He had made a drawing in his class. He had drawn a nude devil with tits and a penis. Gary couldn’t remember why he had done this. It had just happened, and his reason for it escaped him now and he just hoped the influence for the illustration hadn’t been a sketchy thing.
The art teacher was in Gary’s favor. She talked of free expression, classical art, the beauty of the human body and the boldness that showed in the work. The principal, however, claimed he knew a deviant when he saw one. So Gary was sent home early and his mother whipped his ass for interrupting her soaps while she tended to this.
Gary didn’t know why this memory always rang him when he was under the influence. But he got it, of course. It was the seedy story of his life. He had been a struggling horror fiction author who got tired of living hand to mouth and working day jobs until his big break came along. Gary had found easy money and an instant career in b-movies, soft and hard porn and fetish videos. It was something that he had easily fallen into. He had met a couple of low budget film producers at a horror convention while hawking his homemade chapbooks and collectibles. These independent industry people trolled conventions looking for the hungry artistic types, and that was definitely Gary Hack.
So Gary had jumped in hard and feet first, welcoming an opportunity to create and get paid for it. He had started out writing scripts for bad exploitation and soft-core films. But when larger paydays were waved in front of him by adult industry people, he began to quickly churn out hardcore scripts (bare as they were). He was surprised to discover that the filmmaking process came very naturally to him. He was a prodigy, if there were any designated for bad movies and pornography. Besides his writing chores, he took extra cash as a production assistant. And while many would use this opportunity to feed their inner perv, Gary had learned all that he could. He found a crash course in filmmaking on low budget sets while he picked up coffee for the crew or chauffeured talent around. This caused him stress with his wife, but she couldn’t argue with a steady paycheck.
It wasn’t long before the bosses let Gary try his hand at directing, and Gary took to it quickly. He became a seasoned professional at a moderately young age, and he was still considered a profitable and reliable director. Even with the rumors, garbage, habits and the infidelity that had cost him his marriage, house and child.
His appetites had darkened and grown when he started playing in the shady make-believe land of the adult industry. Gary experimented with the drugs. He screwed the actresses that would have him. His producers told him this was all expected and okay. His id had swollen up and he had believed that all of this behavior had been acceptable because he was an artist and he lived in his head and this was his process.
Of course, he would give it all back, if he could. He would go back to being that timid and hardly known little writer he had been. He had gotten over the divorce and personal losses years ago, but he wanted his reputation back. Gary didn’t want to be a joke or a cautionary tale. And while some fans did see merit, somehow, in his work, most hated him. Trolls worked him over so much that he didn’t venture onto the Internet anymore. Gary wanted a clean slate and a compass he could point in any direction.
He bobbed a little on the can, and then he realized hands were on him. One hand held his fat gut off of his belt while another unbuckled him and dug toward his groin. Gary pushed the hands away and looked down. A zombie hooker stared up at him. She had a grey miasma over her eyes and the dirt she drooled had stained and hardened on her chin; she had been coughing up the grave. Gary had heard that zombies swallowed a lot of earth when they dug themselves out. Stupid twats just needed to keep their mouths shut. The undead lady of the night had been buried in a tight, red dress (a pimp-sponsored funeral, no doubt), and the outfit was muddy and ripped at spots. Her hair was tucked under a dingy black bandana. The zombie smiled, close-mouthed, mindful of her wrecked teeth that she had wasted away on meth before her undeath came.
“Just gonna make you feel a little better, hun,” she assured, sitting back slightly. “I smelled what you were smoking when I happened by and thought maybe you would share if I took care of you.”
There were two things Gary Hack was terrified of: ten cent pistols (as poisoned heroin was called on the streets) and zombie whores.
And because he was a fiend who would never quit his habit, Gary avoided the tainted stuff by buying from a trusted dealer he knew only as Sergio. Sergio had dark features, wore vintage disco shirts and he had an accent. Gary had no clue where the man was from. He was sure that Sergio tapped the bags; there wasn’t a dealer out there that wouldn’t fuck you somewhat and there was no department where you could file a complaint. But at least the stuff he bought from Sergio was safe; depending on its consumption, of course, and Gary was sure his could easily sicken a novice.
But Gary needed no willpower to avoid the undead hookers on the street. They were nasty, smelled bad and there were a ton of print and video PSAs about the diseases you could catch from them. Besides, his libido had been broken by his heroin use a long time ago. He couldn’t recall his last erection.
Gary grasped the gris-gris bag around his neck and shook the small leather pouch at her. “Get away! You can’t hurt me when I wear this.”
The hooker grinned, flashing her green teeth momentarily before cupping her mouth. “I ain’t trying to hurt you. I just wanted to walk your dog for you, sugar.”
Gary dug the remainder of the joint out of his chest pocket and gave it to her. “Here. Enjoy.”
