“Sure.”
“Is this the price down here?” I pointed out the figure.
“Yep.”
Wendy took a slug from a crystal-studded flask—she couldn’t find her usual Hello Kitty one.4 Immediately, her skin took on the rosy glow of most living alcoholics. I love the look: almost human.
“One million dollars, Gil? You call that reasonable pricing?”
Wendy did a spit take that flecked the brochure and my hands. “Jesus! So, if that’s the platinum, what’s the bronze package, then?” Wendy asked, wiping at the Grey Goose trickling from her nose. “A drive-by vamping?”
“Cute.” Gil tongued and sucked at his fangs in irritation.
He shrugged off our outrage and plopped down in his own lawn chair. “Five hundred grand is the going rate nowadays, the markup is for my fabulous luxury features. It’s not cheap, but look what you get…” He swept his hands from his head to toes like a game show hostess. “…a super hot greeting party. And…a couple of hot go-go dancers.”
“Where?” I looked around. “Are they late?”
“Why, you two pork chops, of course. You remembered to leave the panties at home, right?”
“Oh yeah. Of course.” I plucked a miniature Goldschläger from my purse and drained it. “When am I not airing out the chamber of horrors?”
“Me, too,” Wendy said. “Totally commando.”
“Gross.” Gil covered his mouth, heaving. “Let’s not talk about the vage, anymore. I think I’m traumatized.”
“You started it.” I tossed the empty bottle aside and dug for another.
From there, the conversation dwindled to nothing, an uncharacteristic silence settling over us like a late summer fog. The ghosts had even settled down. Except for a particularly downtrodden specter pacing under a nearby tree, the rest seemed content settling into their various routines (friendly visits to neighboring graves, a spirited game of cards over by the mausoleum, a display of ghost lights in the woods). Relaxing, even.
And that’s when I opened my big fat mouth.
“I got a weird call today.”
“Oh yeah?” Wendy asked. She must have been bored because this normally mundane news had her wide-eyed.
“My mother’s hospice worker.”
“What?” Gil twisted in his chair to face me. “Hospice? She’s dying? You never even talk about her. I thought she’d already kicked it.”
“Yeah, right?” Wendy muttered.
The dead are so sympathetic. If you’re looking for an honest opinion, and don’t want any handholding or softeners, this is the crowd for you. Not that we’re auditioning for friends, just now.
“Nope. She’s still alive. The doctors say she’s in the end stages of stomach cancer; it’s pretty much spread everywhere. Been at the hospice for a few weeks now. Apparently, it’s not pretty, nor is she.” Inside or out, I thought.
“Wow.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah.” The truth was, I wasn’t feeling any pain about it. Ethel Ellen Frazier had been a rotten mother, wife, and human being. You name it. Now, she was rotting inside. Ironic? Harsh? Sure, but she’d earned it. Every wince of pain, bout of vomiting, and bloody toilet bowl—the caller had gone into some unnecessary specifics.
Let me give you a little “for instance.”
When I was young, Ethel convinced me—through months of badgering and ridicule—that I could benefit from a gym membership. Dad tried to talk her out of it, but like always, he had no say. So, off we went to Happy’s Gym and Pool. Happy was just that; he had the kind of smile I could never seem to muster, broad and beaming. I think it was even real. The gym and pool were in the same room, a massive barn-like structure with the pool in the center, the equipment to the right, and the men’s and women’s locker rooms on the left, separated by a dry sauna. With about ten minutes left on the treadmill, I noticed a growing number of horrified expressions. I took off my headphones. Screams were coming from the sauna. Long screams. Then, choppy short bursts. And in between low gurgling moans reminiscent of the ape house at the zoo.
I scanned the room for my mother; I didn’t expect to see her. She was behind closed doors. And I was out in the open, fifteen years old and humiliated. Happy’s smiling face was nowhere to be found, either. I suspected it was crammed firmly between my mother’s thighs. But I was wrong. The security guard cleared up the mystery by opening the sauna door. There was Mom. On all fours and facing a captive audience, Happy behind her caught up inside like a shamed dog; his perpetual smile replaced by an embarrassed “O”. I could see the words play across Ethel’s lips, as I ran for the exit. “Shut the door, dimwit!”
