He had always been a liar, but one gifted in the fine art of couching his untruths in utter sincerity.
His was the art of omission, the casual way in which he did not speak to that that was true.
Why would he ever purposely hurt those he wished to seduce?
Over the eons he had taken many forms – a swan, a bull, an eagle – even once appearing as a winged apparition more suited to the fledgling Son worshippers.
All in hope of finding another to share his profound eternal loneliness.
One who dared brave the endless passage of time with thoughtless abandon.
In all of his conquests, he had never once shared his true face or nature.
Until now.
To the One who undid him with their own damned glamor.
An artifice so grand, so eloquent, he had met his match.
And it mattered not to him that he was the one so tricked, so befouled, as he had found his true One.
How he had longed to feel what his past lovers must have felt at his casual touch.
How bereft he was now, once cast aside, sated as wished, left without care or thought of well-being.
Abandoned to flail.
He was broken by betrayal, a god diminished by the One who stole his great mantle and cloaked themselves with his precious jewels.
The pain of evisceration a sacred talisman.
A cutting wound that wept continuously.
He lost his capacity for deceit as the scars on his gutted diamond carcass sparkled.
First draft of “The Empty Chairs” completed. 85k words. Lots to do in the revision but that’s where the fun is. 🖤🖤🖤
This one is the start of a new Gothic novel series revolving around Violet Abrams, a young postmortem photographer who finds herself embroiled with a Frankenstein-inspired murderer running loose in the streets of Victorian London. There’s a cast of colorful characters with two would-be suitors: Declan the Detective & Zion the Magician, Madame Blatsky (the Tarot Reader), Rabbi Moses, Violet’s confidante Artie, plus a whole world of Steam, Spiritualism, Magic and Murder to explore.
I’m a big fan of of classic Victorian mystery novels and short stories. Love the language patterns, the rigid moral codes and the unwavering stiff upper lips that prevail. I’m challenging a number of conventions here alongside a mashup of identity roles and tropes with same-sex romances, gender fluid love and hope that the readers will enjoy the apple carts I upset.
Writing this one was a different experience as I ‘pantsed’ my way in — a form that I’m not a fan of and requires much retrofitting and retooling to clear up loose ends and errors. Still, as a way to explore characters and let them take the stage, it was invigorating to play in this dirty sandpit of back alleys, early electrical apparatuses and learn about my world. As an writing exploration, it is a well recognized form – but I shall probably go back to loose outlining in the future with a fully committed ending with clear act breaks and structures mapped in subsequent outings.
I shall post updates here and snatches of dialogue and scenes to road test the work.
Get ready for my trio of crime noir murder movie memoirs April 1, 2023.
For over 15 years, I churned out movies for everyone. From HBO to Lionsgate, ABC Disney, and more, I took the money and made pictures that clogged the video stores and TV late-night slots. And they got watched by millions worldwide.
Now, I’m telling all in my series of murder memoirs loosely based on my real-life adventures (changing the names to avoid litigation on the advice of counsel). Fast, furious, and FUBAR, I go behind the scenes and paint a bloody picture of death, destruction and twisted desire in these confidential exposes.
The bodies and laughs pile up as I careen from one jackpot to another as I try to finish my movies and not wind up dead or worse – back in Rehab. Not for Children or those with good taste. Explicit content.
Hollyweird North 3 Pack gets ready to drop on April 1, 2023. Read for free on #Kindle Unlimited.
I’m getting ready to release my hat trick of novels under the Hollyweird North banner on Amazon worldwide next month. I’ve had a long and successful career as a moviemaker with the proverbial shit ton of movies released.
So, I started a separate site – Hollyweird North to document, details and deconstruct these books. You can head over there, bookmark and feel free to contribute if interested. Be warned though – these books are more than a little out there. Much like my life.
I’m a big Henry Miller, Hunter S Thompson, Jack Kerouac and Wm. Burroughs fan – so be prepared for a less than truthful romp through my sobriety and cinematic offerings.
So, buckle up. If you’re a Kindle Unlimited fan, it costs you nothing to read effective April 1, 2023.
