Frankenstein’s Rant

Mrs. Frankenstein, like all women, doesn’t leave the old castle the way us regular men do. No, Mrs. Frankenstein, my darling Hildegard, has to get ready first. Let’s say we’re due at the Coplenopolis’s at 7 pm. Guess what time Mrs. Frankenstein saunters to the front door and announces “Okay, I’m ready?”

Go ahead, guess. If you said 7:05 pm, you’d be correct. Does she then proceed to the family SUV? Of course not. “Okay, I’m ready” translates into “Okay, it’s time to check to make sure I unplugged every plug in the house, turned off the stove, shut off the dryer, turned down the heat, put the trash out, fed the dog, made sure the cat is back in the house, and given written instructions to the babysitter for little Frankie and Franny.

At 7:25 pm, she slides into the passenger seat of the SUV. We need a big one because, if you saw the film, you noticed we are tall people. I think old Doctor Frankenstein added extra parts in us. I put the SUV in reverse and back out of the driveway while the missus yells at me for driving before she has a chance to buckle up and settle in.

When we finally arrive at the Coplenopolis’s, it’s 7:45 pm. But do the Coplenopolis’s see our scarred good looks at 7:45? Don’t be silly. You could stick four guys in a car and drive somewhere, I don’t care where, let’s say I haul my buddies the count, the werewolf and one of those mummy chaps to choir practice (strip joint). What do you think we do when we get there?  Exactly. We get out of the car. Four doors on the old SUV pop open at approximately the same time – immediately upon stoping.

Now, let’s consider Mrs. Frankenstein, who by the way, is like most women you know, if a bit uglier, well, I shouldn’t say “uglier.” It’s an ugly word. She’s just a little bit scar-challenged if you get my drift.

“Don’t worry,” says the missus. “Everyone always comes late.” She says this with a straight face while I’m checking out the 32 automobiles stuffed into the Coplenopolis’s driveway. I make the mistake of popping my door open. Big mistake. Wife says, “Where are you going?” Doesn’t she know?

Okay, the search for her purse begins. Then she asks if she should wear her sweater into the house. “Why’d you wear it, if you didn’t want to wear it?” I ask. This conversation is a repeat of the same stupid conversation we’ve had since 1889 so you’d think I’d learn a new line or two, but no, I’m Frankenstein’s monster. He didn’t exactly steal the high IQ brain for my head.  Anyway, the wife has removed the sweater and is now going through her purse. “Purse,” of course, means that giant tote bag she drags around with her so rummaging through it takes a while.

“Aren’t you ready yet, dear?” I ask repeating the century old script.

“In a moment, darling. I want to check my makeup.”

Let’s think about this, boys and girls, she wants to check her makeup. Mrs. Frankenstein wants to take a gander at her face. The mirror cracked the first time she peeked at her mug in this vehicle, and that was a long time ago so I don’t  know what’s she’s expecting to see. Did you ever try to check a face full of scars in a cracked mirror?

A few minutes go by. The face that could sink a thousand ships now has shiny red lips and some rosy colored rouge smeared on her scarred cheeks. The scars now stand out as deep rose lines against a pale-as-death complexion because the rouge settles in the deepest places.

“How do I look?” she asks.

By this time I remember the consequences of truth. “Beautiful, my darling.”

She gives me an angry look. “Why are you just sitting there? We’re late. Let’s go.”

Yes, finally, she exits the SUV and heads for the front door. I’m about to ring the doorbell when she says, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Where have I heard that before?

She smiles like there’s no reason in the world why I should be beside myself with Frankensteinian anger. She says, “I think I’ll take my sweater after all. Will you run to the car and get it for me?”

THE END

Deep inside many a monster is what used to be a troubled human. Dracula was once a medieval count with a propensity for scaring the delights out of his enemies, especially the invading Turks. The Werewolf of London was an English bloke who minded his own business until one day a dog bit him. Well, he thought it was a dog. Our friend Frankenstein was a pile of dead bodies without a care in this world when a crazy scientist began sewing bits and pieces of people together.

