Praise for Mark Henry and Happy Hour of the Damned!
“Dark, twisted, and completely hilarious. I loved this book!”
Michelle Rowen, author of Lady & The Vamp
“Call them the splatterati—werewolves who always know what to wear, zombies with bodies to die for, and vampires who know their fang shui—just don’t call them late when it comes to happy hour, or the drinks might be on you.”
David Sosnowski, author of Vamped
“Happy Hour of the Damned—is it a comedy? An urban fantasy? A whodunit? Who cares! Mark Henry’s written such a clever and engaging story that fans of any genre will totally adore it. Amanda Feral is the freshest, funniest character to come out of fiction since Bridget Jones, and my only regret is she’s not real and we can’t go out for drinks. (Because, really? Zombies are the new black.) In short? I loved this book!”
Jen Lancaster, author of Bitter Is the New Black
“More brisk, batty, raunchy, and catty than a room full of cougars with a margarita machine. Happy Hour of the Damned is funny as hell.”
Cherie Priest, author of Not Flesh Nor Feathers
“Gruesome, ghoulish and utterly groundbreaking. Mark Henry is daring and scathingly funny.”
Jackie Kessler, author of Hotter Than Hell
And praise for Road Trip of the Living Dead!
“What can I say about Road Trip of the Living Dead? It’s irreverent, gross, and disgusting. All in a good way. I LOVED it!!”
Jeanne C. Stein, author of Legacy
“In turns hilarious and twisted, Road Trip of the Living Dead is a book I’ll never forget. Who knew fashion-obsessed flesh eaters could be so engaging? Fans of any genre won’t be able to put this book down as they fall into the darkly comedic world of Amanda Feral and her undead companions. Edgy and evocative, Road Trip is a must read! I’m looking forward to reading future works from this talented author.”
Anya Bast, author of Witch Heart
“Hilariously wicked, Road Trip of the Living Dead’s Amanda Feral’s antics had me rolling on the floor with laughter. Between the snarky footnotes and the quirky, sassy voice, this book rocked my world.”
Tate Hallaway, New York Times bestselling author of Romancing the Dead
“A spew-licious snark fest straight from Winnebago hell—Mark Henry drives this adventure with masterful wit.”
Dakota Cassidy, author of The Accidental Human
“I didn’t see how Mark Henry would be able to top Amanda Feral’s first adventure, but Road Trip of the Living Dead is even more raucous, lewd, and hilarious. How could I have doubted his genius? His savoir faire? His ability to create scenarios so horrifyingly and guilt-inducingly funny? Amanda Feral rules the urban fantasy landscape. To miss out on this novel would be très gauche!”
Michele Bardsley, nationally bestselling author of Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home
HAPPY HOUR
OF THE DAMNED
MARK HENRY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
To Caroline, my wife.
She couldn’t be any more supportive and wonderful.
It’s just not possible.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: It’s Saturday; It’s the Well of Souls.
Chapter 2: The Narcissistic Search Party of the Year
Chapter 3: On Bingeing: Fun Food Facts
Chapter 4: Of Donuts, Hair Plugs and Rude Wingtips
Chapter 5: Into the Lion’s Den
Chapter 6: The Last Venti® Triple Decaf, Not Too Hot, Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte
Chapter 7: The Great Cosmetics Heist
Chapter 8: Bernard Krups’s Satyricon
Chapter 9: Way Too Much Information
Chapter 10: I Am Not Cleaning This Up
Chapter 11: Mama’s Little Helper
Chapter 12: Old Acquaintances and New Questions
Chapter 13: All the Chocolatey Goodness
Chapter 14: Who Invited the Pothead to the Tea Party?
