Nice to see France getting the soufflé squeezed out of it!

Who am I?



Words to scribble on the outhouse wall.

We have enough youth; how about a fountain of smart?

Artificial intelligence usually beats real stupidity.

Learn from your parent's mistakes...use birth control!

The gene pool could use a little chlorine.

Any Existentialists surfing around? Give us your take on the philosophy.


Sartre was the only self-declared existentialist among the major thinkers. For him the central idea of all existential thought is that existence precedes essence. For Sartre there is no God and therefore no fixed human nature that forces one to act. Man is totally free and entirely responsible for what he makes of himself. It is this freedom and responsibility that is the source of man's dread.

SEVERED, John Gilmore’s account of the Black Dahlia Murder is the most plausible of the four books that I have now read, not that any of them actually came up with irrefutable evidence.

Gilmore’s culprit is a despicable character who had a rap sheet five pages long, entailing everything from drunkenness to theft to sodomy. The culprit was a 6 foot 4 inch cross dresser who looked more like the bride of Frankenstein than one of the boy/girls out on the Sunset Strip.

The big pause to Gilmore’s flow is the fact that this individual died in a hotel fire before LA detectives could put a loop on him. But, of course, “chit” like that sometimes happens.

A very intriguing fact about this individual is that he was born in Canton, Ohio, and he was in Cleveland, Ohio during some of the infamous Torso Murders. Could he have served an apprenticeship, learned the ways of the butcher knife? A butcher by the same name was on Eliot Ness’ cuddle list.

SEVERED is a good read. I give it four stars for Gilmore’s work and three stars for a plausible suspect.

Does anyone out there in Blogersville have any information on one deceased male known as Jack Anderson Wilson, born in Canton, Ohio 8-5-1920. He was AKA Grover Loving Jr. along with about 12 other aliases. The latter part of his life was spent in Los Angeles Ca.

Hello! Larry W. here again, your Pulp Noir book reviewer. I'm going to review the following books in the coming weeks written about the Black Dahlia murder that occured in Los Angeles in 1947, Elizabeth Short's ghoulish bisection.

The first group of books were purportedly written as True Crime exposés, claiming to name the killer. We shall see who is truly full of Penn and Teller's Bullshit and who has the plausible solution--if any.

The second group contains Novels with the Black Dahlia murder as the basis on which each book's story turns.

(1) Severed: The True Story Of The Black Dahlia Murder by John Gilmore.
(2) Childhood Shadows: The Hidden Story of the Black Dahlia Murder by Mary Pacios.
(3) Daddy Was the Black Dahlia Killer by Janice Knowlton with Michael Newton.
(4) Black Dahlia Avenger, The True Story by Steve Hodel.

(1) Black Dahlia by James Ellroy.
(2) Angel In Black by Max Allan Collins.

If you have a suggestion for additions to group two, let me hear it*

The rating system will be simple, one to four stars with a summary as to why the book is worth the price, or why the book should remain in the warehouse.

Daddy Was The Black Dahlia Killer by Janice Knowlton.
The basis for this book is Ms. Knowlton's repressed memories of having seen her Father kill Elizabeth Short, among others. According to her recovered memories, her father's libido was gargantuan. He raped it if it moved and killed it if it wouldn't, male and female.

She readily admits to major emotional problems after her Dr. performed an unneeded hysterectomy, which she purports to be the catalyst for recovering her lost memory years after her father's death. I know nothing of her medical history nor of the veracity of her claims about memory loss. I do know, however, that she presents no facts to substantiate her claim that George Knowlton killed the Black Dahlia.

I would suggest that her repressed memories are more commonly called Imagination
The book gets one star for that Imagination and two stars for Michael Newton's writing ability.

Childhood Shadows: The Hidden Story of the Black Dahlia Murder.
Mary Pacios, the author, was a childhood friend of Elizabeth Short, though Mary was many years younger. Throughout the book, one gets the feeling that Mary idolized Elizabeth, much as a younger sibling would idolize an older brother or sister who was held in high esteem for an admirable characteristic or other. In this case it was Elizabeth’s grace and beauty and, of course, her kindness toward Mary.

Mary repays that kindness with loving remembrances of Elizabeth.

However, Mary does not have a clue as to who killed her childhood friend. She points toward a well-known movie actor/director with the flimsiest of circumstance as nexus.

Mary gets two stars for a well-written book, and one star for having the audacity to imply that this great actor/director was possibly the killer. After all, this implication did sell her book. I bought it.****

Five Stars

Fear & Loathing in the Blue-Grass State!, July 13, 2005
Reviewer: Zygote in my Coffee.com - See all my reviews
"Butcher Holler" is a high-octane, neo-noir mystery that keeps the reader guessing until the very end. The novel is filled to the brim with a cast of unforgettable characters, ranging form a perverted, God-fearing sociopatch to a gun toting Vietnam vet and everything in between. Fugett's debut novel will undoubtedly establish him as the Mickey Spillane of Appalachia! I highly recommend picking this book up!

