The Pulptress Read online

  THE PULPTRESS

  Copyright © 2012 Pro Se Productions

  Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

  The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  Edited by – Tommy Hancock

  Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions - Tommy Hancock

  Submissions Editor - Barry Reese

  Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Execuitive Officer - Fuller Bumpers

  Pro Se Productions, LLC

  133 1/2 Broad Street

  Batesville, AR, 72501

  870-834-4022

  [email protected]

  www.proseproductions.com

  “Under the Fedora, Behind the Mask” and “Black Mask, Big City” copyright © 2012 Tommy Hancock

  “The Portrait” copyright © 2012 Terry Alexander

  “Butcher’s Festival” copyright © 2012 Ron Fortier

  “Voice to a New Generation” copyright © 2012 Erwin K. Roberts

  “The Bone Queen” copyright © 2012 Andrea Judy

  Front Cover Art by Mitch Foust

  Cover Format and Logos by Sean E. Ali

  Print Version Formatting by Matt Moring

  E-book Formatting by Russ Anderson

  The Pulptress created by Tommy Hancock

  The Voice created by Erwin K. Roberts

  Dillon created by Derrick Ferguson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION: UNDER THE FEDORA, BEHIND THE MASK

  by Tommy Hancock

  BLACK MASK, BIG CITY

  by Tommy Hancock

  THE PORTRAIT

  by Terry Alexander

  BUTCHER’S FESTIVAL

  by Ron Fortier

  VOICE TO A NEW GENERATION

  by Erwin K. Roberts

  THE BONE QUEEN

  by Andrea Judy

  UNDER THE FEDORA, BEHIND THE MASK

  An Introduction to the Pulptress

  by Tommy Hancock

  Bringing stories to life is what a writer does. In New Pulp we do it with a few more gun battles, explosions, and dire situations, mingling in just the right amount of fisticuffs, than writers in other fields might, but still, stringing one word after another to create a whole new world for readers to live and die in alongside the characters is what it’s all about.

  It’s really neat when stories come out of that ambiguous place where fact and fiction sometimes converge.

  In your hands you hold the first of what we truly hope will be many adventures of a brand new character- The Pulptress! Although there are several other female heroines both from Classic and New Pulp, The Pulptress is a jewel with her own sparkle in a few ways. And two of them have to do with her origin stories.

  Yes, I said ‘stories’. Let’s address the one hinted at within these pages. The child of the two greatest Heroes in Pulp History (identities not revealed here or anywhere else- yes, I know, we’re just evil that way), The Pulptress is the living continuation of their legacy. Orphaned as a baby, The Pulptress was, by prior arrangement of her parents, taken in and raised throughout her entire life by a plethora of Pulp legends and icons, Heroes in every sense of the word, training her to be the best at every skill they possessed and more. Readying her to be the world’s ultimate Hero were the day that was needed ever to come. And although such a dire day has not yet arrived, The Pulptress finds plenty of nefarious plots, criminal undertakings, and madcap maniacal adventures to keep her busy. As you will most definitely find out as you read on.

  But then there’s her other origin story. The concept for The Pulptress was actually not one slated for fictional adventure initially. No, she was a marketing tool, a mascot of sorts, of the best sorts, for Pro Se Productions as well as the entire New Pulp Movement. Being a force behind both of those, I wanted something, someone to be associated with all the great work that was being produced in New Pulp and my own company as well. But this couldn’t just be any someone. How could a character with a single facet, draped in just one genre, represent the kaleidoscope that is New Pulp? The answer was obvious, so in designing the character, I had an eye out for a young lady who was simultaneously extremely attractive, yet had that innate ability to sort of blend in to wherever she was, a skill The Pulptress would need.

  Fortunately, I found just such a damsel within my own ranks and with the addition of a snappy fedora and a domino mask, The Pulptress was literally born full grown and ready to entertain fans at the first Pulp Ark (New Pulp’s official Convention) in 2011. She debuted her first day in what has become her trademark look, the outfit that adorns the cover of this book, but on the second day of the convention, only the mask and the lady behind it were the same. She came in that day fully decked out as her western Cowgirl heroine persona. Yup, The Pulptress is one woman, but due to the training and influences throughout her life, she has many looks, can affect many personalities, and therefore can meet any challenge daring, intrepid writers might fling her into.

  This last fact is a good thing with the lineup we’ve put together for The Pulptress’ first foray into fiction. The diversity which is The Pulptress herself demanded that the authors charged with bringing her to life exhibit variety as well. With a lead story by yours truly, we bring to bear the formidable talents of Ron Fortier, Terry Alexander, Andrea Judy, and Erwin K. Roberts on the further adventures of our leading lady. Each writer brings their own unique touch, not only to The Pulptress herself, but also to the genre the story slides into. All plainly Pulp, each tale displays a different aspect of our mystery lady, adding to her story, but also deepening the shadows about her at the same time. Just what a good Pulp tale should do.

