Blood of the Centipede: The Lost Chapter

"REVENGE OF THE CENTIPEDE"

A tale from between chapters of Blood of the Centipede

by Chuck Miller

HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
Early Summer, 1933

I was in desperate straits. The past several days had not been kind to me. I had been set upon repeatedly by a bizarre creature in a rubber suit and a gas mask, a female horror that called herself the Black Centipede Eater. She had proven herself worthy of the name by biting off one of my fingers during our latest encounter.

And she wasn't the only fantastic fiend casting a pall over my life. It seemed to be open season on the Black Centipede, and the foulest of villains were crawling out of the California woodwork, seeking a piece of my hide. 

Literally.

And now, on a studio lot in the rancid heart of darkest Hollywood, I found myself the object of a grim hunt. I have faced many lethal and horrifying opponents, but the creature from whom I now fled was one of the worst of an incredibly bad lot. I am normally brave and steadfast, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I was terrified by the prospect of being caught. I found this monster's presence loathsome and intolerable, and when I saw the fiend bearing down on me, I took to my heels.

I had come to California with the best of intentions, and had anticipated nothing like the trouble I found there. I was in Hollywood to act as a "consultant" on a motion picture that was being made by a studio controlled by media magnate William Randolph Hearst. My position carried no actual duties whatsoever, which was just as well, for two reasons. First, if it had, I would have refused to do them anyhow; and second, I was, as I mentioned earlier, up to my neck in grotesque and deadly villains.

It was the day after I had lost a pinkie to the Eater. I had spent more time than usual on the set that day, observing the chaotic filming, and dealing with a couple of loose ends that had been aggravating me. I had done well, was suitably proud of myself, and was ready to leave the studio to pursue certain investigations. 

I had slipped away from the assembled company unnoticed-- or so I imagined-- and was almost to my car when I heard, coming from behind me, a voice that turned they blood in my veins to ice water.

"You there! Centipede! Stop!"

Without even looking back-- not wanting to see what I knew was there-- I quickened my pace and slipped between a couple of large, hangar-like sound stages. I moved swiftly toward the opposite end of the alleyway. I had almost made it, when I heard brisk footsteps behind me and heard the bone-chilling voice once again:

"Come here! Stop!"

I emerged from the alley, only to find, to my horror, that the street to my left was blocked by a large herd of cattle-- for some Western picture, no doubt-- and to my right by a line of Roman chariots.

Retreat was not an option. I fancied I could feel my pursuer's hot breath on the back of my neck. Cannon to the left of me, cannon to the right of me. And dead ahead... the studio commissary.

I dashed for the door, a faint cry of "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" escaping my lips. 

Fortunately, the place was jammed when I burst through the door, it being suppertime for most of the movie-makers. I dived in and struggled against the human tide, inching my way toward the rear of the room. I knew I would never make it. The fiend would be in the building before I could get halfway there. 

I looked wildly around the room, seeking a straw of some kind-- any kind-- that I could grasp. All of the tables were occupied. It seemed that there wasn't a free seat in the house. Then I spotted a small table occupied by a lone man. He was drinking coffee and jotting things down in a notebook. Across from him was an empty chair. Desperately, I lunged forward and fell into it, slumping down and pulling my hat forward over the upper part of my mask.

"Don't want to bother you," I said to the man at the table, "but do you mind if I perch here for a second? I assure you, it's a matter of life and death."

"Not at all," he replied in a sonorous baritone. He seemed a little bemused, quite naturally. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Yes," I replied. "Hand me your newspaper."

"Very well. You ask for so little, how can I refuse?"

I leaned back against the wall, and opened the paper, holding it so that it was between me and the door. From this position of relative safety, I took a look at my rescuer.

He was a stocky, round-faced young man, very intense-looking, with the most remarkable dark brown eyes.

He took a look at my mask and said, "You're the Black Centipede, aren't you? You can't be Lancelot Cromwell, because you don't reek of liquor."

I laughed. "You know about him, I see. Yes, I'm the actual Black Centipede, idol of millions, in the heroic flesh."

"Nice to meet you. My name's Welles. Orson Welles."

The name meant nothing to me. As we shook hands, I searched my memory for something relevant.

All I could come up with was, "Are you any relation to H.G. Wells, the writer?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. I have an 'e' and he does not. Beyond that, I know next to nothing about him."

"Really? You've never read his work?"

"Not really. None of his fiction, at any rate. Doesn't he write that Buck Rogers type stuff?"

"Not at all. Wells is what is known as a Serious Writer, with capital letters. I suppose much of his work could be considered science fiction, but his stories are generally allegorical. Surely you've heard of  The War of the Worlds, his novel about a Martian invasion of earth?"

Welles snorted. "What could be more absurd than that?" he scoffed.

"Perhaps," I said, "but it becomes more intriguing when you realize that the whole story is a metaphor for the British colonial experience in Africa."

He seemed interested in that. "Really? I had no idea."

"Yes, and for the less cerebral among us, it is still a damn fine adventure story. That's my opinion, anyhow. I doubt it could be made into a movie, but I imagine it could be dramatized in some other way."

"A stage play?"

I shook my head. "That would be worse than a movie. I don't know... Maybe a radio drama or something."

"Ah, yes, the theater of the imagination beats Hollywood special effects every time."

"That's my belief. Are you in the movie business?"

"Not quite. Currently, I am on tour with Katharine Cornell's touring company. We're doing The Barretts of Wimpole Street and a couple of other things. I'd like to get into the movies, though, one of these days. The company is in town, and I'm taking a couple of days to have a look around the place. So far, I find it singularly uninteresting. A shame, really. People could be doing so much more with motion pictures than they are. Most European directors are light years ahead of this pap. Von Stroheim is utterly wasted here."

As I chatted with Welles, I was glancing at the entrance every few seconds. So far, the horror that stalked me had not made an appearance. I was starting to think I was in the clear. Perhaps my pursuer had not seen me duck into here. I was beginning to unwind a bit, when a grim figure darkened the commissary doorway. I slumped down further in my seat and raised the newspaper higher. 

