A Cool Article About Zombies

I really liked this article in LA Weekly.

A Mouse Ate My Soap

I've determined that I don't have a rat in the lair... it's a mouse.

I know this because I saw it clearly the other day. I saw it clearly because it's no longer afraid enough of me to run at full speed when it makes its sojourn from my pantry to behind the fridge and back again... It was more of a slow amble than anything. I pose no threat. I instill no fear in this mouse.

I've been diligent about not leaving food and trash out. I cleaned the lair. The mouse is still around. He leaves little mouse turds in the corner by the pantry. Thanks, asshole.

After much procrastination, I got a humane trap from K-Mart. I put it out, and the mouse ignored it. Good job, humane trap. Be that as it may, I didn't stress... He'll eventually go away when he gets hungry, because there's nothing around to eat, right?

Right?

This morning I woke up, read Hagakure and jumped in the shower. Hot water blasting, I reach down to grab the soap... and it's gone. A full bar of Irish Spring, fresh out of the box on Monday morning... GONE. There are only two logical explanations:

A) My building manager is a perv, snuck into my lair during the day and stole my soap.

B) Having nothing else to eat, the mouse at my fucking soap.

Since I've been in this building for a couple of years, and nothing has inexplicably vanished from the lair until the mouse showed up, I'm leaning toward B.

I was unaware that mice eat soap. He must have dragged it off because, even though he's big for a mouse, he's still a fucking MOUSE, and is about as large as a newish bar of soap, which this was.

The upside was I had a value pack, so it wasn't a big deal to just crack open a new box. But now I apparently live in a world in which I have to think through every goddamn thing like I'm playing chess against this mouse... I put the soap in the sink where, I hope, there aren't sufficient paw-holds for it to get at.

I really didn't care about the spaghetti... I wasn't gonna eat it, anyway. But I'm drawing the line at soap-eating. This fucker has got to go.

I told the building maintenance guy about the rodent a week ago. He said he'd take care of it. But these are the same people who allowed my bathroom ceiling to collapse TWICE after I told them a million times about the gathering condensation. Once, maybe... but fucking TWICE?! My point is, we're not talking about a stellar track record; I'm not holding my breath for a crack SWAT team of mouse hunters to show up at my door anytime soon.

I'm going to have to take justice in my own hands. Mouse, if you're reading this: YOU ATE MY SOAP, AND NOW YOU DIE.

Solomon Kane

Being a Robert E. Howard fan, I'm gonna read any article entitled "Great Day for Robert E. Howard Fans," like this one on aintitcool.

This take on Solomon Kane sounds pretty fucking awesome. It's a bit odd that it takes place in Europe, as most of Solomon's stories are set in Africa... Though I should say my favorite Kane story has him fighting pirates on the English coast. And I suppose it makes sense as an origin story. If the first movie does well enough to launch a franchise, the perfect story to use as a basis would be the one where he fights Le Lupe... It starts in France, Le Lupe gets away and flees to Africa, and Solomon's so dead set on fixing the dude's wagon that he follows him out there, sparking a really cool cycle of African stories.

It's interesting that this should come along right now... I've been playing through Resident Evil 5, and the strongest aspect of that game is the African setting. I'd been thinking that the only other time I'd seen Africa used so well (or at all) in an action-horror context have been in Solomon Kane stories, and the old Call of Cthulhu campaign The Masks of Nyarlathotep (which is probably the coolest pre-packaged campaign I've ever run).

After spending the better part of the last decade wringing horror out of Asia, we should look to Africa for inspiration. These hand-wringing social message movies we've been seeing are all well and good... but where're the fucking zombies?!

Query of the Day

Satan gets possessed by the Devil!

"This is the ultimate good versus evil story. Sayang and Satan are the only survivors of their entire race and world that was destroyed by their life-long enemy the Devil and they join forces to create a new world called Heaven.

However, Satan unknowingly gets possessed by the Devil which intensifies his own jealousy of his brother Sayang. Damned and reduced from several failed attempts to take over Heaven in the past, Satan manages to convince Sayang to create Hell for himself. Yet even Hell is not enough for Satan and so he steals the Great Book of Eternal Life and Death in the hopes of gaining infinite power."

Frankenstein's Monster: The Prologue

Last year, I wrote a young adult fantasy adventure novel called FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER. It's about a teen who inherits Dr. Frankenstein's original notes, and the monster comes looking for them, along with various bad guys. Hijinx ensue. Though I should point out that "hijinx," in this case, is defined as "explosions, martial arts and steampunk weird science."

I wrote the screenplay adaptation, and set both aside to work on my usual R-rated action thriller specs. Just for fun, I thought I'd throw the prologue up online.

