review

Meeting the mob crew (an inspiration) …

Goodfellas is almost out of my system, but I couldn’t resist the following, based on this scene and after reading Nicholas Pileggi’s Wise Guy:

We were wise guys, yes, but gods among men otherwise. It all started when I met Jimmy “The Irishman” O’Houlihan, one of the best hijackers in Queens, who took me under his wing when I was a kid.

“You ever rat me out and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear,” Jimmy told me when he shook my 10-year-old hand. “Now, drive that semi-truck of stolen cigarettes to Sheepshead Bay so we can unload them.”

“I can’t drive,” I said. “My feet don’t even reach the brakes.”

“Fuckin’ mutt,” Jimmy said in the most endearing way possible. “Let me find some blocks to tie to the brake and gas pedals.”

That’s how it started. A 10-year-old boy steering a multi-ton death machine across the city. Jimmy would’ve been so proud of me had a rival crew not hijacked me and stolen the cigarettes.

Jimmy found out who did it, whacked ’em, and recovered the cigarettes.

“Next time I’ll give you a gun,” Jimmy said. “Now, go inside and watch Sesame Street.”

I was the toughest kid in the mob daycare center. The other kids’ parents gave them extra lunch money so they could buy something to eat after I shook them down. I always kicked some dough back up to Jimmy. The other families knew who I was with and never said a word.

I made book on who’d win the spelling bee, and would beat up anyone who wouldn’t misspell ‘dog’ when I told them to. I organized Uno games, and God help the kid who tried marking the Wild cards. The daycare administrator once asked Joe “The Piano Player” Moscone why all ten of his fingers were broken. He kept his mouth shut and never played Bach the same way again.

Our Monopoly games involved real money. I forced the players to pay protection on their houses and hotels. And if they didn’t, they’d get melted green and red blobs on Boardwalk and Park Place. Anyone who went directly to jail got a black eye for being sloppy.

But those were the guys I grew up with. When we became old enough to drink, which was 18 back then, we met at Paul “the Arsonist” Giglione’s new pub after his old one burned down.

There was Frankie “the Wop” Bugliati, Vinny “the Daigo” Vincense, and Bobby “the Dignified Italian” Pucinni who despised Frankie’s and Vinny’s nicknames.

Tommy “the Snitch” Genovese was a regular until recently. I have no idea why he suddenly disappeared.

Haruki “The Blowfish Poisoner” Ishigawa sought to establish the Yakuza in Queens, but he was the only Japanese gangster in town, so he hung with us. Marco “the Insult Master” Francesa once called Ishigawa “the nipster.” I thought it was kinda lazy, but Ishi took it in stride, chuckled, and asked Marco if he’d ever tried fugu and if he would like to. I’m not sure if Marco enjoyed it. I haven’t had the chance to ask him because he’s been in the hospital for six months.

I don’t think I ever paid for a drink in my life. Paul “Pope Beneficent” Gagliardi took care of me. I always made it a point to go to church for him. Then I’d meet my mistress right afterward at the track.

Nobody ever walked up behind Billy “the Paranoid Schizophrenic” Batty when he was sitting at the bar. The last guy who tapped him on the shoulder ended up with his face chewed off while Billy screamed in between chomps, “The voices! Why are the bunny rabbits so loud!” Yeah, we avoided Billy at all costs.

We always busted “Fat” Andy Ciccio’s balls because he was morbidly obese and practically sweated butter. Then he went and lost 300 pounds, and we started calling him Andy “the Bulimic who Ruined His Teeth” Ciccio. I liked “Fat” Andy better.

We ate chicken parmesan until buttons popped off our shirts and teased the old-school capo Vito “the Wordsmith” Bossonaro, who sipped anisette while doing his crossword puzzle. His days of pounding whiskey ended when he broke too many wooden barrels. We bought him a punching bag soon after.

It was the mafia’s golden age, before the bad times, before mob boss Anthony “the Neocon” Porchetta started a war against the Toscano Crime Family because its boss, Luciano, didn’t pay his Monopoly protection money to me on time. The thing is, he did. I was hungover and forgot to give it to Anthony.

Hey, wait, you’re not recording any of this, are you?

Glenn Rolfe and Francis Xavier are awesome!

I’m adding these posts as I go to my Blog’s media page, but I want to call attention, and profusely thank, both Francis Xavier and Glenn Rolfe:

Francis Xavier posted a great interview with me on Examiner.com. Francis also interviewed my editor, Don D’Auria, a few years ago and likewise did a fantastic job.

Horror fanatic and author Glenn Rolfe reviewed The Dark Servant for iHorror.com and has been very supportive. Check out his review, and also check out his new short story collection, Slush.

Book Review of Dust Devils by Jonathan Janz

Courtesy: Samhain Publishing

Courtesy: Samhain Publishing

Jonathan Janz has a way with words (sometimes requiring me to grab a dictionary), but that’s okay! His story, Dust Devils, set in New Mexico in the 1880s, chronicles the journey of Cody, a vengeful young man whose wife is slaughtered by a troupe of vampires masquerading as actors.