"Excuse me!" the Voice of Doom rang out, silencing the commissary patrons. "I'm looking for the Black Centipede! Has he been in here? Has anyone seen him?"

Silence. The crowd just stared at the new arrival, awestruck. I supposed that nobody, apart from Welles, had taken any notice of me, this being Hollywood and all. Tense seconds ticked by. After an eternity on pins and needles, I heard the dread voice once again:

"If any of you see him, tell him to return to the set and speak to me. His presence is required at a very important business meeting!"

And with that, William Randolph Hearst turned on his heel and strode briskly out of the commissary.

I heaved a sigh of relief and put the newspaper down.

"Mister Welles," I said, "you have saved me from a fate worse than death."

"Call me Orson. That was Hearst, wasn't it? I heard he's financing your picture. I take it you don't like him very much."

"You take it right, Orson."

"I don't think anybody likes him," he said.

"Marion Davies seems to."

"Yes, well." He just let that one lay there.

I don't know why I felt the need to unburden myself to this stranger-- perhaps because I was near exhaustion and my defenses were down. But there was something about him that I liked. 

"You should see this movie he's making about me," I said mournfully. "It's an absolute travesty. Complete nonsense. My real story would make one hell of a movie. Of course, I have no intention of sharing it with Hearst or anyone else, but still... He doesn't care what gets put out there with my name on it. He's a liar and a fabricator, and this goddamned movie reflects that. The sonofabitch wouldn't know the truth if it came up and bit him."

Welles shook his head in sympathy. "I would hate to be involved in a production of any kind that was beneath my dignity or ability."

"Well," I said, "that makes two of us, but I kind of got roped into it."

"Hearst seems a fascinating character," Orson said. " Do you know him well?"

"Better than he knows me," I said. 

My new friend looked puzzled, so I elaborated. "We're not remotely what you'd call friends. There is no closeness or fellow-feeling. In fact, I despise him, and the feeling is mutual. But I have made a study of him. A very thorough one, using sources public, private and felonious. The man is an abomination."

"Really? I know he has a shady reputation. A lot of his double-dealing is public knowledge, but he's just too big for anybody to take on."

"Oh, you couldn't possibly know the half of it! Master of the phony public image, that's Hearst for you. The corruption you know about is just the tip of a very rotten iceberg."

"Do tell," Orson said. 

"Oh, I'd love to tell. You know what? Somebody ought to make a movie about him. And just for the hell of it, they should tell the truth. Why, I could tell you stories about that man's dirty dealings that would curl your hair."

"Really?" Welles seemed powerfully intrigued. "I'd be very interested in hearing them. You know... this isn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. A movie, I mean. Of course, if someone did it, they'd have to change the names, rearrange things a little. Replace details with allegory. But what a magnificent subject! Why, it could be a masterpiece, like Greed."

I smiled. "Yeah! Of course, the sonofabitch would raise Cain about it, but what could he do?"

"What indeed?" said Orson, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. "This is food for thought... Would you be interested in discussing it further at some future time?"

"Oh, you bet I would!" I said, grinning wickedly behind my mask. "I would like that very much."

We exchanged contact information. By this time, I was sure the coast was clear, and I made ready to continue on my way. Then a thought struck me.

"Say," I said, lowering my voice, "I could sure use a drink, after that ordeal. Is it true that you can buy alcohol in here, under the table?"

"Yes," Orson said glumly, "but they only have wine. And they won't even sell you that until after 8 p.m. A curious restriction, considering that selling it at all is illegal until Repeal."

"I don't suppose they could be persuaded to make an exception?"

"No," Orson said, shaking his head. "I've tried. I'm afraid they will sell no wine before it's time."


CUT

***

Read the whole story today! Available on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Centipede-Black-Book-ebook/dp/B009GVO43S/

public domain

Free Mary Jane Gallows!

No, she hasn't been arrested. What we mean is that Chapter One of the incredible adventures of the Black Centipede's... whatever, Bloody Mary Jane Gallows, supernatural "daughter" of Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper is now FREE on Amazon Kindle! That's right, I said FREE. That's as cheap as it gets without us actually paying you to read it! So GO!!!

http://www.amazon.com/My-Florida-Idyll-Episode-Fabulous-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_19?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1442342916&sr=1-19&refinements=p_82%3AB005WX2CKQ

High Quality New Pulp!

By L. Columbus TOP 1000 REVIEWER on December 1, 2015

Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

I'm so glad the author provided this first volume as a free ebook. I've been burned too many times trying a new writer, only to discover their writing leaves much to be desired. Not the case here I'm happy to say! Mr. Miller is the real deal and as of right now, the best author working in the new pulp genre that I've come across. I found the story engaging, the main character fascinating and the plot exciting. A quick, but throughly satisfying read. I will certainly be seeking out more Bloody Mary and The Black Centipede. Thank you Chuck Miller!

M*O*N*S*T*A*A*H Recommends!

Many thanks to the folks at M*O*N*S*T*A*A*H for including Black Centipede Confidential among their recent recommendations!

The inimitable Chuck Miller now brings us his latest entry in the series of one of pulp fiction's newest masked hero sensations with BLACK CENTIPEDE CONFIDENTIAL. This is also the second entry in Chuck's saga of the now vampirized master villain Prof. James Moriarity  (you know, the guy who once killed Sherlock Holmes in Arthur Conan Doyle's classic novella The Final Solution, until the Great Detective got better). This time the blood-sucking mastermind comes to the dark hero's home city of Zenith with a posse of deadly miscreants at his side -- this group including but not limited to the likes of such legendary figures as the Bell Witch and the Loch Ness Monster! And what he's after is every bit as horrific as the once-man himself: Jack the Ripper's Analytical Engine...

READ THE REST-- AND M*O*N*S*T*A*A*H's other recommendations-- here:
 http://www.monstaah.com/

TOPICAL AGAIN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS!

Aaron Kosminski or not, Jack the Ripper causes problems for our hero in  this excerpt from "Blood of the Centipede" by Chuck Miller.$2.99 ON AMAZON KINDLE:
 
http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Centipede-Black-Book-ebook/dp/B009GVO43S/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410328838&sr=1-2

CHAPTER ONE: HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD
(From the Secret Journals of the Black Centipede)


On an oppressively hot night in the late spring of 1933, I found myself in an unenviable position on a studio backlot deep in the dark and foetid heart of Hollywood, California.

