Blood of the Centipede

By Chuck Miller

AT LAST THE UNTOLD STORY BEHIND ONE OF HOLLYWOOD'S LONG LOST CLASSICS CAN BE TOLD! AND PRO SE GETS TO BRING IT TO YOU! From The Casebook of the mysterious BLACK CENTIPEDE, the true story of his adventures in Hollywood while filming the 1930s classic BLOOD OF THE CENTIPEDE! Chuck Miller, hand picked biographer of the Black Centipede finally tells a tale that involves Amelia Earhart, William Randolph Hearst, 'Fatty' Arbuckle, and Los Angeles' own masked vigilante- The Blue Candiru- in an adventure stranger than anything that happened on the big screen! Plus, in the Centipede's own words, his first encounter with the enigmatic WHITE CENTIPEDE! With stunning cover art by David L. Russell and eye catching design and back cover art by Sean Ali, BLOOD OF THE CENTIPEDE is the second Centipede novel from the twisted mind of Chuck Miller! Psychedelic Pulp at its best! From Pro Se Press! Puttin' The Monthly Back Into Pulp!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Sep 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301131006

Chuck Miller

Author Chuck Miller is Owner of Chuck Miller Consulting, Owner and Chief Education Office of Chuck Miller Education Services, President and CEO of Chuck Miller Construction Inc., and Managing Member of Chuck Miller Online Enterprises LLC. Chuck has over 50 years of experience in the construction industry. He understands the special needs of small volume builders and remodelers and works with them to create custom solutions.Chuck has earned nine professional designations from the National Association of Home Builders. He became an instructor for NAHB in 1999 and is a licensed provider of NAHB education programs. Chuck is an Instructor for NAHB courses. NAHB named Chuck the 2016 Sales and Marketing/IRM Educator of the Year.In addition to teaching builders, remodelers, Realtors, and other building industry professionals, Chuck works one-on-one with builders, remodelers and construction related companies to develop a working business plan focused on market research and analysis, product development and pricing strategy, sales and marketing strategy, operations planning, and financial forecasting and budgeting to achieve and maintain the key financial and operating ratios."It is my hope that successfully completing the steps in this book and using the completed plan as the most important tool in your toolbox will guarantee that you are one of the small business in the construction industry that survives and thrives beyond 5 years and increase the five year survival rate for small businesses in the construction industry."-Chuck Miller, PLAN TO PROFIT

Book preview

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...

CHAPTER TWO: I LOVE A PARADE

A few weeks prior to that gruesome scene, on a sunny Saturday in the latter part of April, 1933, the very last thing on my mind was being gutted on a dingy Hollywood backlot by the most famous homicidal maniac of all time.

And what I was doing on that very strange day was the last thing I would have expected ever to be doing just a few short weeks earlier. In the very recent past, the Black Centipede had been a wanted man, sought on fourteen counts of first-degree murder arising from a rather rash raid I made on the secret headquarters of a super-criminal mastermind called Doctor Almanac. I had inadvertently blundered my way into a clash with the Doctor's army of well-armed, homicidal goons. I had thinned the herd considerably and rather too publicly, which resulted in a huge spot of bother for me.

So I was a little bemused, and extremely amused, on this beautiful Saturday to find myself the center of not merely attention, but mass adulation, as one of the honorees in a gala ticker-tape parade down the main street of the city of Zenith. My fortunes had taken an unexpected turn for the better. I had single-handedly saved the president elect, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, from death at the hands of a maniacal assassin hired by the aforementioned Doctor Almanac— or so everyone thought. It was actually a bit more complicated than that. The whole thing had been an illusion, you see, crafted by my execrable patron, William Randolph Hearst, with covert aid from my beloved arch-enemy Mary Jane Gallows.

But reality, as always, was of little importance.

Seated next to me in the honor car was my friend Stanley Bartowski, a newly-minted Detective Lieutenant with the Zenith Police Department's Unusual Crimes Division. Stanley had become a hero on the same day I did, though he came by it more honestly.

The parade was quite a production. Roosevelt regretted that he could not be present, but he had sent an emissary. This was no less a personage than Amelia Earhart. She was installed, along with the mayor and various other dignitaries, in a reviewing stand at the end of the parade route. I hoped Hearst was not among them. Our car was inching its way toward the stand, cheered by throngs of hysterical admirers, when things abruptly went south.

Rather abruptly, the sky began to darken, and something splattered on the hood of our car. Stanley, is it raining?

Huh? Something hit his cheek, and he wiped at it with his fingers. Aw, cripes, Centipede! It's bird shit!

I glanced up, my vision momentarily dazzled by the bright blue of the sky, so that I could not immediately identify the darkness that was rapidly gobbling it up. With the darkness came noise. Flapping, cawing, screeching.

A huge cloud of shrieking, clawing, defecating birds of all kinds and sizes, from sparrows to eagles, descended on the street, wreaking havoc upon the parade-goers.

