Mark McLaughlin's Blog: Revenge of the B-Movie Monster, page 10
August 2, 2013
New Lovecraft Quiz! Take the Eldritch H.P. Lovecraft Gods & Monsters Quiz
So many of you liked my Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz, I created a new quiz to test your knowledge of HPL and his various cosmic creatures.
You can take the Eldritch H.P. Lovecraft Gods & Monsters Quiz by following this link:
http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2886...
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham
You can take the Eldritch H.P. Lovecraft Gods & Monsters Quiz by following this link:
http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2886...
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham
July 24, 2013
An Especially Eldritch Excerpt from BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM
...Best Little Witch-House in ArkhamShe felt overhead – no boards or dirt. She was out of the tunnel. Suddenly she had a horrible thought. Had all her wandering led her right back into the mansion?
She stood up, dug out the lighter and flicked it on again. The small wavering flame cast writhing shadows.
She was now in a small cave with a floor of slick gray stone. To one side was a pool with long bones and chunks of raw meat floating in it. Odd, flat, wet things were moving through the pool and around its rim. They were what made that slithering sound. At first she couldn’t tell what they were. They appeared to be shiny blankets – some beige, some pink, some olive-brown – moving aimlessly like misshapen slugs.
One worked its way toward her and she saw it was coated with fine scales, and parts of it were fringed with hair ... some parts seemed to be shaped like stockings, and those ended in flattened, boneless toes.
She screamed when she realized that the sluglike creatures were in fact living skins....
-- An excerpt from "A Beauty Treatment for Mrs. Hamogeorgakis," one of the 25 horror tales in the Mythos-inspired collection, BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on Kindle for just $2.99 (also available as a trade paperback). Just follow the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
July 13, 2013
Take the Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz!
I'm
Mark McLaughlin, author of the Mythos-inspired horror fiction collection,
Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.
How much do you know about the life and works of New England horror author H.P. Lovecraft? Take the Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz and find out....
http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2848...
Mark McLaughlin, author of the Mythos-inspired horror fiction collection,
Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. How much do you know about the life and works of New England horror author H.P. Lovecraft? Take the Great H.P. Lovecraft Quiz and find out....
http://www.goodreads.com/quizzes/2848...
July 7, 2013
Five-Star Review of BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM on Amazon.com
Five-star review by Bruce Blanchard of BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
The text of the review:
Back then, H.P. Lovecraft was plying his stories to the pulp market and centering their locale around the eldritch haunted town of Arkham, just another writer trying to make his fortune. He built up a following around some of the best writers in the horror business including the likes of Robert Bloch, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard and many others who fashioned their stories around the Old Ones, those monstrous beings seeking to return and impart their own version of madness. He died and his stories almost died with him except for the devoted determined to keep alive the cult of Cthulhu, Nyarlethotep, the dreaded Necronomicon, and Arkham University. Today, almost every horror writer seeks to add his own story. Most of the stories are serious in writing about the Hounds of Hell, haunted witch houses, midnight rituals, and the mysterious inhabitants at Innsmouth. And now, let me present to you Mark McLaughlin's additions which promises, no lie!, to make you giggle, guffaw, and snort milk out your nose or which ever potable you're drinking. The humor in the book may see spurts out your ears. Isn't that an image?
Mr. McLaughlin's Best Little Witch-House is a collection of 25 stories taking what we have today, mixing in that little swirl of H.P. and coming up with the likes of Cthulhu Royale (Bond), Hound-Dog McGee (Scooby Doo), Tony Tar-Pit and Monkey-Face Joe (the Flintstones), When We Was Flab (the Beatles). You'll run across a wonderful place to stay, Pickman's Motel. Attend the healings at St. Toad's Medical Center (you've seen the commercials). Try this title on for size: The Slivering Quiver of the River Lizard's Twisted Liver-Blisters. I have nothing but Praise for the stories in this collection. These are stories mixed with the serious and take a left turn into the absurd. If it was possible, H.P. Lovecraft would be involuntarily giggling. Download this treasure. The stories don't run long. For the true fans of Lovecraft out there, The Best Little Witch-House is one bringing out your laughter. For those unacquainted with his works, check out the genre and get a good laugh yourself. You will not go wrong in downloading this book.
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham
Available as a trade paperback and on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
The text of the review:
Back then, H.P. Lovecraft was plying his stories to the pulp market and centering their locale around the eldritch haunted town of Arkham, just another writer trying to make his fortune. He built up a following around some of the best writers in the horror business including the likes of Robert Bloch, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard and many others who fashioned their stories around the Old Ones, those monstrous beings seeking to return and impart their own version of madness. He died and his stories almost died with him except for the devoted determined to keep alive the cult of Cthulhu, Nyarlethotep, the dreaded Necronomicon, and Arkham University. Today, almost every horror writer seeks to add his own story. Most of the stories are serious in writing about the Hounds of Hell, haunted witch houses, midnight rituals, and the mysterious inhabitants at Innsmouth. And now, let me present to you Mark McLaughlin's additions which promises, no lie!, to make you giggle, guffaw, and snort milk out your nose or which ever potable you're drinking. The humor in the book may see spurts out your ears. Isn't that an image?
Mr. McLaughlin's Best Little Witch-House is a collection of 25 stories taking what we have today, mixing in that little swirl of H.P. and coming up with the likes of Cthulhu Royale (Bond), Hound-Dog McGee (Scooby Doo), Tony Tar-Pit and Monkey-Face Joe (the Flintstones), When We Was Flab (the Beatles). You'll run across a wonderful place to stay, Pickman's Motel. Attend the healings at St. Toad's Medical Center (you've seen the commercials). Try this title on for size: The Slivering Quiver of the River Lizard's Twisted Liver-Blisters. I have nothing but Praise for the stories in this collection. These are stories mixed with the serious and take a left turn into the absurd. If it was possible, H.P. Lovecraft would be involuntarily giggling. Download this treasure. The stories don't run long. For the true fans of Lovecraft out there, The Best Little Witch-House is one bringing out your laughter. For those unacquainted with his works, check out the genre and get a good laugh yourself. You will not go wrong in downloading this book.
