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Greg Bardsley

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Pulp fiction

That tux and top hat ain’t gonna change anything

pullpusher

A while back, my wife and I were talking about our early relationship. More specifically, we were talking about those times, 17 years ago, when she’d try to dress me. At least the way I saw it back in 1992, she was trying to get me to wear fancy-boy jackets and shirts — outfits I thought were better suited for backyard-croquet dandies. Never mind the fact I was a serious slob who wore very old clothes that I kept in giant piles. I didn’t like being “controlled,” and at some point, there was a backlash.

So not too long ago, we laughed at it all. And I said the whole “Dress Greg” campaign was like trying to put a tux and top hat on a semi-feral cat. Point being, that tux and top hat ain’t gonna change anything about that cat.

Then I had an idea for a short story. I’ll leave it at that, but suffice it to say that my new short story, “Cool Breeze of Mercy,” is dedicated to all you guys out there who have struggled with deep-seeded fears that someone wants to change you.

I am proud to report that “Cool Breeze” was picked up by Pulp Pusher, the badass U.K. ‘zine run by the insanely gifted crime novelist Tony Black, author of the poweful new noir thriller GUTTED. The only bummer is that despite Black’s repeated best efforts, some limitations to a web-publishing system have left formatting of the story less than what we wanted. With that in mind, you can read the piece at The Pusher here, or if you’re having problems reading that text, you can try the properly formatted “reprint” here.

NOTE: If stories involving peyote, cat diarrhea, extremely hair men and pantsuited crazyladies wielding fire pokers aren’t your thing, you may wanna pass on “Cool Breeze of Mercy.”

 

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If you need a babysitter …

If you’re looking for a babysitter, or a driving instructor, you may want to pass on Terry, the reluctant parental guardian in Jed Ayres’s story, “1998 Was a Bad Year,” which appears in the latest edition of  Thuglit.thug301

There’s something about this story that first disturbs, then amuses. You know guys like Terry are out there, somewhere, and that’s the disturbing part. But when you’re in the hands of a writer like Ayres, you want to go on that ride. It’s like this ’78 TransAm skids up onto your lawn, spins a donut and blares the horn, and the next thing you know, you’re happy to be sandwhiched between a couple of shady characters in the back seat, destined for a joyride into a world of neo-degenerancy you just don’t wanna miss.

Well, you get the idea.

Also in this edition are top-shelf tales by Changa buddies Jason Duke and Hillary Davidson, as well as stories (which I hope to soon read) by Eric Beetner, Patrick Cobbs, Robert S.P. Lee, Sophie Littlefield and Myra Sherman. Check them out.

pulp1Meanwhile, over in the United Kingdom, Pulp Pusher is running Frank Bill’s “These Old Bones,” which hits you in the jaw right from the start. Warning to those with delicate sensibilities, or those who prefer introspective, meandering “literature” about a sweet girl in a bonet walking through fields of daiseys with “Papa”: keep walking, don’t look at Frank Bill. For the rest of you: come over here.

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You like depravity, you dirty little thing

Yeah, I know what you like. You like to read that sick shit. And you’re wondering if that guy over there — that seemingly normal guy over there enjoying his coffee — is capable of concocting the same kind of disgusting, perverted and trangressive stories that percolate through your skull each and every day. Well, guess what — maybe he is. Maybe he’s just like you, with a mind in the gutter.

Hell, if you pick up the latest edition of Out of the Gutter, the “modern journal of pulp fiction and degenerate literature,” you will see that you and I are not the only ones with bent imaginations. There’s some seriously great (and sick) fiction up in that piece — so far, I have really enjoyed stories by Jed Ayres, Vicki Hendricks, Charlie Stella, Jordan Harper, Sophie Littlefield, David Cranmer, Randy Rohn, Matt Louis and Nicholas Korpon, and I’m still reading.

Apparently, you and I aren’t the only ones who like the sick stuff. Bookgasm just weighed in with a nice review of OOTG; it also included some favorable words about my story, “Headquarters Likes Your Style.” [Hey, I never said I was above shameless self-promotion.]

Elsewhere, the depravity continues unabated. Plots with Guns came out with yet another top-shelf edition chock full of great stories — be sure to check them out. …. And I recently learned that Jen Jordan will include my story, “Hotshot 52,” in her upcoming anthology, UNCAGED [Bleak House Books], which hits bookstores this summer. 

And finally ….. Speaking of people who write fucked-up shit, I met Jed Ayres for the first time tonight. I’m in St. Louis for work, and he was gracious enough to take in a few pints with me. After the second round of beers, we both expressed relief that the other guy wasn’t a psycho or, worse, an asshole. With this Internet thing, you never know.