This is a super-first draft, so please don't kick my ass too much.

THE CHAPTER BEFORE CHAPTER ONE:

THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR

Who could be happy with a name like Marvin Butterfield? No one sane.

So he made everyone call him “Fresh Marvy-B.” His email was FreshMarvyB@gmail.com. He’d named his World of Warcraft troll shaman “FreshMarvyB.” Sometimes he saw his friends in person. In those rare moments, they called him “Fresh Marvy-B” or “Marvy-B” or “Marvy” or “MB” or “dude.”

He was known as “FreshMarvyB655” on the auction sites.

Fresh Marvy-B opened a second bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. He downed a handful, with Mountain Dew straight from a two-liter bottle. He hunched over the keyboard, watching the final minute count down on an online auction. This one was for a stack of original copies of Weird Tales magazines, sci-fi pulp fiction published in the 1930s.

Fresh Marvy-B knew someone, somewhere out there didn’t just want the copies of Weird Tales. They needed those magazines, more than air or food or love. Getting the magazines might be the best thing that ever happened to them. Which was why Marvy-B loved collectables; people got crazy over the weirdest stuff.

Old toys and comic books weren’t better than new toys or comic books. But people paid a lot more for the old stuff. That’s how Fresh Marvy-B made money, selling people little talismans of their childhoods back to them.

Fresh Marvy-B lived in a one-bedroom apartment in North Hollywood. He sat in a very comfortable, ergonomic desk chair. There was nowhere else in the apartment to sit. Boxes covered the floor, the couch, the chairs, the counter-tops and the tables. Boxes were stacked six-deep in the corners, and forget about the closets.

The only clear space on the floor was a strategic, Y-shaped pathway. The tail started at Fresh Marvy-B’s computer desk, and the forks led to the kitchen and bathroom. Marvy-B had to climb over boxes to when he left the apartment. It helped that going outside was a rare activity for him.

The auction clock counted down past thirty seconds. The first round of robots appeared to snipe in bids. Marvy-B snorted. Amateurs.

The pros showed up in the last ten seconds. Offers exactly one cent higher than the previous bid rapid-fired through the ranks. The seconds quickly melted.

Fresh Marvy-B stacked three Doritos together into a little sandwich and inserted the whole thing in his mouth.

Three.

Two.

One…

The auction closed. Fresh Marvy-B sold the old magazines to a guy in Dayton, Ohio.

There was a knock at the door.

Fresh Marvy-B just stared at it. No one ever knocked on his door. Maybe he’d heard something from the hallway that just sounded like a knock on his door. Yeah, that was it – Marvy-B ignored it.

Another knock.

“Who is it?” Marvy-B yelled. But his mouth was full, so it came out as a mushy bellow, something like: “Mooo-hiiish-ehhh?”

No answer. Fresh Marvy-B rolled his eyes. He chewed as fast as he could to clear his mouth and regain the power of speech.

There wasn’t a third knock. Instead, Fresh Marvy-B’s unexpected visitor kicked the door open.

The flopping door knocked over boxes. Star Wars action figures tumbled out of one, trays full of neatly-arranged Hot Wheels cars spilled from another.

Fresh Marvy-B flinched. This was a first.

The visitor came into the apartment and said, “What is all this trash?”

He was middle-aged Asian man. He was somewhere between tall and short. He had dark brown skin and a big Fu Manchu mustache dropping over the sides of his mouth. He wore a black t-shirt and loose pants that flopped around his legs.

Marvy-B knew he should yell something like: I’m gonna call the cops, man! But he was too scared. Instead, he just answered the question and squeaked: “Collectables.”

The man pushed the door shut. It wouldn’t completely close, because he’d kicked the knob and lock off. The door just sorta hung a couple of inches less-open.

The man scooped up a handful of Star Wars figures worth a hundred bucks. “You collect dolls?”

“No, action figures,” Marvy-B said. “Toys. Didn’t you have any toys when you were a kid?”

“My father didn’t give me toys. He gave me beatings, and I liked it!” The Asian man threw the figures over his shoulder. They rattled across the tops of more cardboard boxes.

Fresh Marvy-B wondered if he was fast enough to dial nine-one-one before this guy beat him up.

“I’m looking for a set of bound notes, almost like a book,” the man said.

“A comic book?”

“No, a book for adults. It’s very old.”

“I only deal in comic books and graphic novels and related publications, like pulp – “

The visitor kicked a stack of boxes. They exploded in a shower of pink Power Rangers, Robotech planes, all-region horror movie DVDs and The Uncanny X-Men, issues #180-through-#210.

