It might also be funny if your fly was open, and you zipped up real fast and got your nuts caught in your zipper. I know that didn't happen, but man, that would be sweet!

Think it over.

Your pal,

Harry

Harry and I walked away from the burning house, our faces lit by the eerie glow.

"You're a good man, Mayhem," he said.

"You're a..." I winced as the word tried desperately to avoid coming out of my mouth, "...good man, too, McGlade."

"Best of luck in the future."

"You too."

We shook hands. We did not hug.

I returned home. Weary, yes. In pain, definitely. But I knew that somehow, in some demented, messed-up way, my encounter with Harry McGlade had made me a better person, and I would never forget the time we'd spent together. All things considered, it was a pretty good evening.

Except that I forgot about the f.u.c.king spaghetti sauce.

Strand says: Calling Jack Kilborn an exciting new voice in horror is sort of a cheat, since it's the pen name for J.A. Konrath, which is the "I could totally be a chick if you want to buy a book by a chick" pen name for Joe Konrath. But Jack Kilborn is the dark, dark, dark side of Joe Konrath, and his first novel Afraid is one of the most relentless horror novels in...well, maybe ever. If you're a fan of authors like Richard Laymon, then Afraid will have you wetting yourself and the people around you with glee. He's usually known for incorporating lots of humor into his books, but Afraid plays it straight.

Therefore, I conducted a serious interview with him. Then Joe suddenly was all like "D'oh! We should've done a funny interview!" and I was all like "I did it this way on purpose to better match the tone of Jack Kilborn" and he was all like "No! No! No! This is wrong! Can we do another interview?" and I was all like "Do you think I have nothing better to do than keep interviewing you over and over? Get a friend, for G.o.d's sake!" and he was all like "I'll give you a [favor omitted]" and I was all like "Sure." So here's an interview with JA/Joe/Jack, who, for the convenience of this interview, will go by "Jack"...

Jeff: You once signed books at over 600 bookstores in a single summer. I think that a truly successful author could've just signed at the same store 600 times and made the readers come to him. Please comment.

Jack: My new novel, Afraid, is being released on March 31, 2009. Run out and buy it. In fact, everyone reading this, and everyone they know, and everyone then don't know, needs to buy a copy. Oh, and that's an excellent point you've brought up, that I'm going to ignore.

Jeff: Uh, okay then. We're 0 for 1 so far. How about you ask me a question, even though the whole point of this was to promote Jack Kilborn's upcoming novel Afraid?

Jack: Okay, when we wrote our collaborative novella, Suckers, did you have as much fun working with me as I did working with me?

Jeff: I had so much fun writing the good parts of Suckers that I had to be put on anti-giddy medication. But I've heard the occasional comment that the humor in Suckers may not reach a 100% maximum maturity level, and that perhaps it's an entire novella of "Hee hee hee! Men have wieners!" What happened to our original plan to write an insightful deconstruction of the current political climate?

Jack: Heh heh heh. You said "weiners." Heh heh.

Jeff: You spelled "wieners" wrong, dumb-a.s.s.

Jack: I've always wanted to ask you this: Have you ever gotten so wasted you wet the bed and then tried to convince your wife that the dog must have peed on you while you were sleeping, which was the first thing that you could think of when she caught you trying to flip the mattress over? Next time, you should wait until she gets out of bed before you try to flip the mattress. Also, LySol gets out lingering odors pretty good.

Jeff: Since when does Lysol have a capital S in it? I tried that once, and my wife pointed out that we don't own a dog. I retroactively blamed the cat, but it was unsuccessful, and then I felt guilty about incorporating an innocent cat into my web of deceit. Now we just have rubber sheets.

Jack: I see. Very intereSting.

Jeff: Next question: When I let you borrow my car to transport that dead hooker across state lines, you promised me that it would never happen again. It happened twelve more times. I'm starting to think that you aren't succ.u.mbing to the uncontrollable urge to kill, kill, kill and are instead just using my car to return DVDs to Blockbuster so you don't have to pay for gas. Is that true? Is it?

Jack: I swear, it was all about murder. It's always been about murder. But on your way to work, can you return these copies of Gigli and Ernest Goes to Jail for me? Can you do that, Vern? And see if they have the next Ernest film, Ernest Gets Waterboarded. I heard it has comic hijinks.

Jeff: Jim Varney is dead, and I'll thank you not to mock his memory. He was the dog in Toy Story, you son of a b.i.t.c.h!

Jack: But getting back to talking about Afraid, which comes out March 31. Afraid is a very scary book, with a very real end of March publication date. What scares Jeff Strand? I mean, other than those Publishers Weekly reviews you got? I didn't even know that "sucktastic" was a word, but it must be, because they used it like eight times.

