Archive for July, 2013

My new novel coming soon as an eBook: A Trip Down Psychopath Lane

Johnny Craven, an Academy-Award winning actor, wakes up in a box in the bedroom of his stalker named Nina. She has the ability to control him with her cell phone. He is her slave and she forces him into having strange sex with her. Meanwhile another man is living as Johnny Craven, with the same face. He is a serial killer who forces his victims into killing themselves. 

One of the false Johnny Craven’s victims’ father and mother hire a stripper/private eye named Deveraux to locate their daughter. Is she capable of taking down the false Johnny Craven. Can Johnny escape the prison of his stalker? Who is the man who stole his identity? What role did he play in putting Johnny in his current state of hell? Can Deveraux locate the missing young woman?

This is one of my older short stories. I wrote it back 2009.





            Sand whips through the air harshly. Ancient sand that called the desert home for time immemorial. Conflict disturbs the swirling sand. Burning vehicles roll. Soldiers shoot. Civilians expected this and cleared the street. Soldiers on both sides storm residences. Scared children stare fearfully, born into a world they don’t understand. No toys. No security. No hope. Bodies litter the street. Blood washes the sand. Rockets launch from crude tubes. Tanks afire and chaos within as the temperature rises. Five coffins fall from a helicopter that hovers over the village. Some eyes rise to see them. A man launching rockets is crushed beneath one. Torso obscured, his limbs stick out the sides of the coffin.






            The desert sun waves goodbye to the conflict for today. The sky bleeds. The conflict continues. Bodies are dragged to cover on both sides of the cause in variant forms of disrepair. Mosques lie in ruin, simmering. Adobe buildings look like they were built as ruble, small openings for people to shuttle in and out beneath a pile of jagged stones. The coffins open. Lids point to the sky. The creatures crawl into the night. The air smells like blood unmistakably. People move. Targets. Each creature has the same mission, kill. Really they want to drink the blood. The most natural inclination.



            Wings flap with crinkling sounds. The creatures have human faces that make the citizens view them as angels, incorrect assumptions. The temperature drops substantially after dark. The pitter-patter of bullets on sand-worn brick. Rockets fly low through the air like comets. Soldiers leave, travel back to encampments on the other side of the dunes.



            Larron wants more than blood. He wants Sabine. She is in a village close by. The rhythm of her soul is audible to his hearing. Swirling wind sounds like her voice. The dark sky resembles her dark eyes. A dark-skinned man with an unkempt beard fires a rocket at him, screaming, whirring, and he dodges it by floating a few feet from the ground. The façade of a mosque explodes and burning brick rains on the sand. Blood jumps through veins inside that man. Larron can see the network of veins and the color of the blood stands out to him as if it was fluorescent.



            Larron strikes. Leathery wings propel him half a mile through the village silently. Only his dark shadow gives away his intent, gliding through the air. Rockets whip past him with firecracker sounds, whizzing, or dynamite inching to detonation. They come from both sides of the village. One side of the village versus the other. Burning vehicles roll beneath Larron on flat tires, giving the night a bright orange glow. A flash of fury. Larron’s wings wrap around his target and strangle the breath from the man, tightening until bones snap in half and poke through soft tissue. Desperate words in a language that befuddles Larron. A kiss on the neck stops the plea. Compatriots throw tantrums in the shadows of a crumbled building, jumping up and down, and spitting vehemently. What chance do they have when angels want their blood? He’s not an angel. He roars with a blood goatee around his mouth.



            A grenade is thrown, as small as a pebble in the darkness. Larron can’t move in time. It explodes. His head, limbs, and wings fly separately, bloodlessly. Wind makes his head roll on the hard sand, end over end. Pieces of something like a man. Pieces that remember. Pieces that love. He is reduced to pieces on his first mission.



He remembers the past. Two young creatures stolen from the graveyard they called home. The necropolis was unused for a hundred years. Quiet, cozy, until it was discovered by contractors hired by a development firm, who were there to tear down mausoleums and dig up graves, to make room for a new football stadium that the team held the city hostage to receive. Frightened by the strange denizens of the necropolis the development firm called the police, and the police called the military for aid, the old were killed, and the young were collected for future experimentation. The military knew they would be useful in warfare, trained them accordingly, and that training came to fruition, this day.



Love makes him reform. Pieces crawl, fly, and walk to remake him. Each piece thinks and feels. Each piece loves Sabine.



Reformed like new, he flies through the air. He strikes the man who tossed the grenade with a thud that breaks his body. Fangs sink into his throat and extract the blood. Kicking his feet and swinging his fists, the man can only die.