 
The lot was vast, a huge patch of surreal fungus choking the land with its empty, make-believe mock-ups of ancient Rome, the American West, a distant planet, the battlefields of Europe. A full moon shone down on this cold, schizoid grandeur, illuminating five human shapes in a tense tableau that was not part of any script.

I, the Black Centipede, legendary crime fighter and scourge of evil, was one of those shapes, and I was at a disadvantage. I had four broken ribs, two missing fingers, a possible concussion, and a pair of empty automatic pistols.

Another of the shapes was Amelia Earhart, the only thing I had close at hand that even resembled an ally, and she lay sprawled in the dust behind me, either unconscious or dead.

I fervently wished I had a few more assets on my side, seeing as how I was confronting three of the most lethal homicidal maniacs the world has ever known. And that is not hyperbole.

One of them was a madman called the White Centipede. He and I apparently had quite a history, of which I was completely unaware. The second was a charming creature known as the Black Centipede Eater, about whom more anon.

The third maniac, you've probably heard of.

His real name is as unimportant as it is unknown. His "nickname" is everything. He first made his mark in 1888 when he murdered five women in the Whitechapel section of London. He was never apprehended, never went to trial for those murders.

He called himself Jack the Ripper, and he was the closest thing to a demon in human shape that I have ever encountered.

Which made him the least of my worries at that moment, or so I thought.  Demons and monsters are very straightforward creatures. You usually know where you are with them. They are unimaginative, and completely out of their depth with someone like me.I didn't take the Ripper as seriously as I should have that night. I regarded the other two as the real threats. I planned to concentrate all that remained of my personal resources on them just as soon as I disposed of this relic standing before me, clutching his knife and leering, dressed in a suit that had gone out of style half a century ago. I had fought him before, quite recently, and I thought I had his measure. He looked depleted. I figured our earlier encounters had taken a lot out of him.

"Don't you ever get tired of being a period piece?" I inquired. My tone was light and flippant, the implication being that he was damn near beneath my notice, but I would be gracious enough to take a bit of my valuable time to stomp on him like a cockroach.

The Ripper smiled and tossed his knife up in the air. It flipped a couple of times before he caught it by the handle. It was a gesture of contempt, his way of demonstrating the casual ease with which he could do the thing he was about to do.

His maneuver had created a split-second opening, and I tried to take advantage of it. I swung the fine, precision firearm-- now nothing more than a crude, blunt instrument--  in an arc that would catch him right between the eyes.

I didn't quite make it.

Instead, I received an object lesson in the folly of judging by appearances. The Ripper's knife was sharper than it looked, his arm stronger. Moving much faster than I did, he sank his double-edged, ten-inch blade into my gut all the way to the hilt, then yanked it upward with both hands until my breastbone stopped it. I was quite certain that the tip of the knife had come out through my back, right next to the spinal cord.

I looked down at the stuff spilling out of me, looked back up, started to say something, forgot what it was, and fell flat on my back. The knife, lodged in my torso, slipped from the Ripper's bloody fingers as I fell.

I had learned a lesson, but it looked as though I'd never have an opportunity to benefit from it, which struck me as pointless and wasteful.

Just before my mind winked out, I saw the Ripper standing over me, jerking his blade out of my torso. In doing this, he dislodged a couple of things from my abdominal cavity that I would have preferred to hang on to. He didn't say a word to me.

Then I went beyond thought and feeling and identity, into a very dark and quiet place...

**
Are you sold? Well, go for it: 
http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Centipede-Black-Book-ebook/dp/B009GVO43S/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410328838&sr=1-2

Meeting Mary Jane

In this unpublished fragment, Dana Unknown's pal, Jack Christian, meets Mary Jane Gallows:

"And Professor Moriarty," Vionna went on. "What happened to him, do you think?"

"I don't know. And then there's the Clay Man. I know he gives most people the creeps, but he's very useful, as you know from experience. Not to mention the fact that he cost Dana's dad 3.4 million dollars, and that was back in 1950. It would run you about thirty-three million today. Doc Unknown commissioned some freaky Kabbalist wizard with tax problems and a coke habit of biblical proportions to create the thing and imbue it with whatever it was imbued with."

"I wish I could afford expensive stuff like that," Vionna said wistfully.

"You're fine with what you have," said Mary Kelly.

At exactly three o'clock there was a knock at the door. The new client. Vionna went and answered the door, then escorted the client into the office. It was a woman-- very young, late teens, probably.

She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. I knew she wasn't anybody I had ever met in any ordinary, everyday context. If I had seen that face before, it would have been in a photograph. And I had the impression that it must have been a very old one, in spite of the fact that she looked like a teenager. In my minds eye, I removed the color from her face, leaving only shades of black, white and gray. Yes, that looked better. I was on the right track. I tweaked my imaginary portrait further, adding a film grain effect and a bit of sepia tone. Better still. I almost had it now.

"I need help," she said, after Vionna had shown her to a chair, "much as it pains me to admit it. I am absolutely perplexed and I have heard a great many good things about your agency. This is exactly the sort of case where your talents will shine most brightly. Also, you have a sort of connection to this affair. That's why I requested that Mr. Christian be present."

"I know you," said Mary Kelly. "Forgive my impertinence, but I find it difficult to believe that your name is really Veronika QuiBono. The name is utterly absurd. And I have seen you before. A very long time ago."

"Yes," said the visitor, " that is true. We have brushed up against one another, so to speak, on two occasions; once in 1892, and again in 1933. This, however, is our first face-to-face meeting in the real word. I'm very sorry about what my father did to you. Though I disavowed him decades ago, I still feel a certain amount of responsibility. So I am pleased to find you doing so well."

"Okay, wait a second," I said. "Before this goes any further, let's clarify a couple of things that are bothering me." I made eye contact with our guest. "First off, 1892? Did I hear that right? And 1933 as well?"

She nodded. "That's right."

