Valley of the Frankensteins

By Dustin Reade

IT'S THE MOB VERSUS ZOMBIES IN A TROPICAL ISLAND PARADISE!!!

 

On a private island off the Florida coast, a group of unusually gifted Mafioso, slapstick Federal Agents, and horny Corporate Stooges must fight their way through a nightmarish mélange of killer critters, undead monsters, earthquakes, volcanoes and each othe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915546388

Book preview

Chapter One

MOB BOSS OVER MIAMI

Luigi twisted his cap out of shape in his big, meaty hands, and stared at the man behind the desk. Something didn’t feel right. He’d promised Jimmy he would talk to the boss for him, but this was starting to turn sour. He cleared his throat.

Like I was saying, Mr. Fallopian, he said. Jimmy says he wants more money, on account of how much anti-nausea medication he keeps buying. On top of that, he’s been talking about PTSD. He says he can’t take it no more. The bodies…

Antonio Fallopian sat with tented fingers, looking at something just over Luigi’s right shoulder. He cut an imposing figure: wide shoulders under a white jacket with heavy padding, which he wore over a birds of paradise Hawaiian shirt and military-issue bulletproof vest. Flanked on both sides by two imposing bodyguards, he somehow managed to give off the aura of a man being guarded, rather than one needing guards, as though they were there to keep him from leaping over the table and tearing Jimmy’s head off.

His desk was—somewhat innocuously—covered in Tiki tchotchkes: discarded leis, beads, etc. A tube of bamboo engraved with dancing elephants and monkeys sat behind a collection of four racially-insensitive Tiki mugs. Sitting at the base of a hula girl table lamp, Luigi grimaced at two shrunken heads of dubious authenticity. Antonio Fallopian cracked his knuckles.

What about the bodies, Luigi?

Luigi took a sheepish step forward. Now, keep in mind, Mr. Fallopian, Jimmy ain’t like you and me. He’s sensitive, y’know? And just so you understand, I don’t mean any of this as a means of ratting him out or nothing, see?

The bodies, Luigi, Antonio said.

Right, Luigi said. "The bodies. Well, you see, Mr. Fallopian, it’s like this. The bodies, well, they stink. They’ve usually been sitting for a few days before we get to ‘em, and by that point they’re getting pretty ripe. But that ain’t the issue. It’s when we drop ‘em off at the island, Mr. Fallopian. They, uh..." he trailed off again.

"They what, Luigi?"

Luigi took a deep breath and looked his boss full in the face.

They explode, Mr. Fallopian. He said. I don’t know what it is what causes it, but when they hit the ground, they explode. It’s fucking disgusting, and frankly, Jimmy says it’s getting to be too much for him.

Here, Luigi put his hands up defensively.

"Not for me though, Mr. Fallopian, he said quickly. I’m fine with it. It’s pretty fucking nasty, but I can handle it. Jimmy can too, push comes to shove. All part of the job, am I right?"

He laughed. Antonio Fallopian—bald-headed and thick-necked—did not.

In those days, there were two impressions most generally agreed upon about Mr. Antonio Fallopian. The first was that he was a quiet, albeit powerful man, who could most likely make someone a lot of money if they ran out of options and common sense at the same time. And the second impression—much less favorable but no less accurate—was of a powerful, violent man who would most likely kill you in the end. It should be said, however, that almost everyone who held this secondary opinion of him, couldn’t really do much about it, on account of being very, very dead.

It was some of these very dead people, in fact, about whom Luigi and Antonio Fallopian were currently speaking.

The big man gestured to the bodyguard on his right, and the man leaned down so Antonio could whisper in his ear.

Is Jimmy here? he asked, not bothering to whisper at all.

The bodyguard spoke softly, saying, He’s at the crap’s table, sir.

Find him, Antonio said with a short nod. Bring him here.

The bodyguard nodded, pulled a gleaming, dangerous-looking handgun from his waistband, and left the room. Antonio looked again at Luigi, as though seeing him for the first time.

Would you like to hear a joke? he asked. "Why do they call it the ‘crap’s’ table?"

