback). Just follow the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

So many of you liked my Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz, I created a new quiz to test your knowledge of HPL and his various cosmic creatures.

You can take the Eldritch H.P. Lovecraft Gods & Monsters Quiz by following this link:

http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2886...


...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

I've always wanted to write a set of story collections addressing my three great loves: zombie stories, Lovecraftian stories, and seriously weird, dark horror tales. And here are those collections, released by Wildside Press:

HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS: http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-Beautiful-Skulls-McLaughlin/dp/1479401889/

GoodReads page: Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Witch-House-Arkham-McLaughlin/dp/143444208X/

GoodReads page: Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE: http://www.amazon.com/Beach-Blanket-Zombie-Humanoid-Horrors/dp/1434440990/

GoodReads page: Beach Blanket Zombie: Weird Tales of the Undead and Other Humanoid Horrors

I also did the covers (I worked as a professional graphic designer for many years). Each book has a staring abomination on the cover: a one-eyed zombie, a two-eyed witch-creature, and a three-eyed cosmic beast. Each monster has a different source of celestial fire: sunlight, moonlight, and lightning. You'll also find plenty of additional monsters inside all of the books, too....

I'm having a Facebook conversation with a friend about Robert W. Chambers (1865 - 1933) and it reminded me of another conversation I had with a business associate about a month ago. He asked, "You've been writing for a long time and haven't had a bestseller yet. Where's the return on investment? Maybe you should try writing stuff that's more commercial."

I responded by telling him about Robert W. Chambers, author of THE KING IN YELLOW. In his time, Chambers wrote loads of non-horror, including some best-selling books -- I believe they were about lads and shop-girls and their romances. Things like that. Mainstream stuff. And he also wrote THE KING IN YELLOW, his weirdest book, which went on to be a major influence on HP Lovecraft and the inspiration for the NECRONOMICON. His mainstream books are pretty much forgotten today, but his weirdest book lives on.

That's the thing about writing ... a person never knows how they'll be remembered in the future. Chambers is not remembered for his best-selling books -- he's remembered for THE KING IN YELLOW. I'm not interested in trying to write bestsellers-on-demand -- I just want to write the best books that I can, my way. The late Karl Edward Wagner, who put stories of mine in his last two volumes of YEAR'S BEST HORROR STORIES, once told me: Just keep writing the weird stuff you like to write -- eventually the world will catch up with you.

I decided long ago to follow his advice. When it comes to my writing, I'm not overly concerned about money, per se: The money I make through my writing is fine with me. I also make good money in my day job. Long story short: My bills are paid. :-) If I had to write in a more mainstream way to make more money, I wouldn't enjoy writing -- in which case, what would be the point of doing it? And what if I *did* somehow manage to churn out some uninspired, formulaic bestsellers? I'm sure they'd all be forgotten within a few years, just like Chambers' bestsellers are now all forgotten.

There are a lot of people in the world who will tell you: Here's the RIGHT way to write a horror, fantasy or sci-fi story or book -- follow these rules and publishers will snatch you right up! That might work for some people, and it's probably helpful for beginning writers, but I've never had any need for that. Why would I want to follow somebody else's rules for writing stories? If that means I'm not published as much as other people -- so be it. I've been *me* my whole life and I'm not about to change any time soon. :-) There will never be a Mark McLaughlin School of Writing because I don't want to turn Joe B. Writer into me. I want Joe B. Writer to be the greatest Joe B. Writer he can be, with a style all his own.

If I DO ever write a bestseller, I'll be delighted and grateful. But if it turns out that only a limited number of people ever like my work, I'll still be delighted and grateful for the support and appreciation offered by those people. So, I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, just as Karl Edward Wagner suggested. What's the return on investment, you ask? I appreciate it when people buy and read my books, and when I get a nice letter or email about my work, or see reviews posted online, that great feedback makes all the effort worthwhile. :-)



Here are my latest story collections from Wildside Press, in case you're interested in checking out my weird works....

HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS: http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-Beautiful-Skulls-McLaughlin/dp/1479401889/

GoodReads page: Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Witch-House-Arkham-McLaughlin/dp/143444208X/

GoodReads page: Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE: http://www.amazon.com/Beach-Blanket-Zombie-Humanoid-Horrors/dp/1434440990/

GoodReads page: Beach Blanket Zombie: Weird Tales of the Undead and Other Humanoid Horrors

Below you will find three chilling excerpts from my latest story collection, HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS, which is available on Amazon as a trade paperback or Kindle download. Here's the Kindle link:
http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-B...

