ANNOUNCEMENT: Broken Glass Waltzes by Warren Moore

June 25, 2012

We are pleased to announce that we will be publishing Broken Glass Waltzes by Warren Moore (blog|twitter|facebook) in 2013. Broken Glass Waltzes is a:

50,000-word crime novel/erotic thriller set in the heavy metal club scene of the Midwest of the late 80s/early 90s. It’s a story of lust, violence and madness with a heavy metal beat. Think of it as Jim Thompson meeting Alice Cooper, or Metallica reading James M. Cain.

Here’s the first few paragraphs:

   She came in during the fourth and last set of the night. It must have been then, because I hadn’t seen her earlier, and I know I would’ve — Andrew’s isn’t that big a club. She took her position on Babe Row at the edge of the stage, looking out of place in the middle of what seemed like a platoon of cookie-cutter mousse-abusing Spandex queens. Her hair was black, not the stock dyed blonde, and it didn’t have the high-stacked look of the other metal babes. She was dressed differently, too. She wore a black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. She was swaying, and I saw there was no bra, and that she didn’t need one. Her hips looked just about wide enough for my hands to fit around them perfectly.
Until she came in, it was another Andrew’s Friday night. The Selekt was practically the house band at Andrew’s, so I was pretty well guaranteed my 500 a week, which kept me in drumsticks, anyway, with all the groupies I could eat. It had been three years since we had formed the band, and we were still doing the covers — but our price was higher. It didn’t make it that much more interesting, but it beat the shit out of selling carpet at the local “Dalton Georgia Outlet,” which I had been doing before the gigs got regular. Maybe that was the problem. Everything had gotten regular, and 25 is too young for that.

Even the girls had grown regular and pathetic. I mean, I can maybe see wanting to fuck a real star, but we were just another bar band, doing Cincinnati metal for the sons and ah yes, the daughters of the drones at Procter and God and Eastgate Mall. The daughters didn’t seem to mind, though, and they were usually good for groceries when things got tight and the bill for rehearsal space came due. They were good old-fashioned corn-fed Midwestern missionary fucks, and they’d be at the edge of the stage every Friday night.

This girl was different. I knew somehow that if I didn’t get to talk to her tonight, I’d never see her again, and I knew I wanted to see her again. I gave the sticks a twirl and stared right at her. Then I gave her the “MTV face,” trying to look cool, bored, and threatening at the same time. Only the bored came easily. She didn’t seem impressed, but she didn’t leave, and she was looking back, anyway. I saw it as a plus, but I was a little worried. Charlie had spotted her, too, and guitarists outrank drummers on the pussy magnetism scale. “Smoke on the Water” was up, and Charlie dropped to his knees in front of the new girl, cranking that power chord holy trinity. Right about then, though, Charlie’s flavor of the month showed up with the beer, so he was back out of the picture. Looked like my lucky night.

She was still there when we finished the set twenty minutes later. I went to the bar to get another pitcher and a couple of plastic cups. I was still waiting when I got the tap on the shoulder. I turned around and she was there. “Hi,” I said. “What’d you think?”

I think she’s going to be trouble.

 

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