Now, tell me she didn’t buy herself some cancer on that day.
Did I mention how lucky I am to have friends like Wendy and Gil? I can always count on them to turn the conversation back around to…them, and I was glad to have the heat off this time.
“Oh my God!” Wendy grabbed my arm and shook it like an impatient kid in the candy aisle. “I totally knew about this. I was talking to Madame Gloria just the other day and—”
“Here we go.” Gil snatched up the bottle of McGowan and finished it off.
Madame Gloria was Wendy’s telephone psychic. According to our girl, she was “moderately accurate,” whatever that meant.
“Shut up, Gil. Madame Gloria said that someone was going to die and that we…” she pointed at Gil, herself, and me, “we would be going on a trip. A road trip.”
“Jesus.” I swatted her hand away. “You think she’s talking about Ethel? I’ll be damned if I haul my dead ass across three states for that bag of bones.”
“It might be good to get some closure.” Gil’s face was attempting sincerity. It missed. He did succeed in pulling off a smoosh-faced version of constipated.
“Alright. So, before the two of you go all psychotherapist on me, let me tell you a few things. The reason I never talk about my mother is that she’s a bitch. In fact, the last time I saw her was my high school graduation, where she blew me off to go to my ex-best friend’s party. I can’t say as I miss her.”
Wendy waved me off. “None of that matters, anyway. Madame Gloria says we’re going. It’s fate.”
“Yeah. It’s fate.” A sly smile played on Gil’s lips.
“Like Hell it is.” I punched his arm. “What was all that shit about breaking free from your family?”
He sneered, rubbing the spot. “What are you talking about?”
“When I first met you and you took me to see Ricardo?”
“Not ringing any bells.”
“Ricardo told me that I needed to make a clean break from any living family and friends.”
Ricardo Amandine had filled me in on a lot more than mere survival tactics. The club owner had become a mentor of sorts, doling out words of wisdom over drinks, shopping, and the odd kill. He was hot as hell, but as is the rule with male zombies, totally asexual.5 Shame.
“True,” Gil said. “But this is different. Your mother’s gonna die, anyway. And look at poor Wendy. Don’t her feelings count?” He gestured to the other chair.
Wendy’s lips pursed into a pathetic pout. She was even batting her eyes.
Christ.
He continued. “She’s totally bored. Would a road trip be so bad?”
I imagined dirty rest-stop bathrooms, rows of trailers substituting for motels, a general lack of shopping opportunities. A zombie has certain needs. The upside? Cute country folk have cute country flavors.6
Wendy nodded. “What were you planning to do about the situation?”
“I thought I’d pretend I’d never gotten the call. Denial’s my friend, and all.”
“Yeah, okay. Just say you’ll think about it. Please?”
“Fine. I’ll think about it.”
I lit up a cigarette; the smoke caught on the thinnest of breezes and spun off like cursive. The trail stretched off toward the single ghost who was still interested in our presence. He stomped through the haze, pa
ssed us and then stopped about ten feet away, leaning against a rather confusing headstone of a gargoyle eating a hoagie—or was that a salmon?
“I’ve been meaning to talk to Hans about making me some of those,” Wendy said. She was pointing at the black-papered cigarette dangling from my lips.
“I’ll ask him to make you some. Any particular colors, or outfits you’re trying to match?”
The ghost started coughing. Expansive rattling coughs. He must have wanted attention, as he never looked away. So dramatic. “It’s not gonna kill ya, buddy!” I yelled. He scowled.
Wendy disregarded the exchange and continued. “An assortment would be great. Only no orange. I look horrible in orange.”
“Tell me about it. Remember that track jacket you kept trying to wear out in public. You looked like a road worker. I was fully prepared to club you.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, as though I’d brought up some long-lost treasure. “Where’d I put that?”
I shrugged. The truth was, Wendy hadn’t put the track jacket anywhere. I’d snuck it out of her hall closet while mama was putting her face on and promptly dumped it in the trash chute. I was doing her a favor, really. She looked like a big pumpkin in that puffy satin piece of shit.
