Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (29 page)

Wendy nodded. “What were
you
planning to do about the situation?”

“I thought I’d pretend I’d never gotten the call. Denial’s my friend, and all.”

“Yeah, okay. Just say you’ll think about it. Please?”

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

I lit up a cigarette; the smoke caught on the thinnest of breezes and spun off like cursive. The trail stretched off toward the single ghost who was still interested in our presence. He stomped through the haze, passed us and then stopped about ten feet away, leaning against a rather confusing headstone of a gargoyle eating a hoagie—or was that a salmon?

“I’ve been meaning to talk to Hans about making me some of those,” Wendy said. She was pointing at the black-papered cigarette dangling from my lips.

“I’ll ask him to make you some. Any particular colors, or outfits you’re trying to match?”

The ghost started coughing. Expansive rattling coughs. He must have wanted attention, as he never looked away. So dramatic. “It’s not gonna kill ya, buddy!” I yelled. He scowled.

Wendy disregarded the exchange and continued. “An assortment would be great. Only no orange. I look horrible in orange.”

“Tell me about it. Remember that track jacket you kept trying to wear out in public. You looked like a road worker. I was fully prepared to club you.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, as though I’d brought up some long-lost treasure. “Where’d I put that?”

I shrugged. The truth was, Wendy hadn’t put the track jacket anywhere. I’d snuck it out of her hall closet while mama was putting her face on and promptly dumped it in the trash chute. I was doing her a favor, really. She looked like a big pumpkin in that puffy satin piece of shit.

Gil adjusted his butt in the chair. He’d taken note of our visitor. “Is that ghost eavesdropping?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t have anyone, or thing, fucking up my shit. Not tonight. Markham’s not a flexible guy.”

“Maybe he thinks you need a third judge of your vampire making—”

“Vampires?” The ghost choked the words out from over my shoulder. I staggered to the side to avoid any spectral germs or whatever. “I can’t stand me no friggin’ vampires. Piss on ’em. They should all rot in iron boxes.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Wendy commented.

“Harsh?” The ghost spit a glob of violet-hued mush at Wendy’s feet. “I don’t know ’bout that. Seein’s they’re the one’s suckin’ people dry. I’ll say it again. Piss on ’em.”

Up close, the ghost looked like a vagrant. His face was all scruff surrounding a nose the size of a kosher dill, his eyes obscured by thick tufts of brow hair. Dirt clung to his ethereal form in spots, as though even death couldn’t hide the residue of boxcar or alley dumpster. There was even a scent in the air, pungent and sour like milk gone to clot.

“You one of them fuckin’ vampires, boy?” He kicked at the back of Gil’s chair, foot moving right through and ending up somewhere inside Gil’s stomach.

“What if I am?” Gil stood and faced the bigot. I almost interceded but thought it might be important to witness some honest-to-God vamp bashing. If only just to say I had been there, and act disturbed and offended. I could give my report to the late evening edition of
Supernatural Seattle Tonight.
They love me.

“Then I got somethin’ fur ya. You stinkin’ mosquito.” The ghost started to reach down inside his pants.

We all gasped in horror. Well not all, Wendy seemed genuinely interested—craning her neck to get a good look—but she doesn’t count, being a slut and all.

A low scraping rose from beneath us, a lonely hollow scrabbling, as though rats were burrowing through wood or Gil’s client had shredded the tufted silk of the coffin lid and was clawing through mahogany. Yeah. It was that last one for sure.

The noise drew the ghost’s attention, as well. He hiked up his pants and re-secured them with what looked like an electrical cord.

The scrabbling gave way to several deep thuds.

“Couldn’t we just dig him up and save his manicure?” I asked.

Gil shrugged. “It builds character. Besides do I look like I’m dressed for grave digging?”

Gil was up out of his chair, folding it and gesturing for me to do the same. I looked around for Wendy and to my immediate dismay caught sight of the homeless ghost. He stood atop the soon-to-be vampire’s headstone, pants unzipped, and dick in hand.

