Shallow Graves

Rev. Goat Carson

Description

Shallow Graves is written by rock veteran and Texas music prophet Goat Carson. This is a madcap horror dramedy with a flavor all its own.

Hip, provocative, and wickedly playful, "Shallow Graves" follows a world-weary horror movie researcher as he stumbles into powerful secrets of the occult and profound mysteries of mankind...but just wants to stay alive. Clever, satirical, and thrilling, "Shallow Graves" has vivid fun with the idea that destiny and salvation can belong to the most reluctant and unlikely heroes.

Set in Hollywood and the Hamptons during the dead end of the 70's, Shallow Graves is a satirical retelling of the Parsival Legend. Our Holy Fool is the Professor, a half-breed orphan, who does research for horror films. He finds himself pitted against a cabal of satanic cults all vying for control of the clans at the great Feast of the Beast. Movie Stars, human sacrifice, East Hampton society and the living dead are strung together by thread of coincidence with needle sharp wit. The occult pulp fictions of our times are turned on their heads (the Spear of Destiny was stolen by Houdini at the turn of the century; Magdalene was black.) This dark satire on Hollywood, The DaVinci Code and The State of the Nation is a must read for all true fans of the bizarre.

Sujets

• Horror
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456607258
• Langue: English

Extrait

SHALLOW GRAVES
Nothing in Hollywood Stays Buried
Forever
 
 
R ev . G oat C arson
 
 
Jawbone Productions
New Orleans• London
 


 
SHALLOW GRAVES © 2012 by Jawbone Productions. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner without written permission from
the author except in critical articles and reviews. Contact the
publisher for information.
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0725-8
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Published in ebook format by
Jawbone Productions
www.jawbone-productions.com
 
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
Cover art designed by Silicon Studio, www.siliconstudio.com
 


“Reverend Goat Carson is the most un-decaffinated writer of Hollywood cult fiction since Raymond Chandler.”
~Kinky Friedman
American Texas Country Singer, songwriter, novelist, humorist, politician & columnist for Texas Monthly Magazine
 
“Packed with colourful characters and strong satire, Shallow Graves a refreshingly unusual, intriguing labyrinth of a book, full of surprises and quirky turns, with never a dull moment.”
~Book Guild, UK
 
“Better start working on a theme song, dis reads like a movie!”
~Mac Rebennack
AKA Dr. John The Night Tripper, Singer, Songwriter, Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame Inductee


 
 
Dedication
 
I would like to respectfully dedicate this
labor of love to my two favorite lions of the
tribe of Judah, Kinky Friedman & Speed
Vogal, my magical editor Miss Alexis
Stahl, my inspiration Tom Baker, my dear
friends & comrades - in- arms in this
adventure Donna Love, Jamie Cohen,
Georgia Dent, Paul Cohen, O. K. Carson &
Jesse
 


Shallow Graves
 
Set in Hollywood and the Hamptons during the dead end of the 70’s, Shallow Graves is a satirical retelling of the Parsival Legend. Our Holy Fool is the Professor, a half-breed orphan, who does research for horror films. He finds himself pitted against a cabal of satanic cults all vying for control of the clans at the great Feast of the Beast. Movie Stars, human sacrifice, East Hampton society and the living dead are strung together by thread of coincidence with needle sharp wit. The occult pulp fictions of our times are turned on their heads (the Spear of Destiny was stolen by Houdini at the turn of the century; Magdalene was black.) This dark satire on Hollywood, The DaVinci Code and The State of the Nation is a must read for all true fans of the bizarre.
CHAPTER ONE
 
