Blood & Tacos #1

Blood & Tacos

Issue 1

Spring 2012

Published by
Creative
Guy Publishing

ISSN 1929-011X

Amazon Kindle Edition

• From the Desk of Johnny Shaw
  
• The Silencer Strikes
  
• The Most Penetrative Game
  (review)
  
• Longhair Death Farm
  
• Battleground U.S.S.A.: Texasgrad
  
• Raker: A Review
  (review)
  
• Bonds of Blood
  
• Ben Slayton: T-Man or He-Man?
  (review)
  
• Blood and Tacos
  
• From The Publisher
  

Hello, friends.

Thanks so much for buying BLOOD & TACOS.

Here's how it all began. I wrote a story inspired by 1970s men's action serial paperbacks titled—you guessed it—"Blood and Tacos." I was going to write a blog about it and pass it off as a chapter of a book I found in my garage and then every once in a while "discover" new paperbacks. Not really a hoax, but an opportunity to write in a unique voice and have some fun.

But why should I have all the fun? I decided it would be even more fun to ask other writers to do the same thing. To "discover" stories of their own. Pick an era, create a person and a hero, and write a story.

The "pulp era" generally refers to the time from the 1920s to the 1940s when
pulp magazines were at their height. The "pulp" paperback soon followed, taking
over the tradition in the 1940s and really hitting their stride into the 1950s
and 1960s.

But where did the pulps go after the 1960s. I would argue that the descendent
of the pulps in the 1970s to 1990s were the men's serial adventure paperbacks.
Mack Bolan, Remo Williams, Nick Carter (but only in the era when he is known
as Killmaster), etc. ushered in the revival of the "pulp hero" (It is no coincidence
that pulp heroes like Doc Savage, Conan, and the Shadow all gained a resurgence
in the 1970s).

These were fast & fun books, feverish first drafts full of entertainment value. But if fast & fun is the base, there is a greater goal to be achieved. What I like to call the "ridiculously awesome."

When a book opens with the hero fighting an albino with a spear-gun (see THE HELLFIRE CONSPIRACY (Agent for COMINSEC #4) by Ralph Hayes), one's first reaction might be, "that's ridiculous." But on closer examination, that reaction will turn to "that's awesome." Bingo! Both of you are right. Ridiculously awesome!

These books were the B-movies of literature. Written quickly, tongue-in-cheek, and with the potential to be fun as hell.

But while that explains why I enjoy reading the stories, why write new stories?

It's the challenge. To write in a different voice. To write outside one's comfort
zone with the safety net of a pseudonym and a goofy history. To write in the
voice of a fictional person from another era, writing within a hack factory
(or hacktory) sounded like so much damn fun, I couldn't resist. And I was lucky
that a couple of writers agreed with me.

So many of the books from this era depict a world where either America (or
'merica to my 'merican friends) is on the brink of destruction, not to mention
the post-apocalyptic sub-genre that runs rampant in the Reagan Era. A world
view where men with mustaches bring order to chaos. And women, minorities, youth
culture, foreigners, and every other "other" are treated with fear
and a punch to the jaw.

Writing "Blood & Tacos" I got the opportunity to write from the point of view of Brace Godfrey in 1972. Who is Brace Godfrey? You'll have to wait and find out.

The opportunity to write in a different voice, maybe slip in a heavy dose of
satire, comment on the era in which the book is written, and blow some shit
up. Now that's what I call a good time.

BLOOD & TACOS is just starting and we're kind of making it up as we go,
but the one thing I guarantee you is that we'll work hard to make it great.
And when it's all said and done, it will be ridiculously awesome.

Special Thanks to Michael Batty, Roxanne Patruznick, and all the authors for
their participation and support!

Excelsior!
March, 2012

By Mal Radcliff

(discovered by Gary Phillips)

No one could have shown more enthusiasm than GARY PHILLIPS did when we
brought up the idea of Blood & Tacos. In his words, "I got a Mal Radcliff
story no one's ever read, baby! The Silencer, baby!" We know we don't have to
tell you who Mal Radcliff is. We tried to contact Mr. Radcliff, but due to gambling
and other debts he has not maintained any address for too long since his heyday.
Either way, you can enjoy this 1975 masterstroke by a true legend.

Booker Essex, now known as the Silencer, grabbed the hood in the fedora with an arm around his neck just as the second hood let loose with a burst from his Thompson machine gun.

"You goddamn moulie," were the hood's last words before bullets from the chopper ripped a diagonal up from his stomach across his chest — his body jerking at the impact of the high speed .45 rounds.

As those rounds tore through the crook's body, Essex was already moving. Crimson spread like ink blots on the dead man's custom-made dress shirt as his corpse collapsed onto the floor. Returning fire to drive the other two torpedoes back, Essex had shoved the body aside and dove through the swing door into the kitchen.

"Hold on," the machine gunner said to the third hood next to him who began to advance. "Looks like this fuckin' jay-bo ain't gonna be easy pickins like we figured."

The third member of Laugher Graziano's gang nodded briefly. He carried a snub-nosed .38 revolver in a hand with a diamond pinky ring in a gold setting. The two separated some, each slowly approaching the kitchen door of the Fuzzy Feather Gentlemen's club. The metal rear door was locked and they heard no gunfire indicating their quarry was trying to exit. But they figured he wouldn't leave as they had the bait.