“
Ew
. What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like, girly?” He bounced on the balls of his feet in preparation.

It hit me then. “Oh…shit. Gil, he’s gonna piss on your guy’s—”

“Piss on ’em. Piss on ’em,” the ghost chanted.

Gil looked up from packing away the chairs just in time to catch Boxcar Willie pissing a steaming stream of ectoplasm onto the grave. It glugged from the guy like Mrs. Butterworth’s, glowing an enthusiastic obscene purple.

“Gross!” Wendy yelled from behind me.

“Jesus!” Gil dropped the folded chairs and made for the ghost just as the Beaver King broke ground. Markham breached the surface and was birthing straight through the manhole-sized puddle of ghost piss. Globs of the stuff dribbled down his arms and mingled with the mud on his face. The ghost shook a few errant drops loose. They plopped on Markham’s face like thick blobs of mayonnaise.
7

“What the fuck!” The new vampire spat, scooping the ectoplasm off his face. It oozed from his hair and plopped onto the shoulders of an expensive pinstriped suit that really seemed like overdressing for either digging oneself from a grave, or pee play, for that matter.

Gil started backing away, and gesturing for Wendy and me to do the same.

Markham had extricated himself from his burial place; he stood there like Carrie on prom night: humiliated, covered in that obscene fluid. He swung at the ghost, pummeling the air with impotent fists. The hobo’s laughter echoed across the cemetery. The spirits playing poker by the mausoleum looked up.

One said, “Earl must have found him a vampire.”

Their laughter joined a growing cacophony, as news spread amongst the dead.

“Where’s that piece of vampire shit? I’ll kill him!” Markham yelled.

Those were the secret words, apparently. We took off through the graveyard like someone had announced happy hour, bounding over headstones, and skirting spectral presences. Wendy broke off a heel in a concrete vase holder. I nearly tripped on a wreath Gil knocked over in his mad dash for the car.

In the distance, Markham was still screaming. “Luxury my ass! I want my money back, vampire! Every fucking cent!” Despite being the evil villain type, the Beaver King couldn’t chase for shit.

I turned to Wendy. “Did Madame Gloria see that one coming?”

In Seattle’s undead circles, Amanda Feral is one of the beautiful zombies. Of course, when you’re socializing with werewolves, devils, and rampaging yetis, there’s not that much competition. Still, Amanda has a stylish rep to maintain, which is getting tricky now that her tanking ad agency is obliterating her finances. The fastest way to make some cash: appear on a new reality show,
American Minions
, hosted by lecherous wood nymph Johnny Birch. Classy? Maybe not, but a girl’s gotta eat.

With zombie gal pal Wendy posing as her bitchy agent, Amanda settles in to “Minions Mansion,” crowded with 24-7 video cameras and undead fame whores. When Johnny is found incinerated in a locked room, Amanda decides to channel her inner Miss Marple (minus the fugly cardigans) and find who’s responsible. Was it Hairy Sue, the white trash stripper yeti? Tanesha, the glamorous trannie werewolf? Angie, the Filipino vampire with a detachable head? Unveiling the culprit in a heart-stopping finale won’t just save the show from cancellation, it might just keep Amanda alive—or as close as a ghoul can get…

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES,
coming next month!

Saturday

2–2:30
A.M
.

C
H
. SS12

Tapping Birch’s Syrup

 

The remaining “ladies” share a group date with Birch and another challenge: create evening gowns with the local flora…poison ivy! Plus, Ludivine reveals a secret deformity.

Its official name was the H & C Gentleman’s Club—that’s what it said on the tax statement, at least, and in the phone book—but everyone in Seattle knew it as the Hooch and Cooch, the Northwest’s first hillbilly-themed titty bar, and it certainly lived up to its backwoods inspirations. The exterior was dilapidated, a hodgepodge of boards nailed up at weird angles and intervals as siding, while rust from the corrugated-metal roof striped the building a gritty orange. It clung to the hillside above Fremont on pilings so rickety, the slightest bump threatened to dump the shack’s smutty guts onto the quiet neighborhood underneath.