Gil adjusted his butt in the chair. He’d taken note of our visitor. “Is that ghost eavesdropping?”
“Probably.”
“I can’t have anyone, or thing, fucking up my shit. Not tonight. Markham’s not a flexible guy.”
“Maybe he thinks you need a third judge of your vampire making—”
“Vampires?” The ghost choked the words out from over my shoulder. I staggered to the side to avoid any spectral germs or whatever. “I can’t stand me no friggin’ vampires. Piss on ’em. They should all rot in iron boxes.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Wendy commented.
“Harsh?” The ghost spit a glob of violet-hued mush at Wendy’s feet. “I don’t know ’bout that. Seein’s they’re the one’s suckin’ people dry. I’ll say it again. Piss on ’em.”
Up close, the ghost looked like a vagrant. His face was all scruff surrounding a nose the size of a kosher dill, his eyes obscured by thick tufts of brow hair. Dirt clung to his ethereal form in spots, as though even death couldn’t hide the residue of boxcar or alley dumpster. There was even a scent in the air, pungent and sour like milk gone to clot.
“You one of them fuckin’ vampires, boy?” He kicked at the back of Gil’s chair, foot moving right through and ending up somewhere inside Gil’s stomach.
“What if I am?” Gil stood and faced the bigot. I almost interceded but thought it might be important to witness some honest-to-God vamp bashing. If only just to say I had been there, and act disturbed and offended. I could give my report to the late evening edition of Supernatural Seattle Tonight. They love me.
“Then I got somethin’ fur ya. You stinkin’ mosquito.” The ghost started to reach down inside his pants.
We all gasped in horror. Well not all, Wendy seemed genuinely interested—craning her neck to get a good look—but she doesn’t count, being a slut and all.
A low scraping rose from beneath us, a lonely hollow scrabbling, as though rats were burrowing through wood or Gil’s client had shredded the tufted silk of the coffin lid and was clawing through mahogany. Yeah. It was that last one for sure.
The noise drew the ghost’s attention, as well. He hiked up his pants and re-secured them with what looked like an electrical cord.
The scrabbling gave way to several deep thuds.
“Couldn’t we just dig him up and save his manicure?” I asked.
Gil shrugged. “It builds character. Besides do I look like I’m dressed for grave digging?”
Gil was up out of his chair, folding it and gesturing for me to do the same. I looked around for Wendy and to my immediate dismay caught sight of the homeless ghost. He stood atop the soon-to-be vampire’s headstone, pants unzipped, and dick in hand.
“Ew. What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like, girly?” He bounced on the balls of his feet in preparation.
It hit me then. “Oh…shit. Gil, he’s gonna piss on your guy’s—”
“Piss on ’em. Piss on ’em,” the ghost chanted.
Gil looked up from packing away the chairs just in time to catch Boxcar Willie pissing a steaming stream of ectoplasm onto the grave. It glugged from the guy like Mrs. Butterworth’s, glowing an enthusiastic obscene purple.
“Gross!” Wendy yelled from behind me.
“Jesus!” Gil dropped the folded chairs and made for the ghost just as the Beaver King broke ground. Markham breached the surface and was birthing straight through the manhole-sized puddle of ghost piss. Globs of the stuff dribbled down his arms and mingled with the mud on his face. The ghost shook a few errant drops loose. They plopped on Markham’s face like thick blobs of mayonnaise.7
“What the fuck!” The new vampire spat, scooping the ectoplasm off his face. It oozed from his hair and plopped onto the shoulders of an expensive pinstriped suit that really seemed like overdressing for either digging oneself from a grave, or pee play, for that matter.
Gil started backing away, and gesturing for Wendy and me to do the same.
Markham had extricated himself from his burial place; he stood there like Carrie on prom night: humiliated, covered in that obscene fluid. He swung at the ghost, pummeling the air with impotent fists. The hobo’s laughter echoed across the cemetery. The spirits playing poker by the mausoleum looked up.
One said, “Earl must have found him a vampire.”
Their laughter joined a growing cacophony, as news spread amongst the dead.
“Where’s that piece of vampire shit? I’ll kill him!” Markham yelled.