Dawson looked across the old Army chopper, a Stallion they called it, and marveled at the men and women he shared the cramped noisy space with.
Even at this altitude, the heat and the sun was blistering. Wind buffeted the heavy sky boat as it howled above the dense green canopy.
He hoped he wouldn’t puke.
“Want one?” Carter asked as she flipped a waxed air sickness bag at Dawson who shook his head. He was sure he didn’t want to be that guy – the over-indulged media giant who tossed his cookies in front of everyone. He’d worked hard in public and private to pump up his hardass cred before he even assembled this crew.
Carter was the only other female outside of Birdy who flew in the big noisy cage.
“I’m good. Five by five,” Dawson responded, using the military slang he hoped sounded natural to the lady merc.
“Whatev’s” Carter answered.
She turned back to her K-bar blade and slid the knife back over the sharpening stone she’d pulled from her strap-on ditty bag.
Dawson slid the barf sac over towards himself, just in case, with one quiet slide of his gorilla boot as he stood up and stretched. He knocked his head against the bulkhead as the helo banked shifted hard left as a brash klaxon fired up, alongside the red drop zone indicator.
The two other SOF’s geared up, tapping and slapping packs as they checked life lines and harnesses.
Dawson had this routine down from YouTube and knew the drill.
You checked each other’s lines and made safe with the harness before you speed dropped the hundred feet to the ground.
Ten stories in ten seconds.
Before Dawson booked the mercenaries, he’d spent six months doing the math and selling the rights to this showcase to the upstart online network, #Freedom. They wanted real-life action drama and he’d deliver.
What got more clicks that a hostage takedown in the jungle shot live from live merc body cameras?
“Cam’s good?’ Dawson yelled over the howl of the wind as they all ambled over to the door.
He’d booked the fire team from the dark web after having a bartender friend of his vet them. Terry would never do him wrong. He’d spent enough on him. Even his wife gave Terry the thumbs up. Not that her opinion mattered.
“Check me,” Carter hissed as she slapped Dawson on the shoulder hard.
“Jesus, Carter. Leave a mark much,” Dawson groused as he looked over her drop line and connector. “Good to go. Five by…”
“Five,” Carter sneered, shouldering by him to the ready position by the door.
“Drop in thirty. Stand by,” Birdy’s voice echoed through the chopper as Dawson took a deep breath and fired up his action camera.
He had pole position, first out as he took the floor. Carter and the Taco Twins (actually two Guatemalans who didn’t speak much but were jacked as shit) dropped with their AR-15’s in hand for cover.
Dawson had arranged for all of them to wear full face camouflage as well to allow for lip syncing in post production. He could make them say anything and it would give him a chance to tweak their performances.
Maybe even hire one of the cheaper Hemsworth’s for a cameo or one of the voice-over gigs?
#Freedom were going to shit themselves when they saw the Final Cut together footage.
In the near distance, two klicks out, a smoke trail lolled in the air breaking through the canopy.
As per Dawson’s instructions, another team of Brazilian theater performers were hired and promised to give an authentic ‘bandito’ experience live on camera.
The gringo heiress hostage was actually a girl he’d picked up on Melrose, a wannabe that would either end up in porn or back home in Idaho if it wasn’t for him.
He was kingshit of it all, even if his guts felt like loose change.
“Masks up, let’s rock and roll,” Dawson howled in his best badass imitation.
He’d watched ‘Predator,’ the original one – not the stupid remakes and still thought that Shane Black’s script was the tightest opener ever. It was a pity he couldn’t get the rights to Little Richard like they did in that movie. He’d probably have to go with some soundalike or a gansta rapper. Maybe a Spanish one? They’d work cheap,
Dawson smiled as he clocked the ‘Go Green’ light flashing and he leapt out into the void.
—-
The ride back was quiet.
Emilio Santiago and his cousin, Raul finished their Sat phone-call and flashed a big thumbs up to Carter.
“Four hundred large, as agreed. Mrs. D came through on proof of death. Nice job, Carter. Solid score.”
Carter sat back and thought about Dawson’s face as he turned in mid-air and dropped like a fucking rock from the chopper.
