Friday, June 29, 2012

(Not) For Sale


(Not) For Sale
by
Bobby Derie

For sale: Mary Sambo. Scarcely whipped.
To the gentleman in the hat.
Ironmaster. Horse, three shillings. Slave, two.
Welcome to Darkwater. Population 178 179.
White cotton sheets, remove blood stains.
Three miles away. Returned under guard.
Run. Six lashes. The rest watch.
Not try to move until healed.
Light duty only. Standing or sitting.
No clanking ghost! Leg irons.
Lift your skirt. Let him see.
Out her teeth. Bitch bit me.
Get the boys. All of them.
Over the barrel, tie her down.
You’re done. Step away. Next man!
Use the wrench. Get every fang.
Tooth fragments. Liquid diet from now.
Healing slowly. Light exercise might help.
White cotton dress, mend rips, tears.
And gonorrhea. Consider testing your wife.
She gone. Pick roots inna swamp.
Get far. Hounds have her scent.
Child. Mama Gizou knows you. Come.
Child in your belly. You must.
Cannot be sold, may be given.
Maintain discipline. Three days is unacceptable.
While there’s light. Full moon tonight.
Something in the fields. Call the.
Out. Bolt the door behind me.
Ripped the big buck in two!
Rebellion? No Ma’am. Worse. Sins returned.
Useless gun, drew his sword. Stabbed.
Rent in the furry belly. Pulled.
Pinned him. Squatted on her haunches.
Hips broken. Manhood torn away. Alive.
Hear? Like a dog or cat.
Hold me. Your husband. Damn him.
Pendulous shaggy breasts. The cannon thundered.
Soggy newsprint headline. Slave rebellion quelled.
Yet. You owe Mama. Come back.
The swamp. A witchlight, they say.
Rattle of chains. Closer, every night.
Southern Flower, we lay to rest.
Cursed cotton grows. Watered with blood.
Unmarked graves. Slave cemetery, looks like.
Desist all development of this historical site.
Haunted Plantation tour if you are pregnant.
Is it? The Baby kicked me!
My room. She was standing there.
Mama died a hundred years ago.
Full Moon is three nights away.
Returned? She never left Darkwater, child.
Gate of the Unborn. Iä! Iä! Shub-
Sucked air. Howled. Her stomach rippled.
Beautiful puppies! Purebred? Mixed. How much?
Sale. Free to a good home.

###

Friday, June 22, 2012

The Illustrated Edition


The Illustrated Edition
by
Bobby Derie

Roast Suckling Human
Preparation and Cooking time: 5 ½ - 6 ½ hours
Serving size: 3-4

You will need:

1 (10-12 pound) dressed suckling human
2 cups of extra-virgin olive oil
6 cups of kosher salt
12 cloves of garlic
pepper and seasonings to taste
A large roasting pan
Meat thermometer
Aluminum foil

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
2. Rinse the infant. If not done already, remove any remaining internal organs and wash the cavity well.
3. With heavy string, bind the arms together at the wrist (or, if the hands have been removed, at the elbows), and the legs together at the ankles or the knees, as appropriate.
4. Rub the infant down well with salt and seasonings, including inside the cavity, and stuff with garlic and any breading as desired.
5. Place the infant in the roasting pan and pour in the olive oil. Cover the ears and nose with aluminum foil to prevent scorching. Insert the thermometer in the meaty part of the thigh, making sure the thermometer does not touch bone.
6. Roast in the oven for half an hour per pound, basting every hour. Ensure that the meat thermometer reads at least 170 degrees F. Remove foil before serving.

Serving Suggestion: Goes well with Californian orange wines.

*

“The judge has ordered an injunction against the publishers, and we’ve seized all the copies in the warehouse, but they’re refusing to give up the author.” Detective Grimes continued. “We have half of the editorial staff down in lock-up, but they’ve already begun phoning their lawyers and claiming they’ll make a First Amendment fight out of it in the courts.”

Professor Maxwell closed the book, eyes lingering for a moment on the glossy cover and the ghoulish feast it depicted, laid out with exquisite culinary depiction on white ironstone china. He set it on his desk. “I am not a lawyer, but in my professional opinion you may have difficulty restricting the book as obscene.”
“Not my department. Right now I’m holding them as accessories to murder and conspiracy. The forensic guys say there are pieces of at least two men, a woman, and two children on display in that little cookbook.”