In my new novel, Steel Pennies, there’s a monster loose who doesn’t look like a vampire, werewolf or a hideous pile of spare parts sewn together, but my character is a human monster just the same. Your challenge is to figure out who the monster is before this character kills Tommy’s girlfriend. Tommy is the main character in this teenaged romance gone wild. Blending humor with horror is a fun challenge for me as an author. But the humor fades away before the shocking conclusion of Steel Pennies. Did you enjoy reading Frankenstein’s rant? If yes, you’ll love the fast paced action of Steel Pennies. Check it out on Amazon.

The Dead Werewolf’s Rant

I’m dead, not undead, not a zombie, not a vampire. I’m dead, plain old dead-as-a-doornail dead. Let me explain while my body transforms from the wolf state back into something resembling a dead human.

I was minding my own business in the front yard howling at the full moon the way I did every month. I heard a loud pop and felt a sharp pain in my chest. Since werewolves rarely have a heart attack, I figured right away it was a silver bullet. Sure enough, that weird kid down the street came charging over to me with guns blazing. Where does a nineteen-year-old semi-hermit accumulate enough silver for a fistful of automatic weapons clips?

I bled out long before the police arrived. And that silver dissolved my heart along with half my chest cavity by the time the flashing ambulance lights spun down my street.

No, I’m not going to be revived. Dead werewolves return to their human state for the funeral. The end. All she wrote. But before I leave this life, I want to warn you mothers out there to beware of your sons.

You  know the boys I’m talking about. They’re between about fifteen and thirty. They’re peculiar. I know you’re in denial. I can hear you right now saying, “There’s nothing wrong with my Harry. He just hasn’t found himself yet.”

You, lady, are in denial about your son. If he is on medication, if his brain doesn’t work the same way as most people’s brains, if he is the loner type, if he is this stranger in your home, please, for all our sakes, get the guns out of the house.

Yes, your husband has the right to bear arms. And he has a right to defend his home. But he also has the right to use a little commonsense. If the kid just ain’t right, get the guns out of the house. Stash them at Aunt Edna’s home or in a storage locker away from the kid.

Okay, I know you’re saying your child is a sweet boy, really, and would never harm anyone. And you’re about to tell me that young people with his particular condition are never violent. But, mom, that’s exactly what those other moms said in Colorado and Connecticut and Arizona and wherever else some sweet, innocent, but slightly deranged young man opened fire on a crowd of equally young, innocent and normally arranged people.

And it’s not just people. I was a werewolf for crying out in the light of the moon. Give me a break. Who gives a hoot about werewolves? It’s not like we hurt anyone, right? We just howl once a month. And okay, maybe we’re a little aggressive at the meat counter and always order our hamburgers extra raw, but is that any reason to shoot a werewolf?

Well, it’s too late to give me a break, but give the kindergarten children in your neighborhood a break by getting those guns out of the house. And the silver. Do you know where your silver is at this moment? Jerrold Slimpnickel’s mother thought her silver was in the dining room in that drawer in the middle of her china cabinet. Turns out her silver was melted down six months ago in the basement and made into silver bullets for killing werewolves like the late me.

Your boy will thank you later when his only friend, Norman Boingbanger, gets arrested on the way to your local elementary school with a boatload of his dad’s automatic rifles. So yeah, hide the silver and get those guns out of the house.

THE END 

Quotable
"She placed her left hand on my right cheek, the one on my face."
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies
    

Networking with Hobgoblins

When Merrimat’s pickup shook from bumper to bumper, he pulled over and spotted six little people, each about two-feet tall, crawling out from under his truck. The laughing little critters sprinted into the cornfield adjacent to the road.

While charging after the diminutive culprits, Merrimat clicked on his cell phone and attempted to engage its onboard video camera. Despite hitting the right button, the darn thing wouldn’t come up. On the fourth try, he spotted the cornstalks dashing by on his screen, but it was vertical format. He turned his smart phone sideways and waited for his screen to adjust.

And waited.

He kept running while waiting.

He arrived at a place in the cornfield that reminded him a those corn mazes farmers create to earn extra money at Halloween. His video camera adjusted to the horizontal so he was able to shoot excellent cell phone quality video of the crop circle and several pathways leading out of the maze or maize depending on your preference.

