Will Viharo's Blog, page 7

"Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room": THE TRAILER

Below is the stylish, sensuous animated book trailer for my gonzo-bizarro-pulp novella FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM , the latest addition to the Thrillville Pulp Fiction Collection. It was created by up-and-coming Oakland filmmaker Vincent Cortez with illustrative assistance from Aaron Jasper and Tim Houston, and had its "world premiere" at Forbidden Island's annual Hulaween Party. As you can see from these stills, it perfectly evokes the darkly erotic, horror-noir world depicted in the book. Enjoy. Cheers.




















[image error] As El Santo, with my geisha girl, Monica Tiki Goddess,
at Forbidden Island's Hulaween Party, 10/31/11


and speaking of trailers....next at my monthly cult movie nite, Forbidden Thrills at Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge, Monday, November 19, 7:30, no cover: It's a "Sci-Fi Seafood Jamboree" featuring Roger Corman's ATTACK OF THE CRAB MONSTERS (1957) plus more island terrors in THE FLESH EATERS (1964). Be there. Aloha.

IT CAME FROM HANGAR 18: the cover

For months on my Facebook page I've been teasing about my "Top Secret Freelance Writing Project," concurrently concocted with my gonzo-bizarro-pulp novella FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM , which is now available. Now I can tell you this much: I'm almost finished working on IT CAME FROM HANGAR 18, originally conceived by my co-author Scott Fulks, a fellow frequenter of Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge, though trust me - this will be perhaps the ultimate Will Viharo pulp novel. It will be available in early 2012. More details will be revealed about this epic very soon, long before its release, but for now, here is the fantastic cover by artist Michael Fleming.  That's it! Aloha.

Happy Halloween! "Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room" is NOW ON SALE!

Cover art by Christopher Sorrenti, who also edited the Thrillville Pulp book trailer.My latest pulp fiction project, a gonzo-bizarro-erotica-horror-noir called FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM is now on sale in both print and ebook editions from Lulu, with global distribution via Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and sundry other online outlets in a couple of months or less. Filmmaker Vincent Cortez is working on an animated trailer that should premiere sometime before this Halloween, stay tuned. 
Speaking of Halloween, my monthly movie nite, "Forbidden Thrills" at Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge, on Monday October 24 at 7:30, will be an "Un-Halloween Party" featuring Roger Corman's sexy witchcraft saga THE UNDEAD (1957) plus the ghoulish spookshow THE UNEARTHLY (also 1957) starring John Carradine and Tor Johnson. Both flicks feature Allison "50 Foot Woman" Hayes, one of the most beautiful scream queens in B Movie history. There'll be the usual prizes, free popcorn, surprise shorts and Pulp Cocktails, too.

Also now on sale: Bachelor Pad Magazine #17, another pictorial plethora of pinup pulchritude, along with my regular film column, this one on the timely topic of Zombies!
But I'm really gratified to be offering my own artistic output this Halloween season (my favorite time of year, along with Christmas) rather than merely hosting someone else's work, on screen or stage. Cheers.

SFBG article on my books: spreading the good (and bad) words

I feel like I'm finally make some progress in reinventing by public persona and successfully reviving my original ambition: Writing. This new San Francisco Bay Guardian interview (both online and in this week's - 9/14/11 - print edition) about my pulp fiction by Sean McCourt goes a long way in updating and promoting my literary career. Dig. Cheers. 

"Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room": FINAL COVER

Here is Christopher Sorrenti's final version of the cover for my bizarro pulp novel FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM , which I'm hoping to publish later this Fall or early Winter. This is my most exxtreme novel yet, a flagrant middle finger poked in the eye of conventional, conservative society. It will offend the sensibilities of both the politically correct & the morally self-righteous. It's crude, it's lewd, and it's definitely not for prudes. It'll also be very short, but very sick. This blog entry contains links to the first four chapters, also posted on this blog, as well as a back cover description. Oakland filmmaker Vincent Cortez, who directed/wrote/scored the excellent indie neo-noir The Hush (you can read my Examiner.com review/interview here), has agreed to create an animated book trailer for it, too. This is gonna weird and wild, even by my standards. Stay tuned...and speaking of freaks, my next Forbidden Thrills movie nite at Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge on Monday, September 19, 7:30 features two "Back to School Shockers," AIP classics HOW TO MAKE A MONSTER (1958) plus REFORM SCHOOL GIRL (1957). Be there or be square, cats 'n' kittens. Cheers.