“Brian Thomas in Phoenix, Arizona sold the notes to you.” The man aimed his foot at Marvy-B like it was a cannon. “He sent a package to this address several weeks ago. The notes were in the package, which means you have the notes.”

Marvy-B thought Brian Thomas might have gotten a very similar visit. He hoped his door was the only thing that’d got broken.

“My boss wants the notes, which means I want them.” Leg still up, the man took a roll of cash from his shirt pocket. “I’m not a thief, I’ll pay you.”

The message was clear: Marvy-B had to choose between the money, or the kick.

His mouth went dry, and he could feel every Dorito crumb jammed between his teeth. He focused on the man’s foot. The guy was wearing the kinda soft shoe you see dudes wear in kung fu movies, which Fresh Marvy-B didn’t take as a good sign.

That’s when four ninjas of various shapes and sizes came into the apartment.

They blundered over the cardboard boxes by the door. One ninja fell face-first, his hands punching through the tops of boxes. “Ow! What’s in these things?”

The Asian man closed his eyes, as if wishing the ninjas would just go away.

The fallen ninja steadied himself on his knees and withdrew his hands from the boxes. Colorful action figures came out with them.

“No way! Lord of the Rings guys? You got Gollum!”

A second ninja leaned forward to see. “I had him and the Nazgul on my desk at work.” To Fresh Marvy-B: “Where’d you find ‘em?”

“They’re pretty easy to score online,” he said. “I have another in mint condition, but that one’s in storage.”

The Asian man dropped his leg so he could turn and face the ninjas. “I told you to wait outside.”

“Sorry, Thunderfoot,” said the third ninja. He was short and filled out his ninja outfit, a nice way of saying he was overweight.

“Not much ninja stuff going on out front,” said the fourth. “We wanted to see if you needed help.”

The Asian man – Thunderfoot – said, “I’ve sparred with Jet Li. I think I can handle a doll collector.”

To make his point, Thunderfoot snapped a kick at Fresh Marvy-B. The deadly foot stopped a millimeter from his forehead.

“The notes.”

Fresh Marvy-B made a dry squeak that sounded a lot like a broken shopping cart wheel.

“The notes!”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to think,” Marvy-B said. “I buy and sell a lot of stuff. And this is the first time I’ve ever had ninjas in my apartment.

“I’m not a ninja,” Thunderfoot said. “Ninjas are Japanese. I’m from Hong Kong.”

“We’re not really ninjas, either,” the first ninja said, examining an original-issue He-Man figure.

“We’re ninjas in training.”

“Elimi-ninja contestants.”

“Future ninjas of America.”

“Enough!” Thunderfoot had a gleam in his eye that said: shut up or I’ll kick you. The ninjas became very quiet, like ninjas should’ve been in the first place.

Marvy-B said: “I remember the thing you’re talking about, the handwritten notes of a scientist from the eighteenth century, held together in a leather binding.”

“Yes! That’s what I want.”

“I sold it.”

Thunderfoot’s shoe demanded answers.

“I sent them out a week ago,” Marvy-B told him. “I can give you the contact info. Name, addy, everything. The guy who bought it, he’s a professor doing research. Y’know, the dude who wrote that book about the Chinese finding America before Columbus.”

Thunderfoot seemed interested. “They did?”

“I loved that book,” the second ninja said. “Wasn’t it a bestseller?”

“Yeah, for something like a million years,” Fresh Marvy-B said.

Thunderfoot lowered his thunder foot.

Marvy-B let out a relieved sigh. “I keep all of my sales records on file.”

He printed out the professor’s information. Thunderfoot took the sheet, read it, nodded.

“Let’s go.” Thunderfoot headed for the door.

Marvy-B said: “I thought, uh…”

“What?”

“You were going to pay me.”

“Yes, for the notes. But you don’t have them.” Thunderfoot took the He-Man action figure from the ninja who was holding it. “Remember, if you call the police – ” He broke the figure in half, the implied message clear.

“I won’t, man. It’s cool.”

Thunderfoot vanished through the door. The ninjas filed out behind him. The broken boxes, the broken door and the broken He-Man figure were the only proof they’d been in the apartment.

Fresh Marvy-B wondered how giving a customer’s contact information to ninjas would affect his service rating.

A Rat Ate My Spaghetti

Last weekend, my friend and former client Ramsey was in town. He manages Bang Camaro, and they were in LA for an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel. Bang Camaro also had a show at the Viper Room, and Ramsey offered to put me on the guest list. Hell, yeah.

Online, it said the show would start about 7:30. I factored in two opening acts, and got ready to walk out the door at about 7.

I was just about to pull on my helmet... when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a black streak zoom from the corner behind my fridge to the corner behind my pantry. I didn't get a good look - it was more of a sense of motion than anything else - but I knew what it was, nonetheless: I had a rat.

