Pic o' the Week

I received my contributor's copy of Beware the Dark #2 today... and wow, what a cool package editor/publisher Paul Fry has assembled. Love the production on this mag, and the lineup looks great too -- columns by Ramsey Campbell and Ray Garton, a Joe Lansdale interview, lots of great artists and writers. Can't wait to dig in.

But the piece of resistance this time out is my buddy Tom Piccirilli, who is the featured attraction herein, with stories, an interview, bibliography, and appreciations. My contribution to this Pic Special Issue falls in the latter camp, and I had a blast writing the piece. It's called Pic's Dirty Dozen, and it's (basically) twelve things you might not know about the Big Man himself. Want a taste? Here's a straight shot of same to warm you up and (hopefully) get you to click the buy button:

If you ever need to get in touch with another writer, ask Tom. He knows everybody. Want the straight dope about a publisher? Ask Tom. He'll give it to you. In fact, some of the most hilarious stuff I've ever read in my life are Pic's emails about his adventures in the writing trenches. Seriously. If he's been burned, he can light a match to a keg of dynamite and return the favor like nobody's business. And if Tom uses a little descriptive shorthand and tells you that a publisher is a Shaw Brother... well, pardner, that ain't good news. Run, don't walk, in the other direction. And maybe have Jimmy Wang Yu watch your back.

So: Some fun to be had herein. Apart from getting the chance to name-check Jimmy Wang Yu, I talk about Adam Warlock, Robert Mitchum, even Pasta Fasool and turkey sandwiches. You know, all the good stuff.

And here's some even better stuff to toss into the mix: Heard from Tom last week, who had a MRI recently and is clear of brain cancer 19 months after surgery. He actually had a photographer from a medical journal visit to take his picture as a Miracle Man. You can file that under: Beating the Odds, or The Good Guy Wins This Time Out. Either one works for me... and I'm glad Tom can take both of 'em to the bank.

And hey Tommy: Keep punchin', you big bad noir cowboy. We love you.

Hopping a Fast Freight...

...and I'll be in Portland tomorrow as a guest of the World Horror Convention. Mostly, I'll be cruising around, hitting some friends' panels and the dealers' room and whatever else is cooking. May hit the Stokers, too. Anyway, please grab me and say howdy if you've a mind to -- after all, that's what these things are all about. Lookin' forward to talking horror w/ one and all.

For scheduled events, here's where I'll be:

Thursday
6 - 7 p.m. Opening Ceremonies

Friday
10 a.m. - 11 a.m. Panel: The Short Form
noon - 1 p.m Norman Partridge Q & A w/ Cody Goodfellow
6 p.m. - 9 p.m. Mass Autograph Signing (and yes, I'll have books for sale)

Saturday
3 - 4 p.m. Reading for Enter at Your Own Risk: The End is the Beginning
Then: Hangin' Out -- maybe a detour to the Stokers

Sunday
Hangin' Out

And: I'm really looking forward to the Q & A with Mr. Goodfellow. Rumors are flying that we may reenact the ending of a neglected cinematic favorite, Emperor of the North. Hey, it could happen. After all, that one was filmed in Oregon, and Cody is a dead ringer for Lee Marvin. That would leave me going full on Ernie Borgnine, but I guess I could handle the job. So be there or be square. Tune in for (possibly) the ultimate Shack attack. We'll just have to wait and see where the conversation leads us... "Now what was that question, Mr. G?"

Wherewolf?

This one's for a couple of you American Frankenstein regulars who emailed to say: "Nice excerpt, Norm... but where's the werewolf action you promised?" And you know what? You're right. That excerpt was heavy on sociopathic banker action, not so heavy on werewolves. So let me toss the next section of "Fever Springs" your way, which does include specific lycanthropic content. Enjoy!

Also, I should add that I'm glad to have "Fever Springs" appear in Dark Discoveries, because it's been one of my favorite magazines for a long time. I love their theme issues, and if I get started digging through my collection I'll have to say adios to the afternoon (but I've gotta mention the Twilight Zone issue!). Anyway, let's just say they've done lots of great stuff over the years, and I've wanted to work with editor James Beach for a long time. Thanks to JournalStone honcho Christopher Payne for making it happen -- you made two ol'  horror hounds very happy, Christopher!

Now on to a hound of a different variety. Enter the Werewolf, stage left...

The werewolf’s name was Blasko. Of course, Beaumont didn’t know that for a long time, as Blasko had been born mute. At first Blasko didn’t even understand English. But listening to Mr. Beaumont and those in his employ, the little man learned quickly enough.

Mr. Beaumont was a banker. A most intelligent man. He had a way of making his needs clear. At first, he would simply present Blasko with a swatch of clothing, or sometimes an entire garment. Then he would draw a soft finger across his neck in a slow, slashing motion. Blasko would draw the scent and let it linger in his lungs. Later, as he learned the language and the particular way Mr. Beaumont employed it, the big man would whisper words to Blasko. Never many. Sometimes barely enough. But for Blasko, Mr. Beaumont’s words were like snares. There was no escaping them or the actions they demanded. They were brutal, and simple, and (in their own way) as efficient as Blasko himself.

