Pro Se Presents: February 2012

By Pro Se Press

Pro Se Presents #7 Brings Thrills and Chills Like None You've Ever Seen! Fan Favorite The Silver Manticore returns for another story! Noted New Pulp Author Van Allen Plexico debuts his latest novel character, HAWK, in a story exclusive for Pro Se! And Frank Schildiner's newest Weird Hero, Lee Cohen, Monster Mobster, debuts and is featured on this stunning cover by Sean E. Ali! Get Scared, Spaced, and Masked all in this issue of PRO SE PRESENTS! Puttin' The Monthly Back Into Pulp!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476324012

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

PRO SE PRESENTS

NEW AUTHORS - NEW VISIONS - NEW PULP FICTION FOR A NEW GENERATION

FEBRUARY 2012

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- Lee Houston, Jr., Nancy Hansen, and Frank Schildiner

Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock

Submissions Editor-Barry Reese

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

Pro Se Productions, LLC

133 1/2 Broad Street

Batesville, AR, 72501

870-834-4022

[e-mail]

www.prosepulp.com

St. Valentine’s Day Spawn copyright © 2012 Frank Schildiner

Armed and Dangerous copyright © 2012 P.J. Lozito

Hawk: Hand of the Machine copyright © 2012 Van Allen Plexico

Cover and Interior Art, Book Design, Layout, and additional graphics by Sean E. Ali

E-book design and layout by Russ Anderson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY SPAWN

by Frank Schildiner

ARMED AND DANGEROUS

by P.J. Lozito

HAWK: HAND OF THE MACHINE, Part 1

by Van Allen Plexico

ST. VALENTINE’S DAY SPAWN

By Frank Schildiner

I was sitting in a blind pig in Chicago’s South side, feeling out-of-sorts. I like Chicago; it’s a good city with a decent set of people living in a Darwinian environment. But this was a Capone bar and the beer tasted like it’d been brewed in bat’s piss. How do I know what bat piss tastes like? I could tell you, but you’d probably want to avoid the nasty feeling of puking your guts up for a few days. Just understand that I know and move on.

Anyway, I was nursing this piss beer when O’Toole showed up. He was about as Irish as Enrico Caruso, taking on the guise of an Irishman out of sheer love for the culture and people. Short, stocky, dark haired and fair skinned, he could pass for Irish if you didn’t listen to the occasional mistaken pronunciation of words.

Lee, me old friend! O’Toole boomed, his fake Irish brogue convincing enough to get a few nasty looks from the gangsters by the bar. God Bless ya, how are you doing?

Take the blarney stone out of your ass, O’Toole, I retorted and kicked out the chair across from me so he’d sit. This is a Capone bar and they’re still touchy about the Irish.

I thought with Mr. O’Banion dead these five years, God rest his soul that such difficulties would be laid to rest. O’Toole sat, looking puzzled. A genius of a man in more fields than most could count, but about as street smart as a drunken Harvard student.

Dion O’Banion, the popular gangster who ruled the Chicago North Side gang, was five years dead, having aggravated Capone and his mob far too many times. He died in a hail of bullets while working in his flower shop, a victim of the same violence he used to earn his place as a top gang boss. I knew O’Banion, dealt with him on a few deals and found him charming but, like all bosses, dangerous to trust for long. I didn’t mourn his death; I really don’t feel a thing when someone who lives the life of a gangster gets their just rewards.

Dead, but not forgotten. And the North Siders still exist. Now, why am I in Chicago? I was supposed to be doing a job in Hong Kong this week. I asked, downing my disgusting beer quickly now.

Blame the Oracle of Delphi, He said, his voice hushed now. She sent word that an outbreak was about to hit Chicago on the morning of the fourteenth.

Delightful, It’s already eight o’clock at night. We’ve got anywhere from four to sixteen hours to fix this crap. I grumbled, hating working on a short time table. Despite pulp novels and movies, the hero rarely saves the day in the nick of time. Did the crazy witch say anything else?

Yes, O’Toole replied, looking very proud of himself now. This will render our search far easier. You see, the person infected is seeking the top position in Chicago.

I looked at O’Toole for a long time, waiting for the punchline. This had to be a joke the fake Irishman was pulling on me now. But O’Toole just stared back, his clear eyed look as innocent as a calf about to be sent to the butcher.

That’s it? The person infected wants the top spot in Chicago. Nothing more than that? I asked, my voice rising. What else did she say?

Nothing, O’Toole said, looking confused by my reaction. Why? This tells us who to look for, Lee.

I ran a hand across my face, feeling tired and weak. I wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation, but knew O’Toole would just sit there, waiting to find out the source of the joke.

Let me give you a quick lesson on Chicago, buddy. In this town, most people are on the make, trying to take the top position. Few have the chance, but this place operates on a system of politics and favors that make Washington look like a group of boy scouts. It could take years to go through the number of people that want to be boss around here…and that’s no exaggeration. You see the problem? I was trying to remain calm, but the end of all life on Earth tends to make me grumpy.

Oh, O’Toole replied, the weight of the problem finally settling down on him. He was thoughtful for a time and then said, I guess we should start with the Mayor and his people and work from there, Lee.

I blinked, looking as confused as O’Toole no doubt. Why him? The man has less power than the bartender at this hellhole. No, with Chicago, we either deal with the Democratic Party machine or the crooks. But that covers a lot of ground. We’re fucked.

O’Toole was about to speak when I shot him a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. Approaching our table in a deliberately slow walk were two men, with their pearl colored hats a symbolic gesture to prove they were members of Capone’s gang. But they weren’t important, just a pair of thugs trying to make themselves look good for the man leaning against the wall not far from the door.

This was their boss, a wild-eyed fellow with the look of a former professional boxer. He had the twitchy look of a gunman on the edge of pulling out a pistol and killing anyone who looked his way cross-eyed. I didn’t know him, but I was betting this was Capone’s favorite killer, Louis Little New York Campagna. I was almost afraid for my life… almost…

You Cohen? The larger of the two strong arm men asked. He was wide shouldered gink, about twenty or so, with the look of a lifelong bully. You could tell this guy was the one who beat up any kid weaker than him while in school and was recruited as a leg breaker by the Outfit. Typical brutal idiot, the soldier of any gang.

Yeah, me Cohen. Who you? I replied, unable to resist smart mouthing this sort.

The bullyboy’s face turned purple when he realized I was making him look like a fool. Listen you, get up! You’re coming with us! He snarled and leaned closer, looming over me.

Now, I’ve had guys trying to intimidate me over my long and checkered life, even at that early portion of it. I was basically immune to threats of pain or death by that point, a factor that would keep me from breaking when Hitler and his cronies tortured me for three days in 1948. Yes, Adolph Hitler and I’m not kidding about that date. You think he and his chums all died in ’45? Boy, you don’t know much, do you?

Anyway, back in that blind pig in 1929, I waited a few seconds to see if this schoolyard bully had a scary trick up his sleeve… he didn’t. I was supposed to break because he was wide and talked tough. Hell, the girls in my old neighborhood would kick this guy’s rear up between his ears for being such a dope.

Seeing nothing coming, I just started to laugh, hard and loud. I howled and hooted, finding the whole thing so ridiculous. Here I was, hours away from the end of all life on Earth, and some big meathead was trying to scare me by looming over me like a vulture. The sheer silliness of the whole situation just tickled my funnybone and I laughed like a nut.

The hood flushed even deeper purple and balled up his huge fists, his eyes sunk deeper in his face and made him resemble an oversized pig. Finally he spluttered, Why you… I’ll…

That was when I locked