Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01

by Happy Hour of the Damned

  I lunged at him. Clutched his head on either side. I brought his mouth down to mine. The fool opened it.

  I exhaled.

  The breath came from deep in my lungs. Its form was dense and scratched my throat on the way out, like the removal of a chest tube. It passed through my mouth like I’d conjured up a wet sausage and was forcing it into his throat. Shane’s eyes bugged out. He made a muffled moaning sound and then was quiet. He seemed to relax.

  I pushed him away. He fell against the wall, defeated. He wore a sullen face.

  Was that it, I wondered? Had my breath simply calmed him, sedated?

  No, was the answer.

  Wrinkles formed rapidly in Shane’s skin. Deep creases caved in around his lips and eyes, unraveled across his forehead. I flashed back to Bowie in The Hunger. The rapid aging was even more disturbing in person. I looked around for my purse. Gone. I was going to have a make-up breakdown.

  The skin on his neck began to sag and hang like fabric rouging. The age spots were next. They appeared as though flecked from a paintbrush nearby and bled out from their initial spots, growing, unevenly. His skin darkened with multiple cancers. Lesions appeared and opened. Thin rivers of blood drained from soft flaccid puckers, like swollen entry wounds.

  The curtain from the hall opened and Wendy peeked in. She looked at the pile of clothes and decomposing flesh that was Shane and said, “Ew…Pretty. Nice boyfriend you got there.” She kicked a loose tuxedo pump off his shriveling foot.

  “Thanks, figured it out a little late. But, you can’t say I don’t know how to take care of my man.”

  She crouched down, poking at the grey flesh around the gunshot wound. “Hmm. I’m not sure if Liquid Leather’s going to patch that up.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’ll have to tell me one day how you killed that piece of shit.”

  “Maybe. Right now, though, help me up, bitch. This leg is killin’ me.”

  Chapter 29

  Afterparty of the Living Dead

  Even if you encounter some unforeseen bit of nastiness on your visit, such as a gash or errant spell, the supernatural community has you covered. For a small fee, any one of a large group of reapers that call Seattle home, can be called upon for a touch-up…

  —Supernatural in Seattle

  In the corner closest to the dance floor, the three reapers were enjoying some downtime. Which would be fine if they didn’t appear to be celebrating a victory of the Little Miss Emerald City Pageant, all made up like hookers and slurping body shots off a near-naked male sprite.

  “Excuse me.” I bounded away from Wendy. I needed to thank the “girls” for the healing.

  Their mouths dropped as I approached, as if shocked by my intrusion. The dark-haired one stood on the seat and held out her hand. “Hold up, bitch. Don’t try to horn in on our action.”

  The sprite was about their height and pale as paper. He climbed on the table, gyrating for them, thrusting, wearing nothing but a japonica leaf and an unwholesome grin. I pushed down a gag.

  “Nonono. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “Oh there’s no need. You’ll get the invoice in the mail, sweetie,” the blonde said.

  “With interest.” The redhead threw back her head, snorting laughter into the air like a choking victim. The others joined in.

  “Okay. That’s fine,” I said. “Thanks again.” I backed away. The girls appeared to have completely dismissed the interruption and were salting the sprite’s pectoral cleavage. I noticed the redhead clung to a bottle of tequila the size of a ham. She held it like a baby doll.

  I couldn’t get away from the snotty bitches fast enough. But they did fix the bullet hole in my leg, the tear in my arm, and a nasty scratch on my ankle, so I was thankful. At least, I wouldn’t be subjected to any more of Wendy’s craft projects. Let’s face it, she’s no Martha. They should have stuffed Wendy in Camp Powderpuff for that As Seen on TV shit.

  Wendy was waiting with Gil by the bar.

  Gil’s shoulder, of course, healed on its own. He’d been the one to carry me down the stairs—my hero129. To say I was jealous of his healing ability was an understatement. But don’t think for a minute that I didn’t take note of Shane’s insane ramblings in the torture chamber. I fully expect to be able to heal, myself, one day.

  Just like a big girl.

