American Monsters

by

Sezin Koehler

I dedicate this book, my first,
to Wendy Soltero.

I love you, I miss you,
my darling Wendy-bird.

No part or whole of this book may be reproduced without express permission
from the author or publisher, with the exception of reviewers for quotation and citation purposes.

Images ©2011 Rose Deniz. www.RoseDeniz.com
Everything else ©2011 Sezin Koehler. www.Sezin.org.

Executive Editor: Tim Dedopulos
, www.gwdbooks.com.
Copy Editor: Salomé Jones
, www.salomejones.com.
Cover & Interior Art: Rose Deniz

Second Edition
, illustrated and extended, published August 2011

Represented by:

Ghostwoods Books

Maida Vale

London W9, United Kingdom

www.AmericanMonsters.org

An overwhelming wave of thanks to my mother,
Marty
, for putting me through university and always making sure I had the best education possible. If it weren’t for her I never would have had the means to create this.

A million and one thanks to
Jeff Tobin
for his dauntless faith in me in completing this project during some of the worst times in my life. His help was indispensable and I absolutely could not have done it without him. Jeff’s never-ending supply of books, articles and knowledge guided me down one of the craziest and most interesting endeavors of my life. He continues to be an inspiration in my life to this day.

My fantastic team of editors and first-draft readers were vital to the huge rewriting and layout process. I can’t offer enough gratitude to them:
Stacey Rapp
,
Stacey McKenna
,
Matthew Petrarca
,
Helen Southcott, Salomé Jones,
and my mom,
Marty
. You are awesome.

I would also like to thank the following incredible beings whose creativity inspired me greatly. In no particular order:
Abra Huff
,
Sarah McDowell
,
Rosie Mariscal
,
Martha Ronk
,
Gabrielle Foreman
,
Jessica Parlanti
,
Tom Burkdall
,
Elmer Griffin
,
Monique Taylor
,
Jane Jaquette
,
Sarah Nussbaum
,
Sara Clinehans
,
Rob Kopiac
,
Artineh Samkian
,
Sasha Hallisey Sajovic
,
Rachel Brubaker
, and
Kirsten Westby.

And of course, many thanks to my beloved husband,
Steven Koehler
, without whose encouragement I never would have gotten up off my butt and finally gotten this book finished.

Finally, a monster thank you to
Tim Dedopulos
of Ghostwoods Books for taking a chance with my story and to
Rose Deniz
for bringing the characters to life. You have both made a dream come true.

Even though I wrote this book ten years ago, I must make a special mention of
Lady Gaga
, the woman who has singlehandedly made the world a monster-friendly place. Finally my monsters and I can comfortably call this world our home. Paws up!

Author’s Note

Part
One: Fiction

Volume 1: The Succubi Sideshow

Volume 2:
The Phantastic Carnival

Part Two: Non-fiction

The Night the Sky Opened Up: The Murder of Wendy Soltero

The Compiler: An Essay on Truth and Synchronicity

What Horror Means, an Essay

Can There Be a Feminist Ethnography?

Afterword: 10 Years Later

Inspirations & Essay References

This book’s format is a bit unorthodox, so a few words of explanation are in order:

The first volume,
The Succubi Sideshow
, is a horror comic script introducing a number of different characters. It very occasionally ranges into movie script. The second volume,
The Phantastic Carnival
, is a horror movie script with all the previously introduced characters in action (and then some).

Also, this book, with the exception of “The Night the Sky Opened Up” essay and the Afterword, was put together in the year 2001, and so all homage, obvious and otherwise, relate to film, theory and art that had been released up to that point.

A complete list of my inspirations as well as several essays on the theoretical issues surrounding horror that inspired
American Monsters
follows the story.

You don’t care that the overwhelming euphoria coursing through your body came from a little white pill with a smiley face on it. You’re in love with the amazing shag rug you are lying on and stroking; you’ve never seen a shade of burgundy so beautiful in your life or felt fur so soft. You can feel the music through the floor, traveling through your veins and exiting your fingertips. You thrum with life and feel connected to everyone in this room in a way you have never ever felt linked to others before. Calmness and peace fill you with a pleasure unlike anything you have ever known as these sensations wash over your body. You are in a dangerous oblivion of ecstasy.

You are newer to this experience than most of the people at this little house party. They are the frequent attendees of all-night gatherings that have been in the news so often recently. You’ve heard horrible things about raves, like when that guy laced sno-cones with LSD, which led to six kids driving off a hill. You don’t know if those kids even ate the sno-cones that supposedly led to their demise, but either way, related or not, acid spiked sno-cones and high-schoolers driving off cliffs are not great PR for any event. When your friends told you they would be having a little happy Be-In at their friend’s home you thought it would be a better idea to try the drug in a comfortable and safe place first, and then see how you felt about actually going to a rave. This was a good idea. You feel wonderful right now. Like nothing will ever be wrong in your life ever again, and all of the petty little problems have melted away. This is perfect. Life is flawless.

Lying on the shag carpet, your violet eyes watching the ceiling breathe just a tiny little bit. Its ululation matches the music, and it is so much fun seeing an animated ceiling. Ali
ve instead of inert. What could it be thinking about as it breathes in and out? You could definitely get used to this. A boy walks over and lies beside you.

― Do you mind if I sit here?

― Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...

Is all you can manage in this supremely blissful
state. You don’t mind, though. It’s actually really nice to be by someone. You hold hands, he squirts some lotion on his palm and he massages your fingers. As he does this the waves of energy that surge through your body are nothing short of amazing. Who on Earth invented this stuff? You would love to hug them right now.