Thank God Janz subscribes to the notion that vampires are evil creatures that torment and murder without remorse. Teenage girls looking for forlorn, pasty-skinned vampires who’ve never had a pimple and who attend high school to blend in will find no sanctuary here.

It would be simplistic and a disservice to say Dust Devils, released earlier this year by Samhain Horror, is a tale of one man seeking revenge on those who wronged him. It’s a story that touches on the definition of masculinity in a harsh world (harsh to Cody even before the vampires entered his life). It’s also a love story between father and son, husband and wife. It’s a story about loss (be it a marriage or a loved one) and how best to cope with it. This makes Cody a man with feeling, a man who tries to fight back tears but can’t–and this separates him from cookie-cutter Western heroes whose only characteristic is ruggedness and who view women merely as subordinates. Janz does a fine job creating characters you root for (many times I found myself thinking, “How the hell is Cody going to get out of this mess this time?”). Janz also writes his vampires so you root against them. By and large they’re not tragic, fallen figures (although even here Janz may surprise you a teensy bit) and will kill just as soon as look at you.

Janz cites Cormac McCarthy as an influence, and I found myself thinking of “Blood Meridian” a time or two. I enjoyed Dust Devils infinitely more, primarily because I didn’t stumble upon any unwieldy McCarthy-like sentences like this:

“The riders spurred their horses to gallop toward a merciless sun that scorched the outlaws’ grimy skin but they paid it no mind as all but the frontriding Judge inhaled the dirt kicked rearward by the horse ahead and they were fine with it because none of the filibusterers had eaten anything to nourish their bellies other than gecko skewed from mouth to anus and spit-rotated until the flesh blistered and cracked but all the men had to admit inhaling hoof-flung dirt and confused insects paled in comparison to devouring gecko meat that tasted even better with a paprika mix that Toadvine somehow conjured and the Kid rejoiced eating as it reminded him of something the obese whore Wilma cooked up for him before they slaughtered the Comanches and scalped the heads of the dead and suffering living caring not for the pain inflicted valuing only the money they would be paid for their ungodly toil.”

But I digress. Dust Devils isn’t just for fans of the vampire or Western genres, it can be read and enjoyed by fans of literary fiction who don’t mind a splash (sometimes big ones) of blood here and there.

Jeff Strand’s Wolf Hunt: a 3-year-late review

WolfHunt

Courtesy: the wonderful Internet

 

Jeff Strand writes irreverent dialogue, and he stuffs Wolf Hunt—a horror novel (although I hesitate to call it that)—with witty repartees between characters both good (in this case: likeable rogues) and bad (Hitler-level evil).

Two low-rent thugs, George and Lou, embark on a simple task: drive a van containing a man in a cage from one part of Florida to another. Ivan, the imprisoned, is a werewolf (no, really, he is) but George and Lou don’t believe it. Disregard the caged prisoner and don’t go near the cage, they’re instructed. Just deliver him to the mysterious person who, presumably, Ivan wants to avoid. But whatever happens—do not open the cage for any reason.

Naturally, they open the cage, and unleash on unsuspecting Florida a serial killer who can transform, at will, into a furry, quick-healing wolf man who mercilessly toys with his prey before dispatching them in gruesome ways.

Wolf Hunt has all the makings of a horror novel save for thing: it’s not particularly scary, in the sense that the movie Midnight Run isn’t scary. But damn is it a great comedy adventure. That’s what I kept thinking while reading about George and Lou imperiling their own debauched lives to save innocent people as they chase Ivan around Florida’s cul-de-sacs, dive bars, highways and swamps.

Just because Wolf Hunt doesn’t scare in the traditional spooky, there’s-something-stalking-the-woods way, it’s nonetheless disturbing—especially when Ivan attacks an innocent woman in her own home. Ivan’s treatment of his victims makes the reader root all the more for George and Lou to catch the hairy bastard.

I don’t think I’ve ever read a book where the werewolf has the most dialogue. Ivan, who’s no slouch, doesn’t shut up when he’s in his human form, and what he spews are either arrogant or despicable taunts. That bastard!

Strand does something I wish more authors would do: he moves the story along with dialogue that’s rarely bland. You won’t find much overly descriptive third-person narration; rather, you’ll enjoy George and Lou struggling to justify their miserable existences, how they want to get out of their criminal lives, and, most importantly, how they plan on bringing down that goddamn bastard Ivan! The back-and-forth between Ivan and George (who serves as the Alpha to Lou) also entertains. You end up caring about George and Lou and that’s because Strand knows how to develop characters, especially babbling, pretentious werewolves. Those looking for hardcore scares won’t find them in Wolf Hunt, but that’s not to diminish its quality as a fun and entertaining (and fast) read. Fans of werewolves won’t go wrong in adding it to their collection.