Merrimat heard laughter to his left and followed the path in that direction. He came to a junction, turned left on nothing more than a gut feeling. Fifty yards later he arrived at a smaller crop circle with a half dozen of the ugly little scamps milling about. They brewed coffee over a camp fire.

“Who are you people?” Mirrimat asked.

“Don’t insult us, please, human,” declared one of the tiny folk.

“Sorry. What are you?” Mirrimat asked.

“Much better. We’re hobgoblins. What did you think we were? Trolls?” The little fellow appeared to be the leader because he talked while the others kept their own counsel and he was a bit huskier than the others.

Merrimat shrugged. “I simply didn’t know. That’s why I asked. Have you always been in this neighborhood?”

“Our kind always live right in the same neighborhoods as you humans.” the hobgoblin leader passed coffee to Merrimat in an old fashioned six ounce cup of dainty china. 

“Why did you shake my car?” Mirrimat sipped the coffee. It was dark roast with a hint of exotic spices and campfire charcoal.

“We wanted to get your attention. We need to speak with you,” said the lead hobgoblin.

“What about?” Mirrimat asked.

“Are you prepared for retirement? What would happen to your family if you should pass away? Would they have the financial security they need? Let’s talk about your financial future.”

Mirrimat ran screaming from the field not bothering to follow the path laid down by the hobgoblins. On the way he kept thinking about how he must warn the others. He hoped the cellphone video turned out because he doubted anyone would believe his story.

He was wrong, of course. Turned out his friends all knew about financial planners.

THE END 

Quotable
"The aroma of dead flesh became worse as I approached Penny."
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies
    

Without Annette

Before Miley… before Lindsey… before Britney… before Jodie… and even before Hayley… there was Annette, Disney’s first teenage heart throb.

Articles covering her death yesterday at age 70, remind us that Annette Funicello was an accomplished singer, dancer and actress. But many of those writing about her have missed her greatest talent and contribution to television and film.

An American Icon
For the baby boomer generation, Annette Funicello was our first crush. That’s her legacy.

For millions of American preteen boys in the mid-fifties, she was our “it girl.” She stirred that magic something in our collective hearts that made us run a bit faster coming home from school. When we turned on the Mouseketeers that first time on October 3,1955, it was to experience that new program from Walt Disney. But from day two on, we hurried home to watch “Annette.” She was the curly-haired brunette with her name written across her blouse and those iconic mouse ears on top of her head.

Our preteen sisters loved Annette because she was everything a preteen girl wanted to become: a pretty star who attracted boys. She was a girl who always dressed right. She was that special older sister who had her act together. She was worthy of imitation.

Annette’s great charm was her sweetness and purity. Wow, isn’t that something. Did I actually write “purity” in describing a Hollywood star? With the original Mickey Mouse Club, you watched a group of good, wholesome kids with talent. At thirteen, Annette was one of the older children, one of the leaders. If she was sexy or flirtatious, it was always in a wholesome way. Even in the later Beach Party movies, Annette played the girl who was saving herself for marriage despite the bikini beach all around her.

With Annette, you always had the feeling she was playing Annette. And that was her special magic.

Think about it. The Boomer generation began in 1946 so the oldest Boomer watching Annette that first time in 1955 was all of nine years old. That means Annette was only thirteen when she stole our hearts. For the boys, she was our virtual big sister, baby sitter and famous actress combined into one giant grin.

I paid tribute to Annette in my new novel Steel Pennies. The story is set in 1960. The main characters are teenagers. In one scene early in the story, Tommy McConnell, the main character, and his buddy, Bob Durkin, turn on the television and catch a rerun of the original Mickey Mouse Club. They stop the action of the novel long enough to watch because they have a crush on Annette.

Annette Funicello stole our hearts when we were young and kept them for us until we were old enough to find our own personal sweethearts, like my bride Lynn Zuk-Lloyd.

Quotable
“… I flipped the channel knob to watch the Mouseketeers. It was a rerun, too. We watched it anyway. Bob and I have a crush on one of the Mouseketeers named Annette.”
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies

I’m a Were What?

