Two years ago, my Bizarro colleague Jordan Krall asked me to write a series of monster paperbacks for his chapbook publisher Dynatox Ministries. While I was excited to do this, I was not sure I could publish them or if readers would embrace me writing extreme gothic horror. A few months later, I decided to give it a try under a pseudonym. Thus, Henry Price was born. I got in touch with some of my darkest places and some of my nastiest influences. It was fun, cathartic  and horrific. 

Not only did it sell well, but it got some good feedback from everyone  who purchased the chapbook. The series continued and went into even more brutal places. A third followed in the Summer. It’s been fun to be Henry Price and I look forward to creating more under this guise. 

Now, the first two Satan’s Mummy books are now available on Kindle. These previously existed only as limited edition chapbooks. 

Satan’s Mummy on Kindle

Satan’s Mummy vs. Teenage Frankenstein on Kindle

Image

 

Five More Julie Newmar Stories

Posted: February 9, 2014 in Uncategorized

This Friday, Bizarrocentral put up four of my Julie Newmar, strange little prosepoetics bits of flash fiction about Julie Newmar and my complicated relationship with women. You can read them here. Since some of you seemed to enjoy those, here are five more.One of these first appears in my cryptic poetry/prose chapbook Pserpent Psalms, available for only 1.08, or once cent per psalm. 

 

            Another Fine Mess

 

Julie Newmar has discovered my secret and my five bosses are coming over for a dinner party to discuss my promotion. My bosses are deciding if I should be promoted or shot out of a cannon into space. I get my dog, the Indian actor Sabu, and we bury my secret. Relieved, we rock out to Steely Dan. My five bosses arrive on the back of their bosslizards, the race of reptilians that conspiracy theorists believe rule the Earth. Bosses rule the Earth instead, since they are bosses. I am nervous when Julie Newmar walks in in an apron and polka dot dress. She might not be ‘, as I previously thought. She is carrying a tray of delicious rice crispy squares.

 

“Honey,” she says,  “you never told me your bosses were so handsome.”

 

I notice now that my bosses are all Julie Newmar wearing a fake mustache. Julie Newmar kisses me on the cheek. My bosses do not promote me but they do give me a gift certificate for Henderson’s mustache wax.

 

My bosses leave.

 

“Why?” I ask.

 

Julie Newmar laughs.

 

“You’ve got an awful lot to learn about humans, Garrett Cook.”

 

 

 

 

Intrigues

 

Julie Newmar walks into my office. I’ve been expecting her. I expected her to wear the outfit, to offer the dance as tribute before she opens her mouth to explain. The dance should just about cover it. I pour her a glass of scotch and I pour me a glass of Scotch. I don’t like it. Seems like she’s hiding something. I know she is.  I expected this. I make a phonecall and it’s confirmed. Professor Lundquist’s invention is a weapon. A terrible weapon the likes of which the world has never seen and there are people who would pay a fortune to get their hands on it. Her betrayal wounds me deeply. She places her hand on my oozing betrayal wound and it feels nice. The look in her eyes is exciting. “I knew I came to the right man for the job,” she says. And now I know as well.

 

 

Reparations

 

Julie Newmar walks into my office, tells me the mask I’m wearing is too pallid and waxy by far. I’m annoyed by this since she hasn’t come to get me to solve a case or to seek reparations for some harm that I have done, merely to complain of my mask. The mask and jaundiced heart are my business as any man’s mask and jaundiced heart are his business. She hums a few bars of a Dylan song I like. No, not that one. I would not stay frightful if it was that one. She does it purrfectly. And I would approach her, but I wearing this mask and my skin and soul and heart are jaundiced. I fear it is ‘ in a Julie Newmar costume just as Julie Newmar wears a Catwoman costume that some theologians would say is the guise of ‘. But those who do would be quite cruel to cats. Those who do would show no love at all for cats. I hold out my arms for nought until I no longer feel like extending my arms, but like pounding a piano or performing a blasphemous play.

 

“Will you be in my play?” I ask, confidently, boldly.

 

She shudders. Her fingers twitch. But from somewhere she doesn’t recognize, a “yes, of course” emerges.

 

 

 

It’s So Cold in Alaska

 

“I’m the jealous type,” says Julie Newmar, spearing a big chunk of my salad.

“Waiter,” I say, to change the subject, “there’s a Deep One in my soup.”