He buckled himself back up and brushed past her and he walked back onto the crowded city sidewalk. She had fucked up his buzz. Gary pushed down the street, frowning with disgust. He wondered how long it had been since the undead had suddenly appeared and had joined society as a proposed equal. It was a couple of years at least, he wagered, since the graves gave up their dead.
Some days, Gary felt like the creatures were merely haunting his head in a metaphorical way and he could bury them if he quit his addictions, but everyone around him seemed to be in a quandary about the monsters and their rights and the dark impact they were having on the world now. Gary didn’t know all of the details as this eruption of dark magic had occurred while he was deep into his habit. He had barely noticed it until the monsters were everywhere.
It was fall and the night breeze felt like cool silk on Gary’s skin. He loved the temperature this time of year. Gary paused at a store window, a news item catching his eye on the television that played behind the glass. Some lady in one of the Dakotas was lobbying to marry a Sasquatch.
Gary shook his head bleakly, and then his eyes found his hazy reflection. He had a baseball cap pulled over his bald head, because he resembled a larger version of Larry Fine without it. His hair made horns on either side of his head, which might have been appropriate, but it wasn’t very flattering. He could have shaved his head, but it was a chore he would never keep up with, like his beard, which was long and curling into his lips. He constantly swept the mustache hairs to the sides.
Gary was fat- had been his whole adult life. The heroin diet he was on and the long twitchy walks he took around the city had very little impact on his figure. Maybe it was his thyroid. He didn’t know. He wore clothes that had been robbed from the shallow grave of his hamper. The shirt he had on was sprayed with cologne and stained at the pits by his stick deodorant.
He turned away from the mirror he would have not knowingly stared into. Gary resumed his walk, and he realized he had no more red chicken on him. He would have to go home and indulge. There were no plans this course would dent. Gary had no work lined up and he was actually at the dregs of cash from his last gig. And that gig was another blemish on his soul, these days.
Gary had done a project that had pushed him into an even darker place. He had been approached by a heavy metal band by the name of The Bloody Carnivores. Their front man, Bruce Von Stiers, had hired Gary to produce a monster porn piece featuring the sexual liaison between a vampire and a werewolf. It had actually been
a snuff film that was charting a new and supernatural course. Few involved with the production actually knew it, but the vampire and the werewolf that had been cast for the video were killed during the end of the production, with most of the crew excused from the closed set of the finale.
Of course, the consequences for this weren’t that dire; not really and not yet. But Gary gave the liberals a year or so before there would be hate crime laws passed and sensitivity videos and seminars; true equal rights for these nightmares that would eat you, given the chance.
Murdering something without a pulse was not yet illegal and killing a shifter on the hairy side was closer to a crime of animal cruelty. Sure, there could be fines for what Gary had done, if he were caught, but there was not much else in the way of punishment that he fretted over.
The video Gary shot, called Dracula’s Erotic Guest, had played on The Bloody Carnivores’ website for a couple of months before it was pulled due to complaints, death threats and boycotts. The video began with a declaration that nothing had perished in the making of the video, as per the band’s skittish recording label. But Gary knew there were bones beneath the skin of it. It was something that got stuck in him sometimes, and it had to be washed down. Gray area or not, he felt bad now for the undead lives he had erased for his art and drug habit.
Gary sighed and realized that all of this crappiness was suddenly seeping into a sobering brain. He needed a measured snort to send all of the distress packing. He pointed himself toward his apartment building and marched.
When he finally aimed his key at the entrance of his building, he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder. He turned around quickly and two large men in expensive suits stood over him.
“You Gary Hack?” the white guy with the military haircut and strong jaw asked.
Gary looked between him and the other man, a quiet African-American who glowered with violent potential at the timid filmmaker.
“What’s this about?” Gary asked, anxiously. “Are you cops?”
The men grabbed him and pulled Gary toward a dark limousine that idled softly near the curb.
“What’s going on?” Gary asked, frightened for his life. “What are you doing?”
The African-American man flashed his jacket open, a gun peeking out from under his belt. “Just shut the fuck up and get in the car, man,” he growled.
Gary did as he was told. He was sandwiched between the large and silent men. Gary tried to get a look at the driver, but a tinted privacy window hid whoever was behind the wheel.
They drove for several minutes, and Gary was too petrified to pay attention to where the limo was travelling. His eyes bounced frantically between the dangerous men who bracketed him. The car stopped and Gary was scooped out of the vehicle. He was escorted into an exclusive building. He was ushered past a doorman who greeted the husky kidnappers but didn’t seem that concerned with the frightened-looking man whom they steered toward the elevator.
The men took Gary to the penthouse. They tortured him on the way with their indifference and silence. He felt like a bug that they could squash at any moment. The elevator doors opened and the men pushed Gary into a luxurious formal room and bar area. The men stayed inside the elevator as the doors closed. Gary looked around the darkened room. Lights faded up slowly and a fire suddenly lit up the fireplace. A large figure appeared from the shadow. The man was huge, larger even than the men who had just delivered Gary to the room.
