Wednesday, March 28, 2012


In the novel Creeping Dawn: The Rise of the Black Centipede, our hero finds himself saddled with a young reporter named Percival Doiley. Doiley has been hired by a wealthy patron to act as the Centipede's official press liaison, and to write highly-fictionalized-- or completely fabricated-- adventure stories for the "Tales of the Black Centipede" pulp magazine. Percy is a good reporter, but an exceedingly inept purveyor of fiction. The needle that measures his prose is stuck on purple. He has a very high opinion of his own ability, mainly because he knows a lot of big words. The fact that he doesn't always know exactly what they mean never deters him from deploying them. I thought it might be fun to take a look at some of Percy's work. So, from August, 1936, here is an excerpt from the classic Black Centipede tale of the...

"Death Cult of the Russian Octopus"
by Randolph Praetorius (Percival Doiley) (Tales of the Black Centipede #36, August, 1936, Lane and Jones Publishing, Zenith and New York, a division of the Hearst Corporation)


A forbidding air of foreboding hung over the dark city street like a blood-drenched funeral shroud. Inhuman eyes seemed to peer out from every nook and cranny. It was a perfect night for the Devil to be at work.

And so it was that he was.

It was a street lined glumly with old warehouses on one side, cheap apartment buildings and grimy, dangerous taverns on the other. The street reeked of poverty and madness, illegal gambling and unwashed diapers. Up and down the street on this dark night moved some of the ghost-like denizens of this section of Zenith. In and out of the miserable saloons they shuffled on their never-ending quest to numb for a time, with cheap hooch, the harshness and depression rampant in their lives.
Somewhere in this black night, on this Godforsaken street of want and desperation, the lapdogs of evil, servants of the Dark Power, plot their monstrous schemes.

Here, they raise their weapons and position America itself squarely in their diabolical crosshairs. They are supremely confident that no man can stop or stay their hand. Perhaps they would be correct-- If they were anyplace but here. For this great metropolis is home to a man like no other. Those who would befoul these streets and shops and homes little realize that their impunity is but an illusion.

Moving silently among the alcohol-sodden wraiths was a man dressed entirely in black. His face was covered by an ominous black mask.

On the front of the mask was emblazoned a silver depiction of a centipede, curled into a shape somewhat like the letter “S.” On his head was a hat the color of warm tar, the brim pulled down low in front. This mysterious figure seemed to have a purpose, because he walked purposefully along, dodging those folks whose inebriated condition made them into minor obstacles for the determined walker.

The man projected an air of complete self-confidence, a thing not usually seen on this street of broken men and women poisoned by the toxins of their shattered dreams.
For this awesome figure, this shadowy specter stalking the night like some gothic scarecrow of retribution, is the city of Zenith’s own dark angel—The BLACK CENTIPEDE. His mission: Justice, pure and simple.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, shattering the dull mumbling calm of the evening. Glancing around, the Black Centipede pinpointed the source of the explosive report, a dingy, odious gin mill identified by name by the rickety sign hung lopsidedly above the entrance:


How fitting, the Centipede mused, that a place thusly named should play host to such violent acts, such cacophonous breaches of the nocturnal peace. As he stood motionless, a woman’s shrill scream protruded out from behind the battered entrance.
Someone was in danger! A woman was being threatened with death or worse there inside the dissipated establishment. Wasting not a moment, the masked man sprang toward that door, drawing a gleaming .45 automatic from within his ebon overcoat. He dynamically kicked the door down with one foot, and dashed into the putrid, smoke-filled atmosphere of the dive. A horrific tableau greeted the eyes hidden behind the black mask.

Three menacing figures loomed menacingly over a small woman, whose clothing was in a shocking state of disarray. Averting his eyes from her, as any true gentleman would, the Centipede turned his attention to the three assailants. They were rough-hewn individuals. Their exotic features and gaudy, flamboyant raiment hinted at strange, foreign climes where chivalry and the rule of law held no sway, and where corruption and sodomy were as common as Sunday newspapers.

