Mary Jane Kelly R.I.P.

One hundred and twenty-eight years ago today, Mary Jane Kelly was murdered in her room at Number 13 Miller's Court in London. She is believed to have been the final victim of the serial killer known as Jack the Ripper.

FROM VIONNA AND THE VAMPIRES:


CHAPTER SIX: THE FINAL PROBLEM


We ran all the way from the cafe back to Baker Street, leaving Moriarty behind. When we got there, Mary was gone. She had left us a note, though:

"Joseph Barnett sent word that he wants to meet me back at my room. I feel a certain obligation toward him. I have no wish to marry, but he must be told that he is to be a father. I shall be back to Baker Street as soon as possible."

My heart sank. How long ago had Mary written this note? Had she already stuck it to our door when I went out to investigate the empty house? I had forgotten to take any kind of precautions at 221-B before I rushed off with Moriarty. Had Mary still been there then? Could I have prevented her from going to Miller's Court? Oh, gosh, how stupid could I be, anyhow? The Ripper was Joseph Barnett, or vice versa. That had to be it.

"Dear God, Valis!" Holmes cried. "We haven't a moment to lose. We must get to Miss Kelly immediately!"

We got a hansom cab, and Holmes made a total nuisance of himself, pestering the driver to go faster. I didn't blame him. I'd have done it myself if Holmes hadn't had it so totally covered. Anyhow, I was busy trying to convince myself that Mary Kelly was okay and I wasn't to blame for anything. 

"Vionna is the girl that won't be blamed for nothing." 

The sun had climbed well above the rooftops by the time we got to Miller's Court. Holmes literally threw a handful of money at the cab driver. 

We made our way Number 13. Holmes tried the door and found it locked. He banged on it for a few seconds, but that didn't accomplish anything. He went over to the little window and discovered that one of the panes was broken out. He put his hand in, pulled back the curtain, and peeked inside. He stayed that way, slightly crouched down with his eye to the opening, for a very long time. I began to notice a terrible smell coming from someplace. Holmes kept on not moving or speaking, and I could not make myself move from where I was standing, or make myself say anything, either. 

I knew what Holmes was looking at. I had a picture in my mind that came from somewhere else-- I couldn't explain it, but I knew it was for real. Poor Mary Kelly, lying dead in that room. And not just dead-- the Ripper had outdone himself this time. The mutilations he had inflicted went way beyond the stuff he had done before. I couldn't think of any words to describe it. I just stood there, crying, without making a sound.

Finally, after about a million years, Holmes turned around to face me.

It was too, too late. I could tell by the look in Holmes' eyes. I had never seen anything like it. He was trembling, and all the blood had drained out of his face. The terrible smell got worse and worse and I imagined all sorts of things, and I knew that none of them could be as bad as what Sherlock Holmes had seen.

I felt like my head had been hollowed out completely. I couldn't move. As Holmes stood there, looking at me, I thought I saw a very bright light shine through the thin fabric of the curtain for just a second. Then, a few moments later, it seemed to me that I could hear my own voice coming from inside the room. I shook my head. I was losing my grip.

"We... We should go, Valis," he said. 

"The police..?" I said.

Holmes closed his eyes. "To hell with the police," he said in someone else's voice. "And Her Majesty's government, too. To hell with sorcerers and vampires and all their bloody games. And, most of all, to hell with the brilliant Mister Sherlock Holmes."

I didn't like the sound of that. I knew I had just heard someone die, and I don't mean Mary Kelly.

Just then, a man came around a corner and started walking up the alleyway in our direction. I have no idea what he looked like. I couldn't really see anything just then. The man was tall or short or young or old or well-dressed or shabby. I hated him immediately, just because he was there.

"I don't imagine you know a Miss Mary Kelly that lives in that room there?" he said. I wanted to hit him.

"No, not really," Holmes replied dully.

The man gave us a curious look. I prayed that he would make a smart remark so I'd have an excuse to crack his head open. The nerve of him, standing there like that, running his mouth, while Mary Kelly...

"I've had the devil of a time pinning her down," the man was saying. "My name's Thomas Bowyer. I work for Mister M'Carthy, the landlord. Miss Kelly is seriously in arrears on her rent. In fact, it has reached the crisis point. If she comes up with one more tale about being skint..."

"I shouldn't worry about that," Holmes said in a hollow voice. "I shouldn't worry about that at all." He grabbed me by the wrist and led me away. Mister Thomas Bowyer stood scratching his stupid head.

We were almost three blocks away when we heard Thomas Bowyer scream. I hoped he would never, never, ever forget what he was seeing. I hoped his hair would turn white. 

Neither Holmes nor I said a single word. We just kept walking until we reached 221-B Baker Street. Everything we passed looked and smelled funny. The sky itself seemed to be smeared with blood-- it had soaked into the ragged little clouds, and the smell of it filled the whole world.

