Category Archives: pulp

Graham Wynd Reviews Last Year’s Man

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And says:

‘From blood-soaked shenanigans to effortlessly clever banter, there’s everything you’d expect and more. The motif of the hitman haunted by his past gets a fresh angle as disgraced Tommy Bennett returns to Seatown, the northern coastal city where his past awaits him. A wild mix of musical and pop culture references come at you thick and fast. I was chortling by the end of the first page.’

Read the rest of the review here.

Recommended Read: Kiss The Devil Goodnight by Jonathan Woods

kiss the devil goodnightBill Derringer is an Iraq war veteran who is having trouble making ends meet. When he and his wife Edie take their two kids to visit Edie’s Aunt Ida, she turns out to be a lot more than Bill had bargained for and things soon spiral wildly out of control.

Jonathan Woods’ ‘Kiss The Devil Goodnight‘ is a lethal cocktail of pulp fiction and Beat poetry. It’s vibrant, violent and vivid. Lyrical and and lurid. Fast moving and funny. ‘Kiss The Devil Goodnight’ is chock-full of great lines and powerful imagery, and is certainly not for those of a delicate sensibility. I loved it.

Short, Sharp Interview: Will Viharo

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PDB: What’s going on?

You got me.

PDB: Do you listen to music when you work?

Always. Mostly classic jazz and moody film scores. Currently both soundtrack albums for “Twin Peaks: the Return.”

PDB: What makes you laugh?

Zombies.

PDB: What’s the best cure for a hangover?

Sex. Clears your sinuses. Brush your teeth first.

PDB: If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I’m already here (Seattle).

PDB: Do you have a bucket list? If so, what’s on it?

Apparently my bucket had a hole in it, so my list got lost somewhere along the way.

PDB: What’s on the cards?

More gambling-on-dreams debt.

PDB: Anything else?

Hopefully.

Bio: Will “the Thrill” Viharo is a pulp fiction author, B movie beatnik, lounge lizard at large, cat daddy, dog walker, and lucky husband. Swing by his cyber-pad anytime for a TMI cocktail.

www.thrillville.net

Recommended Read: Bad Luck City by Matt Phillips

bad luck cityJaded Las Vegas hack Sim Palmer is approached by a stranger in a bar and asked to look into the disappearance of a young girl.

Twists, turns and violence quickly ensue in a classic slice of atmospheric, brutal, fast-paced pulp fiction.

Matt Phillips’ Bad Luck City is a whip crack of a read and is highly recommended.

A Film For Friday: Small Crimes

small crimesSmall Crimes is a sharp, short slice of noir based on David Zeltserman’s classic cult novel.  A low-key, quirky crime film that is packed with great nuanced performances. Tightly directed with a gripping screenplay that smartly straddles the razors edge of noir and absurdity. Rich characters with a marvellously self-deluded and engaging protagonist. Small Crimes is brilliant, black comedy of errors that ticked all the boxes for me. I loved it.

Switchblade Magazine – The Line Up

SWITCHBLADE First Issue Lineup:

Arriving in early March of 2017, and featuring a motley crew of noir fiction usual suspects, along with some new blood; here are the lucky thirteen.

The eight short fiction authors, and five flash fiction authors who will appear in the very first cut of SWITCHBLADE:

Tom Leins
Liam Sweeny
Patrick Bates
Travis Richardson
Preston Lang
Steve Liskow
William Dylan Powell
Larry Kelter
Paul D. Brazil
Jim Wilsky
Fred Zackel
Scotch Rutherford
Susan Cornford

I’m Flashing At Pulp Metal Magazine and Near To The Knuckle

CHELSEA GIRLS is at PULP METAL MAGAZINE

Chloe left the money and took the guns. She couldn’t carry everything and she knew that cash would be a hell of a lot easier to come by than a couple of AK47s that was for sure.

and

THE TALL MAN is at NEAR TO THE KNUCKLE

‘I sit on a bench in the darkened park and watch The Slug get out of his car. I am dressed head to foot in black and holding a black briefcase. The Slug walks up to an apartment block and opens the front door with a key. He doesn’t leave a real trail of slime behind him, of course, just a metaphorical one.’

CHECK EM OUT!