Jeff: You're taking that out of context. The review says "In a world of sucktastic books like those sucktastic books written by the sucktastic J.A. Konrath, whose sucktastic Whiskey Sour, sucktastic b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, sucktastic Rusty Nail, sucktastic Dirty Martini, and sucktastic Fuzzy Navel are pure suck, it's refreshing to see the awesomeness of Jeff Strand."

Jack: That sucks.

Jeff: Shot of Tequila is an insanely entertaining book, and yet you're practically giving it away on your website. Why don't you charge more? I'd pay at least seven bucks to read it, if you hadn't given it to me for free. Do you think the people who you're charging a dollar will be mad when they see this interview and find out that you let me read it for free? What's Shot of Tequila about, anyway? I wasn't paying much attention because it was free.

Jack: Selling Shot of Tequila on my website for 99 cents was an experiment. It's an early Jack Daniels novel, except Jack is a supporting character. I wanted to see how many people would be willing to pay for an Ebook download. So far, 112. I also have free Ebooks available on my website. They've been downloadedno joke15,834 times. Which proves my hypothesis that my fans are cheap. That's why Afraid, which comes out March 31, is available as an inexpensive paperback for only $6.99. On March 31.

My turn for a question. In ten short years, your fan base has grown from a dozen hardcore fans to almost double that. That isn't actually the question. The question is, if you were Night Owl II from Watchmen, and you had that pimped out flying submarine thingy, would you act so broody and dippy all the time?

Jeff: Probably. But I can say that if I were a guest in the submarine thingy, and it was parked in the garage, and there was a b.u.t.ton with a very clear picture of a flame on it, I wouldn't push the b.u.t.ton while the submarine was indoors. So if J.A. Konrath and Jack Kilborn got into a fight, who would drop to the ground screaming "Don't hit me! Don't hit me!" first?

Jack: We wouldn't fight. We'd make-out. That's not gay. It's more like masturbation, with more positions. Hey, you write funny horror novels. I've got this great idea for a funny horror novel, about an accountant who gets bitten by a werewolf AND a vampire AND a zombie, and then gets cancer. I mean, how unlucky is THAT?!?! I want to call it "Sheldon the Un-Un-Undead Dead Guy, Who Died." It's also got paranormal romance in it, because that genre still has a pulse. Maybe Sheldon also gets bitten by a mummy. Do you turn into a mummy if a mummy bites you? Anyway, I'm too busy to write it, so I want you to write it, and I'll give you 20% of the profits. You need to research that mummy thing first. Here's an outline you can work from: Chapter 1 - The accountant gets bitten a bunch of times by monsters. Also, he's got a hot next door neighbor who sunbathes naked.

Chapter 2 - Some plot things happen.

Chapter 3 - At long last, the much-awaited graphic s.e.x scene with the hot naked next door neighbor. Also, maybe the hero does some monster stuff.

Chapter 4-29 - More stuff happens. With twists. Remember to add some surprise twists.

Chapter 30 - The hero dies of cancer, while having hot s.e.x with the hot naked next door neighbor. Also, there's a surprise ending. Maybe with a mummy. With this outline, the book will practically write itself. In fact, I'm only giving you 10%, since I did all the work.

Jeff: Does he have to be named Sheldon?

Jack: Never mind. Much like Ernest, I'm known for my comedic hijinks, as are you. But now we've both written these super-scary horror novels without a shred of comedy in them. So my question to you is, Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba?

Jeff: What about them? I'm not sure what you're asking. Are you asking which one I've spoken to most recently? That would be Jess. I didn't give her your message, though, because it was kind of creepy. I just did the panting and left it at that. Angelina is busy these days and we mostly talk through Skype.

Jack: I like to ask the tough questions. So, if John's son is my son's father, what relationship am I to John?

Jeff: You're John's prison b.i.t.c.h. Duh.

Jack: Can you do anything unusual or interesting? I can fit my pinky up my nose all the way to the second knuckle, but I'm scared to go further because I'm touching something squishy that I think is my brain.

Jeff: That's not your brain. And it's not your nose.

Jack: If you were stuck on a desert island and could only have one book, wouldn't that suck?

Jeff: It would. Unless that book was Afraid, by Jack Kiborn. It comes out March 31, you know.

Jack: Really? March 31? I should write that down. Being serious for a moment, I loved your novel Pressure, which is possibly the most intense horror novel I've ever read. It really gets under your skin, and shows no mercy. Do you find it bizarre that this book, which is getting the most publicity and the biggest print run of all of your books, is so unlike your other work?