Maxwell arched an eyebrow. “You think the illustrations are real?”

“Photographs from life. There are things in there you don’t even see in most medical textbooks.” The detective leaned over to tap the cover to emphasize his point. “The problem is, we don’t know who took them or where, or even when—though the layout of the photos, the quality, and the décor suggest relatively recently. These aren’t a lone cannibal serial killer’s polaroids. These were staged, professionally taken, lighting and all.”

“Surely the publishing company would have records? Receipts?”

“Their servers are encrypted and their lawyers are telling them not to talk to us. So you can see, we’ve got quite a situation on our hands. That’s where you came in.”

The professor nodded. The shelves behind him were stacked floor to ceiling and wall to wall with recipe books, folklore, histories, and anthropological reports on culinary history—at least half of which dealt with anthrophagy. He’d made his career on it.

“Leave me the book.” Maxwell said. “I’ll analyze the text and let you know if I find anything that might suggest the author’s identity.”

“Thanks, doc.”Grimes said, rising from the chair and offering his hand. “But please make this a priority. For all we know, right now the bastard could be writing a sequel.”

**
Fried Brain Sandwich
Preparation and Cooking Time: 30 minutes
Serving Size: 2-3

You will need:
1 human head (age 6 years or older for full size)
½ cup unbleached flour
1 tablespoon butter or lard
2 quarts of court-bouillon
Light brine (1 cup salt to 4 cups water)
Salt and pepper to taste
1 large pan
1 large frying pan
1 meat thermometer
Bread & dress to taste

1. If not already done, remove the brain from the skull, and peel back the ‘skin’ to expose the folds. Soak the brain in brine to remove as much of the blood as possible.
2. Insert the meat thermometer and poach the brain in the court-bouillon for ten to twelve minutes. Make sure the thermometer reads at least 165 degrees F before removing the brain from the bouillon.
3. Let stand to cool for a few minutes, then slice into strips.
4. Lightly bread the strips in flour and seasonings, then fry them with butter or lard until brown.
5. Serve on sliced bread with dressing.

Serving suggestion: Thin slices of dark bread like pumpernickel, garnished with strips of romaine lettuce and horseradish.

Warning: It is recommended that brains be thoroughly cooked to reduce the risk of prion disease.

***

“What I don’t understand is, haven’t there been quite a few ‘How to Cook Humans’ books over the years? Not counting your own, of course.” said Lorraine, then sipped her tea.

“Oh yes,” said Maxwell. “Several. Most of them, however, have sought refuge in parody or satire—played cannibalism up for its comedic and gross-out value. But an authentic book of recipes for human flesh, with illustrations? No, that’s very rare, even in fiction. Graham Masterton of all people perhaps popularized the idea when he sold off ‘The Secret Shih Tan’ to that horror program all those years ago, but even then he retained the mystery and taboo of the thing.”

He tapped the book’s cover for emphasis, just as the detective had done. “But this is…a standard, commercial, slightly vapid cookbook in the contemporary style. Aside from the principal ingredient, there is nothing keeping this off of the shelves of Barnes & Noble, sandwiched between Julia Child and Emeril.”

Maxwell sipped his tea and nibbled on the corner of a biscuit. Lorraine reached over and opened the cover, then closed it again.

“Well, the photographs are shocking, if they are real. I don’t see how they’re much more obscene than most R-rated movies, however.”

“You may be right,” he said, then wiped crumbs from his shirt. “And I admit it’s a bit of a concern for my own work. But that is up to the police and the lawyers to deal with. For now, my task is simply to read the book and ferret out any clue as to the chef’s identity.”

“So you think someone actually prepared these recipes? That it isn’t just a hoax, or a very realistic creative exercise?” said Lorraine.
The professor paused and swallowed his tea.

“I believe the recipes could be real. They are certainly functional enough. The photographs appear to echo the preparation and presentation exactly. So if the directions are real, and the results are real—well, I refuse to believe someone went to all the trouble of inventing and then cooking such dishes without tasting them.”