For Blasko was efficient.

Blasko would hunt… and Blasko would kill.

Sometimes he would kill those who had stolen things from Mr. Beaumont.

Sometimes he would kill those from whom Mr. Beaumont wished to steal.

It was all the same to Blasko. He was content. Life was far better in this country than the one where he was born. Holy men came few and far between here. The air was dry and clean. The land was open, often without trees. Sometimes there were valleys filled with cactus, many as tall as the tallest pines of his homeland, each one bearing thick spikes that might have crucified Jesus without so much as a single Roman nail. In fact, a single valley might hold enough cactus to crucify every man who had hunted or caged Blasko in his youth. And when the moon rose above the desert, its light washed the land like a great wave that carried the barbed cactus shadows into the night. In that wave Beaumont’s enemies waited for Blasko like drowning men, pinned in the darkness, and though there was not much water here there was more than enough blood, especially when Blasko tore open his victims in the moonlight. That is what Blasko liked best. Claws and fangs and blood. Often, he slaked his thirst so deeply that he felt he would drown in a deep red sea.

Slip beneath the surface, into the pulsing blood.

Sink deeper and deeper as scarlet currents drove him down… and down… and down.

Until he found a bottom that was as black and empty as nothing at all.

Werewolf Action (As You Like It)

I've got a new werewolf story coming up in Dark Discoveries #26. To amp up the alliteration, it's also a Weird Western... and it's appearing in a special issue dedicated to Weird Western action.

It probably goes without saying that this is definitely my cup of campfire coffee. Can't wait to read this issue. Looks like some interesting nonfic, and stories by Gemma Files and Gary Braunbeck to boot.

Even better: Whole deal is due out at the end of the month from JournalStone. You can pre-order a copy right here. And if you want to sample the goods, here's the opening of my tale, a piece called "Fever Springs":

Mr. Beaumont bought the werewolf somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Actually, a foreign business agent purchased the monster for him. A man with a face like a pine knot. He arrived at Beaumont’s bank on a Sunday afternoon. The bank was closed, which was just as well, because the agent had made the trip in a cast-iron prison wagon.

Not, of course, as an occupant. There was only one man locked in the wagon… or a thing that (at that particular moment) looked like a man. The agent had purchased the creature from a monastery where it had been locked away for years, howling in a solitary cell like a madman. At any rate, that was the agent’s story. Beaumont believed the tale was little more than embroidery, designed to add an element of personal danger and (as a result) raise the agent’s price.

In truth, Beaumont cared not at all where the creature came from. He cared about two things and two things only: 1) what the creature could do for him, and 2) the business at hand. And so Beaumont stared into the eyes of the man with the pine-knot face. Just as he had suspected, he did not like the particular gleam he saw there. In his experience, that gleam was a sign that a man had dreams. Beaumont himself had none at all. It was his belief that time spent dreaming was better spent planning. But the banker did not speak of that. Instead he spoke of other things.

“The full moon rises next Tuesday,” Beaumont said. “I’ll pay you after that.”

“But Mr. Beaumont, I have other business to attend to. If you doubt the veracity of the goods—”

“I have no doubt about the goods. I have done my research. And I don’t believe you’d have purchased a prison wagon to deliver a bucket of hokum to me.”

“Still, I have pressing engagements,” the agent said. “I can’t linger here for a week.”

“Then you won’t wait for your money?”

“But, sir—my business…”

“Yes, sir. Your business.” Beaumont opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small stack of letters. “At present it intersects with my own, and this is a matter I do not take lightly. You have an appointment with me today. Next month, you have another in Denver. And then another in San Francisco a month after that.” Three times, Beaumont tapped a stout finger against the envelopes. “And it seems you’re selling the same merchandise at each stop.”

The man’s pine-knot face seemed to split as his jaw dropped open. Only slightly. He searched for words with grim effort, not understanding that it was a pointless exercise. For now that Beaumont’s accusation had been plainly spoken a feeling boiled up in the thick-set banker, a feeling that another man was of the opinion that Beaumont could be played for a fool. That was not a feeling that set well in Mr. Beaumont gullet or belly, and especially not in his brain.

“You thought you’d sell the wolf to me. Then sell him again. Then sell him one more time after that. Was that your plan?”

“Sir, I—”

“Did you plan to kill me yourself, or was the wolf going to do it?”

“Mr. Beaumont. Please. If you’ll only listen…”

But listening was a waste of time. This Beaumont understood all too well. So he pulled a Colt revolver from his desk and put a bullet in the foreign agent’s brain. The man’s skull cracked like a walnut in a hot fire. A red flower, not unlike a carnation, seemed to bloom on what remained of the agent’s forehead, and his puckered lips loosed his last breath with the same small effort they would employ in releasing a lie.

Soon the face and the lips were covered with blood. Then the dead man slid out of the chair. Beaumont returned his pistol to the drawer, along with the money he had intended to pay for the werewolf.

Next he rifled the agent’s pockets and found the man’s wallet.

The wallet was fat.

Beaumont smiled.

All in all, it was a good day’s work.