  So often the focus on books is on the writers and that, being one of them for this collection, is as it should be, but just as The Pulptress represents so many characteristics of New Pulp rolled into one, so should the book and stories she appears in. The fantastic cover by Mitch Foust captures not only the true physical beauty and striking appearance of the real life Pulptress, but also imbues the character with a mix of mystery and mirth that is exactly what makes this concept’s heart beat. The wonderful design work of Sean Ali adds so many levels to the presentation of this volume, bringing forth shades of the past and present with just a choice of font or logo, a skill so few wield as well as Sean.

  And lastly, but not least, the fact that The Pulptress is not the only New Pulp hero to grace these pages must be mentioned. Thanks to Ron Fortier, Erwin K. Roberts, and Derrick Ferguson for lending their creations (in order of author- Brother Bones, The Voice, and Dillon) to this first collection of this new creation. Not only do we get to enjoy adventures of some New Pulp favorites, but it really adds to the whole package of what The Pulptress is- The best of New Pulp all rolled into one awesome lady.

  Tommy Hancock

  June 11, 2012

  BLACK MASK, BIG CITY

  by Tommy Hancock

  “Too public if you ask me.” The short heavy bellied man ran his sausage like digits through what few strands of greasy black hair clung to his splotched pate. His dull green eyes never wavered from their predetermined target, that being the monolithic oaken door at the back of the luxurious space he and his partner had haunted for the last three hours. A door that hadn’t opened once, he grumbled under short breaths as he tugged with his free hand at wrinkles in the rumpled lavender suit coat that barely contained his burgeoning abdomen. “Too many witnesses.”
/>   “Don’t matter,” the thin, angular bald fencepost of a man standing back to back with his beer barrel of a partner squeaked. He was thankful that he had the more active view, even if it was more to take in. The Morriston Room, a millionaire’s bawdy version of a local watering hole replete with mahogany tables, authentic crystal chandeliers, and gold inlaid handcrafted paneled walls that rose from imported marble floor tiles, took up almost the entire first floor of Morriston Plaza. He‘d been charged with eyeballing the front door, his murky yellow orbs watching as playboys and their gaudily dressed and bejeweled playthings stumbled in and out of the bar through a twin to the hinged plank his partner had ogled the entire evening. “Mr. Lannigan says the first team plays nice, we try nice. After all,” he drummed the caramel brown mahogany bar with thin nail like fingers, “this is Park Avenue. And,” his almost nonexistent lips mangled into a warped grin, “we could be on the second team.”

  The fat man chuckled, the noises tumbling from his meaty maw more like a donkey braying than a mercenary laughing. “Yeah,” he said, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder at his companion, “there is that. I’ll take my posterior glued to a leather topped barstool any day over asphalt and alleys after midnight.”

  The gaunt man snorted his agreement, then both men again grew quiet. They’d played this scene many times since first arriving in The Morriston Room at nine o’clock that evening and taking up adjoining stools at the main bar at the back of the club. Actually, they’d been the anchor pair on most jobs for Mr. Lannigan for the last five or so years, both earning reputations as good clean up men. They were nondescript enough to fit in almost anywhere, from a grocery store parking lot to a New York rich men’s club, but they also stood out just the right amount so as not to seem suspicious by being ‘too’ normal. Of course, Lannigan’s obsession with his men wearing matching lavender suits made them conspicuous regardless. But Lannigan paid for the clothes and a hefty sum besides, so neither man, nor any of the eccentric crime boss’s flunkies, argued too much.

  “Bingo,” sang the lean, lipless gun for hire eleven minutes after his last exchange with his partner. Standing up from his roost, he unrolled to a full height of six feet, three and stood still, looking like the stripped trunk of a tree, his shoulders, elbows, and knees jutting out like hard pine knots. His eyes narrowed in on the couple that had just stumbled through the front door, their voices and limbs tangled together as they practically fell into the Morriston Room. As he mentally noted every aspect of both the man and the woman as they attempted to compose their drunken selves and failed, he said his standard line on any job when the quarry fell into the trap. “Neck’s in the noose.”

  “Drawin’ it tight,” came the standard response as his diminutive fat partner wiped the words from his mouth with his sleeve and wobbled upright onto his feet. He scanned the room like he always did, ignoring the target, but accounting for every other soul in the room. One body sat with them at the bar, an elderly lady wearing too many diamonds and drinking too much bourbon. The fiftyish silver haired bartender stood in front of her, his eyes half lidded, a victim of her slurred verbal barrages for the last hour. The obese goon in the lavender suit nodded to himself as that took care of anyone on the periphery. Casting his lazy emerald eyes to the room as a whole for the first time, he quickly counted twenty three more, including the eye candy dangling all over the target. Slow on a Tuesday night, even for a billionaire’s beer joint, he mused silently as he evaluated every single possible threat to the work they were about to do.

  “Only two,” his whisper sounded like gravel shuffling around in his flabby cheeks. “The old guy over there, against the left wall. Lots of white mustache on his lip and lots of brunette at his table. Looks ex-military or cop. And the other one,” he gestured with at least two of his three chins toward the door. “Dude sitting by himself, four tables in on the right from the front door, brandy snifter in front of him. He could be trouble.”