...Best Little Witch-House in ArkhamAvailable as a trade paperback and on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
June 29, 2013
Excerpts from Three Stories in BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM
Excerpt No. 1 -- from the story, "The Embrace of Kugappa," one of the 25 horror tales in the Mythos-inspired collection, BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM:
Jasper always knew when he was dreaming, and yet the realization never woke him up, like it did most people.
He dreamed that he was on the beach of an island with bone-white sand, and before him stretched a horizon of dark green sea.
Sinuous – vines? – stretched up out of the water, huge vines overgrown with many smaller vines, and all those vines held an abundance of small, squirming things.
One of the vines swirled up out of the water close to shore, and he saw that it wasn’t a vine after all – how silly, how stupid, vines didn’t grow in oceans. It was a huge tentacle, overgrown with smaller tentacles, and those had even smaller tentacles on them, and so on in a sort of bio-fractal progression.
He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Not really. Because.
Because they.
They wanted.
Wanted him to be happy. Yes, the Great Old Ones wanted him to be happy, and Kugappa was one of the Great Old Ones, and the best way to be happy was to be like them.
Be.
Like.
Them.
Who’d told him that? Who’d told him about the Great Old Ones? He giggled – the initials of that spelled ‘goo.’ Why, that was who had told him. The goo had told him.
Before he knew it he was swimming in the dark green sea, even though he didn't know how to swim, and tentacles and tentacles-upon-tentacles were handling him, exploring him, sliding into every part of him, even into his pores, infiltrating his cells, embracing his soul...
----------
Excerpt No. 2 -- from the story, "Squidd, Inc.":
Henderson snapped one day in the department head meeting and began speaking in tongues: "Ulala pizani! Y'kha Shub-Niggurath ghakala! Azagga pupago ma'azu!"
Henderson's seat is right under the huge chrome Squidd, Inc. logo mounted on the wall, and his outburst was more than a little blasphemous – an affront to our disciplined business world. Or so I thought. We all looked to bulbous-eyed Old Man Squidd, our flabby corporate pooh-bah, to watch the fireworks.
The Old Man sat up in his chair (a formidable task for one so huge) and said, "By God, Henderson, I like a man with Spunk."
———
Spunk. Spunk. Spunk with a capital S became our watchword, our password, our office shibboleth.
At that time, Squidd, Inc. specialized in the production and distribution of pharmaceuticals, with interests in medical equipment and biochemical research. I was Director of Sales, and I longed for Spunk like the cartoon coyote longs for roadrunner meat.
I'd been with the company for twenty years; my hair had turned grey and my skin had grown spotty in the service of Squidd. My chair at the meeting table was choice: only three seats down from the Old Man. But did the younger Directors have any respect for my years of experience? Sorry, no. Whenever they deigned to speak with me, their smug expressions told the story too well. They saw me as nothing more than a corporate leftover – a dried-up old piece of sushi.
I wasn't about to let the matter of Spunk, and my lack thereof, cripple my standing with the company. I prayed at my desk: Gods of Commerce, I need more than just daily bread. Lead me deep into temptation and give me a magnum of champagne, a midnight-blue BMW, a penthouse office, a stock portfolio to die for, and most of all, a generous helping of high-energy, high-octane, high-and-mighty Spunk....
----------
Excerpt No. 3 -- from the story, "Cthulhu Royale":
Part I. Her Majesty’s Secret Shoggoth
“Bondcraft,” said the tall, lean, dark-haired, lantern-jawed man in the tuxedo. Black, of course: a tuxedo of any other color was madness, a veritable mountain of madness. “H.P. Bondcraft.”
“Dash it all!” ejaculated W., the Minister of Arcane Defense, a balding, heavyset man. “I know your name! Why, we’ve known each other since we roomed together at the London Academy for Young Espionage Gentlemen.”
Miss Tuppenceworth, W.’s pretty blonde secretary, looked out the window of her office, which served as antechamber to her superior’s sanctum sanctorum. “Why is it that whenever H.P. shows up, the sky is suddenly filled with multi-colored silhouettes of shapely women flying about? One can see outlines of guns among the female forms, and hear music filled with saxophones and trumpets. And there’s this sort of swirly gun-barrel shifting to and fro... Decidedly odd.”
“Not at all,” W. said. “It’s that private club down the road – the Society for the Advancement of Musical, Gun-Collecting Lady Gymnasts. Their ostentatious laser lightshows happen to coincide with Bondcraft’s visits.”
Miss Tuppenceworth fluttered her lashes at the spy. “So you went to school with W.? What was he like as a young lad?”
H.P. puffed thoughtfully at his cheroot. “Though Z. is the Ministry’s resident expert on curious devices, W. also showed signs of great mechanical aptitude back then. I remember one summer, he bought one of those jolly vibrating massage chairs, and added parts from a milking machine and an automatic taffy-puller, and we took turns–”
“Now, now,” W. chided, “Miss Tuppenceworth doesn’t have time to stroll down memory lane.”
H.P. smiled. “Oh, and once, W. played the part of Juliet in our espionage school production of—”
“Come with me, Bondcraft!” W. led the spy into his office and then locked the door behind them. H.P. headed straight to the liquor cabinet, where he made himself a tequila sunrise. Swizzled, not agitated.
“Drinking on the job!” W. scolded. “And tuxedos, always tuxedos. Why? Explain yourself!”
“Why?” Bondcraft smirked. “Why not?”
“You’re a spy! You’re supposed to blend in with the common rabble.”
“Or so one would think!” H.P. drained his glass. “But because I’m usually a little drunk and stand out so, no enemy would ever suspect that I am in fact a secret agent. They’d be expecting someone sober and utterly nondescript.”
“I say! I never thought of it that way. Ingenious!” W. sat down behind his enormous mahogany desk, which was littered with stacks of papers and several anatomically correct primitive fetish dolls.