I”ll leave you with the list of authors to be included in UNCAGED. With this group of writers, I see myself more as the towel boy. Anyone want a towel — or has a wet one they no longer need — just holler.

Pierce Hansen
Evan Kilgore
Tim Maleeny
Nick Stone
Simon Kernick
Christa Faust
Victor Gischler
Stephen Blackmoore
Blake Crouch
Declan Burke
Gregg Hurwitz
Brian Azzarello
Simon Wood
Steven Torres
Allan Guthrie
Martyn Waites
Bryon Quertermous
J.D. Rhoades
Stuart MacBride
Patrick Shawn Bagley
Scott Phillips
Greg Bardsley
J.A. Konrath
Maxim Jakubowski
Talia Berliner

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I like people who like me

What can I say? I guess I’m simple and small: I like people who like me.boxing_poster_low_res1

I also like people who like my writing.

So it goes without saying that I was thrilled to learn that badass crime novelists Victor Gischler and Anthony Neil Smith judged my forthcoming story, “Headquarters Likes Your Style,” tops in a recent fiction contest. The story took top honors for longer reads in Out of the Gutter’s “REVENGE Fiction Contest,”  which bills my story as “a sharp and hilarious piece about office cubicle tensions that end in catastrophe.”

I offer Jordan Harper, who won in the shorter-read category, a big slap on the back. I also offer back-slaps to the other cats whose work will appear in this edition. I can’t wait to read their stuff.

You can read some color on the contest results here and pre-order your copy of Out of the Gutter here.

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To the Gutter I go

This past spring, I got a call from a colleague who helps me with corporate videos. He was concerned. Didn’t know what to do, who to call. So he called me. Said he was working on a video that included a comment from an executive that concerned him. It was a comment that sounded benign enough in the corporate world but could be interpreted as quite graphic and socially inappropriate … if your mind is in the gutter.

We had a good laugh. Then I had an idea. An idea for a short story. I wrote it and sent it to an outfit that seemed perfect for this kind of subject matter.

Today I’m proud to announce that my story, “Headquarters Likes Your Style,” will appear in Out of the Gutter, “the modern journal of pulp fiction and degenerate literature,” which recently released its list of contributors for its fifth printed edition. I was honored to be included on this list of talented sickos, and I’m thrilled about appearing in Out of the Gutter. These guys a OOTG love what they do, and they’ve created a journal that is so original, so bold, so unapologetic, so anti-fancy-boy that you can’t help but want to be a part of it.

Being in the gutter never felt so good.

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The Great Psychobilly Blog Road Trip of 2008: Day 2, Part 2

If my pronuncshun sounsh ah lil off today, maybe it’sh zshee shotgun barrl in my mouthsh. You see, my blog hash beensh highjacked by badash author Anthony Neil Smith, and I dont’sh dare doosh so mush ash twitchsh. Whish ish why I’m handin’ over the keysh to Chimishangash ash Shunshet right nowsh. ….

Guest Post from Anthony Neil Smith

Last stop: Swierczynski’s Secret Dead Blog

Wow. That was exhausting. And somewhere around Tulsa, we had to abandon the Big Red Truck for one of those tricked-out Hummer stretch-limo SUVs. Riding in style now. But when we get to Greg’s crib, thank god he’s waiting with Mexican beer and homemade guacamole. Whip together a pitcher of margarita’s, and damn, that’s a nice break before we get on the road again (stone cold sober, too. *Ahem.* thank god it’s all virtual).

Greg Bardsley sprung up seemingly full-formed from the dirt already with a boatload of stylized pulp stories just screaming to be published. And published they have been (you can find the list over to the right, including the two I accepted–“Upper Deck,” which is now one of my favorite short stories, like, ever, and “Funny Face,” which is just fucking hilarious). Hoping to see so much more from him, and I can only imagine what his novels will be like. He’s got this imagination like if Satan were stoned, and I’m glad he figured out how to tap into it.