This gave me more fodder for my mental Photoshop. I deleted the clothes she was wearing and replaced them with something from the early 20th Century. Yes, I was getting there. The memory swam closer to the surface of my mind.

"You don't look like you're more than 18 years old," I went on. "How is it that you were in a position to be brushing up against people a hundred and twenty years ago? Are you some kind of time traveler or something?"

"Yes, I am. But I only travel forward, and it takes me approximately 365 days to advance one year into the future."

"That's cute," I said. "So, you're more than a hundred and twenty years old? You're very well preserved." I wasn't as skeptical as you might think, but I was wary, of course.

"Thank you," she said. "Yes, I just turned 121 last month."

"Okay, I've seen stranger things. Now, what's this about your father?

"Jack," Vionna piped up, "she came here to hire me and Mary, not you. Quit monotonizing her."

"Monopolizing, dear," Mary corrected her.

"Actually," said the prospective client, "I believe Miss Valis was correct. This young man is incredibly monotonous, and it's beginning to try my patience. Over the years I have managed to develop enough self-restraint to suffer fools like him without resorting to violence, but only up to a point. In fact, that's part of why I'm here."

"Now, look, Miss Whoever," I said with some indignation, "I don't know who you think..."

"Jack!" Mary Kelly interrupted me. "You have no idea who you're talking to, do you?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," I said irritably. 

"No," said the visitor, "you're just fumbling. You wanted to know who my father was. Even I do not know his real name, but he called himself Jack the Ripper. It might also interest you to know that my mother was Lizzie Borden. Quite a pedigree, is it not? So. Knowing what you now know about my antecedents-- even if you know nothing at all of me-- you might naturally assume that I am one of the very last people on earth that you would want to screw with in any way, shape or form. Have you indeed made that assumption, young sir?"

I just nodded. She was extremely convincing. Her eyes were boring into mine, and I felt light-headed-- almost giddy-- and seemed to have momentarily forgotten how to communicate verbally. I have gazed into many an abyss in my day-- both literal and figurative-- and had never really understood Nietzsche's old saw about the abyss gazing also into you. It just didn't seem like anything to be alarmed about. I mean, who cares? Be my guest! Gaze all you want, even take a few Polaroids if you feel inclined. It seemed pretty passive.

But this woman's eyes were an abyss unlike any other. What I saw in them was just a hint of deep strangeness and great danger. I knew there were things in there that I could never fathom. I also knew at that moment that she did not have the same trouble with me. To her, I wasn't an abyss-- I was a shallow wading pool, barely worth the handful of seconds it took her to compile a complete inventory of my soul. And, somehow, I got the impression that she was unimpressed with what she found.

She stood up and moved toward me, extending her hand. I rose from my chair, and we shook. Her hand was cool and dry, while my own had generated some unpleasant perspiration. I knew who she was. She was practically a clone of Lizzie Borden, whose likeness I had seen countless times. But there were no surviving photographs of Lizzie as a teenager. That was what had thrown the monkey wrench into my supposedly-eidetic memory. Our visitor was an anachronism in more ways than one.

"My name," she said, "is Mary Jane Gallows, and I have come to hire your sister and Miss Kelly to do a job for me. And I also have business with you, which I will explain in detail later on."


You can meet her too, if you're feeling brave. Just go here and plunk down 99 cents:

http://www.amazon.com/Journal-Bloody-Mary-Jane-Episode-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_12?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1406797256&sr=1-12

Available right now! Bloody Mary Jane-- the inside story.

Remember, even if you don't have a Kindle, there are several different free Kindle reading apps available.

GET IT HERE:
http://www.amazon.com/Journal-Bloody-Mary-Jane-Episode-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_12?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409638187&sr=1-12

July 13, 2014: The Day of Two Things

http://pulpcast.net/

One week from today, Sunday, July 13, 2014, will be a day of two things for me. One is that I will be on Pulpcast, a podcast you can find at the above link -- at 6 p.m. EDT. The other is that the first installment of THE FABULOUS WORLD OF ZENITH will become available for download at Amazon and several other outlets (see below). This new series will kick off with part one of THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE.
 
These are two things you won't want to miss. I sure don't. Let's all agree now that we won't.

 

More Miscreants

VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE FOR MORE THRILLS AND CHILLS-- DIRT CHEAP!!!
http://www.amazon.com/Chuck-Miller/e/B005WX2CKQ/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

 

BLOOD OF THE CENTIPEDE

reviewed by Greg Daniel

If Peculiar Oddfellow wasn't already the name of an interesting New Pulp character in his own right, it would be an apt descriptor and tagline for the Black Centipede. For the uninitiated, it is hard to describe the Black Centipede as a character without leaving the reader with slack jaw and raised eyebrow. Chuck Miller has really created a one of a kind hero ... or maybe anti-hero ... heck, by the time Miller is done with the Centipede Saga, he may play two supporting roles and be the villain as well.

For starters, the Black Centipede's adventures are presented in the first person "as told to" Chuck Miller. The Centipede's adventures were also chronicled back in the 1930s in his own pulp magazine by a writer who the Centipede views as an untalented hack. In Blood of the Centipede, said hack is now serving as screenwriter for a "B" movie featuring the Centipede, directed by Fatty Arbuckle and produced by William Randolph Hearst. This combination of multiple chroniclers, fiction within fiction, and a potentially unreliable narrator all lend a meta quality that one does not normally encounter in New Pulp, old Pulp, or any Pulp (except maybe that Tarantino movie).

The other thing that jumps out immediately and grabs the reader by the throat or eyeballs or other vital part is the voice. As I mentioned, it is in first person, which, while not unheard of, is relatively rare in masked vigilante stories. But it is the actual voice that makes it truly unique. It is sardonic, sarcastic, and downright snarky. It is not like any voice in the genre and it delivers a wild, twisting ride that touches on the action, adventure, mystery, and mysticism one comes to New Pulp to experience and delivers it in a manner that is both comforting and disorienting, like a funhouse at an amusement park. That is if that funhouse was designed by Salvador Dali

Miller walks an amazing tightrope in this book and it is testament to his skill and the character of the Black Centipede that I enjoyed it as much as I did, For you see, this story had several elements that, in general I don't like and yet I must admit that not only they worked, but they were necessary to the book. I hate it when a book (or movie or television show) starts in some predicament near the climax and then tells the bulk of the story in flashback. I hate dreams as a plot device. I am tired of Jack the Ripper stories. But here, these things worked.