I’d applaud the audacity, if the owner weren’t Ethel Ellen Frazier, vampire, mega-bitch, and, worst of all, my mother.

I considered leaving the car idling in the space—a sound getaway plan was looking like my best option—then fished out my cell and hammered in Marithé’s number.

“Seriously?” I asked the second she picked up, fondling the address she’d written on the back of my business card.

“What?” My assistant’s voice always sounds annoyed, so it’s difficult to assess her tone. A good rule of thumb is just to assume I’ve interrupted something very important like saving time in a bottle, writing the great American novel, or ending the plague that is zombie crotch rot—more likely, at that hour, she’d be using the Wite-Out to create a budget French manicure.

“The Hooch and Cooch? Since when is one of my mother’s strip clubs an appropriate meeting place?” My eyes took in the stories-tall cowgirl on the roof, lit up old school—in lightbulbs rather than neon. Several were burnt out, but most notable were the cowgirl’s front teeth; on closer inspection, those seemed to be blacked out on purpose—it’s nice to see an attention to authentic detail. The ten-foot-tall flashing pink beaver between her legs was a subtle choice, if I do say so.

“He insisted,” she said, her voice echoing on the speakerphone.

“Fucking pig.”

The pig’s name was Johnny Birch, and he was famous for three things: crooning jazz standards like that Bublé or Bubble guy or whoever, screwing anything with a hole (including donuts), and doing it all publicly on his own reality show,
Tapping Birch’s Syrup
(shown exclusively on Channel SS12). He was also a wood nymph, but even though that’s all ethereal and earthy, it’s really secondary to the pervert stuff. Apparently he had a proposition and from the look of the Hooch and Cooch, I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t business related.

“Seriously, this better be a for-real deal or I’m gonna be one pissed-off zombie.”

“Karkaroff was very specific that this was a
priority
meeting.” I could imagine her making air quotes in the cushy office chair, leaning back with her ankles crossed on the desk, admiring her trophy shoes.

My business partner was already fuming from our recent clusterfuck with Necrophilique. How was I supposed to know the fecal content of the cosmetics? Do I look like a chemist? Still, we needed the money after word spread and the launch tanked. What was the saying, beggars can’t be choosers? Not that I was a beggar by any count, but…shit, mama’s got bills to pay.

“Fine.” I gripped the phone to my ear as she yammered on about her day and I started loading my purse with all the important undead accoutrements. Flesh-tone bandages (you never know when you’ll get a scratch, and humans are normally surprised when they don’t see blood seeping), cigarettes (why the hell not) and lastly, Altoids, of course, because dragon breath doesn’t even begin to describe the smell that escapes up this rotten esophagus.

I did take a moment to wonder if I was dressed appropriately for the venue. The Gucci skirt was definitely fitted and might draw some roving hands, but I could certainly handle those. My big concern was the white silk blouse.

It was Miu Miu, for Christ’s sake.

The Hooch and Cooch didn’t look like the kind of place that any white fabric could escape without a stain, let alone designer silk.

As if on cue, two drunken slobs slammed out of the swinging doors and scattered out onto the red carpetless cement.
1
One landed on his ass with his legs spread, an expanding dark wetness spreading from his crotch outward. His buddy clutched at his stomach in a silent fit of laughter, but then fell against a truck and puked into the open bed. The rest dribbled off his chin and down his loosened tie as he slid to the concrete. I guess that answered my question about fashion choices. Pretty much anything will do if your competition is piss and puke stains, though clearly the blouse was in danger and the stains were much more dubious than I’d imagined.

“Ugh. Christ. Call me in ten minutes. I know I’m going to need an excuse to get out of here.”

I stuffed the phone in my Alexander McQueen red patent Novak bag—yes, you need to know that, if for no other reason than to understand that I’ve moved on from the Balenciaga; it’s a metaphor for my personal growth—and headed in, stepping over the passed-out figure on the threshold. The urine smell was unbearable. Someone had enjoyed a nutritious meal of asparagus.
2
I shoved the splintery doors into the strip club’s lobby and was greeted by a wall of palsied antlers, Molly Hatchet blaring some ’70s bullshit, and my mother’s pasty dead face beaming from behind the hostess stand.

