“The Case of the Missing Alien Baby Mama” is my fourth outing with Leo Persky, “a solid five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds of average, complete with glasses, too much nose, not enough chin, and a spreading bald spot that I swear isn’t the reason I always wear a hat.”
Leo was born in 2008, when I was invited to contribute a short story to an anthology published by Moonstone Books. I’d dabbled in horror before, but in that broody-meant-to-chilling kind of way, so I wanted to do something a little different this time around. That I had been, up until several months earlier, a writer for and executive editor of the fake news humor tabloid Weekly World News probably had a lot to do with my decision to take a little tongue-in-cheek poke at the conventions of the form.
So Leo Perksy, under the penname of Terrance Strange and a picture of his much more photogenic grandfather, is an investigative reporter for WWN. In Leo’s world, everything the News prints, from ghost stories to interviews with alien visitors is the one hundred percent, fact-checked and verified truth. And to say that Leo views his world through jaundiced eyes would be an understatement; Leo is a proud, self-proclaimed snarky asshole because, well, everybody always tells me I should write what I know.
Two more Leo stories followed “Man Bites Dog,” “Vodka Martini, Straight Up, Hold the Jinn” (2012) and “Shunning the Frumious Bandersnatch” (2014), both for horror anthologies.* Then, in 2016 came Russ Colchamiro’s call for stories for the Love, Murder, and Mayhem anthology we’re doing through Crazy 8 Press. Russ had only one rule: “Each story within the SciFi realm must contain at least one component of love or romance, and at least one murder. Mayhem always welcome.”
Funny he should say that, because after finishing “Shunning the Frumious Bandersnatch,” I realized that all three of Leo’s stories had supernatural elements—vampires, genies, and Atlantean magic—and I hoped that in the next outing, I could do something with those other staples of WWN headlines, alien visitations and interspecies progeny, especially human/alien hybrid babies. Within twenty-four hours of Russ’s email invite, we had an approved pitch for “The Case of the Missing Alien Baby Mama.”
And now that alien baby is about to be born, an adorable little tale complete with the requisite love and murder, as well as its fair share of mayhem. As just one of the parents of this beautiful, bouncing newborn book, I couldn’t be prouder.
Love, Murder & Mayhem from Crazy 8 Press will be on sale both in print and digital formats in July. Stay tuned for updates!
(By the way, if you’re unfamiliar with the “real” Weekly World News or want to revisit that funny old friend, you’ll find an archive of back issues online.
You can follow Paul at PaulKupperberg.com and on Facebook and Twitter. He is a member of Crazy 8 Press.
At long last we are thrilled to present here the official cover for our new scifi-themed Love, Murder & Mayhem anthology coming out in July, debuting at Shore Leave in Cockeysville, MD.
As always, our pal and cover designer extraordinaire Roy Mauritsen did a fantastic job on the cover, with the collection featuring stories from an all-star author lineup including Aaron Rosenberg, Robert Greenberger, Michael Jan Friedman, Peter David, Paul Kupperberg, Glenn Hauman, Mary Fan, Hildy Silverman, Meriah Crawford, Kelly Meding, Paige Daniels, Karissa Laurel, Patrick Thomas, Lois Spangler, and editor Russ Colchamiro.
In this great collection you’ll get 15 stand-alone stories, including those featuring superheroes, super villains, A.I., off-world, space cruisers, private eyes, a monster mash and … one DuckBob!
Crazy 8 Press is following up on the success of its first Pangaea anthology with Pangaea II: The Rise of Dominjaron, which features an expanded and more diverse cast of writers.
A Kickstarter campaign was launched on January 24 and runs through February 25. Rewards for the $8000 goal run from prints of the cover by South American artist Caio Cacao to tuckerizations.
“This time we’re digging even deeper into the history of our fictional supercontinent,” said editor Michael Jan Friedman, “and we’re doing it with the help of four new writers–Ron Marz, Ilsa J. Bick, Kirsten Beyer, and Marie Lillian Vibbert. Ron will be a welcome name to pretty much anyone who reads comics, Ilsa’s a master of dark fantasy, Kirsten’s one of the top writers in the Star Trek book publishing program, and Marie is a rising star in the field of science fiction. I couldn’t be more pleased to let them loose among the civilizations we’ve established on Pangaea and see what kinds of stories they come up with.”
The anthology’s other writers are Michael A. Burstein, Peter David, Kevin Dilmore, Friedman himself, Robert Greenberger, Glenn Hauman, Paul Kupperberg, Kelly Meding, Aaron Rosenberg, Lawrence M. Schoen, and Geoffrey Thorne.
Pangaea II: The Rise of Dominjaron, like the first Pangaea anthology, explores a world in which all of humanity is confined to a single landmass, and has been so confined for all of its recorded history. There is no imperialism, no reliance on fossil fuels, and a surviving Neanderthal population.
