i was a celebrity monster hunter

In honor of National Evil Month, the National Evil presents an excerpt from I Was A Celebrity Monster Hunter by Luther Weary, which will be published this October by Zombie Mafia Books.

Chapter Two: Dark Side of the (Full) Moon

So Anne Rice writes a book about vampires becoming rock stars. That’s so ludicrous it’s almost funny. The riptide sea changes of the music business, that feeding frenzy churn—hip today/square tomorrow—are too rapid, too ephemeral, for the immortal undead. They laugh at our roundabout trend-hopping the way you chuckle at a dog trying to bite its own tail.

Rock stars aren’t vampires. They’re werewolves.

Bob Seger’s Silver Bullet Band? The ultimate inside joke.

I know this because my father was a monster hunter. He tracked Seger to the Fillmore in San Francisco and loitered by the tour buses, thinking he’d finally found compatriots in his fight against this unholy pestilence . . . that the band’s name was a coded call to arms for all monster hunters . . . that the Silver Bullets were an elite unit working from the inside like a righteous tapeworm burrowing through the industry’s black phlegmy guts.

Then a few roadies cornered him between equipment trucks and taught him better. Or worse.

They’re not all specifically werewolves, of course. I only use that generic term for the layman’s sake. Technically they’re lycanthropes, which come in all shapes and sizes, all species and breeds, like a Noah’s Ark sailing the River Styx. You’ve got your werewolves, sure, but also your wereweasels, werewombats, wererats, werebats, werebears, wereboars, wereboas, wereleopards, werelions, weretigers, werelabs, werepoodles, weremeraners.

Backstage at the Grammies, in the artist-only lounge, the established stars surround the Best New Artists, all asking the same thing of the newbies:

“What’s your thrope?”

“What’s your thrope?”

“What’s your thrope?”

That’s how all this genre cross-fertilization happens. When an aging heavy metal band recruits the du jour hip-hop producer to remix one of its hits, it’s because all of them are werecoyotes. Because they can stomach the taste of innocent human flesh, not each other’s music. Worked the same way on all those Sinatra duets.

Sure, you laugh. If they’re werewolves, werecoyotes, werecobras, whatever—lycanthropes—how can they play to packed houses during a full moon without a ten thousand person conga-line buffet table opening up?

Simple, moron. Lycanthropy isn’t just a savage act of febrile transformation into the carnivorous id. It’s shamanism, the harnessing of nature’s fury through the vector of predation.

The first werewolves were shaman, the cave-painters of La Creux and Chauvet smearing bears and wolves and cave lions on rock faces. Then a certain artist painted in virgin’s blood not upon granite or limestone, but the smoothed obsidian surface of a meteorite that hurdled to earth ten million years ago from the wrong end of a black hole. The substances fused and he took on the power of the beast. From there it spread. Rock art in Africa. Bas reliefs in Greece. Bronze etchings in China. Everywhere.

Before Seger’s henchbeasts murdered him, my father served three to five in France for trying to ‘desecrate’ the cave paintings. He’d hoped that by wiping out the core painting, that meteor-art, he could end the plague. But the authorities got to him first—tipped off no doubt by Jim Morrison.

That’s why rock came to be: it had to in our secular times. The thropes needed their trance-states, their tribal frenzies, so they invented repetitive structure, verse chorus verse, and the hot, sweat-soaked high-density feed lots you call a club scene.

Me? You won’t see me at a rock concert. It’s the killer B’s for me—Beethoven and Bach. You won’t find thousands of throbbing bodies at a recital of the 5th.

Beethoven wasn’t a werewolf. He was possessed.

In addition to hunting down the abominably famous, Luther Weary has served as a border patrol guard, bouncer at CBGB, sommelier, and smuggler of rare-animal genitalia into the Chinese traditional medicine market.

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