My story D I FOR DARKTOWNE “An Eye for an Eye” will be appearing in the Static Movement anthology, A-Z, CITIES OF DEATH, edited by Dean Drinkel. Here’s a little sample of the story -
Jolly Roger Johnson was a jolly fool alright. Yeah. More than that, he was a certifiable jolly bastard and lunatic.
One creepy crazy son-of-a-bitch.
Always going against the grain; taking chances, dodging the night, crouching in the dark with the little worm eaten wooden box tucked under an arm. Called it his Box of Shades. Never let anyone see what was inside.
Jolly Roger ran the night creeps down alleys and byways, always looking for a thrill then hiding from it when it popped up in all its ugly deadly dangerous glory.
Like a gang of slime infested murderous thugs banging some righteous good looking chick while her boyfriend/husband/father…whatever…was forced to watch before blowing their brains out or sticking them on a parking meter. Sometimes the dude died and the lady didn’t. Keep her around for fun and games.
And there were the dead bastards. Zombies that climbed out of their graves, lurched around in the dark, caught unsuspecting night walkers that thought they were safe only to howl bloody murder when the zombies started sharing the poor fool or foolette for lunch. A rip of flesh here, a pluck of an eyeball there.
Always the same. Ordered up and served. Zombie fodder.
Then there were the vamps. Looking like something out of the fifties with jeans, black leather jackets or white t-shirts.
And slicked back hair except for the female vamps. Hell, the lady vamps hardly wore anything at all and usually sported long straggly hair. Always laughing, always violent. Just didn’t want to get caught by a fucking bloodsucker.
Even worse, more than one bloodsucker.
Like this night; Jolly Roger damn near walked straight into a half dozen blood sucking vamps partying down with a poor unfortunate couple caught out after dark. Wasn’t long before two of the vamps took to the night sky with the young man who was howling at the top of his lungs.
Four blood suckers stayed behind to entertain the young woman. They stripped her clothing as quick and easy as peeling a banana, shared some bat-dick with her, then passed her around for a midnight cocktail.
Blood from a breast.
Both breasts.
Good enough for now.
With a blood sucker on each ankle, they disappeared down the night black alley, dragging the poor bitch with them. No doubt for a snack sometime before dawn.
They hadn’t noticed Jolly Roger crouching behind an overflowing dumpster, the little Box of Shades tucked under an rm. The dumpster was burning with something dead inside. Hell, it smelled, and was hot. Got Jolly Roger to sweating, hoping those bloodsuckers would get done and get out so he could get out with his blood intact. After all, he had a job to do, a setup.
He hurried away, skirting the shadows, and headed south toward the East Midlothian neighborhood.
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Hope you like it and pickup the anthology! Many thanks…
Oh yeah, while I’m at it, I ran down Mister Tangiers in a dark basement corner of some long deserted and abandoned building, tried to drag a few words of his story out of him for the same anthology. Reluctantly, he scribbled a few, and told me to get out before Mister Legs got pissed. Was good advice; a few bodies were wrapped up nice and tight I saw in the shadows…anyway, a tiny slice of Tangiers’ U IS FOR UBAR “The Crypt of Alhazred”…all that Tangiers would cough up…
Able Allerton camped. He didn’t want to arrive at the Ubar ruins in the middle of the night. Something inside had begun to whisper that the stories were true, djinns and night spirits bad enough to make a mess of your mind.
Just couldn’t shake the idea.
Yeah, that spooky shit.
Especially so when that howling demon wind came racing across the sands and swirled around Able’s tent.
Freaked him out, sat him right up in his tent.
He peered about wildly.
Fuckin’ djinns! Fuckin’ killer djinns!
Shadows danced, eerie shadows like djinns laughing and calling to him.
Made Able shiver and scramble on all fours, a mad dash into the night where only embers fluttered around his now nearly dead camp fire, tiny glowing firelights that rode currents of air, quickly dying as they rose.
Off in the distance a soft eerie glow of light swirled like windblown fog across the sands where the ruins of Ubar were suppose to be.
It looked like ghosts in a slow swirling dance of the dead, and beacons of lights dancing about writhing shadows.
Torches held by something unholy, heathenish, otherworldly.
Howling a rite of death.
Calling to Able to join their macabre masque.
They were there, spirits and djinns, and they knew Able was there, not far away.
Coming to their kingdom.
Their city of the dead.
Ubar.
Irem, the City of Pillars.
Perhaps best known as the Nameless City.
Able’s thoughts focused; he frowned. Yeah, the Nameless City…Alhazred’s City.
And Able Allerton suddenly began to wonder if he shouldn’t have left well enough alone.
He chuckled.
A weak half-hearted and fearful chuckle.