The last thing he saw-and filmed-was the three of them waving goodbye as he filmed his own death.
The widow Dawson had earned every penny as far as she was concerned. Dickhead.
Not for the last time, Carter rewound the Bluetooth video link as it showed the three camoflauged Mercs waving at Dawson as he turned and filmed the ground racing up to him at breakneck speed.
Sure enough, ten stories in ten seconds.
Shame about his line link not being attached.
“Definitely going to see some clicks,” she thought as she ran it again and laughed.
The rapid sound of the first gunshots punched ahead.
I peered out from my battered Nissan hoping to see what happened.
Something had stopped us.
Please, God, not vamps.
Our group was one of the last ones out and we had waited too long. All of us had lost loved ones clinging to the hope that they would return.
When they did, they were never the same.
Sanctuary had been promised outside the city limits at the Anderson Air Force Base if we could make it before nightfall.
Loading my car, my daughter and I left with the rest of town.
I couldn’t wait any longer for my Joe.
We drove in a winding, cautious group keeping each car in front of each other.
Amanda stared out the window clutching the now useless phone in her hands.
I tried not to notice how her hands shook.
Mine were no better as I clutched the icy wheel.
We had made the Interstate in good time but lost an hour having to move a burnt and broken collection of trucks jackknifed on the road.
The sun dipped in ominous challenge as we threaded our way into Walkers Hollow.
We were going to be too late.
From ahead, a car horn sounded once, then twice – then the gunfire began.
Pounding, staccato punches rolled through the still night air.
Banshee screams of hate and desire cut through me in a wave.
Amanda began mewling. Now nearly a woman, I had not heard that cry for years. It was her old childhood boogeyman writ live.
How I wish these terrors were still make believe.
We were surrounded – but for now, they were too busy to notice us.
The rich wet sound of tearing flesh and the screams of our dying friends washed over.
They descended – surrounding our motley broken caravan taking us with much practiced ease.
Our outriders had been easy pickings and with no lights and no electricity, the roads had become a warren of dank shadows and bloody slaughter.
There had been no warning.
Just death.
And worse.
“What are we going to do?” Andrea pleaded. “Think of something. Do something, Mommy!”
I still had Joe’s old service revolver and a case of shells from the lock box.
He hadn’t come back from shift and we both knew that he never would.
I tried not to hyperventilate as the cruel bloody carnage outside moved closer.
We didn’t have time left and we were blocked in by the other cars.
My heart hammered in my chest.
They will not take her.
I would now die protecting her if I had to.
I owed her that much.
I fumbled the bullets into the gun cascading loose shells across the packed car.
I didn’t know if I could do this.
Joe never taught me.
“Mom, they’re coming.”
“I know.”
Snow whispered across our front window skittering Amanda into my arms.
I juggled the heavy gun scanning the velvet dark.
Flashes of rapid gunfire continued as I pushed Amanda out of my arms.
We had only moments before they would try to take us both.
I turned to Amanda, tears wavering in my eyes, terrified by my own inability to be strong for her.
I held the gun in quaking hands. My acid stomach rolling. Naked fear shining in every action.
“I’m so sorry.” I said as I slid the gun awkwardly against her thin breast.
Wondering if I could save her and then myself before we were so rudely overtaken?
My finger trembled on the trigger guard unwilling to slide further.
“I love you, baby.”
She glared at me, the dark shadows under her eyes highlighting black scorn.
Daring me to fire.
Knowing that I would fail.
Again.
She was right as always.
“If you loved me, we wouldn’t be here.” Amanda said.
I lowered Joe’s gun knowing that it would be of little use against them when they came but dully pointed it towards the front window anyway.
Amanda shook her head in pre-teen annoyance, her icy disdain washing over.
Cold arrogance was always her first line of defense.
This, though, was not the old argument over her curfew, or boys. We were both hopelessly out of our depth here.
She knew I would not – could not perform.
“You’re weak. I’m not going to die here.”
Then she was gone.
Amanda flew out the door leaving me alone in my ill shame.
I lurched forward trying to catch her but she was too fast, her speed born of countless track events and endless foot races.
