by Matthew Funk
Blood & Tacos
Issue 1
Spring 2012
Published by Creative Guy Publishing
ISSN 1929-011X
Amazon Kindle Edition
Contents:
From the Desk of Johnny Shaw
The Silencer Strikes
The Most Penetrative Game (review)
Longhair Death Farm
Battleground U.S.S.A.: Texasgrad
Raker: A Review (review)
Bonds of Blood
Ben Slayton: T-Man or He-Man? (review)
Blood and Tacos
From The Publisher
From the Desk of Johnny Shaw
Hello, friends.
Thanks so much for buying BLOOD & TACOS.
Here's how it all began. I wrote a story inspired by 1970s men's action serial paperbacks titled—you guessed it—"Blood and Tacos." I was going to write a blog about it and pass it off as a chapter of a book I found in my garage and then every once in a while "discover" new paperbacks. Not really a hoax, but an opportunity to write in a unique voice and have some fun.
But why should I have all the fun? I decided it would be even more fun to ask other writers to do the same thing. To "discover" stories of their own. Pick an era, create a person and a hero, and write a story.
The "pulp era" generally refers to the time from the 1920s to the 1940s when pulp magazines were at their height. The "pulp" paperback soon followed, taking over the tradition in the 1940s and really hitting their stride into the 1950s and 1960s.
But where did the pulps go after the 1960s. I would argue that the descendent of the pulps in the 1970s to 1990s were the men's serial adventure paperbacks. Mack Bolan, Remo Williams, Nick Carter (but only in the era when he is known as Killmaster), etc. ushered in the revival of the "pulp hero" (It is no coincidence that pulp heroes like Doc Savage, Conan, and the Shadow all gained a resurgence in the 1970s).
These were fast & fun books, feverish first drafts full of entertainment value. But if fast & fun is the base, there is a greater goal to be achieved. What I like to call the "ridiculously awesome."
When a book opens with the hero fighting an albino with a spear-gun (see THE HELLFIRE CONSPIRACY (Agent for COMINSEC #4) by Ralph Hayes), one's first reaction might be, "that's ridiculous." But on closer examination, that reaction will turn to "that's awesome." Bingo! Both of you are right. Ridiculously awesome!
These books were the B-movies of literature. Written quickly, tongue-in-cheek, and with the potential to be fun as hell.
But while that explains why I enjoy reading the stories, why write new stories?
It's the challenge. To write in a different voice. To write outside one's comfort zone with the safety net of a pseudonym and a goofy history. To write in the voice of a fictional person from another era, writing within a hack factory (or hacktory) sounded like so much damn fun, I couldn't resist. And I was lucky that a couple of writers agreed with me.
So many of the books from this era depict a world where either America (or 'merica to my 'merican friends) is on the brink of destruction, not to mention the post-apocalyptic sub-genre that runs rampant in the Reagan Era. A world view where men with mustaches bring order to chaos. And women, minorities, youth culture, foreigners, and every other "other" are treated with fear and a punch to the jaw.
Writing "Blood & Tacos" I got the opportunity to write from the point of view of Brace Godfrey in 1972. Who is Brace Godfrey? You'll have to wait and find out.
The opportunity to write in a different voice, maybe slip in a heavy dose of satire, comment on the era in which the book is written, and blow some shit up. Now that's what I call a good time.
BLOOD & TACOS is just starting and we're kind of making it up as we go, but the one thing I guarantee you is that we'll work hard to make it great. And when it's all said and done, it will be ridiculously awesome.
Special Thanks to Michael Batty, Roxanne Patruznick, and all the authors for their participation and support!
Excelsior!
March, 2012
The Silencer in: THE SILENCER STRIKES
By Mal Radcliff
(discovered by Gary Phillips)
No one could have shown more enthusiasm than GARY PHILLIPS did when we brought up the idea of Blood & Tacos. In his words, "I got a Mal Radcliff story no one's ever read, baby! The Silencer, baby!" We know we don't have to tell you who Mal Radcliff is. We tried to contact Mr. Radcliff, but due to gambling and other debts he has not maintained any address for too long since his heyday. Either way, you can enjoy this 1975 masterstroke by a true legend.