Luigi shook his head. Sour. Everything was about to go very sour.

I don’t know, Boss, he answered. Why do they call it the crap’s table?

"Because the only people who play it are pieces of shit!" Antonio said, laughing. The bodyguard laughed, too. Luigi forced a smile and nodded.

Good one, Boss, he said.

Antonio Fallopian stopped laughing. It was an incredible thing to witness: the way he could just turn it on and off like that. In those moments, he was more terrifying than when he was holding a gun to someone’s head. A mad dog is one thing. There are only two options: either it bites or it doesn’t. But a mad man? Fuck that. If grief, shame, pity, and all the others could be turned off with the flip of some horrific internal switch? The resultant entity could barely be categorized as human anymore. Luigi shuddered at the thought. There’s no telling, he realized, what a man in complete control of his emotions is capable of.

Antonio leaned forward.

Tell me something, Luigi, he said. Are you a smart man? Do you learn things, pick things up pretty easy?

Luigi gulped, his eyes shifting from his boss to the bodyguard on his left.

Sure, Mr. Fallopian, he said, nodding quickly. I mean, my Ma used to say I was pretty smart. I ain’t afraid to say I don’t know something, though.

Antonio considered this a moment, moving his jaw as though he were chewing something. Finally, he swallowed, and said, How many times have you flown to the island with Jimmy?

Luigi scratched at the back of his neck. He thought of the island. He thought of his hand on Jimmy’s knee as he brought them in for a landing. He thought of tossing dead bodies out the side door and watching as they exploded in the lush, verdant jungle below.

I dunno, he answered. Maybe fifteen, twenty times? Something like that.

Antonio considered this a moment. With a sausage-fat finger he stroked the sewn lips of a shrunken head. Clucking his tongue, he looked up at Luigi.

Do you think you could fly the helicopter?

Luigi took a step back, aghast. Now why in the fuck would the boss ask him something like that? Was he going to do something to Jimmy? Was he going to hurt him? Before he could answer, the door burst open, and Jimmy the Pilot was flung violently into the room, followed quickly by the bodyguard.

I brung him, Mr. Fallopian, the bodyguard said. He was talking up Charlie at the chips counter.

Very good, Leo, Antonio said. Then, turning his attention to Jimmy, he said, Hello, Jimmy. I understand you wish to renegotiate the terms of your employment with us?

Mr. Fallopian, Luigi started, but was silenced by Antonio’s raised hand.

Answer the question, Jimmy, the big man threatened. Are you unhappy with your current employment arrangement or not?

Jimmy had fallen to his knees after being flung into the room. He stayed in that position as he spoke, as though he was in the grips of an overwhelming religious experience.

What? he said, his eyes bouncing from Luigi to the Boss, No, sir! I am perfectly happy with how things are. Yes, sir! Happy and, uh, fulfilled!

He laughed, his eyes flitting desperately to Luigi, who stood stock still, as though paralyzed. Jimmy looked back at his employer.

Yes, sir, he said again. Yes, sir, I am a happy man. No complaints from me sir!

Relax, Jimmy, Antonio said. I’m not going to hurt you.

Jimmy laughed crazily, shrugging his shoulders.

Hadn’t even crossed my mind, sir! he shouted.

Antonio wiped the sweat from his wide, pale forehead. It was mid-August in Miami, and the Tiki Towers Hotel-Casino—while air-conditioned—was balmy and hot. The big man behind the desk exhaled deeply and looked at the helicopter pilot in desperate supplication on the office floor.

Stand up, Jimmy, he said.

Slowly, with halting, jerky movements, Jimmy the Pilot climbed to his feet. Antonio waggled a finger at him.

Come closer, he said.

Jimmy approached the desk in much the same way he might have approached an alligator or a swarm of hornets. Antonio, in a rare gesture of peace, offered his hand for a shake.

It’s a tough job, Jimmy, Antonio said, as Jimmy slowly extended his own hand. I understand how stressful it can be, and I just want to let you know, you can always come to me directly with any issues you might have, okay?

With a sigh of relief,