A Slimy Sequel

SpawnSlimeBeastThe Wash was a vast area of mud, quicksand and dangerous tides. Although beautiful from a distance, especially during the summer when the sun sparkled in the morning mist, it was unquestionably Britain’s most inhospitable location.

But love blooms even in the most unlikely places. Just ask Gavin and Liz Royle. Back in 1975, the two young academics fell in love while on a treasure hunt in the treacherous marshland. They never found their booty but they found each other.

They also found the Slime Beast, a reptilian-like swamp creature that slurped human viscera like Nissin Top Ramen. Yum! After a series of grisly murders (and lurid subplots), the gill-man was vanquished in a fiery showdown (see my review of The Slime Beast for more details). Gavin and Liz returned to London, got married, started a family and lived happily ever after. The end.

Now on their 40th wedding anniversary, the couple inexplicably returns to the Wash. Liz thinks it’ll be romantic. Gavin, on the other hand, thinks his wife is daft. Why couldn’t they spend a nice relaxing weekend in Cornwall or Devon or some other sunny vacation spot? Why did they have to return to a place where monsters dwell?

Naturally, things get messy right away. And stinky too. “An overpowering, suffocating smell assailed (Gavin’s) nostrils. Not human excrement or urine, something a thousand times worse. It was the scent of the Slime Beast, a fetid odour incorporating everything that was vile and evil, a putrescence unknown to mankind.”

Gavin knows immediately that another Slime Beast is on the prowl. In tow with a reluctant wildfowling guide, and armed with a satchel of ineffective weapons, he vows to slay the “slime-oozing Satan.” There’s no time for preparation or strategy, the novel is only 111-pages long. Conflict and resolution occur swiftly, and Gavin knows he’s got to hurry before the final chapter arrives.

Fans of the first Slime Beast adventure will undoubtedly be interested in this sequel. I definitely was. But honestly, there’s no space for a second (or third) Slime Beast novel on my bookshelf. One is enough. Despite a couple of delightfully horrid moments (and a funny bit about giant crabs), the author doesn’t have anything particularly new or substantive to say. The spawn is no different than the progenitor.

[Spawn of the Slime Beast / By Guy N. Smith / First Printing: June 2015 / ISBN: 9781907846878]

Journey to the Center of the Underground Inbreeders

GreatBigTeethIn 1977, a pregnant hippie on a nine-day bender fell down a hole and discovered her version of Pellucidar—a hollowed out, underground chamber filled with dinosaurs. It was an Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne and Mysterious Island nightmare. Said the author: “Jane Hartman was stuck in an anomaly that spanned several million years, possibly one hundred million years. Hell, maybe longer.”

She survived her slippery slide to Middle Earth and eventually gave birth to a son named Doobie. And just like an inbred version of Adam and Eve, Jane and her son conjoined to create a new Garden of Eden. A couple of generations passed and Jane became the revered matriarch of a tribe of cave dwellers in their own private savage land.

Dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden: For most people (including Young-Earth Creationists) that would be enough. For author Eddie Generous, however, that was just a two-page setup. The real action began when an earthquake dropped the mountainside community of Happy Village into the infernal abyss (half a century after Jane went down the rabbit hole btw). That’s when the novel explodes in a time warp of improbable anachronistic weirdness, sexual misadventure and great big teeth.

First there’s Stevie Drew, a high school junior, who was “the wrong side of the tracks incarnate.” Despite the ever-present dino danger, he couldn’t escape his teenage libido. “He needed to focus on his situation,” wrote the author, “and not worry about how nice Emily’s ass felt against his crotch.”

And secondly there’s David Bowie Bowtie, a Kamandi-like hero who killed chicken-snakes (Velociraptors) and wrassled tank-pigs (Nodosaurs). Even though his gene pool was as shallow as a toilet bowl, he was a noble savage who helped the newcomers navigate the treacherous prehistoric chasm. I’m sure Jack Kirby would enjoy this wonky version of the Last Boy on Earth.

But the best thing about this novel was sweet Jane Hartman herself. Even though she’d been living in a cave for 50 years, she couldn’t escape the influence of the swingin’ 70s. All of her kids had ginchy names like Sonny Bono, Sunshine Nicks and Shroomshine, and her taste in music never progressed beyond Peter Frampton, David Bowie and the Bee Gees. No punk, rap, speed metal or BTS for her.

Jane had been out of circulation for a while and her fuzzy logic was unendingly funny. At some point she discovered an underground Batcave connected to the surface world. Filled with snacks, booze, sex toys, ammo and DVDs (and maybe a giant penny and an over-sized Joker playing card), the bunker gave Jane a glimpse into how the world had changed in her absence. It became obvious to her—after finding a life-sized sex doll that looked like Linda Hamilton, circa 1984 (“Not yet tough, but with a lot of potential,” according to the author)—that people now fucked animatronic robots. Being a groovy chick with no sexual hang-ups whatsoever, Jane starts sleeping with the doll right away.