Booker Essex, now known as the Silencer, grabbed the hood in the fedora with an arm around his neck just as the second hood let loose with a burst from his Thompson machine gun.
"You goddamn moulie," were the hood's last words before bullets from the chopper ripped a diagonal up from his stomach across his chest — his body jerking at the impact of the high speed .45 rounds.
As those rounds tore through the crook's body, Essex was already moving. Crimson spread like ink blots on the dead man's custom-made dress shirt as his corpse collapsed onto the floor. Returning fire to drive the other two torpedoes back, Essex had shoved the body aside and dove through the swing door into the kitchen.
"Hold on," the machine gunner said to the third hood next to him who began to advance. "Looks like this fuckin' jay-bo ain't gonna be easy pickins like we figured."
The third member of Laugher Graziano's gang nodded briefly. He carried a snub-nosed .38 revolver in a hand with a diamond pinky ring in a gold setting. The two separated some, each slowly approaching the kitchen door of the Fuzzy Feather Gentlemen's club. The metal rear door was locked and they heard no gunfire indicating their quarry was trying to exit. But they figured he wouldn't leave as they had the bait.
"We'll deal with you after we take care of this mook," the one with the handgun whispered. He shook the barrel briefly at a woman in a short robe tied-up on the stage. She was a stripper in the club, on her side, bound and gagged, a colorful silk tie around her mouth. Her eyes were wide not with fear, but with defiance. Her blonde hair was tangled and unruly. To the side of the stage, a staircase led to the VIP section on the second floor. A steam room and curtained alcoves were available there.
Now the gunmen were on either side of the swing door, the Thompson man looking through the portal-style window. The lights were on inside but Essex wasn't visible. There was a long counter with stainless steel pots and pans suspended above on hooks, and they assumed he was low behind that.
"You'd think it being all white in there the jungle bunny would stand out," the other hood cracked nervously.
The stripper, who did the bump and grind as Ginger Strawberry, swore at them but it came out muffled.
The machine gunner eased the swing door open with the muzzle of his magazine-fed Tommy gun, hoping the Silencer would show himself to take a shot. Nothing happened. He reared back and looking at his partner. They reached a silent decision. Together they both crashed into the kitchen. The Thompson handler laid down a barrage to keep the Silencer crouching, while the other hood's goal was to round the counter and blast him.
But a step away from the counter, the lights went out and there was a hiss like the quick release of air from a truck's power brakes. Then cold silence. Diffused spill light came in through the portal window illuminating little.
"Tony," the snub-nosed man ventured. Tony was the now deceased Thompson gunner. "Tony," he repeated. Again no answer and he backtracked out of the kitchen in a hurry. He took hold of the trussed up woman and sliding her off the stage, got her
to her bare feet. He dug the business end of the gun into her cheek.
"Okay, hotshot, better show yourself or your girlfriend here gets got," he called out. There was no movement from the kitchen and he repeated his threat. He undid the tie over Ginger Strawberry's mouth.
She began, "Why you lousy low life, scum–" He struck her in the face with the pistol. This elicited a groan as he intended.
"That's enough," Essex said from the kitchen doorway. He had one hand holding the swing door open, the other one out of sight. His voice was sibilant, shadowy, as if talking was an effort. It was not the voice he'd always had.
"Throw your piece out," the remaining hood demanded.
"Don't do it, Book," the woman advised.
He did as ordered. The gun was a modified .32 semi-auto machine pistol with a 20-round magazine and was fitted with a stubby sound suppressor on the muzzle. Twin tubes lead from the suppressor back into the body of the weapon.
"That's something," the hood said admiringly of the gun. He gestured with his revolver, using the woman as his shield as Essex had done with the first hood. "Now come all the way out with your hands up."