Perhaps she would have a chance?
I pushed out of the car in cold panic scanning for her, but she was already gone.
From behind, a cold wind swept as I turned to face the nightmare.
The last thing I saw were the burning iron-red eyes with razor-tipped fangs descending.
Firing the revolver at point blank range, I screamed in helpless frustration as my world burst open and I was dragged under.
At least I had tried.
I awoke hungry, driven by new need and a mother’s undying love, determined to find my daughter.
I was now no longer alone – yet my new brethren paled beside the need within.
I could taste the hot sweet tang of my Amanda nearby hiding from the others.
She was good at hiding.
I had taught her well, at least.
I rose roughly above the cars and swept down through the bushes where she had tucked herself alongside the road.
Her eyes spun wild as I pulled her to me as she slapped at me with wild, spastic arms.
I twisted back her thin white neck folding her into my cruel embrace as I stroked her dirt-streaked forehead with my long-tapered fingers, humming gently to my beautiful little girl.
Myrna had always had a special relationship with insects.
As a child, she would rush outside to meet the wet snails who would emerge victoriously after the rain.
Lying down on the still-wet sidewalk in front of her house, she would encourage them to crawl onto her hand or over her wiggling feet.
Her mother would not be impressed.
As she grew older, Myrna discovered that she also had a special relationship with the winged and feared insects of the air.
Bees, wasps, flies, gnats – all would wreath her in her glory.
I am the queen of insects. All shall bow down to me in my kingdom.
There came a time, however, when steps had to be taken.
Myrna caused no shortage of problems at birthdays, anniversaries, weddings and umpteen outings.
It seemed many of her family or close relations did not share her love for her minions nor did they appreciate the cavalcade of ants, termites and slugs that seemed to infest every picnic, lunch or celebratory dinner.
‘They can’t help themselves,’ Myrna would explain. ‘I know that it’s not easy to live with, but they’re only showing their respect to me. Surely you can understand that?’
Myrna was deloused, fumigated, sprayed, washed and perfumed all in desperate attempts to keep her followers at bay.
At the age of seventeen, she was expelled from school for her rallying of bees at the championship game (even though their school won because of her unwanted assistance).
Drawing from the fields next to her school, she created mass hysteria as she orchestrated a wave of flying terror against the opposing players when the Huskers, the home team, fell behind. ‘I didn’t mean to have so many show up. I just asked a few tolend a hand and it sort of got out of control.’
Thirteen people were hurt during the ensuing panic and Myrna, unapologetically was filmed leading the assault.
Authorities feared her and it was decided that the best thing to do was to arrange for a private (and distant) residence for her on the outskirts of town.
While it wasn’t a prison per se, a large fence was constructed around the cottage and guards were posted to make sure that she didn’t wander too far from home.
At night, she commandeered the fireflies to paint rude epitaphs in the sky you could see for miles.
Simon leaned over to me, his hair falling across his eyes as he stroked my thigh and asked me if he could suck my dick. It was the first time a guy had ever asked me that and the first time I called someone a fag to their face.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when he punched me hard for what I said.
He was a couple years older than me, and way smarter, a local guy I’d met randomly in the skatepark downtown and we’d become friendly once we both noticed each other’s moves on our boards. We skated the small park smashed into an old supermarket in a shitty part of town where they’d jobbed-up hardwood half pipes and skateruns inside the old Loblaws supermarket at Lansdowne and Bloor as kids from the burbs (me) and from the inner city (him) all flocked there to thrash. It was a dump of a place but it was our home for one whole Summer and a Winter before it got shut down for not paying their heating bills or something.
Of course, this is where I heard them for the first time. They’d slap ‘Rocket to Russia’ on the shitty house PA that used to play canned shopping muzak on and the boys from NYC kicked out the jams. We’d rip and thrash in the open freestyle area and smoke Export A’s headbanging all night and day. I’d even score Angel Dust, which was a thing back then, from the scary black kids that hung around the makeshift snack bar but never skated. They’d just watch the stupid white kids try to kill themselves all fucked up on Dust and laugh when we fell.