Sabine’s coffin falls after dark in a village four thousand dunes from the drop zone Larron is in. Three soldiers are held hostage in the village, two British, and one American. The mission: kill everyone and liberate the hostages. In the air by the limit of the village a helicopter hovers silently, the crew waiting. They figure it will take her seven minutes. At the completion of the mission the helicopter will lower a rope ladder, and the soldiers will climb to safety.



She pushes the heavy lid to her coffin open. Unarmed men and women crowd around it, expecting to find food and supplies. They are innocent. She can sense that. She was ordered to kill everyone, to trust no one. Rebelliously she disobeys the edict. She rises and flies from the coffin.



From faraway she can hear the creature she loves. He calls to her on the wind. She sends waves of sound back to him. She is well and she misses him. She hopes that he will come find her.



She looks back while flying. The villagers search the interior of the coffin for food. Disheveled. Filthy. More meat on a snake than on their bodies. Palpable disappointment is written on their faces. Below her is carnage. The remains of people caught in rocket explosions, dismembered, and eviscerated. The spilled blood calls her name.



Larron answers her call, says he will find her soon. She remembers the only time they made love. Just a fleeting moment in real time, but a memory she can’t forget. They played in the room as children with lettered blocks, spelling each other’s names. Moving to adolescence they held hands and exchanged kisses. Kept in a room with others of their ilk true intimacy was an intangible concept. The others were jealous and made fun of them. The cell they shared was the size of a bedroom in a one story home. They frequented a corner away from the cliques of males and females that lobbed insults at each other. Despite being in their twenties, living in the same environment they knew since they were toddlers kept them perpetually immature. They wrapped each other in wings and concealed their bodies from the watching others. This was the last night in the room. The first mission was coming. They had been briefed already. Contorting their bodies beneath the canopy of wings they unified, her legs on his shoulders, and his legs flat against her wings. Her chest against his chest, heartbeat against heartbeat. Breath flew from mouth to mouth. Tongue tip to tongue tip. A volley of taunts and laughter behind them. With Larron inside of her, the pair united, she wondered why they waited so long. Ripped apart in the morning they savored this moment. Rhythmic vibrations inside her, fulfilled beyond description, warmed by his heart, she reached glory, and he did too.



She finds the mosque. Beneath it is the catacomb that holds the hostages. Dark and ominous the mosque looks deserted. No guards are outside. No passersby. She hears feet shuffle below her, in the stomach of the earth. She can walk through the door to the mosque, but she chooses to go through the ground. Rising high in the air and ripping clouds apart she builds momentum, and descends as a blur of motion, through the ground which offers little resistance, to the tunnel below. The ground caves in around her. Motes of dirt dance in the air. The blood-seeking missile hears the heartbeats of the soldiers.



Candles in glass holders illuminate the tunnel with orange light. Sand-worn tapestries decorate the walls and tell the history of the village. Like any city or village anywhere new structures were built on top of the old, pushing the past out of sight. Crouching low, her feet skip across the dirt floor. Bodies move around turns. Hearts flash to her senses as bright red beacons. The prisoners are bloody and bruised. Wires stretch from their genitals to car batteries, and electricity flows.



Quietly she flies around the corner. She strikes a bearded man in robes. A slight touch of her wing across the chest cuts meat. The beige robe is stained red. Discovered by more men in robes who spill around the corner, speaking indecipherably, she rises to the ceiling and stands upside down. The robed men produce machine guns and bullets penetrate the ceiling around her. Lead lodges in her meat harmlessly. She keeps sending signals to Larron. Come and find me. I love you. From the ceiling to the floor, she swipes arms off with waves of her hands. Machine guns keep firing because the pressure on the triggers doesn’t subside. Bullets skip across the rock walls. Dust in the air.



Swiftly turning corners she reaches a circular room that holds the soldiers. They sit on the dirt. Cardboard boxes are stapled to their torsos to hold their arms together and to their knees to keep them immobile. As an insult to the religion of the soldiers crowns of thorns are shoved on their heads and dry blood is clotted around the thorns. Faces are mangled from knife work and throats have been cut superficially, just to draw blood. The room smells of ammonia, urine, excrement, blood. Slight, wistful whines escape the soldiers.



