Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4)
Read Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) Online
Authors: Mark Henry
Beach Blanket Bloodbath
by
Mark
Henry
Beach
Blanket Bloodbath
Book
Four in the Amanda Feral Series
by
Mark Henry
Copyright
© 2014 by Mark Henry
Cover
Design © 2014 by Mark Henry
All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
To
All the Glamazombies,
Past
and Present
Table
of Contents
Book One: Beach Blanket Bloodbath
Author’s Note from Yours Truly, Amanda Feral
You’re holding what is widely known to be
a “novella.” Those extra two letters on the word aren’t tacked on because I’ve
eaten too many Spanish sailors or to make it look pretty when written in
cursive. They simply mean this story is shorter than a regular book (but not by
much). Please don’t be the dumb-ass that comments that it was way too long for
a short story or far too short for a novel.
I don’t want to have to cut you…but I
will. Sometimes it’s just what the doctor ordered—yes, in this scenario,
I’m also the doctor. I might even have a scalpel.
Beach Blanket Bloodbath is the first in a
trilogy of insane adventures that all happen over the course of a single road
trip. Don’t say it. I know I could have titled it Road Trip of the Living Dead
Part Two (after the second novel in the series). You want to know why I didn’t?
Because I’m not some burned out Hollywood studio executive who jerks off over
his brilliant idea to remake some shit show that wasn’t any good the first time
around.
I have scruples—three at last
count. Don’t worry, none of them involve me being less vulgar or bitchy or whatever
(I reserve the right to be morally flexible, you should know that).
Also notice a lack of numbered footnotes—but
thankfully plenty of meandering asides—frankly, they are a pain to read
in eBook format and even more difficult to listen to an audio book voice actor
stumble through, so I’ve incorporated the snarky self-referential shit within
the narrative…as it should be. Each book will have an appendix of extras, so
make sure to check those out—I don’t collect that crap for my own
enjoyment. Or yours really. Who knows why I amass it?
I might have suffered brain damage in the
fall. Don’t tell anyone.
Finally, despite my allergy to general
niceties, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how pleased I am that you found
your way back to my continuing story. I sincerely hope you’ll bust a
nut—that could be the wrong phrase—laughing at our horribly
insensitive antics while simultaneously disavowing your shame spiral.
Cheers!
Amanda
Feral
Prologue
When
I was young, five or six, I became keenly aware—with the clarity of a
martyr being burned alive—that my mother, Ethel Ellen Frazier, was an
absolute asshole. She didn’t have any of the regular excuses that other parents
did for being tragically awful—she wasn’t an adult child of an alcoholic
or untreated childhood abuse or extended unemployment—she was just plain
evil.
And still is, but that’s not my point.
Upon enrolling me in a kindergarten of
her choosing, Ethel paraded me through the class and extolled, “I apologize in
advance for Amanda. She’s a horrible child, generally unlikable and ultimately
untrustworthy. If I could, I’d lock her in the basement away from normal,
polite society. Some people take issue with that kind of thing, so I’m not at
liberty to do it. But, mark my word, if you’re thinking this pretty girl would
make a good friend, you’re wrong and you’ll be sorry.” She patted me on my head
and strolled out while the teacher and her assistant tried to pick their lower
jaws up off the floor. I burst into tears. I sobbed inconsolably.
It was pathetic and didn’t do a damn
thing to change my classmates’ opinions of me. Or my opinion of myself.
I’m not a great friend. Ethel was right.
Now, that I’m less young and definitely
less living I’m aware of another thing. Just when I think I’ve gotten a firm
grasp on the intricacies of friendship something inevitably comes along to fuck
it all up.
It seems I’m unreliable—both as a
friend and a narrator (so if you’re looking for universal truths, quit rubbing
one out and go read the Bible, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Koran or any of the many pothead
philosophers who bandy about lists of quotables).
Come for the lies, stay for, well,
whatever it is you stay for.
All the trouble started the day the
letter came.
We met at Ricardo Amandine’s latest bar offering
to the zombie set, GUTS—three floors of winding, mazelike passages, fleshy
pink walls decorated in veins of plastic tubing throbbing with thousands of
gallons of theatrical blood, and the occasional diverticular pit festooned with
glittering grains and bedazzled kernels. The lower intestinal theme was not
lost on me. Sure it’s a bit over-the-top and meta—zombies traveling like
meat through a giant tulle colon just to get a martini—but the drinks, as
always, were strong enough to strip paint…and the years of calluses built up in
our livers.
Every zombie in Seattle seemed to be
crammed into the place like a bowel impaction. The beats were decidedly ironic
(see playlist in the appendix—the one in the back of the book, not in the
glass bowl on the buffet), the dress-code, homeless chic and the owner was
watching over it all from his private office loft above the bar. I gave Ricardo
a quick wave and resumed my search for everyone’s favorite blond carnivore.
Wendy glowered steadily my way from a
booth in the shadows of an infected anal polyp. I snatched a pair of martinis
floating by on a waiter’s tray and ignoring his complaints sashayed over to
join my bestie in ill humor.
“What’s new, bitch?” I slipped the glass
her way and it was instantly drained.