“So what’s new in the Ministry of Arcane Defense?” the spy asked.
“Some good news from our research base on Antarctica.” W. flashed a merry grin. “We’ve found and captured a shoggoth! All very hush-hush, of course – top secret! We’re still trying to figure out what to do with the blasted thing... It’s so big and squishy. It eats quite a lot ... it can change its shape ... perhaps the awful thing has some potential as a biological weapon.”
“You could always drop it on an enemy camp,” Bondcraft said, “and let it eat everybody.”
“Not a bad idea, but afterward, recapturing it would be a problem. Right now it’s very sluggish, since it’s down at that research base. The thing can’t move very fast in that frigid climate. If we let it loose in a warmer spot, we might never be able to pen it up again. We’re trying to figure out how to control the beast ... perhaps even communicate with it. Maybe we’ll find some more – the research chaps say Antarctica used to be crawling with them, back when it was less chilly down there. Anyway, let me tell you about your assignment.”
Bondcraft smiled. “Is there an international casino involved? And a sexy double-agent?”
“Silly boy,” W. said. “There’s always an international casino involved. Master-criminals cluster around those casinos like flies around a dead street urchin. And yes, naturally here’s a sexy double-agent. Vadda Fookenhottie.”
Bondcraft smirked. “Such language!”
W. rolled his eyes. “That’s her name: Vadda Fookenhottie. We have no pictures of her on file, but it wouldn’t matter anyway because she is a master of disguise. Or should I say mistress of disguise...? Anyway, in addition to Miss Fookenhottie, you will be dealing with – not one, not two, not four, but three arch-villains.”
H.P. allowed himself a small gasp. “Not ... the 3D Cult? Dagon’s Deadly Disciples...?”
----------
To find out what happens next in any of those stories, read BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on Kindle or as a trade paperback.
A link to the e-book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
A link to the book's page here on GoodReads:
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham
Jasper always knew when he was dreaming, and yet the realization never woke him up, like it did most people.
He dreamed that he was on the beach of an island with bone-white sand, and before him stretched a horizon of dark green sea.
Sinuous – vines? – stretched up out of the water, huge vines overgrown with many smaller vines, and all those vines held an abundance of small, squirming things.
One of the vines swirled up out of the water close to shore, and he saw that it wasn’t a vine after all – how silly, how stupid, vines didn’t grow in oceans. It was a huge tentacle, overgrown with smaller tentacles, and those had even smaller tentacles on them, and so on in a sort of bio-fractal progression.
He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Not really. Because.
Because they.
They wanted.
Wanted him to be happy. Yes, the Great Old Ones wanted him to be happy, and Kugappa was one of the Great Old Ones, and the best way to be happy was to be like them.
Be.
Like.
Them.
Who’d told him that? Who’d told him about the Great Old Ones? He giggled – the initials of that spelled ‘goo.’ Why, that was who had told him. The goo had told him.
Before he knew it he was swimming in the dark green sea, even though he didn't know how to swim, and tentacles and tentacles-upon-tentacles were handling him, exploring him, sliding into every part of him, even into his pores, infiltrating his cells, embracing his soul...
----------
Excerpt No. 2 -- from the story, "Squidd, Inc.":
Henderson snapped one day in the department head meeting and began speaking in tongues: "Ulala pizani! Y'kha Shub-Niggurath ghakala! Azagga pupago ma'azu!"
Henderson's seat is right under the huge chrome Squidd, Inc. logo mounted on the wall, and his outburst was more than a little blasphemous – an affront to our disciplined business world. Or so I thought. We all looked to bulbous-eyed Old Man Squidd, our flabby corporate pooh-bah, to watch the fireworks.
The Old Man sat up in his chair (a formidable task for one so huge) and said, "By God, Henderson, I like a man with Spunk."
———
Spunk. Spunk. Spunk with a capital S became our watchword, our password, our office shibboleth.
At that time, Squidd, Inc. specialized in the production and distribution of pharmaceuticals, with interests in medical equipment and biochemical research. I was Director of Sales, and I longed for Spunk like the cartoon coyote longs for roadrunner meat.
I'd been with the company for twenty years; my hair had turned grey and my skin had grown spotty in the service of Squidd. My chair at the meeting table was choice: only three seats down from the Old Man. But did the younger Directors have any respect for my years of experience? Sorry, no. Whenever they deigned to speak with me, their smug expressions told the story too well. They saw me as nothing more than a corporate leftover – a dried-up old piece of sushi.
I wasn't about to let the matter of Spunk, and my lack thereof, cripple my standing with the company. I prayed at my desk: Gods of Commerce, I need more than just daily bread. Lead me deep into temptation and give me a magnum of champagne, a midnight-blue BMW, a penthouse office, a stock portfolio to die for, and most of all, a generous helping of high-energy, high-octane, high-and-mighty Spunk....
----------
Excerpt No. 3 -- from the story, "Cthulhu Royale":
Part I. Her Majesty’s Secret Shoggoth
“Bondcraft,” said the tall, lean, dark-haired, lantern-jawed man in the tuxedo. Black, of course: a tuxedo of any other color was madness, a veritable mountain of madness. “H.P. Bondcraft.”
“Dash it all!” ejaculated W., the Minister of Arcane Defense, a balding, heavyset man. “I know your name! Why, we’ve known each other since we roomed together at the London Academy for Young Espionage Gentlemen.”
Miss Tuppenceworth, W.’s pretty blonde secretary, looked out the window of her office, which served as antechamber to her superior’s sanctum sanctorum. “Why is it that whenever H.P. shows up, the sky is suddenly filled with multi-colored silhouettes of shapely women flying about? One can see outlines of guns among the female forms, and hear music filled with saxophones and trumpets. And there’s this sort of swirly gun-barrel shifting to and fro... Decidedly odd.”
“Not at all,” W. said. “It’s that private club down the road – the Society for the Advancement of Musical, Gun-Collecting Lady Gymnasts. Their ostentatious laser lightshows happen to coincide with Bondcraft’s visits.”