Two bearded men in white housecoats sit on plaid couches watching television. They see her and fumble for golden lamps that sit on magazine stands next to them. The lamps are raised to be kissed, tips of tongues dance on the tin-like metal and wisps of green smoke ooze from the openings that taper from the round portions that are kissed. Sabine flips through the air and works on the cardboard, at least seventy staples hold each box in place. Cardboard tears away. The staples are too deep to budge. She pushes the three soldiers together and lifts them. Over her shoulder shapes materialize from the green smoke, brown-skinned beings wrapped in yellow bandages. Rapidly the yellow bandages leave the bodies, unwinding, and slithering through the air to Sabine. Sticky, they touch her and latch on, constricting around her throat and legs, pulling tight until she is subdued. Roaring, she sets the soldiers down, and chops through the bandages with her hands. Hopping from the ground, she launches her body into one, and clasps her mouth onto its neck, tearing into the ancient flesh of a dead and forgotten pharaoh, and drinks the ancient equivalent of formaldehyde, an intoxicating blend of poison that she spits on the floor. Bandages pin her wings down, her arms, and wrap around her face until it’s a ball of bandages. Unable to move or sense, she is their prisoner.






Larron hears Sabine’s new signals for aid. He heard the others. He forgoes his responsibility. A homing mechanism is stitched in the back of his head, a lump like an embedded tick. Vaguely he recalls the surgical procedure that placed it there. Pumped full amphetamines on a sea of gold and silver water he heard things, he will never escape, and we will always be able to find you. Let them come. His lover is in danger. Lost in a war that is not hers. Fighting battles she wants no part of. Captured because of a forced responsibility.



Leaving the village behind, he sees only dunes, rising and sinking, slithering discs of sand squiggling in circles, and helicopters positioned over other villages, black beacons in the night waiting and watching. He is followed. The homing mechanism tells the crew of the helicopter hovering over his village that he is leaving. A beam of yellow light comes from the helicopter, dancing on the darkness, and forms into a huge circle like a noose. It goes around Larron and comes closer together to corral him. He lowers his flight to a few feet above the sand dunes, collecting sand from the ground in his wake. A sand cloud forms around him, he is invisible to the men with binoculars and infrared scopes who watch from the cockpit of the chopper, but the mechanism in the back of his head tells them he is close.



The chopper stops at the edge of the village. A mission is in progress and cannot be disturbed, hovering on the edge it waits for Larron to leave. He sees the empty coffins on the ground. People mill around them as if they are alien spaceships. Waves rise from Sabine. She is battered like the soldiers, adorned with a crown of thorns, beaten, and electrocuted by wires connected to a car battery. These messages enrage Larron. The other vampires see his flight and get ideas. They don’t support this war. They don’t want to be part of it. Bathed in blood and still hungry, they carry supper with them, and fly from the village. The helicopter on the other side of the village follows.



Larron spots the hole that Sabine entered, like a bomb crater. Sand is sinking in slowly. A brown head with bandages wrapped around the visage leers out. Larron flies for the steel doors of the mosque. On impact they crumple like wet paper. Whispers. A snaky brown shape wrapped in yellow gauze flies toward him. Spinning he whips the shape with a wing and it falls. More whispers, like hissing. Yellow snakes crawl across the floor and walls. A piece sticks to the bottom of his foot and tugs him to the ground. It rotates lividly around his leg. More pieces wrap around his throat. A naked brown being controls them, manipulating them by movements of his arms like a puppeteer. His strong wings raise him. He drives his shoulder into the chest of the brown being, a creature with no eyes, only sunken orbits. The blow makes ancient bones crack and splinter, grumble. The head falls off. Larron catches it and chucks it at more beings with trailing yellow bandages over their heads in circular shapes like coronas sidling from the darkness. The head knocks an arm off a being.



Larron lowers his head and flies like a cannonball through sticky bandages and ancient arms. Hearing the calls of Sabine, he knows that she is below the mosque. The path tightens, the ceiling is lower and the walls are closer together. He finds a steel lid and flips it open. Dropping through a wall of gray dust, the steel lid falls closed over him. Mournful sounds meet him on the bottom, pleas of Sabine, and moans of pain from the soldiers, who are treated to electricity from the batteries that never seem to die. Words are spoken in the foreign language, competing with the moans and pleas. The air smells rotten. Joints creak and bones crack. He senses many malevolent presences. He needs aid and calls the dust to his body to cloak him.