The Silencer did as ordered again. He wore a jean jacket over a ribbed turtleneck and flared slacks that broke just so on his Nunn Bush boots. His Fu Manchu mustache glistened with sweat. Though unlike the current style, he didn't sport an afro, rather he kept his hair boot camp short.
The gunsel wore a checkered leisure suit, his shirt open to expose his hairy chest and a heavy gold chain over the thicket. He smiled. "The boss is gonna be happy to have your magic gat," he said, referring to the specialized weapon. So-called silencers really weren't silent like in the movies. It muffled a gun's retort, but you could still hear it, just quieter. Essex's weapons were truly mere whispers when they went off.
In a flash the thug took the gun from the side of the woman's face and as he squeezed the trigger to kill Booker Essex, he was quite surprised to feel a sting at his temple. He hadn't heard a thing.
"What the fu…" he muttered then fell face first onto the plush carpeting of the Fuzzy Feather — the body dying as his brain ceased function.
Essex crossed the distance and set the wobbly Ginger Strawberry in a chair.
"How'd you do that, Book?" she asked.
"Ever see the show, the Wild, Wild West? How ol' Jim West had this derringer on a slide mechanism up his sleeve?" He held his arm such so she could see the end of what looked like a small rectangular box with four holes in the end of his sleeve.
"Your version of that," she said. "Always cooking up a gadget."
"Better get your stuff and let's get out of here before the fuzz come pounding through the doors."
"Good idea. I've got the cassettes too." She stood and the robe flapped open, revealing her sculpted nude torso and sequined G-string. Essex looked away, his face warm.
Strawberry, whose real name was Marcia Mathers, noted this with a wry smile. She came over to him, pressing herself against his back. The blonde put a hand on his shoulder. "I know women don't scare you, Book."
He looked sideways at her. "It's not that, Marsh. But you're Bobby's sister."
"I'm also my own woman. And we're not kids anymore."
"Ain't that the truth," he agreed.
She kissed him on the cheek and went into the dressing room to get her clothes on and retrieve her purse and items. Thereafter the two left the club by a side door to Essex's three-year-old 1972 Ford LTD. The vehicle had a pristine Landau top and mag wheels, with a big block 460 Brougham engine under the hood. There were special items Essex had also built into the car besides further souping up the motor. He brought the machine to life and Mathers wasn't surprised she could barely hear the thing running.
"Living up to your name, huh?"
"Guess so." He turned on the heater and a police scanner hidden behind a fake grill in the dash.
Tires crunched over gravel as he drove off in the dark of post-three A.M. from the strip club. The place was a few miles out of town off the highway, mostly industrial facilities around, large structures made of metal sidings and low roofs. The trees were bare, their limbs pointing up to the wintery sky as if accusing the weather of indifference.
Paul "Laugher" Graziano, sometimes called the Laughing Man by friends and enemies, wore slacks and slippers, an athletic undershirt underneath the silk robe he'd tied around his trim waist. He was pushing sixty but maintained a regime of racquetball, swimming, and athletic sex with young women his daughter's age. His nickname was derived from a childhood incident when he was eleven.
He and a friend were running from a copper after robbing a blind newshawker at his sidewalk stand. They ran into the street and Graziano was struck by a street car, causing nerve damage in his face. He was caught and sent to reform school. The other kid, Benny "Bean Pole" Mathers, got away. Thereafter the left side of Graziano's face drooped, and he learned to talk out of the other side of his mouth. His melancholy appearance earned him his opposite sobriquet.
He prided himself that he pretty much weighed the same as he did when he played basketball at Theodore Roosevelt High. They were the Rough Riders. That is before he was kicked out of school for taking bets on the games. The same school some years later that Booker Essex, Marcia Mathers and her now deceased brother Robert had attended as well. Less than a year after they graduated, Essex was drafted and Bobby Mathers volunteered for Vietnam.
