Splatter

By E Stuart Marlowe

Splatter horror film director Jonathon Gale is desperate for a hit. But his production seems plagued by problems, innocuous at first. Then one of his actresses is shot dead by her boyfriend, and Jonathon is forced to accept that he’s facing not only a series of unrelated mishaps, but in fact, a full-blown curse.

The violence escalates: demonic possession, blood-thirsty zombies, creatures from another world. Someone wants this film to stop.

When the skittish financial backers begin to pull out, Jonathon considers dropping the project, cutting his losses, though doing so would surely lead to his shameful exile from the film world.

And so he resolves to press on despite the chaos—even if it risks death—making his film while searching for the one who has cast the sinister curse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E Stuart Marlowe
• Release date: Apr 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781521858660

E Stuart Marlowe

E. Stuart Marlowe is the bestselling horror novelist of Menagerie, Splatter, Pauper King and Gone is Gone. He is also a screenwriter and filmmaker. His most recent feature, "Abruptio," is in production and stars James Marsters, Jordan Peele, Sid Haig and Robert Englund. He and his wife co-own the production company, Sweet Home Films, LLC. They live in a downtrodden part of Southern California.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by E. Stuart Marlowe

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

COVER BY WAYNE SCREW

ISBN 9781521858660

Preface to the 2017 Edition by the Author 1

Scumbag 5

The Other Blonde 23

Such a Nice Girl 47

Cecil and the Homeless Man 59

World on Fire 77

Jinxed 93

It’s Show Time 105

A House in the Canyon 117

The Clouds Roll In 135

15K 151

A New Cast 169

Settling In 181

Missing Eggs 201

Miguel X vs The Dead 209

Apocalypse 227

One More Shot 239

Epilogue 251

Preface to the 2017 Edition by the Author

While moviegoers were being slaughtered en masse by such flaming Hindenburgs as Encino Man and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot, yours truly was huddling inside a crowded Laemmle art house theater, enraptured by Robert Altman’s surprisingly mainstream masterpiece, The Player.

The year was 1992. This was well before the gargantuan AMCs and Regals steamrolled through town, ringing the death knell for indie filmgoers and makers alike, and forever changing the cinema landscape.

Altman’s movie was a faithful adaptation of Tolkin’s eponymous novel, exposing all the ruthlessness, wrath and backstabbing that informed big studio productions. It remains one of the blackest comedies to have ever graced the silver screen. Still, one question nagged at me as I left the theater that cool April evening: if the big studio world is that awful, why not go indie?

The independent film scene was happening that year. Robert Rodriguez had just made his über-low-budget gonzo hit, El Mariachi. Tarantino was setting the world ablaze with Reservoir Dogs. And then there was Dead Alive by Peter Jackson, which, I think, speaks for itself. So it isn’t as though filmmakers were shackled to the big studio system. The indie world was thriving, full of passionate artists and largely wrath-free.

I bring all this up as background because Splatter was born in

response to Altman’s film, and alert readers will discover the many references. Don’t like the studio system? Well, here’s your alternative!

As with all great works, this novel was written at a time in my life when I was fighting personal demons much larger than myself, over two lost weeks during the summer of ’92. I shall not ask for your indulgence by rehashing this period. It is all readily available in the press should you find yourself that desperate for dirt.

The journey from manuscript to theatrical release was not cursed, exactly, not like the film production in this story, but it was rocky. My initial draft—typewritten then, remember—fell victim to fire, when a candle was upended on my dining room table by my cat Farnsworth. Many chapters perished. The book was a couple hundred pages longer originally, in fact. We can shed a tear for those many lost vampires and ghouls which were set afire on those pages, but frankly, it is no love lost. The end product you hold in your hands is succinct, and I owe Farnsworth—wherever he is now—a debt of gratitude for this. My editor says I have verbal diarrhea, which this preface, if not this very paragraph, suitably proves.

The book hit the stands with a thud. Maybe I sold a couple dozen copies, if that.

Then, the Davenport incident happened. I hate to exploit a tragedy of any kind. It is, of course, unfortunate that people died. But the fact is, had the shooter not been carrying Splatter in his coat pocket, I’m confident my little novel would have instantly faded away into obscurity, as so many works of pulp have before.

But instead, Splatter became immediately infamous. The movie came less than a year later, mired in its own web of well-documented troubles. And the rest, as they say, is history.

For the book’s 2017 rerelease, my dear longtime editor Shlomo Weiss asked that I bring the story into the twenty-first century. As such, you will see references to things I could not have known about at the story’s inception: cell phones, Skype, Harry Potter and the like. Oh, and one other request was made of me. The novel needed to be sexier, the violence more extreme. Now, I am not a fan of gratuity. But it is a fact, regardless of my own preferences, that audiences and readers alike have grown accustomed—immune, even—to what we used to consider shocking. Hence, I complied.