#FRIDAY FLASH: Seven Minutes To Midnight

 

Hinkson’s tired, dog tired, but he can’t fall asleep. Can’t let himself drift off into the warm, comforting womb of his unconscious. It’s seven minutes to midnight and the brothers will be here at the witching hour, for sure. Same as last night and the previous night.

The motel room is dark except for the faint light from an old transistor radio that is tuned to a classical music station. Hinkson sits in an old rocking chair, eyes closed. A sawn-off shotgun across his lap. A half-empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He opens his eyes, leans over and unsteadily lifts the bottle to his lips. Takes a little sip. Closes his eyes again for a moment. Drifts away.

The slam of a car door drags him back to reality. He peels back the blinds. The motel’s neon sign flickers. Snow falls like confetti and the brothers stand in front of their battered BMW. They’re dressed in black, as always. Overcoats, flat caps. Black leather gloves. They are illuminated by a string of Christmas lights that encircle the car park. They take something out of the car boot, slam it shut then slowly trudge across the snow smothered car park, looking like shadows.  Larry leads the way. Lloyd and Lee either side of him, as usual.

Hinkson rummages in his jacket pocket and fishes out an amphetamine tablet. Pops it in his mouth and washes it down with the whisky.

A church bell chimes.

*

Lloyd span the BMW into the side street, narrowly missing an old woman with a tartan shopping trolley as she dragged herself across the street.

Lee, his massive frame jammed into the passenger seat, giggled.

‘For fuck’s sake, that was close. Nearly got ten points,’ he said.

‘Only five points for a coffin-dodger,’ said Lloyd.

Harsh winter sunlight was pouring through the shattered windscreen and he was sweating like a pig.

‘Focus, lads,’ croaked Larry. ‘Focus.’

He was slouched in the back seat, blood pouring from a shotgun wound in his stomach. Hinkson had covered the wound with a towel but it was already soaked red.

‘This’ll have to do for now,’ said Hinkson. ‘Fucks knows what I’m doing, though.’

‘Thought you were medically qualified,’ said Lee, his speed-freak eyes dancing a tarantella.

‘First Aid certificate from when I worked at the swimming baths,’ said Hinkson.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Lee.

Sirens screamed in the distance as they pulled up in front of The Royal Oak. The pub was stained with graffiti, its windows boarded up. A rusty metal shutter was pulled down over the front door.

Lee rushed out of the car and pulled up the shutter while Lloyd dragged a black holdall out of the car boot. Hinkson eased the groaning Larry out of the car and into the darkened pub. Lloyd followed, struggling with the holdall.

‘I’ll hide the car round the back while you phone Doc Holloway, then,’ said Lee.

‘Most sensible thing you’ve said all day,’ said Lloyd.

Lee stopped as his hand gripped the car door handle. He glared at Lloyd.

‘Do not blame me for this, bro,’ he said. ‘Understand?’

‘Whatever,’ said Lloyd. ‘Just get a move on’

He pulled down the shutters with a bang.

*

The radio’s batteries are dying and the music and lights are fading. The brothers are outside the motel room’s door now. Hinkson can hear Lee trying to suppress his giggles. Larry is breathing heavily. Hinkson pats the holdall.

There is a knock at the door.

‘Three strikes and you’re out,’ rasps Larry. ‘I’m growing impatient. I’m not a well man.’

The radio dies and the room is completely dark, silent. Except for the sound of Hinkson’s heartbeat which seems loud enough to make his head explode.

*

The day had melted into night. Lee and Lloyd were crashed out on the sofa, bottles of vodka drained and littering the floor. Larry was knocked out by the morphine administered by Dr Holloway. A police siren dragged Hinkson from his slumber. Seemed to be getting nearer. Hinkson looked at the black holdall and did what he always knew he would  do. He picked it up and left.

*

The hammering on the door is getting louder. Hinkson opens the holdall. Pours the last of the whisky over its contents. Takes out a lighter and sets fire a toilet roll. Puts it in the bag and puts the bag in front of the door.

He stands and picks up the shotgun as the front door bursts open.

‘Bring it on,’ he says, as he presses the trigger.