"Kitten With a Whip": cat on a cool tin roof

KITTEN WITH A WHIP:  CAT ON A COOL TIN ROOF

Essay/Review By Will Viharo


Poster by R. Black for Tease-o-Rama/Thrillville screening of "Kitten with a Whip," 2008

"Now cool it, you creep, and coexist!" pretentious beatnik Ron admonishes fellow college-aged delinquent Buck (Skip Ward) when he flips out during a "party" at the affluent San Diego home of prominent, pussy-whipped politician David Stratton (
            The thin plot thread weaves through a melodramatic mosaic of mounting mayhem. The trio of teenaged/twentysomething trouble-makers drag poor dumb David from the safe sanctuary of San Diego down to the exotic, erotic environs of Mexico, making the reuse of Henry Mancini's famous Touch of Evil score all the more ironic. A-M's prematurely world weary, organically seductive Jody - jaw-dropping jailbait who comes off like a tigress-temptress compared with today's prefab/rehab sex kittens - makes mental mincemeat out of the morally conflicted (is there any other kind?) politician, full of sweaty self-righteousness, justifying his compliance as mature concern rather than raw fear. On the menu is a small slice of popcorn psychology sprinkled liberally with cheese, and it all goes down the palate nice 'n' easy, even if it makes your stomach a bit queasy. But the hedonistic hipster hijinks on delirious display in Kitten, both less lascivious and less loquacious than Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of Lolita (1962), aren't bogged down with heavy sociological baggage, despite Jody's references to incestuous rape supposedly contributing to her amoral attitudes towards life and the world generally. This flick was sold and excels mostly as a salacious tale of forbidden lust not quite satiated, only teased to taunt the titillated audience into dropping their cash at the box office. Kitten was a big studio B flick (Universal), so obviously it was deemed more "sophisticated" and "respectable" than the lowbrow These themes still resonate within our contemporary culture, as current headlines commonly sell cyber-ads with torrid true tales of hypocritical, self-humiliating politicos, celebrated for publicly espousing "family values," being professionally destroyed by their own private dalliances with debauchery (John Ensign, John Edwards, Arnold Schwarzenegger and "Weinergate" being just a few recent examples).  What makes Kitten such a kick in the crotch is its mid-century milieu, from the cars to the furniture to the fashions, everybody all dressed up with no place to come. Repression is a common source of rage and regret in many classic noir films, which also relate recognizable tales of self-destruction, but with superior sartorial style. These seemingly superficial features seduce modern audiences into popping these increasingly ancient time capsules like Xanax, both relaxing us with foreknowledge of our collective past while helping us to escape our aesthetically bankrupt present.  Ultimately, Kitten is all fluff with little bite, purring when it should be snarling, pawing when it should be clawing, barely scratching the surface of the deeply conflicted mores it portends to expose and exploit. The Swinger (1966), a colorful comedy starring A-M as a journalist reporting on the Sexual Revolution for a girlie mag, at least features one of her most infamous scenes of sensuality as she rolls around semi-nude on a canvas of psychedelic paints. Carnal Knowledge (1971), boasting A-M's single celluloid appearance topless, was a much more honest exploration of our national orgiastic obsessions during those tumultuous times. Still, Ann-Margret's performance in Kitten, one of her most popular roles, and justifiably so, is so sultry, sassy and smart that you'll hardly notice its flirtatious flimsiness, or care if you do. Sex still sells those damaged goods, suckers. Originally published in altered form, with editorial revisions and rewrites beyond my consent, in Noir City.

"Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room": front artwork and back cover blurb

Here is the strikingly sexy and spectacularly spooky cover art for my pulp novel in progress, Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room , by Christopher Sorrenti, the very talented filmmaker/artist who edited The Thrillville Pulp Fiction Collection book trailer. Once again, I just supplied my designated cover artist with a basic premise - in this case, a zombie-like bellhop carrying bags for a noirish femme fatale vamp - and voila, Chris stepped up and hit it out of the park. I'll post the completed cover  (with titular text) when it's ready, which should be very soon, though I'm still in the early stages of actually writing the damn book, aiming for a pub date late this year. I've already posted excerpts on this blog - click here for Chapters One, Two, Three, and Four - and if you find any of it the least bit offensive to your delicate literary palate, I strongly suggest you quit right now, because you ain't read nothin' yet. "Like" and bookmark the official Facebook fan page for more updates and excerpts. I am pulling out all the stops to make this the most graphically lewd, unabashedly crude yet eloquently erotic, sardonically spiritual and even raunchily romantic book I've written yet, both abstract and visceral, repellent yet compelling. It won't be like anything you've ever read - even by me. Below is the back cover blurb, which will give you the basic ingredients to this sick yet seductive stewpot of vile vices run amok amid a decadent den of hedonistic horrors. But it's all in good fun! Stay tuned...cheers 'n' chills, Will the Quill.
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Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room is an unrelenting assault of sex and horror, a sensory overload that will blow your mind, all set within the claustrophobic confines of a mysteriously malevolent hotel, frequented by men and monsters alike; a nightmarish nexus of carnal carnage, with flesh-eating Mexican vampires, alien spies, mad scientists, deviant dwarves, horny zombies, teenage werewolves, Elvis impersonators, hit men, hustlers, clairvoyant cats and other random rebels and rejects feverishly fornicating and ferociously feasting beneath the repressive radar of polite society. This is Extreme Erotic Horror Noir, with a dash of satire and a twist of irony, not for the squeamish, but for anyone who wallows shamelessly in the corporeal illusion called Life.
This classic by the Rolling Stones is a recurring song in the book, though the lyrics take on new meaning in this context...




This grindhouse sickie inspired the character of Boris the bellhop....

The Prince of Pulp: "My Quill Is Quick"

"Beatnik Bash" at Forbidden Island, 8/22/11


My new business cards
I finally made it. I'm actually earning a (very, very modest) living as a freelance writer. I have a cool new gig reviewing all kinds of online series and web channels for PlaceVine; my ongoing Examiner movie column, along with regular film columns for Bachelor Pad Magazine, Varla Magazine, and the Noir City Sentinel; several Facebook/Twitter "ghost-posting" accounts for various clients; a Top Secret Freelance Writing Assignment, the details of which I cannot divulge quite yet; and of course The Thrillville Pulp Fiction Collection. On top of all that, I'm still proudly hosting my monthly "Forbidden Thrills" movie nites at Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge - the next one is a "Beatnik Bash" on Monday August 22, featuring Roger Corman's A Bucket of Blood plus The Rebel Set, both classics rom 1959. I'm happily and semi-lucratively busy doing what I love, at last. Below is a recent official press release that sums it up all. Now, back to work. Cheers.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

July 29, 2011

Full-time freelance writer and part-time performer Will "the Thrill" Viharo first gained fame as programmer/publicist for Speakeasy Theaters in the San Francisco Bay Area, extending his reputation beyond those borders via his popular live cult movie cabaret "Thrillville," a retro stage show combining classic B movies with burlesque and bands, performed at the Parkway and Cerrito Speakeasy Theaters on a regular basis for twelve years, followed by a year of "road shows" at various venues around the region. Along with his wife and co-host, actress and model Monica "Tiki Goddess" Cortes-Viharo, Will also presented Thrillville Halloween Shows on an annual basis at Copia in Napa, with side trips to the Werepad, the Vortex Room, the Roxie, the 4 Star and Balboa Theaters in San Francisco; the Camera 3 in San Jose; a special guest appearance at the B Movie Celebration in Indiana in 2008; and several stints for the popular convention "Tiki Oasis" in Palm Springs and San Diego.

After Speakeasy Theaters folded in 2009 and the road shows dried up in 2010, Will returned to his real creative roots as a novelist, resuming a career that had been interrupted by Thrillville, which in fact was conceived as a platform from which to promote his first printed novel, "Love Stories Are Too Violent For Me," published by Wild Card Press in 1995. The small press was founded by the folks behind Speakeasy Theaters, who asked Will to create and host a midnight movie series, which he initially called "The Midnight Lounge," in April of 1997. In January of 1999 the show, now a Parkway staple, switched to prime time on Thursdays nights, rechristened Thrillville, which took on a life of its own. Meantime, actor Christian Slater discovered and optioned "Love Stories" for a film. Now, "Thrillville" has finally evolved from Will's online B movie lounge into official headquarters for his one-man pulp fiction factory.

