James
Aquilone has launched a Kickstarter to fund "Dead
Jack and the Pandemonium Device," the first book in a new fantasy/horror series
about a drug-addicted zombie detective and his homunculus frenemy. Visit the
campaign here.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Dead Jack
isn't the best detective in Pandemonium. He's just the cheapest. In fact he'll
work for fairy dust. But don't judge. Jack needs it to curb his hunger for
sweet, succulent flesh. In "Dead Jack and the Pandemonium Device,"
the first book in the series, things go bad for the brain-licker after he tries
to score from his old dealer. Jack and his homunculus sidekick Oswald find
themselves on the run from angry leprechauns. But they have bigger krakens to
fry, because Pandemonium is in danger of going bye-bye — and our duo is its
only hope. Lucifer help them!
EXCERPT
Waiting for My Wee-Man
I
reached into my jacket for a Lucky Dragon once the shakes began. The
undead aren’t known for their dexterity, so I had a bit of fun getting that hellfire
stick. I was like a drunken mummy trying to do jazz hands. I burned off half
the skin on my left index finger lighting the damn thing. That made four
fingers now that were practically nothing but bone. If this kept up, I’d end up
a skeleton inside a cheap suit and fedora. I doubt anyone would notice.
Being
a member of the great unwashed undead isn’t all bad, though. I was happy for my
dulled sense of smell. The alleyway stunk like rotten cabbage and sour apples.
I
took a deep drag on my hellfire stick. Smoke poured out from the hole in my
right cheek like exhaust out of a busted tailpipe. I sucked that thing halfway
down and it barely made a difference. My hand still trembled like a virgin at a
satyr convention. I needed fairy dust. Bad.
I
had tried everyone in downtown ShadowShade, but no one was holding. Out of
desperation I came here to Irish Town, in search of Flanagan, my old dealer.
Without
dust, the hunger becomes overpowering, and when I’m hungry no one’s safe. I’d
eat my own mother.
I
had been waiting in the alley behind Finn McCool’s for at least an hour before
the leprechaun finally appeared.
Flanagan
isn’t your typical lep. First off, he’s not that short. Maybe five-foot-two.
He’s broad shouldered, barrel chested, and someone you don’t want to mess with.
He also has the saltiest mouth in all the Five Cities of Pandemonium.
As
he entered the alley, he sang, rather jauntily:
“There
once was a fellow McSweeney
Who spilled some gin on his
weenie…”
A
large sack was slung over his shoulder as he swaggered past the reeking
dumpsters full of what must have been hundred-year-old cabbage.
“Just
to be couth
He added vermouth
Then slipped his girlfriend a
martini…”
“Sorry
to interrupt that charming little ditty,” I said, and slipped out of the shadows
as I blew smoke out of all the holes in my face. All nine. Real bad-ass.
The
lep stopped deader than my libido. Like I’d caught him bathing naked in his pot
of gold. (Leprechauns don’t really have pots of gold, by the way, but they are
known to carry sweet, sweet fairy dust, the closest thing to heaven in this
godforsaken world.)
The
sack jerked and he gripped it tighter.
“What’s
in the sack, Flanny? Someone didn’t pay their vig?”
“None
of your fookin business. Now if you wouldn’t be minding. I have better tings to
do than converse with a brain-licker.” The lep took a step forward, but I
blocked his way.
“Look,
meat bag, I don’t want any trouble.”
“No
trouble. I’m just looking for dust.”
The
lep exploded into laughter. He actually placed his hand over his belly. A real
guffaw.
“You
fookin dust head. Oh, Jackie boy, I thought maybe you were on a case.”
“Just
a gram. The hunger is starting to eat through my innards.”
“You
have innards? Figured it’s all just sludge inside ya by now. Like your brain.”
“The
last time I went cold turkey, it ended real bad for some fairies. I went wilder
on them than a pack of werewolves. I’m still not welcome in The Red Garden.”
“You
ain’t threatening now, are ya, ya dead dick?”
My
hands shook and my bones rattled as I held them up. It looked like I was trying
to conjure a pixie spirit. “I’m desperate.”
“Then
you’re out of luck. I don’t deal anymore. I have new opportunities.”
There
was a clink, like a glass bell, and the sack flew up. Flanagan nearly lost his
grip on it but was able to pull it back down.
“What’s
in the sack, Flanny?”
“None
of your fookin business, ya filthy corpse.”
He
drove his shoulder into my crotch, shoved me into the wall, and took off down
the alley.
Maybe the hunger had reached its
apex or maybe I didn’t like the way he called me a filthy corpse. I didn’t mind
the crotch shot. As for my zombie genital situation, let’s not go there. Either
way I was on him like a werewolf on a moonpie.
About the Author
James
Aquilone was raised on Saturday morning cartoons, comic books, sitcoms, and
Cap’n Crunch. Amid the Cold War, he dreamed of being a jet fighter pilot but
decided against the military life after realizing it would require him to wake
up early. He had further illusions of being a stand-up comedian, until a
traumatic experience on stage forced him to seek a college education. Brief
stints as an alternative rock singer/guitarist and child model also proved
unsuccessful. Today he battles a severe Tetris addiction while trying to write
in the speculative fiction game.
His short
fiction has been published in such places as Nature’s Futures, "The Best
of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014," "Unidentified Funny Objects 4," and
Weird Tales Magazine. Suffice it to say, things are going much better than his
modeling career.
He lives
in Staten Island, New York, but don’t hold that against him.
Website: http://jamesaquilone.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jamesaquilone/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jamesaquilone
