Author Guest Post: R.J. Smith

Today’s Author shares information on his exciting serial killer story, just in time for Christmas!

 

santa

 

Amazon

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The Santa Claus Killer, is a 4 ½ star Amazon and 5 star Barnes & Noble novel. Written from the sordid memories of his youth living on the streets of Manhattan, it follows a Santa Claus serial killer and the Christmas chase by the NYPD and the FBI.

Blurb: There’s a murder in the heart of Manhattan, a simple corpse… stretched out upon a bench in Herald Square Park. On any other day, in any other city, the bloody slaying would be a sidebar of filler news for the networks to bury.

But this was Christmas in the city that never slept, the Big Shiny Apple… a 24-hour media show of spectacular brilliance. At the center…

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FOREWORD

WHERE I COME from, Santa Claus would’ve killed to be in my book… those auditioning would have lined their fat asses up around the block of Woolworths to audition for the part.

Now, they carry their bones down to Wal-Mart and shake barbered heads in feigned disgust.

People have asked:

“What’s gotten into you, RJ? Why did you write this horror involving the King of Christmas?”

I say, screw it… if Mr. Chris Kringle has time to keep a naughty list, then my name is número uno to receive coal! Let fatso track me down between deliveries and drag my lazy carcass to the graveyard; good for him.

Everybody has to die sooner or later.

Why not now?

For everyone else, those of you who think the guy behind the beard might have something to hide, this tale is for you.

Growing into my teens on the streets of Manhattan, I wasn’t invested in Christmas. The shiny new toys didn’t call to me from Macy’s glittering windows. The season’s opening of Rockefeller Center ushered in the Upper West Side kids… and yes, Christmas was fun for them… it was special…

They bought the scam and drank the Kool-Aid.

I guess, as a young boy, I recalled sitting on HIS lap one winter and tugging on the beard. Then, I knew the hoodwinking I’d received. I understood the con job and how it all played out. So, when I got older, I filed my complaint with the jolly old fat man! He laughed and smiled, and didn’t give a crap.

And, that’s when I knew something wasn’t right.

There was a secret.

Thus, the gang and I kept a close eye out for his appearance along the sidewalks and in every store right after the parade on Seventh Avenue. There, he rode into town atop his official red and green glittered sleigh on Thanksgiving Day.

The city would dance, and cheer, and sell their Christmas toys.

But, deep down, I knew a monster lurked under that façade, and, that one day… he would show his real face.

That day is today.

That’s what carried you, dear bookworm, to this nightmarish tale of murder, horror, and fright.

Nobody, after all, gazes into the blackness of a shadowy graveyard expecting to find a love story.

You know why we’re here!

You stared at the book cover of Santa dragging his bloody sack through Times Square, accepted the premise, and then bought the book recognizing damp, sticky blood would soon fill your stockings!

However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…

The particulars of how we get through Christmas rests in the pages that follow.

For there, amongst the sleigh bells sounding in the dead of night, a snowstorm is brewing, and just around the corner, a murderer rings his bell.

 

WELCOME TO THE SHOW

JUST ANOTHER SNOT-NOSED KID, a lousy orphan, an abandoned morsel, left here to die at my feet.

 

You better watch out, you better not cry,

You better not pout, I’m telling you why,

Santa Claus Is Coming To Kill…

 

That was his anthem, the tune that got his rocks off better than a five-and-dime hooker. It was also the lone miniature melody he couldn’t shake from his throbbing skull. The twelve days of Christmas were heading down the pike like a freight train–Tick; Tock, Tick; Tock–Father Time was stomping through the dead of winter, waiting to turn the calendar of another rotten year.

“Please,” a streetwise white boy begged. “Just let me go and I promise to live my life right!”

He was flat on his back staring up at the face of a monster; the kind that Mommy warned would stalk him one day.

“Too bad, so sad,” the slaughterer scoffed. “Take your five-finger discounts to the pits of hell.”

The boy trembled, fear gripped his spine and urine pooled beneath his hips.

“Just give me a chance!” he bawled, sensing the Fat Lady was about to sing.