And here’s the shameless self-promotion part: I bet Greg would like Yellow Medicine! and the more people who buy it (especially on Monday, May 12th, to be forever, or at least this week, known as Psychobilly Monday), then the more I can keep writing exactly the sort of books I want to, telling the stories I think you’d enjoy hearing. That’s the fun of it, too. I used to think if I had the chance, I would sell out in a second. But then I tried writing a sell-out script, then a sell-out novel, and then eventually I figured it out: I can’t make myself sell out. I just can’t. Maybe it’s my twisted little personality or something, but all I know is that when I sit down to write a sweet little scene full of subtlety and grace, I just get all shaky and sweaty and before you know it, someone’s lost a head, or an eye, or a testicle. Or they found out their wife’s been fucking the entire bench of a somewhat popular arena football league. Or that the doctor was lying about how long they had to live…it was a lot less…and the doctor’s the one who gave you the disease. See? I just can’t. I’m having too much fun writing about the stuff that scares me shitless. And as long as you’ll keep reading, I promise to keep trying my best.

And so Day Two comes to a close as we set our eyes an an even longer trip tomorrow–to pick up four “First Offenders” (makes em sound like virgins, but by now they’ve all offended plenty of times): Jeff Shelby, Lori Armstrong, Karen Olson, and Alison Gaylin.

Driving Time: This one might take a week.
Tune for the leg: “Wild Thing” by Tone Loc (Don’t ask. it just seemed to fit.)

4

Waiting …. waiting …. waiting

My agent is starting to tell publishers about my novel, which has been pretty damn cool. For me, to finally have some really great book editors take a look at my stuff is like getting called up from the farm system for an afternoon of practice in the Majors. Of course, you know the odds of lasting beyond that one day of practice are slim — but, damn, it’s cool to at least see them give you a serious look.

So now I wait, and try to focus on producing new fiction, primarily the storylines and themes for the second, third and possibly fourth books in what would be a series of crime novels. And I’m making progress. But of course I spend too much time thinking about what might be happening out there with my manuscript — who might be reading it, what might be going through the editors’ minds as they do read it, whether any of them are reacting favorably to the idea of a smart and violent femme fatale who thoroughly bewitches a young journalist, or what they think of a paroled Oakland Raiders fan and his tiny pet monkey with the serious ear fetish.

We’ve gotten some initial feedback, and it’s been encouraging. The first editor to respond enjoyed the book and called it “a lot of fun.” The second response came from an editor who said the novel was entertaining and well-paced, and added that “Greg Bardsley clearly has talent” (I’m saving that comment). But neither of them made an offer. In fact, we’re early in the process, my agent reminds, and the manuscript is still out with other publishers. So I wait.

I think I’m getting good at that.

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Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a desert fatty with a sawed-off

The purveyors of degenerate literature over at Thuglit are busting quite a groove lately. Every month, the stories coming out of this crime zine seem to get better and better — i.e., sicker, nastier, creepier and more compelling.

thuglit22v2.jpgIn December, the Thugism is in top form, with bitter little morsels of crime fiction by everyone from established novelists to relative newcomers. Two of my favorites were “News About Yourself” (PDF) by novelist Scott Wolven and “Deep Cover” (PDF) by short-story writer Brian Haycock. Both stories had a great sense of place, some unpredictable characters and some pretty unexpected conclusions. Wolven’s piece gave me a good case of the creeps, and Haycock’s story gave me an instant aversion to desert-livin’ fatties with sawed-off shotguns (I know; I’m weird).

In other words, there’s some good Christmas readin’ over at Thuglit. Stuff to snuggle up to .. next to the tree … with a hot mug of cocoa.

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They Grow Up So Fast

Not long ago, I blogged about a short story I’d written — a “twisted little baby” that I was sending into to the harsh, cruel world of fiction-journal submissions.

Today, I am announcing that the story has found a home: the resurrected Plots with Guns magazine run by novelist and English professor Anthony Neil Smith. The story will appear in early 2008.

For five years, Plots with Guns ran some of the best crime fiction around. Everyone from established novelists to unknown writers to future stars contributed, and the ‘zine shined. But as Smith and cohort Victor Gischler began to publish their own novels, it was too hard to “balance the magazine with other concerns,” as Smith explained. Now, three years later, Smith feels he can balance those concerns a lot better, and he’s inspired.

Plots with Guns does feel like the perfect place for my story, “Upper Deck.” If you’ve read my other stories, you already know they don’t exactly leave you with visions of fluffy bunnies hopping through sun-splashed fields of daisies. I write about low-functioning characters doing low-functioning things, and with “Upper Deck,” the unacceptable behavior enters a new strata of psychosis. So I knew the story would need an understanding guardian, someone who sees the beauty in depraved activities.

Enter Smith.

In Smith’s acceptance note, the author of some wonderfully sick crime fiction called my story “NASTY and wonderful,” and he was waiting for my wretched little one with open arms. I sat back and beamed. Oh yes, my sick little baby had found its home, and Daddy couldn’t have been more proud.

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