Today is going to have a high picture-to-word ratio because I was up all hours of the night drinking and working on a story that will knock you for six. So. Pulp fiction arose out of the early 20th century’s explosion in disposable reading material and itself gave rise to the whole Superman/Batman comic book craze that’s never quite left. Pulp novels were defined by their disposability, I guess. Characters were largely predictable, with hardboiled detectives like Sexton Blake and Doc Savage who played on the Philip Marlowe stereotype, or adventure stories of the H Rider Haggard style. Gradually these developed away from the standard fare and became more about science fiction…and lesbians…and really odd shit.
They Are Better At Communicating. I don’t know a lot about lesbians, but I’m willing to bet that it doesn’t involve lackadaisical bicep-rubbing. Or maybe it does.
But if we’re being honest, who here didn’t read the title “The Lavender Runway” and immediately think to themselves, “ah. Vagina slang.” Because it’s not. There actually is a lavender runway in this story.
With a moustache like that? Eh.
It’s no coincidence that that guy looks like Rupert Everett. Ladies, if you man says no and yet seems remarkably relaxed about things, it’s because he’s gay.
Okay alright I won’t jeez. This is how people in the fifties said “I need more space”. A semi-automatic is an eloquent relationship ender.
Is anybody else reading “Argosy” as a bad anagram of “sea orgy”? That aside, if we could develop this idea for television it would make the WWE look like the Ryder Cup.
You can’t see because the picture cuts her off mid-calf, but she totally has wheels. Wheels instead of feet. WHEELS OF SIN.
“Oh my god…You’re all so…out of time! Arrrgghh!” In short, beat not the bones unless you have awesome rhythm.
I haven’t got anything smart to say about this cover. The more I look at it, the less sense it makes. I want to read this story. I have to know how dancing sandwiches lead to murder.
A tale for the Facebook generation.
A battle between four people standing in front of a door will only feasibly take forever if they are incapable of hitting anything with their laser pistols. I would also like to commend the designer of their armour for leaving the femoral artery, one of the largest in the body, completely exposed. It’s almost as if he’d predicted that nobody would be hitting anything.