And later, after spending some time in the “Great Viewing Room” she figures out a way to keep her tribe safe from all the toothy dinosaurs, “thunderdome housecats” and meddling interlopers. “Watch and learn,” she tells her kids as she pops a disc into the DVD player. They huddle together in the dark to watch a movie called Home Alone. Taking inspiration from a young Macaulay Culkin, they start making plans for the future.

[Great Big Teeth / By Eddie Generous / First Printing: February 2019 / ISBN: 9781925840568]

She-Creature from the Black Lagoon

LadyBlackLagoon“Women have always been the most important part of monster movies,” says author Mallory O’Meara, “because women are the ones horror happens to. Women have to endure it, fight it and survive it.”

But there’s not a wide range of female representation on screen. In the horror biz, women are either scream queens, warty, unfuckable witches or oversexed busty vampires.

Says O’Meara: “Monster stories are powerful. They explore prejudice, rejection, anger and every imaginable negative aspect of living in society. However, only half of society is reflected in the ranks of the people who create these monsters. Almost every single iconic monster in film is male and was designed by a man: the Wolfman, Frankenstein, Dracula and King Kong”—the list goes on and on.

There is one notable exception, however. Back in 1953, a special effects and makeup designer named Milicent Patrick was tapped to create a Devonian-inspired hybrid creature for an upcoming movie from Universal Pictures. To this day, Patrick’s iconic design for the Creature from the Black Lagoon remains one of the best-known and well-loved cinematic monsters of all time.

But Patrick didn’t appear out of thin air like a genie from a bottle. She’d been working in Hollywood for 15 years by then and her resume was pretty impressive. Before designing the Creature (or “Creech” as he was affectionately called on set), she attended the same prestigious art school as Mary Blair and Chuck Jones. As an animator at Disney she worked on both Fantasia and Dumbo. And at Universal she created the Xenomorph from It Came from Outer Space. She was smart and ambitious and easily made her mark in a male-dominated industry. “She didn’t have superpowers or a magic wand,” states O’Meara. “She was simply intelligent and savvy and good at what she did.”

Unfortunately, Patrick’s Hollywood legacy was unraveled by pettiness, jealousy and a big jolt of Hollywood sexism. To promote the upcoming release of Creature from the Black Lagoon, she was booked on a multi-city publicity tour. By all accounts, the cross-country trek was a smash success. Patrick was a beautiful woman who was quick witted and comfortable in front of the camera. She also had a 41-inch bustline and jiggled like a plate of jelly when she walked into a room. One magazine described her as “a statuesque beauty abundantly endowed by nature to take advantage of Hollywood’s wide-screen techniques.” Yikes! Reporters were curious about the movie and exorbitantly interested in Patrick herself.

All this attention (lascivious and otherwise) irked her boss back in California. As the head of the makeup department at Universal Studios, Bud Westmore was accustomed to taking credit for anything under his purview. Even though he had nothing to do with the Creature’s design, he felt like he deserved the media acclaim Patrick was getting. Being upstaged by one of his underlings—a woman no less!—was a big blow to his ego. As a result, Patrick (the beauty behind the beast) was cut loose to appease Westmore. She remained a part of the Hollywood community for the rest of her life, but she never worked again in her preferred profession. She died in anonymity in 1988.

But hold on a sec. Author Mallory O’Meara has written a highly personal history of the queen of monsters. The Lady from the Black Lagoon: Hollywood Monsters and the Lost Legacy of Milicent Patrick shines a light on Patrick’s career, clarifies her contributions to the Creature from the Black Lagoon (and other monster movies) and firmly establishes her place in film history. The book is chatty and nuanced and never wavers from O’Meara’s strong point of view.

Milicent Patrick’s rise, fall and disappearance behind-the-scenes in Hollywood is a fascinating story. To this day, she’s the only woman to have designed an iconic movie monster for a major studio—and you have to admit: the Creature is the coolest of them all. “She should have been hailed as a hero,” says O’Meara in conclusion. “She’s not just the queen of monsters, she’s the goddamn Joan of Arc.”

[The Lady from the Black Lagoon: Hollywood Monsters and the Lost Legacy of Milicent Patrick / By Mallory O’Meara / First Printing: March 2019 / ISBN: 9781335937803]

Caterpillars on a Plane

SquirmsterDo “nature run amok” novels qualify as monster novels? Is a coordinated attack of army ants as monstrous as a mob of abominable snowmen? I say “yes.” Rats, worms, spiders, ants, a plague of flies, a swarm of bees, a flock of seagulls—when Mother Nature gets mad, she has a long list of creepy-crawlies on speed dial to do her bidding.