Doctor Blutmeister said, “Roger, it only took ninety stitches to close your wound. And you arrived at the ER a good thirty or forty seconds before you would have bled out.”

 Janice Bingbuster stayed with me. Some Saturday night date that was.

When Janice bit me earlier that evening, she apologized profusely. At the time, I thought her apology over the top until I placed my hand on my wound and felt the blood gushing. And yes, she was definitely chewing as she drove my car to the emergency room.

I planned to have her drive me home after the ER visit and my overnight hospital room hangout. But when I awoke around noon, my pal Vernon stared me in the face. He volunteered to drive me home.

Vernon had that far away, thoughtful look he gets right before his Cousin Janice visits. “There’s something I have to tell you, Roger.”

“No need to apologize. Your cousin already covered that with profuse sorrow and lots of kissing while chewing.”

“That reminds me. Do you have any toothpicks?” Vernon glanced my way.

“In my car?”

“Never mind. I have something I have to tell you, and it can’t wait.” Vernon gazed back at the road.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You know me as Vernon Bingbuster, and I trust you consider me a friend.”

“I do. You’re the best, but this is old news.” I adjusted the bandage around my neck.

“And you like Cousin Janice despite her propensity for deep nibbling?”

“This may surprise you considering the depth of my wound, but yes, I like your cousin very much. What’s not to like? She’s beautiful. She’s kind. And she’s smart. So what if she clamps down a little hard during a make out session. We’re young. We’ll both get better with experience.”

Vernon took his eyes off the road to stare at me. “The problem, Roger, is you know both of us.”

I glared at the pickup stopped in front of us. “How’s that a problem?”

“Haven’t you wondered why you only see Cousin Janice once a month?” Vernon faced forward and slammed on the brakes.

“That’s because she only visits you and your mom once a month. She lives like four states away, right?”

“That’s my cover story.” Vernon waited for the pickup to move on before continuing. 

“It is?” The aroma of blood from my wound filled my nostrils along with an unhealthy amount of stone cold fear.

Vernon pulled the car to the curb and stopped. “I’m only telling you this because of the accident, the bite. Most of the time I’m your friend Vernon Bingbuster, but during the full moon, I’m Cousin Janice.”

“What?” I backed against the passenger door. “I’m on painkillers so I’m not sure I heard you right or even why I would want to hear what I just heard.”

Vernon shifted in his seat so that he faced me on the passenger side. “I’m a werewoman, Roger.”

“What is that exactly, a female wolf?” My head spun from Vicodin and weird news.

“Roger, don’t you get it? I’m a guy who turns into a sexy girl whenever the moon is full. I bit you so guess what?”

“I might get rabbis?” I cranked my head to one side trying to think, but I must have stretched the stitches because a sharp pain shot through my wound.

“You’re now a werewoman, too.”

“I’m a what? Vicodin doesn’t affect hearing, does it?”

After Vernon walked me to my door, I attributed the conversation to the painkillers from Doctor Blutmeister and any lingering drug abuse on the part of the blood donors who provided for my several transfusions. If Vernon was telling the truth, that meant I kissed a guy. I went upstairs and threw up.

As the weeks passed, I worried more about my future and less about boy lips. What would happen to me during the next full moon? I watched the evening sky, but most nights were cloudy in our neighborhood. I tried talking to Vernon Bingbuster about his Cousin Janice, but he claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about.

In case something were to happen on the next full moon, I spread the word on Twitter that my cousin Rhoda was coming to town. Vernon tweeted me that he thought my cousin might make a great friend for Cousin Janice the next time she was in town. Now, I’m the only guy I know, besides Vernon, who has to worry about a monthly visit from his “friend.”

THE END

Quotable
"Wickedness attracted and scared us at the same time"
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies

Steel Pennies

My new novel – STEEL PENNIES – is ready for purchase on Amazon for your Kindle reader. The paperback version will be ready in a few days. 

Set in 1960 in a working class neighborhood of West Chester, a small Pennsylvania town, Steel Pennies is racially-charged murder, mayhem and mischief wrapped around a teen romance gone wild. When teenagers Tommy McConnell and Bob Durkin discover the body of a long missing neighborhood girl, a series of killings ensues. As the body count mounts, will Tommy and his friends learn the identity of the killer before his girlfriend becomes the next victim?  