With a cocked head and friendly expression, the stranger studied Gary. A cigar burned between the man’s huge fingers. He walked slowly and sat down in a large chair that looked like it could accommodate his weight. He motioned to a plush and ornate couch. Gary walked over and sat on it. The man clapped his large hands together, and it activated the heavier lights in the room. Gary took a more illuminated look at the man, and Gary knew immediately that he was facing a monster. But the type escaped Gary.
The man’s face looked like it had been sewn on. He had a large and fleshy circular scar that framed his face. His hair was black and thick and combed back with product. Gary looked to the man’s hands, the only other skin not hidden beneath the man’s heavy suit, and sure enough, they looked mismatched. The left hand definitely had a darker shade to the skin tone. Gary was sure there were more heavy scars hidden away on this man’s flesh.
“My name is Johnny Stücke,” he said, with a gravelly voice that went far deeper than Hell. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Hack?”
“No sir,” Gary admitted, glancing around. “But I am guessing you are someone important, by the looks.”
The man’s black lips parted and he sucked on his cigar. “I am a businessman, Gary Hack. I wish to branch out and become a patron of the arts. I have recently acquired some distribution channels, but I need content. That’s why you’re here.”
“You are a fan of my work?” Gary asked.
“Not the cable bullshit, mind you,” Stücke chuckled. “I’m not impressed by girls pretending to eat each other’s pussies. I brought you in because of the Bloody Carnivores video. Now that was inspired.”
Gary nodded slowly. His involvement with the video wasn’t publically known. “How did you find out it was me?”
Johnny Stücke grinned with surprisingly well-maintained dental work and pointed to his right ear. “This ear came from a man who heard things, you see. And it heard you were the mastermind behind that nasty little business.”
Gary rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, the effects were great, huh? Some people even thought we actually killed the spooks in that video.”
“CGI or practical?” Johnny asked.
“Excuse me?” Gary said.
“The effects,” Stücke said. “Were they computer generated or make-up effects?”
“Make-up,” Gary answered quickly. “Old school.”
“My favorite,” Stücke said. “Who did the effects?”
“Pardon,” Gary said.
“The artist. Who was it?”
Gary struggled for a name. His discomfort seemed a source of amusement for the big man.
Stücke held up a hand and quieted his stammering guest. “Gary Hack, do you see fur or fangs on me anywhere?”
Gary shook his head, silently.
“I know you killed the vamp and the wolf. I know it for a fact,” Stücke said.
He motioned to a doorway and a hunchbacked man in a butler suit came in with a tray of martinis. Johnny took one. The feral looking, red-haired servant offered a drink to Gary, who declined.
Stücke poured the martini down his throat and then got back to it. “I don’t care that you wasted them. Vampires are just impulse on two legs. They have no common sense or restraint and they could give a good shit about anyone. And the wolves are only good for something when the moon is full. Otherwise, they’re worthless. And every single furry I have ever encountered was a whiny mother fucker. That’s why I have none of either on my crew. You can’t rely on or trust either breed. So fuck them both, to be perfectly blunt.”
“What’s your breed, Mr. Stücke?” Gary asked. It may not have been the smartest question to pose, but he had to know.
Johnny Stücke merely smiled at this as he handed his empty martini glass to the hunchback. “I am one of a kind, my friend. Trust me on that. My father had no name or classification for me. I have lived a very, very long while and though I was preoccupied in my early time with some rather gruesome retribution, I have spent the majority of my years learning and prospering. It is easy to grow and reinvent yourself when you have that immortal spark inside. I’ve put many titles on forms over the years. The only one you need to concern yourself with is the present one; because you’re going to start seeing it on your paychecks.”
“What do you mean?” Gary asked, trying not to sound suspicious.
“You are going to work that magic for me,” Stücke announced, as if it were a given that everybody but Gary had been privy to. “Like I said, I have avenues. I need content.”
Gary look
ed around the apartment. Even in the darkened edges of the penthouse, he saw a fortune in furniture and art. He decided to relax and hear Stücke out. “What did you have in mind?”
“I want to finance your vision, Gary Hack. I want to be your sponsor,” Stücke explained, motioning for the ginger hunchback to bring another round. This time, Gary accepted a drink.
“How would this work?” Gary said, downing the martini quickly.
“You do what you do, and I foot the bill,” Stücke said. “You use who you want, manage your crew and production, film whatever you want, as long as there is penetration, of course. You work with my post-production house when you are finished, you slap a title card on it that reads a Johnny Stücke Production, and then we are golden. And I will compensate you better than anyone has.”
The Night is Long and Cold and Deep Page 12