Miss Tuppenceworth fluttered her lashes at the spy. “So you went to school with W.? What was he like as a young lad?”
H.P. puffed thoughtfully at his cheroot. “Though Z. is the Ministry’s resident expert on curious devices, W. also showed signs of great mechanical aptitude back then. I remember one summer, he bought one of those jolly vibrating massage chairs, and added parts from a milking machine and an automatic taffy-puller, and we took turns–”
“Now, now,” W. chided, “Miss Tuppenceworth doesn’t have time to stroll down memory lane.”
H.P. smiled. “Oh, and once, W. played the part of Juliet in our espionage school production of—”
“Come with me, Bondcraft!” W. led the spy into his office and then locked the door behind them. H.P. headed straight to the liquor cabinet, where he made himself a tequila sunrise. Swizzled, not agitated.
“Drinking on the job!” W. scolded. “And tuxedos, always tuxedos. Why? Explain yourself!”
“Why?” Bondcraft smirked. “Why not?”
“You’re a spy! You’re supposed to blend in with the common rabble.”
“Or so one would think!” H.P. drained his glass. “But because I’m usually a little drunk and stand out so, no enemy would ever suspect that I am in fact a secret agent. They’d be expecting someone sober and utterly nondescript.”
“I say! I never thought of it that way. Ingenious!” W. sat down behind his enormous mahogany desk, which was littered with stacks of papers and several anatomically correct primitive fetish dolls.
“So what’s new in the Ministry of Arcane Defense?” the spy asked.
“Some good news from our research base on Antarctica.” W. flashed a merry grin. “We’ve found and captured a shoggoth! All very hush-hush, of course – top secret! We’re still trying to figure out what to do with the blasted thing... It’s so big and squishy. It eats quite a lot ... it can change its shape ... perhaps the awful thing has some potential as a biological weapon.”
“You could always drop it on an enemy camp,” Bondcraft said, “and let it eat everybody.”
“Not a bad idea, but afterward, recapturing it would be a problem. Right now it’s very sluggish, since it’s down at that research base. The thing can’t move very fast in that frigid climate. If we let it loose in a warmer spot, we might never be able to pen it up again. We’re trying to figure out how to control the beast ... perhaps even communicate with it. Maybe we’ll find some more – the research chaps say Antarctica used to be crawling with them, back when it was less chilly down there. Anyway, let me tell you about your assignment.”
Bondcraft smiled. “Is there an international casino involved? And a sexy double-agent?”
“Silly boy,” W. said. “There’s always an international casino involved. Master-criminals cluster around those casinos like flies around a dead street urchin. And yes, naturally here’s a sexy double-agent. Vadda Fookenhottie.”
Bondcraft smirked. “Such language!”
W. rolled his eyes. “That’s her name: Vadda Fookenhottie. We have no pictures of her on file, but it wouldn’t matter anyway because she is a master of disguise. Or should I say mistress of disguise...? Anyway, in addition to Miss Fookenhottie, you will be dealing with – not one, not two, not four, but three arch-villains.”
H.P. allowed himself a small gasp. “Not ... the 3D Cult? Dagon’s Deadly Disciples...?”
----------
To find out what happens next in any of those stories, read BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on Kindle or as a trade paperback.
A link to the e-book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
A link to the book's page here on GoodReads:
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham
June 4, 2013
New Book Out: BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM
BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, my new collection of 25 Mythos-inspired tales, is now available.
Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly nightmares and blasphemies ... enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.
Here you will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will meet a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains.
You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, a grotesque insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time.
You will smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man. You will drink the creamy Milk of Time, an unholy substance which flows through the depths of a forbidden house of horrors known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even travel through deep space to a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you will sink your teeth into the monstrous specialty of the house.
You will find all of these horrors, and so much more ... in the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.
Check out the book's cover here:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly nightmares and blasphemies ... enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.
Here you will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will meet a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains.
You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, a grotesque insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time.
You will smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man. You will drink the creamy Milk of Time, an unholy substance which flows through the depths of a forbidden house of horrors known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even travel through deep space to a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you will sink your teeth into the monstrous specialty of the house.
You will find all of these horrors, and so much more ... in the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.
Check out the book's cover here:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...
May 25, 2013
Supermen In Review
Spider-Man.
Spider-Man.
According to his old TV theme song, does whatever a spider can.
Catches bad-guys just like flies, is incredibly strong, spins webs but doesn't shoot the filaments out of butt-glands, like actual spiders. What's up with that? Since when have spiders ever shot webbing out of their wrists? Do spiders even have wrists?
Spider-Man would do a better, more authentic job if he fired webbing out of butt-glands. Think about it. A sight like that would freeze any criminal in his or her tracks.
“My God,” they would cry, “what is that man in that body stocking doing? Why is he pointing his butt at me like that...?” While they were staring, he could easily subdue them with a few healthy squirts of butt-gland webbing. All in a day’s work!
---
Grasshopper-Man.
Grasshopper-Man.
Does whatever a grasshopper can.
Grasshopper-Man can jump incredible distances, and rub his legs together to create a hypnotic cheeping sound to send his enemies into a trance.
On the downside, you can't trust him near a garden. He'll eat all your sweet corn and not give it a second thought. But then, that’s certainly a small price to pay for his unique insect powers.
Grasshopper-Man also leaks brown spittle onto his enemies to demoralize them, and inconvenience them, too. Super-villains usually wear pretty fashionable costumes, and that brown crap only comes out with dry-cleaning, thus helping to deplete the budgets of evildoers.
---
Woman-Man.
Woman-Man.
Does whatever a woman can.
Woman-Man wears a bra and panties under his elegant silk superhero outfit. He also wears a lot of foundation, and large rings to make his hands look smaller.
Woman-Man can't actually do everything a woman can. He can’t have a baby, which is probably just as well, since his plumbing wouldn't allow for its exit. You can't squeeze a melon out of a spigot.