It is hard to discuss much of the plot for fear of giving too much away. The Black Centipede heads to Hollywood with new partner-in-action, Amelia Earhart, to investigate a mysterious threat while also serving as a consultant to the aforementioned movie. There he discovers a familiar foe (or two) and a new nemesis, the White Centipede. He is helped and hindered by a new costumed vigilante, the Blue Candiru. He discovers a mystical tome of great power, has a run-in with Aleister Crowley, and is introduced to the Order of the Centipede, all while investigating a string of Jack-the-Ripper copycat killings.

But, trust me it isn't as simple as all that.

Blood of the Centipede is a whirling dervish, spinning wildly from childish fun to mystic ecstasy. It is The Shadow by Hunter S. Thompson. It is gonzo pulp. Give it a spin.

Lest I forget, I loved the back cover by Sean Ali. I don't know if it is the Spy vs. Spy vibe or what, but that is one cool piece and should be a poster or t-shirt or both.

http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Centipede-Chuck-Miller/dp/1479353582/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403482797&sr=1-2

Remembering Myra

An excerpt from a Doctor Unknown Junior classic-- and I use that word indiscriminately. You can get the whole thing HERE:
http://www.amazon.com/Pro-Se-Presents-Chuck-Miller/dp/1479250651/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_4_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1402469338&sr=1-4

THE ABOMINABLE MYRA LINSKY RISES AGAIN
A DOCTOR UNKNOWN JUNIOR adventure
By Chuck Miller
 

CHAPTER THREE: A TORSO OR SO

 The following afternoon, just for the hell of it, I was doing some actual work. I had cataloged all of the magical objects and fetishes Dana had on hand at the brownstone, and was now busy updating files pertaining to new occult spells and procedures. Dana needed to keep up with all this stuff for when and if she ever got herself back up to full strength. I wanted to have the administrative stuff in good shape before I left.

Dana, looking as glum as I had ever seen her, entered the office and went straight to her desk. She flopped down into her chair and busied herself with the vital work of staring at the wall. I continued with what I was doing, not wanting to embarrass her with inquires about her well-being.

Suddenly, the boards I had nailed over the broken window burst apart and flew across the room in a shower of splinters.

"Dammit!" I shouted, "that took me two hours!"

It was, of course, that goddamn stupid Piecework Horror again.

"I'm back," it said. This time it had two distinct voices, both of them speaking German-accented English. "Once I get some arms and legs, I'm going on a spree!"

Dana said a bad word, and so did I. The situation called for it. Who the hell wants to look at a thing like that? It hung there in the air, a few feet off the ground, Peter Kurten's nasty head, now welded onto the neck of a limbless torso. It was enough to give a person bad dreams.

I was startled, I'll admit, and my first move didn't amount to much. I stood and picked up the closest object at hand, a magic marker, and threw it. It bounced off the Horror's head, landed on the carpet, and rolled under the sofa.

"Bravo," Dana said sourly.

"Well, if you can do any better, go ahead!"

The Horror had not reacted at all to my withering barrage. It just drifted there, bobbing gently up and down. I wasn't sure what it was trying to accomplish. Keeping my eyes on the creature, I slowly and carefully opened one of my desk drawers and removed from it two objects. Meanwhile, Dana had gone into action of a sort. She had started up some kind of weird chant, and was moving her hands in intricate, sinuous patterns.

Though she had never explained it, I gathered that Dana's magical abilities were part genetic, part learned. She came from a family of powerful sorcerers of various stripes. Her father, Doctor Raul Deveraux Unknown, had been a crimefighter for years and years; her mysterious, never-mentioned mother had been some kind of a Voodoo bigwig down in New Orleans. Dana's slightly dusky complexion and dark hair hinted at some Creole in the woodpile. She never spoke of that side of her family, and I figured there was a story there that would one day manifest itself in some catastrophic way.

I did not know exactly what had been damaged in her or how she was going about fixing it. She kept that information a closely-guarded secret. It looked as though she was now trying to cast a spell, and I hoped she'd made progress since the last time she'd had a go at something magical.

It seemed that my hope was not in vain, because a small ball of light took shape in the air in front of her. Her hand movements speeded up and the chant rose in pitch. She seemed to be straining herself; she was sweating profusely and chanting through gritted teeth. The ball of light grew larger. The Piecework Horror just floated in place, as though it hadn't a care in the world. I was fiddling with the objects I had taken from my drawer, making sure one was charged and activated, and the other fully loaded.

Dana's ball of light swelled until it was a bit larger than a basketball. This seemed to satisfy her; her face and body relaxed and she took a deep breath. Shouting something that sounded like "Alakazam," (though she later denied that) she made a shoving motion with her hands, and the ball sped toward the Horror.

Almost. A valiant try, but Dana had rolled a gutter ball. The globe of whatever it was missed the floating monster by a good two feet and slammed into the wall, shattering the glass over a framed portrait of Harry Houdini. Dana cursed and ducked as the ball bounced back in her direction, whizzing over her head and hitting a bookcase, scattering volumes of sorcerous lore all over the place. Dana lost her footing and fell to the floor. The ball shuddered for a couple of seconds, then winked out.

"Nice," I said, aiming an ordinary automatic pistol at the Horror. "At least my magic marker didn't wreck the whole house, practically."

I fired five quick shots at the Horror's head. I didn't expect that to do anything but distract it, which was all I wanted. It rocked back a little and seemed to be in some mild distress. I sprang forward and tackled it around the waist, a very unpleasant experience. The thing was clammy and smelled of mold. It shook me off easily, which I had also expected.

I stepped back and fired my remaining two shots at the limbless ghoul. It bobbed and weaved and evidently decided it had had enough of me. It zoomed toward a window, crashed through it, and was gone.