Jeff: See, I introduced this interview by saying that Afraid was one of the most relentless horror novels I've ever read, so now it just looks like we're giving each other full-contact body rubs. One of us has to withdraw our praise. I guess it'll be me. I don't find it bizarre-I worried that my current fans would be disappointed by the decreased humor level (they weren't) but even while writing it, it was clearly my most mainstream book.

Jack: I just read Benjamin's Parasite, which has all the elements of essential Strand: a luckless hero in over his head, over-the-top gore, outrageous action scenes, funny as h.e.l.l dialog, and richly developed characters, all of them memorable, the majority of whom don't survive. You manage to make this hodge-podge of seemingly disparate elements work, and work well. I cared about the protagonist, the book is fast based, scary, and laugh out loud hilarious, and the plot actually makes senseit isn't just a strung together collection of comedy sketches.

Jeff: Thanks! That's not a question though, so now we have to sit here in an uncomfortable silence.

Jack: ...

Jeff: ...

Jack: ...

Jeff: I have great questions for you and great answers from you regarding Afraid and Jack Kilborn's second novel, Trapped, but they'll have to wait for the "serious" interview, which I think I'll send to FearZone, because FearZone is way cool and has brought readers advance news on Benjamin's Parasite. Wouldn't it suck for you if FearZone rejected it? That would be awkward. I'd probably make up some excuse to spare your feelings, like maybe the webmaster died or something. Well, I guess we've babbled enough...so what's that book again?

Jack: Afraid.

Jeff: Available on...?

Jack: March 31st.

Jeff: Available in...?

Jack: Your local bookstore, or fine online retailers.

Jeff: Do you have a website that people should visit for all the latest J.A. Konrath/Jack Kilborn news, blog entries that could serve as full Writer's Digest articles, and more cool stuff than you can wave a monkey at?

Jack: Yes. It's Jeff: and we're out of time for this interview. I'd like to thank Jack Kilborn for taking the time to hang out on my blog, and encourage everybody to support their local bookstore the day before April Fool's Day by purchasing a copy of Afraid to call their very own.

J.A. Konrath's Works Available on Nook Whiskey Sour b.l.o.o.d.y Mary Rusty Nail Fuzzy Navel Cherry Bomb Click here for more J.A. Konrath ebooks on Nook Jeff Strand's Works Available on Nook Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary) Single White Psychopath Seeks Same Casket For Sale (Only Used Once) Benjamin's Parasite Pressure Dweller How to Rescue a Dead Princess Elrod McBugle on the Loose Out of Whack http://www.JeffStrand.com If you enjoyed "Suckers," you might also like Lee Goldberg's hilarious novel "My Gun Has Bullets," also available in a Kindle edition. Here's an excerpt: Eddie Planet pressed his face against the cold, tinted gla.s.s and looked ten stories below at the jerks on the Las Vegas Strip, standing around waiting for the Mirage volcano to erupt. Cheap Hollywood spectacle. Some flash and dash to lure 'em in to lose their money. Just like television, he thought. Give 'em enough a.s.s, laughs, or bullets to hold 'em to the commercial.

He shook his gla.s.s, oddly rea.s.sured by the tinkling of the ice cubes. How many times had he told the sound guys to "jack up the cubes" when one of his characters carried a drink across a room? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Tinkling cubes are very important to a scene. Whether it's make-believe or real life. He checked his watch again. A Cartier. The Renault of fine watches. Two minutes until the volcano outside erupted-who knew how long until the one behind the closed master-suite doors blew.

He felt like one of the hick tourists, having their picture taken in front of the steaming fake fissure. Maybe he should hire somebody to take a snapshot of him, pacing in front of the bedroom door with his bourbon and water and tinkling cubes, waiting for Daddy Crofoot's s.c.h.l.o.n.g to erupt.

There was a time when the roles would have been reversed. When schmucks would have been waiting for him. When he would have had the grand Vegas suite and some bimbo welding his beam. Back when Saddlesore was riding the top ten, and the network begged him for more. When studio heads would've shined his shoes with their tongues for the privilege of financing his next TV pilot.

But Saddlesore was ten years, two wives, six flop series, three production deals, and eight busted pilots ago. Back when he had a Palm Springs house and a Maui condo, three Cadillacs and a yacht, and bowels that moved so regularly he could set his Rolex, the Mercedes Benz of watches, by it. His lawyer was wearing the Rolex now, in lieu of fees. That sonofab.i.t.c.h was probably s.h.i.tting like a bird. Planet had to borrow money against his Deputy Ghost residuals just to keep the Studio City house and the Seville. Which was, oddly enough, how he ended up here.