Chapter 15: Dropping in on the Devil
Chapter 16: Mainlining Vodka at Pharmacy
Chapter 17: In League with the Devils
Chapter 18: Severine and the King
Chapter 19: All Looks and No Moves Make Shane a Dull Boy
Chapter 20: Shit Squall
Chapter 21: God Grant Me the Serenity to Disembowel and Devour
Chapter 22: A New Friend, a Revelation
Chapter 23: A House on Bleak Street
Chapter 24: Duck and Cover
Chapter 25: No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 26: A Barrel of Laughs
Chapter 27: Mortuary: All that Glitters
Chapter 28: New and Improved Zombie Chow
Chapter 29: Afterparty of the Living Dead
Amanda’s Très Importante: Authorial Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: Raising the Dead for Fun and Profit
Chapter 1: Hillbillies, Whores, and Horrors
Acknowledgments
This book is a miracle to me. Really. A cocktail-swigging, flesh-eating zombie miracle, sure, but a miracle, nonetheless. I’m deeply indebted to a number of people who either got the ball rolling, supported that ball on its roll, or lubed it up and pushed that ball through the tight orifices of the publishing world.
A million and one thank-yous go out to…
My mother, Edna Henry, the most avid reader I know. She taught me to read and always told me I could do anything I put my mind to.
My father, Wayne Henry, who’s the kind of guy that does everything he puts his mind to. Plus, he tells a hell of a story. Ask anyone.
The South Sound Algonquins—originals Monica Britt and Sherylle Stapleton; and the newbies Megan Pottorf, Manek Mistry, and Tom Wright—put up with my foulmouthed readings so graciously, and never held back in critique. You guys weren’t holding back, right?
Gina Craig, my first copy editor, gave my first few chapters as much polish as she could.
The talented Joe Schreiber gave me the push I needed to get an awesome agent. He’s also a top-notch author pimp.
The Friday night dinner crew: Kevin Macias, Jo Rash, Dana Krapfl and later, Mike Green, Ann Bowen, Shannon Hills, and Yolanda Macias, for listening to my rambling publishing stories. Your excitement has been the greatest cheerleading.
Supercool editor, Liz Scheier, took a pitch and a chance on an idea. Not even a completed manuscript, mind you, just an idea. People: that just doesn’t happen. Her enthusiasm got this book written.
My agent, the delightfully sarcastic Jim McCarthy of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, rocked me a deal lickety split (I love that phrase). If I have my way, we’ll be selling many more.
Kristine Mills-Noble brought Amanda to life on the fabulous cover.
My copy editor, William Mehlman, caught stuff I’d have never seen, even with my bad high school French.
My editor, John Scognamiglio, believed in my crazy little story enough to buy the fucker. I’m still amazed. Every day. Plus, he dishes on the reality TV like a pro, and that’s my number one criterion for awesome.
Finally, to the readers, there are only two kinds of people in the world.
Chapter 1
It’s Saturday; It’s the Well of Souls.
A few hints: the damned of Seattle congregate at the Orphanage on Tuesday nights for half-price nibbles and cocktail specials, Convent on Thursdays, for Burlesque of the Living Dead, and Pharmacy on Fridays, which is brand new, and I have never been (don’t let that stop you, I hear it’s mind-blowing)…
—Otherworld Weekly
Saturday night is all about the Well of Souls—see and be seen is the rule�
��there is no excuse for an absence, least of all a bad hair day. Shit, even if it looks like broom straw or the waxy coils plunged from drains, just throw on a hat, a wig, or whatever you have to do; the worst that could happen is public embarrassment and mockery. Nobody’s died from those. Fortunately, Wendy and I didn’t have to worry about that; we were looking hot as Hell, and ready to burn it down.
She wore her trademark mix of lush patterns in silk and wool, which she’s been cultivating for a decade like a rose hybrid. On this particular night, she was working it short-short-short in a devilish Galliano skull and crossbones print dress. She wrapped the frock in a constricting bouclé sweater that cupped under her breasts and showed them off like a slutty European peasant girl. Her blond hair hung in perfect esses, framing her fair skin in a glow of spun sugar.
I must stop there. If Wendy had her way, the subject would never veer from her.