“Who,” she asks, “is ‘?”

I rise to my feet, leap up on the table and draw my gun.

“Waiter, I said, there is a Deep One in my soup!”

The fishy baby in my minestrone coos. I try to ignore the resemblance and I try to ignore the resemblance of this situation to a story by Orson Scott Card, whose other works I never really liked. Sabu, howling and whining at my feet, still a dog, wants a taste and I’m tempted to give it to him. I also feel slightly tempted to shoot him, gods help me.

“Who,” she asks again, “is ‘?”

I look around the restaurant, hoping that Plush or some other compatriot is there so I could possibly make good my escape, but no, it is me and Julie Newmar and a very hungry Sabu.

“Waiter!” I scream, “My son is in my soup!”

“Who,” Julie Newmar asks, “is ‘?”

 

 

Pagliacci

 

Julie Newmar walks into my office wearing a pig on her head.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.

“Why do you say that?” Julie Newmar asks, looking around the room for Lionheads.

I answer my email. I ignore her. I go shopping. I take the sled I bought and careen down Everest. I break every bone in my body and end up in the hospital. The Surgeons confer and decide that I have been dead for eleven years.

Julie Newmar walks into my hospital room with a pig on her head. The pig laughs at us. She lies down beside me in my hospital bed. Frightened, we await the dawn and the extinction of Surgeons.

 

This January, I have big news for Kindle users. Not only do I have my newest title available for Kindle, but also a piece of short fiction that has never been available before. I have never done much in the way of digital exclusives save for Heresy and Hearsay and the Pserpent Psalms, both well received by hardcore fans but by no means popular. But, I’m hoping these two  titles will get some of you ebook aficionados interested in my work. Both pieces are Bizarro but they also each have their feet firmly in another genre as well: science fiction. Ebooks, being themselves futuristic, are a good format for telling stories of space and time travel. 

The first of these titles that I have to announce is Time Pimp, my latest from Eraserhead Press. Time Pimp is my personal favorite of my books. It tells the story of a time traveling pimp from an ancient race of alchemist/panderers who travels through time getting historical figures laid. As he does this, he not only finds himself up against the most hostile race of aliens in existence but also his evil twin, Grand Etharch Pope Death Pimp of the Morality Front. Time Pimp is full of sex, violence, weird worlds, mad science and meditations of love, manhood and life. GET IT ON YOUR KINDLE HERE

 

The second of these titles is my story The Coelacanth Expert from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing. A Bizarro Steampunk tale similar in certain ways to Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness, The Coelacanth Expert tells a story of epistolary Bizarro cosmic horror like you’ve never seen before. Join Professor Harrington on a journey into a secret sea in the clouds where life may have had sinister inhuman origins. Strange steampunk technology, a jellyfish older than time and brutal races from prehistory await those who folow The Coelacanth Expert. Get it here

Pimpsmas is on!

Posted: November 23, 2013 in Uncategorized

The buffalo wings have been served.

Image

There is only one thing this can mean. Only fools, bitches and jiveass turkeys don’t know that a platter of buffalo wings is traditionally used to denote the beginning of Pimpsmas. The silly bitches of planet Earth celebrate their silly bitch “Christmas” for one day, just as they eat gingerbread houses only on special occasions. On Netzach, planet of love, home of pimpkind in my Bizarro novel, Time Pimp, Pimpsmas is celebrated for an entire month. Dayum.

I will  be celebrating Pimpsmas in various ways and share with you something pimpin’ that I’ve been doing, starting with of course, ordering the Pimpsmas buffalo wing platter. As the holidays draw nearer, I will give away ten copies of the Time Pimp Pimpsmas special, a unique Time Pimp novelette that will be signed and numbered with a unique and very sexy drawing of one of the hos in Time  Pimp’s stable. Dayum once again.

But I am not doing this for free like a punkass bitch. No. I gots to get paid to keep big pimpin’ like this. So, to get entered into the drawing for the ten Pimpsmas special chapbooks you must do one of the following: 1.) order Time Pimp between now and December 22nd. 2.) Hire me on for editing services. or 3) Sign up for the online Bizarro writing workshop I am teaching alongside Tom  Bradley. Novelettes will be mailed out December 23rd. Domestic only. Email thecentercannothold@gmail.com with proof of purchase and you’ll be entered to win. All nonwinners will receive digital copies of the novelette.