“Darling.” She crossed the room in three strides, cowboy boots crunching on the peanut shells coating the floor and arms reaching—the effect was more praying mantis than loving mother, I assure you. “You should have called.”

I submitted to a hug and, over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of Gil, arms crossed and leaning on the open bed of a Ford F-150 that seemed to have been repurposed as the gift shop—how they got it in there, I have no clue. A pair of those ridiculous metal balls dangled between his legs from the trailer hitch behind him. I couldn’t help but giggle. He tipped his Stetson in my direction and winked.

“You’re right, Mother. I’ll definitely call next time.”
3

She pulled away, concern spreading across her face. The vamping achieved the kind of freshening a top-dollar Beverly Hills facelift aimed for, but no amount of magic could revive Ethel’s sincerity.

“It’s just, we haven’t had a whole lot of time to sort out this…tension between us, and I’d like us to be a family, again.”

Again. Just like that. Like there’d ever been anything remotely resembling a “family.” Unless her definition of family was the people one ridiculed, judged, and rejected, then yeah, I guess we had a “family.”

I clenched my fists. If blood flowed through my veins rather than thick yellow goo, I might have turned beet red. But instead of appearing angry, I took on a sickly jaundice, which is never cute.

I decided to stuff it and pushed past her to find Johnny Birch. “Sure, Ethel, let’s work on that.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” She sang the final word, as she did when pretending something didn’t actually bother her. I grinned, triumphant.

I bounded up to Gil. “How do you put up with that bitch?” I stabbed a thumb in Ethel’s direction.

“Who, your mother? Oh please, she’s wonderful to work for and so funny…”

His voice trailed off, replaced by the twangin’ guitar of Southern rock. Mother had obviously brainwashed Gil to spout this pro-Ethel propaganda, and I wasn’t about to listen to it. “Yeah. Yeah. Awesome. A real peach.”

“A better question is, how do I put up with this seventies-ass rock.”

The music changed. “Slow Ride,” by Foghat. “Seriously. What’s the deal?” I asked.

“Part of your mom’s plan; it’s all she’ll play here. She says seventies rock forces guys to buy beer. Something in their genes. Oh…and look at this.” Gil reached into the truck bed, which was lined with various Hooch and Cooch promo items, T-shirts, CDs, pocket pussies—that sort of thing—and retrieved a DVD. A sleazy, greasy-haired dancer grinned from the cover, one of her front teeth was missing, and she wore a wife-beater that didn’t do a good job hiding the fact that her boob job looked like two doorknobs. It read: Learn to Strip with the Girls of the Hooch and Cooch (see inset).

Music from the DVD…

 

Learn to Strip with the Girls of the Hooch and Cooch
*

Thin Lizzy
• Jailbreak

Foghat
• Slow Ride

Heart
• Barracuda

Ted Nugent
• Cat Scratch Fever

War
• Low Rider

Nazareth
• Hair of the Dog

The Runaways
• Cherry Bomb

Blue Oyster Cult
• Burnin’ for You

Kansas
• Carry on Wayward Son

Boston
• More Than a Feeling

“Jesus. Like one of those Carmen Electra striptease workouts?”

“Yep.” He tossed it back in the truck. “Sells like hotcakes.”

“I bet.”

I looked past Gil into the club for the first time and witnessed the horrors of uncontrolled testosterone production. A drunken mass of homely men and a few semi-doable ones, surprisingly, crowded around two spotlit islands, shouting obscenities and waving dollar bills. It was nearly impossible to distinguish them as individuals; they’d reverted to some sort of quivering gelatinous state. A few appeared near death, eyes rolling in the back of their heads as though they’d never seen a used-up hooker—I mean, nude woman—writhing in a metal washtub, scrubbing herself with a moldy bath brush and kicking suds off dirty feet at her sweaty admirers. Maybe it’s because we were indoors.