  As for Ricardo, he survived unscathed, of course. Not a single scratch, like someone rubbed him down with four-leaf clovers. The weeks ahead would prove that the opening of Mortuary was a success, despite the melee. As far as opening night P.R. goes, infamous is the new fabulous. The club would be a hit, once it was remodeled. Ricardo figured it would be two months before he could reopen. The candy asses in the actual club had done the most damage with their damn barricade.

  I sat with Elizabeth for a while. We worked out some strategy to clean house at Pendleton, Avery and Feral. I was all for it, but the devil is in the details, and not as Elizabeth has pointed out sitting in the booth with me. She pulled out all the stops on the zombie horde after I left for the balconies, tore through them with something she called a lightning whip. I was totally jealous. And she had nothing but great things to say about Liesl and Cameron; apparently, they fought like savages, ripping the zombies apart with the zest of healthy German women carving into a plate of over-boiled brats.

  Speaking of the two sex killers, they sidled up to the bar next to Wendy, Gil and me. “Hey y’all,” Cameron said. “We’ve got a little announcement to make.”

  He pulled Liesl to him and anchored her around the shoulders. She produced a gigantic ruby engagement ring, shook her fingers with pride, and shouted, “We’re getting married!”

  “Jesus!” I turned my face and gagged.

  “Tell me you’re joking?” Gil asked, barely raising his mouth from his glass of blood. A William Shatner donation, if I’m not mistaken.

  Wendy had no response, except for a cold stare.

  “What?” Liesl glared at us.

  I only hope Cameron wears lifts to the ceremony. I’m not sure how he’ll explain it to the Hollywood crowd, either.

  Liesl got her amulet back, by the way. She’d had to pull it from the pulsing stomach of a mistake, but she got it. It belonged to her grandmother, so it was special enough to claw through rotting intestine and undigested human meat to get back. Don’t make that face; that’s what they make soap for.

  As for its thief, Mr. Norris, I settled on a conclusion about the man who made me. I like to think it went down like this: Mr. Norris got hooked up with Claire’s batty ass and couldn’t disengage without getting killed. But, he was always looking for a way out. When he stole the amulet from Liesl’s, he found her phone and looked me up. He’d known me all along, of course, and since he made me figured I’d help.

  The sad part is…I’m not sure I would have.

  Now…yes.

  But back then, unlikely. He’d never come to me and been civil, after all. It would have been nice to have a choice in the matter of one’s death.

  Anyway, that’s how I’ll remember the man.

  The other amulet never turned up. Scary, huh? A mistake shuffling around invincible—I’m sure it’ll turn up.

  It has to eventually.

  One last thing…

  I was telling Wendy recently, “Now I realize that therapists are meant to send out a welcoming empathic vibe, but Martin really got me. He could finish my sentences.”

  “They can all do that,” Wendy said, hiking her shorts up another inch and stretching back to expose her long legs to the sun and to the men waiting at the Starbucks drive-thru. We liked this spot for the effortlessness of the hunt. It was a sunny patch of concrete, a home for umbrellas and black iron bistro sets, between the coffeehouse and the drive-up lane. Despite its reputation as the hub of the high maintenance woman, you’d be surprised how many men go to Starbucks for the grande decaf misto with heavy whipping cream and sugar free vanilla. Most times we would bring books to alert drivers
of specific traits we were after; sci-fi or computer how-to would often lure a needy, eager-to-please programmer130, some literary fiction, Roth or Updike, may snare some pseudo-intellectual panty-sniffer. Sometimes, and believe me, Wendy frowns on it, I’ll pull out my copy of The Heroine’s Journey to rope a lonely lesbian or an experimental feminist coed from the liberal arts college.

  “No, no, I mean he was like a psychic. We didn’t even talk that much and he knew. He knew. He knew how lonely I was, how eating is so tricky for me. How dirty doorknobs and faucet handles can be, even after a good cleaning.”

  “You have to stop mooning over him. He’s gone,” Wendy said. “Maybe you should find another therapist that can help you work all this crap out. I’ve been through five in the last ten years and I still wake up screaming from my mother’s backhanded compliments.”

  I decided to skim over the mother comment. Ethel Ellen Frazier could stay exactly where she was—Chicago I think, at least that’s where the bitch was the last time I checked—thoroughly out of my mind.

