Mark Henry - Happy Hour of the Damned (Amanda Feral, Book 1)

This book is a miracle to me. Really. A cocktail-swigging flesh-eating zombie miracle, sure, but a miracle, nonetheless. I'm deeply indebted to a number of people who either got the ball rolling, supported that ball on its roll, or lubed it up and pushed that ball through the tight orifices of the publishing world.

A million and one thank-yous go out to

My mother, Edna Henry, the most avid reader I know. She taught me to read and always told me I could do anything I put my mind to.

My father, Wayne Henry, who's the kind of guy that does everything he puts his mind to. Plus, he tells a hell of a story. Ask anyone.

The South Sound Algonquins originals Monica Britt and Sherylle Stapleton; and the newbies Megan Pottorf, Manek Mistry, and Tom Wrightput up with my foul-mouthed readings so graciously, and never held back in critique. You guys weren't holding back, right?

Gina Craig, my first copy editor, gave my first few chapters as much polish as she could.

The talented Joe Schreiber gave me the push I needed to get an awesome agent. He's also a top-notch author pimp.

The Friday night dinner crew: Kevin Macias, Jo Rash, Dana Krapfl and later, Mike Green, Ann Bowen, Shannon Hills, and Yolanda Macias, for listening to my rambling publishing stories. Your excitement has been the greatest cheerleading.

Supercool editor, Liz Scheier, took a pitch and a chance on an idea. Not even a completed manuscript, mind you, just an idea. People: that just doesn't happen. Her enthusiasm got this book written.

My agent, the delightfully sarcastic Jim McCarthy of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, rocked me a deal lickedy split (I love that phrase). If I have my way, we'll be selling many more.

Kristine Mills-Noble brought Amanda to life on the fabulous cover.

My copy editor, William Mehlman, caught stuff I'd have never seen, even with my bad high school French.

My editor, John Scognamiglio, believed in my crazy little story enough to buy the fucker. I'm still amazed. Every day. Plus, he dishes on the reality TV like a pro, and that's my number one criteria for awesome.

Finally, to the readers, there are only two kinds of people in the world.

A few hints: the damned of Seattle congregate at the Orphanage on Tuesday nights for half-price nibbles and cocktail specials, Convent on Thursdays, for Burlesque of the Living Dead, and Pharmacy on Fridays, which is brand new, and I have never been (don't let that stop you, I hear it's mind-blowing)

Otherworld Weekly

Saturday night is all about the Well of Souls see and be seen is the rulethere is no excuse for an absence, least of all a bad hair day. Shit, even if it looks like broom straw or the waxy coils plunged from drains, just throw on a hat, a wig, or whatever you have to do; the worst that could happen is public embarrassment and mockery. Nobody's died from those. Fortunately, Wendy and I didn't have to worry about that; we were looking hot as Hell, and ready to burn it down.

She wore her trademark mix of lush patterns in silk and wool, which she's been cultivating for a decade like a rose hybrid. On this particular night, she was working it short-short-short in a devilish Galliano skull and crossbones print dress. She wrapped the frock in a constricting boucl sweater that cupped under her breasts and showed them off like a slutty European peasant girl. Her blond hair hung in perfect esses, framing her fair skin in a glow of spun sugar.

I must stop there. If Wendy had her way, the subject would never veer from her.

So let's move on

I sported my "Variations on Black" vintage Azzedine Alaia . [ Azzedine Alaia:Tunisi an designer, famous for banding a woman's body into its proper form, regardless of her actual shape, a God at turning cows into shapely visions of sublime modernity. ] I pulled it out on occasion to air like a favorite strand of pearls. It molded to my curves like a second skin, the very fibers followed each shift and undulation. My kicks were black, strapped, and towered on a heel that could impale the most amorous vamp. My hair is brown to the point of black with caramel notes think of the first crema rising through the black of a properly made espressoand up in a loose twist to show off these big retro hoop earrings I was rocking, like it was the '70s all over again.

Sexy? That's certain, but enough about fashion; let's move on to the oh-so-important seating arrangements

Our reserved black-velvet-draped banquette was centrally located between the restrooms, the dance floor, and the ice bar, perfect for witnessing both fashion atrocities and supernatural scandals. Ricardo, the Well's owner and bartender, was so good to us, always assuring our favorite spot, and providing eye candy to boot. I spotted him across the room shaking a metal shaker with a flourish. Which brought to mind the question: where's my fucking Flirtini?

Normally at the Well, I have no complaints, but, on this night, Ricardo was breaking in a new waitress. That's right, I refuse to call them cocktail servers or waitstaff, and if anyone commented as to the political correctness of my terminology, I'd have their head and everything else. Her name was Isobel, and she was exactly what you'd expect slow, boring, obnoxious, andwouldn't you knowpretty. To describe her as a doe-eyed starlet-type would be fairly accurate, but would neglect an account of her childlike intelligence and subpar vocabulary.

I was scanning the crowd for our regular waitress, Jezebel, when my eye caught on a table pressed against the furthest crescent of the club. Those booths, set deep within swags of thick jewel-toned curtains, were normally occupied by the evil bloodsuckers of Karkaroff, Snell and Associates, and some of them were even in attendance, but Dona Elizabeth Karkaroff was the only one worth noting, believe me, and don't ever look her in the eye, everyone knows that, never in the eye I cannot stress this enough. The legal firm was a nasty crew, dealing in divorces and disillusionments, of the mysterious sort.

Mannish creatures flitted around her like butterflies, their thorny heads covered in fedoras, berets and caps, in shapes and sizes that must have put their milliners through Hell.They leaned in, whispered to her, roamed the area, covered their mouths.The lady herself, slouched elegantly, legs crossed and protruding from the shadows into that space between tables, like a track hurdle for the waitresses. Maybe Isobel tried to get through that way and didn't make it back. Karkaroff's cigarette glow lit her angular face. Her dark probing eyes searched the cavernous space.

I averted my gaze.

On that night, a darker than normal presence spread a dense layer of gloom through the already murky yet sophisticated atmosphere.

"Is that Cameron Hansen ?" I asked. [ A word of caution: This name has been changed to protect you from the evil that is this particular celebrity and he is certainly not Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck or Brad Pitt (although he may have worked with one or all of them in the course of his career). ]

Wendy tracked my nod to a deep copse of tables, and her eyes widened as they lit on the shadowed celebrity. "It is. Jesus, what's he doing here?" Her face fixed in a grimace, as though she were about to vomit across the table or had turned a corner and was surprised by the glaring eye of an asshole, crowning a thick brown mass. "I can't stand that shrimp."