Woman-Man is actually a cross-dresser. But then, you've probably figured that out by now.
---
Garbage-Man.
Garbage-Man.
Regularly empties the garbage can.
Garbage-Man's sworn oath is to clean up this town. He does so by driving from house to house in an enormous truck, hauling away people's garbage. He also has a crime-fighting partner who helps to empty the cans into the back of the truck. His partner's name is Brent.
Brent likes the beeping sound the garbage truck makes when it's backing up. He even beeps along with the truck.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Garbage-Man worries about Brent.
Spider-Man.
According to his old TV theme song, does whatever a spider can.
Catches bad-guys just like flies, is incredibly strong, spins webs but doesn't shoot the filaments out of butt-glands, like actual spiders. What's up with that? Since when have spiders ever shot webbing out of their wrists? Do spiders even have wrists?
Spider-Man would do a better, more authentic job if he fired webbing out of butt-glands. Think about it. A sight like that would freeze any criminal in his or her tracks.
“My God,” they would cry, “what is that man in that body stocking doing? Why is he pointing his butt at me like that...?” While they were staring, he could easily subdue them with a few healthy squirts of butt-gland webbing. All in a day’s work!
---
Grasshopper-Man.
Grasshopper-Man.
Does whatever a grasshopper can.
Grasshopper-Man can jump incredible distances, and rub his legs together to create a hypnotic cheeping sound to send his enemies into a trance.
On the downside, you can't trust him near a garden. He'll eat all your sweet corn and not give it a second thought. But then, that’s certainly a small price to pay for his unique insect powers.
Grasshopper-Man also leaks brown spittle onto his enemies to demoralize them, and inconvenience them, too. Super-villains usually wear pretty fashionable costumes, and that brown crap only comes out with dry-cleaning, thus helping to deplete the budgets of evildoers.
---
Woman-Man.
Woman-Man.
Does whatever a woman can.
Woman-Man wears a bra and panties under his elegant silk superhero outfit. He also wears a lot of foundation, and large rings to make his hands look smaller.
Woman-Man can't actually do everything a woman can. He can’t have a baby, which is probably just as well, since his plumbing wouldn't allow for its exit. You can't squeeze a melon out of a spigot.
Woman-Man is actually a cross-dresser. But then, you've probably figured that out by now.
---
Garbage-Man.
Garbage-Man.
Regularly empties the garbage can.
Garbage-Man's sworn oath is to clean up this town. He does so by driving from house to house in an enormous truck, hauling away people's garbage. He also has a crime-fighting partner who helps to empty the cans into the back of the truck. His partner's name is Brent.
Brent likes the beeping sound the garbage truck makes when it's backing up. He even beeps along with the truck.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Garbage-Man worries about Brent.
May 10, 2013
Thank You, Dr. Who, Dr. Hu, and King Kong
If it weren’t for English and Japanese entertainment, I probably wouldn’t be a writer.
My rural childhood was extremely boring. One day, when I was caught up with my farm chores and no one else was in the house, I turned on the TV and saw, on PBS, a completely fascinating show called Dr. Who.
My first thought was, “What the heck is this?” Silver-haired, urbane Jon Pertwee was the Doctor in that episode. I later learned that lots of actors have taken on the role of time-traveling Dr. Who over the years. Pertwee played the part with a jaunty James Bond-style air of adventure and sophistication.
I was instantly intrigued by Dr. Who’s sophisticated accent, and well as the chirpy, cheerful voice of his assistant, Jo Grant, who always started each question with “But Doctor!” And I was entranced by the monster: a Chronovore, or time-eater, that looked like a cross between a canary and a flying chess piece. I also loved the show’s quirky scientific principles and wild plotline.
The next year, I had the opportunity to see King Kong Escapes at a drive-in, and that, too, was utterly enthralling and exotic to little country-boy Mark! It featured King Kong fighting a mad doctor (named Dr. Hu ... quite a coincidence!) who plots to take over the world with the help of a giant mechanical version of King Kong. (I used to think the movie was Godzilla Vs. MechaGodzilla, but eventually I came across the right movie at a store and my memory cleared up once I watched it.)
Speculative fiction, in print and movie form alike, gets a lot of flack because some people think it will inspire readers and/or audience members to evil. But really, evil folks don’t need inspiration. They’re bad to begin with. In most cases, speculative fiction inspires people in a good way.
Dr. Who and that King Kong movie made me realize there was more to life than just country life and chores. Those shows, with their high-flying adventures, did me a huge favor by planting discontent in my heart. They made me discontent with the thought of a boring future in a rural area where I didn't have any friends.
I often hear people talk about the fact that they are discontent with their relationships, or careers, or their lives in general. Many, for example, are discontent with their lack of opportunities. Many worry if they'll even have a job the next day.
Well, don’t just shrug off your discontent by saying, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about it. Things will get better eventually.” Don’t paste on a fake smile and say everything is peachy. Embrace your discontent and learn from it, and then get rid of it by doing something to correct or improve the situation.
Pursue your future. Don’t wait for someone to drop it in your lap, because that may never happen. You’ll only end up with an empty lap and a lot of wasted years. If you hit a roadblock, drive around it. Build a new road if necessary.
Eventually I discovered writing, and now I write constantly, both at home (where I’m writing this) and as part of my office career. See Mark write. Write, Mark, write. Mark has friends now. Mark is happy.
Speculative fiction is the literature of inspiration, and it is a good thing because it can encourage people to take action in their lives. It is also the literature of escapism, and that's good, too, since it can remind trapped people that yes, they can escape from unhappy situations if they are willing to work hard on their own behalf.
So thank you, Dr. Who, Dr. Hu, and King Kong, for inspiring an unhappy child to work toward a better future.
My rural childhood was extremely boring. One day, when I was caught up with my farm chores and no one else was in the house, I turned on the TV and saw, on PBS, a completely fascinating show called Dr. Who.
