The Stench of Wet Hair, Cheap Beer, and Cheaper Pizza: a chat with Carnivorous Lunar Activities' Justin.
Well, my dear droogies, this went a bit off the rails. Usual situation round my way, I'm afraid. Didn't even end up talking to the person I expected to talk to. I could've sworn that the two bit hack that runs this site told me to chat up some foolish scribbler by the name of Max. Not that I mind. I get paid just enough to talk, but not enough to care about to whom I talk. And definitely not enough to bother editing it afterwards. Enjoy. Or don't. Whatever blows up your skirt.
Hiram Grange: So... wait... Fuck... my head's killing me. Just give me a goddamn moment. Who the hell am I dealing with today? You're some kind of werewolf fucker, right? You look a little too soft for that, but it's your gig.
Justin: What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Just because I have an unusual amount of hair, that makes me a werewolf now? Just because I keep howling at that full moon, what, I'm some fucking lycan? You telling me just because fangs just extended out of my mouth and my spine stretched longer than any human spine can possibly stretch, I gotta be some goddamn werewolf? Well, okay, maybe I am, but still. You wouldn't ask an overweight lady when she was due, would ya? Or maybe you would. Maybe that's exactly the kinda person you are. Where are we, anyway?
H.G.: I don't know where WE are, but I'm on the can, trying to crap out half a bottle of Ardbeg while the room does a fair whirligig around me. And, yes, a case of fangs, hair and the ol' stretchy-skull does indeed indicate a fair case of lycanthropy. Doesn't really mean anything to me, as long as you aren't causing too much fracas in the bright white of night. It's only when there's blood in the air that have to grab my Webly and have a little sit-down, savy?
Look, all's I know is some douche gives me this bottle and tells me to have a chat with you about some trashy pulp yarn an old magazine paid you to put out. So, because I'm sure at least one of the five people that will read this want to know, kindly pass along to the nice people who the fuck you are and why the fuck they should care.
J: Me? My name is Justin. Why should you care? Well, how many other werewolves have you met? I thought you'd be sort of impressed, maybe want my autograph or take a selfie together. Also, I don't mean to be a dick about this, but my sense of smell is insane and I'd really appreciate a courtesy flush right about now.
H.G: Oh, like your kind don't spend half of the moon cycle with your noses up each other's asses. Are you sure you aren't just some sort of over zealous Furry? And, yeah, I've met a few lycans over the years. Wolves, bats, a pair of alligators and even a hedgehog once. That little bugger was adorable. I've also run down the occasional elder god, fairy queen and chimp with a computer chip for a brain. You aren't that impressive, lad.
J: I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Do you hear that? Is that...is that a siren? Ah fuck. C'mon, we gotta scram. Trust me. Things are about to get bad here. Wait. What do you think you're doing with those handcuffs? Oh, god, please wash your hands first. That's disgusting.
H.G.: Just because I like a little Presbyterian with my opium doesn't mean I want to deal with someone being such a protestant about everything. The cuffs are for my own use. And don't fret about the Gendarms. I don't do contract work anymore. Gave up on that after the bullshit Krakow. Also, I washed my hands this morning. that's good enough. And stop eyeballing my Jodie glossies or I'll show you something real disgusting.
J: Haha, dude, I don't got any idea what the fuck you're talkin' about. You got some beer or what? Also, what's with that recording equipment?
H.G: Beer? Bah! Why would a refined gentleman of my stature drink carbonated piss? You can feel free to a glass of the Ardbeg, so long as you can managed to keep from slopping it all over the place and sip it like a reasonable person. The only Absinthe I could find in this shitty burg is that neon colored swill that they make with petite wormwood. What the hell is wrong with people?
Also, ignore the listening voices. They only whisper back when I tell them to.
J: Man, this is getting fuckin' weird. And I'm getting way too hungry to stay here and listen to whatever the hell it is you're saying. Where's the closest McDonald's?
H.G: The fuck would I know? If it ain't Fois Gras, it ain't worth my time. Use that big ass snout of yours and go figure it out on your own. And you best not chew on anyone on your way, or you'll meet the wrong end of my Pritchard, followed by the special silver-coated friends in my Webly. Don't let the door hit you where the goddess split you.
Justin's a goddamn werewolf and he's hungry.
Hiram Grange is most definitely not an estranged member of a certain unnamed collective and beyond a doubt never traveled the world hunting and killing voracious, grotesque monsters and holding of the constantly impending end of days for fun and profit. Nevermind what those idiot authors said in their clearly bullshit books. Except for Scott. Seriously, I am always available if you have some more treats with you.
Ted and Justin were once best friends, but over the years they’ve seen less and less of each other. Now, something’s wrong with Justin. He can’t sleep, he can’t think straight, and he certainly can’t explain why he keeps waking up naked and covered in blood. Ted might be the only person who can save him-- assuming he’s okay with shooting his childhood BFF with a silver bullet. But that’s what friends are for, right?
From Max Booth III and FANGORIA comes Carnivorous Lunar Activities― the ultimate werewolf bromance. It’s a toxic cocktail of An American Werewolf in London, Old School, and Bubba Ho-Tep that dives deep into the well of childhood nostalgia, blood soaked horror, and irredeemable dick jokes to bring readers a slice of Southern Fried horror that proudly wears its heart―not to mention a few other internal organs―on its sleeve.
Coming 02/22.
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