His hand travels up your arm and now massages from your shoulder to your palm. On the turn of a dime you begin to feel lightheaded and sick. It’s too much, you need him to stop. You pull
your arm away saying nothing, as you don’t want to be mean or hurt his feelings. He grunts and pulls your arm back.

― What’s the matter, don’t you like it?

― Maaaan. Cooome ooooon. I’m waaaay too fucked up, it’s toooo much.

― Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take c
are of you. I won’t hurt you.

It is too much to argue. You let him continue. And really, you figure, he isn’t doing anything, it’s just your arm, you know these party people. Wait, you don’t know this guy.

― What’s your name?

― Jason Mars.

― Why are you wearing a hockey mask?

― It’s not a mask, they’re birthmarks. I was born with them.

― Oh.

You are a little creeped out now. The vibe that was flowing from his fingers into yours becomes oppressively heavy. His face takes on an ominous cast, like he has his
own bad-guy movie music playing that you can’t hear but you can sense. You need to get away from him.

― I’m going out onto the porch. It was nice meeting you.

― I’m rolling too, man! Come on, I don’t want to be by myself.

What can you do? Just don’t get w
eird, you say to yourself. Okay? You’ll be fine. There are so many people around. On rising from the carpet you can’t make out anybody. As your purple eyes adjust away from the ceiling you make out lumps dotting the living room. Everyone is floored, and you are getting a really weird vibe from this room. This is a little strange, all of these people on drugs lying like logs on the floor, some stacked, very few moving.

― Is everyone okay?

Assorted grunts, moans, and giggles follow your question. Cool. Yup.

He tries to grab your hand to help you up but you use it instead to push yourself off the ground. You walk towards the door, staggering just the slightest bit as you
make your way to the porch. Who ever would have thought walking could feel so good? In spite of your strange new companion, you are positively floating.

The house has a huge veranda that wraps around the right side of the building. There is a hammock, a swinging chair and pillows and blankets lining the ground. More groups of drugged-out ecstatics. You hear talking from the wrap-around side. Good, at least some other people are up. You begin to walk over, careful not to step on anyone when Jason grabs your
arm, hard. You gasp and wheel around, violet eyes sparking with anger.

― Dude, what is your problem?

You are so annoyed right now.

― Nothing, can I have a hug?

This is getting ridiculous. You still don’t want to say anything mean because it looks like everyone else is having a brilliant time, and why would you want to ruin their trips?

― You know, I really need a cigarette.

― No. I want a hug.

He glares at you as if somehow you owed him something and he’s expecting payment right now.

― I’m sorry but I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore. Please just leave me alone.

He has death in his eyes and his hockey mask face vibrates with anger. Oh my God, you’re getting scared. What is happening? Did you do something to make him think anything at all? You don’t remember saying much to him, but he has taken something the wrong way. That killer gaze. You can’t look away, you can’t say anything else. You simply stare.

― Give me a hug you little bitch tease.

The death is in his voice now too. Oh my God, are you tripping? Are you imagining this? Why would you imagine such a horrible scene? Did he really just say that? He did. He did. You are shocked silent, the way most
good women go.

Shaking, you turn to walk towards the voices and he grabs you by the hair, pulling you to the ground. This isn’t happening. This is not happening. Say something, say something. Scream! You can’t, your mouth doesn’t work. The only thing that seems to be working are your legs, which you squeeze tightly together. He’s tries to open them, you squeeze harder, your hands are pinned above your head. Say something! Say something! A curdled yell issues from your mouth. There’s a monster lodged in your throat who wants to help him do this thing. You scream again, better and louder this time. To stop you he puts his mouth over yours and bites.

The shock of the new attack zone distracts you from your squeezing legs, and as you feel and taste the blood in your mouth, you feel him on top of you, between your legs. He removes one of his hands from the handcuff pose and begins undoing his pants. You try to squeeze him with your legs, maybe suffocate him like anacondas or that part in Tank Girl where she snaps the guy’s neck with her legs. It just seems to make him want it more. He giggles and mutters to himself. You’re still gurgle-screaming, ready for the moment when he gets off your mouth to let loose the mother of all bloodcurdling screams. You hear a rip as your pants are torn, and another stinging tear as he pulls your underwear off.

 
The drugs accentuate the pain just as much as they accentuated the good that was quickly becoming a dream. As he does his thing you feel like you are splitting in half, and you wish you could just unzip that shell of your body and walk out unscathed. But mostly you hear the sounds of the other people in the house, the laughter from around the corner, the music being turned up and the thumping of dancing feet. The taste of the blood rolls around your mouth, and you almost like that taste, anything to distract you from the pain of his body heaving inside you. You want to kill him.

 
He finishes and thanks you. You wipe the drool and blood from your mouth and scream. You grab a planter from the porch and throw it at him, hitting him square in the back. He falls on a few people-logs, who screech and ask what the fuck his problem is.

You are screaming at the top of your lungs hurling expletives along with whatever can be thrown, blood punctuating each statement with thick red droplets in people’s faces, on their arms. You launch another planter that hits him in the face. He is down for the count. You rush him, still screaming at the top of your lungs and begin kicking. You kick his f
ace until it is unrecognizable; you kick his stomach, his kidneys, his chest, and most importantly the monstrous space between his thighs that has torn you up in more ways than one.

Someone lifts you off of him. You punch him; he goes wheeling.

― FUCK ALL OF YOU.

You begin to walk home, leaving a trail of blood.