I walked over to Dana, who was sprawled out on the floor among the scattered books. "Here, Annie Oakley," I said, holding my hand out. "On your feet."

She glared at me and took my hand. I hauled her upright.

"I don't want to hear anything else from you about this," she said. "Not ever."

"I'm sure you don't, but something tells me you're doomed to be disappointed."

She stomped over to her desk and sat down, scowling blackly at the scattered books.

I sat down at my own desk in a calm, self-possessed way, turned on my computer, and plugged a little gadget into one of the USB ports.

Dana got up and started picking up books and slamming them back onto the shelves. The occasional muttered curse word reached my ears.

I went online and typed in a URL that was known to very few people. I logged in, using a 75-character, case-sensitive password that I had committed to memory. I found the page I wanted, typed in an activation code, and sat back while a map of the United States loaded and the server on the other end of the connection opened a channel to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit.

"If you're looking at that Wet Hooters site again, Jack, I swear I'm going to put a parental control on that thing," Dana groused. "Why don't you help me clean this stuff up?"

"Because, one, I didn't make the mess, and, two, I'm busy."

I zoomed in on the map, enlarging the area in which a small red light was blinking. I took note of the direction and speed and made a few quick calculations in my head. Then I used my cursor to draw a straight line on the map. I smiled as I saw that the line passed right through a very interesting spot.

"Well, if you're too lazy to help pick up," Dana persisted, "you could at least do something vaguely productive."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, but we need to try to find out where the Horror is going next."

"Oh, I know where it's going," I said.

"What? How could you possibly know that?"

"I know because, while you were shooting off your Roman candle, I stuck a GPS tracker on the Horror."

That took the wind out of her sails.

"You did?" Dana asked, apparently astonished by my competence.

"Yes, I did," I said, studying the display on my monitor. "I'm on the Outrenet right now, tracking it. This is very interesting. If the Horror is traveling in a straight line, which it appears to be, and if it continues on its present course, it will be in Plainfield, Wisconsin, in a few hours."

If you don't know about the Outrenet, don't worry. You aren't supposed to. It exists alongside the Internet, and is used by people you've never heard of, to do things you know nothing about, for reasons you wouldn't understand.

"Is that significant?" Dana asked.

I laughed. "Yeah, kind of. Do you know who is buried in the Plainfield Cemetery?"

"Quite a few people, I would imagine."

"There's one in particular. I'll bet you anything that's where the Horror is headed. And if we hurry, we can get there before it does." Dana wanted to ask about fifty different questions, but I just gave her a nasty smirk and said, "Zip it, sister, and get your hat. We have miles to go before we put this baby to sleep."

I was enjoying knowing more than she did.

Before we left, Dana said, "I may be running on fumes, but I can at least keep that crazy bastard from getting into the house again." She performed some sort of a ritual that would seal the premises tight against further incursions by the Horror. This, evidently, did not constitute doing something to the creature, so it wasn't prohibited by the crazy rules.

"How do we know it worked?" I asked, reasonably enough.

"Well," she said, "we don't. But if the Horror does come back in, we'll know it didn't work."

I didn't find that reassuring at all. Maybe that was her revenge.



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* 

THE RETURN OF DOCTOR REVERSO CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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JAILBREAK!

Nineteen minutes later, Stanley and I stood in the gravel parking lot outside the prison. There was a gaping hole in the wall of the place. A bit of smoke was wafting from it, but the fire had already been extinguished.

"My God, Centipede," Stanley said, "I thought were were goners for sure."

"So did I," was my response. "I have never in my life been in a stickier situation. Never. When the tunnel collapsed and buried us under all that rubble, I sent up a heartfelt yet oddly insincere prayer for our souls. There may not be any atheists in foxholes, but a healthy skepticism can be preserved. I believe I'll write a little monograph on the subject. Perhaps the Christian Science Monitor would be interested."

I watched a swarm of masked, black-clad guards racing back and forth in front of the building. They were yelling at one another, but I couldn't understand anything they were saying.

"If you hadn't done what you did," Stanley said, grinning and shaking his head, "we would have been dead. How the hell did you manage that, anyhow?"

"Practice, my boy. Years and years of strict training and practice. I'll admit I never expected to be tested in quite that way, but I was ready for it just the same. Even so, It was the performance of a lifetime. I doubt I could repeat it. Split-second timing and good luck converged beautifully."

"Centipede, it was the single most thrilling, exciting experience I ever had," said my friend. "Even though it scared the hell out of me, there was something kinda beautiful about it. I mean, the way you handled it. I'm glad I witnessed it, that's all I can say."

"Stanley, you're minimizing your own role. You took my cues brilliantly. We acted in concert as a precision instrument. When I made that slight miscalculation, your improvisation was nothing short of genius."

"Aw, it was all in a day's work," he said modestly, shaking his head. "I just can't get over it, Centipede."

"It was absolutely extraordinary, all the way around," I said. "But, Stanley... You know nobody else will ever believe it, right?"

"They sure won't," he agreed sadly. "I'm certainly not putting any of it into a report."

I thought for a moment, then said, "I think we should agree, here and now, never to speak of it again. We'd only be asking for trouble."

"You're right," he said. "Okay, you got my word. My lips are sealed."

"Mine, too," I vowed. "It goes into my deepest vault, forevermore."

We shook on it.

I'd love to share the details with you, but, as you see, Stanley and I made a solemn pact. I know you wouldn't want me to dishonor it. Fear not, your touching hero-worship is not misplaced. The Black Centipede always keeps his word-- except, of course, for the not-infrequent occasions when he does not. But this isn't one of those. Thank you for understanding.

"Too bad Duranceville bought it," Stanley said, "even though I didn't like him much. He took a bullet from one of those commandos, eh?"

