Welcome to the show. Today's a big day. Hope those of you that are celebrating have an awesome Halloween.
You might notice that today's post is not just on time, but early. Well, that's because the story that I've been unfolding for you the last four weeks, By Starlight, is finally available in the world. You can purchase your very own copy in eBook format on Amazon or Smashwords. Or if you prefer the weight of a tome in your mitts, the paperback is also available on Amazon and CreateSpace. If you purchase the paperback, you can get a Kindle copy for free on Amazon for use on your Kindle device or app.
Of course, the first book in The Lilim Chronicles, Urban Legends of the Future, is still available for free in eBook format at Smashwords.
I'm also posting early because tomorrow being November 1st kicks off National Novel Writing Month, or it's more affectionate name, NaNoWriMo. I hadn't heard of it until 2012, and by then I was balls deep in writing my upcoming novel, To Slice The Sky, and didn't want to switch gears or grandfather in. 2013 I was working on short stories that would eventually become the aforementioned Urban Legends of the Future. And 2014 I was compiling Urban Legends for release this February. But this year, this year is different.
For one, I'm actually in between projects perfectly at the start of the month. For two, I actually have a novel I want to write that I'm excited for. For three, it gives me an extra excuse to update more on this blog, particularly above the next two weeks when I wrap up posting the rest of By Starlight. I'm hoping that keeping myself updated with what I write for my word count per day will be added encouragement to pull myself through.
I'm writing a retelling of Sergio Corbucci's Django/Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo with Steampunk cowboys on Mars. I already finished the basic plotting and storyboarding for it. In 24 hours, I'll get to begin hammering out the first bits of the story. It's going to be all kinds of fun, as well as still tie into The Lilim Chronicles. Johnny Marko from By Starlight and Sucking Out Loud will also be a major player in this title, making good on his promise to get the hell out of Hollywood.
Continuing on with the ballad of Tressie, Johnny and Gribelle in By Starlight, we left our heroes and villain all in precarious states. It's time for the big party we've all been waiting for, and a showdown in meatspace between Tressie and Gribelle. Who will survive and what will be left of them?!?!?!
six
Darkness filled in where light left off. A knock on the door. From the other side, a broken male voice squawked out a, “Helloooooo? I’m not interrupting some epic fragfest, am I guys?” The door opened rough against the threshold.
“Ellie? Jax? Are you guys going to the party across the... why does it reek in he-ohemgee.”
The body released gas in a long sustained breath that almost counted as a moan. Feces flaked fingers ground into the armrests of the defiled throne. A nude female body, encrusted in post-digestive products, lunged at the intruder with great strain. She wrapped rigored fingers around a bobbing adam’s apple below a froggy face covered in acne scars topped with hair like an urban bird’s nest.
The ugly youth let out a yelp of many emotions, dropping a glossy handbill on heavy stock in the process. He attempted a full retreat, but all too late. Grimy digits vice-gripped around the intruder’s wrists. His pent up sexual frustration was siphoned into the physical plane and absorbed into the consciousness of a Succubus, lost from her home and starving to death.
Gribelle blinked once, twice, then stretched out in the newly dead frame. Lesson learned from the previous body that a dead human makes for a poor host. Gribelle needed fresh meat in more ways than one. The card she saw this body drop laid beside his face. It was marked in human script reading INFAMOUS along the top. It was dotted with images of various beings hunched over with similar earwear around their necks and heads. One of the images was familiar to Gribelle. The dark female with wild locks. The female in the window. At the domicile where Gribelle first came to this plane of existence. With that obnoxious sound seeping through the walls.
Loud music rattled the windows and occasional flashes of light danced across the room. The hard edged beat Siren called to Gribelle across a pavement sea. The chapped lips of the new frame split down the center from the intensity of Gribelle’s grin. She would have her meat. And there sat a slaughterhouse, waiting to provide.
***
Anthemic hoover effects blared out a straight laced melody with a surge of ethereal pads warming the hearts of a DeMoed out audience. A digital stepper, borrowed from a 2000 French disco song, built tension as it overlaid on the breakdown.
Tressie looked out over the dazed crowd of faces. Bodies hung from every floor of Das Komplex. Each wore a face of joviality or ecstasy. Tressie’s DJToolz.exe widget alerted her the breakdown was about to end in the next five seconds. She dropped the next song into the queue; With a 3...2...1...
“And when the bass hits, we all feel saved...”
The bass drum hit ignited the courtyard like a powderkeg in a burst of red light. Faces transformed from blissed out wonder to jubilant enthusiasm. Oscar was nowhere to be found.
