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SHALLOW GRAVES
Nothing in Hollywood Stays Buried
Forever
Rev. Goat Carson
Jawbone Productions
New Orleans• London
SHALLOW GRAVES © 2012 by Jawbone Productions. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner without written permission from
the author except in critical articles and reviews. Contact the
publisher for information.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0725-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in ebook format by
Jawbone Productions
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
Cover art designed by Silicon Studio, www.siliconstudio.com
“Reverend Goat Carson is the most un-decaffinated writer of Hollywood cult fiction since Raymond Chandler.”
~Kinky Friedman
American Texas Country Singer, songwriter, novelist, humorist, politician & columnist for Texas Monthly Magazine
“Packed with colourful characters and strong satire, Shallow Graves a refreshingly unusual, intriguing labyrinth of a book, full of surprises and quirky turns, with never a dull moment.”
~Book Guild, UK
“Better start working on a theme song, dis reads like a movie!”
~Mac Rebennack
AKA Dr. John The Night Tripper, Singer, Songwriter, Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame Inductee
Dedication
I would like to respectfully dedicate this
labor of love to my two favorite lions of the
tribe of Judah, Kinky Friedman & Speed
Vogal, my magical editor Miss Alexis
Stahl, my inspiration Tom Baker, my dear
friends & comrades - in- arms in this
adventure Donna Love, Jamie Cohen,
Georgia Dent, Paul Cohen, O. K. Carson &
Jesse
Shallow Graves
Set in Hollywood and the Hamptons during the dead end of the 70’s, Shallow Graves is a satirical retelling of the Parsival Legend. Our Holy Fool is the Professor, a half-breed orphan, who does research for horror films. He finds himself pitted against a cabal of satanic cults all vying for control of the clans at the great Feast of the Beast. Movie Stars, human sacrifice, East Hampton society and the living dead are strung together by thread of coincidence with needle sharp wit. The occult pulp fictions of our times are turned on their heads (the Spear of Destiny was stolen by Houdini at the turn of the century; Magdalene was black.) This dark satire on Hollywood, The DaVinci Code and The State of the Nation is a must read for all true fans of the bizarre.
CHAPTER ONE
BABYSITTER TO THE STARS
I WAS TRYING TO SLEEP it off when the smog crept through my window and started choking me. It was hot, much too hot to sleep. I tried to remember why I’d been drinking till 3 a.m. and whose funeral I had to attend today. I didn’t like waking up, ever; it made me tired, real tired. I was tired of losing sleep, tired of losing friends, tired of waking up. I rolled over and pulled the pillow on top of my head. It was Paps; Paps had died and he’d be much happier if I didn’t go to the funeral. I was almost back to sleep when the phone rang. It was B.B., offering me condolences and a ride to the funeral. I had almost married B.B. once, but as I got to know her better, well let’s just say there are a couple of shades of jaded that just aren’t on my palette. I accepted both the ride and the condolences because I was still asleep. At least that’s what I told myself as I struggled out of bed and limped to the shower. I also had a hangover, which always made me feel a little more vulnerable, a little more sentimental. I hoped it had not figured into my decision making process when I accepted the ride from B.B. The thought of her breast implant scars rustled through my mind as I relieved myself of the past night’s indulgence. It was a big help in de-sentimentalizing the situation.
Once inside the shower the steam clouds blurred my vision and I drifted back in time to the moment B.B. and I had parted. I was standing on the lawn of her Beverly Hills home. I had just told her it was over between us. She was holding my right arm and swinging her handbag at my head while her six-year-old son was taking pot shots at my nuts. Hell of a way to end a relationship, I thought. But the mind plays tricks on a man when he showers for his best friend’s funeral. I began to go through a whole series of what-ifs in my head. I had been close to marrying the wealthy daughter of a wealthy, established show business family. What if I had tied the knot and was waking up in a Beverly Hills mansion instead of a storefront loft on Pico? Would it make a big difference? Not to Paps, that’s for sure, he was dead, but how different would my life be?
Steaks interrupted my thoughts. She was the girl who lived in the loft next to mine. We shared the shower, a long concrete room that joined our lofts. I had forgotten to lock the door that lead to her side. Steaks gave out with a rude wolf whistle to announce her presence. I gave her the ol’ bump and grind as an answer.
“What’s up Steaks? You want the shower or what’s in it?”
Steaks was big, for a girl, with lots of curly brown hair and a face not unlike a wishnik doll. She was cute. She wore a pink terrycloth robe and a silly wishnik smile as she leaned against her door.
“Naw I just came to watch,” she laughed, “Christ you’re skinny!”
“You get that way when you don’t eat regular.”
Steaks softened at my reply. “You want some breakfast?”
“Can’t,” I said, turning off the water, “gotta’ go to Paps’ funeral.”
I wrapped a towel around myself.
“The shower’s yours Steaks…you can leave the door to my side open if you want.”
“Naw it’s sexier when you peek in the windows.”