(Seven Minutes To Midnight first appeared at Pulp Metal Magazine)

Sheila, Take A Bow at The Flash Fiction Offensive.

ffo-badge-finalI’m flashing at OUT OF THE GUTTER‘s FLASH FICTION OFFENSIVE again.

She’s lost the plot again. It’s the third time this week. Sheila should never have come off her meds in the first place and now she’s just bounced straight back onto the cider. In fact, she’s bouncing around my front room at the moment, smashing into the telly, and knocking over the ornaments. As she waves a bottle of White Lightning cider around, I fear for the glass coffee table. I really do.’

Read the rest of SHEILA, TAKE A BOW here.

#FRIDAY FLASH: The Company Man

Jose opened the waiting room door. Six men, wearing grey suits identical to his, were sat staring straight ahead. Their hands were palm down on their knees. Jose walked in and took a seat next to the reception desk.  He put his hands on his knees and sniffed. He sniffed again.

‘Would you like a tissue?’ said Margot the receptionist, offering a box of lemon-scented handkerchiefs.

‘No thank you,’ said Jose, without looking at her. ‘It’s the bleach. I smell bleach.’

One of the men looked at his hands and sniffed them. Margot sighed and took out her iPhone. She put in her ear plugs, hoping to drown out the sniffing sounds with The Saints’ ‘Swing For The Crime.’

Fifteen minutes later, the red telephone on Margo’s desk flashed. She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. She listened, nodding occasionally.

‘Of course, Mr Tipple,’ she said.

She hung up and cleared her throat.

The men all leaned forward and stared at Margot.

‘Jose please go through,’ she said.

The shadow of a smirk briefly crossed Jose’s face.

He got up and walked through a door marked The Director.

***

Mr Tipple’s office was dark. He sat behind his mahogany desk breathing heavily.  Behind him was a large window. Its blinds were pulled down. Tipple switched on an Anglepoise lamp. He was well dressed, as always, and held a gold fountain pen in his hand.

‘Please take a seat, Jose,’ said Mr Tipple. ‘I’ll be two ticks.’

Jose sat and waited until Mr Tipple had finished signing a wad of papers. He pressed a button on his desk and Margot came into the room and collected the documents.

Tipple waited until Margot left and nodded at Jose.

‘The thing is,’ said Mr Tipple. ‘The thing is …’

He leaned across the desk and looked Jose in the eye.

‘The thing is, Jose, we have to let you go,’ said Mr Tipple.

He smiled, looking uncomfortable.

Jose blinked and said.

‘I understand,’

‘Please take this to Col in supplies and he will arrange everything connected with your … departure.’

Jose took the slip of yellow paper from The Director and stood. As he went to open the door, he turned and looked at Mr Tipple.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

Mr Tipple nodded.

‘Good luck, Jose,’ he said.

***

Col’s office was small and cramped. It was stuffed with metal filing cabinets and cardboard boxes.  Col was big and ginger. He smelt of Cuban cigars although no one in The Company was allowed to smoke.

Jose gave the slip of paper to Col who rubber stamped it and put it in a filing cabinet. He took a small wooden box from another cabinet and handed it to Jose.

‘Check this and sign it,’ said Col.

Jose opened the box. He took out the Glock, inspected it and put it back in the box.

‘It’s fine,’ he said.

Col gave him a sheet of pink paper. Jose signed it and gave it back to Col, who stamped it and filed it away.

‘Is this your first field trip?’ said Col.

‘It is.’

‘Well, keep an eye on those expenses, eh?’ said Col. ‘We’re not made of money.’

He winked.

***

Noelle’s Bistro was dark and red. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons leaked from a small CD player. An old married couple sat near the window, holding hands and watching the rain soaked street outside. A skinny business man maniacally tapped at his iPhone.

Jose sat at a small table near the door. He had finished his spaghetti carbonara and was halfway through a glass of Maison Surrenne Cognac when Sir David came in, shaking his black umbrella and spraying the room with autumn rain. As the petit waitress fussed around him, Jose went to the toilet. Five minutes later he came back out and shot everyone in the room. Twice, just to be on the safe side.

As he left the bistro, he picked up his blood splattered bill from his table and put it in his wallet. He’d need that for his expenses claim.

© Paul D. Brazill.