***
Johnny clinked bottle tops with his guitarist in arms, Anne Gwish. They cheersed and tipped back a Slagpit Pilsner. They winced at the end of their drinks, which was the Slagpit Brewing Company's claim to fame.
“Intentionally awful beer from low grade products for super cheap drunkeness followed by hellish hangovers,” Anne shouted over Tressie’s set. A powerful belch, heavy with the tang of burnt garbage, followed. "Most honest slogan ever."
Her pre-trait F2M BFF, Sal, sneered at the bottle, “This tastes like those krillburgers they serve in Lil' Pyongyang.”
“I’m pretty sure those are worse, dude,” Anne laughed, wincing from her latest sip.
“Dub tee eff is a krillburger?” Their freegan straight-edge drummer, Kitty O'BangBang, looked up at the group from her seat on the floor. Her legs dangled between the rails of the second floor.
Anne clicked her tongue, “Some boxes are best left unchecked, Miz O'BangBang.”
“And if you drank,” Sal let the snark hang in the air, “you’d have a rough approximation drinking Fragpit.”
Kitty flipped Sal the bird as DeMolition Lab’s chronically unpunctual bassist huffed through the crowd on the stairs. With his bass and combo amp in hands he smacked partiers aside without care or apology.
“Heeeere’s Rex. Late for a dadfragging gig, yet again,” Anne rolled her eyes.
“Slag off, Anne. Me mum was being a right twat ‘bout me boosting the motor,” Rex the Fukker said.
"Just because your mother is a strong-willed, independent woman, doesn’t make her a twat,” Kitty sneered at Rex. Years of contempt oozed from her look.
“You want her to have a yell at you lot, right? Have a row all because I got interests that can snag a geyser some cred outside the box, oi? You gotta be totally fraggin’ muntered to think Hollywood’s joke of an edutainment system can breed minds for that bloody world, oi. Slag that, love. You can keep ‘er.” Rex dropped his amp, nearly missing Kitty’s paw.
“Why do you keep faking that stupid accent?” Johnny said.
“To be fair,” Sal chimed in, “being in an Old Skool Hardcore band and dressing like a last century throwback probably doesn’t remind your mom of all the hopes and dreams she had for you.” Rex opened his mouth. Sal said, “Furthermore, making designer molecules is illegal.”
“Says the ©id whose ‘rents threatened to cut off yer bleedin’ trust fund if ya perma gender flip.” Rex looked off into the crowd, ignoring the group’s collective death stare. “When are we on?” No one responded. “Eh, Marko. That your gilly down there, right? When's this bloody electroskag done wit’ man? I’m ready to bloody rip it up.”
Johnny sighed, “After her set.”
“Whens that?” Kitty O' asked. Synchronized lights pulsed in four different colors across her face.
“This sounds like the final song. At least from what I’ve heard of her mix so far. It has like three parts all cut together. So we’ve got, like, six, maybe seven minutes.” Johnny winced again from his Slagpit. He glared at Rex from the corner of his eye. “Maybe you should get your rig down there with the rest of our gear, Mr. Rex the Fukker.”
***
“...get enough/ Reach up... can’t get enough/ Reach...” A boom-boom-blat fracas assaulted Gribelle’s aural faculties. Bass vibrated the stopped heart inside her borrowed chest. The stink of human pheromone hung in the air like the finest perfumes of the East. The dead body lurched in a manner that almost matched the frenetic drum and bass dancers.
“...Push the feeling...higher...”
Displeased faces showed from dancing flesh as they were stumbled into by the most ungraceful partygoer in the courtyard. All the unlucky sorts to end up in the path of the gangly, pock faced, straw-haired kid afflicted with the palsy, expressed their enmity with soured looks and hurled curses.
“...Till you can’t get enoughenoughenoughenough...”
Gribelle flashed angry red pupils at the onlookers. Those that saw recoiled in terror, pushing against a solid wall of intoxicated youths who shoved back. The crowd surged into the path of a couple ragers, cross-walking like it never went out of style. The dance party mutated into a whirling dervish of skin and profanity.
Gribelle, unwilling to abide entrapment by human flesh any longer, laid at the bottom of the pile, dead joints stiffening with rigor mortis. Her red eyes lifted and saw the dark female on stage.
“And then you/And then you/AndthenAndthenAndthen...”
***
“...bring it back...”
Some ugly creepoid with no moves managed to form a drunken dogpile right on top of himself. Tressie was a bit pissed since she’d cut together a set that directed the party like a proper DJ should. Now some jackhole confederacy transplant completely killed the vibe on her closer. And he was staring at Tressie with Oscar’s contemptful red pupils.