Between the two performance spaces—though really I’m being overly generous with that description—was a large shack built into the back of the club complete with everything you’d expect to find in the backwoods of the Ozarks, or in a typical Northwest suburb, for that matter—a covered porch, rocking chairs, even a butter churn.
4
Everything, that is, but a little inbred blind kid playing the banjo and showing off the graveyard of teeth in his mouth.

He must have been on a smoke break.

Booths lined the edges of the room, where hillbilly chicks chatted up customers under the watchful glass eyes of various stuffed animal heads. Fog lights on truck grills jutted from the walls lighting up the tables and the assorted (or sordid) activities taking place there.

“This place is a regular Rainforest Café. Only instead of cute plastic animals, you’ve got dirty whores.”

“Absolutely.” Gil crossed his arms and beamed, as proud as a new father—sure, he had a stake in the place, but he was overdoing the satisfaction considering the place reeked of bleach and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t emanating from a big load of laundry.
5

“Pays the bills,” he said.

“Listen. I’m supposed to be meeting a guy. Johnny Birch, that fame whore from TV. Have you seen him?”

“Um.” He scanned the room. “Totally. What a freak. I think he’s just finished up with Kelsey.” Gil pointed to a hallway flanked by two columns of chicken coops. A lanky, dark-haired man emerged with a jug of moonshine in one hand and a skanky redhead in the other.

“Christ.”

The guy was tonguing the girl’s ear as I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you Mr. Birch?”

He spun the girl away like a Frisbee, absolutely no regard for where she might land. She twirled a few times, collapsed in some other perv’s lap, and started gyrating. Birch measured me in long, sweeping stares. Head to toe, lingering on the tits and back to the head. “Sure am.” He extended his hand. “And you’re Amanda. Lovely to meet you.”

He pulled at my hand as though planning to pull off a gentlemanly knuckle kiss, but I snatched it back, wishing for a Clorox wipe. “Yeah. Um, you have some sort of business proposition, I’ve been told. Do you want to talk about that here, or do you have a table somewhere? Maybe a private booth they reserve for regulars.”

“You mean V.I.P.” He winked.

“No.” I shook my head. “Just regular.”

Birch nodded and chuckled off the jab under his breath.

The next moment, the blaring ’70s rock was silenced, an apparent signal for the strippers to make way for the principal dancer in this redneck ballet. They scrabbled off on bruised knees, wet hair dangling in clumps, and bulldozing collapsing pyramids of dollar bills in front of them.

Birch pointed toward the shack.

The lights dimmed, and a jaundiced glow rose behind the dirty shower curtain covering the front door of the facade. At the edges of the porch, slobbery men set down their jugs and hushed each other as though in reverence to approaching royalty. It became so quiet, I could hear the chickens scratching in their cages and crickets chirping or rubbing their legs together or whatever the fuck they do. Though that last bit was probably being pumped in through the speakers to set the mood. The stage light brightened until columns of dust motes stabbed into the audience from between the rusty metal curtain rings, stretching across the waves of corrugated roofing above and the five o’clock shadows of drooling businessmen below.

And then
she
stalked into silhouette—no…shuffled is a better word—to the opening cowbells of Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog”—’cuz really, what else would you expect?

“Harry Sue!” I could have sworn someone yelled.

“Harry Sue!” the crowd shouted back in liturgical response.

“
Harry
Sue?” I asked Birch.

“Short for Harriet, maybe?” He shrugged without taking his eyes off the dirty play unfolding.

When the guitar roared in, Harry Sue snatched back the curtain and stomped out onto the porch in Daisy Duke overalls and the most hideous high heels—since when did Jellies make a heel? Her blond hair was teased and tortured into massive pigtails, hay jutting from the strips of gingham holding them in place. Her face was pretty enough, if you could get past her wild eyes, bee-stung lips, and the mass of fake freckles that sadly recalled the broken blood vessels of an alcoholic more than the fresh sun-kissed face of a farmgirl.