“It’s even more of a shared world this time around, so pretty much every story is something of a crossover. I can’t think of any format that’s more fun for the reader,” said Friedman.
Should the project successfully fund, the new book will be released in September.
The cake from my going away party at DC Comics when I left to join WWN.
A bunch of years ago, my friend Joe Gentile of Moonstone Books asked me to contribute a short story to an anthology called Vampires: Dracula and the Undead Legions. Out of that came a story called “Man Bites Dog,” starring Weekly World News reporter Leo Persky, better known to his readers as “Terrance Strange.” (“My real name is Leo Persky. But ‘Terrance Strange’ sounds like he’d be a big, strapping adventurer who travels the world seeking out the dangerous and, yes, the strange, while Leo Persky sounds like a middle aged, five foot, seven inch tall balding and bespectacled Jew who cowers at the slightest sign of danger. Seeing as how I am the latter but would rather readers believe I’m the former, I go with the macho name, not to mention a photograph at the top of my column of my paternal grandfather, Jacob Persky, who also used the nom de bizarre of “Strange” but who actually was a big, strapping adventurer who traveled the world seeking out the dangerous. Unfortunately, I take after my mother’s side of the family. Scrawny and whiney.”)
Weekly World News was a real publication–I was Executive Editor for its last year and a half of existence, along with Managing Editor, pal, and Crazy 8 colleague Bob Greenberger–even if everything we published was false. It was a great gig, and I thought it would be fun to write a character who inhabited a world in which WWN was a journal of truth, although a majority of its readers still believed it was all fake. I was right. It was fun. Here’s an excerpt from the third Leo story, “Shunning the Frumious Bandersnatch,” which you can read in its entirety, along with the other Leo stories, if you’re interested, in my Crazy 8 Press short story collection, In My Shorts: Hitler’s Bellhop and Other Stories.
My mirror misery began with Rob Berger, as is true of most of the woes life has chosen to inflict on me. Berger, the size of a grizzly bear, almost as furry, and about twice as ferocious, was the night editor of the News. It was a position for which he was uniquely suited insofar as it kept him separated from the vast majority of the staff who worked the day shift and who speculated that exposure to sunlight would cause him to disintegrate into a heap of dust. He was, to put it kindly, not exactly a people person.
In fact, I have some question as to whether he’s any kind of person at all, but as I rely upon him for my livelihood I was content to give him the benefit of the doubt. For all his flaws ⎯ and they were legion ⎯ he was a hell of an editor. Sure, he motivated through the twin tactics of fear and intimidation, but he knew how to cut to the heart of a story…as well as how to cut the heart out of a reporter who didn’t deliver on an assignment. The fact that I had survived under his despotic reign longer than any other reporter, since my humble beginnings as a wide-eyed and bushy tailed stringer while still in college, I considered myself one of his favorites. Which just meant that he was happy to allow me to continue to draw breath, as long as I was in some form of constant pain and/or discomfort. If by some fluke convergence of karma and good luck I happened not to be in either state, Berger could always be counted on to throw something my way to send me plunging back into the fiery pits of misery.
“So, what do you know about mirrors?” my esteemed editor growled even as my foot crossed the threshold into his den.
“That they’ve yet to make one that won’t crack under your beatific scowl?” I said, hazarding a guess and risking a large, heavy object being hurled at my skull.
He must have been in a benevolent mood because all he did was curse me and several generations of my ancestors for a general lack of intelligence and dubious paternity before saying, “Don’t you read your own goddamned newspaper? I mean the Mirror of the Third City, you moron.”
I swept to the floor the stack of books, manuscripts, and old editions piled on his single visitors chair that he kept there to discourage anyone from sitting down and staying any longer than was necessary.
“Uh-uh, and I’m supposed to know what you mean because I became a mind-reader exactly when?”
“Around the time I emailed the background material to the smart phone this company pays a fortune to supply you with and which you’re supposed to have always switched on and check regularly for such items as emailed background material on things like the Mirror of the Third City, that’s when.”
I sat down.
“Oh. That Mirror of the Third City.”
He did what he did best and glowered at me.
“Who the hell said you could sit down?”
“May I?”
“Yeah. Have a seat. And answer my question.”
“Uh, you see, the phone fell in the toilet and…”
“Not that question, schmuck. The mirror.”
“Legendary ancient Atlantean artifact from the reign of Turmerac the Elder, made with sand from the shores of the Eternal Sea and silver smelted from the soul of his mother-in-law, Calthandra, who he had cast into the fire pits of Darkworld as punishment for conspiring with his son, Turmerac the Younger, to overthrow him in league with, what’s his name? The one-eyed king of the Gem City?”