B ABYSITTER TO THE S TARS
 
 
I WAS TRYING TO SLEEP it off when the smog crept through my window and started choking me. It was hot, much too hot to sleep. I tried to remember why I’d been drinking till 3 a.m. and whose funeral I had to attend today. I didn’t like waking up, ever; it made me tired, real tired. I was tired of losing sleep, tired of losing friends, tired of waking up. I rolled over and pulled the pillow on top of my head. It was Paps; Paps had died and he’d be much happier if I didn’t go to the funeral. I was almost back to sleep when the phone rang. It was B.B., offering me condolences and a ride to the funeral. I had almost married B.B. once, but as I got to know her better, well let’s just say there are a couple of shades of jaded that just aren’t on my palette. I accepted both the ride and the condolences because I was still asleep. At least that’s what I told myself as I struggled out of bed and limped to the shower. I also had a hangover, which always made me feel a little more vulnerable, a little more sentimental. I hoped it had not figured into my decision making process when I accepted the ride from B.B. The thought of her breast implant scars rustled through my mind as I relieved myself of the past night’s indulgence. It was a big help in de-sentimentalizing the situation.
Once inside the shower the steam clouds blurred my vision and I drifted back in time to the moment B.B. and I had parted. I was standing on the lawn of her Beverly Hills home. I had just told her it was over between us. She was holding my right arm and swinging her handbag at my head while her six-year-old son was taking pot shots at my nuts. Hell of a way to end a relationship, I thought. But the mind plays tricks on a man when he showers for his best friend’s funeral. I began to go through a whole series of what-ifs in my head. I had been close to marrying the wealthy daughter of a wealthy, established show business family. What if I had tied the knot and was waking up in a Beverly Hills mansion instead of a storefront loft on Pico? Would it make a big difference? Not to Paps, that’s for sure, he was dead, but how different would my life be?
Steaks interrupted my thoughts. She was the girl who lived in the loft next to mine. We shared the shower, a long concrete room that joined our lofts. I had forgotten to lock the door that lead to her side. Steaks gave out with a rude wolf whistle to announce her presence. I gave her the ol’ bump and grind as an answer.
“What’s up Steaks? You want the shower or what’s in it?”
Steaks was big, for a girl, with lots of curly brown hair and a face not unlike a wishnik doll. She was cute. She wore a pink terrycloth robe and a silly wishnik smile as she leaned against her door.
“Naw I just came to watch,” she laughed, “Christ you’re skinny!”
“You get that way when you don’t eat regular.”
Steaks softened at my reply. “You want some breakfast?”
“Can’t,” I said, turning off the water, “gotta’ go to Paps’ funeral.”
I wrapped a towel around myself.
“The shower’s yours Steaks…you can leave the door to my side open if you want.”
“Naw it’s sexier when you peek in the windows.”
She walked me to the door and I heard her lock it behind me. I liked Steaks; we were almost friends now after three months of living next to each other. We both had the same landlord, Pauley, an art director I’d worked for at M.G.M. during the good times. We were both artists, so we were both broke all the time, but Steaks was a New Yorker and naturally felt superior, I was from Texas and naturally couldn’t take that attitude. After annoying one another for two months we finally called a truce and had been talking with reasonable courtesy for almost a month now. She only dated hotshots and I rarely “dated.”
I straightened my tie and slipped into my bronze sharkskin suit. Paps and I had come out to L.A. a few years back with the idea that we could shake the grief of a close friend’s death by taking Hollywood by storm in his honor. The storm had rained on us and we spent a lot of time scuffling. Paps had noticed early on that people in Hollywood had kids but no time to take care of them. So he’d become babysitter to the stars, making good money, living in mansions and taking care of the children of the busy rich.
His death was a real shock, one of those tragic accidents that have become part of today’s big action movies. His latest babysitting client was a producer who offered him a chance to pick up some extra money as an extra in a battle scene. Paps was to sit behind a desk, the camera at his back when the bad guys blasted open the door in front of him. Somebody put a little too much powder in the charge and the door splintered with such force that Paps was blown out of his chair, a thin sliver of wood sticking right through his heart.
I looked at the clock; B.B. would be here in a few minutes. B.B. was the archetypal Hollywood woman. Born into the system, she had rebelled in the sixties and gone to live in an Ashram somewhere. It was there that she had her only son. They had a theory at this Ashram that little boys were just like big boys. When a baby cried it was because either he was hungry, or in pain, or had shit himself, or he wanted a blowjob. In a way I couldn’t fault the logic, once I had accepted the premise, it had been after all a staple for the nannies of European royalty where a crying baby might get you a lashing. After she had told me that, I had a hard time French kissing her without thinking about it. It was one of those images that hung in the back of your mind.
I had told Paps about it one night over a couple of beers at Barney’s Beanery. Paps assured me that this kinda’ thing was relatively common among his wealthy Hollywood clientele.
“Most of these people have some kinda’ weird trip going on with their kids,” he said, looking thoughtfully into his beer, “Sometimes real weird.”
He had called me, not long ago, to ask me about witches and their children. He wanted to know if I’d read or heard anything about any special rituals witches might use to initiate or train their children in the dark arts. I told him there were all kinds of stories and legends about witches and other people’s kids.
“Why,” I asked, “what’s on your mind?”
“Maybe nothing,” he said, “I mean, I’ve seen all kinds but these kids I got now… I dunno’… something’s real strange.”
He wouldn’t say anything else, except that we’d get together real soon and talk about it. Two weeks later Paps was dead.
I hadn’t thought about that conversation and now the thought gave me cold shivers.
I walked over to the stack of cardboard boxes. Paps’ things. His final client’s driver dropped them off yesterday. The production company was paying for his funeral and cremation. He had no living kin; I was to receive his ashes. Paps didn’t trust banks or the economy; he spent his money as fast as he made it, most of it on the girls at the Oriental Health Spa down the street from my loft. I had considered scattering his ashes in the Jacuzzi there in compliance with his last request but I knew I’d never get away with it. Even if I did, the thought of Paps winding up in the scum filter of a whorehouse bubble tub didn’t sit well with me.
I stared at the boxes. Somehow, the