Laugher Graziano puffed on his thin cigar, looking out the window from the study to his backyard and the pool he better cover soon. A few ducks swam about in the water, quacking happily. What did it mean to be happy, he pondered as he turned back to Loomis Kassel, his Bill Blass-dressing, Yale-educated, half-German, half-Italian consigliore.
The time was just past dawn and both men were aware of what had gone down at the Fuzzy Feather a few hours before. Indeed Kassel had already dispatched a crew to clean up the mess. Due to having a homicide cop named Bert Chastain on the pad, he'd gotten a call from the detective and with his help, was keeping a lid on the matter — for the moment.
"I know," Graziano began unprompted. "I should have listened to you and not given in to my weakness. But who the fuck checks on the background of these broads? They all use a made up name strippin' and hookin' on the side." He shook his head. "Who could figure that chick would be undercover snatch?" He laughed sourly at his joke.
"We not only need to deal with her, but this colored gentleman."
"I need to color him red "
Kassel adjusted his Yves St. Laurent-designed frames. "I have a solution, only it's going to cost."
The Laughing Man spread his arms wide. "Doesn't it always, Loomis? Doesn't it always?"
Ever since physically recovering from the fire resulting from the bomb, the Silencer had gone underground. With Chastain, Graziano's gang, and the self-styled revolutionary Rahim Katanga and his bunch all crowding him about making deadly inventions for them, he had little choice. But before it all changed, he and Bobby Mathers had managed to make it back to the world from ‘Nam and opened their auto garage. It didn't hurt that both men had earned a few medals and were welcomed back as hometown heroes.
At their Danang Drag Motor Specialists shop, they repaired everyday cars and customized those who could afford something special. Life was good then.
He looked toward the sound of water coming from what had been the boss' office and the private bathroom and shower within.
In there Marcia Mathers was finishing up and turned off the hot and cold faucets. Leave it to Booker, she noted appreciatively, to be able to bootleg electricity and running water into a place that went belly up months ago.
She pushed the pebbled glass door open and stepped out of the shower, taking off the rack one of the large towels Essex had provided. Drying off next to the portable heater, she stood in the compact office area he'd converted to a kind of bedroom with a cot, lamp sans shade and numerous technical books on a makeshift shelf. There was a photo taped to the wall of Essex
and her brother as soldiers in a jungle clearing in Vietnam. Both had vacant smiles on their faces — the smiles of men who had seen and done too much over there.
There were no pictures of Charlotte Sumlin about. There was though a charred piece of what had been the hand painted sign over their garage. The fragment leaned atop some of the books and Mathers picked it up, looking at it wistfully. She vividly remembered that terrible day. She'd just gotten off the phone with her brother and it would turn out to be the last time she'd speak to him.
Mathers learned later that afternoon about how a bomb had gone off in the garage. Her brother, the police surmised, must have been talking to Charlotte Sumlin who'd stopped by to see Essex. Essex had been away to pick up a part and was just driving up when the blast went off. From his eye witness report, Sumlin had been in the open bay of the garage, waving at Essex. Bobby Mathers was behind her, wiping his hands on a shop towel. Then there was the orange-red flare that filled his vision and the boom of the exploding sticks of dynamite. His windshield shattered into his face from the concussive force.
She put the fragment down and taking the towel from around her and unwrapping the other one from her wet hair, she got dressed. Marcia Mathers came into the kitchen area – mostly a jury-rigged stove that had been thrown out and a coffee maker — where he was preparing breakfast for both of them. Her hair was wet from her recent shower and she smoked an unfiltered Marlboro. She wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a sweater top.
"Hash and eggs," she said, chuckling. "Some things don't change."
"I've added paprika," he said, turning off the fire as he stirred the concoction in a skillet.
There were two plates on the one small table and she picked them up so he could spoon out food onto them. There was toast and fresh coffee, too. Essex had turned this corner of the once-thriving refrigerant coil factory into living quarters and more. There was a work bench nearby with parts and tools strewn on it, a blueprint tacked to the wall above it as well. Also hanging on the wall were three different shoulder holster rigs with specialized silent handguns in each.