***

Placenta alla Puttanesca
Preparation and Cooking Time: 1 ½ hours
Serving size: 1-2

You will need:
1 human placenta, chopped
1 pound spaghetti
¼ cup olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
8 cloves of garlic, minced
4 overripe tomatoes, crushed
8 olives, sliced
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 tablespoons capers
1 tablespoon dried crushed basil
1 tablespoon dried crushed oregano
½ tablespoon dried crushed red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon dried fennel
Salt to taste
1 large pot

1. Heat the oil in the pot, then add the placenta and onions and lightly sauté until brown, then add the garlic and let sit 2-3 minutes.
2. Add the crushed tomatoes and other ingredients, then let simmer until the sauce thickens and reduces, about 30-35 minutes.
3. Add herbs or salt to taste.
4. Serve over spaghetti

Serving suggestion: Try sautéing with sliced anchovies, and serving with an Anjou rosé.

****

“You know I must give the police something.” Maxwell told her.

“Afraid they’ll turn their attentions on you?”

“Not to insult you, but there are certain gross similarities to my own work.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous textbook. Not exactly flying off the shelves, I noticed.”

The professor smiled. “Perhaps you’ve underestimated your potential audience.”

“Or perhaps your presentation is lacking, your ingredients too…stale.”

The smile died by degrees. “Each of those recipes is from an authentic anthrophagic tradition. Fifteen years in the field, in the bush and jungle and prisons. The research is impeccable.”

“Yes, because the natives of the Amazon basin know better how to boil a man into a stew than anyone else. I’d like to see one of them make a roux.”

Maxwell shrugged. “So what do I tell them?”

“The truth, as far as it goes. You can point out the sources, likely or possible. Show them that thesis you’ve been holding on to. Let them come to their own conclusions, and the courts will decide what is obscene and what is…art.”

###

Friday, June 15, 2012

Storm Halo

Storm Halo
by
Bobby Derie

The stranger came and brought the storm with him into the saloon, and the feller at the piano stopped. Wisps of black cloud hung around his brow like smoke, a personal thundershower that cast him in an eternal pall and damp. Water ran off thin, stringy brown hair, in rivulets down the pale and bloated creases in his face with eyes that looked red from crying, dripped from pruned fingers and left a trail of wet sawdust behind him as he made a line for the bar. He could have been a sailor lost at the sea come back to satisfy another thirst. Mud stained boots with rusty spurs the sickly blue-black growths that speckled his flesh where some resilient fungus had taken hold.
Sully met the stranger across the bar, met his eye without looking away.
“Help you suh?”
“Whiskey.”
The stranger’s voice was a liquid, gurgling croak with a familiar drawl and bark, and every man in the bar knew him for a native of Georgia, and a man who had been used to giving orders. The particular shade of amber Sully poured in the glass could have been week-old horse piss left out in the sun, darker and redder than golden, but brighter than blood in oil. Wet coins clinked on the bar as the stranger reached for the drink.
The music didn’t resume play. Gamblers left their cards at the table. Two aging whores in sagging cotton skirts ushered a young girl with a painted face up the stairs, steps creaking. The stranger stood at the bar and sipped his shot, and the cloud seemed to rise a little from his brow and lighten, the fat greasy drops thinning out to a steady drizzle so he was soon standing in a spreading puddle. Behind Sully, the big mirror above the bar showed only the standing storm.
More money clinked down on the counter. Sully poured the same again. This shot disappeared down the stranger’s throat in a single horse piss-colored streak.
There was a click that echoed in the silence of the saloon. The room saw the stranger’s shoulders tense, the grey clouds thicken to black and begin to roil as it grew larger and more agitated around him. He turned his back on the bar to stare out at the room, and a sudden breeze seemed to blow. Cards blew off tables but nobody dared reach for them. The doors to the saloon began to swing freely.
One of the drunk cowpokes sat up in sudden sobriety, leveling his Colt Navy revolver. Somewhere far off came the sound of distant thunder, and that clap echoed in the bar as a brilliant spark leapt off from the agitated cloud. In the space between breaths it traced a lazy zig-zag path to the tip of the gun, which exploded in the cattlepunk’s hand. As if his scream was a signal, as one body the room reached for their weapons.
The storm broke in the room, a black maelstrom that kicked up dirt and sawdust into a blinding, stinging wind that whipped around and through the whole tap room, picking up empty bottles, cups, and loose articles to fling with the strength of a tempest. Some hunkered down against the wind, turned over tables for shelter against the pelting rain and debris. Others were less fortunate, exposed skin of face and hands shredded by broken glass, crawled toward the door as the wind rose to a hellish howl and the walls seemed to shake and moan. Sully came up from behind the bar with a shotgun, and received a blinding flash and crackle of thunder to herald his descent to hell for his trouble. The stranger stood at the center of chaos, and none in the room dared lift their heads to see the strange calm on his face. Lightning played out again and again in the room, until nothing moved or moaned.
The wind slacked by degrees, and the cloud thinned to a grey disc, circling widdershins above the stranger’s head, a steady driving rain pouring over the ruin of the saloon, washing bloody rivers from fallen bodies. He turned back to the bar, the mirror above it now spider-cracked, and reached for the bottle of whiskey to pour himself another shot.
There was the creak of a hinge. The stranger’s shoulders tensed. He turned around, still holding the bottle of whiskey. The woman framed in the saloon door had straw-colored hair beneath a dark wide-brimmed hat, and a heavy bone-handled pistol on her hips. Rainwater flowed like tears beneath dry eyes as the stranger assayed her.
“Silas Blackwater.” The name came out like a dry breath across the plains, full of honey-grain and the hint of buffalo shit.
“You ain’t got trouble with that name, miss. An’ you don’t want any neither.” He gurgled by reply, then added. “Don’t see no tin star.”
“Don’t see no need fer one, Mr. Blackwater. You recognize this here gun?”
She patted the handle of the pistol. Blackwater could see the wide bone grip, carved with a scene from heaven or hell, traceries and nails of blackened metal. There were six notches cut in that grip, exposing the pale grey-yellow of the inner bone.
“Durendal.”
“That’s right. You ready?”
Blackwater gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Are you?”
 The wind picked up. There was a boom and clap as of thunder that rattled windows, and a flash like a piece of glass caught the sun at high noon. Then the dull sodden thump of a body hitting the squelching mud of the saloon floor, and the tinkle of broken glass.
###