When we finally reached 221-B, we found an envelope stuck to the door, addressed to Mister Sherlock Holmes. The handwriting on the front of it was familiar. We both knew who it was from, and neither of us wanted to open it up. We plodded up the stairs, and Holmes tossed the envelope onto the floor. He slumped into his chair and refused to answer any questions, or to speak at all. I sat down in the basket chair. 

We sat there like that, totally silent, for a very long time. Hours, probably. I really can't be sure. I might even have nodded off for a while. At some point, I became aware that Holmes had gotten to his feet. He did not speak or even look at me as he moved over to the fireplace.

Sherlock Holmes took a bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and a hypodermic syringe from a neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction, and ... 

I stood up, too. I picked up the envelope that Jack the Ripper had affixed to our front door from the floor where Holmes had tossed it, and stuck it in my pocket. Then I just sort of wandered out into the street. I wanted to go someplace, but I didn't know where.

***

https://www.amazon.com/Vionna-Vampires-Moriarty-Lord-Book/dp/1495948617/

BLACK CENTIPEDE TIMELINE (UNDER CONSTRUCTION)

A Timeline of the Black Centipede's World (contains spoilers)
Here is my partial timeline, as it stands now, of the history of the Black Centipede's world:

1852: November 27-- Apparent death of Ada Lovelace (Daughter of Lord Byron and reigning White Centipede.)

1860: Jack the Ripper discovers the mysterious Order of the Centipede, and sets into motion his plans to subvert and take control of the organization.

1871: October 18--  Death of Charles Babbage; Jack the Ripper takes possession of Babbage's advanced designs for his Analytical Engine, and begins construction on his own machine.

1885: Alice Crook aka Vionna Moriarty born  April 18.

1888: The Ripper performs a powerful blood ritual, murdering five woman in London, including Mary Jane Kelly.
A time-traveling Vionna Valis helps Sherlock Holmes investigate the Ripper murders.
Professor Moriarty makes a deal with Dracula.

1891: Death and vampiric rebirth of Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes presumed dead.

1892: Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper create Bloody Mary Jane; Andrew and Abby Borden murdered.
Bloody Mary Jane travels to Florida, where she meets Juan Ponce de Leon, Cotton Mather, the fugitive Ada Lovelace, and the vampire Moriarty.
Later in the year, Bloody Mary Jane accompanies Moriarty's daughter Vionna to Russia, where she will live with the family of  Tsarevich Nicholas.

1894:  Tsarevich Nicholas becomes Tsar Nicholas II.

1897: A mysterious alien craft crashes in Aurora Texas. Jack the Ripper takes possession of the pilot's remains.

1903: Under the direction of Jack the Ripper, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin becomes the new White Centipede.

1905:  Rasputin is introduced to Nicholas II and Alexandra.

1908: Professor Moriarty assassinates Count Dracula in Tunguska and becomes Lord of the Undead.

1911: Feb. 5-- Birth of William ---------, the future Black Centipede.

1920s: William befriends writer Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

1927: "Forty Whacks" William meets Lizzie Borden and Bloody Mary Jane; becomes the Black Centipede.

1927-1932: William goes to work for his grandfather, then travels the world to pursue his self-training. William encounters the faceless Russian assassin Anonymoushka, and has many other adventures. He jousts on several occasions with Bloody Mary Jane. Meets Doctor Raoul Unknown.

1932: William returns to Zenith.

1932-1933: "Creeping Dawn" - The Black Centipede begins his career in Zenith, meets Frank Nitti, Percival Doiley, Baron Samedi, Stanley Bartowski and William Randolph Hearst. The origins of Doctor Almanac and the Stiff.

"Funeral for a Fiend" - Ties up a loose end from Ceeping Dawn

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."

1933: "Blood of the Centipede" - The Black Centipede meets Amelia Earhart and travels to Hollywood to consult on the Hearst-financed motion picture "Blood of the Centipede." There, he encounters the Black Centipede Eater, the White Centipede, and Jack the Ripper.

"The Plague's the Thing" - Standalone story featuring Amelia Earhart and the diabolical Rev. Dr. Theobald Schadelhaus.

"The Return of Doctor Reverso" Doctor Almanac makes a brief return. Anonymoushka shows up again.

"Black Centipede Confidential." Moriarty descends on Zenith, intent on possessing the Analytical Engine.

Actor Lancelot Cromwell, star of the movie "Blood of the Centipede" decides to fight crime in the guise of the Red Dagger. Things do not go swimmingly.

1934: The Centipede's first recorded battle with super-criminal Adrian Countenance; the Centipede meets William S. Burroughs.