For those who find these updates an abominable betrayal, I beg for your forgiveness. And for those reading Splatter for the first time, I guess I feel an apology is in order. Like those unsuspecting readers before you, you will no doubt pose that most rhetorical of questions: What the fuck? Ah, what the fuck, indeed. For this, let us blame those personal demons I mentioned.

Either way, I am eternally grateful you have chosen to permit these strange characters into your life. With love,

E. Stuart Marlowe

April, 2017

The High Desert, California

Chad died much as he had entered the world, smothered between a young woman’s thighs.

Men have, since the invention of murder, expired from much crueler means—evisceration, crucifixion and starvation, to name but a few. All horrible. Each far worse, arguably, than being deprived of air by a gyrating pelvis. Yet that is exactly how the jock would go, his muffled screams and deploring eyes finding no quarter.

How long does it take for one to perish from vaginal asphyxiation, approximately? Three minutes? Ten? Bah. Surely not ten. Nay, closer to eight.

As his face turned a darker shade of red, Chad’s feet pounded a jig against the duvet and his fingers scuttled like two petulant crabs upon her neck.

Still, she persisted.

She rode his jaw, groaning, eyes closed and face blissfully upturned. It may have seemed to the casual observer that he should be enjoying himself, but this simply could not be so, for Chad was in the final throes of suffocation, and whilst his mouth must have been raging from friction and his neck seized with spasm, neither would have been as agonizing as the pain he certainly felt deep in his deprived lungs.

The bed springs creaked a raucous rhythm. A siren wailed beyond the shaded window, off to some emergency in which murder was not so inevitable. Neither person seemed to notice.

Eight minutes passed. To the minute.

Even after Chad had given up the ghost, letting his arms flop to the bed above his head, the girl charged valiantly onward. His eyes fell distant, unblinking, but still she rode. It was not until the wicked seductress sucked in one final hiss of air through her teeth, slamming her thighs together against his ears, that their death-bang concluded.

And through it all, in the shadows, Jonathon Gale watched. The camera absorbed her fluttering eyelids, the dampness on her forehead, the clenching of her jaw. She was a natural. The camera loved her. Jonathon loved her. He couldn’t help but revel in this exquisite performance.

The girl with the damp, curly hair sunk fully onto her victim’s face, spent, and let her head bow.

Silence.

Broken only by a lone voice from the shadows...

And—cut.

Belinda opened her eyes to look at her director, who stepped into the light, and asked, Can we do one more?

Nonsense, Jonathon said. That was a perfect take. Why?

The corpse beneath her crotch came back to life. His name was Billy. Jonathon had discovered him not via the usual casting call, but serving drinks at Marmont on Sunset. Meanwhile, out in the living room, the crew resumed its animated yet ultimately vacuous yammering.

I felt like I was biting my lip too much. The actress sat up on her haunches as Jonathon approached the bed. And I think I snorted.

It was wonderful, Jonathon insisted. Truly. You want to watch it back?

Nooo, she said, gushing distrust. I trust you.

Very well. Moving on. Jonathon put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and gave a raised thumb to his director of photography. Damek Kliment was a hoarse Czechoslovakian of few words. Most are. Damek had been watching the scene with his usual unwavering glare of disapproval, withholding comment until cued, and even then providing responses that bore only a shadowy resemblance to English.

Look good? Jonathon said.

As goot iz gone look, Damek returned with a frown.

Fantastic. Jonathon clapped his hands together. Let us all take five and we’ll get the turnaround on Billy. Belinda, dear, you may dismount.

The murderess swung her hips off of Billy’s head and sat at the bed’s edge, tugging up at her bra. All that jostling about had allowed it to sag, revealing more than intended. At least, more than her contract required of her. Jonathon’s approving glance was lost on all. He briefly wondered what she looked like beneath that formidable barrier of nylon and spandex; made a mental note to find out later.

Billy turned onto his side, watching Damek fold the tripod legs and prepare for his close-up.

Right here, mate, Jonathon said, facing his cinematographer with one open hand poised several feet above Billy to demonstrate where the camera was to go. OTS. I wanna get a bit of Belinda’s shoulder in the bottom right.

Damek nodded and planted his tripod next to the bed.

Mind if I go outside for a cigarette? Belinda said.

Go right ahead.

No, Damek barked, eyes stern. All ba done in a mynut.

Jonathon clicked his tongue. Ah, sorry, dear. He’s almost ready. Just hang in there one mo. I’m certain the cancer fairies won’t mind. Ta.