"Ah... Yes, yes, Stanley," I said-- somewhat convincingly, I thought. "I saw the whole thing. Just terrible. He was being menaced by one of the invaders. I thought I had a clear shot at his assailant, but I missed, curse the luck. The coward then gunned Duranceville down from behind. Of course, the impact from the shot turned poor Duranceville completely around, which is why the back of his head was actually turned toward me. I then returned fire and brought down the craven murderer. Now, one or two of my shots may have passed through Duranceville's already-dead body on the way to their target. It took the unfortunate man a while to fall down, you see. Probably one of those rare cases of instant rigor mortis-- there was a very interesting article about that in the New England Journal of Medicine, I think it was, or it may have been some European rag. Nothing you'd have seen. So, if any kind of ballistics report ever surfaces that makes it look like he was killed by a bullet from the gun I was using...Oh, poor Duranceville! I think he was really turning his life around, Stanley. Only to be cut down, right before my eyes! So senseless... So unfair." I shook my fists in impotent rage.

Stanley clapped me on the shoulder. "Nobody's blaming you," he said. "You worked miracles in there. You can't save them all, you know. Anyhow, I don't think we're gonna have to worry about any ballistics reports on this one."

I hung my head in apparent sorrow. It was all I could to not to burst out laughing. That moment completely justified my decision to wear a mask.

"Oh, my darling," cooed Anonymoushka, "you pizdeet kak Trotsky! A master prevaricator! You make me proud."

My faceless "fiancee," along with Prudence and Stymie, had gotten out of Stanley's car after the danger had passed. I was thankful they hadn't been anywhere near the line of fire. But they had witnessed the entire incident from the outside.

"Let's get in the car and get the hell out of here," I suggested. "You three can tell us what you saw."

We piled into the vehicle. Stanley started the engine, put the car in gear, and we were on our way.

Our three companions gave us their eyewitness report of the events they had observed. What had happened had happened very quickly. It had been another invisible dirigible attack, they said. They heard the thing pass over the car, then saw it become visible momentarily as it hovered over the building.

Something had dropped from the gondola. It had looked like a bomb, both Stymie and Anonymoushka said, but it hadn't acted like one. There was a bright flash of light when it struck the roof, but it didn't make a sound. There was no explosion. Instead, something that looked like a tidal wave of frothy, purple liquid rose up and spilled over the edge of the roof, running down the side of the building. At this point, my witnesses heard a loud crackling noise and saw smoke or steam rising from the liquid. It soon became apparent that the glop was a very powerful acid of some sort, because every bit of concrete it touched rapidly melted away. By the time the stuff reached the ground, there was a gaping breach in the wall-- some twenty feet wide, from the top to the bottom. A few small fires had evidently been started inside, possibly by the unknown chemical.

Quite a few of the black-clad guards seemed to have been caught by the purple substance during its descent, because they scattered out onto the grounds, screaming as their uniforms-- and the flesh inside them-- dissolved.

That was when the commandos hit. They dropped down from the dirigible on elastic cords that stretched just enough to stop their plunges two or three feet above the ground. Then they cut the cords, dropped to the ground, brandished all manner of weaponry, and charged into the building, gunning down what was left of the guards as they ran.

According to my witnesses, there had been somewhere between six and a hundred and fifty of these shock troopers, more or less. Approximately. They wore gas masks and dark green fatigues without any patches, badges, or other identifying marks on them.

Exactly what they did once they were inside, nobody knew. Or if they did, they weren't talking. Not to us. By the time Stanley and I had made our miraculous escape from the collapsed tunnel, the whole thing was all but over. We emerged into a world of noise and chaos. Relieving a dead guard of his sidearm, I had opened fire on the marauders, who were now making haste to exit the building they had so rudely entered. Whatever they had come here to do had been done. Ever one to find the silver lining, I had taken the opportunity to finish a little bit of old business, and then it was over.

After that, the surviving guards couldn't get rid of Stanley and me fast enough. They refused to tell us what had happened. We were informed that if we told anyone about these events, we wouldn't be believed, because in a few hours, this building would be gone. Not only that, but it would never have been here. No such building had ever existed on this spot, we were very pointedly told, and anybody who said different would be nuts-- and would be treated accordingly.

I almost challenged them, but, for Stanley's sake, I let it go. We took our leave and joined our companions, and none of the guards paid us any further attention. We found Anonymoushka, Stymie and Prudence, who seemed relieved to see us.

And now, as we zoomed along the dirt road, headed for home, the witnesses wrapped up their tale, giving us the lowdown on what had happened while Stanley and I were indisposed underground.

Stymie, acting as spokesman for the group, said, "After the main bunch of guys stormed the place, three or four more came down from the dirigible. They didn't use the cords, they were lowered on some kind of a platform, and they had a big piece of equipment with them. I don't know what it was, but they carried it inside. It took four of them to do it. Then nothing happened for five or ten minutes. Finally, the four men came back out, carrying that thing with them. It had steam coming out of it. They put it on the platform and then they waited. Pretty soon, the rest of the men came back out, and they had somebody with them. I guess it was a man, but he was about fifty feet tall and he was purple."

"Were they carrying him?" I asked.

"No, he was walking with them. He got onto the platform, and so did a few of the other men. The platform was pulled back up, right into the gondola. The dirigible dipped down a little bit, and the rest of the men got hold of those cords and climbed back up. Then the thing turned invisible again, and that was that. A couple minutes later, you and Lieutenant Bartowski came back out and now here we are."

We were all silent for a few moments, then I asked, "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Aside from the obvious, I mean. Anything at all?"

"Well," Stymie said diffidently, "I did see something... I think I did, anyhow. I can't be sure about it, but... It looked to me like there was a picture of somebody painted on the side of the dirigible."

"Doctor Almanac?" I said.

Stymie shook his head. "No, not him. I didn't get too good of a look, but the shape of the head was a lot different. To me, it looked like... It looked like the guy from your movie. You know, Doctor Reverso. Mag DeMilby, Junior. But I could be wrong."

"Yes," I said. "Perhaps you were mistaken. I don't believe for one second that you were, of course, but we can take a sort of vain and fragile comfort in the possibility. It might last five or ten minutes. Because if you saw what you saw, this thing just got even more confusing than it already was."

Stanley used some language that he normally refrained from in the presence of women and children.

I heartily agreed. And I made up my mind to have a very frank chat with Percival Doiley as soon as I could get my hands on him...