So let’s move on…
I sported my “Variations on Black” vintage Azzedine Alaia1. I pulled it out on occasion to air like a favorite strand of pearls. It molded to my curves like a second skin—the very fibers followed each shift and undulation. My kicks were black, strapped, and towered on a heel that could impale the most amorous vamp. My hair is brown to the point of black with caramel notes—think of the first crema rising through the black of a properly made espresso—and up in a loose twist to show off these big retro hoop earrings I was rocking, like it was the ’70s all over again.
Sexy? That’s certain, but enough about fashion; let’s move on to the oh-so-important seating arrangements…
Our reserved black-velvet-draped banquette was centrally located between the restrooms, the dance floor, and the ice bar, perfect for witnessing both fashion atrocities and supernatural scandals. Ricardo, the Well’s owner and bartender, was so good to us, always assuring our favorite spot, and providing eye candy to boot. I spotted him across the room shaking a metal shaker with a flourish. Which brought to mind the question: where’s my fucking Flirtini?
Normally at the Well, I have no complaints, but, on this night, Ricardo was breaking in a new waitress. That’s right, I refuse to call them cocktail servers or waitstaff, and if anyone commented as to the political correctness of my terminology, I’d have their head and everything else. Her name was Isobel, and she was exactly what you’d expect—slow, boring, obnoxious, and—wouldn’t you know—pretty. To describe her as a doe-eyed starlet-type would be fairly accurate, but would neglect an account of her childlike intelligence and subpar vocabulary.
I was scanning the crowd for our regular waitress, Jezebel, when my eye caught on a table pressed against the farthest crescent of the club. Those booths, set deep within swags of thick jewel-toned curtains, were normally occupied by the evil bloodsuckers of Karkaroff, Snell and Associates, and some of them were even in attendance, but Dona Elizabeth Karkaroff was the only one worth noting, believe me, and don’t ever look her in the eye, everyone knows that, never in the eye—I cannot stress this enough. The legal firm was a nasty crew, dealing in divorces and disillusionments, of the mysterious sort.
Mannish creatures flitted around her like butterflies, their thorny heads covered in fedoras, berets and caps, in shapes and sizes that must have put their milliners through Hell. They leaned in, whispered to her, roamed the area, covered their mouths. The lady herself slouched elegantly, legs crossed and protruding from the shadows into that space between tables, like a track hurdle for the waitresses. Maybe Isobel tried to get through that way and didn’t make it back. Karkaroff’s cigarette glow lit her angular face. Her dark probing eyes searched the cavernous space.
I averted my gaze.
On that night, a darker than normal presence spread a dense layer of gloom through the already murky yet sophisticated atmosphere.
“Is that Cameron Hansen2?” I asked.
Wendy tracked my nod to a deep copse of tables, and her eyes widened as they lit on the shadowed celebrity. “It is. Jesus, what’s he doing here?” Her face fixed in a grimace, as though she were about to vomit across the table or had turned a corner and was surprised by the glaring eye of an asshole, crowning a thick brown mass. “I can’t stand that shrimp.”
“I certainly didn’t get the memo.” I lit a two-tone, pink-on-green cigarette that I’d had personally rolled and drew a mouthful of the pungent apricot-flavored smoke. I glared in the actor’s direction, and blew without inhaling—obviously, the lungs don’t exactly work anymore. I quit years ago, but after my death, I decided, what the hell?
Cameron Hansen appeared benign enough, sitting with a blonde pile of vacant silicone on one side and a shiny Asian boy on the other, but so many of his kind do, not that I’m remotely aware of his actual species. On the outside, he was awkwardly handsome, albeit far beneath most people’s height requirements; inside Cameron was one hundred percent monster, or so I’m told. On several occasions, Ricardo shared, under his breath, tales of having to clean up the actor’s sloppy kills, following previous visits to the Well.
We might have left, just then, simply to avoid the actor’s bad energy, if we hadn’t been waiting for Liesl and Gil to arrive for our weekly snarkfest. Nothing was more enjoyable than the four of us volleying hilarious barbs, at the expense of the moronic undead and neverliveds. Liesl was on her way, and Gil was perpetually late to the point of actually being punctual, but he never missed the chance to rail on his peers or drink blood from sparkling martini glasses. We loved him, and when I say we, it’s not the royal plural; I’m including you. So we just sat, spat gossip, and grew increasingly irritable about our cocktailless hands.