Squirmsters! is about thousands of ravenous caterpillars terrorizing an airplane during a three-hour flight from Seattle to San Francisco. In a way it’s like a nature run amok novel written by children’s author Eric Carle. Instead of eating pickles, ice-cream cones and lollipops, however, the mutant larvae feast on high school kids, metalheads, businessmen and various airline personnel.

In David Jacobs’s book, the caterpillars don’t morph into pretty butterflies like they do in Carle’s classic kids book The Very Hungry Caterpillar. They stay true to their single-minded prime directive. “They’re man-made monsters,” explains Mrs. Medford-Graham, a federal agent assigned to the case. “You’ve heard of biological warfare, right? That’s what they are, bio-weapons.”

She continues: “They were an experiment that never should have been. DNA engineers took a destructive insect pest and turned it into a weapon of war. The finished product was … Squirmsters!”

It was a silly name, of course. But so were Fat Man and Little Boy (nicknames given to the pair of atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki). Squirmsters had the same kind of devastating potential albeit less explosive. Regular unaltered caterpillars were infinitely destructive to plant life, and super caterpillars were living weapons that could devour crops, create famines and drastically thin out communities.

Accidently released from their cargo bay transport container, the Squirmsters quickly invade the aircraft’s cabin looking for a snack. Seven unlucky passengers immediately succumb to the hungry horde. “Each larva was a feeding tube with a mouth at each end,” says the author. “The gurgling sound they made was like a bubbling caldron of boiling starch.”

But don’t worry. With the help of a flare gun and a contrived plot device, the Squirmsters are ultimately destroyed in a fiery explosion. Good riddance, says Glitch Wade, one of the six lucky survivors. “There goes the second deadliest species on the planet.”

[The Bug Files #1: Squirmsters! / By David Jacobs / First Printing: June 1996 / ISBN: 9780425153208]

Witchy Woman

witchbladeWitchblade was certainly a big part of the “bad girl” movement in comic books during the 90s. And author John DeChancie doesn’t back away from the sexy witch’s infamous eye-popping transformation in his prose adaptation from 2002.

She was, he wrote, a paradox of dress and undress. “Her metamorphosis produced a filigree of delicate metal work of swirls and arabesques crawling up her body and covering her full breasts and neither portions but leaving little else unexposed. She was nude and yet somehow completely covered.”

Even without the Witchblade gauntlet, Sara “Pez” Pezzini was an eyeful. She dressed like a tomboy, said the author, but she always looked good. “Her jeans were tight and the T-shirt under her jacket was inevitably undersized, allowing her feminine lineaments to come through nicely. She was tall, thin, well proportioned, and had a face that could launch several navies. Legs up to the neck. Oh, those legs! And there were other parts of her body that shaped up just as well.”

Comic books have always been slightly disreputable, and Witchblade along with similar titles such as Vampirella and Lady Death unquestionably took advantage of the media’s lowbrow reputation. This is not a criticism from me btw. Over the years, the character has become iconic and (dare I say it) beloved around the world. She appeared on television in 2001 and even made the transition to anime in 2006.

Witchblade: Talons was a tie-in novel written specifically to supplement the TV series, but DeChancie doesn’t let himself get derailed by continuity minutia. Detective Pezzini wore her Witchblade gauntlet, she seemed comfortable with it, and characters (old and new) coexisted without a hitch. There’s no origin story to speak of, but the supernatural tenor of the comic book series was preserved.

Pezzini finds herself in a sticky situation involving a “magical” supercomputer, a werewolf, a “mahjong dragon,” a supernatural assassin, a Romanian crime boss and a bunch of religious zealots from an alternative dimension. Vlad Tepys (the Impaler himself) even shows up for some decapitating fun.

The whole thing is silly and beyond criticism. True believers will be happy to discover that Witchblade retains her bad girl charm in prose format (Pezzini even briefly considers launching a personal website with nude pictures of herself). The details of her ongoing story, however, are rendered inconsequential. But that’s okay. Nobody ever bought a Witchblade comic for the story.

[Witchblade: Talons / By John DeChancie / First Printing: January 2002 / ISBN: 9780743435017]

Thumbzilla

WeCallItMonsterKaiju novels are a lot of fun. In particular, I enjoy the crazy and extravagant descriptive language used by authors to construct their towering colossi. The books are rarely scary, but the earthshaking monsters are always a hoot.

If Gamera-like “gigaanna” are a staple of the genre, why would an author write a kaiju novel and deemphasize the monsters? That’s a question I’d like to ask Lachlan Walter, the author of We Call It Monster.