"We'll deal with you after we take care of this mook," the one with the handgun whispered. He shook the barrel briefly at a woman in a short robe tied-up on the stage. She was a stripper in the club, on her side, bound and gagged, a colorful silk tie around her mouth. Her eyes were wide not with fear, but with defiance. Her blonde hair was tangled and unruly. To the side of the stage, a staircase led to the VIP section on the second floor. A steam room and curtained alcoves were available there.

Now the gunmen were on either side of the swing door, the Thompson man looking through the portal-style window. The lights were on inside but Essex wasn't visible. There was a long counter with stainless steel pots and pans suspended above on hooks, and they assumed he was low behind that.

"You'd think it being all white in there the jungle bunny would stand out," the other hood cracked nervously.

The stripper, who did the bump and grind as Ginger Strawberry, swore at them but it came out muffled.

The machine gunner eased the swing door open with the muzzle of his magazine-fed Tommy gun, hoping the Silencer would show himself to take a shot. Nothing happened. He reared back and looking at his partner. They reached a silent decision. Together they both crashed into the kitchen. The Thompson handler laid down a barrage to keep the Silencer crouching, while the other hood's goal was to round the counter and blast him.

But a step away from the counter, the lights went out and there was a hiss like the quick release of air from a truck's power brakes. Then cold silence. Diffused spill light came in through the portal window illuminating little.

"Tony," the snub-nosed man ventured. Tony was the now deceased Thompson gunner. "Tony," he repeated. Again no answer and he backtracked out of the kitchen in a hurry. He took hold of the trussed up woman and sliding her off the stage, got her to her bare feet. He dug the business end of the gun into her cheek.

"Okay, hotshot, better show yourself or your girlfriend here gets got," he called out. There was no movement from the kitchen and he repeated his threat. He undid the tie over Ginger Strawberry's mouth.

She began, "Why you lousy low life, scum–" He struck her in the face with the pistol. This elicited a groan as he intended.

"That's enough," Essex said from the kitchen doorway. He had one hand holding the swing door open, the other one out of sight. His voice was sibilant, shadowy, as if talking was an effort. It was not the voice he'd always had.

"Throw your piece out," the remaining hood demanded.

"Don't do it, Book," the woman advised.

He did as ordered. The gun was a modified .32 semi-auto machine pistol with a 20-round magazine and was fitted with a stubby sound suppressor on the muzzle. Twin tubes lead from the suppressor back into the body of the weapon.

"That's something," the hood said admiringly of the gun. He gestured with his revolver, using the woman as his shield as Essex had done with the first hood. "Now come all the way out with your hands up."

The Silencer did as ordered again. He wore a jean jacket over a ribbed turtleneck and flared slacks that broke just so on his Nunn Bush boots. His Fu Manchu mustache glistened with sweat. Though unlike the current style, he didn't sport an afro, rather he kept his hair boot camp short.

The gunsel wore a checkered leisure suit, his shirt open to expose his hairy chest and a heavy gold chain over the thicket. He smiled. "The boss is gonna be happy to have your magic gat," he said, referring to the specialized weapon. So-called silencers really weren't silent like in the movies. It muffled a gun's retort, but you could still hear it, just quieter. Essex's weapons were truly mere whispers when they went off.

In a flash the thug took the gun from the side of the woman's face and as he squeezed the trigger to kill Booker Essex, he was quite surprised to feel a sting at his temple. He hadn't heard a thing.

"What the fu…" he muttered then fell face first onto the plush carpeting of the Fuzzy Feather — the body dying as his brain ceased function.

Essex crossed the distance and set the wobbly Ginger Strawberry in a chair.

"How'd you do that, Book?" she asked.

"Ever see the show, the
Wild, Wild West
? How ol' Jim West had this derringer on a slide mechanism up his sleeve?" He held his arm such so she could see the end of what looked like a small rectangular box with four holes in the end of his sleeve.

"Your version of that," she said. "Always cooking up a gadget."

"Better get your stuff and let's get out of here before the fuzz come pounding through the doors."

"Good idea. I've got the cassettes too." She stood and the robe flapped open, revealing her sculpted nude torso and sequined G-string. Essex looked away, his face warm.

Strawberry, whose real name was Marcia Mathers, noted this with a wry smile. She came over to him, pressing herself against his back. The blonde put a hand on his shoulder. "I know women don't scare you, Book."

He looked sideways at her. "It's not that, Marsh. But you're Bobby's sister."

"I'm also my own woman. And we're not kids anymore."

"Ain't that the truth," he agreed.

She kissed him on the cheek and went into the dressing room to get her clothes on and retrieve her purse and items. Thereafter the two left the club by a side door to Essex's three-year-old 1972 Ford LTD. The vehicle had a pristine Landau top and mag wheels, with a big block 460 Brougham engine under the hood. There were special items Essex had also built into the car besides further souping up the motor. He brought the machine to life and Mathers wasn't surprised she could barely hear the thing running.

"Living up to your name, huh?"

"Guess so." He turned on the heater and a police scanner hidden behind a fake grill in the dash.

Tires crunched over gravel as he drove off in the dark of post-three A.M. from the strip club. The place was a few miles out of town off the highway, mostly industrial facilities around, large structures made of metal sidings and low roofs. The trees were bare, their limbs pointing up to the wintery sky as if accusing the weather of indifference.