My first thought was, “What the heck is this?” Silver-haired, urbane Jon Pertwee was the Doctor in that episode. I later learned that lots of actors have taken on the role of time-traveling Dr. Who over the years. Pertwee played the part with a jaunty James Bond-style air of adventure and sophistication.
I was instantly intrigued by Dr. Who’s sophisticated accent, and well as the chirpy, cheerful voice of his assistant, Jo Grant, who always started each question with “But Doctor!” And I was entranced by the monster: a Chronovore, or time-eater, that looked like a cross between a canary and a flying chess piece. I also loved the show’s quirky scientific principles and wild plotline.
The next year, I had the opportunity to see King Kong Escapes at a drive-in, and that, too, was utterly enthralling and exotic to little country-boy Mark! It featured King Kong fighting a mad doctor (named Dr. Hu ... quite a coincidence!) who plots to take over the world with the help of a giant mechanical version of King Kong. (I used to think the movie was Godzilla Vs. MechaGodzilla, but eventually I came across the right movie at a store and my memory cleared up once I watched it.)
Speculative fiction, in print and movie form alike, gets a lot of flack because some people think it will inspire readers and/or audience members to evil. But really, evil folks don’t need inspiration. They’re bad to begin with. In most cases, speculative fiction inspires people in a good way.
Dr. Who and that King Kong movie made me realize there was more to life than just country life and chores. Those shows, with their high-flying adventures, did me a huge favor by planting discontent in my heart. They made me discontent with the thought of a boring future in a rural area where I didn't have any friends.
I often hear people talk about the fact that they are discontent with their relationships, or careers, or their lives in general. Many, for example, are discontent with their lack of opportunities. Many worry if they'll even have a job the next day.
Well, don’t just shrug off your discontent by saying, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about it. Things will get better eventually.” Don’t paste on a fake smile and say everything is peachy. Embrace your discontent and learn from it, and then get rid of it by doing something to correct or improve the situation.
Pursue your future. Don’t wait for someone to drop it in your lap, because that may never happen. You’ll only end up with an empty lap and a lot of wasted years. If you hit a roadblock, drive around it. Build a new road if necessary.
Eventually I discovered writing, and now I write constantly, both at home (where I’m writing this) and as part of my office career. See Mark write. Write, Mark, write. Mark has friends now. Mark is happy.
Speculative fiction is the literature of inspiration, and it is a good thing because it can encourage people to take action in their lives. It is also the literature of escapism, and that's good, too, since it can remind trapped people that yes, they can escape from unhappy situations if they are willing to work hard on their own behalf.
So thank you, Dr. Who, Dr. Hu, and King Kong, for inspiring an unhappy child to work toward a better future.
May 5, 2013
A Loving Look Back at '70s Horror Movies
Thinking back, it seems to me that horror movies stopped being scary back in the 1970s. Is it the movies, or is it me? I was younger then, so maybe it didn't take much to scare me. Or maybe the real world was less frightening back then, making cinematic terrors seem more intimidating by comparison.
Back then, nobody worried about terrorism or AIDS or mad-cow disease or flesh-eating bacteria or any of the other dozens of bugaboos plaguing society today. Yesteryear's shockers didn't have to compete with planes flying into skyscrapers or anthrax threats or beheadings in the Middle East.
What scared me back then? The hideous, charred face of "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" was pretty darned scary, but the stylish doctor was a sophisticated creampuff compared to the deep-South inbred maniacs of the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" gang. When I first saw that title, I thought it might be some kind of wacky dark comedy, a la "Little Shop of Horrors" – boy, was I wrong!
The grainy film quality, the herky-jerky camera action, all gave a jittery, realistic quality to the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" nightmares up on the screen. And the first time you see old Leatherface, revving up his chainsaw in that ramshackle house of madness – that's a sight you won't soon forget.
Not all movies of that era achieved that same degree of realism, but they were still plenty horrific. For example, the plot of "Sssssss" was utterly implausible, but that's okay – its sheer exuberance carried it through.
Strother Martin played a mad scientist bent on turning humanity into a race of super-intelligent king cobras, for all sorts of goofball reasons. And gee, he'd even invented the formula that would do the trick.
Soon his handsome young assistant's hair is falling out and his skin begins turning scaly. Now if I was working for a mad scientist who was cuckoo for reptiles and my skin suddenly began growing scales... I'd put two and two together. I'd figure out that little Scooby Doo mystery in no time.
But sadly, the assistant in this slithery potboiler never connects the dots. Before long he's the poster boy for the world's most effective slimming program. No arms, no legs, just a lanky serpentine abdomen – that's about as slender as you're gonna get.
"The Devil's Rain," with it's ghoulish cult of wax-blooded devil-worshippers, is a great example of the many Satanic horror movies of the Seventies. The Devil was scarier back then! William Shatner's super-exuberant acting style fit perfectly into this Mephistophelean drive-in shocker.
Even made-for-TV movies were scarier in those days. The old "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" TV movies, and the weekly series that followed, worked my young nerves into a frenzy with their cheesy chills and thrills.
Darren McGavin played a gonzo reporter in a cheap suit who was forever chasing vampires and werewolves and even Jack the Ripper around town in his continuing quest for the ultimate scoop. And he usually ended up vanquishing the monster – but gosh darn it, his camera film wouldn't develop, or the cops would lose the evidence, or some other exasperating inconvenience would foul the deal, so that Kolchak's crabby editor would have to axe the story.
They never showed more than a glimpse of the monsters, and that actually made it even scarier. You'd wait and wait for that choice moment when suddenly the creature would pop out of the shadows, ready to flay poor Kolchak to bits. Fortunately, he always did his research, so he'd have the necessary cross or wolfbane or whatever was needed to conquer the boogeyman du jour.
But I will admit, in recent years, I've seen a few movies that conveyed the same macabre mood as those '70s favorites of mine, so I guess it is still possible for me to be captivated by cinema horror. They aren't super-new releases, but you can find them in most stores that sell DVDs.