Eddie glanced out the window as the volcano burst, all lights and smoke and jets of water. Flames shot into the clear night sky. The funeral pyre of losers. Look close enough, he figured, you might see bits of charred polyester wafting up into the stars.

Suddenly the doors of the master suite banged open and out strode Daddy Crofoot in a white terrycloth Mirage bathrobe and leather slippers. His wet hair was combed, his skin was taut and tan, his eyes sparkled with youthful exuberance. Eddie was momentarily startled. In his mind, he had cast Charles Durning or Danny Aiello for the part. Something about the name Daddy Crofoot. But this guy was James Woods, maybe. Or that guy Marty Scorsese cast as Christ. Thin. Edgy. Dangerous.

Crofoot flashed a smile and offered Planet his hand. "You must be Eddie Planet. Thanks for waiting."

His voice spread across the room like an oil slick. Planet forced his cringe into a smile. "It's p.r.o.nounced Plan-A. It's French for hyphenate," he chuckled, but all he got from Crofoot was a blank look. "As in writer hyphen producer."

Crofoot knew how to p.r.o.nounce the guy's name. But he liked to needle people. Gave him an edge. Not that he needed one with this guy. "I see you've already helped yourself to a drink-is there anything else I can offer you?"

"No thanks, I'm fine, Mr. Crofoot," he said, thankful the man didn't ask him to call him Daddy. That would have been too much.

Darla came out of the bedroom in her backless evening gown that accentuated her large, authentic b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Crofoot watched Eddie drink her in like another bourbon as she walked to the door and, with a smile, left. Eddie Planet was hungry, and hungry people are vulnerable.

Crofoot knew all about Eddie, knew the difference between the paunchy, too tan guy in the rumpled suit who stood in front of him now, and the t.i.tan of television he once was. The difference meant everything. Crofoot went to the mahogany bar and took an Evian out of the refrigerator.

"I just came like Vesuvius," Crofoot said casually. "How many times have you come today?"

Eddie Planet's third wife, Shari, didn't think s.e.x was a good idea so soon after her latest breast implants. That was six months ago.

"I've lost track." Eddie nervously shook his gla.s.s, but his ice was melting too fast to tinkle.

"That was my third," Crofoot said. "You got to have three a day, minimum, just to keep your b.a.l.l.s working, the testosterone pumping. If there's no one around, use your hand. But why am I telling you? You know what I'm talking about. You're a producer."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm an investor, Eddie." Crofoot joined Eddie at the window and looked out at the neon night. "I'm just creative with my money."

When Bugsy Siegel came to Vegas, he stood in the desert and saw casinos. When Daddy Crofoot came, he stood in the desert and saw Bill Cosby. A two-bit comic worth two billion thanks to off-network syndication. Crofoot wanted in.

"I understand that you've got an investment opportunity for me, Eddie."

Eddie downed what was left of his drink and set the gla.s.s down on the table.

"I've sold a pilot to MBC, and that's like a miracle," Planet said, winding up for his pitch. "You got any idea how hard it is to sell a pilot these days?"

Crofoot knew exactly how hard-he'd been camping out in Vegas for two months, reading up. The network guys hear thousands of ideas, buy hundreds of scripts, and make a couple dozen mostly doomed pilots, sample episodes of wannabe TV series or, as Crofoot saw it, million dollar bets with a slim chance of return.

"You were lucky," Crofoot said, though he had no intention of relying on chance. The best gamblers cheat. Television was a fool's bet otherwise. And Crofoot was no fool.

"It's not about luck, it's about relationships-who you know. And Morrie l.u.s.tig and I go way back, back when he was the network exec on Hollywood and Vine."

Eddie was referring to the infamous, short-lived series about the busty fashion model teamed with a photosynthesizing, green-skinned detective who could communicate with plants-Half-man. Half plant. All-cop. Morrie l.u.s.tig was now MBC's head of programming. It wasn't so many years ago that l.u.s.tig was a network liaison, the skinny kid with the clip-on tie nervously giving Eddie script notes like "What's the potted palm's motivation?"

"Morrie called me up a couple months ago, said it was time to do Frankenstein as a series, and that I was the only man in this business who could pull it off." Eddie's hands were beginning to move now, underscoring each point with a gesture or a sweep of his arm. "Morrie wants to do the cla.s.sics, but updated. Sophisticated. Hip. Pulsating with the mood of the streets. So I came up with something."

And then Eddie Planet was off, building up to what he did best, what he enjoyed most. The pitch. Sometimes it felt better than s.e.x. He certainly did it more often.