08/04/2017
I contacted David O'Hanlon, a friend and kick-ass writer a month ago about co-writing a character I had created, Hanson Muldoon Occult Detective, set in the 1920's.
The story he wrote is so bad-ass I can't make it any better and have happily demoted myself to editor. :D
I give you the first page of The Grinning Grimoire by David O'Hanlon - a Hanson Muldoon Adventure
-- Binding Boon Bookshop sat on Jones Street in Greenwich Village. It was a quaint Victorian, painted an evening blue with a scalloped tile roof.
The proprietor flipped the open sign to closed and set the three locks. Moonlight beamed through the top of the storefront windows above the heavy maroon curtains and spilled across the Oriental rug. There was always a hint of magic about the place, which seemed to intensify in the silvery light.
The owner, Hanson Muldoon, leaned against the frame of the door and enjoyed the tranquility of the evening, before he walked to his little office through the faded blue door. It was nestled in the back, between the shelves on ‘Alternative Haitian Christianity.’ He preferred just to call it voodoo, but folks could get tight about such things.
Doodles, his assistant, had recommended a more receptive sign over the obscure collection. If they didn’t like the voodoo section, they would really be upset about his personal library.
He poured himself a shot of Canadian Club. The amber liquid took its effect warmly in the pit of his stomach. Before he could pour the next, he heard the ti**le of the brass mail slot opening. This was followed by a solid thud against the wood floor and then the slot clanged shut.
Kind of late for mail, he thought as he continued his after-work ritual.
He reached for the ceramic jar on his desk with a smile. He pulled the cork out. His smile fell. “Damn. Down to seeds and stems again. Looks like I’ll be visiting the Madame tomorrow.”
He poured another shot when he heard a low growl come from the main room. He sat the bottle down and walked into the storefront.
“What is it, McDougal?”
The little black pug sniffed a rectangular parcel.
“You should be a police dog with your deductive skills, pup. It’s a bookstore, you know? We’re going to receive books time and again.”
The dog was tiny, even for a pug. He yipped at Muldoon and then growled at the package. He danced around it anxiously, as a steam-like smoke began to rise off of his coat.
“Right. Let’s have a look then, before you get all hell-bent on me.”
Too late.
McDougal scampered into the shadow of a book shelf as Hanson knelt next to the package and cut the twine. He opened the brown paper package delicately. When the dog stalked back to the foot of his master, he looked different.
Very different.
McDougal was huge, almost twice the size of a Rottweiler. He remained coal black, but his googly, bug-eyes were now deep-set and looked like burning embers. His brimstone breath steamed across Muldoon’s face. His growl rolled forth, an unearthly baritone. McDougal set a massive paw on his owner’s hand to stop him.
“Easy, Billy Badass. Let’s take a look before we get all tight about it,” he told the hellhound. Muldoon stood up and let the paper fall away. His eyes widened.
The book was bound in leather -human leather, he realized as he stared down at the face stretched across the cover. Empty soulless eye sockets stared back at him. The lips were pulled taught, screwed up in a ghastly grin.
He looked down at the dog which now stood three inches past his hip. “Okay, you were right. In retrospect, we probably should have left it alone.”