Friday, June 8, 2012

Introduction to Spicy Weird Stories


Introduction to Spicy Weird Stories
by
Bobby Derie

This remarkable collection presents the best of the short-lived Spicy Weird Stories magazine, published by Culture Publications from 1936 to 1942. During its heyday, Spicy Weird Stories attracted the greatest weird fictioneers of the day, including the three leading lights of Weird Tales: Robert E. Howard, H. P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith, as well as other notable pulpsters including E. Hoffmann Price, Robert Leslie Bellem, Howard Wandrei, Manly Wade Wellman, Henry Kuttner, and Hugh B. Cave, though many of them were published under pseudonyms like Sam Walser, Hamlin Daly, and Wade Wells.

As detailed by Will Murray in “An Informal History of the Spicy Pulps,” the sizzling “spicies” line began with Spicy Detective Stories in April 1934, an endeavor funded by Harry Donenfield, some say, to launder money from his bootlegging operation. While there had been previous titillating magazines on the rack and under the counter, the Spicies were the first line to cater to the pulp genres, and soon Donenfield’s Culture Publications was also producing Spicy-Adventure Stories, Spicy Mystery Stories, Snappy Adventure Stories, Snappy Detective Stories, and Snappy Mystery Stories—and in 1936 rounded out the lot with Spicy Western Stories and Spicy Weird Stories.

The creation of Spicy Weird Stories is the result of a letter from E. Hoffmann Price to Spicy Stories editor Frank Armer in 1935, in response to Armer rejecting two of Price’s tales for containing science fiction and fantasy elements. While early issues of Spicy-Adventure Stories had included a few sci-fi tales, and Spicy Mystery Stories was willing to accept stories with a supernatural element provided it was resolved as mundane at the end, by 1935 Armer was cracking down on both of these sort of tales. Price’s suggestion was that rather than reject this sort of material outright, Armer should open up a new Spicy version of Weird Tales or Astounding.