“Rubic the Obese.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Papa Turmerac had his royal sorcerer whip up the mirror to entrap sonny’s soul in eternal torment on the razor-edge between this world and Darkworld because, I guess, even he wasn’t cruel enough to have thought of sending the kid to work for you.”
Berger elevated his left eyebrow a quarter of an inch, his version of a sardonic laugh. The only thing that elicited true laughter from him was human misery. Preferably mine.
“I would’ve taught the little bastard the meaning of loyalty, that’s for sure.”
“No doubt. Hell, that’s why you won’t ever catch me conspiring with any one-eyed fat guys against you.”
“Good call. Make sure you keep it that way.”
“So why the sudden interest in a mirror that no one’s seen since about 12,000 B.C. anyway?”
“Because, if you’d read my email, you’d know that it’s turned up again.”
That got my attention.
“No shit? Where?”
“On an episode of ‘The Antique Bazaar,’ shot in Lubbock, Texas. The idiot appraiser lied and told the owner it was a nineteenth century Art Nouveau design, worth maybe a few hundred bucks, and then tried to buy it from the guy after the taping.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. The precious stones set into the frame are worth a few million alone, but the mirror itself is priceless…and deadly to anyone whose lies and deceit are reflected in its surface.”
“So the appraiser’s now sharing bunk space in hell with Turmerac, Junior?”
“Yeah, although you’ve got to admit, that’s a fitting punishment for anybody from a reality TV show.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but, as appealing as was the image of Honeybooboo and her clan and all their Jersey shore, motorcycle building, gold mining, storage unit buying ilk writhing on the devil’s pitchfork, I let it go in favor of journalistic inquiry.
“Okay, and then what happened?”
“Then a dwarf warrior with a sword stepped out of the mirror, cut off the lying antique dealer’s head, fought off a couple of freaked out security guards, then took off into the night with the mirror.”
“Gee, you’d think something like that would’ve warranted at least a mention in the local news.”
“It did. Only the authorities told a slightly altered version that fits better with accepted reality and local sensibilities. They blame the attack on a meth crazed illegal Mexican immigrant wielding a fireplace poker that he grabbed from a set brought in for appraisal by a gay couple from Amarillo.”
“Suus ‘facillimus ut sit credere quod suus’ facillimus ut credere,” I said with a shrug of rabbinical proportion.
Rob didn’t miss a beat. “It’s easiest to believe what’s easiest to believe,” he translated, then fixed me with a stare. “Two Jews who know Latin, go figure. Your mission, Persky, like I give a crap whether you decide to accept it or not…”
“Find the mirror,” I said, jumping in on the obvious cue.
“And make it quick, will you?”
“What’s the rush? You’ve got five days until the next issue closes.” I had taken out my smart phone and turned it on so I could get at my email. I’m not as such user friendly in that I’m not a friendly user. I don’t trust technology. Technology is just what we call the magic and alchemy of our age. Instead of witches and bubbling cauldrons, we now have scientists, engineers, and manufacturing to turn our thoughts and desires into something real for personal or political gain. And the magic, no matter what you called it throughout history was, though often triumphant, always corrupted. The Atlanteans called theirs “manna.”
“The rush is, numbskull, people are dying!”
In My Shorts: Hitler’s Bellhop and Other Stories is available:
The following is meant strictly for entertainment purposes…well, entertaining to me anyway. I managed to work a favorite joke into The Same Old Story, my murder mystery set in the world of the comic book industry in 1951 (and available just by clicking here!). Fun fact: The character of Robert Konigsberg was loosely based (though greatly exaggerated) on prolific DC Comics writer Robert Kanigher, one of my favorite real life characters. And no real world comic book creators were harmed in the writing of this story…
Deciding that being only half-drunk after receiving the news from Murray was worse than being sober, Guy was desperate for coffee. We stopped at the Automat on 44th Street, feeding enough nickels into the slots for a couple of cups of joe and a matching set of doughnuts.
Guy was lighting a cigarette when Robert Konigsberg sauntered up to the table. Tall and handsome in a rugged Robert Taylor sort of way, Bob had been an editor at National before leaving to write freelance. He was, for all intents and purposes, the top writer at the top company, responsible for a large chunk of their super-hero and romance lines. And he knew exactly where he stood in the pecking order. In a brushed camelhair coat and always freshly blocked Homburg, a bright and natty ascot as a dashing alternative to a tie, Bob was a fashion-plate, a teller of self-aggrandizing tall tales, a playboy, an often surprisingly good and creative writer, and a certified lunatic. There were too many Bob Konigsberg stories to tell, but the least bizarre of his traits included his habit, while writing during his lunch hours while still an editor, of suddenly leaping up on his desk, brandishing an umbrella or cane as a sword and sprouting ersatz Shakespearean dialogue at the top of his lungs, then calmly climbing back down to his seat and resuming his typing. His office mates thought he was eccentric. The headshrinkers at a psychiatric facility in Valley Stream thought he was a danger to himself or others. Twice. Once for sixty days, then again a year later for five months.