I didn't flip out. Shit, that's life in the big city. But it's not like I wanted a roommate, either. So I took a look behind the pantry, and... yep, the wood between the pantry and the wall had been widened, just a little bit. I threw any food I'd left out in the fridge, and took out all my trash. I figured... he's here looking for food and, if there isn't any, he'll go away. The end.

I hit the dusty trail and get my ass over to West Hollywood. Now, a bit of backstory: when you get a motorcycle, it's like you've joined a secret club, membership in which gives you cheap gas and insurance, and free, non-hassle parking... under most circumstances. I have abject loathing for the parking patrol. They have fucked with me at length both here and back in Chicago. I like the sight of a rat more than the sight of these wretched souls.

Anyway, ordinarily I can just slide the bike between cars on the curb, or even dump it up on the sidewalk. Not so, Saturday night in West Hollywood. I found a side street just a block away from the Viper Room. I was backing up the bike to park between a couple of parked cars... and one of these parking patrol assholes pulls onto the street, stops and sits there, staring and waiting like a goddamn vulture. I knew the moment I got off that bike, I was officially "parked," and he'd slap me with a ticket. So, like any other civilian, I pulled it up to a meter, and shoveled in two bucks in quarters for two hours. Fuck it, better than the alternative.

The Viper Room. I get to be a complete Hollywood douchebag and walk up to the bouncer and say, "I think I'm on the guest list." Whaddaya know, I am. Stamp on the wrist, and in I go.

The first opening act is already playing. The guitarist is fantastic. I look around for Ramsey, don't see him in the dark. But I know dude's working, so I just find a place at the bar and grab a beer, watching the acts and waiting for Ramsey to walk past.

The first opening act leaves, the second comes on. They remind me of the Black Crows, and make a big deal out of being from South Carolina. Halfway through their set, I spot Ramsey on the other side of the room, wander over to say hi. The bands still playing, so it's a loud-bar conversation, as in: "HEY MAN!" "WHAT?" "I SAID, HEY MAN!" "OH! HEY!" "HOW YA BEEN?" "GOOD!"

As the Black Crows from South Carolina wrap, they mention a third opening act... one more band before Bang Camaro. In the relative quiet (as in: it's still loud as fuck, but at least a band isn't playing live twenty feet away), I tell Ramsey I'd better feed the meter and come back. No problem.

I duck down the street. Bike's still there, no tickets. I throw in another two bucks. Luckily, I've got a bunch of quarters on me.

I head back to the Viper Room, give the bouncer my guest list speech and show him the stamp on my wrist. He says, "Sorry, dude. No in-and-outs." I'm like, "But I'm on the guest list." No dice. "No in-and-outs, for anybody."

I'm pretty sure if I were Bruckheimer, I could have gotten back in. Though I don't have that level of juice... yet. I could have called Ramsey on his cell to see if he could help me out, but I didn't want to create drama. Also: I was kinda pissed about the parking and now this, and knew I'd be in a shitty mood the rest of the night. Fuck it, I split.

As I was riding home, I thought about the rat. He was probably gone by now, right? There was no food out for him to get at.... waaaaaait a minute. I remembered I had half a package of spaghetti in the pantry. It'd been sitting there for a while - I've been laying off the carbs - and I'd totally forgotten about it until right then.

I got back to the lair, went straight to the pantry, threw open the door... and yep, the package had been dragged to the back of the pantry, and it was empty.

A rat ate my spaghetti.

Query of the Day

"LOGLINE: Incest, (a sexual aroused teenage boy) "please mom it aches help me". A story that builds into wild humor exploding sex crazed hormone affairs, with a teacher and her male students to break their imaginary cherries. Car drag races, plus chases, to inflate egos and remove unwanted sexual coronary seduction competition.

SYNOPSIS: (Base on a true story) of a 15 year old boy's uncontrollable sex drive, which evolves into incest with his 12 year old sister, escalating to his 34 year old mother and concluding with the rape of his 26 year old English teacher. Located in Central California, in the muscle car high octane action of the late 50's & 60's. Happier times with the spirit of American Graffiti, high school romances warm and beautiful, entwined with testosterone male hormones and unrestrained sexual desires. Car drag races to inflate male and female self esteem egos. Car chases to dislodge neighboring towns dating boys, way from their own home grown, prim, alluring, sexy females, in addition, a violent physical fight, a testimonial of innocents, to defending a girls honor and reserve her dignity. Argumentatively, the best cars, the best of times, and the best teen music ever recorded, energized through out this movie.

Reminiscent of American Graffiti fused with American Pie, plus young love heartaches. "