“Hmmm … let’s see. Beautiful islands. Check. Friendly undead. Check. Reminders of bloodshed and death everywhere we look … I dunno, hon. It’s a mixed bag.”
The band’s getting back together once more. But this time, nobody’s feeling it.
The bicker gang of PARADISE ROT and ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD is rapidly losing its taste for luring clueless Middle Americans to obscure tropical-island resorts. Not to mention unwittingly luring them into the clutches of the local ancient undead. Or having to rescue said morons from said bloodslurpers and fleshsnackers.
But here they are — Cate Hendricks and fellow ad creative/nutjob/horndog Kyle Brightman chief among them — on the Indian Ocean island of Soma Indra. Putting together another first-rate ad campaign. Pulling together another train-wreck assortment of guests: Burned-out suburban housewives who are semi-sick of men and seeking sisterhood through yoga sessions. Socially inept software engineers who may or may not be aliens looking to screw their way to species perpetuation. Oh, and did we mention the thousands of Hindu deities looking to rewrite the Kama Sutra during their annual R&R retreat?
Yeeeeaaaaaah. This should go well.
Especially when the gang runs into its most insidious and powerful nemesis yet: Larry Weiner. How does this therapy-addled, midlife-crisis dingus know who they are? Where they’re from? How they think? And what evil plans does he have for them? And why do they want to be thoughtful, responsible grownup-type adults all of a sudden?
Part meta-fiction, part Metamucil, HINDU SEX ALIENS is the cerebrally comic conclusion to Larry Weiner’s uproarious trouble-in-paradise trilogy.
“THIS ROOM LOOKS Jackson Pollacked. Is that a thing? An adjective, maybe? To get ‘Jackson Pollacked?’ There was a time when this would’ve grossed me out. But then, I’ve seen things. And now, well, all I can think of is that some unlucky bastard has to clean all of this up.”
Kyle Brightman stood in the conference room, hands in pockets, looking around at walls covered with blood splatter, bits of organ meat, and flesh. Tendons and bone lay strewn about on the conference table—you could see where the kill had been by the small mound of muscle tissue and a human skull. It looked as if someone had popped the cork on a gigantic champagne bottle full of human remains and, voila! Conference room Lee Marvin (Kyle had named most of the conference rooms) had become, as Kyle put it, Jackson Pollacked.
Cate Hendricks, looking as if she’d been dipped into a vat of blood, sat spent in a chair, her legs splayed, still wearing her pair of purple Converses with the white star. She gazed at the floor rug, studying the pattern of blood and human tissue. To Kyle, she looked like a predator having consumed its prey after a kill. Which, in Cate’s case, was called Mandy Newberger.
Leaning up against a wall, arms folded, Dory Parthenia cradled her iPhone between her shoulder and ear. Kyle had always marveled at the way she could do that—not just the manner in which she could converse while doing something else, usually typing on a laptop, but the actual way she was able to cradle the phone. Kyle had tried it a few times and cracked his Han Solo-frozen-in-carbonite phone case after dropping it.
“Uh-huh… uh-huh… It’s in pretty bad shape. Uh-huh… Yeah, maybe four. I dunno. We might have to rip everything up and replace it. The table’s in good shape, just covered with blood and guts. Know what? Order a new table. I never liked the ones we picked. Tastes change… Uh-huh… Right, just put it under construction costs. Same for Katharine Hepburn. Uh-huh… Try Design Within Reach—oh, you know what? Check out Hive. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
Dory let the phone slip off her shoulder and into her hand; Kyle was once again impressed by her phone-handling gymnastics. “Not the best meeting we’ve ever had,” she said.
“I leave you kids alone for one minute and look what happens,” Kyle said. “Last time I get coffee during client feedback.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
The two of them looked at Cate. They weren’t at the worried stage just yet. Zombies often looked comatose after a feeding—or, in this case, a feast, as Mandy was a big girl.
“So, Cate. Hon? What was the trigger word?” Kyle asked. He walked over to her and kneeled. Cate retained her thousand-yard stare. “Copy changes? Did she try to rewrite the headline? They do that. Bastards. Everybody has to have input these days. I suppose it’s always been that way. Was when I started out in the biz, and that was almost fifteen years ago. Can you imagine someone checking out the Sistine chapel and going ‘meh’? Not that we’re creating masterpieces here, but still—”
“I’ve hit my wall,” Cate mumbled. And then she slid off the chair onto the blood-drenched floor. She was out.
About the Author:
Larry Weiner is the author of PARADISE ROT (BOOK ONE), ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD (BOOK TWO) and HINDU SEX ALIENS (BOOK THREE) that make up the Island Trilogy. Larry earned a degree in film from CSULA and was an award-winning art director. He lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two kids and a gaggle of animals. He plays bass and thus has poor hearing.
Visit his site at: http://www.larryweinerwrites.com
Join his Twitter feed at: @LarryNWeiner
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