Some notes on stories…
“A Blood of Killers,” as I mentioned above, was inspired by collective nouns for all kinds of critters and people. Having an attraction to conspiracies (balanced by a powerful belief in the power of stupidity, the great enabler and destroyer of conspiracies), I wanted to know what it would feel like to find out about something like this, and what it would awaken in someone.
“Let Me Tell You A Story” was inspired by stories of child abuse I’ve run across. I also wanted to look at how childhood wonder and terror warp perceptions of reality, then and now.
Endless tales of the serial killer next door made me wonder about a different approach to that cliché. News features about the children of serial murderers let me see that the legacy such a character might leave for his “loved ones” might be pretty horrific.
“Dead Man’s Park” comes from working in pre-yuppified Hell’s Kitchen and the Lower East Side, and from life in general.
“Hidden Agendas” was initially inspired by a writer’s essay on the publishing business, and I took it someplace else. I’m not sure what that says about killers. Or the publishing business.
“The Shape” is about heartbreak.
Working in institutions and large organizations, as well as a fascination with conspiracies and secrets within them, provided the foundations for “The Keeper.”
“She Who Speaks For The Dead” was in memory of the terrible things kids do to each other growing up.
Never particularly liked squirrels. Had a disagreement with one building a nest against my fire escape window, once. So then came “Nests.”
Too many intense and surreal subway rides probably led to “Suspect City.”
In “Ash Man,” I was interested in the consequences of loving a monster, and killing out of love.
“Say No” is another story that came out of spending a lot of time in tough neighborhoods. I recently ran into folks who grew up in the Fordham section of the Bronx while I was working there, and they were amazed I’d voluntarily go in to work or hang out with people I knew. Of course, their experience, particularly as children, was very different from mine as an adult.
And then there’s the Max stories, mixed in with the above.
Max is a character featured in a series of books published over the last ten years: The Beast That Was Max, Road To Hell, and Road From Hell. They cover the arc in Max’s life in which he must come to terms with all of the horror he’s committed over the course of his life. That series, originally conceived of as a set of twelve stories, is, for me, about the demonic transforming into the human—what does it take for evil to turn away from what it does quite naturally. Like some of the stories in this collection, Max’s arc came to me through dealing with some pretty rough customers. The ones I found particularly interesting had overcome terrible odds and choices to emerge as, if not quite “normal,” at least human. And often, far more human, as in compassionate and forgiving, than most “normal” folks. Including myself.
I was also fascinated by the possibility of redemption, and what that might look and feel like without romantic ideals.
As I got into the last book, I also recognized that Max was a stand-in for humanity—born from a miracle, filled with conflicting drives, capable of tremendous feats of destruction and creation.
No knowledge of these books is necessary to read the series of tales I’ve included in this collection. The first story in A Blood of Killers is the closest thing to an “origin” I’ll probably ever write about Max, so if you’ve never heard of him you can meet him at the beginning of his “career.” And if you are familiar with him, you’ve probably never read “Like Smoke Rising From the Burning Ghats” because it was included in a special hard cover edition of Road From Hell, so you’re also starting fresh.
The rest of the Max stories here—all written for this collection—cover the territory between his “birth” and the events in the “Beast” cycle, including his development as an assassin, his attempts to handle his demonic “other” in the context of surrounding civilization, the uses that civilization might have for him, and how seeds might have been planted that led to the decisions he makes later in his life.
As for the structure this particular series took on, I focused on his “work” rather than his “recreational” activities. In particular, I wanted to look at jobs that tested him, even shook and reshaped at him at a core, unconscious level, preparing the ground for what would come later.
Most people who have spent a significant part of their life working have had those kinds of jobs, whether as specific assignments in otherwise satisfactory employment, or as (hopefully) brief career detours. They go beyond the routine, make you wonder why you’re doing them, drive you to question the need for money to buy food and pay the rent. Is doing something so unpleasant, even painful, worth it? They make you ask, why me? What did I do to deserve this?
From Max’s demonic point of view, the aspects of the jobs that drive him crazy are the things we would hang on to as normal and reassuring. What interferes with his functioning, we use to get us through the day.
A string of such jobs over the course of a career might, collectively, feel like the Labors of Hercules, testing the limits of endurance, will, strength. Max would probably refer to them as twelve fucked up jobs. So that’s what they’re called, TFUJ for short.
Aside from messing with a despicable character, I had fun trying out different storytelling styles in the series. And I used the finale to play with one of my favorite holidays, the Day of the Dead.
So there you have it. Twenty-five stories about the monster in and all around us.
A Blood of Killers.
Do you really know who that is, right next to you?
A Blood of Killers Page 53