1937: March 1-- The Centipede is visited by Vionna Valis and Mary Jane Kelly from the year 2012, and Dana Unknown from the year 2112. March 15-- Death of H.P. Lovecraft July 2-- Disappearance of Amelia Earhart

1940: Elena Milagro de Hoyos is resurrected by Carl Von Cosel. Elena is infected with a mutant strain of bubonic plague; she is stopped by the Centipede and Doctor Unknown before she can contaminate a large portion of the United States.

1942: Moriarty escapes from Area 51.

1952: "Gasp, Choke Good Lord!" The Centipede meets Dr. Frederic Wertham, William M. Gaines and Albert Fish.

1957: "Wisconsin Death Trip." The Centipede encounters Ed Gein and his mother.

1963: John F. Kennedy is assassinated in Dallas. The Black Centipede tries and fails to prevent the president's death.

1972: The Black Centipede uncovers the horrible plot being hatched by Richard Nixon, who is really [REDACTED] and J. Edgar Hoover.

May 2-- Death of J. Edgar Hoover; the Centipede, wanted for his murder, becomes a fugitive. Hoover's death ruins [REDACTED]'s immediate plans. Thinking it unwise at this point to assassinate the President of the United States, the Centipede decides to keep Nixon too busy to regroup.

Late 1972 through 1973-- Working undercover, the Centipede makes the acquaintance of G. Gordon Liddy and the inner circle of White House henchmen. He suggests, plans and helps orchestrate the Watergate break-in. He makes sure the burglars are caught. He continues to gather information, then begins leaking it to reporters Woodward and Bernstein.

1974: August 8-- Nixon resigns.

1978: The Centipede is captured by authorities in California and committed to the Napa State Mental Hospital. The hospital's new administrator turns out to be Adrian Countenance, who has a sinister agenda. With the help of a rock band called the Cramps, the Centipede defeats Countenance and escapes.

Twenty - Fifteen Years Ago: Zenith experiences a brief but very unpleasant super-heroic age. Commander Power, Captain Ultra-Superior Man, Captain Triangle, the New Red Dagger, Doctor Unknown, Captain Mercury and others form a new Legion of Law and Order, which limps along for a little over three years. The group self-destructs when their quest to bring the Black Centipede to justice turns into an unmitigated catastrophe.

Twelve Years Ago: Captain Ultra-Superior Man disappears, and Commander Power and Captain Mercury are killed by Professor Ulysses Ubik. Jack Christian, the former Kid Mercury, goes off the deep end.

Eleven Years Ago: More than two million people die worldwide during the Little Precious Crisis. The bizarre cybernetic super-terrorist goes on a four-day rampage of destruction. Jessie Von Cosel, the eight-year-old human half of the binary consciousness known as Little Precious is tried and imprisoned on a refurbished Alcatraz Island. The robot that was the other half of the Little Precious organism is not found. (Rumors of the involvement of Professor James Moriarty, Lord of the Vampires, are addressed in "The Return of Little Precious.")

Seven Years Ago: Doctor Unknown Senior accidentally destroys the world. Though he and his daughter, Dana Unknown, are able to reboot the timestream and erase the episode from history, he is a broken man. He retires and slips into alcoholic obscurity. Dana takes over his duties, as Doctor Unknown Junior.

2011- Present: "The Optimist" Jack Christian returns to Zenith, where a shadowy crime lord called Melmoth has been consolidating his power. The Black Centipede is trying to track Melmoth down. Mary Jane Kelly and the Ripper's other victims are resurrected in the Black Centipede's Orgone Superaccumulator.

"Close Encounters of a Kind We'd Rather Not Think About" Vionna Valis and Mary Jane Kelly incorporate the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee Psychic Detective Agency.

"The Abominable Myra Linsky Rises Again" Jack goes to work with Dana Unknown. This story is both prequel and sequel to "Blood of the Centipede." The White Centipede is resurrected.

"Vionna and the Vampires" Moriarty makes his last stand. Or does he?

"The Return of Little Precious." Jack and Dana battle Little Precious and the White Centipede. (COMING SOON!)

 

A young Vionna Valis, ready for action.

THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE

What the reviewers have to say about THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE by Chuck Miller. Check it out-- just 99 cents!

5.0 out of 5 stars 
Like no other science fiction/fantasy writer today!
By N. Dewolfe
"Chuck Miller always serves up a wild ride! Enjoyed it immensely."

*

5.0 out of 5 stars Anxiously waiting for more
By Stephen P. Allen
"A great beginning. Can't wait for the next installment. Very good writing and story makes you crave more."

HERE:
http://www.amazon.com/Journal-Bloody-Mary-Jane-Episode-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=cm_cr_pr_bdcrb_top?ie=UTF8

 Introductory Remarks by Mary Jane Gallows

Those who have read the first volume of the memoirs of the Black Centipede, the rather grandiosely-titled Creeping Dawn: The Rise of the Black Centipede, may think you know quite a bit about me. You do not. Nobody knows the secrets entombed in the yellowing pages of my journals-- not even my darling William, whom I have known in every conceivable sense of the word for almost 90 years now.