Press Release: Have you read the new book, Butcher Holler, by LW Fugett? If not you should. It's a gas. It’s redneck funny with suspense and drama. The characters are straight out of the cast of Deliverance, but on steroids. You’ll never again look at Jeff Foxworthy without thinking of Cockeyed Ezra and old Cousin Willard, double first cousins who immortalize their standing as rednecks by owning a “Queer” donkey. (July 6, 2005 )

My name is Larry Fugett and I am the author of Butcher Holler.The book may be purchased at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and others. Please read the following excerpt from my book. You may like it.

Book Preview:Butcher Holler is about a man, John Drues, and a woman, Jessica Lowery, each from different backgrounds, he an ex-convict, and she, a Cincinnati newspaper reporter, who find themselves inadvertently involved in the murder of a young girl in a small village in the backwoods of Kentucky. The two quickly find themselves on the run from a maniac who wields his power and a hawk-billed roofer’s knife to silence those who threaten him.

A despotic TV evangelist, Jimmy Foulwell, runs the village of five thousand, and he will do anything, lie, cheat and steal to keep the village’s dark secrets from coming to light. He’ll even suborn murder and sexual perversion.

Cockeyed Ezra and his double first cousin Willard are two of the perverted denizens of the Village of Foulwell. Each man has his own sexual bent, but together, they re-define sexual perversion.

Then there’s Virgil, Sutter, Doctor Elizabeth Pritchard and Harold Jenkins, who discover things about themselves along the way that will reshape their futures.

Come meet them all in Butcher Holler:

Harold Jenkins slept the sleep of the blissfully ignorant. He had committed nothing to Jessica’s adventurous trek to break into the church vault with that John what’s-his-name, and he was not going to worry about her. Old Harold was not going to stick his neck out for anybody. He wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep. So, He brushed his teeth, put the cap back on the Colgate, jumped into his jammies and slid into bed, fast asleep before the first little lamb could be counted. He awoke, however, fully committed to saving his ass.

The first slap did not wake him, but it did ready him for the second. He felt it clear down to his sphincter. His eyes snapped open to the presence of two huge men standing in front of him in, what appeared to be, a show horse arena. He was tied to a chair with duct tape across his mouth.

‘I reckon you’re still alive, huh, picture man?’ said the larger of the two men in a slow country drawl so deep that it sounded like a bass fiddle. ‘Just so’s you know, we took you out of the boardin’ house with chloroform. We coulda killed you right there in your purty little jammies.’

The larger man was a brute, over six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds, brown, wiry hair, bushed almost into an Afro. His head sort of blended in from an oversized neck. If it weren’t for the bushy hair, he’d be all neck, no head. Harold thought he looked like a smaller version of the wrestler, Andre The Giant, but with a nasty odor and a much uglier face.

The smaller man was smaller by only and inch or two in height and perhaps thirty pounds in weight. He had a gap-toothed grin and one cocked eye with a droopy eyelid. He looked sleepy, but happy about it. The man kept playing with his overalls’ buckle at the shoulder. He already had one strap down and looked as if he couldn’t wait to drop the other. Harold took one look at the inbreeds and knew he was in deep dog shit.

‘You one of them Jew-boys?’ asked Cockeye, as he walked around the chair eyeballing Harold in the middle of the show ring. ‘You look like one of them Jews.’
Harold shook his head vigorously and grunted through his nose, ‘No, no.’

‘Now, that ain’t good, kosher cheeks,’ said Cockeye. ‘I bet Cousin Willard here a quart of shine that you was a Jew boy. We coulda been friends, me and you, real good friends.’

‘He’s a Negro,’ said Willard through a wide, brown-toothed grin, his bass-fiddle voice vibrating the air. ‘See them big, purty brown eyes.’ He fluttered his eyelids as he walked over and stuck his finger in Harold’s nose. ‘And this here wide nose is fer smellin’ mammy’s chitlin’s and corn pone.’

‘He ain’t no Negro,’ grinned Cockeye, with one eye on Harold, and the other scanning the dirt floor. ‘I’m a Negro, and it takes a darkie to know one. He’s just down here passin’ hisself off as a brother, pissin’ on the plantation, tryin’ to steal our grits.’

Willard scratched his head in mock befuddlement for a moment then turned away and looked upward, pretending to be in deep thought. Suddenly he snapped back around and pressed his face inches from Harold’s.‘You a Negro, Mr. picture man?’ asked Willard.

Harold frantically weighed his options, which one not to piss-off, big man or smaller man. The big one seemed smarter, but the smaller one was meaner. Smarter won out. He sided with the big man and ‘outted’ himself as a Negro, nodding in the affirmative."…

——————————————————————
" ‘Yeah, and we corn-hole liars,’ guffawed Cockeye, unhooking the other strap to his overalls, dropping them to his ankles and exposing a massive penis. ‘You gonna like this, you big ole liar, liar asshole’s on fire,’ he said hefting his member and letting it drop back against his leg with a loud smack.