BUY TIME PIMP!

Image

NaNoWriMo 120 dollar Special

Posted: November 2, 2013 in Uncategorized

So, some of you have decided to join the month of mayhem known as National Novel Writing Month. This is a great endeavor. A writer should stay disciplined and care about and commit to their work and improving it. 

I’m all about helping writers get better. As an editor and instructor of online workshops and as a member of the Bizarro community,  I’ve watched a lot of writers grow and change.

These writers all had one thing in common:commitment.  These writers bet on themselves. As a freelancer and an author,  I have to bet the farm on my skills and connections. If I don’t find or finish the work I need, I don’t survive. It’s that simple.  If you don’t commit, you don’t prosper.

I’m going to give three NaNo writers a chance to bet on themselves and guarantee that their NaNo work will grow into something better.

I am willing to edit three people’s NaNoWrMo books at the price of 120 dollars apiece. The catch is, you pay upfront by Friday November 8th. These discounted slots are a great deal so should move fast. Put your money where your mouth is and I will match it with my time and skill. Copy edits, content advice and talk about marketing prospects.  Good luck. Place your bets here. (Note: Deadline was extended to Friday to accommodate those paid at the end of the week.)

UPDATE: One slot has been claimed. Only two days later and two slots remain.

(Originally written for a contest for the Surreal Grotesque Podcast, writing this story, set in the world  of my recent novel Time Pimp from Eraserhead Press helped me flesh out the universe. Because of the mythos content, I thought it would make a nice Halloween week treat. Contains characters from the world of Time Pimp, but no spoilers.) 

 

They gathered at the Cathedral of Malkuth, from throughout reality, from the secret inner planets of the Sefirot to the Big Rock Candy Mountain to the Black Saloon, the finest school of the Dark Arts the Wild West had to offer. They gathered at the Cathedral of Malkuth, a once golden building changed over to more practical lead to prevent indiscretions with x ray vision. They gathered at the Cathedral of Malkuth because they were tired of Doubt and fabulous could be purchased to support the cause of eradicating doubt.

 

Represented in the front row, bored by most everything that was up for sale were the lionheads, a race of lionheaded and quilled space reptiles who snatched up worlds and drained their resources out of sheer gluttony and impatience. They had no need for a six day meditation retreat with Saint Cyprian of Antioch, nor for the location of the Pumpkin Planet where Franz the monkey forged jokes at his jokeforge. Nor did they need a talking rainbox or a bag of fertilizer from the Archelon Ranch. The lionhead, psilinked to the Impatience, supreme leader of his race, was already plotting to conquer Malkuth, mine it into devastation and abandon it as was their way.

 

Beside the lionhead, Doc Faustus, The Tartarus Kid had purchased the retreat with Cyprian but was hoping against hope that his bank plunder would be sufficient to purchase what he’d heard from the ghost of Belle Starr would be on sale today. He wanted to put an end to Doubt for certain, as anyone would, but he had a more substantial stake in all of this.

 

Beside them were a dozen representatives of the Morality Front, clad in head to toe body condoms, the typical garb of Our Lady of Perpetual Latex. They were unsure about eradicating Doubt since the Chronopope of the Morality Front had recently come out in favor of Doubt. They were there for the real prize. As was the gigantic being behind them.

 

Squelatinous Quub, the hiphop mogul and gangster took up almost half the cathedral, cutting the potential attendance of the auction into ribbons. The great gooey blob would not be refused attendance, however. And he was the sort of man who had bits of his enemies floating around in his transparent innards. In fact, at this point, his transparent innards were so clogged up with bits of his enemies that he was more or less completely made out of them.

 

The rest of the room was more or less the usual suspects for these sorts of charity auctions, the Wealthy Dowagers Supper Club of Binah, the Clitoral Empress of Netzach, The Grilled Cheese Consortium and Ken Shifatsu, Grand Sumo of Yesod. They had all come to eradicate Doubt, but were nonetheless eager to leave with fabulous treasures and grand opportunities. Their eyes seldom drifted away from the seraph running the auction, except to look upon two figures.

 

One:the Pharaoh Nyarlathotep, The Crawling Chaos, dark, resplendent and perpetually amused. The other: a red haired, blue eyed alabaster angel of a leather nun from the convent at Geburah seated beside the infamous Time Pimp, who the seraph was calling up to the podium.