  “Yeah…no. I’m swearing off men.”

  Wendy tsked.

  “Well, except to eat, obviously.”

  She rolled her eyes and lit on an Asian man eyeballing her from a gunmetal Hummer. Her tongue traced the outline of her lips. “What do you think about Chinese?” she asked, making her way to the tank’s high window.

  “Yeah, that’s fine, I had Mexican last night.” I packed my book and pulled the sunglasses from my hair.

  “Maybe we could do the chocolate cake trick, later.”

  “What?”

  “Oh come on, Amanda, you remember…on the buckets?”

  I honestly don’t know what she was talking about. You should know me by now. I don’t do that.

  I don’t.

  Anymore.

  Amanda’s

  Très Importante

  Authorial

  Acknowledgments

  Despite the opinion that writing about oneself is just mental fingerbanging, the process of a memoir is a major undertaking131. I couldn’t have done it without my new friends.

  Thank you Wendy, for the late-night snacks:—she knows what I mean, oh…wait; you do, too.

  To Gil, my main vamp, for endless readings of first draft drivel. The price? A paltry 2007 Lance Bass brut—Thank you Mr. Bass132.

  And, of course, I offer a huge debt of thanks to my mentor Ricardo. Equal parts teacher, savior, and smarty-pants.

  My editor tells me the book can’t help but be a hit. It’d better be, because I tend to eat when I’m disappointed, and I know where he lives. Food is love, after all.

  As always, to Martin Allende. You will always be in my heart, and, well—heh, heh—my stomach.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  ROAD TRIP OF THE LIVING DEAD,

  now on sale!

  Chapter 1

  Raising the Dead for Fun and Profit

  Nowadays, anyone with a wallet full of cash and a little insider knowledge is getting into the Supernatural life. And, I do mean anyone. Criminals, politicians, even—brace yourself—entertainers are plopping down tons of cash for immortality.

  —Supernatural Seattle (June 2008)

  Gil brought lawn chairs to the cemetery—not stylish Adirondacks, not even semi-comfortable camp chairs (the ones with those handy little cup holders). No. He dug up some cheap plastic folding chairs, the kind that burrow into your leg flesh like leeches.1 He arranged them in a perfect semicircle around a freshly sodded grave, planted an iBoom stereo in the soft earth, pulled out a bottle of ’07 Rose McGowan,2 and drained half of it before his ass hit plastic. Granted, he managed these mundane tasks in a pricey Gucci tuxedo, the tie loose and dangling. On any other day, this would have been his sexy vamp look, but tonight…not so much. His eyelids sagged. His shoulders drooped. He looked exhausted.

  I, on the other hand, looked stunning.

  One of those movie moons, fat and bloated as a late-night salt binge, striped the graveyard with tree branch shadows, and spotlit your favorite zombie heroine reclining starlet-like on the polished marble of the new tombstone—there was no way I was subjecting vintage Galliano to the inquisition of plastic lawn chairs; the creases would be unmanageable.

  Wendy didn’t take issue with the cheap and potentially damaging seating. She wore a tight pink cashmere cardigan over a high-waisted chestnut skirt that hit her well above the knee. She crossed her legs and popped her ankle like a 1950s housewife, each swivel bringing attention to her gorgeous peek-toe stilettos—certainly not the most practical shoe for late-night graveyard roaming, but who am I to judge?3

  The dearly departed were our only other company; about twenty or so ghosts circled the grave—in a rainbow of moody colors and sizes. A little boy spirit, dressed in his Sunday best and an aqua-green aura, raced by, leaving a trail of crackling green sparks; the other, older specters muttered to each other, snickered and pointed. Popular opinion aside, zombies do not typically hang out in graveyards—ask the ghosts. We don’t crawl out of the ground all rotty and tongue-tied, either. We’re created through bite or breath, Wendy and I from the latter. So you won’t see us shambling around like a couple of morons, unless there’s a shoe sale at Barney’s.

  “You’re killin’ me with The Carpenters, can’t you skip this one?” I stretched for the iPod with my heel trying to manipulate its doughnut dial. Karen was bleating on about lost love from beyond the grave—and just a little to the left. “She’s forcing me to search my bag for a suicide implement. I swear I’ll do it.”