"Jeepers Creepers" and "Jeepers Creepers 2" tell the tale of a hideous creature that wakes every 23 years to feast for 23 days. If the Creeper needs to replace a hand or leg or other segment of his body, he'll just eat that bit off a tasty victim and presto! New replacement part. That's a pretty gonzo idea for a monster. "Cabin in the Woods" and "Dead Silence" are other, more recent movies that also hit the bull's-eye with plenty of exhilarating weirdness.
Weirdness -- that's what a lot of movies since the '70s have been missing. Many of today's movies seem to be retreads of earlier, better movies.
Plus, '70s horror movies had a lot more energy. The critters leaped into the horror arena with savage gusto. A lot of today's monsters either hover in the shadows or straggle across the screen like damp tomcats that have been left out in the rain all night.
So if you're looking for a creepy chiller and the new releases aren't cuttin' it for you, try hunting down some vintage '70s classics. You have nothing to lose – except your SANITY! Bwaaah-haaa-haaaa-haaaaaaah!
Back then, nobody worried about terrorism or AIDS or mad-cow disease or flesh-eating bacteria or any of the other dozens of bugaboos plaguing society today. Yesteryear's shockers didn't have to compete with planes flying into skyscrapers or anthrax threats or beheadings in the Middle East.
What scared me back then? The hideous, charred face of "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" was pretty darned scary, but the stylish doctor was a sophisticated creampuff compared to the deep-South inbred maniacs of the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" gang. When I first saw that title, I thought it might be some kind of wacky dark comedy, a la "Little Shop of Horrors" – boy, was I wrong!
The grainy film quality, the herky-jerky camera action, all gave a jittery, realistic quality to the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" nightmares up on the screen. And the first time you see old Leatherface, revving up his chainsaw in that ramshackle house of madness – that's a sight you won't soon forget.
Not all movies of that era achieved that same degree of realism, but they were still plenty horrific. For example, the plot of "Sssssss" was utterly implausible, but that's okay – its sheer exuberance carried it through.
Strother Martin played a mad scientist bent on turning humanity into a race of super-intelligent king cobras, for all sorts of goofball reasons. And gee, he'd even invented the formula that would do the trick.
Soon his handsome young assistant's hair is falling out and his skin begins turning scaly. Now if I was working for a mad scientist who was cuckoo for reptiles and my skin suddenly began growing scales... I'd put two and two together. I'd figure out that little Scooby Doo mystery in no time.
But sadly, the assistant in this slithery potboiler never connects the dots. Before long he's the poster boy for the world's most effective slimming program. No arms, no legs, just a lanky serpentine abdomen – that's about as slender as you're gonna get.
"The Devil's Rain," with it's ghoulish cult of wax-blooded devil-worshippers, is a great example of the many Satanic horror movies of the Seventies. The Devil was scarier back then! William Shatner's super-exuberant acting style fit perfectly into this Mephistophelean drive-in shocker.
Even made-for-TV movies were scarier in those days. The old "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" TV movies, and the weekly series that followed, worked my young nerves into a frenzy with their cheesy chills and thrills.
Darren McGavin played a gonzo reporter in a cheap suit who was forever chasing vampires and werewolves and even Jack the Ripper around town in his continuing quest for the ultimate scoop. And he usually ended up vanquishing the monster – but gosh darn it, his camera film wouldn't develop, or the cops would lose the evidence, or some other exasperating inconvenience would foul the deal, so that Kolchak's crabby editor would have to axe the story.
They never showed more than a glimpse of the monsters, and that actually made it even scarier. You'd wait and wait for that choice moment when suddenly the creature would pop out of the shadows, ready to flay poor Kolchak to bits. Fortunately, he always did his research, so he'd have the necessary cross or wolfbane or whatever was needed to conquer the boogeyman du jour.
But I will admit, in recent years, I've seen a few movies that conveyed the same macabre mood as those '70s favorites of mine, so I guess it is still possible for me to be captivated by cinema horror. They aren't super-new releases, but you can find them in most stores that sell DVDs.
"Jeepers Creepers" and "Jeepers Creepers 2" tell the tale of a hideous creature that wakes every 23 years to feast for 23 days. If the Creeper needs to replace a hand or leg or other segment of his body, he'll just eat that bit off a tasty victim and presto! New replacement part. That's a pretty gonzo idea for a monster. "Cabin in the Woods" and "Dead Silence" are other, more recent movies that also hit the bull's-eye with plenty of exhilarating weirdness.
Weirdness -- that's what a lot of movies since the '70s have been missing. Many of today's movies seem to be retreads of earlier, better movies.
Plus, '70s horror movies had a lot more energy. The critters leaped into the horror arena with savage gusto. A lot of today's monsters either hover in the shadows or straggle across the screen like damp tomcats that have been left out in the rain all night.
So if you're looking for a creepy chiller and the new releases aren't cuttin' it for you, try hunting down some vintage '70s classics. You have nothing to lose – except your SANITY! Bwaaah-haaa-haaaa-haaaaaaah!
April 27, 2013
Saving the World from Evil Naked Millionaires: A Holiday Story, Set in July
A heartwarming tale of community service!
Saving the World from Evil Naked Millionaires: A Holiday Story, Set in July
by Mark McLaughlin
It was outrageous. Deplorable. Blasphemous.
I was walking downtown on a sunny July day, mentally listing all the wonderful things I was going to buy my friends for Christmas (I am so generous, I often think about that sort of thing many months in advance), when suddenly, I saw before me three naked millionaires, strolling along just as casual as can be. They were old, saggy, wrinkled and bloated. I could tell they were millionaires because they had diamond rings on their fingers and toes.
Grandmothers fainted. Mothers covered the eyes of children. Fathers shook their fists, but none dared to stop the evil naked millionaires.
I saw my friend, square-jawed Officer Forthright. “Officer Forthright,” I said, “why don’t you arrest those nude rich people? Don’t tell me that my friend Officer Forthright is afraid of a few naked millionaires!”
“My hands are tied,” Officer Forthright said. “The boys on Capitol Hill passed a law yesterday. A law that allows those decadent rich bastards to prance around as naked as they please. I happen to have a photocopy of the law with me.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.
