I used to make noise music. Inside me, I probably still do. Maybe it comes out in the writings. If not, that’s okay, too. I’ve played basement shows in Seoul, stood babbling alone into a microphone in Tokyo. I recorded albums on labels like Self-Satisfied, Knife in the Toaster, Swampland Noise, and others whose names I’ve forgotten. I edited sound-art for Rudolf Eb.er and have seen the buckets he kept in the closet.
Christmas is near. It is time for noise.
If you write a review of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE somewhere on the Internet, especially Amazon or Goodreads, I want to reward you with a batch of my homemade noise, whether that be a rare live set, a collaboration, or an entire album’s worth of quality extreme noise. All you have to do is write the review and send me the link (and the email address where you want me to send the files).
My email address is in the “contact” section (on the left sidebar). Or, you can easily reach me through Facebook.
Thank you to those of you who have already purchased the book. You’re helping to support my dream and my life. Honestly, there were times when I was writing MVM and I was only fingers and eyes, mainly fingers, fingers and music. I think if you read the book, you’ll understand. The vixens do.
If you find yourself in the gift-giving mood and wish to reward me with me a book or three for the holidays, your warm gesture will be most appreciated. View my Amazon holiday wishlist here: APPRECIATION.
This is probably the best short story I’ve ever written. It’s also the one I had the most help with from a couple highly perceptive and imaginative editors. You know who you are, Tom. It’s the story of a party gone wrong. It’s a love story. It has blobs that will annihilate you. And Shayla…
I hope you enjoy this story. If I had ten of these gems in me, I could sleep a happy man, but in the meantime, I’m still stuck at that party, probably out on the back deck watching the pontoon make ripples in the black water.
The link is embedded in the first sentence, but if you’ve made it this far: click here.
NOW AVAILABLE in PAPERBACK from Eraserhead Press:
Jamie Grefe’s THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE. ///
Thank you for reading.
In preparation for the autumn 2013 release of my Bizarro novella, The Mondo Vixen Massacre, I present five delicious pieces of mine that will help set the table for future stories to come, hand selected for your reading pleasure.
06/29/2013 UPDATE: a new publisher (details soon) has acquired this novella with a tentative release date of late 2013/early 2014. I feel like a Spring Breaker. Thank you, world and, readers, prepare yourself for the beast.
I am currently shopping my latest novella, TARANTULEECHEN, an homage to 1980s/90s B-movie/exploitation cinema that features a cheerleader punk band, a most gruesome and hungry monster, an ornery sheriff and his sidekick, plus a whole of hardboiled action, sorcery, gore and punk rock. This 19,000 word novella is looking for a good home with the right publishing house. Please contact me for more. Thank you.
Here is an excerpt from TARANTULEECHEN:
It’s late—the hum of night crickets.
A two-story farmhouse.
Shlurp-clmp-shlurp-clmp: a beastly form, wiggling too many limbs, drags across the lawn toward a shed and enters the dark.
Behind us, slippers shuffle and a throat clears, mumbling grumpy, gravelled spite. A shadow, a man.
Frank Donner throws open the front door, his chin gleaming stubble in the moonlight. He’s all silver hair and bifocals, a lumpy old bastard. Donner scans, squints, leans on the porch beam, hands in his pockets. It’s nothing, only:
Smoke drifts horror-jitters over the yard.
The shed glows green.
He folds his arms, spits. Suddenly—
The shed is a series of fizzles, pops, cracks like bone grinding metal.
Donner grits his teeth.
The roaring shed morphs to a growl.
He unsticks himself from the porch beam. “Can smell you in there,” he says, “and I want you to go back to where you came from.” He coughs. “Counting to three—you, you understand? Leave. This. Family. Alone.” He doesn’t count to three, instead pushes his dentures further into place and clacks.
The thing in the shed ejaculates a splat.
“Wrong night,” he says. “End this legacy.”
The thing farts.
The front door bangs open, slippers on stairs, index finger on book spines. Donner’s weathered hand yanks out a leathery hardback, ancient, faintly glowing green. Those dentures clack, suck dust. He bites his lip, searches inside. He’s muttering. Nervous hands fumble page to page and suddenly stop. “This ends,” he says, tapping the text, “right here.”
Over his shoulder, a bay window frames the yard. Curtains flutter and we focus past them on the monstrous form, how it has emerged from the shed, backlit, ominous, and ready, but it just looms for now, a heaping chunk like smokey knives made of bile.
Lightning snaps the shed.
Those appendages warble, shimmy slow; the beast disappears in a snarl.
The front door kicks back open for round two. Donner stands armed with the book and ready to read. He tips it open, rakes chin stubble—thunderclaps—and grins. He’s found the right page. “Got yourself into a heap,” he says, shuffling to the shed. “Not your fault, still—a fucking heap and this is it.”
He looks up to the sky. He stares ahead at the eerily quiet shed.
Each step is a Morricone harmonica wail of reverbed tension.
Cold creeps over Donner when he stands at the shed door. It’s time, he thinks, time to put a stop to this. He clears his throat, looks down at the opened book and then, his mouth shooting right into our very soul, as if in some kind of witch-trance, growls out, “Beast of the Wretch, and Misery-Monger of the Ceaseless NightFrost GloomHole, I summon your return to the Caverns of UrOoze, to the Vomitous Hail and Sleet Stench of the Vile Clench Rod. May Fire Suckers eat your Soulless Corpssssssssss—.” Cough.
He breathes, stands unsteady, phlegms up snot. Otherwise, it’s quiet. Over, he thinks. It’s finally over. Let’s study this turd.
He yells, “kiiiiiyaahhhheeeeee,” Bruce Leeing open the shed door, but that beast, those appendages, those razored claws, all of its hulking girth stands close, too close, dripping, waiting, just grinning evil down on poor Donner.
Donner turns the page, there is more: another stanza—unread.
Unfinished. Too late.
This is our mother-brain: a synth, raga, and a donkey. It shed hair, hard pressed by the question that doppelgangers are hawks carving chairs to disappear. And this beard is how I growl, see nothing but “impossible windows” in the goat-light of a film clip.
Here is the hotel where we strip rooms, luggage-stuffed organs, gutted screeches and a wave. This is not a lunar mission. These are not notes about shapeshifting. This is about wolves, eagles, and the subtext of a frozen frame.
We are a hedge maze: a duck is Jack, a boy’s sweater, beastman, finality, cacophonic pastness, gold rushes like “all the best people.” I’ve left you a key.
Unmask me in blood, mother-brain. Flood the shaft with royalty. Men in robes clink glasses when music blues the light. Unravel. This carpet is a diamond pattern of brothers, a family escaping these “pictures in a book.” All is not yet.
Not real. I’ll bring that ball and gown to the hospital as an alternate ending. It’s fit to shine. Show me the prince who looks like a Minotaur for this tale, our lost soundtrack of revelation, is the final interpretation on how to maunder.
Keep to a whisper. The dead do not whisper, they sing master