Armer was doubtful, as he was unfamiliar with the horror, fantasy, and science-fiction market, but responded to Price’s letter by asking if he thought any other weird writers would be interested in submitting stories, particularly under their own names. Price had already been something of an evangelist for the spicies among his friend, convincing both Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith to submit stories for the spicies. Howard succeeded, landing several stories in Spicy-Adventure under the pen-name Sam Walser; Clark Ashton Smith had failed, his story “Mother of Toads” being rejected by Spicy Mystery as too fantastic and too hot for their magazine. Now with the possibility of a new market for weird fiction, Price put out the call to his friends and colleagues.

The first issue of Spicy Weird Stories in August 1936 featured a daring cover painting by house artist H. J. Ward of a nude woman in a sarcophagus, at the feet of which lay prostrate a man in modern garb, the leering faces of Egyptian gods in the background, for the story “Tarbis of the Lake” by E. Hoffmann Price; a version of Clark Ashton Smith’s “Mother of Toads” published under his own name, lightly expurgated to comply with editorial guidelines; “Blades of Khartum” by Robert E. Howard, a rejected Spicy-Adventure tale re-written as a sword & sorcery tale; “The Ghost Gal” by Spicy regular Robert Leslie Bellem and starring his private detective Dan Turner; and finally a comic strip “The Adventures of Olga Mesmer,” continuing her adventures from Spicy Mystery. It was an excellent and ambitious start, and which completely sold out of its small first run.

For the entirety of its six-year run, Spicy Weird Stories received a flood of mail both praising and condemning it. Many fans were happy with the contents of the magazine; others decried the pollution of serious literature. Writers from Weird Tales quickly learned they could take stories rejected by the prudish Farnsworth Wright, and resubmit them to Spicy Weird. Established Spicy Stories authors had much less success producing weird spicies, but as all science-fiction and horror submissions were now funneled to Spicy Weird, they picked up the slack filling up the other Spicy titles. Wright quickly took note of this, and contacted Culture Publications in 1937 threatening legal action.

The case never went to trial; Wright and Armer secretly reached an agreement where Wright would forward likely rejected stories directly to Armer in exchange for a small finder’s fee if the story was accepted. Both magazines profited from the arrangement, as Weird Tales could retain its high standards and Spicy Weird would get a more literary crop of submissions than typical for a Spicy pulp. Weird artists got in on the act too—Margaret Brundage submitted black-and-white line drawings of nudes from Chicago under the house name W. Lovett; Virgil Finlay did seventeen covers for the magazine near the end of its run, taking over from H. J. Ward, but never signed them; Wayne Francis Woodard, known to WT fans as Hannes Bok, took over the Olga Mesmer comic strip in 1939, and continued to draw it for three years until Spicy Weird folded in 1942.

Spicy Weird Stories lasted until the end of the Spicy line, when New York City Mayor Fiorello Le Guardia’s crackdown on lurid covers; but unlike the other spicies was not revived when Culture Publications re-organized along slightly different lines and began putting out essentially the same magazines in 1943. Whatever deal Armer had with Farnsworth Wright was null when Dorothy McIlwraith became editor of Weird Tales in 1940, and the quality of the magazine notably declined, relying more heavily on regular authors quickly pumping out stories under pseudonyms, and even reprints of Robert E. Howard tales printed under his real name and original titles in an effort to drive up sales.

The stories in this collection represent the best that Spicy Weird had to offer, from their most talented and illustrious contributors, several of which have never before been reprinted. The success of these stories lies neither in being solely weird or spicy, but in how the two themes were wedded together and complement one another, in a way that was rarely achieved before, and would not be seen again until long after the post-war years when publishing let its hair down and science fiction openly addressed questions of gender and sexuality, among other social issues.

“Tarbis of the Lake” was an early story by E. Hoffmann Price, lost and then recreated in collaboration with H. P. Lovecraft during the legendary 25-hour visit to Price’s quarters in New Orleans. The story did not sell for years, despite Price submitting and resubmitting it to Weird Tales and a host of other magazines, but finally found placement in the premiere issue of Spicy Weird Stories. The published version lacks HPL’s byline, according to prior agreement. Price had further revised it to increase the spicy element, mainly involving the complete nudity of Tarbis in her sarcophagus, but according to a recently discovered 1936 postcard, Price did send along a percentage of the proceeds to HPL, along with a letter of thanks.