  “Got it,” the lanky ruffian confirmed as he took a step away from the bar, his little buddy falling in behind him to the left. They both hesitated, waiting for the last cog to turn in their well-oiled machine. It did a second later as the front door opened again and two men entered. The first one through was tall, broad shouldered and blonde with the tanned face of a 1950s matinee idol, while the red headed man closing the door came up to his partner’s shoulder and was smaller in stature, built like a well-trained jockey with the look of a switchblade knife ready to spring open. Both wore lavender suits.

  “Okay,” that ugly thin lipped grin twisted the skinny goon’s narrow face again, “time to get our boy home to his new boss.”

  The odd looking pair of men navigated the obstacle course of glass and chrome chairs and tables between them and their quarry. The two men behind the obviously intoxicated and involved man and woman did the same, the matinee idol crossing to the left, the other countering and taking up the right flank. Both teams of two stopped with about five feet between them and the man they intended to leave with.

  “But Deucey, baby,” the curvy, svelte blonde bombshell said in a high pitched twitter, enough alcohol in her words that ‘s’ already slurred into ‘sh’, “I don’t wanna drink anymore. “ She hung on her consort’s neck, a fetching, evocative charm any man would want on his bracelet, her well-muscled, pale skinned body barely concealed by the scraps of crimson and black that made up the Fortier original dress she wore. “And nobody’s dancin’ in here, baby.”

  “Not yet, darling,” the man in the charcoal gray Armani suit replied, doing his best to stay on his own two feet while trying to wrangle the tittering and tantalizing lady from around his neck. His posture and the flush of his cheeks gave away that he’d spent the last few hours swimming up Whiskey River, but that was all that betrayed his inebriation. He stood up to as much of his full six feet as possible, his lady still hanging on with one arm, her head thrown back and the other arm dangling at her side, gregarious giggles still bubbling from between candy apple red lips. Drunk though he may have been, Thomas “Deuce” Kane’s deep hazel eyes reverberated intelligence and awareness as he took in the two men in pastel colored suits in before him. “Looks like these gents may want to punch my dance card, though.”

  The blonde tried her best to focus on the men encircling them. Whatever she saw only made her snicker even more. “You might be right, Deucey. They’re all wearin’ the cutest shade of pink.”

  “Mr. Kane,” shrilled the knobby jointed skeleton of a man in front of him, “Mr. Lannigan has dispatched us here to your favorite late night libation location to renew his previous offers.”

  “Oh no, you don’t!” Struggling against gravity as well as her own chemically induced limitations, the vivacious blonde let go of Kane's neck and promptly fell sideways onto the floor. Instinctively Kane and all four of his assailants twitched as if to bend to help her up, but she was amazingly back upright, even though unsteadily, on her red high heels before any one of them could extend a hand. She faced Kane and poked him with a long red nail. “You said no business tonight, Deucey. You promised!”

  “I did indeed, dearest Tori,” Kane said, his face mottled with colors from ashen gray to embarrassed scarlet, “but these are the sort of gentlemen you don’t plan for.”

  “Indeed,” spat the rotund man wobbling back and forth on pudgy limbs just behind his thin friend. “And Mr. Lannigan has no concern for your partying, promiscuous playboy antics, Mr. Kane. He wants the other side of you.”

  “Yes,” Kane sighed, “So many do, it’s a curse of being filthy rich and one of the smartest men treading earth.” He laughed at his own arrogant compliment, Tori providing accompaniment with her continual chittering. “But again, I’m sorry, fellows,” Kane said, actually sounding as if he simply hated to disappoint the four men, “but I’m afraid the answer is the same here in one of New York’s finest hotels as it was in Mr. Lannigan’s office a week ago. I have no need to work for anyone or to even work at all. And although Mr
. Lannigan is a rather interesting man at the very least, his disregard for legality bothers me somewhat. So, no.”

  “No,” hissed the bony hoodlum, his skeletal knuckles cracking as he rolled his fingers into fists, “was an answer Mr. Lannigan tolerated at your first meeting. It is not one he will allow us to accept tonight, Mr. Kane. You’re coming with us.”

  “Deucey,” Tori chirped excitedly, placing her pale ivory hands seductively on Kane’s chest, “I do so wanna dance. But,” she exclaimed, giving her escort a playful, but hard shove backwards, “not with you!”

  What unfolded in the next few seconds in vivid living color could only be described as paying homage to those old classic black and white screwball comedy fight scenes from the likes of Claudette Colbert. Deuce Kane fell back, his well-muscled arms flailing. The jockey switchblade tried to avoid the collapsing millionaire by stepping back and to the left, but he wasn’t fast enough. Kane crashed into him on his way to landing on his back on the barroom floor. The little ruffian yelled out as he took a flying slap to the temple and collided with a table. The man seated there predicted what was about to occur and slid an ebony hand across the table, taking and lifting his brandy snifter gingerly, and let the unconscious man come to rest before him.

  As her hands left Deuce’s chest, Tori spun about like a whirling dervish, set her crystalline blue eyes on the matinee idol in lavender, and shouted, “It’s you I wanna dance with!” Before he could accept, refuse, or slap her down, Tori’s long arms encircled his neck. With fleeting thoughts of not minding the embrace, the good looking hood raised his hands and pushed against her, muttering “Lady, leggo!” three or four times.