No problem, she said, then concentrated quietly for a second, undoubtably trying to figure out how Jonathon had deciphered the cameraman’s impenetrable accent.

Damek studied his viewfinder, adjusting the camera’s focus until he seemed satisfied, albeit marginally, then let out a disappointed, Yump.

Uh huh, Jonathon said. All right, assume the position, if you will. No need to go full throttle this time, love. We can only see the top half of Billy’s head. The rest is obscured by your skirt.

Belinda straddled her costar once more. Got it.

And what am I doing, more of the same? Billy said. There was an effeminate note to most things Billy said. Jonathon discovered new respect for the young actor, who in all likelihood was not particularly fond of female genitalia, much less at this proximity.

Exactly, Jonathon said.

He returned his hand to Belinda’s shoulder, and he kept it there. Plausible deniability said this served the purpose of steadying her. That would have been a sufficient excuse were he not forming a rough estimate of her BMI.

Good thing I have a decent dental plan, Billy said, smiling at Belinda.

She gave a laugh. Jonathon sensed nervousness in it. Doing great, my dear, he assured her.

Moof right, Damek grumbled.

Lean just a bit to your right, Jonathon said as he guided her gently. Much better. Try to hold this position, yeah?

Got it, Belinda said.

"And are you all right—you know, down there?" Jonathon gestured at her crotch. Trying to be diplomatic. Bumbling. Not his forte.

I have about five socks stuffed inside my panties, she said, so no complaints.

And you? Jonathon glanced at Billy.

No complaints, either, came his response, stifled under five socks and a vagina.

Fine. Right. Jonathon looked at Damek. I’m ready if you are.

The cameraman nodded.

Quiet on the set! called out one of the PAs, a film school student—Chris or Carl or something in that ballpark—who had volunteered for the experience. He had been waiting in the doorway, long arms grabbing either side of the frame’s top edge. Quiet on the set! he repeated with greater authority. This truly was the high point of his day, no doubt. Poor sod. The rustling of crew in the living room behind him died down.

Ready on sound? Jonathon asked his audio guy, Bart.

Bart was a hefty bloke who seemed to spend most of his time engaged in internal dialogue, only rarely surfacing when called upon. Case in point:

Mm hmm, Bart said. He was gripping his boom pole overhead, a shotgun mic aimed at the talent.

Right. No groaning this time, Belinda. I’m just picking up Billy’s audio.

M’kay, she said.

Jonathon turned to Damek. And the light?

All goot, Damek reassured him, and then with a phlegmy trill: Rrroln!

Jonathon slid back into the shadows, and with a hushed voice, said, Action.

Belinda’s gyrations resumed, silent and less insistent. Billy’s eyes were wide with terror, nonetheless, his screams absorbed by his attacker’s unrelenting loins.

Jonathon Gale, British expat and indie horror film director, watched. His gaze wandered from Billy’s performance to Belinda’s hips as they rocked, farther up to her exposed midriff and arched back, past her bra—time enough for that later—to her neck, finally resting on Damek’s camera lens hovering coldly over her shoulder. Recording the proceedings, void of judgment.

That camera was the only part of these bizarre proceedings that made them remotely acceptable. A bunch of people milling around, watching a woman fornicating with a gent’s chin whilst he screamed bloody murder—or pretended to, in any case? Sorry, but there was nothing kosher in that.

But God bless that imbecilic camera. By its mere presence, it was capable of making even the most profane, antisocial behavior practically mundane.

Belinda jockeyed. Billy shrieked. In minutes, the hapless victim would be, once again, deceased.

——

Bloody long nipples.

Belinda was still asleep on her back with her head tilted away. He watched her chest rise and fall, the morning light lending it a sensuous glow. The dance was the meal, which could range from Haute cuisine to junk food, depending on physique as well as such intangibles as chemistry. But this—watching her as she slept—was the pudding. She was vulnerable, and the resulting tension between desire and restraint aroused him as much as any other chapter in their inevitably brief affair.

She let out a meek snore every so often. She probably had no idea she was a snorer. It reminded Jonathon in some odd way of a kitten’s purr.

Perfect, really, those nipples. Too short, and a girl could seem immature. What qualified, then, as too long? An inch? An inch was a malformation. Freakishly long. This was irrefutable.

Who even has one-inch nipples? Jonathon himself had never seen it.

He yawned, stretched.

About one-and-a-half to two centimeters was the sweet spot. Science would bear this out as fact some day, he was sure. It had, to date, managed to cram all other aspects of attraction into tidy, predictable pigeonholes.

He thought, perhaps we could open with this on the next film. Fade in: extreme close-up of a woman’s erect nipple, exactly two centimeters in length.