There was a time when I thought I wanted to be like you. I knew so little of myself at the beginning of my journey in 1892. I killed Lizzie's father and stepmother, just as she wanted me to. I couldn't be blamed for that. I was only doing what I was created to do.

Once that was accomplished, I took it into my head that I wanted to be human. I cannot imagine now why that seemed such an attractive prospect. We are foolish when we are young.

My father had gone by the time I completed my mission. I did not know that I would ever see him again, and I sensed that Lizzie would have no further truck with me. I was alone and thought myself free.

I thought I wanted what I thought everyone else had. I didn't know why I wanted this, any more than you do. And, like you, I didn't question it. Not for a very long time. It took years and years for the flesh of the illusory world to rot and drop away and reveal the bare bones of the lies that are the foundations of this world.

But back then, in 1892, I was not wise. I believed all manner of foolishness. I knew nothing of the portentous events taking place all over the globe, events in which I was already deeply involved. It would be many years before I met the one who would give my life shape and purpose and help me to learn the truth about myself. He would not be born for another 18 years, and it would be 17 more before we would come together for the first time.

I was alone and I feared that I would always be so.

But, really, in the end-- aren't we all?


Mary Jane Gallows
Black Kettle National Grassland, Oklahoma
April, 2014

***

 1.0 out of 5 stars 
This is a book of horrible, repulsive story
November 15, 2014

"Not enjoyable story. This is a book of horrible, repulsive story. Author has written excess amount of murder and blood. It can be causes of unwanted incidents. So, I suggest avoiding this book."

http://www.amazon.com/Journal-Bloody-Mary-Jane-Episode-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=asap_B005WX2CKQ_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1416108594&sr=1-4

BLACK CENTIPEDE CONFIDENTIAL

The Black Centipede and his friend and partner, Amelia Earhart, will return in Black Centipede Confidential, facing off against Professor Moriarty, Lord of the Vampires, and his diabolical Order of the Sunless Circle. The stakes are higher than ever this time around, and our heroes will be sorely pressed. But they will not fight alone. Joining them will be the members of the Black Centipede's Invisible Round Table.

 BLACK CENTIPEDE CONFIDENTIAL: THE FIGHT CARD

(Some names appear on both lists. They aren't typos-- they're just fickle.)

THE BLACK CENTIPEDE and the INVISIBLE ROUND TABLE:

Amelia Earhart

Anonymoushka

Gregor Samsa
Patience and Prudence

J. Alfred Prufrock

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Percival Doiley

Resurrection Mary

Lester Dent

Walter B. Gibson

Bela Lugosi

John Dillinger

Mary Jane Gallows

Dr. Wilhelm Reich

Frank Nitti

and a

SUPER-SECRET SURPRISE GUEST HERO!

VERSUS

 PROFESSOR JAMES MORIARTY, LORD OF THE VAMPIRES, and the 
ORDER OF THE SUNLESS CIRCLE:

Bonnie Parker

Clyde Barrow

Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd

John Dillinger

Kate "Ma" Barker

Max Schreck

Dr. Herbert West, Re-Animator

Zelda Fitzgerald

Dr. Hawley Crippen

Mary Jane Gallows

Judith DeCortez

Stagger Lee

The Loch Ness Monster

The Bell Witch

and a

SUPER-SECRET SURPRISE GUEST ARCH-FIEND!

BLACK CENTIPEDE CONFIDENTIAL-- MAY be published within the lifetime of the author and the readers, we hope. So, to renew your acquaintance and/or whet your appetite, here is an excerpt from BLOOD OF THE CENTIPEDE:

CHAPTER TEN: FISHING TRIP


Frank Nitti had been as good as his word-- a relatively new experience for him, I imagined-- and Amelia and I went out on another fact-finding mission, armed with the list of speakeasies. I went unmasked, dressed in something other than one of my customary suits of solemn black. Amelia, very wisely, had donned a suit of men's clothes and had her hair stuffed up under a newsboy cap.

I had taken possession of my car that afternoon-- I had made arrangements for it to be shipped out on a freight train when it started looking like I might need it.  Amelia and I visited one dive after another, and we played it very low-key.  We sat and drank and listened to conversations around us. We identified the drunkest and most questionable-looking patrons and struck up acquaintances, paying for drinks, listening to stories, asking very discreet questions. We learned the same rumors over and over again, about an unknown new crime boss who was trying to set up shop, and about the mad Judith DeCortez, who was thought to be working for him.

Nothing we didn't already know.

"The important thing about an iron fist in a velvet glove," I observed at one point, "is that it has an iron fist in it. We're getting nowhere fast using the glove by itself."

"I'm just not comfortable with all that violence."

"Nobody is. That's how come it works."