Tressie let the beat drop.
***
“That’s weird,” Johnny said. “How come the next track didn’t star--oh there it goes. Wait, why is this from the beginning?”
Sal scoffed, “You know your SO’s playlist so well, you can tell when a song’s supposed to start?”
“She’s been practicing a lot. This is supposed to be part three, but like, start later in the track.”
“I don’t get how you can stand that skag, geyser,” Rex pounded the rest of his tall can and belched krillburger. “I thought you were fraggin’ hardcore, man.”
“Oh give it a fraggin’ rest already Rex, you fake Cockney frag.” Anne rabbit punched Rex in the bicep.
“Ow. Watch it ya slatter. That’s me pickin’ arm.”
Kitty scoffed, “Some hardcore."
Johnny Marko was less interested in his bandmates than the commotion on the ground floor. Tressie’s lights were all fubared and the lady herself stood in attack pose. To the side of the filled bleachers, where a mound of people sprung up in the wake of a failed circle pit, some straw-haired chucklehead clawed towards Tressie.
“Gang, we have an emerging situation on our hands,” Johnny started towards the center stairwell, finding it blocked.
“It’s just a mosh pit,” Kitty deadpanned, “filled with a bunch of drugged out tools. Of course they fell over.”
Johnny was already free running down the railing, dodging flailing arms of party goers cheering on the mayhem. He attempted a leap towards the ground but couldn’t clear some poor sucker’s head. Johnny looked up from prone position with a mouthful of grass and a sore jaw. The tourist had gotten free and was crawling up the side of the stage.
The crowd sorted itself into an orderly fashion, trying to get into the awkwardly paced song that sporadically grooved. Someone shouted, “Hang the DJ”. Johnny got to his feet as he saw Tressie reach underneath the tarp hiding DeMo Lab’s equipment.
***
Tressie caught that ugly dadfragger’s glowing eye. It moved like a dead body on strings from beneath the pile. Squashed-roach-like, he pulled himself up to the lip of the stage. Not wanting to deal with some freakishly strong Confed in board shorts, Tressie scrambled for protection.
She felt like an idiot for not planning for this scenario and not packing a weapon beneath her rig. It's not like she didn't have a crowbar right behind her apartment door. With the sex demon possessed guy upright on the stage, Tressie reached under Johnny’s gear tarp and grabbed the first long, hard, and partially metallic thing she touched. She jerked upwards and was caught by the wrist.
The Succubus leered at her through dead eyes, adam’s apple bobbing with a throaty chuckle. Tressie felt a familiar flush in her chest and crotch. The faintest wisp passed between the two.
“I’ll never forget that taste. So... elemental,” A female voice came from an open frog mouth.
“So it was you last night. Trouble getting into the motherlode?”
“Human, this plane is the motherlode. Just look at the gatherings you hold. I can't wait to get back home and tell my kin about this plane. After I drain you, I’ll suck each and every horny devil behind me.”
“What, just to spite me or something?”
“You? You just made yourself known. Everyone else? Those are an appetizer.”
“How ‘bout a knuckle sandwich?” Tressie socked the monster in the face with her free hand. It let go of her wrist. She hoisted a replica 1999 Telecaster upwards into the thing’s jaw with a *CLUCK*.
The rest of the crowd stood agape as the body didn’t get back up. Tressie toed at it a bit. Nothing.
***
“Damn it all. Caught monologuing.” was Gribelle’s last thought before her consciousness went dormant.
***
“Sacred skag. Someone call the fraggin’ pocs!” Someone called out from the crowd. A dozen people put their hands to their ears initiating phone calls. Everyone else fled the scene or into their apartments.
“Tressie. Let’s get the frag outta here,” Johnny bellowed from below the stage
“Where’s your bike?”
“On the street, let’s move.”
Tressie scanned over the sea of people making an exit towards the main gate. Total chaos had been loosed upon Das Komplex. Things had fallen apart with Johnny and Tressie unable to hold at the center.
Johnny saw a gap forming, “Tressie, c’mon. Blend in up here. Herd instinct.”
Tressie leapt from the stage and took Johnny’s hand, leading him into the surge. Tressie kept an elbow up as they beelined to the exit. The tide receded and they were outside. HPD squad cars screeched to smoking stops, accompanied by sirens and the whooping of ghetto birds. They hustled to the motorcycle, leaning on its kickstand, pointed to the road. Johnny thumbed the ignition switch and the controls sprung to life. Tressie clung behind Johnny on the edge of the seat.