“Okay, boys,” the masked man said in a resonant, commanding tone, “playtime is over. Back off.”
The deviants turned to gaze at the source of this imperious instruction. They laughed, like hyenas sensing blood in the water. As the first man stalked toward him, the Centipede fatally shot him to death. Spurts of red blood ejaculated out of the grim holes that had been made by the masked man’s trusty firearm. The Centipede broadcast a further array of hot lead at the fallen man’s degenerate companions, ending their misbegotten lives in a manner that was ironically fitting for such violent criminal misanthropes. Casting his eerie, penetrating gaze at the three newly-created dead cadavers on the barroom floor, he demanded in a strident voice composed of ice and steel, “Which of these villains fired the shot I heard?”

“None of them,” came a lilting feminine voice from the shapely mouth of the young woman who had so recently been the target of deadly menace.
The Black Centipede turned to survey the petite, voluptuous girl. She was female, and appeared to be approximately between 19 and 37 years of age. The hero took in details of her pleasing aspect, her lustrous dark hair, creamy dimpled cheeks, Cupid’s-bow lips. Lips that could drip enough sweet promises, he surmised, to ensnare any red-blooded man around her little finger, like a moth to a gorgeous, blue-eyed flame. But her pastoral serenity, the Centipede instinctively realized, was the misleading tip of an iceberg of depravity. Her garb and her painted features were, unfortunately, clear evidence of harlotry. As the masked man examined her further, his powerful brain churning rapidly, he saw that she was no hothouse flower. There was a fierceness in her face, matched by a no-nonsense gleam in her bedazzling eyes.

Through clenched teeth, she held up her hand and spoke.
“I shot at them,” she proclaimed.

The Centipede now saw, in the hand she was holding aloft, a gunmetal gray gun-- a .22 pistol, he surmised.

“They made advances to me,” said the vision of tainted loveliness. “I asked them to let me be, but they refused. So I pulled from my handbag this pistol, which I always carry for protection. Still they advanced, so I fired a shot over their heads and screamed as the loud report startled me. I’m… I’m sorry I caused a scene.”

The Centipede surmised that the woman spoke the truth. But was he really convinced of this, he mused, or had he been enchanted by her soulful brown eyes, her shapely form, her symmetrical facial structure?
Nuts, he thought to himself, don’t tell me I’m going soft over a dame! Ixnay on that! Forcing from his consciousness the seductive image in his mind’s eye of this fair lass reclining on a distant beach, far from the haunts of the crime and violence that comprised his rigid life, he spoke gruffly, like a man running for governor who doesn’t really want the job.

“Okay, sister,” he said with nonchalance, deliberately refraining from gazing into the inviting depths of her fabulous orbs. “I guess your story checks out. None of these mugs seem to have been packing roscoes. So, what’s a not-so-nice dame like you doing in a place that’s even worse?”

She sighed wearily. “I guess you surmised my profession. My ma is very sick. She came down with TB and polio three months ago. She needs an operation real bad, but it will cost thousands of dollars. We’re poor, mister. This is the only way I can make lots of money fast.”

Suddenly, without warning, as though a dam had burst inside her head, hot bitter tears streamed forth from her emerald blue eyes, washing over her cheeks like water from a mop bucket that’s been tipped over, or from a dam that has burst. Her supple frame wracked with pent-up grief, the girl cast her eyes to the heavens.

"I may be a scarlet woman," she cried in feminine anguish, "but I don't give it away!"

A woman’s tears,
mused the Centipede, are the most volatile solvent known to science. He moved warily but promptly closer to the heaving girl. Her pulchritudinous bosom hurled sob after sob into the foul air of the Rusty Bucket of Blood, like so much agonized confetti. The masked man stepped boldly in front of the girl and smacked her across the face.
At first the ravishing girl’s beautiful face, with its sea-green Irish eyes, filled with candor and defiance, registered shock and anger. Then a calmness descended over her like the top slice of bread on a baloney sandwich. She sniffled, wiping feminine mucus from her shapely nostrils, then smiled as though the weight of the world had been extracted from off of her ample bosom.

“Thanks,” she said. “I needed that. But if you try it again, I’ll blow your #@!$ off.”
The Black Centipede chortled, placing his hands on the girl’s enticing shoulders and peering into her statuesque blue eyes.

“Say,” he remarked, “You got spunk. I admire that. I could use a dame like you.”

“You got twenty bucks?”

“No, I don’t. But that ain’t what I’m talking about. I could use a spunky no-nonsense dame who can handle herself in a tough situation. How would you like to join me in my war on crime?” 

"But… What about my ma? I have to have money so she can get her brain tumor removed.”