“This.” Wendy dug in her purse and slid
an envelope onto the table.
There were three clues indicating
something terrible lurking inside Wendy’s correspondence:
1.
Her name, printed in strikethrough
staring out of the envelope’s glassine window, speaks to, at the very least, a
disregard for her personage.
2.
The lack of a stamp probably means the
sender is still waiting in the bushes.
3.
The skull and crossbones seal, stamped in dried blood, probably
doesn’t mean she’s won the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.
As is befitting the walking nightmares
that are the Greater Seattle Area Reapers, gloom and doom extended beyond their
hideously adorable faces to their billing notices—in keeping with the
cruel joke of the world, the most foul of supernatural beings were also the
cutest, except for the rows of needle thin teeth and the attitude. For the
newbies among you, these reapers, though grim as all fuck, aren’t in a position
to nick off a newly dead soul, they’re more about keeping secrets…at any cost.
“There’s probably a puff of supernatural
ricin inside.” Wendy tore it open, smoothing the folds of the papers flat
against the table. As she scanned the contents her frown turned into something
much more concerning.
She was glaring at me, her jaw cracking
as she ground her teeth.
“Those bitches!” I tapped the invoice
with one fuck-me-red nail, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand.
“How dare they try to charge that much? I mean your procedure was pretty gross,
but—”
“You know exactly what this is about.”
Wendy’s voice was uncharacteristically deadpan as she cut me off, her eyes
narrowed to slits.
“I vaguely remember.” Stabbing a
cigarette in my mouth and lighting it, I pointed it in her general direction,
casting her sour face in a hot cherry glow. “This, right here, is not a good
look.”
Let’s say, for the sake of
argument—I’m always up for a pissing match—that I didn’t know what
the hell Wendy was talking about. Any “normal” business would simply let the
heinous total due stand as self-explanatory. Not so the reapers. The comment
section at the bottom of the bill left no margin for error on that front
.
Surcharge
for slander perpetrated by your “associate”: 200% of gross due.
“Slander?” I shouted. “When did those
bitches get so sensitive?”
“People get pissed when you go on TV and implicate
them in a black market menstrual blood juice pack business.”
“Whatever.”
“Also, you called Hillary a
period-slurping chicken hawk. So she’s super happy about that.”
“That’s different.”
“How so?”
“It was for entertainment value!” And for
my own personal enrichment. Hillary bore the 1-800 number of the beast. The
leader of the razor toothed girl scouts of evil, Hillary for sure had it out
for me. I wasn’t about to lay down while she stomped me like a house mouse.
“Plus,” I continued, shouting this time. “Those little bitches are totally
tampon wringers. They probably have an assembly line. Row upon row of
fresh-faced little pageant princesses squeezing used jelly rolls into vials to
sell in their gift shop. You know better than anyone that some vampires have
their quirky tastes for that shit. And who knows? Maybe I’m clairvoyant, or
something. Like your telephone psychic?”
“Oh yeah. That’s you. Because you’re all
about thinking out here.” Wendy waved jazz hands in the air around us like a
carnival barker. “And not completely self-absorbed.”
“There’s no need for personal affronts,
Wendy. Besides, I’m on a roll. I wouldn’t put it past the reapers to have a menses
farm, like those hair farms in India.”
“What the fuck? Do you ever stop?”
“Rarely. Listen. They pay those girls
like a nickel an inch for their hair. What if the reapers have a whole town of
women who they just pay to bleed?”
“You’re demented. I mean more than
usual.”
“Anyways, back to your expense issue.”
“Our expense issue.”
I shook my head, ignoring her comment. “If
I were the one with flies fleeing a raised welt on my stomach, I’d be happy to get
that shit cured at ten times the price. And, you didn’t have to have your
thighs done either so you can’t blame me for that.”
“I blame you for this.” She tapped the
figure after the subtotal.
“Seventy-eight thousand dollars? That’s
insane. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pay that. And if I could, I’d be getting
another Birkin Bag. You know my current situation.”
After the dust settled from the lawsuits
following the demise of Johnny Birch and the subsequent TV show’s ratings nose
dive, I was left with no choice but to expose the whole goddamn supernatural underground
to the world through—what else—a gigantic zombie celebrity
tell-all.
Stupid, I know. Becoming a writer is like
making a conscious decision to be poor. There are so many hidden costs; marketing,
conference attendance, feeding the ghostwriter you keep locked in a steamer
trunk—and why does he eat so much? It’s really excessive.
“You know what this means?” Wendy had the
deadeye stare of a sniper.
I shook my head. “Bake sale?”
“No,” she said, leaning forward and dimpling my lips closed
with her index finger. “It means you’re my bitch.” She raised her eyebrow
viciously.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Whoever said, "Death acquits us of
all obligation" clearly never met Wendy Carmichael. I've held multiple
jobs since breathing in an enormous cloud of toxic living death and ending up
zombie—marketing executive, TV producer and now…writer—but I've
never been so beholden to responsibility as when my best friend Wendy demands
that I be. Each of my protests was cut down by a machete-quick reminder of some
madcap scheme I forced Wendy to take part in.