“Mother of Toads” by Clark Ashton Smith failed to land at either Weird Tales or Spicy Mystery when first submitted, being too erotic for either publisher to print, but with Price’s encouragement a slightly expurgated version appeared in the inaugural Spicy Weird as “Among the Lily-Pads.” Years later, after Arnem and Wright had forged their agreement, a more heavily edited version appeared in Weird Tales under Smith’s original title. The full, uncensored version would not be published until Necronomicon Press published it in 1987.

“The Witchcraft of Ulua” was another of Clark Ashton Smith’s tales that was censored when it first appeared in Weird Tales; Wright dug the unexpurgated version out of the archives and sent it on to Armer during a slow month for submissions in 1938, and the two later received permission from Smith to reprint it almost unaltered. This began a tradition of the same weird fiction appearing in both magazines; Wright would publish the “clean” version of a tale, and a month or two later Armer would publish the “spicy” version. There is some internal evidence that a few such tales were actually “spiced up” by house writers before seeing print, rather than having been edited clean by Farnsworth Wright.

“House of the Monoceros” and “Dawn of Discord” were both written by Clark Ashton Smith, but having failed to place them in other magazines Smith gave them to Price to revise and sell to the spicies, and they appeared under Price’s pseudonym “Hamlin Daly.” The original stories, reprinted in The Miscellaneous Writings of Clark Ashton Smith, are neither very spicy nor very weird, though they still contain some of CAS’ beautiful and evocative language. Price’s revised versions contain heavy doses of Egyptian and Theosophical mysticism, as well as plenty of heaving bosoms and pale naked flesh, and combine something of the best of both authors’ style.

“The Black Kiss” by “Michael Leigh” is actually a collaboration between Robert Bloch and Henry Kuttner, and an early story of the Cthulhu Mythos. First featured in the June 1937 issue of Weird Tales, where it lost out the Brundage cover to “The Carnal God” by Speer and Schnitzer, the story yet managed to score several lavish black-and-white nudes by Mrs. Brundage in the August 1937 issue of Spicy Weird. Bloch never took to writing for the spicies, or at least if he has never admitted to it, but Kuttner continued to publish, mainly in Spicy Mystery.

“Blades of Khartoum” and “Ship in Mutiny” by Robert E. Howard writing as Sam Walser and were initially submitted to and rejected by Spicy-Adventure. Undeterred, Howard rewrote them as sword-and-sorcery fantasies starring a Conan-esque hero, and submitted them to Spicy Weird, and Armer snapped them up. They were the last of Howard’s stories to be bought by the magazine before he took his own life in July 1936, and did not appear in print until August and September of that year.

Another Robert E. Howard spicy submitted before his death as “Daughters of Feud.” This tale, originally set in the American backwoods country, was far too explicit for the average spicy due to its heavy sadomasochistic scenes of bare-bottom spanking. However, rather than returning the manuscript immediately it lurked in the files, until Armer became aware of Howard’s death. Knowing no other Howard stories would be coming this way, Armer paid a house writer to turn it into an acceptable weird spicy, and mailed Howard’s father a check as if the story had been submitted and accepted normally. The deception was not discovered for some years, until the Robert E. Howard Foundation reprinted the unadulterated versions of REH’s spicy stories in the 2011 Spicy Adventures collection.

Robert Leslie Bellem was one of the stars of the Spicy line, and the prolific creator of private detective Dan Turner for Spicy Detective, who would one day get spun off in his own magazine. Among the hundreds of cases Bellem wrote for Turner over the years, it is easy to forget that in the first three issues of Spicy Weird Bellem attempted to combine his jaunty, hardboiled prose to making Turner a kind of occult detective. The resulting trilogy of tales produced were “The Ghost Gal,” “The Ghoul’s Girl,” and “Dead Damsels in Distress,” the latter of which was reprinted much later in Super Detective as “Girls Don’t Bite.” Bellem took particular advantage of one of Armer’s peculiar editorial rules, which allowed that “a nude female corpse is allowable”—as a consequence, Turner spends several pages over the three issues tripping over a veritable harem of dead and undead girl-flesh.