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am. I don't see how you ever could have doubted it. I am, after all, an expert. Whoever this guy is-- whether he's this so-called White Centipede or not-- he is ruthless. Judith DeCortez is ruthless. That means whoever goes up against them has got to be ruthless, too. He has to be more ruthless than they are, or he will not win. And if he doesn't win, he is dead. Very straightforward."

Amelia stood up. "Well, in any event, I think I've had enough of this. Let's go."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. I could really use some fresh air."

So we hit the street and walked around aimlessly for the better part of an hour. We were dressed rather roughly, and I had plastered an expression on my face that was an unmistakable warning to anyone who thought he might like to try any rough stuff on us. I wasn't worried about ordinary muggers and sex perverts. I almost wished somebody would get big ideas-- the exercise would have done me some good.

As we crossed a street at the corner, something caught Amelia's eye. She peered up the cross street and said, "Isn't that Roscoe Arbuckle?"

"Where?"

"Ducking into that alley, there." I looked in the direction she was pointing her finger, and saw a figure that certainly matched Fatty in terms of height and girth.

"Could be," I said. "Wonder what he's doing down here."

"So do I. Let's find out."

I shrugged and followed her toward the mouth of the alley. I didn't have anything better to do. And if Fatty was a habitué of this kind of neighborhood, he might be of some help.

We reached the alley and peeped around the corner. I saw someone slip around the corner at the other end of the alley, but whoever it was was too tall and slender to be Arbuckle. From where I was, I could not see any doorways into which Fatty might have ducked. Motioning for Amelia to remain where she was, I crept around the corner and made my way toward the opposite end of the alley. There were no convenient doorways, and I figured Fatty-- or whoever it was-- had simply cut through to the next street. I was on my way back to Amelia when something caught my eye.

Someone had chalked a few words onto the brick wall roughly at the halfway point of the alley. They were as high up as the shoulders of an average man, and they looked fresh:

The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing

If not for the fact that I have nerves of steel and ice water in my veins, I would no doubt have felt an icy talon clutching my heart just then. I recognized that sentence. And what was chalked onto the wall just below it, in smaller letters, gave me considerable pause:

It Begins Again

"What's that?" Amelia asked, peering over my shoulder, apparently having trotted up while I was in deep contemplation.

"This?" I replied. "It's nothing. Just some silly graffiti."

She gave it a look. "Huh. Crazy. Is that some kind of anti-Semitic screed?"

"I guess." I didn't tell her where, and under what circumstances, the odd message with the curious spelling had famously appeared many years earlier.  It had been found scrawled on a wall in London, England, some 44 years before, in close proximity to two very extraordinary murders. Many believed that the message had been written by the faceless jackal known as Jack the Ripper.

You know, the guy they never caught...
 
But it probably didn't mean anything here. I filed it away in my brain. I had bigger things to worry about.

"Gosh," Amelia said, "there are a lot of Jews in the movie business. I hope nobody's trying to start some of that Nazi crap over here."

"So do I," I said.

"No Fatty?" she asked.

"No Fatty," I affirmed.

We decided to call it a night.

Back in my room, I went through the motions of another fruitless attempt to analyze the material I had obtained from the rubber-suited woman. None of it made sense. I crawled into bed and glanced through the newspaper.

The first of FDR's Civilian Conservation Corps facilities had just opened in Michigan. In Scotland, someone claimed to have spotted a huge aquatic monster in Loch Ness. Adolf Hitler had eliminated all of the labor unions in Germany. Someone calling himself the Blue Candiru had foiled a bank robbery in Los Angeles. Another new masked avenger, evidently. Hooray.

I tossed the paper onto the floor, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

Now BUY it already!

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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...

**
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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

Vionna and the Vampires sample

Known for taking Genre Fiction in strange, twisted directions, award winning author Chuck Miller, creator of 'The Black Centipede', leads readers on a brand new 'Psychedelic Pulp' experience with his latest novel from Pro Se Productions- VIONNA AND THE VAMPIRES: Book One of the Moriarty, Lord of The Vampires Trilogy!

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So said Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, more than a century ago.

Vionna Valis and Mary Jane Kelly are a pair of hard working psychic detectives experiencing a run of bad luck. A new detective agency, the Femmes Fatales, is taking most of their business. Things seem to change for the better in the form of a new client named Scudder Moran, a wealthy young man with a unique problem; He has been targeted by the very, very late Professor James Moriarty—the Napoleon of Crime in another century, now Lord of the Vampires! Unexpected help arrives in the ghostly person of the Great Detective himself, and they set about unraveling a tangled web of lies and secrecy that reaches deep into each of their lives. Can they find the light before Moriarty unleashes his final, most horrific scheme?