Don’t get me wrong, there are giant monsters in his book, but they’re peripheral at best. Even more disappointing, Walter clearly has no flair for the material. His kaiju are relentlessly generic. For example, here’s how he describes the first creature to stomp across Sydney, Australia: “It was a massive green-and-black thing,” he writes in the first chapter. “Its body was almost barrel shaped, the same as that of a gorilla or a wrestler.”

Later, Walter catalogues a bunch of creatures spotted during a jungle expedition. “A dragonfly as big as an eagle,” he begins. “Ants as big as dogs, millipedes as big as guinea pigs, Christmas beetles as big as basketballs, stick insects the size of a dining table and a wombat as big as a small car.” Like all newspaper editors I’m a big fan of simple declarative sentences, but writing like this is dull and maddeningly perfunctory.

To be fair, the author has an agenda above and beyond most monster novels. Along with global destruction, he’s telling a story about love and loneliness and commitment and survival. For him, the kaiju are the catalyst for poetry. Good on him.

He may have a lot to say about the human condition, but he struggles throughout the book to give his creatures any sort of unique identity. At some point he just gives up. “They were monsters, plain and simple,” he says. “No amount of jargon or doublespeak would change that.”

In one chapter, a group of strangers assemble on a hill to watch a thunderous Kaiju Big Battel. The problem? The giant monsters are the size of a thumbprint because they’re twenty kilometers away. That, in a nutshell, is my biggest complaint about We Call It Monster. Even if I thought it was a serious rumination about the eternal human spirit (which I don’t), the novel itself is still a bust. The monsters are destroying the civilized world, but the author reduces them to pint-sized specks on the horizon.

[We Call It Monster / By Lachlan Walter / First Printing: February 2019 / ISBN: 9781925840520]

Dracula’s Best Friend

HoundsOfHellMichael Drake lived a typical and uneventful suburban life. He had a job, a wife, two young kids, a couple of dogs, and a sexy neighbor he liked to flirt with. On weekends, he enjoyed camping and fishing.

But Michael had a little secret that he kept from his wife and kids. His great-great-great grandfather was Igor Dracula, a blood-sucking monster that terrorized Europe during the 17th century. Michael wasn’t a vampire himself (he was just a psychologist), but he wasn’t proud of his notorious family history. He kept a daguerreotype of Grandpa Igor hidden in the garage, underneath a pile of old clothes, college mementos and wooden stakes.

Nobody escapes the past forever, however. When 12 ancient sarcophaguses (sarcophagi?) are discovered buried near Transylvania’s Carpathian Mountains, the Dracula curse is reborn. Igor’s faithful servant (a fractured lamia named Veidt Smit) and a giant Dobermann pinscher named Zoltan emerge from their subterranean tombs. And that means trouble for Michael Drake, the last of the Dracula line.

A fractured lamia, for those of you who skipped Strygology 101 at the Academy of Unseen Arts, is a vampire-like creature that can control its bloodlust and function in the daytime. According to Collin de Plancy, the author of Dictionnaire Infernal, lamias haunt cemeteries and disinter corpses. As such, they’ve been valuable wingmen to the Dracula family throughout the centuries. They’re especially handy when it comes to abducting victims for bloodletting.

Because of their subservient nature, a lamia cannot exist without a master. As soon as Smit awakens from his 300-year sepulchral slumber he starts sniffing around for Dracula progeny. “It was his unavoidable duty only to serve them unfailingly … and for eternity.” His preternatural spidey sense points him toward the New World. Destination: Tarzana, California.

Once in California, Smit and his vampire hound hop into a Hearst and travel up and down Highway 1 looking for Michael Drake. Don’t ask me how a guy from the 17th century acquires a vehicle and figures out how to drive. I don’t know. The author doesn’t seem interested in these trivial details and neither should the reader.

One thing leads to another and the Drakes find themselves being attacked by Zoltan and a pack of wild dogs. Their “blood-curdling, ear-splitting roar of fury” couldn’t be ignored, says the author. One way or another these hounds of Hell were going to turn Michael into a vampire and force him to accept his dark legacy.

Even with the rabid vampirism, Hounds of Dracula is pretty tame overall. Yes, Zoltan is a scary brute, but he’s an ineffectual tool. As a reward for being a lousy alpha dog, he’s dispatched in the most inglorious way possible. And things don’t go smoothly for the lamia either. His demise happens off the page; he doesn’t even get a memorable death scene. Oh well. All villains get the death they deserve. I guess poor Veidt Smit and Zoltan didn’t deserve much.

[Hounds of Dracula / By Ken Johnson / First Printing: October 1977 / ISBN: 9780451077394]