Man arriving in a Zen ambulance

Really pleased to announce that Man in a Zen Ambulance should be out within the next few days on Kindle and in paperback. I'm really pleased with it. I hope my readers will enjoy taking a ride into the crazy Nikkatsu-inspired world of the Atomic Age!



No borders! No limits!

Meanwhile that intrepid female investigator, Suriwan na Ayutthaya, is working on her collection of exciting retro tales of crime, sci-fi and the uncanny... 

 http://pulpzen.blogspot.co.uk/

Asylum bag lady provides inspiration

    “Who on earth is she?”
    “The hospital’s resident beggar,” explains Diogenes. “And I’m afraid she won’t leave until you’ve given her some money. A right pain. I’ll get one of the orderlies to turf her out.”
    “No don’t do that.”
    Standing in the doorway is an ancient creature staring straight at me. She’s wearing sandals and a filthy Soviet-era tracksuit with faded ‘CCCP’ across the chest. Her right hand is unnaturally long and misshapen like a claw. In it she’s holding a shiny black shopping bag. It’s bulging with footballs or basketballs or goodness knows what inside. There’s a terrible smell, enough to wake the dead.
    “How did she know I’m here?”
    “Everyone knows you’re here, Jack.”
    “Oh. And what on earth is in that bag?”
    “You really don’t want to know.”
    “Does she have a name, bless her?”
    “Bernard.”
    “Bernard? That’s a man’s name, isn’t it?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    It’s a long story...
    I take in Bernard the Soviet bag lady as she stares at me, with that mysterious stinking bag of hers and horrible claw hand.
    Story...
    “Diogenes, do us a favour and go over to the wardrobe? You’ll find a smallish book on the top shelf near the whiskey. Can you bring it over?”
     He does as he’s told. “This one?” he asks, holding up my unofficial guide to being a samurai.
     “Yeah, bring it here. Thanks.”
     I thumb through the pages. Mm, I was right. Those references to the ancient samurai custom of cutting off their dead opponents’ heads; then they used to clean them up and put them in neat little lacquered caskets. I turn my attention back to Bernard and her bag.
    “Diogenes,” I say carefully. “Do us another favour. You’ll find my wallet in the drawer.”
    “You’re actually going to give her some money?”
    “I certainly am. You see, she’s just given me an excellent idea for my latest book – maybe Zen City, too.”
    Diogenes shakes his head. “How much do you want to give her?”
    “Well, how much is an idea worth?”

Off the rails in Paraguay, interrupted

    “Are you alright, Jack?”
    I open my eyes. It’s my good friend Diogenes the municipal street cleaner. He’s standing over me and rubbing his beard, which is usually a sign of nervousness with him. A faint smell of lavender brilliantine.
    “Where the hell am I?”
    “In Hárshegy Sanitarium.” He moves over to the window and pushes the slats of the blinds apart.
    “You mean the looney bin?”
    “It’s a beautiful hospital building, built in the nineteenth-century.”

Asylum for disturbed writers

    “Hárshegy – I thought this place had been abandoned? What am I doing in an abandoned hospital? How on earth did I get here?”
    “We were sitting in the Snail Cafe in District VIII. You’d pulled an old train ticket out of that plastic toy dinosaur and were in the middle of telling me all about your adventures in Paraguay. Then you just tipped forward, knocked over the cucumber soup and sort of fell asleep on the table. Lulu called an ambulance. You’ve been here ever since.”
    “Blimey, how long?”
    “Three weeks.”
    “Three weeks!”
    Diogenes peers through the blinds then frowns at something happening outside. He’s paranoid at the best of times.
    “Yeah,” he continues, “you’ve been talking in your sleep. Holding imaginary conversations with dead serial killers, talking about film footage of the 1950s and all sorts of stuff I couldn’t even work out.”
    I bite my lip. I’m sure I’ve got a very urgent appointment; supposed to be somewhere unloved but interesting. After all, us writers are always on the move.
    Diogenes sighs, steps away from the window and returns to my bedside.
    That smell of lavender again.
    “Do you want the good news of the bad news, Jack?”
    “I need cheering up. Give me the good.”
    “Admiral Horthy says you should be out by the end of the week.”
    “Who in hell is he?”
    “Your doctor.”
    “I’m sorry but I thought you said ‘Admiral.’ You know, as in commander of fleets not a medical practitioner in a Victorian asylum.”    
    “I only call him that because in his spare time he designs computer games about speculative history.”
    I prop myself up on my elbow.
    “And what,” I say slowly, “is the bad news? Come on, out with it.”
    Diogenes rubs his beard again – now I know he’s nervous.
    Suddenly the door flies open.
    “That is,” he says.
    Oh...

http://www.abandonedplaygrounds.com/lipotmezei-mental-hospital-abandoned-in-budapest-with-a-chapel-like-no-other/