"Chuck Miller," says Tommy Hancock, Partner in and Editor-in-Chief of Pro Se Productions, "is by far one of the most unique talents in Genre Fiction today. He takes the staples and standards of several different types of stories and doesn't just mix them together. Somehow he intricately weaves usually disparate parts into the wildest trip on fiction I think any reader has ever taken. The Black Centipede stands out as a vastly distinct character from the rest of his masked cohorts and You'll most definitely discover that Vionna and her cast of cohorts shine in their own deliciously dark way as well."

VIONNA AND THE VAMPIRES by Chuck Miller (Creator of The Black Centipede) is the first volume in the “Moriarty, Lord of the Vampires” trilogy. With a demonically evocative cover by Jeff Hayes and format and design by Percival Constantine, this is definitely an opening chapter to a trilogy like no other in New Pulp.

VIONNA AND THE VAMPIRES is available in print and Kindle from Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Vionna-Vampires-Moriarty-Lord-Book-ebook/dp/B00IXX9OB2/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_6_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409659532&sr=1-6

SAMPLE CHAPTER from  
VIONNA and the VAMPIRES:
PART THREE
THE GHOST AND THE MACHINE
 
CHAPTER ONE: SHERLOCK HOLMES DISCOURSES

“Vionna,” Mary said gently. “Whatever is the matter?”

I had just stumbled down the stairs, after pulling on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. I was thinking about the very vivid dream I had just had, and it was making me cry. On top of that, my head was pounding. I don't mean I had a bad headache. I wasn't in any pain at all. It just felt like there was some kind of pounding going on in there-- muffled, but strong and steady.

I must have looked kind of crazy, because Mary seemed shocked when she laid eyes on me. As for me, I was so happy to see her alive, I ran and hugged her as hard as I could.

"Vionna!" she said. "What is it?"

"I had a dream," I said. "A very, very, very strange and bad dream."

"What happened in it?"

I shook my head. "I can't say right now." I let go of her and stood back, sniffling loudly.

"Have you had another of those strange lapses? We need to discuss those, Vionna. I think I may know..."

She didn't finish her sentence because poor little Vionna chose that moment to roll her eyes back in her head and fall to the floor. The pounding had become stronger and faster, and now something else was going on, too. It seemed I was hearing voices, more than one of them, coming from down in the bottom part of my mind. They got louder and louder, but I couldn't tell what they were saying.

“Oh gosh,” I said. “Oh, wow. Mary, I see what’s going on. There’s someone ELSE in here now!” I started pounding on my right temple with the heel of my hand.

Mary grabbed me by my wrists to make me stop hitting myself.

“Vionna,” she said, in the kind of voice you use on hysterical children or people who just aren’t right in the head. “Calm down, sweetheart. Everything is okay.”

By this time, I was bawling.

“No it isn’t!” I shook my head rapidly back and forth, flinging tears and snot all over the place, including onto Mary, who either didn’t notice it or decided to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“It isn’t okay,” I wailed. “I can’t have anyone else living in here. Next, it will be a whole family, and their dogs and cats too. I’m not big enough! I’ll collapse, and we’ll all die! I don’t wanna be Ground Zero!”

“Shhhh,” Mary shushed, pulling me by the wrists over to the couch and making me sit down.

“Darling,” she said soothingly, “you must gain control of yourself. Whatever is happening, you can deal with it. I shall help you.”

We went back and forth like this for quite a while. I won’t write all of it down because I’m sure you aren’t interested in four or five solid pages of me wigging out. I’ll just cut to the chase, which consists of me sitting quietly, wiping my face with my shirtsleeve.

“Here,” Mary said, handing me a hanky. “You don’t want that all over your clean shirt.” For a second, she reminded me of my mother, but then I remembered that I don’t remember my mother at all.

“Let me try something,” she said. “As you know, I haven’t been able to sense or communicate with your ‘Roommate.’ But if some new entity is trying to take up residence, I may be able to do something for you. I know where the odd things you've been saying come from. I didn't say anything because I didn't know what to make of it. But something must be done. My psychic powers aren’t all that reliable, but, as they say, it couldn’t hurt.”

Sniffling, I said to her, “You have no way of knowing that, but I don’t care, go ahead. Quickly please.”

Mary got all quiet. A while back, she watched an episode of “Star Trek” where Mister Spock did that Vulcan mind thing with somebody, and it really impressed her. She closed her eyes, twisted her hands into funny shapes, and put the tips of her fingers on my forehead and temples.

I closed my eyes, too.

Mary said, “My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts… Ah, here I am. This is one of those representational telepathic virtual environments I have read about. You’re unconsciously creating it yourself. Goodness, but it’s realistic. Like a big, old castle. You really should consider going into architecture, Vionna."

I couldn't see any of what Mary was seeing. I had my eyes shut tight, in both the actual world and my telepathic virtual environment.