Steel Pennies explores racial tension and forbidden love during the early days of the civil rights movement. It examines the mystery of coming of age in a love story that turns Romeo and Juliet on its head. Laugh, cry and remember the struggles that brought America together as one people as you read my new novel – Steel Pennies.

What People Are Saying About Steel Pennies
“Machine-gun sentences.  Fast.  Intense.  Mickey Spillane-style.  No way around it.  Paul R. Lloyd is a top-notch noir writer.  Top-notch.”
Thomas Phillips author of Molech Prophecy—describing Steel Pennies by Paul R. Lloyd…

“I predict it will win awards and become assigned reading in high school, with the benefit that it will be a book that students will want to read. I loved this.”
Judge’s written comment on Steel Pennies in The Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense Unpublished Division.

BTW, PLEASE DON’T REVEAL THE BLOCKBUSTER ENDING!

You can read a chunk of Steel Pennies on Amazon by clicking here.

Return on Monday to read my new short fiction.

Killer Crowds

Have you ever watched one of those old films of city street scenes shot more than a century ago? The people are scurrying about like folks today in our big cities. The clothes are different. The cars and horse-drawn buggies are ancient. The brick and stone buildings in those flashing images have been replaced with ever higher glass and steel towers. But the action of the people is still the same. City life is, and always has been, about hustle and bustle.

Have you ever wondered where all those people in those old films are today? The simple answer is they are dead. But are they? Where do the people go who once hurried about our city streets?

I have seen people come and go for a decade in Philadelphia and multiple decades in Chicago. My travels, business and personal, have taken me to Boston, New York, Washington, Atlanta, Dallas, Denver, El Paso, Tucson, Detroit, Cleveland, Seattle and other great cities. The scene is always the same. Even in Canada, where I have visited Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Calgary and their other cities I have witnessed the phenomenon: people in motion.

But where do they go?
Chicago, where I have spent the most time studying this mystery, makes a great example. The people scurrying about the Loop today are not the same people who labored there a generation ago. Where did those other folks disappear to?

I asked people in my business network. Their answers can be summed up in four words: “home, retirement, Florida, death.”

But do they really go to those places?

Try this experiment
Follow someone you see on the street in the evening rush hour when a mass of humanity heads for the train station. It doesn’t matter which city you’re in. Pick a person and follow him or her. Most of the time that person will simply disappear into the crowd and you will never see her again. Where did she go?

The mystery of the vanishing horde has haunted me these many decades. I have followed thousands of individuals. Pick the right person on the correct day and you’ll tail them right to their train. Those folks went home for dinner that night. But what about the people who vanished into the crowd right before your eyes? You watched them walking not more than 10 paces in front of you when suddenly they were nowhere to be seen.

Where did they go?

Two theories
In the interest of science (fiction and otherwise), I humbly offer two theories for further development by you or an expert of your choice:

Transcendental Departure: Could it be that when our time in the city is up and our business tasks are performed enough for one lifetime, we disappear into the crowd? We in effect become part of the crowd or one with the crowd. We are absorbed into the crowd. Our essence, our personhood, is distributed to the other individuals who make up the crowd. Our essence invigorates and strengthens the crowd, but at the price of our individual existence.

Adult Rebirth: Perhaps we become someone else as we are absorbed into the crowd. At one end of the mass sea of heads bobbing up in down to form a wave pattern, we vanish unnoticed by our casual passerby neighbors intent on making their homeward train on time. At the other end of the crowd, someone emerges, new and vigorous from our essence, someone you have never seen before. Meanwhile, no one in the city remembers you once you have vanished forever into the crowd.

A possible third theory? Beam me up, Scotty.

Read Hags for Free Now – Offer ends Today
Today is the last day to receive of free copy of my horror novel Hags for free from Amazon for your Kindle reader. Download it by clicking here.

If you prefer the paperback version of Hags, you may purchase it by following the same link above.

After you read Hags, please give it a 5-Star review on Amazon. Thanks.

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Here’s another novel idea…
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