“Time’s up!” the killer cackled. “There’s no more time to lie, cheat, or steal!”

“I wasn’t meant to die this way,” the boy cried, his arms and legs flailing for freedom. “I could have been somebody!”

Yet, escape was useless; the assassin had him pinned to the sidewalk in the middle of Times Square. To either side, hundreds of people milled about… watching the strangulation, waiting for the moment when they’d witness a murder.

New York was every man for himself.

“But you ended up a fucking nobody!” the murderer growled. “Shit happens and then you die!”

Death, the boy reflected, will end the pain. It will pinch away all hopes and dreams… and then, my life-force will blink out… like the lights on a Broadway marquee… popping off, one at a time, goodbye, so-long, and farewell.

That darkness of finality would bring the end to his nightmarish life.

Good Golly! Jolly Molly! A disembodied voice cackled in the recesses of the slayer’s mind. I do believe that boy is about to cry like a bitch!

Stefan might’ve sobbed, had his childhood memories not flooded the blurring vision of the killer’s face.

I’m on my way to heaven!

But death took time. It never happened like actors portrayed in the movies.

Committing homicide required some doing.

It took muscle, and every once in a while, this murderer knew he had to drag their naughty souls kicking and screaming into their graves.

 

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Chapter 1

The Master Poser

 

MANHATTAN NEVER SLEEPS.

It gives birth to dreams and stamps them out like cheap, harsh cigarettes.

Frank Sinatra once sang that if you could make it here, you’d make it anywhere. What he failed to mention was the boogeymen who stalked the streets in search of blood.

That’s where Richard Blake slouched; ringing his bell at the entrance to Macy’s on 34th Street where miracles were replaced by the gore and mayhem that plunged through his mind.

“Bastards,” he grumbled. “Good for nothing squares.” Every year, he’d shrug on a Santa outfit and watch the fools scurry into the store for their spoiled little brats nestled safe and sound at home. It angered him that while he, the main attraction, stood out here in the freezing cold, panhandling for pennies, those fat little piggies were nestled in the warmth of their beds.

“Nasty little disease carriers, that’s what they are!” Grumbling, he reached into his coat and retrieved a pint of Mad Dog 20/20. He adored the red grape flavor—better known as Bum Juice—an inexpensive, low-end, fortified wine that had an alcohol content of 18-percent. It packed one hell of a wallop and washed away his pain and misery. It excited him to drink the Mumble Juice right there in front of the silly fat cows as they dropped their meager coins into his bucket. He called it Mumble Juice because if he drank too much of it, he wandered the streets mumbling to people who weren’t really there.

And that was just crazy.

Besides, if he really wanted to be one of the bums he hunted, he had to play the part and drink their Kool-Aid.

First impressions meant everything.

Tossing back a gulp, he scowled at the shoppers. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Have a merry, fucking, Christmas!”

The bargain hunters gasped, covered the ears of their youngsters, and rushed into the night.

“Hey, pal,” a fatherly type muttered, shoving his finger into bad Santa’s chest. “What’s your problem, huh?”

Santa sniggered, and took another swig. “This whole damn city’s my problem! You’re all stinking gatherers, nothing but spenders!”

The man shoved Santa to the ground, shook his fists, and stormed down the street. “You drunken, stupid idiot, ya need a New York ass-whipping, that’s what you need!”

“Asshole wannabe,” a passing woman sneered. “You’re not Santa Claus at all; you should be ashamed of yourself!”

I should be ashamed of myself. What am I doing wearing this itchy costume again this year? Damn naughty or nice, how many more will piss on my lap and step on my toes?

He staggered to his feet, spat on the ground and stared at a passing Camaro and a teenager who hurled insults from its open window.

“Yo! Dickhead! Where’s your lousy reindeer?”

“Rotten thug,” Santa answered. “It’s because of pricks like you that I’m in this situation to begin with!” Stepping from the curb, he reached to the ground and gathered a snowball. “I’ll show you bastards, I’ll teach you a lesson or two!”

To those interested enough to stare at the drunken Santa Claus stumbling from the sidewalk and flinging his snowball at the passing car, they might’ve wondered what had become of the King of Christmas.