“I Wore the Brassiere of Doom” was a confessions-style story credited to “Sally Theobold,” a transparent penname for Weird Tales veteran Howard Phillips Lovecraft, though most bibliographies failed to credit HPL with this story until Robert M. Price reprinted it in Lurid Confessions #1 in 1986. While most readers and critics might express surprise that HPL might attempt a spicy story, citing L. Sprague de Camp’s biography and many memoirs regarding Lovecraft’s prudish attitudes towards sex, S. T. Joshi’s more recent biography I Am Providence and more recent research suggests that this proclivity was overstated, as anyone who has read HPL’s short story “Sweet Ermengarde” or the poem “Sir Wilful Wildrake” will attest, and recently horror author Edward Lee tracked down an erotic novella that Lovecraft had written under commission for a private gentleman’s magazine under a pseudonym, which was republished with a fictional framing device of Lee’s own creation in 2010 as Trolley No. 1852.

A hallmark of the Spicy line were the regular comic serials that ran in the pages, often featuring and starring women who entered into various states of undress. One of the strangest, as chronicled by Will Murray in “The Spicy Strips” (Risque Stories #5, 1987) was “The Adventures of Olga Mesmer,” which began in Spicy Mystery. Olga Mesmer’s strange origin and powers, which included super-strength and x-ray vision, took her to hidden civilizations beneath the earth and to the outer planets of the solar system before her serial was abruptly summed up and canceled—possibly to avoid conflict with the Superman comic book, under another of Harry Donenfeld’s companies. However, Armer revived the strip almost immediately for Spicy Weird, as the strange character and attitude seemed to fit the “almost-unique” magazine. Hannes Bok picked up the story from where it had let off and Olga Mesmer continued her planetary adventures on Mars, Yuggoth (Pluto), Cykranosh (Saturn), and Sfanomoë (Venus). There is much speculation that Bok merely drew the comics while another writer or writers, perhaps Lovecraft or Clark Ashton Smith, actually scripted the adventures, but both writer and artist on the strip remained uncredited. I am pleased to present here the full run of Olga Mesmer strips from Spicy Weird, reprinted here for the first time anywhere.

This anthology would not have been possible without the tremendous assistance of Will Murray and Robert M. Price. As well I would like to thank, in no particular order, S. T. Joshi, Rusty Burke, Darrell Schweitzer, Edward Lee, the Robert E. Howard Foundation, the staff at Arkham House, the Estate of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, and Daniel Harms for their help, scholarship, and guidance.

###

Friday, June 1, 2012

The First Tale of Chat-Meurtier du Paris


The First Tale of Chat-Meurtier du Paris
by
Bobby Derie

In l'allée de Nuit, the ratters at last corner the hapless female. She sprawls in the trash and grime of the gutters, spent. Her flanks heave, blood trickling from their scratches, every hair standing on end as she pants in terror and exhaustion as the mongrels close in on her.  

A shadow flickers from one side of the alley to the other, and the ratters halt, blood dribbling down on their lips from identical crimson slashes just above their nostrils. Deep growls fill the alley, rough grating barks from scarred throats; the rough dogs of Paris fight for their suppers and their lives, and fear no skulking sharp-clawed rat, bearing their teeth. They sniff and pant, but smell nothing but their own blood, see naught but shadows and their prey. So they turn their attention back to her, a bit of drool sagging from their mouths.

Behind their legs, she sees the shadow flicker across the alley again. One of the ratters collapses with a wordless howl of pain, its rear legs giving out as dark blood spills forth. The other makes the mistake at looking back. The wounded mongrel ceases in mid-howl as it sees its compatriot collapse in a gurgling heap, its throat ripped out. The beast voids itself and strives to crawl forward before something dark and furry blocks out the pale moonlight that filters into the alley. It’s last sight is of scrabbling black claws and looming teeth.

Weak but alive, the female slowly recovers herself. She takes in the carnage of her pursuers, the bloody ruin a raw banquet for the feasters of Paris, and her own belly rumbles in hunger at the soft meats before her. Then the shadow moves from behind the half-fleshed skull of one of the ratters, a gooey orb held daintily in his paws. He crosses the alleyway without a skitter or other sound, his coat black on black, his scent almost undetectable until he is almost upon her.

A heady, overpoweringly male aroma washes over her, and her insides melt. Lying back she exposes herself to her savior, offering her body in submission and reward. For a contemplative moment the shadow, Chat-Meurtier, sucks the juices from the eye, then casts the rare viand aside to satisfy a very different kind of hunger.

###