“Suspect spotted. African-American female, dreadlocked black hair, waiting for a clear shot.” A peace officer barked into their radio. Johnny cursed and rocked the throttle back, peeling out down the car lined street.
“They’re on the move,” another poc updated HQ.
“HPD. Stop your vehicle and get down on the ground with your hands above your head. This is your only warning.” A ghetto bird squawked from an echoing loud speaker.
“I’m not going up to The Colony for murder, Johnny. Throttle it,” Tressie slapped Johnny on the back like a horse.
Johnny loosed a battle-cry, “Hi-ho silver rocket, dadfraggers!”
He opened the throttle as dopplering peace cruiser sirens caught up with the flashing lights. Four fresh cruisers from three separate directions converged on their intersection. The closest cruiser fishtailed up behind them. The pocs were already out in half cover behind open car doors, pistol laser sights cutting lines in the night mist. Their shouts to get down were drowned by beating chopper blades. The search light shone down like a UFO abduction, tracking Johnny as he sped headlong into the oncoming cruisers.
“They’re resisting arrest. Open fire,” came from the loudspeakers above.
Slugs whizzed and *CHUNK*ed into the scenery. Johnny zigged around the hood of the lead cruiser. Helicopter sniper shots pierced the engine block beneath. The officers on point were definitely not on point with their targeting and crossfired where Johnny and Tressie were. Shrieks of terrified pain came from the crowd of onlookers.
Johnny zagged back as the next pair of cruisers handbrake skidded across the blacktop, kicking up wafts of asphalt and burnt rubber. One clipped the back tire of the bike, causing them to wobble.
“Johnny,” Tressie panicked, feeling the bike’s control waver. Johnny bit his lip and adjusted their velocity, angling behind the second cruiser to the right. It tried to box them into a dead end. Johnny checked his speed, eyeing the oncoming cruiser.
“Hang on. Sharp left.” Johnny leaned into the turn, dodging the final cruiser as it hopped the far curb, plowing into a chainlink fence and doing a barrel roll into someone’s front yard.
The chopper’s spot light was blocked by housing for the time being. Hysterics and pandemonium faded to a wild roar as the pocs shouted orders to disperse over megaphones.
Johnny gunned it down the lane and across the street. He hooked a right into a tree overhung back alley.
“Where are you heading?” Tressie said into Johnny’s ear. They coasted to an idling stop beneath the overgrowth poking over cinder block walls and garage entries.
“Away. fragged if I know,” Johnny said. The peace officer helicopter pulled higher into the sky, combing in a circular perimeter.
“We need sanctuary. Head out to Lassen and Lindley. But don’t cut through campus. It’s probably crawling with pocs.”
“What’s at Lassen and Lindley?”
“I’m taking you to church, Marko.”
***
Gribelle returned to conscious thought, still a prisoner in a stiffened cage. The coroner’s eyes glowed in a dull yellow. He shook his head over some unfortunate kid that wanted to party tonight.
The coroner dictated to the air, “Time and cause of death seem off from what was reported.” They snapped off latex gloves and traced a laser light from one of their fingers along the corpse’s jawline. “There should be a serious amount of bruising where impact was made by the instrument.” The coroner traced a light line to the busted guitar, “Yet all the blood is pooled at the feet, which are morbidly swollen," he wiggled the pointer across the body's toes. "If the blow was strong enough to break a graphite reinforced birchwood neck, it would have snapped a human neck.
“Furthermore, scans would have registered severe brain trauma minutes ago, opposed to an hour. And while this is based only from field forensic scans, it appears the brain was fried from the inside out.”
“That’s one helluva hit,” The homicide detective sipped from a lidded paper cup.
“Like I said, I doubt our prime suspect actually killed this guy. But the evidence brings a lot of unknowns with it.”
Gribelle was used to the perceptual shift of inhabiting new flesh, but was not used to having her vision boxed in by an augmented reality overlay of forensic tools.
The coroner’s consciousness struggled back against the invading succubus to no avail. With a full body shudder, Gribelle willed the display to disappear. The detective pulled a drag on their cigarette and exhaled smoke in Gribelle’s face. The coroner’s body reflex hacked and sputtered.
“Where’d you go buddy? Kinda went,” The detective made a circular gesture with his hand, “blank? Yeah, blank.”
“Did I?” Gribelle overworked the coroner’s mouth, getting the feel for new tongue, lips and teeth. “Sorry, just thinking about grabbing dinner.”
“You coroners are all the same. Real fraggin’ spocks. Allayahs.” The detective stamped out his cigarette.
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