Will the Thrill is now "Will the Quill," the self-proclaimed Prince of self-published Pulp. Many of the great artists who created his stunning Thrillville posters have been tapped to supply equally stimulating book covers for all of Will's eclectic novels, including previously unpublished and unfinished manuscripts, along with current works in progress. He calls them "B movies in book form."

Part of Will's marketing scheme was to commission a professional "book trailer," in grindhouse-film noir style, edited by filmmaker Christopher Sorrenti, and largely shot at Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge in Alameda CA, for which Will currently serves as publicist/music booker, and where he hosts a monthly movie night called "Forbidden Thrills." Forbidden Island also features "Will the Thrill's Pulp Cocktails Menu," literary libations inspired by his novels.

For more information and reviewer PDFs, please contact Will at will@thrillville.net.
Also please visit his web site, which includes purchasing info & the book trailer: http://www.thrillville.net/fiction/index.html

Cheers.

THE THRILLVILLE PULP FICTION COLLECTION, BIBLIOGRAPHY TO DATE:

LOVE STORIES ARE TOO VIOLENT FOR ME (Wild Card Press, 1995; out of print)
Meet Vic Valentine, a San Francisco private eye whose romance is on the rocks, with a twist. Join a twisted hopeless romantic on his personal quest for the truth in his twisted tale of old-fashioned romance gone awry in a shadowy, postmodern world of lovelorn losers, vengeful vice, dangerous deceit and swingin' Sinatra songs.

A MERMAID DROWNS IN THE MIDNIGHT LOUNGE (Thrillville Press, 2010)
A Mermaid Drowns in the Midnight Lounge is a lushly lurid, exotically exploitative, sensationally sensual pulp-noir potpourri where star-crossed lovers, sea sirens, monster men, gangsters, porno filmmakers, jazz standards, and an Elvis-spawned zombie apocalypse all intermingle across several parallel dimensions in time and space. This story is unlike anything you've ever read. (Cover art: Mike Lewis)

CHUMPY WALNUT (Thrillville Press, 2010)
Chumpy Walnut is a nostalgic fable about a guy only a foot tall - lost, alone and looking for love and friendship in a wacky, wondrous world of hobos, gangsters, gamblers, gun molls, showgirls, and other colorful characters. It is a story anyone who has ever felt "small" can relate to. (Cover art: designed by Miles Goodrich, illustrations by Will Viharo)


DOWN A DARK ALLEY (Thrillville Press, 2010)
Down A Dark Alley is a torrid tale exploding with raw romance, savage sex, voluptuous violence, mirthful mayhem and delirious decadence as a sorry sap takes a breathless cross-country walk on the wild side with a ferocious femme fatale, desperately trying to escape a chaotic past and facing an uncertain future. This is hard-boiled but heartfelt neo-pulp fiction for fearless dreamers. (Cover art: R. Black)

LAVENDER BLONDE (Thrillville Press, 2011)
Lavender Blonde is a psycho-sexual portrait of erotic obsession, conveyed in soul-searching conversations between an itinerant jazz musician, raised in a brothel, and a savvy, sexy social worker, exploring and exposing themes and tales of loneliness and lust as the mysteries behind the madness are slowly revealed. (Cover art: Mister Lobo and Dixie Dellamorto)

FATE IS MY PIMP/ROMANCE TAKES A RAIN CHECK A Vic Valentine Double Feature (Thrillville Press, 2011)
Fate Is My Pimp picks up the torrid trail of Vic Valentine, Private Eye as he traverses the mean streets of San Francisco and beyond in search of a mobster's missing teenage daughter, encountering various voluptuous vixens, a female surf band, and a stalker leaving him mysterious musical messages, all while infiltrating an Elvis-theme commune for runaways, led by a deviously decadent Deacon Rivers. Follow the further misadventures of the misguided hero of LOVE STORIES ARE TOO VIOLENT FOR ME as he continues looking for love in all the wrong places, and unfortunately for him - finding it.
Plus! Romance Takes a Rain Check finds Vic back on the East Coast, tracking down a lead on his cop father's killer, visiting his mother in an asylum, and reuniting with his high school sweetheart, Dolly Duncan, now married to a doper dentist. Nothing is what it seems, times and people have changed, and Vic is going to learn the hard way - again - that some bones, and boners, are best left buried. (Cover art: R. Black)