He was, by all reports, not currently crazy, making me wonder how crazy you had to be to qualify for certification. I thought the guy was a fruitcake, but at least he was nuts in a way that made him interesting.
“Gentlemen,” he sniffed at us in his bored, affected nasal tone. “What’s the good word?”
“Down here on earth,” said Dooley, ”or up there on Olympus where you reside?”
“Jealousy of his betters aside,” Bob said, directing his question to me, “what’s his problem?”
“Pincus,” said Dooley, “was the best ribbon salesman in New York. You ever hear this one, Bob? About Pincus, the ribbon salesman?”
Bob sighed theatrically. Konigsberg had several talents, but humor wasn’t one of them. The man was incapable of understanding funny in any form other than the dry, smile provoking bon mot, which only he thought was humorous to begin with. Laughter was unknown to that sad, dark heart of his. So Guy liked to tell him jokes, the longer and more drawn out the better.
“He sold to every notions store in the city, he sold to Woolworth’s, B. Altman’s, everywhere. But he could never sell to Macy’s. The ribbon buyer refused to change ribbon suppliers, but Pincus kept badgering him. Finally, one day, the buyer says, ‘Pincus, I’m in a bind. I have a special order for a piece of ribbon exactly two and six-sixteenths inches wide, of the exact red of a perfect sunset, with a texture like a baby’s behind, and as long as from the tip of your nose to the tip of your penis. I need it tomorrow by noon. Find it for me and from now on, I’ll buy all my ribbon from you.’ Pincus agrees to the terms and off he goes.”
Bob tapped his foot on the Automat’s scarred linoleum, waiting with undisguised impatience.
“The next day, at exactly noon, the phone in the buyer’s office rings and it’s Pincus. ‘I got your ribbon,’ he says. ‘Meet me outside.’ So outside the buyer goes and there’s Pincus. . .with ten enormous trucks full of ribbon! ‘Pincus,’ the buyer says, ‘the width is perfect, the color is absolutely dead on, the texture so soft you could cry. But, Pincus, I said I wanted a piece only as long as from the tip of your nose to the tip of your penis!’
“’So?’ says Pincus. ‘The tip of my penis is back in Poland!’”
I laughed. Bob didn’t.
“You were saying?” Bob prompted me, as though Guy hadn’t spoken.
“Worldwide Distribution’s gone down the tubes and they’re taking Blue Chip and Feature, that we know of, with them,” I said.
Bob blinked. He stepped back. “When,” he said, “when did this happen?”
“Today. This afternoon,” I said. “You okay, Bob?”
I don’t think he heard me, just nodded out of reflex.
“Don’t set sail for Cloud Cuckoo-land on us now, Bob,” Guy said. “Remember, the guys you work for have their own distribution company. They’re the only ones don’t have to worry.”
“Were you writing for either of them?” I knew Konigsberg drew a nice salary writing exclusively for National, but I’d also heard the rumors that he wrote secretly, under a variety of pseudonyms, for other publishers.
“Hmm?” Bob shook his head and focused his gaze on me once again. He managed a smile, but it never quite reached his eyes. “Actually, between you, me, and the lamppost,” he said, nodding in Guy’s direction, “I did provide some unsigned material on the side for some of their adventure and romance titles. Adventures Beneath the Earth, My Strangest Journey, Young and in Love, First Dates and so forth.” He waved his hand. “Strictly for income my wife was unaware of, a little extra cash to keep a certain someone in the style to which I’ve made her accustomed.”
Guy drained his coffee and rose to go after a refill. “Oh, Bob, you dog,” he said, deadpan, and left.
Bob shot his cuff and checked his wristwatch, making sure I got a gander at the gold band and jeweled face. “Well,” he said. “Speaking of which, I’d best be off. Don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”
I didn’t ask if he meant his wife or his girlfriend. I just said good-bye and returned to my doughnut.
Knowing that guys like Konigsberg would sail right through the current troubles with little more than an interruption in the quality of their adultery made me feel even worse for guys like me and Dooley. His kids could go hungry, I might have to live off my widowed mother or get a real job. . .but Bob Konigsberg might not be able to pay the rent on his floozy’s apartment.
At the moment, I couldn’t imagine a reason I could ever feel sorry for either Konigsberg or his floozy.
“The Case of the Missing Alien Baby Mama” is my fourth outing with Leo Persky, “a solid five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds of average, complete with glasses, too much nose, not enough chin, and a spreading bald spot that I swear isn’t the reason I always wear a hat.”
Love, Murder & Mayhem from Crazy 8 Press will be on sale both in print and digital formats in July. Stay tuned for updates!