“I’ll see to all of that,” averred the masked vigilante. “It happens that I am… good friends with a multi-millionaire named William Lee Williams. I will get him to pay for your mother’s operation. I am not him, but I am friends with him, even though we are never seen together.”

The girl spewed tears of pure elation. Her lips seeped upward over her cheeks in a beatific smile, and she threw her sylphlike arms around the Centipede’s neck, exclaiming, “Oh, you are wonderful!”
The masked man pushed her gently back. Was there a hint of regret in his dark aspect?

“Okay, sister,” he said, “lay off the mushy stuff. This ain’t one of those rides they have at the carnival where you go through a dark tunnel full of water in a little boat with a dame and try to hold her hand or something while you’re there in the dark. This is serious business.”

“I… I’m sorry. I just got carried away, mister. Nobody has ever been nice to me before. Except my ma, but I wouldn’t go on one of those rides with her, even if she didn’t have leukemia. It won’t happen again.”

The Centipede nodded. Then he asked her sharply, “What’s your moniker, kid? What do they call ya at home?”

The girl beamed a radiant smile right into the masked man’s masked face. “My name is Mary Jane,” she said exquisitely. “Mary Jane Gallows.”

A very shapely name, mused the Centipede, for one very swell-looking tomato. Being a red-blooded American male, the masked man did not fail to be affected by the sultry charms on display there before him.
But, he ruminated wistfully, love and romance are not a part of my lot in life. These amenities are for other men, men whose parents were not killed by pirates, and who were not washed ashore on an island where there lived a fantastic race of people, who were descended, some said, from visitors who came from a distant star, and who did not learn from these people all the secrets of the human mind and body, as well as every fighting style known to man, and super-scientific knowledge of medicine, physics, arts and humanities.  

Are such men, he asked himself, to be pitied for their lack of perfection and purpose and spiritual and intellectual advancement? All of these marvels that I take for granted? Or… are they the lucky ones?

 The Centipede shook his masked head vigorously, as if to evict from his brain these tormenting thoughts of what might have been. He gave them the bum’s rush, as though they were a tenant in a boarding house who hadn't paid his rent in six weeks, and who was suspected of cooking in his room, and reaffirmed his commitment to a celibate life of service to the cause of law and justice.

“Come on,” he said to the winsome Mary Jane, “you can start right now. Keep that heater handy, and follow me. We got an appointment.”

“With whom?” Mary Jane asked coquettishly.

He looked at her and said, “Destiny, toots.”
On the way out of the bar, the masked man tossed a silver dollar to the nonplussed bartender. “How ‘bout you take out that garbage I left on the floor, mac?” the masked Centipede quipped. “Here’s a buck for your trouble.”

The bartender, whose name was Gerald Cousins, and who had a black moustache, thanked the man in the black mask, bit the coin, stuck it in his waistcoat pocket, produced a huge pair of ice tongs from a tin bucket, and sauntered out from behind the bar to do as the mysterious masked man had bidden of him to. He knew that it was healthier to do as the Centipede said than it was to ignore it or find something different to do instead, or to put it off for a long time. Cousins was not a criminal himself, but he had tendencies. His instincts demanded that he keep his nose clean.

Out on the street, the Centipede spoke to his newly-christened distaff helpmate. By this point, he was certain that he was hopelessly in love with the dame. But he didn’t say anything about that. In the interest of decorum, he thought it proper to save any proposals or propositions at least until they had known one another for more than 15 minutes. Besides, they were on the clock right now. Office romances, he pondered silently, never worked out.
Thus, when he spoke to the alluring vixen, whose tumultuous grey eyes bespoke of her ability to launch a thousand ships and then some, it was not of love, but of duty.

“I came to this section of town tonight,” he declared, “in search of a madman. There is an evildoer at work in this city, and he threatens to bring chaos and destruction upon Zenith.”