One time, I got too high one day on something Simon and I had split spending all the money we had, and I ended up out of my cheese-eating head in the grey winter snow, not wearing my jacket, my board forgotten, my brain fried. Simon bundled me up and took me back to the place he shared with his Mom down on Dufferin about a block away. She worked nights then and by the time we got to his place, I was hopelessly lost and shivering badly. He’d slipped me into his own single bed after giving me a double dose of codeine cough medicine while my teeth grated back and forth until I passed out.
I know I slept because the next thing, he was in next bed next to me, pushed up tight, spooning me from behind. But I was warm, and safe as I smelled the fresh mouth he would offer me once he knew I was awake. I could feel his minty breath of my cheek, his arms around my waist warming me as his thick cock stiffened against me.
I think it was his chubby pushing against my ass that brought me back.
We fought, he kicked me once I called him a fag and his bright tighty-whities shrunk in anger as he told me to get out of his place, and never come back. I said crueler things tohim, got dressed in a rush and stomped out of his place, no idea where I was, in the middle of the night.
I’d lost my skateboard, my mind and my only downtown friend all because I got scared that he was queer for me. See, I’d had zero experience with gays back then – I was from Etobicoke – there was this one guy, Timmy Tiesdale everyone tormented at school, a totally-out kid long before being gay was fashionable or safe, and apart from that, I was clueless. I just knew about fairies and fags from TV and the movies and thought they were the enemy or wrong – fucked in the head. They liked cocks and just wanted it up the ass or in each other’s mouths and that was sick and stupid and not for me.
So, I bought a new skateboard and kept chewing out a rhythm in my safe little ‘hood not ever going back to the Lansdowne arena because I might see Simon and I was too embarrassed by how everything went down. He’d been nothing but kind to me and I introduced me to Joey and Johnny and Tommy (Forever) and Dee Dee and I’d had my little hissy meltdown and then totally fucked up our friendship. He’d given me the gift of the world’s greatest band and I’d been unforgivably cruel and naive. I just tried to push him out of my mind, conveniently forgetting about the musical education he’d given me and our past friendship and even skateboarding before long.
So, I dropped him but kept the Ramones and moved on as best I could. I’d cut out the pictures of them I’d get from occasionally from Creem magazine if they even covered the band, hating the grainy black and white newsprint pics but cherishing the fact that I knew about them and nobody else did where I lived. Guys at my school were still into Triumph and Rush or Genesis and all the old bullshit dinosaur rock gods and whenever I dragged out Rocket or Road to Ruin and tried to put it on at the parties we’d have, I’d get shouted down by drunk gals and guys telling me to turn that punk shit off.
But I never did.
Not until they made me.
I bought more than a few LP’s of the same albums that got trashed by the assholes I called my friends. These were the fuckers that would throw beer on the band on the stupid Monsters of Rock tour they ended up being mistakenly booked on years later. I heard that Johnny flipped the audience off and the band raced to safety after just three songs. It was a mutual fuck you. You either got ’em or you didn’t. Gabba, Gabba Hey, One of Us. One of Us. Or a Pinhead forever.
I carried the torch for Ramones out there in suburban Etobicoke all through high school by myself until ‘that’ movie came out. That changed everything We’d always used to get fucked up at the Kingsway Theater, a local movie house where they didn’t care if you smoked pot or drank and when ‘Rock n’ Roll High School’ played, now all of a sudden it was okay to love the band if you wanted to be with it. That 15-minute mini-concert in the middle of the movie became the new sweet anthem at school and I’d jumped to the top of the cool kids list because I was there first and everyone knew it.
Even Julie something or other, this smoking gal in Biology back then was into them now and she asked me to maybe recommend some of the albums for her to pick up at Sam the Record Man down on Yonge Street when she went downtown with her girlfriends. I lent her mine for a couple weeks to copy on cassette and we got friendly, I thought.
When the Two Gary’s, the local Ramones ticket promoters announced an All Ages General Admission show at the Danforth, I was the first one on the phone calling in and scored five tickets using my Mom’s credit card.