Harold’s eyes rolled back in his head as he strained against the ropes and began bouncing the chair wildly, trying to move away from the two congenital morons.

‘Now, lookie what ye’ve done, Cousin Ezra. He’s worked hisself into a lather, all hot and bothered and such.’
Harold, his eyes bulging, facial veins popping, was trying to speak, but it came out as a loud hum.

‘Why, he’s tryin’ to tell us sumpthin," said Willard in mock amazement, cupping his hand to his ear as he turned his head toward Harold. He bent down and placed his ear next to Harold’s mouth and pretended to interpret Harold’s hum.

‘He says he’s one a them Scotch men.’ Willard looked up at Cockeye with a burlesqued sincerity. ‘Says he wears one a them purty little skirts over there in Scotch land.’

‘Well, ask him how come they wear them sissy little skirts,’ said Cockeye, gap-toothing a big grin, his good eye twitching.
Willard put his ear back to Harold’s taped mouth. ‘He says they have to wear’em er they’d never get any poon tang. Says them pesky ole sheep can hear a zipper a mile away.’

Cockeye flopped down in the dirt and howled, broke wind so hard he blew up a dust devil.

Willard moved out of sight for a couple of minutes then came back pulling a teaser mare, a fake horse used to collect semen from a stud. They untied Harold, stripped him of his pajamas and hoisted him onto the rear of the mare with his buttocks exposed, then retied his hands with rope from beneath the belly of the faux horse.

‘Now, we gonna take the tape off your mouth and ask you some questions, and you’re gonna tell us what we want to know. If you lie, cousin Ezra here will know and…well, you know what he does to liars—oh, and if you get gas from layin’ on your belly like that, don’t fart. It gives Ezra a hard-on when he gets a whiff.’

With hysteria rising, Harold told them everything he knew and lots he didn’t, but he included the conversation that was held at the boarding house after John found Cindy Morgan’s body, the plan to break into the vault. He was perfectly willing to start with his first birthday in order not to leave anything out, but Willard had an agenda.

Willard bent low and placed his mouth close to Harold’s ear. ‘Picture man, you been doin’ very tolerable so far, but you ain’t told us why that John guy is down here with y’all. Now why is that?’ asked Willard.

‘I swear I don’t know why he’s here. Me and that bitch Jessica came down together, and he was here when we got in.’

‘You expect us to believe that cockamammy sheep dip?’ asked Willard, stroking the mare’s fake mane.

‘I swear on my mother’s grave. It’s the truth,’ sobbed Harold.’
Willard eye-motioned Cockeye to follow him off to the side, out of earshot, away from Harold. He pulled a pint of shine from his rear pocket, took a long draught and offered the bottle to Cousin Cockeye. Cockeye held up a pouch of Red Man, indicating a pause as he balled a large wad of dark brown tobacco and stuffed it into his cheek. He then took the bottle and swigged down two large gulps, letting the brown mixture dribble from the corners of his mouth and run down his chin as he drank. He lowered the pint and swiped at his mouth with a shirtsleeve already brown-stained from previous napkin duty.

‘What do you figure?" whispered Willard.

‘I think he’s a lying fart smeller,’ said cockeyed Ezra.

‘You wanta fuck him to make shore, er do ya wanna kill him?’

‘Well, Cousin Julian said we was to make shore he never told nobody about this here. We could kill him, shorenuff, but maybe Cousin Julian didn’t mean fer us to do that, and there goes our hundert dollars. When ye dead, ye can’t lie, ner swear, ner nothin’. If we fuck him, he shore ain’t gonna tell it to nobody.’

Both men smiled and walked back toward Harold, Willard to the front of the horse and cockeyed Ezra to the back. Ezra slapped a half jar of Vaseline into Harold’s crack, spat in a goober of Red Man for good measure, and smacked both butt cheeks."…
——————————————————————

Over the edge now, Harold could no longer contain himself. The gas-ball had been building for a half hour, gaining size and velocity with each aborted trip toward freedom. This time it restarted somewhere around Maine, picked up speed in Maryland, was running flat out through Georgia, and by the time it hit his colon, it was a runaway freight train. He broke wind with grandeur, a rafter rattler.

‘Now, you’ve gone and done it,’ said Willard, finally getting to his feet.

Just as Willard spoke, there came a long, lonesome bray from one of the stalls in the back, a new element that jolted Harold one more time. His nerves ragged and raging, he was about to break his neck frantically turning this way and that trying to see what was behind him. ‘Help, somebody help me!’ he screamed.

Willard pulled the roll of duct tape from his overalls, ripped off a piece and slapped it over Harold’s mouth.

‘You gonna hurt yourself doing that, picture man. Just stop it, now. I told ye not to fart. You’ve woke old Gaylord, our 'quare' donkey. And when he smells ass, he gets frisky. Now, he wants some too.’

Harold’s body went limp. He was out."

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