That would have been enough, but fate seldom settles for the merely adequate where I am concerned. The icing on the cake came when two unnaturally large birds— I have no idea what they were, though they bore a strong resemblance to condors— swooped down to the reviewing stand. These monsters were each large enough to carry off a human being, which they proved by doing exactly that. One of them plucked the mayor from his seat, and the other snatched up Miss Earhart. They hauled the squirming figures up into the air and soared to the roof of a nondescript three-story building, atop which stood, we now saw, a bizarre figure wearing a white lab coat and a gas mask. This apparition was flanked by a cadre of goons toting Tommy guns. The figure raised an arm and spoke. His voice was amplified by a pair of loudspeakers that were probably connected to a microphone inside the gas mask.

This is only a sample of what I can do to you if I choose. My control of these birds, and many others besides, is absolute. I shan't bother to make any demands, since you really have no choice but to capitulate to me. My first order of business will be to relieve you good people of as many of your valuables as my men can carry off. Your mayor and your aviatrix shall remain in my custody until this operation is complete. If there are no untoward incidents, they will be released unharmed. If there are any such incidents, they will still be released unharmed... but they will be released from such a height that they will remain unharmed only until they reach the pavement. DOCTOR SHRIKE HAS SPOKEN!!

I rolled my eyes. Where the hell is this jerk from? I said to my friend. Does he not realize that this parade is being held in honor of two of the most formidable men of action this town has ever seen?

Stanley shrugged. Why are they always doctors? he asked, drawing his revolver from his shoulder holster.

I wish I knew, I replied, similarly producing one of my trusty .45 automatics. I suppose the Depression has affected the medical trade just like any other.

How long you reckon this will take? Stanley asked.

I'll have him inside 20 minutes.

Nope, he replied grimly. It'll take longer than that. I just have a feeling.

You wanna bet?

Sure. I never mind taking your money.

You've never yet won a bet with me.

When I do, I won't mind.

It won't be today, I assured him, setting my jaw in grim determination. Watch my dust, Stanley.

I jumped out of the car and zigzagged through the crowd, bestowing on the panic-stricken citizens a benign and reassuring smile, forgetting for a moment that my face was hidden behind a grim, black mask emblazoned with a silver centipede that a casual observer would probably find more puzzling than reassuring.

I ducked between two buildings and disappeared. Four minutes later, I was on the roof with Doctor Shrike. He and his two machine-gun toting goons saw me, and they did pretty much what you'd expect. I did not. Rather than run away or duck for cover, I barreled straight toward them, dodging their fire in that uncanny way of mine.

The two bird-napped VIPs had been hastily trussed up with some kind of thin cord, and were sitting side by side on the tarpaper ten feet this side of Shrike and his men. The mayor's mouth had been taped up, which I could understand.

I would have time to free only one of the hostages. The mayor, an indifferent and ineffectual administrator, gave me a moist, pleading look. The celebrity guest, Miss Amelia Earhart, had cold fury in her eyes. It was plain which one would be of more use.

Ducking under the machine-gun fire, I rolled past the trussed-up dignitaries. With my left hand, I reached out and slashed away Miss Earhart's ropes with my butterfly knife. At the same time, with my right, I plucked a trim .38 revolver from an inner pocket and passed it to the liberated aviatrix.

By the time I sprang back to my feet, I had a .45 in each hand and a pissed-off Amelia Earhart at my side. Though I had never laid eyes on the woman before that day, I found that I trusted her without reservation. Sometimes I can read a person just that quickly. Of course, I had no idea at that moment what she would eventually come to mean to me. Perhaps I had a bit of a premonition.

At that moment, I had no idea of anything other than the swift downfall of the annoying Doctor Shrike. His two machine-gunners were making it impossible for me to express myself verbally, so I put them away very quickly and very permanently with two very precise gunshots.

Shrike suddenly had the look of a man who wished he hadn't sent all but two of his goons down to relieve the parade-goers of their valuables.

Did you just kill those men? Miss Earhart asked in a whisper.

Of course not, I whispered back. I 'creased' the tops of their heads with my bullets. They're only unconscious.

Bullshit. For one thing, that's absurd. For another, they had blood spurting from holes between their eyes.

Then why the devil did you bother to ask? I gritted, leveling a gun at Doctor Shrike. We have a bit of a situation here, you know.

The madman had regained a little of his composure, and was issuing threats, as his kind is wont to do in such situations. I was acting cocky, as is my wont in all situations, but I knew I was not yet out of the woods.

I had no idea how Shrike was controlling the birds. Since I saw no evidence of electronic equipment, it was possible he was using some kind of telepathy, or even magic. As I had learned from the case of the abominable Doctor Almanac, one could rule out nothing when dealing with these new super-criminals. Miss Earhart and I both had him covered, but I didn't know what might happen if he were suddenly terminated.

Don't shoot him, I warned my new compatriot.

Look who's talking! she exclaimed.

I put my guns away and advanced on the madman. For his part, he was no longer arrogant. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. Just a minute now! You got me. I give up. A tower of jello, he was.

My first order of business was to unmask him. I yanked away the gas mask, revealing a set of bland, undistinguished features I did not recognize. How are you controlling those birds? I demanded.