But Richard knew exactly what had become of himself… what his mission was, and why he stood out here in the snow to draw in the bums who begged for money and harassed the herds.

So, as his anger tracked straight and true, exploding in the face of a Puerto Rican boy, he smiled triumphantly.

“It’s a present from Rudolph, with my compliments from the North Pole!”

Suddenly, the Camaro spun on an icy patch of road and slid towards the place where he stood. What headed his way were four wheels of death and destruction; a horn desperately warned the innocent of its destructive approach. However, for those who knew better, horns and whistles were merely comfort warnings that cautioned the shit wagon was headed their way.

Nothing stopped the candy man when he jingled up your number, calling.

The car crashed into the windows of Macy’s just moments after the shoppers leapt to safety.

They screamed in horror as three teenaged boys sprung from the car, attacked Santa, and taught him about street justice.

“You stinking deadbeat fraud!” a white boy shouted, swinging his fist with all his might, striking Santa on the chin.

“Get off me, you little prick!” Santa sniveled a moment before the boy smashed a bottle against the side of his skull. Stumbling to a knee, he reached to the boy’s neck, grabbed a crucifix hanging from a chain, and collapsed to the street.

“Kill his sorry-ass, Mighty Whitey!” the Puerto Rican boy begged. “Send his phony ass back to Mrs. Claus in a body bag!”

And that’s what might’ve happened if a black kid hadn’t pulled Stefan away at the cacophony of approaching sirens.

“Come on, Stefan! Let’s get out of here before you kill him!”

“I got to find my chain, Darius,” Stefan yelled. “The lousy deadbeat ripped it off my neck!”

“There’s no time,” Darius urged pointing to an NYPD cruiser turning the corner. “We have to haul ass!” And so, they abandoned the poser in a puddle of his own blood and hightailed down the dark street and out of sight.

As for the Grinch who stole Christmas, the last thing he remembered were the voices in his head.

 

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Review Snippets: Lynelle Clark, UK Reviewer – Barnes & Noble

Gruesome, and twisted but brilliant! I received a signed copy of

Lynelle Clark

Gruesome, and twisted but brilliant!

I received a signed copy of the much anticipated book from the author RJ Smith. I have read many of the reviews on Facebook about this book, and it is true nothing will prepare you for the content of this book. Firstly, I have to say that I am not a horror fanatic, at all! Do not read books or watch movies in this genre. Just too gory for me, thank you. J

Where to begin!

 

Hellnotes Review – Kat Yares, – Hellnotes

By Kat Yares VINE VOICE / Hellnotes

Tired of run of the mill Serial Killers? RJ Smith will thoroughly help you break that mold. In The Santa Claus Killer, you get to meet one of the most unusual serial killers I’ve ever met in a work of fiction. Superbly well written and plotted, I guarantee you will keep turning the page to find out what happens next. And by the last page, I promise you won’t have seen the ending coming. Want a good read – this is it. Go for it, what are you waiting for?

 

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author-smith

RJ Smith is an American Screenwriter and Award winning Novelist of contemporary horror, nail biting suspense and wicked story development, the writer is best known for his new and unique style of developing a novel by writing in imagery.

Noted by the prestigious 2013 Emmy Awards, The Francis Ford Coppola American Zoetrope Studios, The Page International Screenwriting Awards and the Sundance Table Read My Screenplay, Smith is represented by two Literary Agents and a Hollywood Manager.

 

Links to buy:

www.themasterofsuspense.com

www.rjsmith.net

 

AMAZON: https://goo.gl/3smoZB

Hardcover, Paperback, Kindle, Audible

Barnes & Noble: https://goo.gl/VYut1Q

Hardcover, Paperback, Nook, iTunes

 

My Websites:

www.themasterofsuspense.com

www.rjsmith.net

 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/therealrjsmith/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/TheRealRJSmith

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheMasterOfSuspense/

 

I would like to thank you for the opportunity, it’s always better to include bloggers along with all my traditional ads in the New York Times, USA Today, LA Times and such.

Sincerely

RJ Smith