The Well of Souls is certainly in no Seattle guidebook, and no one will direct you to its doors. It is a nightclub that does not exist in your world. Well, that’s not altogether true and frankly, you should know, I can slip into a bit of drama. The truth is, the Well of Souls is our bar, just as are Convent, Pharmacy, Malevolence, Orphanage and the aptly named Les Toilettes. Our places are right out in the open, just like yours, but you can’t see them, and it’s too bad, because they are amazing feats of sinister architecture and engineering.
“There they are!” Our drinks bobbed on a tray, afloat on the sea of pouty-lipped club goers, Isobel’s hand invisible in the murk. My pink Flirtini and Wendy’s Melon Ball nodded right past Cheryl Rand, the famous water sprite and owner of Discreet Dry Cleaners, and Cash Zinsser, a vampire and social essayist, who had just written a scathing review of the all-demon-owned Malevolence. In it he reported the drinks were overpriced, the appetizers, inedible, and the victims, flavorless. The two were wrapped in a furtive embrace, groping, clawing. He grazed from her neck like a cow chewing cud. It made me feel icky3.
As the drinks swung past the dance floor, a forest of arms rose to obscure them. They bounced to the rhythm, some glowed fluorescently with rows of Band-Aids lined up like dominos, because, this season, it’s all about cloud, and cloud is the new crank. The faces attached to the flailing limbs were giddy, mostly fanged-out and with eyes like saucers. The cloud was having its known effect, euphoria. Across the room, the bathroom seemed to be home to the “paster,” a male wearing a retro Kangol hat and massive gold chains. He supplied the drug from a repurposed Crest tube and slapped on the bandages to keep it in place for maximum absorption.
Isobel drifted past the ballet-dancing werewolf, Lina Peritzkova, who hunkered over her drink, one of Ricardo’s secret recipe Black Devils, thick as syrup. Lina still nursed the hurt of failure; she couldn’t seem to test out of the chorus, despite an impressive arabesque. Wendy and I used to joke that one day we would take water pistols filled with Liquid Moonglow™ and blast her from the orchestra seats during Swan Lake4. But, seeing her in this downtrodden state stripped the humor from that idea.
A single margarita rode alongside the two martinis; I watched it, longed for its sweet warmth, and salty aftertaste. Because this is not a perfect afterworld, the margarita’s owner was served first. A long-fingered hand coiled around the offered cocktail as Is
obel wrinkled a cloying smile. The hand belonged to Shane King. Isn’t a margarita an odd drink for someone so masculine? I wouldn’t mind mangling him. He looked to be about twenty-eight, a shade younger than I, but was probably over a hundred. He wore a square jaw, kind eyes and the tousled blond hair of a surfer. The golden boy vampire—I’m not ashamed to admit—was the subject of at least two early morning pillow hump fantasies. I tried to erase his drink choice information from my mind and focus on the image of his butt; I sometimes called upon it. Whatever it takes, right girls?
“Look over there.” I pointed in Shane’s direction.
“Mmm, yummy. Dibs.” Wendy shoved out of the banquette before I could protest, slipped through the crowd like a professional5, touched shoulders and winked, and stopped to grind hips with a familiar face, or three. And then she was with him, sliding in close. Was he alone?
I turned away with an ech, to find Gil bumping and pushing his way to the table. Gil looked very much the part: his hair, jet black, and skin, a golden-blushed olive stretched over a lean muscular frame, a vampire, obviously, but so sadly, stereotypically gay6. But still, I could look.
“What up, bitch?” he said as he plopped down into the banquette, slouching, one leg splayed into the passing lane. I thought of Karkaroff. Was it becoming a trend to block walkways, or a cry for attention?
“You’re working that fashion editorial vibe a little hard, don’t ya think?”
“Gotta glitter.” He motioned to his black and grey pinstriped jacket, presenting it like a game show hostess playing up the crap prizes. “It’s Armani.”
Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 Page 1