I ended up asking Biology Julie to go with me and sold the other Ramones tickets to Triko, Blyth and McConie at double the face value because I’m not stupid.
On the day, I arranged to meet Julie out front of the show as she had to lie to her Mom about where she was actually going and had to pack her ‘costume’ in a bag. I remember that distinctly, her costume.
But I wanted to fuck her so I let it slide.
I took the Bloor West bus with the guys into the city and we swung by the LCBO on the way and picked up a big 40 oz bottle of Gordon’s Gin to share as we waited in line all day because it was general admission and we wanted seats up front just before the pit.
It was fucking freezing out and we didn’t want to get cold waiting so we got hard liquor to keep warm because getting fucked up fast was a big part of being young. So, we drank the 40 oz quick as fuck, swearing at each other, the cold and pissing off pretty much everyone else in the line.
When Julie finally showed up, she changed at Tim Horton’s into her secret sexy leopard skin leggings and shorty leather jacket and then shivered in line with the rest of the drunk and restless crowd.
By the time they let us all in, we were all cold as fuck, I was shitfaced and I had lost all any chance of scoring with my kinda-date Julie.
Being handsy and drunk and clueless is not a good look.
Then it all gets fuzzy.
I do remember throwing up on her leather boots, Julie screaming at me and calling me names, me passing out in the front seats we had bum-rushed and then sleeping through the (apparently) loud opening band.
I pretty sure it was Shrapnel, Joey’s brother’s band.
And the Morricone music they always used before they hit the stage.
The rest of the night is flashes only after.
The smell of sour Gin all over me, Triko, his busted nose bloody and twisted from moshing in the pit, McConie’s bent and twisted glasses and Billy Blyth laughing at me as I tried to stand up on my seat when I heard Dee Dee count it out for another two-minute salvo.
“1-2-3-4,” Dee Dee howled as Johnny power chorded and I Lazurus-ed up and away, wobbling into the air, vomit caking my shirt as I screamed in drunken approval, cartwheeling on my wobbly seat.
That’s when he saw me.
Joey Ramone, salamander cool, hair down and long body twisted at the microphone, pointed at me too, as the spotlight hit and I fell backwards into the poor fuckers behind me, still screaming in ecstasy at being seen.
I went down under their boots and sharp heels, empty bottles rolling in the ground as I tried to get out from the angry mob pissed that a stupid drunk high school kid had decided to crash their good time.
Fists rained down and I think I remember kinda covering my head as fast slaps, punches and spit hung off me as I clawed my back up into the seats.
I vaulted off the back of the trashed chair row, holding for one perfect still frame moment in the air, alive as the band’s onstage bouncer Tank noticed a new unwelcome part of the show.
It ended badly.
I was close enough to bounce onto the stage, snapping my wet face against the hardwood, as I mashed down on my teeth and tongue, spitting blood as I landed.
There’s a photo of me in mid-flight, poised perfect, a damaged black raven, broken winged and blackout bad just before I hit the stage that I have somewhere, I think.
I know they published it.
Tank grabbed me by my belt loop and heaved me off into the side of the stage right into the risers. I bounced off those and went down into the corner in a heap.
The band never missed a beat.
I staggered up off the floor, fresh crying, my mouth bleeding as the concert thundered on without me as I dragged myself outside into the cold wet night.
The guys at the front door all looked shit-scared that I might die and I know I heard someone call me back, maybe something about an ambulance.
My buddies and Julie stayed inside.
I flopped down in the dirty street, sweat and sick pooling off me, the fresh blood and hot snot mixing with the bile on my shirt when I felt a hand fall on my shoulder.
I cringed, expecting another boot or the hard-knuckled fist of a cop called to put me straight or drag me home.
I flinched, looking up over my so-sore left shoulder, prepared for another hit, another hurt. I didn’t care at that point. I was beat dog bad.
Simon shook his head at me, smiling.
He was still the same guy and I started to sob when I recognized him. He just sat down next to me and held me close not caring about my snot and the sick.
His breath still smelled of mint.
He just held me.
Simon took me back to his Mom’s place again that night, cleaned me up and I sucked his cock all night long even with my sore and swollen mouth.