 

Time Pimp went to the podium with swagger, performing a series of dramatic kicks that served to show off his platform shoes. In each shoe a tiny psychic octopus was floating in absinthe. He was handsome and tan in his red velvet suit, and his purple velvet hat with a feather of ever shifting colors looked jaunty.

 

“Next up for bid,” said the three winged fire eyed angelic auctioneer, “dinner and dancing with Time Pimp!”

 

“Five thousand space bucks!” cried a supper club matron who looked quite smart in her plaid coat and tam o’ shanter.

 

The leather nun stood up.

 

“FIVE MILLION SPACEBUCKS!”

 

“Heavens!” cried the supper club, fainting in tandem.

 

“Sold,” said the angelic auctioneer.

 

And Time Pimp sat back down beside the leather nun, glaring at her under his shades.

 

“I have never been dancing,” she declared, “also, I need to borrow five million space bucks.”

 

Time Pimp was about to respond to this with anger and frustration, but the angel produced from mid air a stinking repugnant tome bound in human flesh.

 

“Next up for bid, the Necronomicon. Bound in human flesh. Authored by Abd Al Hazred…well, you all know the score.”

 

“ONE MILLION SPACEBUCKS!” shouted Doc Faustus, the Tartarus Kid.

 

“TWO MILLION!” shouted the lionhead.

 

“ONE BILLION!” cried Squelatinous Quub.

 

“TWO BILLION!” replied The Grilled Cheese Consortium.

 

“TWENTY BILLION!” growled Ken Shifatsu ferociously.

 

Squelatinous Quub briefly contemplated eating the sumo but decided it would be more rewarding to outdo him.

 

“One quadrillion spacebucks,” the blob gurgled. The supper club regained their footing only to faint again. Time Pimp relaxed his machismo to cling to the nun’s arm. She clung back. The Clitoral Empress vanished in disgust. The lionhead stormed out. The Tartarus Kid quietly prayed to Hades under his breath.

 

“Sold,” said the angelic auctioneer, “to Squelatinous Quub.”

 

Nyarlathotep, the Dark Pharaoh stood up with sarcastic applause.

 

“Well done, Squelatinous Quub. But you cannot buy that for it is mine and always has been.”

 

The room was filled with  whispers. The blob choked back tears of halfdigested foeflesh. The Seraph reached for the flaming sword at his side. Ken Shifatsu drew a tanto and contemplated seppuku. But worst of all, the room was filled with laughter, the laughter of the shadow that eclipses the sun, the laughter of the Dear John letter, the laughter of the bus driving off right as you reach the stop. It sodomized souls, then concluded.

 

“Keep your goddamned book,” said The Crawling Chaos, “this is why you will never defeat doubt.”

 

Nyarlathotep left the cathedral. Nobody learned anything.

 

[This is just a sampling of the potential strangenesses and exotic characters of the world of  Time Pimp.  To see how many of these characters connect and the adventures Time Pimp and his leather nun companion have, buy Time Pimp HERE. Happy Halloween, you jiveass turkeys.]

Each year, I like to give an online writing workshop for those who wish to learn how to write Bizarro and advances themselves in the Bizarro fiction. And each time, I like to teach beside a Bizarro notable  such as Bradley Sands or J.David Osborne. This time around, I am honored to bring you one of the heavyweights of experimental fiction.

Tom Bradley’s essay the Nab Gets Posthumously Bizarroized is so full of insights into Bizarro that (get this) IT’S USED AS A SOURCE ON THE WIKIPEDIA PAGE! Tom was kind of the first Bizarro scholar and is a talented writer with such books as Lemur and Family Romance under his belt. He’s also a cornerstore of the Imperial Youth Review organization. His support and wisdom have been invaluable. 

For four weeks, this December (and one in January because there will be a Christmas break), we can make your holiday a little stranger and keep you sharp during winter breaks from school. Each week, you will have a short exercise from each of us. Tom will teach how to infuse your work with emotional realism and how to document your experiences, as I flip Tom’s lessons on their head, teaching you how to create and expand your dream worlds. We start at autobiography and end at fabrication.

The cost of this workshop is 40 dollars for those who sign up in October, 60 for those who sign up in November. Thirteen slots are available. Email thecentercannothold@gmail.com for info or to sign up.

 

Image