Wearing a coat of dust he turns the corner into the chamber. A cache of weapons are laid in a corner, everything from rifles to rocket launchers. Two Muslims in white housecoats and pink slippers watch a dating show on a widescreen television. The prize has lips packed with collagen and breasts augmented by a pound of silicone. Her hobbies include fellatio and felching. Turn-offs are men with bad fashion sense and morals. Golden lamps are on drink stands next to bottles of beer, green smoke billowing from the openings. The prisoners are on the floor in the dust, as dirty as Larron. He sees Sabine with a crown on thorns on. She is wrapped in the clothing of a naked brown being that is eating her hair. Hair has plenty of protein. It gets a taste of all the drugs the military fed her. The Muslims in housecoats see him and leap up. Rather than go for the cache they go for the lamps and kiss the sides, more green smoke rises mystically. Larron removes the wires attached to the nipples of Sabine and the prisoners that run to car batteries on the floor that bleed acid. He tears the cardboard away, but the staples stay in place stubbornly.



Freed of the shackles, the soldiers run for the opening. “Follow the path straight,” Sabine tells them. The brown being takes larger bites of her hair, discovering dandruff caked on her scalp, and enjoying it more than the hair. Larron’s fist knocks its head off. Mummies materialize from the green mist. Depleted but vindictive, Sabine slices Xs in the faces of the Muslims in housecoats for what they did to her. Deep gashes expose everything inside, blood cells and bones. Their faces vomit blood. Two fists into each mouth crush jaws and teeth into pink paste. Two more Xs across the chests that vomit more blood.



The mummies cast bandages like fishing lines. The pair flies through the opening into the tunnel. Bandages catch their wings and drag the mummies behind them. They bash into the ceilings and walls, losing limbs. The torture enervated Sabine and she wraps her legs around Larron and he carries her. The soldiers run slowly, tenuously, afraid to find more mummies. Larron gathers them in his arms too. Mummified hands reach through the ceiling. Bandages dangle and stick to him, dragging the mummies from the ceiling. The flight gains momentum despite the excess baggage. Blurs of flesh.



They reach a steel door. It is resistant to the force Larron generates. Bandages creep off the dragged mummies and snake around his face and throat, wings and limbs, squeezing. He drops the soldiers. Choked, blind, he claws at the bandages that seem to drain his strength. The soldiers open the door by turning a wheel welded to it. It creaks open and the sounds of war cascade in. Distantly a chopper’s blades churn in the air. “Go to the middle of town and the copter will pick you up,” Sabine tells them. They lost their tongues and nod understanding. Unarmed, they stumble into the battle. Through the opening Sabine sees a spotlight shining down.



She tends to her lover, who is wrestling the yellow tendrils impotently, and losing strength. She goes for the sources, the naked mummies. The pair doesn’t react, blindly standing with no eyes. She strikes them with her claws and wings and they break into pieces. The bandages die, rot into dust and Larron is free. Seizing Sabine in his arms, they rise into the night, beneath the spooky spotlight.



Rope ladders drop from the chopper. The soldiers seize the material and climb. Rockets explode like red supernovas. Mummies walk the streets with livid bandages whipping around victims. Bullets pitter-patter against crumbling buildings. Villagers believe an invasion is underway and react wrongly. Rockets whiz by the chopper. The churning blades deflect bullets back at the shooters. Once the soldiers are midway up the ladders, Larron and Sabine fly for freedom, holding hands.



Past the village over the relentlessly placed dunes another chopper shines an infrared beam on them and the golden lasso descends to corral them. Pale skin turns red from the beams. A cloud of dust that travels with the pair whips at the chopper and rocks it backward, the blades stop, and it spins in a circle uncontrollably. “I love you,” Sabine says. “Me too,” Larron says. A dune rises in a swirl of sand, revealing a grotto long forgotten. The pair steps down on the old earth and the dune closes over them. A new chapter opens.










The Man Behind The Madness

Posted: July 25, 2013 in Uncategorized

The Man Behind The Madness.

The Man Behind The Madness

Posted: July 25, 2013 in Uncategorized

The Man Behind The Madness

A Trip Down Psychopath Lane is coming. My new novel. My novella, Bloodsucker Boulevard, is coming soon as an eBook.

The Books Of Jeff Prebis

Posted: July 25, 2013 in Uncategorized
My books, love them or hate them.

Enter a neighborhood populated by cannibalistic racists. A place where only vampires may be able to save you. Vampires want to be loved just like the rest of us. A man has a bad reaction to an erection pill he took, and turns into a cat. In a village of androgynous people an ape is the messiah, and he forces a hungry man to eat his own body. What would drive a man to rip off his own penis? Read Walking On Razor Blades: Stories Of Death, Blood, And Sex and find out.