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT PART

"REVENGE OF THE CENTIPEDE"

"REVENGE OF THE CENTIPEDE"
A tale from between chapters of Blood of the Centipede
by Chuck Miller

SEE how the fantastic BLACK CENTIPEDE helped make radio and motion picture history in a single afternoon!

Read it now at the spiffy new PRO SE PRODUCTIONS website!

Right here:

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Centipedia: Mayor Carlton "Spuds" Dietrich

Carlton "Spuds" Dietrich served two terms as mayor of the city of Zenith during the 1930s. He was every bit as corrupt as he was inept, making him the preferred candidate among the movers and shakers in the city's criminal underworld. Dietrich was first elected in 1931, shortly after his release from Winnemac State Prison, where he had served a three-year term for fraud and price fixing while he was a member of the city council. 

Most observers attributed Dietrich's victory to the unique touch of his campaign manager, Frenchy Donovan. One of Zenith's most prominent racketeers, Donovan took time off from his duties in order to work full-time for the candidate. During a press conference held to kick off Dietrich's campaign, Donovan announced that he had "found the Lord," and was "turning over a new leaf." 

Interestingly, Dietrich received 104 percent of the popular vote. When confronted by the press after it was learned that many of the voters listed in the rolls had in fact passed away weeks or months prior to the election, Donovan made reference to the Biblical miracle of Lazarus and thanked the Lord for His good work.

Dietrich's opponent, Morton Beltrane, demanded a recount and vowed to take his case all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary. He was on his way to the federal courthouse to file the paperwork when he was accidentally run over by an unidentified man driving a car with no license plates. Four times. 

One of Dietrich's first acts upon taking office was to officially designate February 9 - 15, 1931, as "Beltrane Memorial Automobile Safety Awareness Week."

DOCTOR UNKNOWN'S first appearance in print, from SEPTEMBER 2011

FROM CREEPING DAWN: THE RISE OF THE BLACK CENTIPEDE

Published September 15, 2011

PRO SE PRESS

COPYRIGHT 2011 CHUCK MILLER
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THE TESTIMONY OF STAN BARTOWSKI:

“So there I am. Big chunks of the Gold Exchange building scattered all over the place. The one truck still burning a little bit. Dead German hoods strewn all over the landscape. It’s like I’m king of the hill, but there ain’t nobody left to play with.

“Then I remember something. Almanac.

“He’s still laying in the middle of the street, where I put him with that slug. I go over and poke at him. I can’t tell if he’s alive or not, but there he is, the man himself. Most wanted guy in Zenith, apart from you. I start thinking maybe this could be good.

“That’s when this kid picks his way through all the junk scattered everywhere. Says he’s a reporter, comes up with the name Percival Doiley, if you can believe that. Tells me he was on his way to catch the el when the front of the Gold Exchange came down. So he hid himself in an alley and watched. Saw the whole thing, and got pictures to boot. He wants to interview me, says I‘m the hero of the day. I talk with him a few more minutes, totally forgetting that I ought to be calling this in.

“But I guess someone else did. Eventually, a small army of cops arrive. The Commissioner himself shows up, and so does the Chief. I get pulled over to one side, and the Commissioner starts asking me questions.

“The first thing they do is draw up a cordon around the section of the street where Almanac’s body is lying. Nobody goes near it until this limo pulls up. Two guys get out of the back and I notice one of them is a priest and the other is a rabbi. Weird. Then a third guy gets out, and it turns weirder still.

“I recognize this mug because I saw him perform at a show in Middle Park a couple years ago. It’s that magician, Doctor Unknown! He had a lousy stage show, no wonder he didn’t last long. Then he got on the radio for a while, which also didn’t do anything for anybody. Why the hell would you have a magician on the damn radio, anyhow? Finally, I heard he started up a CPA firm somewhere, and I guess he must have found his whattayacallit,  niche. But here he was, and I later find out it’s by order of the mayor. Myself, I can’t see any call for either an accountant or a crummy magic show in the present circumstance, y’know?

“Anyhow, the cops let this third-rate Houdini and his holy pals pass through. He gets down on his knees and gives Almanac the once-over. Then he looks up and nods and the priest and the rabbi both whip out their holy books and start jabbering away, in Latin and I guess Hebrew. My first thought is that they’re giving Almanac the last rites, which I know doesn’t make any sense. Unknown stands up and waves to a couple of cops standing by the limo. They reach into the backseat and come out with their arms full of all kinds of junk, which they carry over to Unknown.

“He unfolds this straitjacket with all kinds of weird symbols painted all over it. They lift Almanac up and put it on him and strap it up tight. When this is done, Unknown pulls a hypodermic out of his pocket and draws some blood outta Almanac’s neck. Then come the chains and shackles. They wind about five miles of iron all around Almanac’s body. It takes nine guys to lift him up and schlep him over to what looks like a hearse. In he goes, and the hearse pulls out, with four squad cars escorting it.

“And, of course, you know what happened after that.”

I did indeed. Doctor Unknown had been unable to determine whether or not Almanac was still alive. Unknown, in spite of his shortcomings as a performer, was a very genuine and very skilled practitioner of the mystic arts, regarded very highly in certain arcane circles. It was plain that Almanac had been throwing some pretty heavy magic around that day, so they didn’t want to take any chances. Somebody somewhere must have seen the fight and understood what they were looking at. Word got to police headquarters pretty fast, then to the mayor’s office. The mayor addressed the situation with uncharacteristic alacrity. He called in Doctor Unknown.

The cops and the doctor wrapped up the corpus and sealed it with umpteen different mystical signs and sigils, and transported it to an undisclosed secure location.

At least, that was how it was supposed to have happened.

There were conflicting stories about what, exactly, happened en route to that not-so-secure location. But the bottom line was the same; Almanac was alive, and he got away. For him, it was a clean getaway. For his escorts, not so much. Doctor Unknown was in a coma. The priest and the rabbi were dead. Eighteen cops had apparently ceased to exist. Everyone else was in a blind panic that would last for a week.

Twelve pounds of miscellaneous unidentifiable human biological material scattered over a square quarter-mile was all they found afterward. There were no bones and no blood that could be typed. Whether the badly-damaged tissue belonged to any or all of the cops could not be determined.