 I LOST MY HEART IN HOLLYWOOD/DIARY OF A DICK Another Vic Valentine Double Feature (Thrillville Press, 2011)
I Lost My Heart in Hollywood chronicles the strangest case yet in the so-called career of Vic Valentine, Private Eye, as an unlikely tryst with the B movie scream queen of his dreams, Velma Vale, leads him down a dark, twisted path of paranoia, voyeurism, degradation and death. The bizarre action heats up even as his burning loneliness and simmering sexual obsessions flare at the forefront of his tormented consciousness, with caution and common sense cooling idly on the back burner.
Plus! Diary of a Dick tells further tantalizing tales of Vic chasing tail while allegedly on the trail of True Love, all the way to New Orleans and back again, as the femme fatales of his past and present suddenly converge with prurient promises of promiscuity. As always, strings are attached to these erotic escapades, but the ties that bind begin rapidly unraveling, and Vic is left hanging by a thread like a doomed puppet. The mysteries of love have never been more elusive. (Cover art: Rick Lucey)

Work In Progress:

FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM (Thrillville Press, 2012)
"Extreme Erotic Horror Noir" with cover art by Christopher Sorrenti

Stay tuned…

"Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room": Chapter Four

 OK, one more chapter from my pulp novel-in-progress before I put it away, at least from public view, until I finish it. Chapter One is here, Chapter Two is here, and Chapter Three is here. Cheers.
FREAKS THAT BRING YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOMA Novel by Will Viharo
Chapter FourTHE SINFUL DWARF

