By Michael D. Subrizi
A trashy pulp author stuck up in a love triangle and publishing rip-off loses his brain and vows to take revenge.
Lust Demented is a style-driven twist at the vintage American noir.
Falling someplace among absurd literature and gratuitous pulp fiction, the saga follows a author who has either his ebook and unborn daughter stolen from him by way of his mentor. Bloodshed and chaos seize the recent York literary scene. No author within the 5 boroughs is secure. Gothic scribes with cult followings are bleeding below stained glass. Golden baby authors are swandiving from the pinnacle of recent York Public Library defiling their legacy. Scumbag police officers are goring their means in the course of the shady offers. the realm they jointly input simply retains relocating swifter and swifter… it sounds as if basically their very own deaths can gradual it down... until eventually they discovers that anything more than phrases have been stolen… whatever extra attractive than they’ve ever run into sooner than… anything that conjures up them to dig deeper into their very own souls… anything alive…
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No chance. ” Bloody pages of A Greater Truth were stuck to my shoe. It took a few Radio City kicks and half the Harlem shuffle to shake them off. ” Detective Anderson exaggerated his huffs, theatrically storming off, leaving me in the room alone with Sergeant Powers and Gloom. ” She grabbed my belt buckle pulling me close enough that I could smell the napalm on her breath. One hand slid between my underwear and my skin. The other she kept closed in a fist. Slowly she uncurled her fingers, revealing a crumbled twenty dollar bill in her palm.
It was no mystery to any of them that I was sitting around chanting obsessed curses of vengeance. Nude in the dim lighting, Missy moved in a trance of summoned passion. The music was loud enough that she didn’t notice me at first. When she did catch my eye, it was with a gas chamber stare. A metaphoric blade at my throat. ” I was staring lost into the East River. I didn’t remember exactly how I got there, but I could remember other things. Spend enough time in this town and every corner becomes stage for a memory.
I’m no killer. ” Construction cranes hung above us. The overseers were forcing futuristic change. A neighborhood famous for its anonymity in the past was transformed see-through. All the buildings going up were all windows. You could see the new neighbors cozying in. You could hear them pop their corks. ” “Somebody’s exterminating writers and I’m heading to a room full of them. ” “Gotta keep the meter moving. ” The driver shrugged me off, pulling over across the street from the club. I placed the twenty in the partition’s pay slot only to be refused.