He could hear the critics now: Exploitative! Dehumanizing! Scumbag!

It would spell the end of his career. Or not. Being accused of misogyny had become so utterly obligatory that if a critic didn’t sling the lazy accusation, Jonathon assumed they hadn’t actually watched his film.

Maybe Jonathon was musing too loudly, as Belinda’s snores ceased and her hand rose to rub her eyelids. They opened languidly as if she had been drugged (she had not been), and then she turned her head to gaze at him.

Time’s it? she said, voice dry. It was a smoker’s voice.

Dunno. ’Bout seven. He strained to look at the bedside clock behind him. Eight.

Crap. She massaged her eyes again and then let her hand rest on them for a minute, until finally she sat up on her elbows. Jonathon watched her breasts wander into a new position as her dark hair fell. This lasted not more than a couple of seconds, but it was breathtaking, nonetheless. Meeting my boyfriend in an hour for breakfast.

Cancel. There’s a pub down the road does a lovely fry-up.

Can’t. Canceled already this week. She sighed, It’s fine.

Belinda leaned over to kiss him briefly, then got out of bed. By the time she had reached his bathroom, the sensation of it had dissipated from his memory.

Jonathon rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, the sunlight turning his bedroom window into a harsh white rectangle. Some numpty outside had begun blasting a leaf blower. Oughta be a law.

Manipulative! Demeaning! Porn peddler! the critics would cry.

Jonathon fumed in their alleged wake. Belinda flushed the toilet.

——

At three that afternoon, Jonathon was waiting for auditions to start. They had rented space at The Complex in Hollywood. It was the size of a small high school classroom, with rows of chairs facing a platform.

Presently, he was accompanied by his producer Chalmers, two seats over, thinning blond hair damp as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.

Jonathon had never suspected Chalmers was gay. Few people would have. A man’s orientation normally didn’t make a lick of difference to Jonathon; it wasn’t something he typically paid any attention to. But there was no ignoring the fact, Chalmers Donner, his producer and the bloke cracking open revenue streams, favored like-minded crew and talent. And so, when fists came to cuffs, his producer’s sexual preference did indeed matter.

How’d the shoot go yesterday? Chalmers said. Billy said you finished ahead of schedule.

Yup, Jonathon said. Given his lack of sleep the night before, his brain was still not fully accounted for. The two Tylenol with lunch had certainly not absolved him of his lingering hangover. Mental note: while liquor may be a lubricant, too much of it only mucks up the works. Everyone brought their A-game. Smooth sailing, for once.

Must be nice, huh?

Oh, I don’t know. What’s the fun in that? Without the drama, it’s just another day at the office.

"So then, is that a wrap on Idiorotica?"

"That is a wrap on Idiorotica." Jonathon gave a contented smile. It had been a rough shoot, over-budget and beset with minor issues. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome in time, but still, a royal pain. He was quite relieved to be done with it.

A clatter, and a voice called from the entrance behind them, Sorry I’m late.

The two turned to see Jonathon’s writing partner Ben Tate wrestling with a bulky black rucksack as it threatened to slip off his shoulder. "Not easy finding parking around here on a Saturday. Fuck me."

Hey, Chalmers said while Ben collapsed into a chair and finally let his bag land on the ground. Anyone waiting?

Yeah, like ten or fifteen.

Then let us start, gentlemen, Jonathon said, eagerness seeping through his malaise.

Casting was among the most critical steps of production. It still made him nervous, should he make a misstep, much like a virgin losing her cherry: so much potential for pain and regret. And when the ensemble did click together, it was magical. Thinking about it, he discovered his heart was now all aflutter.

Gimme a sec. Ben unzipped his pack, took out a tripod and a video camera, and adroitly assembled them at his side. All right. Uh huh. Good...to...go.

Let’s do this, playas. Chalmers shifted and crossed his legs, pen floating over a pad of yellow paper.

Ben walked to the door. A sign-in sheet was attached to a clipboard in the hall where, pregnant with anxiety, auditionees paced and muttered lines, stabbing at them from different angles, faces contorting, pleading at the faded, outdated wallpaper. It looked very much like the Psychotic Mime Convention had arrived.

Ben read the first name on the list. Lawrence Robert Eauclair?

Stage names. Sigh. Some of these names were so pretentious that they could lead a man to lose his will to live.

Mr. Eauclair wore a piss-colored silk shirt that faded into white linen slacks. He seemed to glide more than walk, auburn beard perfectly coiffed, bifocals perched at the end of his porcine nose, paunch well hidden. He handed Chalmers his headshot, and the producer scanned the actor’s impressive list of credits on the reverse side.

Gentlemen, Eauclair said, towering before them on stage. A