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This book is a work of fiction. It is a parody. It is a phantasmagoria. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Elsa Schiaparelli was never a vampire. Shocking! by Schiaparelli never contained blood. Chanel and Chanel N°5 are trademarks of Chanel, and their use here is in no way authorized by, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
The author thanks Howard Akler, Nathalie Atkinson, Tony Burgess, Joey Comeau, Kevin Connolly, Dennis Cooper, Trinie Dalton, Jack David, Hadley Dyer, Vincent Fecteau, Grant Heaps, Michael Holmes, Johanna Ingalls, Meaghan Kent, Susan Kernohan, Kevin Killian, David Livingstone, Guy Maddin, Jason McBride, Cynthia McCormack, Melissa McCormack, Murray McCormack, Casey McKinney, Hilary McMahon, Richard Eoin Nash, Christopher Paulin, Ian Phillips, Nen Reyes, Andrea Rosen, Daniel Sinker, Ken Sparling, Adam Sternbergh, Johnny Temple, Conan Tobias, Christopher Waters, Greg Wells, Joel Westendorf, Alana Wilcox, and all at ECW Press and Akashic Books.
Special thanks to David Altmejd.
The Show that Smells
Cast of Characters
Jimmie Rodgers … Himself
Carrie Rodgers … Joan Crawford
The Reporter … Derek McCormack
The Carter Family … Themselves
Coco Chanel … Herself
Renfield … Lon Chaney
The Vogue Vampire … ?
Story by
Derek McCormack
Directed by
Tod Browning
Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Jimmie poses like he’s shooting publicity. Blazer buttoned, blazer unbuttoned—he tries it both ways. Plumps his pocket puff. Picks lint from lapels.
“You’re fine,” he says.
“You look fine,” he says.
“Everything’s going to—” He coughs. “Everything’s going to be—” Coughs up crap. Splat. On spats.
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Carrie Rodgers winds her way through the Maze.
Jimmie’s at a dead end. Doubled up.
“Darling, no.” She sinks down beside him. His sleeve’s sopping. Sputum. It will dry stiff er than starch. “The carnival is killing you,” she says. “You have to leave.” Sputum smells like socks. From her purse she pulls out a bottle.
He sticks the neck up his nose. Chanel N°5.
“Never,” he says.
“Look at yourself,” Carrie says.
“I’m fine.” Jimmie sniff s Chanel N°5. He spits. Sputum. Smells like Saks.
“You’re thin. You’re pale.” So’s she. She’s supposed to be.
Her suit is Chanel. Spring show. “You should go back to the Sanitarium.”
“So they can what—slice me up? Stick me with needles? Shut me in a room to rot?” He pours perfume on his sleeve. “I’m Jimmie Rodgers! The carnival singer! Who would I be if I stopped singing?” He hacks. “Nobody. Nothing.”
“A carnival is not a cure!” she says. “Chanel N°5 is not a cure!”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and me in a Mirror Maze.
“Jumping Jehoshophat!” Jimmie jumps.
“Where did you come from?” Carrie says.
“Paris,” I say.
“The mirrors!” Carrie says.
“You’re not there!” Jimmie says.
“I’m a vampire,” I say. “I write for Vampire Vogue, the style bible of the fashionable fiend.”
“There’s Vogue for vampires?” she says.
“We wear clothes,” I say. “We’re not werewolves.”
“Stay away, devil,” Jimmie says, “or I swear I’ll—” Cough.
“I haven’t come to kill you,” I say. “I’ve come to write about you.” In mirrors, I look like nothing. I look like lamé. “A carnival, a singing star, his lady—why would Elsa Schiaparelli summon me to such a place?”
“The Elsa Schiaparelli?” Carrie says.
“The Vogue Vampire,” I say. “The Dracula of Dressmaking.”
“She makes clothes for movie stars!” she says. “She’s famous!”
“Famously fiendish!” I say. “Fashion is her feint. A demon who dresses well-heeled women around the world. She makes them look beautiful. She makes them smell beautiful. Then she eats them.”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie
