Nothing Says I Love You at Christmas More Than Serial Killer Fiction
05 November 2010
Working today on getting the cover and files etc finished off and uploaded to the printer for 21 Years On The Back of Dixie Klondyke's Spanish. Three and a half weeks to publication. Already seat of the pants time. The very future of the publishing business rests on the successful completion of this work.
This is the full cover we're going with, using Long Midnight Publishing's skeleton man on the rear cover. LMP recently spent several hundred thousand dollars on an expensive marketing operation to determine the best use of the skeleton man - a figure based originally on LMP's Head of Marketing and Corporate Image, Elvis 'Tom' Shackleton - and they recommended that the figure be used to promote the company's product in general, not just the Barney Thomson series. Here he features on the reverse cover, so as not to introduce too much confusion in the casual browser of books.
Here's another short excerpt from the book. And remember: Nothing Says I Love You at Christmas More Than Serial Killer Fiction*
*Another great marketing line from the consultants, at a cost of $176,499.00
Tuesday morning, the top end of Cambuslang, nearly to Halfway. A cordoned off road, with the usual ghouls a few hundred yards away.
The body’s long gone, and will currently be under the knives of Baird and Balingol, the pathologists from Hell. Butchery with a sharp knife and a smile. I didn’t see it, of course. Only got here this morning. Herrod said it was horrific; a bloody mess. Shredded. Glad I missed it. Dead bodies still give me the willies.
Crawled in, massively hung over, just after eight this morning, to find the place had gone berserk. A major murder three days before Christmas. All hands on deck, with Bloonsbury in charge of the sinking ship. Very brave. He’s back at the station now, co-ordinating all the crap that has to go on. Taylor’s been roped in as well, not too happy about having to answer to the whims of drunken Jonah, but that’s the polis for you.
They didn’t do much last night, but the shit’s flying this morning. House to house all the way up this street, and back out along the main road. They’ll branch out soon, see what they can get from the surrounding streets.
At the moment they’re estimating the time of death between half ten and half eleven. Most of this lot were in their beds by then, or watching TV. The drudgery of normal life. The body was found by some bloke about to take the dog for a walk. Didn’t recognise her, such was the disfigurement of her face, but we’ve since learned that he knows her. We’ll ask the right questions. You never know what these idiots will do, but instinct says it wasn’t him. The guy’s in shock. He’ll probably need therapy – it’s the modern way. If he can find someone to sue, he’ll do that as well. In the old days you’d bugger off down the pub for a pint with your mates, have a laugh and forget all about it. Now, you can’t solve anything in life without employing a psychotherapist and a solicitor and a life coach. The supermarkets’ll be offering those services soon, wait and see. Bastards.