TO BE CONTINUED? probably not

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The Ruby Files

Bobby Nash and Sean Taylor are so convinced you’ll love their new book The Ruby Files that they’re giving you part of it for free. Yes, free. 
“Airship 27 is going out of its way to make this book an excellent jumping on point for fans of action and adventure and guns and gumshoes,” says co-creator Sean Taylor: “This is the first time the company has offered a free preview, and Bobby and I are thrilled to be able to provide it to you. We both think The Ruby Files is a fantastic book, and we’re willing to give part of it away just to prove it to you.”
You can snag your free copy of The Ruby Files preview PDF at
Says co-creator Bobby Nash: "I'm excited to introduce Rick Ruby and his bevvy of beautiful ladies to the world. Sean Taylor and I had a blast creating Ruby's world and all who inhabit it. This volume contains four exciting stories from four incredible creators. Crack open The Ruby Files. It's a wild ride."
It was the 1930s, and America was locked in the grip of the Great Depression. Gangsters controlled the major cities while outlaws roamed the rural back country. It was a time of speakeasy gin-joints, Tommy guns, fast cars and even faster dames. This is the world of New York based Private Investigator Rick Ruby, a world he is all too familiar with. From the back alleys of Gotham to the gold laden boulevards of Hollywood, Ruby is the shamus with a nose for trouble and an insatiable appetite for justice. So if you’ve got a taste for hot lead and knuckle sandwiches, tug your cuffs, adjust your fedora and light up a Lucky, a brand new pulp detective is coming your way. 
Created by pulp masters, Bobby Nash and Sean Taylor, Rick Ruby echoes the tales of Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe while offering up his own brand of two-fisted action. Joined by fellow pulp smiths Andrew Salmon and William Patrick Maynard, these modern scribes of purple prose present a quartet of tales to delight any true lover of private eye fiction. This instant classic features a gorgeous Mark Wheatley cover and eight evocative black and white illustrations by Rob Moran. 
The Ruby Files hearkens back to the classic black and white Warner Brothers gangster movies that featured James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and Edward G. Robinson (to name a few). The atmosphere pure noir, gritty with a no-nonsense hero pulp fans are going to applaud from the first story to the last. And when that last tale comes to a close, you can bet we haven’t seen the last of Rick Ruby, Private.
To purchase The Ruby Files: 
$3 digital copy from Airship 27 direct -
From Amazon - 
From Indy Planet - 
For more information:
To learn more about The Ruby Files, please visit the official website at and check out the book’s official trailer at 
For more information about Bobby Nash, visit his official website at or his blog at 
For more information about Sean Taylor, visit his official website at or his writing blog at

Monday, March 19, 2012




Mr. T's Commandments is a rap EP for children, released in 1984. In it, Mr. T guides the youth of America with lessons on love, not talking to strangers, honoring parents, doing homework and saying "no" to drug use.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

NEW! Pro Se presents #8

NOW AVAILABLE! PRO SE PRESENTS #8! Pro Se Continues to Put the Monthly Back into Pulp with fantastic stories by Kevin Rodgers and Chuck Miller as well as the conclusion to the exclusive HAWK story by noted New Pulp Author Van Allen Plexico! New Pulp's Best New Writer of the Year Chuck Miller shares another tale of the Black Centipede.

"Funeral for a Fiend" picks up one of the loose threads from "Creeping Dawn." We learn more about the bizarre new Zenith crime lord called the Stiff and his strange relationship with the Black Centipede. And we meet the "ultimate fixers," the enigmatic twins known as Patience and Prudence.
With Art provided by Sean E. Ali and Rowell Roque and a fantastic cover by Roque, trade dress by Ali, this is an issue that HAS to be the next thing you get for your New Pulp collection! Only Six Dollars in Print! Coming soon as an Ebook! Available now at the Pro Se Store at:

Puttin' The Monthly Back into Pulp with Sci-Fi, Mystery, and Good ol' Masked Vigilante Action, PRO SE PRESENT #8 hits the streets, adventure blasting from both barrels! Van Allen Plexico's exclusive epic novella 'Hand Of The Machine', featuring HAWK, his latest creation, concludes ! Kevin Rodgers takes us into the terrifying state of mind...or reality....known as 'Paranoia' and New Pulp's Best New Writer of the Year Chuck Miller shares another tale of his wild and wacky hero, The Black Centipede, starring in 'Funeral for a Fiend!' With mind blowing art work provided by Sean Ali and Rowell Roque, PRO SE PRESENTS #8 is almost too much Pulp to handle!


M.R. GOTT interviews...Chuck Miller

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

M.R. interviews...Chuck Miller
FROM M.R. Gott's Cutis Anserina; A Place for Hard Boiled Macabre

Please Welcome Chuck Miller to Cutis Anserina.