GOODREADS:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...


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1. An excerpt from the horror story, "Drool Tool: The Meltdown Mix"....

What? You’ve never been to the Black Box?

It’s delicious, my dear. Black walls, black carpeting and a black marble dance floor. I’d be there tonight if it weren’t for – Well, they’re going to be closed for a week or so.

This club is interesting enough, but the music? Absolutely dreadful. They don’t even play the Psychonauts.

You’ve never heard of them? Do you live in a cave? On a farm? I have all their CDs: Monkey Boy, Slurp It Up, Robot with a Whip... Surely you’ve heard their latest single, Drool Tool?

You have some lipstick on your teeth. Right there. You’re quite pretty. You shouldn’t bleach your hair, though. You should dye it black, like mine. Then we could pass for sisters.

Yes, I know I’m a bit older than you. Your older sister. Older but wiser.

The lead singer for the Psychonauts is Tarot Mandrago – an absolute god. I met him a few months ago. I’m an account executive at Raw Hits magazine and–

Hmm? Didn’t hear you.

Oh, that just means I sell ad space. The magazine threw a huge party and that’s where I met Tarot, with his long black hair and big black eyes. He rambled on and on about Haitian music, aborigine music, even dream music. I had no idea anyone in a dance band could be so erudite. Unfortunately he was standing to my left and I’m practically deaf in that ear. The other one’s a bit weak, too. If the party got too loud I couldn’t catch everything he said.

Soon Tarot’s backup singers came to whisk him away and I was whisked right along. We all piled into a stretch limo. We drove for the longest time before we pulled up in front of a gorgeous mansion with stone gryphons on each side of the door. And inside–!

The walls were draped with blood-red velvet curtains. There was sound equipment everywhere. Some sleepy young things were lounging about on huge pillows in the main hall. An absolute Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mask was leading a monkey on a leash.

Tarot explained that the mansion belonged to an elderly millionairess who desperately needed a hobby. He pointed to a metal booth hanging by gold chains about twenty feet above the floor. The old girl was in there, watching. The masked Adonis whistled and a rope ladder shot down from the booth. He and his monkey shimmied right up.

The Psychonauts began to rehearse, so I went over to the pillow people. They were smoking the most obnoxious substance: ground-up African beetles mixed with dried seaweed. I sat with them, smoking and talking to a strange young thing from Cat’s Ass, Illinois. I asked her what was on the agenda and she gave me an odd little smile....


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2. An excerpt from the horror story, "It Isn't What You Gnaw, It's Who You Gnaw" -- a tale of artists and zombies.... 

Wilma Website: Yeah, I was a Deathquaker. I suppose I still am, but I really can’t call myself one, since Dandy Voorhees isn’t around anymore.

The Deathquakers without Dandy? Unthinkable! That would be like the Youthquakers from the Sixties without Andy Warhol. Everybody knows that Dandy modeled his every movement, every utterance, every moment of his existence after Andy Warhol. Andy was an artist and a genius, and so was Dandy. But Dandy gave everything a dark twist – a Goth sensibility – so he could take it one step beyond and call it his own.

Andy had a hangout called The Factory, with everything spray-painted silver. Dandy had The Funeral Parlor, with everything draped in black velvet. Andy had his paintings of Campbell Soup cans and his Brillo box sculptures. Dandy did the same thing with formaldehyde bottles and clove cigarette packs. Andy looked like a pathetic corpse – and Dandy...?

Like I said. He had to take everything one step beyond.

---

Koko Fantastic: I was Dandy’s first friend in his town without pity, make no mistake! I was actually at the bus station when he arrived. But I wasn’t there to see Dandy. I didn’t even know who he was. No one did.

No, I was arguing with my boyfriend at the time, whose name I will not even allow to cross my lips, because he was leaving town and he still owed me at least three or four thousand dollars. I was just yelling and yelling at him, telling him I was going to hunt him down like a dog, when out of the corner of my eye I saw this scrawny little white-haired man-child with sunglasses and skin three shades whiter than an onion. He was wearing some kind of tattered black-velvet suit that was falling apart at the seams.

I looked at that little piece of ghost-meat and said, “Freak, what’s your story?”

He just pointed behind me and said, “Gee! That guy’s getting away.”