Boris the bellhop rubbed his grimy little hands all over the nude, voluptuous body of his boss, Clara Cleaver, as she lay strapped, nude and unconscious to a dirty table in the basement of L'Hotel du Frisson, with bloody pieces of rotting corpses strewn here there around the dank, dark "dungeon," amid tables full of glass jars containing human organs floating in strange fluids. Once a prominent surgeon, Boris Yakov lost his practice, his career, and his Russian citizenship when he botched the heart surgery of a prominent Russian ballet dancer who had suffered a near-fatal seizure after overdosing on diet pills, and whom Boris happened to be secretly in love with. He blamed the tragedy on his nervousness, since he couldn't stop shaking as he operated on her. He had been shaking ever since her death, which everyone blamed on Boris, including Boris. His self-loathing ran deep in his tortured soul.
Clara had been hidden down here for nearly two days, and Boris knew he'd have to release her soon, before suspicion was aroused. She often vanished for days at a time anyway, away on trips to undisclosed locations, drinking and fornicating, or so the stories went. Clara was very lonely as well. Not only had her husband died on their honeymoon, leaving her a small fortune with which she purchased this very hotel, but she had lost several babies, some via abortion, some via miscarriage, and two that were stillborn. She felt cursed by the universe, and often wanted to die. Instead, she had random, unprotected sex with willing strangers, hoping one would impregnate her with a child that could be brought to term. It was a procreative crapshoot. 
The dwarf, Boris, was in love with Clara and knew of her birth-challenged plight, and he wanted to help her by helping himself. He had drugged her by spiking her customary morning latte from the cafe, then lured her down to the basement, where she never ventured, knowing Boris had lived there for years, before she purchased the building, and she was afraid of what she'd find. He always creeped her out, but she couldn't find it in her heart to fire him. Perhaps she would if she regained consciousness while he licked her bosoms and torso and legs and feet, running upstairs to masturbate in one of the empty rooms when he became aroused beyond endurance, because he didn't want to defile her, not while she was unconscious, anyway. He wanted her to love him, and he knew if he could cure her barrenness, however surreptitiously, she would love him forever, just like Katarina, the beautiful ballerina who died on his operating table back in Moscow, twenty years ago.
There was a thunderstorm raging up above, which Boris could hear through the basement's single window, the lightning illuminating horrible things. Boris paid off the local mortician for access to corpses on which Boris could conduct mindless, pointless experiments. The problem was, Boris had no idea what he was doing. He had a vague notion of bringing the Dead back to Life, but was unsure exactly how to go about it. He paid the mortician with money he stole from the seemingly endless stash of cash hidden in the back of the closet of one of the residents, whom everyone called The Mantis Man. Boris had seen The Mantis Man's hideous collection of shrunken heads, but didn't think much of it. Since he had keys to all the rooms, Boris could come and go as he please, and he wound up searching all the guest's rooms during their stay, when they weren't in the rooms, of course, stealing whatever he could, but mostly just sitting on their beds and masturbating, often with whatever feminine undergarments or lingerie happened to be handy. He hoped The Mantis Man never discovered that he was constantly stealing his cash, which The Mantis Man apparently never counted. The worst thing that could happen would be that The Mantis Man might kill him. That wouldn't be so bad, really. Boris just didn't want to die a fifty-eight year old virgin.
In her coma-like state, Clara was dreaming of her past, as a hot young stripper in various nightclubs on the Eastern seaboard, including Atlantic City, where she once had a one night stand with a young Elvis impersonator, now named Danny Falco. She had been engaged to a Jersey mobster at the time, but he broke it off when he discovered her many affairs. He didn't kill her, though, because he loved her too much. He just sublimated his heartbroken rage by killing everyone she had ever slept with. Except for Danny, who disappeared without a trace. Clara was in love with Danny and offered him sanctuary at the hotel, under an assumed name. His real name was not Danny Falco. He had changed his name so many times, he didn't remember what it used to be anymore. It didn't matter. He never knew himself very well, anyway, and was always open to change on his journey of self-discovery. He told Clara he loved her, even though she knew he was lying, just so he could rest for a while under auspices. She just wanted him close to her, to perpetuate the illusion of romance and domestic stability that had always eluded her. Clara was thirty-eight, eight years older than Danny, who truthfully claimed he had never been in love with anyone. They still had sex sometimes, even though their trysts often left her lonelier than ever. So much sex. So little love.
Clara suddenly moaned as Boris was eating her pussy, and he stopped suddenly. He had another erection and wanted to go back upstairs and relieve himself, but now all the rooms were booked, except for the room where Clara slept, which was as sacred as her womb and could not be violated, so he had no choice but to go to his own little bathroom and jerk off in the sink, which he hated to do, mainly because he had to stand on a stool to do it. He didn't want to ejaculate anywhere near, on or inside Clara, not until she was in love with him, and ready to bear his child. Boris knew Clara was in love with Danny, which is why he had told those gunmen where to find Danny. He wanted Danny out of the way, preferably permanently.
Sensing she was snapping out of it, though she would no be able to recall anything following her first sip of the spiked latte, Boris whistled and a very large mute brute, chained to the corner of the basement, stirred. The mute brute, like Boris, was horribly deformed, not due to the fickle cruelty of Nature, but as a result of Boris's bizarre experiments. The brute had once been just another guest at the hotel, a disgraced football player, kicked out of the league for steroid abuse. His name was simply LeRoy, born African American, but now his skin color had been lightened via Boris's various injections, so now he resembled an albino. He had no mind of his own. He was simply Boris's slave. 
"Take her upstairs and leave her in The Scarlet Room," Boris told him as he unlocked the shackles. "Be careful, it is late but someone may be about. Use the secret staircase. Hurry, before she comes to."
The seven foot tall LeRoy nodded sadly and walked toward the table in the center of the room as Boris undid the straps. LeRoy lifted Clara's nude body and entered the service elevator, which he rode up to the third floor. The Scarlet Room was left unlocked so LeRoy could deposit Clara inside quickly, then return to the basement undetected. As a reward, Boris often fed LeRoy scraps of human flesh, for which LeRoy had developed quite a taste.
After LeRoy gently laid Clara down on the scarlet bed, he stood and admired her beauty, then put his tongue on her bosoms, then her face and mouth and neck, and was working his lips down her body when she suddenly opened her eyes, and screamed.

Copyright 2011 Will Viharo
All Rights Reserved

"Freaks That Carry Your Luggage Up to the Room": Chapter Three

This is the third chapter of my latest pulp project (Chapter One, with some background on the genesis of this concept, is posted here; Chapter Two here.) Naturally, as a work in progress, this is all subject to change prior to final print publication, but it will give you a good idea of where I'm going with this, even if I'm not totally sure myself. Christopher Sorrenti, who edited the book trailer for the Thrillville Pulp Fiction Collection, is working on the cover, which is very exciting. Once it's done, I'll share it on this blog and then create a Facebook Fan Page for this particular piece, which will include further updates and excerpts (if not complete chapters.) The Mantis Man is loosely based on a true life character who used to frequent the cafe in Berkeley's French Hotel, where I worked in the early '90s. Anyway, hope you dig it. Cheers.