Tell us about your character, the Black Centipede.

The Black Centipede was originally conceived as a cross between William S. Burroughs and the Shadow, with a dash of Doc Savage. (Black centipedes are a loathsome centerpiece of Burroughs' novel "Naked Lunch.") Like Doc, he makes his home/headquarters in the top floors of the tallest skyscraper in the city; he is addicted to the use of clever gadgets of his own invention. The Centipede shares Burroughs' enthusiasm for orgone accumulators, the cut-up method, and quoting Shakespeare, as well as a certain unfortunate vice they both have in common with Sherlock Holmes.

He's kind of difficult to sum up in a few words. He took a strange path to become a crime fighter, and he does it for reasons that are not entirely clear even to him. In the origin sequence, he is a boy of 16. His friendship with H.P. Lovecraft and a strange encounter with Lizzie Borden make him aware of what he calls a "Dark Power" operating beneath the visible surface of the world. He becomes a crime fighter almost by accident. He is a pretty ruthless individual, and he is not at all deep or introspective. He does what he does joyfully, and sort of revels in the violence. He suffers from absolute self-assurance, which can be a very dangerous thing. I do plan to have his character evolve as the series progresses, and we will see the beginning of this in the second book.

He was originally intended as a marginal character in a comic book I wanted to do some 20 years ago. That never got off the ground, but the Centipede and a few other characters wouldn't quit loitering around in my head. I did a short novel a couple years ago based on that comic book idea, but it didn't turn out to be very good at all. So I decided to do some short stories featuring some of the peripheral characters. The first one of these was a Black Centipede tale called "Wisconsin Death Trip." It's set in 1957 and deals with the Centipede's involvement in the curious case of Ed Gein. It was fun to write, and I have maintained the practice of having several "real life" characters appear in almost all the Centipede stories. The first novel features H.P. Lovecraft, Lizzie Borden, Frank Nitti and William Randolph Hearst. The second book, "Blood of the Centipede," which I just finished, includes Amelia Earhart, Aleister Crowley, Fatty Arbuckle and Bela Lugosi.

In the Centipede's fictional world, he is not only a real-life crime fighter, he is the star of a monthly pulp adventure magazine that presents highly-sanitized accounts of his adventures. This has arisen from a deal he worked out with Hearst. The public perception is that the Black Centipede is a heroic paragon of virtue, while the truth is a little less rosy.

click here to read the rest!

Monday, March 12, 2012

The UNOFFICIAL Black Centipede theme song!

This is what I hear in my head. This piece of music is actually from "Exorcist 2: The Heretic," which is a pretty ignominious fate. I think it would much prefer to be the Black Centipede theme song. I don't actually have any rights to this-- this is just imaginary.


Magic and Ecstasy (1977):
DON GATES has come up with something similar for Challenger Storm:

for Creeping Dawn: The Rise of the Black Centipede was made by my friend Zach Ford for one of his classes at Daphne (Alabama) High School. I'm very flattered by it. It's a great piece of work, and it assures Zach's place in history as the first director ever to tackle the Black Centipede!


Saturday, March 10, 2012


Shivaree was a Los Angeles-based music variety show that ran in syndication from 1965 to 1966. It was hosted by Gene Weed. In its brief run, the show featured numerous well-known acts, including the Rolling Stones, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, the Supremes, the Byrds, the Bobby Fuller Four, the Ronettes, Allan Sherman, and We Five at its KABC-TV studio. Although it was a syndicated series, Shivaree was produced and owned by the ABC network. In addition to the host, the show also featured dancers (go-go girls) some of whom were Teri Garr, Cathy Austin, Joane Sannes, and Kay Parks; who performed on elevated platforms behind the bandstand. Audience members surrounded the bandstand and also stood on a balcony behind the dancers. Rights to surviving footage of the show (which was produced in black-and-white) are now owned by Research Video.

Theodore Crawford Cassidy (July 31, 1932 - January 16, 1979), known as Ted Cassidy, was an American actor who performed in television and films. At 6 ft 9 in (2.06 m) in height, he tended to play unusual characters in offbeat or science-fiction series such as Star Trek and I Dream of Jeannie. He is best known for playing the part of Lurch, the butler on the 1960s television series The Addams Family and performing the opening narration of the 1970s TV series The Incredible Hulk.