The Greatest Crime Fighter of the Forties Returns

The Greatest Crime Fighter of the Forties Returns!

Most who know me know I am a huge fan of two pulp characters, Doc Savage and The Avenger (as well as The Shadow to a somewhat lesser degree). In fact, I wrote a history of The Avenger called The Gray Nemesis (now available in PDF format on disc from my Golden Perils page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/page4.htm.

I first met The Avenger on a snowy birthday in 1973. I had been introduced to Doc Savage the month before and since I had shown so much enthusiasm for the book, Brand of the Werewolf, my father got me two more Docs for my birthday. My birthday falls a little before Christmas, so when I got home from school, I discovered the two Docs wrapped and under the tree. But there was a third book there that day, one my father had picked up because of the fateful words "by the creator of Doc Savage" on the cover. (I was to learn many years later the author listed, Kenneth Robeson, was a house name and not a real person, and both series were written by two different authors, Lester Dent for Doc and Paul Ernst for The Avenger). I tore into the wrapping paper expecting a third Doc but what I pulled out was an Avenger novel called The Blood Ring. Now, don't get me wrong--I was NOT in the least disappointed. In fact, I was mesmerized by the white-faced, white-haired guy rearing back on the cover--which was painted in icy blue by the great Peter Caras--a glowing red ring in his hand. Seems this ring, when dipped in fresh blood, had a nasty little curse associated with it. It was the best birthday ever, lemme tell you.

Since there was a snow storm I figured on no school the next day and stayed up most of the night reading. Surprise, school was on the next day and I couldn't lift my head off the desk, but it was a small price to pay for one of those magical moments we experience as kids that seem lost as an adult.

Recently, after a ten year struggle, Joe Gentile of Moonstone Comics acquired the rights to The Avenger for a spankin' new anthology of short stories based on the character. He graciously invited me to contribute to this book (and to another on that old time radio hero of the skies, Captain Midnight). The best thing about this (other than the honor of contributing to the mythos of a character that meant so much to me growing up) is that Joe is a huge fan of the character and will treat him with the respect and care he deserves. In fact, Joe tells me he and I discovered Richard Henry Benson, The Avenger, the same year. I am going to go out on a limb here and claim we were both merely two-years old and advanced readers. Trust me on this, I stayed at a Holiday Inn once.

So a huge amount of thanks and congratulations go out to Joe and Moonstone for this coup and perseverance. If you haven't seen some of their anthologies based on a number of iconic characters such as Kolchak: The Night Stalker and The Spider, then you are missing some great books. I am a bit partial to The Spider book since I am in it, as is my pal Martin Powell, whose work you will be seeing lots of coming up.

The Avenger, for those who don't know, is millionaire adventurer Richard Henry Benson. One fateful day, Benson forced himself, his wife and his small daughter onto a plane bound for Montreal, because his wife's mother was dying. Midway through the flight, Benson returns from the lavatory to discover his wife and daughter have vanished and no one on the plane will admit to them ever having been there. He goes berserk. Completely crackers. After being hit with a fire extinguisher he wakes up in a hospital three weeks later.But he does not wake up the same. His hair has turned snow white; his face has become something like a deathmask, the muscles paralyzed, giving him the peculiar ability to mold them into whatever shape he so choses. He is still enraged at the loss of his family, but it is a chilled inner rage, one that sends him on a path to discovering who is behind the vanishing of his wife and daughter.

He picks up some aides along the way, each of whom have lost something dear and infused them with a burning desire to help others. There's Algernon Heathcote Smith, called Smitty by anyone who has any desire to keeping walking straight. Smitty is an electrical wizard, huge, powerful. Then there's Nellie Gray, a tiny blond gal who can kick the crap out of men three times her size. Next is Fergus MacMurdie, a chemical expert who lost his own family to a crime ring. After that come Josh and Rosabel Newton, probably the first black charcters to be used as equals in a pulp magazine series. A last member, Cole Wilson, came a bit later. He's an engineer and kind of a horndog.

The novels themselves were some of the best pulp lit produced. Written by veteran horror/science fiction/mystery pulpsmith Paul Ernst, the first book Justice, Inc., is nearly mainstream. It's one of the few pulp series to provide a human motivation for the hero's crime-fighting career. The tales themselves dealt with a range of mytery to intrigue. One of them, The Frosted Death, is releveant enough in today's world to give a readers the shivers. The novels carried a number of things that quickly became staples of The Avenger mythos, such as The Avenger, while he never killed (he came before Death Wish and The Punisher and refused to kill in cold blood) had a knack for maneuvering crooks to their own doom. There was his third-floor headquarters on a small block named Bleek Street, myriad gadgets and bulletproof vehicles and peculiar little weapons called Mike and Ike (I'm sure the candy must have been named after them!)