I turned around and sure enough, the bus was pulling away from the curb. I just sank to the ground and started crying, and damned if that skinny-assed albino shrimp didn’t sit himself down next to me and start crying, too.

“Oh, now don’t you start,” I said. “You’re so skinny, you’ll leak out all your water and turn to dust. Why are you crying anyway? You don’t know me. ”

“I can’t help it,” he said in that soft ghost-voice of this. “Gee, you’re just so beautiful I can’t stand to see you so sad. What’s your name?”

I told him my name. My real name, that is. He shook his head. “That’s all wrong for you. Your name should be Koko Fantastic. A beautiful lady should have a beautiful name.”

Well now, of course I know I’m beautiful. But sadly, most folks don’t appreciate that fact. They think a woman over three-hundred pounds has just gotta be – shall we say, less than pleasing to the eye. I thought little ghosty-boy was really sweet ... and very observant ... so I told him he could stay at my place for a few weeks. I took that name he gave me, and it turned my life around. His stay turned from weeks into years, but that was no problem, because by then, he was a force to be reckoned with, and I was high and mighty among his Chosen Ones – the Deathquakers....


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3. Finally, here's an excerpt from "Agatha Says" -- a tale of the ageless evil that lurks in a retirement home....

Dear Irene,

Merry (belated) Christmas, and thank you, thank you, thank you for the new gloves! Sorry I haven’t written for so long, but so much has been going on.

Bart got out of the hospital just in time to make the Christmas party. Did I mention that the nurse who hit him had to go to the hospital, too? For stitches in her hand and her scalp. Carl opened her head up with that cane. No charges were pressed against him. What are they going to do – send a 78-year-old man to prison? Needless to say, the nurse is not returning to Fern Hill.

For the party, the music teacher from Sloane High School brought down some kids to sing carols in the rec room. While they were singing I looked around and realized that Agatha wasn’t there, so I snuck back to her room to fetch her.

When I got to her door I forgot to knock. I simply walked right in and there she was, stark naked and wearing that cat mask. She was standing in the middle of the room, mumbling some made-up song and moving her hands around, like she was conducting an orchestra or something. She’d drawn all kinds of funny little pictures on the floor in chalk, too. Of course she had to be drunk – her and that rum. What else could it be? I was about to say something – what, I don’t know! – when I saw there were no eyeholes in the mask. She didn’t even know I was there, so I backed out and shut the door. I’m sure she’d die of embarrassment if she knew I saw her carrying on like that.

I’ll tell you this: for a woman in her late sixties, Agatha has some body on her. None of the chicken skin you see around here. She must have had it lifted. You know that fat they suck out of liposuction patients? I wonder why they can’t pump it into skinny people. Bernice’s bony old butt sure could use some extra padding. Yours, too – those snapshots you sent have me worried. You’re still the prettiest gal I know, but you could stand to pack on a few pounds. Joseph looks like he’s picking up weight again (he must be eating off your plate too!). I wish they could take some of Joseph’s spare tire and give it to you.

Agatha never did come to the party. I told everyone she was sick. After the students left there was a problem – Celeste slapped the supervisor on duty for telling her not to eat so many cookies. Agatha had given Celeste a whole box of cookies that morning, which was a little irresponsible, since Celeste is on a restricted diet (cancer everywhere, the poor dear). After that slap, the supervisor simply stood there, utterly shocked. Then his nose started bleeding. Celeste just shuffled off with her cookies.

Then – I don’t know what got into us! – we were all laughing and laughing while the supervisor stuffed tissues up his nose. He must have quit since that was the last we saw of him.

A few days later, Agatha announced that negotiations were final. Fern Hill was now Stone Manor. After that, everything started to change, just like Agatha said.

New carpeting, a big-screen TV in the rec room – this week Bernice and I are having our room completely redone. And it’s not costing us extra! I hope there isn’t a catch. Still, Agatha hasn’t made us sign anything, and she is rich. Didn’t Elvis used to give away Cadillacs to complete strangers?

Agatha also brought down that nutritionist of hers. He’s going to be working here full-time, fixing our meals. Some health expert – he’s as white as a fish-belly. There’s something wrong with his eyes, too. They look like blue glass marbles. Agatha swears by him, but I have my doubts.

For one thing, he’s always asking us for urine samples and little clips of our hair. He says he’s checking us for vitamin deficiencies. I just hope he washes his hands before he starts dinner.....


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