“I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman! I can’t see how I can go on living away from you.”—Henry Miller (From a letter written to Anaïs Nin)
The key clicks against the inner machinery, and the pear expands further. Again and again, it does its job with excellent result in creating a world of pain. The arms of the little machine press against her flesh causing the pressure to send shivers through every inch of her body; shaking, she screams in pain.
“Ok, this hurts now. Game time over. Game time over! Safety word! Game over!” His eyes never leave her pained face. He’s enjoying the carnage.
“Game time not over, you didn’t let me finish my story about this funny little guy.”
“Oh my god! It hurts so fucking bad. Please stop. Please stop.” She squeaks.
“Most who’ve experienced its wrath never live to tell about it. See here, I’m slowly ripping apart your vagina. Your organs will be turned into a fine paste, lovely isn’t it? Even if, somehow you were to live after this evening, you’d be completely useless down there. You’d essentially just let the urine fall like a rainfall, because your birth canal would like an atomic bomb had just gone off. Totally destroyed, and don’t even think about some guy trying to pity fuck you unless he’s into fucking a useless wound. I mean, we’ve all been there, but I digress, it would be awful, for you.” She continues to wail in crushing pain. Grady pays her no mind, and only speaks louder to make sure she’s listening. “Are you listening to me? I’m trying to give a fucking history lesson here, and all you’re doing is whining about it hurts, and blah blah. This is important! Anyhow, The pear was used so that those who misuse their organs for desires of the flesh are taught to never betray their purpose as a Christian solider, and that the body is a pure temple. A bunch of bullshit, if I do say so myself, but I do like how creative it is. I mean the guy who created this was a seriously twisted bastard. What a genius. I have done some things in my day, but wow, this, is like a whole new level. Sometimes, you feel like you can’t compete.” He twists the knob and can feel the pressure upon her lower region. She howls out in pain further. She’s hoping someone will save her, but knows that in a house that looks like this, it’s not likely. Grady leans in casually to add a footnote to the conversation as if he was standing on the other side of a white picket fence. “You know babe, these crazy Christians love to really punish the soul of the person on the other end of not buying into their dogma.”
Ever wonder when something is released what the media gets to basically copy all of their facts from? They’re called Press Releases, and this is mine for my book. Thank fucking god for my friend Jason @ Arpent Media here in New Orleans. He fixed the piece of shit I had, and made it look super pro.
New in trade paperback: In the Arms of Nightmares; lauded asone of the most entertaining, deranged thrillers in recent memory
NEW ORLEANS — Down in New Orleans, home to the endless Cities of the Dead, murder has a rhythm and a sexy baseline groove all its own. Just ask any murderer. In the Arms of Nightmares, the debut novel by Tremé writer Robert Dean, does just that. Now available in bookstores, and on Amazon.com for download, the story explodes the conventions of a tired horror genre, mixing depravity and violence together with questions of faith, before laying it all down on top of a sexy bebop beat.
Arthur Reilly drinks too much. He thinks too much. And, on top of it all, he’s starting to question his sanity and his faith. To put it simply, Arthur Reilly’s life is a mess. And he hears jazz when he kills.
Behind the black and white snapshots of VE-Day celebrations, and in-between conversations with the souls he releases, a madman hunts his prey. But, after Reilly is visited by a murderous angel, he realizes there’s only one place left for someone like him, a single city that can set his soul free: New Orleans.
“In the Arms of Nightmares is depraved, frightening, and an incredible story of madness,” says renowned genre author Ursula K. Raphael. “From the moment I started, I couldn’t put this terrifying thriller down.”
Chased by swinging trumpet notes only he can hear, and torn between Louis Armstrong on one shoulder and blue-toned Miles Davis on the other, join Reilly as he makes his final, bloody pilgrimage to the place where passion birthed both music and murder.
In the Arms of Nightmares, by Robert Dean
May December Publications (March 21, 2012)
Robert Dean is an author and musician living in the Tremé, a neighborhood that has long been the vibrant heart of New Orleans. He is a contributor to numerous current events and music publications, including the world-renowned Offbeat magazine, and is the head writer for the Quarter Rat, the French Quarter’s monthly insider magazine. Fresh off the publication of In the Arms of Nightmares, he is currently working on his next novel.
My debut novel “In the Arms of Nightmares” is available for sale. Please support the underground, and pick up a copy for whatever electronic reader you may have. If you’re like me and prefer paperback, those are available too. It’s a pretty surreal feeling holding the book you’ve worked so hard on, actually in print. If you’re a fan of the work of Brett Easton Ellis, or Chuck Pajahfhalfhhiunk, or Charles Bukowski, Thomas Harris, Huruki Murakami; then you should check Arthur Reilly out.
it’s been described as a novel that would give Hannibal Lector nightmares, so if that says anything, I’d love for you to help me out and grab a copy.