Those were the secret words, apparently. We took off through the graveyard like someone had announced happy hour, bounding over headstones, and skirting spectral presences. Wendy broke off a heel in a concrete vase holder. I nearly tripped on a wreath Gil knocked over in his mad dash for the car.
In the distance, Markham was still screaming. “Luxury my ass! I want my money back, vampire! Every fucking cent!” Despite being the evil villain type, the Beaver King couldn’t chase for shit.
I turned to Wendy. “Did Madame Gloria see that one coming?”
In Seattle’s undead circles, Amanda Feral is one of the beautiful zombies. Of course, when you’re socializing with werewolves, devils, and rampaging yetis, there’s not that much competition. Still, Amanda has a stylish rep to maintain, which is getting tricky now that her tanking ad agency is obliterating her finances. The fastest way to make some cash: appear on a new reality show, American Minions, hosted by lecherous wood nymph Johnny Birch. Classy? Maybe not, but a girl’s gotta eat.
With zombie gal pal Wendy posing as her bitchy agent, Amanda settles in to “Minions Mansion,” crowded with 24-7 video cameras and undead fame whores. When Johnny is found incinerated in a locked room, Amanda decides to channel her inner Miss Marple (minus the fugly cardigans) and find who’s responsible. Was it Hairy Sue, the white trash stripper yeti? Tanesha, the glamorous trannie werewolf? Angie, the Filipino vampire with a detachable head? Unveiling the culprit in a heart-stopping finale won’t just save the show from cancellation, it might just keep Amanda alive—or as close as a ghoul can get…
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES,
coming next month!
Chapter 1
Hillbillies, Whores, and Horrors
* * *
Saturday
2–2:30 A.M.
CH. SS12
Tapping Birch’s Syrup
The remaining “ladies” share a group date with Birch and another challenge: create evening gowns with the local flora…poison ivy! Plus, Ludivine reveals a secret deformity.
* * *
Its official name was the H & C Gentleman’s Club—that’s what it said on the tax statement,
at least, and in the phone book—but everyone in Seattle knew it as the Hooch and Cooch, the Northwest’s first hillbilly-themed titty bar, and it certainly lived up to its backwoods inspirations. The exterior was dilapidated, a hodgepodge of boards nailed up at weird angles and intervals as siding, while rust from the corrugated-metal roof striped the building a gritty orange. It clung to the hillside above Fremont on pilings so rickety, the slightest bump threatened to dump the shack’s smutty guts onto the quiet neighborhood underneath.
I’d applaud the audacity, if the owner weren’t Ethel Ellen Frazier, vampire, mega-bitch, and, worst of all, my mother.
I considered leaving the car idling in the space—a sound getaway plan was looking like my best option—then fished out my cell and hammered in Marithé’s number.
“Seriously?” I asked the second she picked up, fondling the address she’d written on the back of my business card.
“What?” My assistant’s voice always sounds annoyed, so it’s difficult to assess her tone. A good rule of thumb is just to assume I’ve interrupted something very important like saving time in a bottle, writing the great American novel, or ending the plague that is zombie crotch rot—more likely, at that hour, she’d be using the Wite-Out to create a budget French manicure.
“The Hooch and Cooch? Since when is one of my mother’s strip clubs an appropriate meeting place?” My eyes took in the stories-tall cowgirl on the roof, lit up old school—in lightbulbs rather than neon. Several were burnt out, but most notable were the cowgirl’s front teeth; on closer inspection, those seemed to be blacked out on purpose—it’s nice to see an attention to authentic detail. The ten-foot-tall flashing pink beaver between her legs was a subtle choice, if I do say so.
“He insisted,” she said, her voice echoing on the speakerphone.
“Fucking pig.”
The pig’s name was Johnny Birch, and he was famous for three things: crooning jazz standards like that Bublé or Bubble guy or whoever, screwing anything with a hole (including donuts), and doing it all publicly on his own reality show, Tapping Birch’s Syrup (shown exclusively on Channel SS12). He was also a wood nymph, but even though that’s all ethereal and earthy, it’s really secondary to the pervert stuff. Apparently he had a proposition and from the look of the Hooch and Cooch, I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t business related.
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