  “No shit. Her warble is drawing the less-than-present out of the woodwork.” Wendy looked over the top of huge Chanel sunglasses—she seemed to wear them as a joke, so I refused to comment. She’d be more irritated with every second that passed. Such a simple pleasure, but those are often the best, don’t you find?

  “Bitches.” Gil opened an eye. “This is a classic. Besides, Markham put this playlist together.”

  “Who’s that?” I’d decided against self-harm and opted for a smart cocktail. I pulled a mini shaker from my bag and followed that up with miniature bottles of vodka, gin, and rum. Who says Suicides are just for kids? I mixed while Gil chattered.

  “Him.” He jabbed a thumb toward the grave. “That’s Richard Markham; they call him the Beaver King. He’s a millionaire, entrepreneur, and genuinely bad guy. He owns a chain of strip clubs, you might have heard of them. Bottoms.”

  * * *

  The Beaver King’s Maudlin Resurrection Jams

  The Carpenters • Superstar

  Harry Chapin • The Cat’s in the Cradle

  Barry Manilow • Mandy

  Captain & Tennille • Muskrat Love

  Gordon Lightfoot • If You Could Read My Mind

  John Denver • Leaving on a Jet Plane

  Carole King • So Far Away

  Melissa Manchester • Don’t Cry Out Loud

  Judy Collins • Send in the Clowns

  * * *

  When neither of us registered a hint of recollection, he became animated.

  “You know. He’s been in the news recently because of some shady business deals. He also coined the phrase ‘All Bottomless Entertainment’.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘all nude’?” Wendy asked.

  “No. ‘All Bottomless.’ He’s decidedly anti-boobs. His clubs feature blouses and beaver. It’s a very specialized niche.”

  “Well then, this should be fun.” I stuck a straw into the shaker and sucked.

  It was nice to see Gil’s enthusiasm; he had been a complete ass-pipe since he’d opened Luxury Resurrections Ltd., stressing about every little detail. I had to hand it to the guy. After the money dried up—his sire left him a hefty sum in their bank account and then left (said Gil was too needy)—he launched his plan to charge humans for vamping. He was one of the first in Seattle, but the copycats were close on his heels. A few months later he bought into my condominium—not a penthouse like mine, but a pretty swa
nk pad, nonetheless.

  “Explain to me again why we’re out here?” Wendy struggled to separate her legs from the sweaty straps—I cringed, afraid that she’d leave some meat on the plastic; we were fresh out of skin patch—they finally released with a slow sucking sound. She massaged the pattern of dents on the backs of her legs. “It’s not like vampires need to rise from the actual grave. It’s a little melodramatic. Don’t ya think?”

  “Yeah.” I drained the final droplets from the shaker with loud staccato slurps. The alcohol seeped into my veins, flooding them with welcome warmth.

  “I told you, I have to provide an experience with the Platinum package,” Gil huffed, then snatched up his man bag and dug through it. He pulled out some Chapstick, spread it on in a wide “O,” retrieved a crumpled brochure, and tossed it at me. “Here. Service is the only thing that’s going to set my business apart from the chain vampire manufacturers. I provide individualized boutique-like vamping, at reasonable prices.”

  “Mmm hmm.” I slid from the headstone, carefully hop-scotched across the grave—I’d hate to misstep and harpoon Gil’s client, or worse, break off a heel in the dirt—and stood next to Wendy. I smoothed the crinkled paper and turned to catch the moonlight.

  “The Platinum Package,” I read aloud. “Includes pre-death luxury accommodations at the Hyatt Regency, voted by readers of Supernatural Seattle as the best undead-friendly hotel in the city, a thorough consultation with a vamping specialist, a fully realized death scenario, including funeral and interment, bereavement counseling for immediate family, and an exclusive orientation to the afterlife from the moment of rising. Hmm.”

  “I spent a lot of time on that.” Gil beamed.

  “Yeah, at least fifteen minutes.” My eyes found a series of numbers after the description, that if it weren’t for the dollar sign, I’d have mistaken for binary code. “Can I ask you a question?”