I smoothed out the document and read the shocking words: LAW A237-B DECREES THAT THOSE DECADENT RICH BASTARDS SHALL PRANCE AROUND AS NAKED AS THEY PLEASE. AND FURTHERMORE, THIS LAW SHALL NEVER BE AMENDED OR REPEALED.
“This time, the boys on Capitol Hill have gone too far!” I shouted. I marched up to the trio of naked millionaires and held out the photocopy.
“So! Is this your doing?” I cried.
The fattest millionaire squinted his beady red eyes at the paper. “Indeed it is,” he said. “We bought -- er, uh, petitioned for that law and now it’s official.” He chuckled smugly. “And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Like the last line says: this law shall never be amended or repealed.”
“And I couldn’t be happier!” I said. I beckoned to my friend, Officer Forthright, and he rushed to my side. “Officer Forthright, prepare to arrest these shameless human devils.”
He scratched his head. “How do you figure? After all, a law’s a law.”
I pointed at the photocopy. “It says here that these naked millionaires must be PRANCING AROUND. Why, not only are they not PRANCING, but to make matters even more blatantly illegal, they are not PRANCING AROUND anything!”
Officer Forthright smiled. “You heard him, boys. Start PRANCING AROUND. If you don’t, I’m going to have to toss your baby-soft million-dollar behinds IN JAIL!”
“Oh, no!” cried the fattest millionaire. Instantly all three of those pampered ne’er-do-wells began to prance: around trees and fire hydrants and warehouses, faster and faster. My fellow citizens and I laughed and laughed.
Soon the sweat was streaming off the naked millionaires in torrents. One of them fell down and cracked his kneecaps against the sidewalk -- his dentures popped out of his mouth with a wet smack. He tried to rest for a moment, but my friend Officer Forthright shouted, “Come on, Chunky! Start prancing! It’s the LAW!” So that rich bastard got up and started prancing again. Then some big dogs starting chasing all three naked millionaires, and boy, THAT was funny.
Finally, all three evil naked millionaires dropped dead of heart attacks, and the people cheered.
“You saved the day,” Officer Forthright said, patting me on the back. “Thank you, Mark McLaughlin!”
“Oh, no. Thank YOU, Officer Forthright,” I said. "Now I can resume thinking about what I'm getting you for Christmas!"
-- End --
Saving the World from Evil Naked Millionaires: A Holiday Story, Set in July
by Mark McLaughlin
It was outrageous. Deplorable. Blasphemous.
I was walking downtown on a sunny July day, mentally listing all the wonderful things I was going to buy my friends for Christmas (I am so generous, I often think about that sort of thing many months in advance), when suddenly, I saw before me three naked millionaires, strolling along just as casual as can be. They were old, saggy, wrinkled and bloated. I could tell they were millionaires because they had diamond rings on their fingers and toes.
Grandmothers fainted. Mothers covered the eyes of children. Fathers shook their fists, but none dared to stop the evil naked millionaires.
I saw my friend, square-jawed Officer Forthright. “Officer Forthright,” I said, “why don’t you arrest those nude rich people? Don’t tell me that my friend Officer Forthright is afraid of a few naked millionaires!”
“My hands are tied,” Officer Forthright said. “The boys on Capitol Hill passed a law yesterday. A law that allows those decadent rich bastards to prance around as naked as they please. I happen to have a photocopy of the law with me.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.
I smoothed out the document and read the shocking words: LAW A237-B DECREES THAT THOSE DECADENT RICH BASTARDS SHALL PRANCE AROUND AS NAKED AS THEY PLEASE. AND FURTHERMORE, THIS LAW SHALL NEVER BE AMENDED OR REPEALED.
“This time, the boys on Capitol Hill have gone too far!” I shouted. I marched up to the trio of naked millionaires and held out the photocopy.
“So! Is this your doing?” I cried.
The fattest millionaire squinted his beady red eyes at the paper. “Indeed it is,” he said. “We bought -- er, uh, petitioned for that law and now it’s official.” He chuckled smugly. “And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Like the last line says: this law shall never be amended or repealed.”
“And I couldn’t be happier!” I said. I beckoned to my friend, Officer Forthright, and he rushed to my side. “Officer Forthright, prepare to arrest these shameless human devils.”
He scratched his head. “How do you figure? After all, a law’s a law.”
I pointed at the photocopy. “It says here that these naked millionaires must be PRANCING AROUND. Why, not only are they not PRANCING, but to make matters even more blatantly illegal, they are not PRANCING AROUND anything!”
Officer Forthright smiled. “You heard him, boys. Start PRANCING AROUND. If you don’t, I’m going to have to toss your baby-soft million-dollar behinds IN JAIL!”
“Oh, no!” cried the fattest millionaire. Instantly all three of those pampered ne’er-do-wells began to prance: around trees and fire hydrants and warehouses, faster and faster. My fellow citizens and I laughed and laughed.
Soon the sweat was streaming off the naked millionaires in torrents. One of them fell down and cracked his kneecaps against the sidewalk -- his dentures popped out of his mouth with a wet smack. He tried to rest for a moment, but my friend Officer Forthright shouted, “Come on, Chunky! Start prancing! It’s the LAW!” So that rich bastard got up and started prancing again. Then some big dogs starting chasing all three naked millionaires, and boy, THAT was funny.
Finally, all three evil naked millionaires dropped dead of heart attacks, and the people cheered.
“You saved the day,” Officer Forthright said, patting me on the back. “Thank you, Mark McLaughlin!”
“Oh, no. Thank YOU, Officer Forthright,” I said. "Now I can resume thinking about what I'm getting you for Christmas!"
-- End --
Revenge of the B-Movie Monster
Welcome to the GoodReads.com blog of author MARK McLAUGHLIN.
MARK McLAUGHLIN is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and more. Many of his books fit within the literary tra ...more
MARK McLAUGHLIN is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and more. Many of his books fit within the literary tra ...more
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