by P. T. Phronk
“Pets?” she asked sadly.
“We’ll do pets too, yeah.” He thought of the poor hairless creatures in the basement, still alive down there, wailing for blood at night. “It’s not much different than my old job, when you think about it.”
“Oh, I didn’t want to say it before, but I was not fond of your old job. Not fond at all. Bothering famous people all the time like that? It wasn’t a way to make a living, dear.”
“Can’t say I disagree.”
“Oh!” she said, as if she just remembered something. That little burst of emotion, that burst of life, was comforting. Maybe she really would be okay. “Did you hear about David Letterman? And Damien Fox right after him? What are the chances?”
Stan gave short replies as his mother rattled off her opinions on Letterman, Fox, and what happened to them. It came up in most conversations lately, with two celebrities disappearing off the face of the planet at nearly the same time. The conspiracy theories were already starting to pop up. Stan kept an eye on the blogs, making sure none of them came close to the truth. If any did, he’d have to do some damage control. Maybe change his identity (as seemed to be the cool thing to do lately) to keep the trail from leading back to him.
“And that horrible hotel fire in Canada! Do you think the rumors that Damien Fox was staying there are true?” asked his mother.
“Not a chance, mom. You shouldn’t read that tabloid garbage.”
The tabloids relegated the real story to the back pages. The funeral home holding the victims of the hotel fire had been broken into. The detail that put the story in the ODD NEWS FROM AROUND THE WORLD section was that the attendant on duty reported being attacked and knocked out by a large dog. Police were even more baffled when the body of a man, identified as Jeffery Humber Wilcox, had gone missing.
Bloody had finished her hamburgers. She stomped back to the kitchen, presumably to see if Stan had any more food. Her face smeared with ketchup and grease, Stan instantly recalled her whiskers matted red after she tore Wilcox’s throat out in the hotel.
Nobody broke into that funeral home. Something broke out. Wilcox was alive, but different, transformed by the same stuff that had healed his mother. And he’d be looking for revenge. Stan adjusted his glasses and shivered.
“Are you okay dear?”
“Yeah mom, just got a shiver up my spine. All this stuff is so weird.”
His mother went into a story about how Stan’s father had been the same way, and Stan would do well to find a nice girl to help take care of him and keep him sane when things got weird.
Bloody stood on the other side of the counter, tapping her finger. At least she was polite enough to wait until he was off the phone before begging for food. Stan pointed at the phone and made a blah blah blah gesture with his hand. It didn’t look quite right with his index finger missing.
“Uh huh, yep,” Stan mumbled as his mother talked.
Bloody continued impatiently tapping on the counter. Annoyed, Stan put his mangled hand over hers. She stopped tapping and smiled at him. She actually had a nice smile when she bothered configuring her human face that way.
He smiled back. He kept his hand over hers. It felt warm, electric. For a moment, she gazed into his eyes instead of at the bag of food on the counter. He leaned on the counter and gazed back at her.
“Anyways,” said his mother.
A crash of breaking glass interrupted her. She screamed.
“Mom! What’s going on? Mom?”
Bloody sensed something was wrong. She was already gathering a kit of stakes, potions, and David Letterman’s sword.
“Mom!” shouted Stan into the phone as he headed for the door.
He heard growling on the other end of the line, deep and wet.
“Mom?”
Snorting and gnashing of teeth were the only reply as he grabbed his car keys. Bloody held the door open for him, but he paused for a moment, feeling like he was missing something.
No. He would not need his camera this time.
Minding their own business, Stan and Bloody hit the road again.
About Forest City Pulp
Forest City Pulp publishes provocative content by provocative writers, specializing in short fiction, serialized stories, and this novel. It was founded in 2012 to take full advantage of the new digital reality of publishing, and is designed to evolve as quickly as technology does.
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Stan and Bloody are Back in Book 2
Of Moons and Monsters is Available Now
The more things change, the more they want to kill you.
Stan Lightfoot’s mother has been kidnapped by a werewolf. To save her, he returns to his home town—the same place that drove him away after clawing his heart into bite-sized pieces.
He discovers that when you’ve been away from home, it’s not the same when you return. That change isn’t for the better when the small-town charm is covering up deadly secrets. It also doesn’t help that a mysterious fog has blanketed the town and allowed the creatures of the night to walk during the day.
With the help of his new friend Annie and his old friend Paul, Stan will find his mother. He has to. But with his distant past’s mistakes and his recent past’s fresh horrors both standing in his way, Stan will have to give up a hell of a lot to save the woman who gave him everything.
A story about outsiders, insiders, and how things change, Of Moons and Monsters is small-town urban fantasy with a core of painful reality. Of Moons and Monsters is the surprising sequel to Stars and Other Monsters, and the second in the Other Monsters series.
Get it here: https://forestcitypulp.com/of-moons-and-monsters-by-p-t-phronk/, or search for it wherever you buy books.
There’s also Strangers at a Funeral, a short story that takes place in the Other Monsters universe: https://forestcitypulp.wordpress.com/short-stories/strangers-at-a-funeral-by-phronk/
About P.T. Phronk
P.T. Phronk (sometimes known as just “Phronk”) writes about things that don't exist, things that might exist, and things that shouldn't exist.
He received a PhD in psychology after writing a dissertation about what makes horror films frightening. So he literally wrote the book on horror, and continues to create horrific things by cover of night, while by day, he explores the nightmares and dreams of the human brain by writing about neuroscience.
P.T. Phronk lives in London, Ontario, and no longer has a dog.
Putting Weird Things in Coffee—a blog about putting weird things in coffee—is another thing P.T. Phronk did.
Also From Forest City Pulp: All the Fine Hungers by cal chayce
An old man—a monster—with power and privilege beyond imagination, preys on the weak, the innocent, the oppressed. One insatiable desire compels him above all others, and he’ll stop at nothing to achieve it.
A timid girl who fears everything—having struggled since the day she was born against poverty, racism, colonialism, and misogyny—must decide to continue living in fear, or fight for what she deserves.
Each owes the state of their existence to factors compounded by the generations—factors that have left them at extreme opposite ends of the social divide. When they cross paths, only one will survive.
Get All the Fine Hungers here: https://forestcitypulp.com/books/all-the-fine-hungers-by-cal-chayce/
Remember to get the sequel to find out what comes next:
OF MOONS AND MONSTERS
Get it here
Thanks, sincerely, for reading.
~ Mike, a.k.a. P.T. Phronk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel is self-published, but there was more than one self involved. It’s selves-published. I couldn’t have done this without:
Andrea, who has been my sister for her entire life. Her attention to detail saved everyone from cringing at some awful sentences. We all owe you one, sister. Thank you.
Billie, whose delicate balance between brutal honesty and concern for a story’s cats served this novel well. Thank you.
Cal Chayce, who forced me to face an uncomfortable truth; I don’t know how to use semicolons. He is a fantastic writer, and a fantastic friend for editing the novel even though he’s not into this vampire shit. Thank you.
Ingrid, who is a gushing spring of brilliant feedback. Not only did she catch all my slips into Canada-speak, but she suggested a major change that I couldn’t ignore. I had to rewrite the whole damn novel because of it, but it’s much better without that penis there. Thank you.
Kelly, who is literally sickened by my writing sometimes, but reads it for me anyway. Thank you.
Nick, who is my biggest supporter when it comes to writing. That means a hell of a lot to me. Thank you.
Finally, thanks to Willow. She was alive when I started this book and dead when I finished it. There are a lot of fake things in this novel, but the part about a guy being willing to do anything for his dog? That’s real.