“Ah, there’s the door behind which your ‘Roommate’ lives. My goodness, it’s solid steel. It appears to have no hinges and no handle. Just a tiny opening, like a mail slot. Perhaps your lost memories are in there, too. But that isn’t… Hello, what's this? It looks like a sound stage or a.. a movie lot! Why, it's London, in what appears to be the late Nineteenth Century. What on earth?

"Oh! There IS someone else in here.

“Yes, I can see you there," Mary said, evidently to somebody inside my head; I couldn't hear whoever it was, but apparently Mary could. 

"Whatever are you up to? Do you know you are causing this young woman a great deal of agitation? What did you say? You must speak up. Come closer, please, or would you rather I come to you? Very well. Let me just get a look at you, then. Are you… Oh my! Oh my effing God! It’s YOU! This is… I wasn’t effing expecting anything like this! Gee effing dee!

“What’s that? Oh, I know. But this is the twenty-first century. Everyone talks that way now. Even women and children. But never mind. What are you doing here? How did you get here? I see. Yes, I shall help you out of here. It must be frustrating for you. I can lend you sufficient energy for a very clear and stable manifestation. Hold my hand, now. Are you ready? On the count of three, then. One… two…”

THREE! The inside of my head suddenly felt the way it was supposed to. It was a great relief. I opened my eyes, then blinked them several times because they were kind of sore, like they get when you’re really sleepy. When I could see again, I found Mary at my right side.

And on my left was a man I had not expected to see again so soon.

The look he was giving me is what I think they call pensive. He was sort of smiling, but he also looked like he was afraid he was about to get into huge trouble over something.

I turned back and looked at Mary again. I opened my eyes up really wide and raised my eyebrows, which is how you ask “What?” without actually saying it.

“Vionna,” she said. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine.” She made her voice sound all formal, in a joking way, if you know what I mean.

“Miss Vionna Valis, may I present Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Yes,” said Mary. "His ghost, at any rate. Mister Holmes, this is my dear friend, Vionna Valis."

“Indeed,” said the ghost, nodding at me." I feel I know you already after what passed between us last night," he told me. If somebody had walked into the room at that moment, and that was all they heard, they might get some funny ideas.

Mary looked surprised. "You two... know one another?"

"Did you put that dream into my head?" I asked, ignoring Mary for the moment.

"I did," said Holmes. "Your mind is a great deal less chaotic when you are asleep. I was able to gather my wits and communicate with you in that fashion. Honestly, Miss, I was afraid I would never be able to get out of your head. You have a power about you... Well, thanks to Miss Kelly, I finally did. What I showed you last night was a series of events from 1888, more or less as they happened. I merely deleted my friend Watson and put you in his place."

"What dream?" Mary asked. "The one you were upset about earlier, Vionna?"

"Uh-huh. But I don't think it was really a dream at all."

"It wasn't," Holmes said. "There really isn't a word for what it was. It is simply something that I found myself able to do. I induced it, but I did not have full control over it. Miss Valis, you seemed to pick up on things of which I was unaware at the time. In some fashion, we may have actually gone back there, to that time and place."

"Yeah," I said. "Or one just like it. When I was there, I didn't know anything about my actual real life here in the present. I met you there, Mary, but I didn't know who you were."

Holmes smiled. "You perceived facts and made deductions that I was unable to, the first time I experienced those events. I believe you may have learned things I still do not know."

Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to Mary. “Miss Kelly,” he said, “I am so terribly sorry I was unable to prevent your murder, or lay my hands upon the fiend that slaughtered you. Of course, I knew you had returned, and I'm pleased to see that things have turned out so nicely for you. It’s good to see you."

“And you, sir,” Mary said. “As for the Ripper, trouble yourself no further. That is long in the past.”

“Indeed,” said the ghost. “But I cannot help feeling responsible for drawing you into my deeply-flawed plan, and for what happened to you as a result.”

“Mister Holmes,” Mary said, “I willingly entered into your plan. But there were factors of which both you and I were unaware. The Ripper was not at all what we thought he was. You could not have known, any more than I could have. We were unlucky, that is all. I would do it again without hesitation.”

The ghost made himself look super-humble and said something about how touched he was by her saying that.

“Mary,” I said into the silence that fell after he was done, “you never told me you knew Sherlock Holmes.”

“You never asked,” Mary replied. “I’ve done a great many things and known a great many people I’ve never had cause to bring up. You never told me you knew him!”

"I didn't until a couple of hours ago."

Mary turned to Holmes and said, "I am eager to hear the story of how you came here, and what your purpose is. I don’t believe you’re the sort to flit back from the afterlife for a lark.”

“No. In death, as in life, I am ruthlessly pragmatic. I think. I find that I can remember almost nothing about the other side right now. Undoubtedly this is a product of my descending from a higher sphere into a lower one.”

“I am familiar with the phenomenon,” said Mary.