The Avenger himself was quite an intimidating guy, with his white face and frozen features. He was also remote, immersed in a world of grief easily identifiable to anyone who had ever been wronged and wanted the power to do something about it.

For those starting out, I might suggest the very first novel, Justice. Inc., then The Yellow Hoard, The Frosted Death, River of Ice and The Blood Ring (these can be found through used book services and Anthony Tollin who is reprinting Doc Savage and The Shadow in beautiful double volumes will soon be reissuing The Avenger as well).

So be sure to keep an eye out for the anthology when it becomes available. I am more than certain Moonstone will do it "justice".

Kentucky Fried Dino

No doubt by now many of you have heard the recent big news in paleontology: An adolescent female Tyrannosaurus Rex who died 68 million years ago was discovered whose bones still contained intact soft tissue, including the oldest preserved proteins ever found. A comparison of the protein's chemical structure to other species showed an evolutionary link between T. Rex and...

Chickens.

You know, those strange cocky little birds who walk in their own poop and make incredibly annoying sounds the moment the sun peeks over the horizon.

Chickens.

If this turns out to be true, it's amazing, isn't it? I mean, here we have the most incredible killing machine ever to walk the earth, a creature who devoured other great thunder lizards and probably brought stark terror to all the other dwellers in Dinoland. A creature with an even bigger mouth than Rosie O'Donell. A terrible force of destructition that now...well, comes extra crispy in a bucket. McRex Nuggets, anyone?

It's ironic, I suppose, but on the other hand it makes one wonder. If this can happen to a beast so powerful it had no natural enemies, what might become of us in 63 million years? Will we end up as Happy Meals for whatever species supplants us? Granted, The T. Rex wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box. In fact, he was kind of at the low end of the little brain in a big head department. But the fact he didn't evolve into a race of Gorn (for all non Star Trek fans, an intelligent, if hostile, reptilian humanoid species capable of space travel) and might have ended up as a spicy Superbowl snack is a bit worrisome. They had 63 million years. And became chickens.Man has been around an infinitely shorter span of time. Man is a hell of lot smarter (well, mostly), probably a lot more adaptable. Despite that, man has the capacity for much greater destruction than this wondrous beast of eons past.

If there's a a hopeful sign here, it's that Man has other traits the T. Rex did not--compassion, a capacity for hope and love and growth and learning from His own mistakes (a point that may be debatable, given His history but I like to think the potential is there.) A T. Rex probably never thought about how stepping on a weaker dino wasn't a very nice thing to do. He just said oops and bit its head off. I know some people like that; perhaps they will evolve into French Fries. T. Rex probably never thought about living in harmony and caring about his fellow dinos, even those yummy tasting vegetarian thunder Lizards he was so fond of munching. T. Rex probably never got addicted to Girls Gone Wild, but I digress...

What I am hoping is that all those points T. Rex lacked are available to us to use as human beings--the capacity to care about those not as fortunate as ourselves, to help those sick or burdened with sadness. The ability to put aside our differences and accept one another as human beings instead of obstacles or objects of ignorant hate. The ability to become addicted to Girls Gone Wild. Um, nevermind that last one. If only we stop to realize our existence is a gift, not a necessity.Something to think about the next time we get the desire to step on that little guy at Walmart and bite his head off...

Now, a word from our sponsor: After years as an ebook my vampire/western novel THE DARK RIDERS is now available in trade paperback directly from the Golden Perils Press storefront at: http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils

The book concerns a young rancher, plagued all his life by death and loss, who must face an outlaw that has returned from the dead. This editions is revised, reset with a newly designed cover.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Polka

Sometimes You Just Gotta Polka

First, the commercials:
At long last my western/ripper/mystery Pistolero is now in trade paperback and available from the Golden Perils Press store at http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils It involves a character I hope to translate into a series someday, Johnny Hickok. He is commissioned to track down a ripper by a mysterious organization called The Crucible Society. Who are they? What are they? No one's sure exactly and they claim they don't exist. But Johnny is a man on the run, a man falsely accused of a murder and since they offer him a pardon he undertakes their mission--only to discover there's far more to it than he ever thought. I hope you'll give the book a try, even if you are not a western fan.
Second, The Spider Chronicles sees print this week. This includes a number of short stories by the likes of John Jakes and other name authors, even yours truly, that focus on that sometimes violent but always colorful pulp avenger, The Spider, Master of Men. Amazon is carrying the book for a very nice price and a lot went into this vol. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.