He chewed at his lower lip. Well, ah, it's rather, um, complicated, you see...

I slapped him across the face. Miss Earhart made a noise. Is that really necessary? she asked.

Perhaps not, I admitted, but I find it personally satisfying.

She tsk-tsked and Shrike said, You're going to kill me, aren't you?

I glanced at the aviatrix. Well, I equivocated, I don't know that it's strictly up to me at this point, but... I grabbed him by the collar and hauled his face close to mine. On the other hand, this is my territory and I have become accustomed to making the rules myself. And I see absolutely no percentage in letting you live.

His eyes filled rapidly with sheer terror, which only encouraged me in my diabolical performance. I was readying a truly spectacular threat for deployment when a change came over Shrike's face. Terror gave way to relief and near triumph as he caught sight of something over my left shoulder.

Wilma! he blurted out Thank God!

I gave vent to an exasperated What the hell? and followed Shrike's gaze.

I beheld the largest woman I had ever seen. She had to be at least six foot nine, with short, blonde hair, mad eyes, and a pistol held against the mayor's head. The poor man was having an awful day, and it showed on his face. I couldn't imagine why he didn't just go ahead and faint.

CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD TALKING TO

Let go of him, Wilma demanded, in a surprisingly girlish voice, or I will shoot a hole through the mayor's head. She seemed quite sincere, I thought. I glanced at Shrike, then at Amelia Earhart, who had shifted her pistol to cover the Amazon.

I glanced at my watch. It had been almost 16 minutes since I'd left Stanley down on the street. If I wanted to win our wager, I'd have to act fast.

Go right ahead, I said. The mayor has a strict policy of not negotiating with hostage-takers. I would not dishonor him by violating it. Hizzoner's eyes went wide and indignant noises filtered out from behind the tape across his mouth. Don't worry, Mister Mayor, I said reassuringly. I won't give in to this woman's demands, no matter what she does to you! Chin up, old boy!

As I babbled, I was trying my best to communicate telepathically with Miss Earhart. I had no idea whether or not I could do it— or, indeed, whether such a thing was even possible. But I was a more gifted psychic than I thought, or else Amelia had figured out what I was up to and acted accordingly. When Wilma was sufficiently distracted, and had momentarily moved her .45 a few inches away from the mayor's noggin, my new comrade-in-arms squeezed off a shot that knocked the automatic out of the big woman's hand. Wilma let out a yelp and shoved her gun hand into her armpit. You goddamn ugly scarecrow! she squawked. Amelia bounded over and gave her a knockout blow to the temple with the butt of the 38.

The ugly scarecrow is still standing, she said archly.

Bravo, Miss Earhart, I said, and turned my attention back to Shrike, who gave every indication that he was about to lose or relinquish control of his bodily functions. In this, he and the mayor appeared to be of one mind.

A swift interrogation revealed that the birds had been trained. No hocus-pocus, no telepathy. That didn't sound quite right to me. There had to be more to this than simple training. By this point most of the birds seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings and gone on to other business.

Uh... Now what? the doctor wanted to know.

Now, Doctor Shrike, I said, you get to take the express down to the sidewalk. I marched him, slowly and inexorably, toward the roof's edge.

Amelia Earhart grabbed me by the arm.

No, she said. Not this. Those two machine-gunners? Okay. But not him. Not this way. He is unarmed and helpless.

Your point?

She gave a sharp sigh. My point is, if you murder this man, you're no better than he is.

I considered this for a moment, then said, Okay. I can live with that. I pushed the whimpering Doctor Shrike closer to oblivion.

Well, I can't, said Miss Earhart, with a touch of cold steel in her voice. And you won't. She leveled the revolver at my head. Back off.

I looked at her for a very long moment. She had begun to perspire. I could tell she had her doubts about whether or not she'd actually be able to pull that trigger. I, on the other hand, did not. I knew that if push came to shove, she had it in her. My admiration for her soared. I shrugged, released Shrike, and took a step backward. The truth was, I had already decided against sending Shrike to his just reward. I only wanted to shake him up a bit, in the hope that it would prompt him to give me the real story. I said nothing of this because, after all, I had a reputation to maintain. Also, I found the interpersonal dynamics of the situation fascinating.

The bad doctor let out a sickening whine of relief. He turned to Miss Earhart and began to gibber, Oh, thank you, Miss, thank you! I assure you, I didn't...

She turned a cold glare on Shrike. I have heard more than enough out of you, she said. You're going to sit down and shut up. You are not going to say another word while you are in my presence, do you understand me? No, don't say anything. Just nod.

He did. I didn't blame him.

Miss Earhart gave me another look, then flipped the pistol around and handed it back to me, butt-first.

Here, she said. Thanks for the rescue.

No thanks are necessary, I replied, as I stowed the weapon away. But they are appreciated. You've certainly got one hell of a story to tell your grandchildren some day.

"Uh-huh. So you're the big national hero, eh? Mister Roosevelt and his wife certainly can't sing your praises enough. In