Unnamed Future depicts a soon-to-unfold society in which all political, cultural and personal differences are erased from humanity by giving every single person the same personality. Oddly enough, things don’t go well — at least not for our heroine, who rebels by experimenting with an illegal drug that provides her with something exotic and dangerous: a personality of her own.
Having previously threatened to retire after his tenth movie, writer/director Quentin Tarantino further clarified his post-film plans a month ago by announcing the release of his first novel, a novelization of his ninth film Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. It’s scheduled to hit books store in the summer of 2021.
Those of us who’ve spent much of our lives reading and writing crime fiction of the hard-hitting, pulp-ish variety might want to welcome this as good news. After all, Tarantino could well bring a barrage of new readers — lovers of gritty, tough crime thrillers who tend to get their pulp kicks in the film world while leaving the reading up to the more refined, effete fans of literary fiction.
More precisely, Tarantino could help usher in the re-birth of gritty crime fiction that focuses as much on the seedy world of the criminals as nerdy pathologists that populate much of today’s most popular crime fiction.
I’d say Quentin is as likely a candidate as any to trigger a renaissance in this sub-genre. After all, it’s not hard to imagine a fan of the novelized ‘Once Upon…’ becoming an avid reader of the works of Max Allan Collins, Eric Beetner or Christa Faust. Stay tuned…
By Copper Smith
It was the weirdest job I’d ever taken. No double-crossed thugs, no unpaid loan sharks, nary a cheating spouse to be seen. Just a creepy loner who needed a bullet to the skull before he could push into motion a sick plan to make the world a lonelier place.
And damned if I’d ever had to do that much travel before. But they told me the payday would be worth my while so I sailed off strapped with a 9mm. and a head swimming with 80s nostalgia.
Fighting off a stiff December breeze I wove through the Manhattan streets, eager to find my mark and get the job over with – but good luck fending off the distractions of that gorgeously insane place. The sidewalks were a freak show, alive with coke-fueled craziness and the promise of dangerous sex.
I spent my first ninety minutes spinning deeper into that breathtaking web, absorbing everything.
The sights – even the subway graffiti was somehow beautiful.
The smells – real food, made by real first generation immigrants.
And the voices – Deborah Harry cooing, David Byrne hiccupping, Joey Ramone whimpering, Grandmaster Flash cutting, scratching, reinventing the beat.
How could I not lose track of time? Shit.
I raced from the subway, determined to get across town to The Dakota before it was too late.
It was too late. A cloaked figure – arms extended – closed in on his target rising from a limousine.
“Everybody get down!” I shouted, and both bodies dutifully dropped.
I waited for the gunfire. But it never came.
The autograph seeker turned, his face frozen. Unfamiliar. He wasn’t my mark.
I slipped into the shadows, chagrined.
Then I heard the steps and the gun being loaded. But saw nothing.
“Get down!” I wheezed, no voice left after the false alarm.
I still saw nothing, but tried again:
“Somebody’s got a gun!”
Smirks all around. Who’s the wiseguy? they had to wonder.
My head swiveled, swept the shadows, the alleys, behind the dumpster. Nothing.
Another click. A hammer yanked back. No more steps.
A silhouette emerged, stepped into the moonlight.
“Mr. Chapman?” I asked.
He turned. This was my mark. Sharing that demented grin, glassy eyes shinning on. Like the moon and the stars and the sun. I could see the marquee beaming in his head. He was there already, finished, famous, complete. Nothing left to do but add the exclamation point.
But I had to fuck things up by being a quicker draw.
“The dream is over, motherfucker,” I said.
And I shattered his face into a mess his mother wouldn’t recognize. Twice.
I dove back into the shadows and scampered away, the scene now bathing in stunned silence.
It was time to get back to where I once belonged, back to the winter of 2020, a world that could now watch Yoko grow old with her walrus.
(and, yes, blyat means what you think it means)
Check out this trailer for my upcoming audio drama podcast Murder by Monologue!
Yeah, I haven’t been very productive lately. Blame 2020. The year, not the show. Stress, insomnia, health distractions.
So here’s some old stuff I may or may not have posted here.
Here’s an older piece called ‘A Chance to Prove it’ recently read by Alec Cizak.
Here’s ‘Mutiny on the Pimp Wagon.’ Because it’s hard out there for a yachtsman.
And there’s this audio piece called Women Seeking Men.
With so many storms raging right now, we need all the weathering we can get.
A friend, Sid Korpi, has a project that may be of interest to those with kids that I hope haven’t (yet) been exposed to my deeply troubling pulp writing.
Here’s something they should be exposed to!
Check out the next three chapters of The Exquisite Corpse Volume 2!