”Yes, you would be, of course,” replied the ghost.

He turned to look at me. “Again, Miss Valis, I apologize for insinuating myself into your mind the way I did. It isn’t quite what I had intended. 

"I wanted to communicate my information to you without actually coming here myself. That is incredibly tricky, in the absence of a medium. But I applied myself to it, and I found you, Miss Kelly. And when I did, I discovered that your friend, Miss Valis, is a great deal more attuned to the 'wavelength' I was on, so I tried to communicate with her instead When I touched her mind, it drew me like iron filings to a magnet. I was pulled completely from the afterlife into her head! I managed to hang on to most of what I wanted to tell you, but it took a great deal of effort, and it cost me much of my ability to actually communicate the information.

"And now, most of the knowledge I had while I was still on the other side is now unavailable to me. What I know is this: There are vampires at work in this world right now, and their leader is Professor James Moriarty. He is, in fact, the reigning Lord of all vampires. I know that he plans some course of action that will have the direst consequences for mankind if it is successful, and I know that this game is even now afoot.

"How," Mary asked, after a minute or so, "did you know to come to us with this information? It seems you were in Vionna's head before Scudder told us his story."

"That, I fear, is difficult to explain. You lack the necessary frame of reference, as I myself do now that I am fully here. The best I can do is to say that time is not the rigid, linear construct most people believe it to be.

“And now here I am, and now I have told you all that I retain of my earlier knowledge. I’m grateful indeed that I don’t make a habit of crossing over this way. Robbed of one of my greatest assets—memory—I fear that I am worse than useless.”

“Nonsense,” said Mary. “That’s rubbish and you know it. Memory and intellect are not the same thing. As far as I can see, your fine mind—or its ectoplasmic analog—is in perfect working order. And I hope Vionna and I can count on you to employ it to the full on our behalf as we investigate these bizarre events.”

The ghost smiled. “I was rather hoping you’d say that, my dear Miss Kelly. I should like nothing better than to be of assistance to you and the charming Miss Valis. And let us hope that we may, once and for all, put an end to the seemingly endless machinations of Professor James Moriarty.”

ON AMAZON:
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The Journal of Bloody Mary Jane

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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

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE:

(Introductory Remarks by Mary Jane Gallows)


I was not born in blood. The blood came later.

My birth was dry and silent, and it gave off a black light that could be seen by those few among you who have the right kind of eyes.

I had a mother, just like you. A father, too. They never actually met, my mother and father. The whole arrangement, in fact, was rather backward. My seed came from my mother and grew in my father. I gestated within him, and I learned much while I was there.

This is very difficult for me to explain. As they say, you had to be there. To understand it at all, you’d have to be like me. And you aren’t. You are not like me, and you may count that as a blessing, if you’re the sort that counts blessings.

I was a blessing to my father and a great and ultimately fatal vexation to my mother. I killed her in 1927, and she has not been back since. My father has died more than once, and I have always done my best to help him get back.

In Greek mythology, the goddess Athena sprang from the brow of Zeus, fully grown and ready for bloodshed. Exactly the same as me. I am not, obviously, the daughter of Zeus. My father was someone—something—else entirely. He has, however, attained the status of myth. I daresay there are very few people in the world who have never heard of him.

You certainly know his “trade name.” He was called Jack the Ripper.

In 1888 he was a human being, and then he made himself into Something Else. Four years after his Ascension, he traveled from London to the United States in search of a blot of darkness in the ethereal fabric of the human world. He had sensed it from across the ocean. He could sense people and things that had in them some of what he had in himself.

He came to Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1892 and found my mother. Her name, too, might be familiar to you: Lizzie Andrew Borden. Her darkness and hatred and desire to kill drew him close to her. She had something nasty inside her, thrashing around, craving attention and expression. My father touched it and coaxed it out, showed it what to do. My mother had been trying to give birth all by herself, conducting endless rituals, obsessing, seething, hating.

She might have succeeded with this method, eventually, but she didn’t have to. My father took the seed into himself, and together—though they never met face-to-face—they brought me into the world. Lizzie never knew I had a father at all.

My mother believed me to be a tulpa, and that may well be the case. I prefer to think of myself as sui generis, a thing without precedent. There isn’t a word for me. I am all there is of my kind.

I am Bloody Mary Jane.

THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE ON AMAZON:


http://www.amazon.com/Journal-Bloody-Mary-Jane-Episode-ebook/dp/B00LRJRZME/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_12?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409639339&sr=1-12

http://www.amazon.com/Creeping-Dawn-Rise-Black-Centipede-ebook/dp/B006UN2JRS/ref=la_B005WX2CKQ_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409640607&sr=1-4

Thank you and Happy Labor Day!

The girls are having a great Labor Day weekend! Our thanks to all our readers, past, present and future! This is the LAST DAY of the 99 cent sale!

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