The Polka.
Sometimes maligned, often tittered at. I think it gets a bad rap and I'm going to go out on a limb and say I love polkas.
Why, you may ask? (And even if you didn't I assume you'll allow me to torture you for the next few minutes.) Because in a world where tragedy and grief constantly bombard us in the media, where death, crime and stress pervade, the polka makes me smile.
I mean, did you ever see a polka player frowning? It's hard to look gloomy while wearing pantyhose, a funny feathered hat and lugging an accordion (though I will admit playing the accordion in just a Speedo does elicit an accidental shriek or two and is not advised.) Polka players and polka dancers are always smiling. Maybe they're just up to something, but I think it's because they don't take themselves seriously and just have fun. The music whirls and dresses twirl. For a short time troubles are forgotten and cares fade.
I'm a great believer in the power of positive polka. Really. Try it. Try it alone, even, if you're too embarrassed to be caught dead with a Bobby Vinton CD. Don't be afraid to let go and roll out the barrel. You might actually enjoy yourself.
If not polka then pick some other form of uplifting cheery music--zydeco, Irish jigs, mariachi, anything light--and just let the world go on without your worry for a while. Let yourself go on without your worry.
Seriously, worry does you absolutely no good. And since it's too easy to say don't worry and oh so hard to do, settle for a few snatched moments where you can just smile, even if you have to put on the pantyhose and suspenders (you might want to close the shades, so you don't end up with a whole other thing to worry about.)
Then just remember the next time something gets you down, or you get tired of a constant stream of negativity on the evening news--sometimes you just gotta polka.
Long live Bobby Vinton.

Save the Boob, Save the World!

First the commericial: NIGHT DEMONS by Howard hopkins is now in print at the GOLDEN PERILS PRESS store: www.lulu.com/goldenperils For those who were asking about it you can get it now in trade paperback (and if you weren't asking, shame, shame!) This was actually my first horror novel, a sort of nod to my favorite gothic soap, Dark Shadows. I hope y'all will take a look. The book is revised and reset from the ebook edition, as are all the books now in print (Grimm, Dark Riders, Pistolero, Nightmare Club & Dark Harbors). It is also available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble on line (bn.com)

Ahem. Now I am going to talk a bit about one of my favorite subjects: Boobs. Those easily offended might want to switch the channel. Those thinking I meant the weird little birdie, well, there's no help for you.

Allow me to get political--something I never do. Almost never. Well, not on Sundays--for a moment about one of the biggest (or smallest, depending) problems facing America. America may be a nation of breast fearers. Really.

Two words: Janet Jackson.If you listen to the mammary maligners--I like to call this selective group the Breastinators--you'd think 50 million beer-guzzling, potato chip-gobbling football fans were murdered during the Superbowl a couple years back when the bodacious Ms. Jackson "accidentally" flashed an admirable section of her front porch on national TV. After all, guns don't kill people, boobs do. Fines were levied, appropriately large, censor threats were hurled. My first thought when the poor girl suffered her wardrobe malfunction: Forty inches of chocolatey goodness. Ms. Jackson is a gorgeous woman. All of her.

Three words:Jennifer Love Hewitt. Every week on Breast Whisperer, er, I mean, Ghost Whisperer, Ms Hewitt, who is so frickin' hot she frankly makes my legs wobble, manages to wear the most plunging, puppy-revealing clothing imaginable (and believe me I spend plenty of time exercising my imagination). Of course, I only watch the show for the articles, but a number of Breastinators have been so motivated by her displays of beaming brights that they've written into TV Guide complaining about it. Obviously the poor gal needs something to keep those ghosts coming her way. Let her flash her headlights and light up my life. Amongst other things.

Ahem again.I believe I am starting to hear some nervous tittering out there. Perhaps the Breastinators who reached for their paintball guns and buttoned their collars to their chins with my mentioning of the holy peaches are levering balls into the chamber. Perhaps they fear any exposure of the truth. Perhaps they really do wish Hooters was only a restaurant for owls. Perhaps they don't realize my tongue poked a hole right through my cheek and I have been having them on. Or maybe they simply wish the whole nation looked like Kate Moss. I dunno.

And while I have been having fun with this, there is a more serious underbelly. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot understand the country's fear of exposed chimichangas. Even Adam and Eve were nekkid. What I can understand even less is why, at any hour of the day, I can turn into any News channel and see mutilated bodies, riddled with bullets or blown to pieces by bombers, lying in the streets and yet this passes with barely a whisper while a flash of flesh creates a national outcry. Seriously, how screwed up is that? A year or two back the nightly news showed a woman murdered by her estranged husband while she stood in a cemetery. He came up behind her and shot her to death. On a non-cable, non-pay channel, 6:30 pm. No outcry, not a whimper. But I suppose that's because one poor woman was killed for all to see, whereas the aforementioned Ms. Jackson wiped out millions. Or at least one guy who mistook the Viagra for Tic Tacs and swallowed a whole bottle full. I hear they even had to build a special coffin for him...My apologies in advance to those I've made uncomfortable, assuming you were able to bare with me. I realize the subject matter is as dangerous and Pam Anderson in a blown-glass shop. I assure you it will get a whole lot better by the time I make my way to commercial involving feminine hygiene products and erectile dysfunction ads...