FREAKS THAT CARRY YOUR LUGGAGE UP TO THE ROOM
A Novel by Will Viharo
Chapter Three
THE HEADHUNTER
The Mantis Man was alone in his room at L'Hotel du Frisson, dreaming of better days, which would be any day prior to whichever one he was currently living. His isolation and dementia were progressive, and linked, but he didn't see it this way. He loved living at the hotel, even though it was somewhat expensive, despite the bargain rate deal he had worked out. The hotel only had a few indefinite residents. The Mantis Man had amassed considerable personal wealth before retiring from his career as a headhunter and moving to this town, and he lived fairly simply, rarely venturing outside the confines of the hotel and adjoining café. He had nowhere to go, and no one to love. He subsisted on a steady diet of denial. And burritos.
He was eating one now, brought up from the cafe, while he watched an old Mexican horror move with the sound down low. The female star seemed vaguely familiar; he assumed because he'd seen her in another movie before, or maybe even this one. The Mantis Man was losing touch with reality. He didn't miss it much.
The phone rang, and, cursing, he put down his burrito, got up and answered it. It was Dick, up at the front desk.
"There's a phone call for you; shall I put it through?"
"Yes." The Mantis Man lit a cigarette and took a drag on it.
"Hey, it's Vic," said a voice on the phone. "I tried calling your cell, but there was no answer."
The Mantis Man took a puff and said, "Yes, the battery is low."
"I can relate," said Vic. "I"m tired so I'll make this quick. Your boy Danny Falco? The guys who want him are well connected, back in Jersey. I know people who know them. Not nice."
"I know all that," The Mantis Man said. "I'm familiar with their ilk. That's not what I wanted to know. What I want to know is - "
"Why they want him, I know," said Vic. "Gambling debts, and some other things."
"Like what? Details, details. That's why I hired you, Valentine. The rest of it I could guess, for Chrissake."
"Well, apparently, he fucked some wiseguy's fiancée," Vic said. "I know the type. I'd love to kill him myself. Maybe I should be a hit man for hire instead of a private dick?"
"I'll take care of it from here. Goodbye," The Mantis Man said, and abruptly hung up. "I should've just hired the ghost of Johnny fucking Staccato," he muttered to himself.
The Mantis Man then went to his closet and pulled out his customary trench coat and derby hat, relics from his youth, hanging just beside the row of shrunken heads he'd collected from his side gig as a voodoo priest. He knew how to raise the Dead. He learned a lot of tricks from his Haitian masters when he lived in New Orleans back in the 1950s. He just didn't see the point in prolonging anyone's agony. He wasn't quite that sadistic. He'd rather see everyone just die and leave him alone, anyway. It was raining heavily outside, but that was not an issue. He hardly ever went outside. There was nothing out there for him anymore. He often wore his coat and hat anyway. It made him feel like he had someplace to go, even if he didn't want to leave. Ever.
The Mantis Man reached down, picked up and opened a shoebox at the bottom of his closet and took out a little blonde male doll with overalls, that he called "Chumpy Walnut." It was his best and only friend. He removed it and set down the box.
"We're going to have a party for our friend Danny," The Mantis Man said to the doll.
He sat back down and finished watching the Mexican monster movie, completely unaware that the actress on the screen was now in the room right below him, a half century after the film had been made but just as youthful and beautiful, feasting on the life-giving fluid she sucked from Danny Falco's cock, biting his groin to add the crucial nutritional supplement of blood to her meal. Unfortunately, she could not live on sex alone - violence was also part of  her diet. Blood and semen: the secret of Life, and the alchemy of the Damned.
The Mantis Man cackled to himself, holding the doll and repeating to himself as he watched the film, "We're having a party for you, Danny. Because you made a mistake. What kind of a mistake? A bad mistake. Now we have to resolve this mistake that you made." He  despised Danny Falco for something Danny had unwittingly done to him, for breaking his heart, and he vowed to send the kid's soul straight to Hell, but Danny's soul had already been spoken for.
Copyright 2011 Will Viharo
All Rights Reserved