The vampires then turned the Planet of Love into an enormous coffee shop. (After drying the pâté in huge ovens, they ground it up to make their espresso. And there you have it: How To Exterminate A Seemingly Immortal Alien Race.) They had just run out of powdered Venusians when they received Andy Warhol’s message. The insouciant vampires reviewed all of Earth’s TV and radio broadcasts (the sort of thing B-movie aliens loved to do), assessed the situation, packed the giant Theda Bara monster into their biggest battle cruiser and headed her toward Earth. For Aleister Crowley had a plan:
Them jumbo-baloney zombies were already screwing the Earth up, down and all around. Once Theda Bara began her attack, civilization soon would be reduced to a fleshy frappe. At that point, Aleister Crowley would send down his vampire legions to set up the building-sized coffee roasters and grinders.
The smirking high priest put an eye to his most powerful telescope and watched with glee as Theda Bara spouted bright orange poop onto the faces of Mt. Rushmore. He threw back his head to cackle with triumph—and so, didn’t notice the bright flash of silver that zipped, quick as a cork popping out of a champagne bottle, from the moon to the Earth.
THE ROBOT SENTINEL FIRES ME TOWARD THE GREENS AND BLUES, HIGHS AND LOWS, SWEETS AND SOURS OF EARTH. A MOMENT LATER, I STRIDE FORTH TO DEFEND CULTURE, KITTENS AND PUPPIES, AND PARIS, MY BELOVED PARIS. ALONE AGAINST IMPOSSIBLE ODDS (IF ONLY ALICE WERE HERE!), STILL I PERSIST: FOR I, POSTMODERN-WARRIOR-CYBERGODDESS GERTRUDE STEIN, HAVE A JOB TO DO—A WAR IS A WAR IS A WAR—AND DAMN ALL THESE ALIEN FUCKS! IF THEY SO MUCH AS LAY A FINGER ON THE EIFFEL TOWER, I’LL RIP OFF THEIR BUTTOCKS AND FLOSS MY TEETH WITH THEIR LOWER INTESTINES.
Pretty-Boy
Edgar Blanchard handed a glass of champagne to the young woman on the couch. “Can’t you stay just a little longer?”
Claudia glanced at the cobbled-together clock on the wall. One hand was a dagger; the other, a pink baby spoon. The gears were housed in a human skull painted bright green. According to Blanchard, the timepiece had been made in 1927 by a Brazilian serial killer with a genius IQ. “Maybe another twenty minutes,” she said, “but then I have to go. I’m looking at a two-hour drive. I’ll only be able to squeeze in six hours of sleep before I have to start getting ready for Jason.”
“Getting ready?” Blanchard sat next to her. “For what?”
“Good God, Edgar. I’m just meeting him for breakfast. I take a long time getting ready for you, too.”
“How old is Jason anyway? Does he know about me?”
“Twenty-three. And no, he doesn’t.” She smiled as she ran a hand through Blanchard’s salt-and-pepper hair. “I don’t tell people I’m sleeping with my dotty old professor.” She then noticed a reddish-black wooden figurine on the coffee table. It looked like a bat, or a cat with wings. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know. Igot it from an Englishman—a modern-day Oscar Wilde with huge buckteeth. He didn’t even know what it was. His friends call him ‘Lamby.’ He has major tax problems and he’s selling off family antiques. I bought a lot of things so he tossed in that little statue. He had an old steamer trunk full of them.”
As Claudia studied the bat/cat’s cruel face, she caught a glimpse of a thin crack under its chin. “So what else did you get?”
“A chandelier, about a dozen books, three hatchets with ivory handles, some very nice lockets...” Blanchard leaned closer to her. “And Lamby’s grandfather, the cannibal.”
* * * *
Claudia clapped a hand over her nose as Blanchard raised the coffin lid. The box rested on a gurney in Edgar’s workshop, a basement room lined with shelves of tools and chemicals.
“I’d like you to meet Lord Paxton,” he said. “Lamby filled me in on the family history. Rumor has it the old rascal ate the hearts of six of his servants. And he was a sorcerer. And what am I forgetting—? Oh, yeah. Every now and then he grew wings and carried off small children. Busy guy.”
His Lordship had not aged well. His flesh was brownish-green, and his wispy hair was matted with blue fungus. Dead spiders nested in his eye sockets. The fingernails were yellow, crooked and caked with dirt.
“A colorful character. I’ll have to swab him down with formaldehyde.” Blanchard slipped on rubber gloves and lifted Lord Paxton out of the coffin. “The old rotter’s got some meat on his bones,” he said as he moved the corpse to a worktable.
Claudia couldn’t help but smile. Blanchard saw this and smiled back. “Who’s the grin for: me or my handsome friend?”
The young woman shrugged. “I was just wondering why such a nice man collects such awful things. Not that I mind. It’s interesting in a Halloweeny sort of way.”
“Well, I guess that’s why. It’s interesting. Mysterious. Baffling. Take Pretty-Boy here, for example.” He lightly tweaked Lord Paxton’s mildewed nose. “Why did this vicious old creep go around eating chunks of other people? It’s easy enough to say he was crazy, or evil—or incredibly hungry!—but still, I can’t help but wonder. Maybe he knew something the rest of us don’t.”
“Sure: like, what a human heart tastes like.” Claudia pointed to a small black envelope taped to the coffin lid. “Look, he came with a warranty.”
Blanchard opened the envelope. “It’s a note: Grampums cannot sleep in a strange bed.—Lamby.”
The young woman leaned over Lord Paxton. “Would Grampums like a pillow? You need all the beauty sleep you can get.”
Blanchard sighed. “You’d better be going. I wouldn’t want you to miss breakfast with your fellow toddler.”
“Now you’re being difficult,” she said. “Try to see things my way.”
His Lordship’s hand fell over the edge of the worktable; the lovers gasped, then laughed nervously.
“I think Pretty-Boy is eavesdropping,” Claudia said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She kissed Edgar’s cheek and left him to his work.
In the living room, she checked her purse for her car keys. Then she remembered she’d laid them on the coffee table. There she saw the figurine and picked it up. She noticed that the crack she’d spotted earlier completely encircled the neck. A thought occurred to her, and on an impulse she twisted the head.
It began to unscrew.
Once the head was off, a thin pink mist swirled out of the neck, clouding her vision for a moment. She caught a whiff of perfume: an odd combination of roses, chocolate, and old leather. She tipped the figurine over her palm, but nothing came out. Her eyes began to water furiously. A dull pain crept into her neck and shoulders.
A loud clatter rose from the basement. There were sharp, crunching sounds, like wood being broken to bits, followed by the crash of breaking glass.
Claudia raced to the basement door and listened for a moment. Someone was shuffling around, grinding the glass underfoot. “Edgar! Are you okay?” she shouted. “What’s going on down there?”
Something held Claudia back as she tried to descend the basement stairs. She screamed as she found herself surrounded by enormous black-bristled wings—
Then she noticed that the horrid, hairy things had sprouted from her shoulder blades.
Amazed, she stared up at her new appendages. They had caught in the doorway, and seemed to be wedged in tight. When at last she remembered the commotion below, she looked down into the basement.
She found herself in the presence of royalty.
Lord Paxton was crouched on the stairs at her feet, eating a red object shaped much like an apple, except larger and not as firm. Dried spiders rained from his eye sockets as he stood up. He ran a bloodied claw gently over her face. She