Jack Strange - Zomcats!

“Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing down here to be scared of, and you’ll be amazed by what you see, I promise you.”

“In for a penny in for a pound, I suppose,” said Richard.

He began to descend the stairs himself.

Darren shook his head, but still, he followed suit.

They all entered the brightly-lit basement and Pratt stood to one side, ushering Richard and Darren ahead of him, as if to show them a prized work of art.

They both stepped forward. Then they saw it.

Darren felt his knees begin to shake and he clutched Richard’s arm for support, but Richard was barely capable of giving support. The blood had drained from his face and he was feeling faint himself.

The creature in front of them had hair that seemed to be set like concrete, a vicious, beak-like nose, and a sneeringly twisted upper lip.

She had the body and legs of a model. She was wearing black leather boots with impossibly high heels, black stockings, a black basque with red trim, a leather collar set with pointed silver studs, and leather wristbands to match. In her right hand she held a whip. She cracked it, and it made a terrifying sound, like the report from a gun, only sharper, and if possible, louder and more terrifying.

As the pair cowered in terror, she opened her mouth and spoke. Her voice was deeper than might have been expected for a woman, and horribly familiar.

“Who are these two fucking piss-pots?” She demanded.

Her voice was unmistakable. Both Darren and Richard had heard it before.

“No,” said Darren, “it can’t be. Surely to God, it’s not possible.”

Richard turned to Pratt. Pratt’s shirt collar was wide open, exposing to view, for the first time, the entire column of words that were tattooed on it:

“INAZ

ZINA

AZIN

NAZI”

“I know who it sounds like. But it can’t be her. So who — or what — is she? I mean, what is IT?” Richard asked.

But in his heart of hearts he already knew the answer. Even so, the answer, when it came, stunned him.

“You mean my fascinating little creation?” Pratt replied proudly. “I call her…. THATCHENSTEIN.”

Celebrity Chef Zombie Apocalypse is the story of the dead celebrity chef Floyd Rampant, who rises from his grave aiming to create a zombie army of chefs who will rule the world, using the human species as the main ingredient in their cordon bleu meals.

It is dark, original, and so funny it should carry a government health warning.

It is a gourmet feast, an unmissable read, and a black and poignant joke. Part horror story, part political and social satire, it gives the reader a fast-paced entrée of dread, a main course of panic and a dessert of distress.

CCZA, as it’s known for short, has a cast of unforgettable characters, most of whom meet with gruesome ends. The action begins in Croydon, moves to London, and reaches its explosive climax in the author’s home town of Huddersfield.

This smart, witty and profound modern day classic works on many levels.

Reclusive author Jack Strange signed for KGHH Publishing in early 2016 in blood, no-one is sure whose. He has a wife, poor woman, and two lovely daughters who can’t be named for legal reasons. Oh, and besides all that, Jack Strange lives in Huddersfield West Yorkshire. Need we say more?

AMAZON UK:

http://amzn.to/1Tp0A2s

AMAZON USA:

http://amzn.to/21zW9s1

“ Bollocks!”

No seriously, Jack is Strange — Strange by name, strange by nature.

He loves his many readers and he likes to make them laugh, think and be entertained in equal measure.

So, with that in mind, he’s asked us to include a section from his first novel ‘Celebrity Chef Zombie Apocalypse’.

‘Zomcats!’ is in a way a sequel to his first novel, but it does stand alone, and the books can be read in either order.

There are links above for the book if you want to read more. We at KGHH Publishing are very confident you will.

It was the middle of the afternoon and Robert Turner was busy taking in the finer points of his boss’s latest incentive scheme.

“You’ve got seven days,” his boss was saying. “If you haven’t got what I want by then, you’re fired. Got that? Fired!”

Robert’s boss was an ass-hole who loved nothing more than to point his finger at his staff and tell them they were fired, so he knew that his boss wasn’t bluffing. He did his best to appear positive.

“Yes, Geoff, I’ve got it. I’ll think of something, don’t worry.”

His boss smiled.

“I’m not worried,” he said. “You’re the one who should be worrying, not me. It’s your job that’s on the line.”

Robert felt his guts twist into a knot.

“You’re right Geoff,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m the one who should be worrying, not you.”

As Robert stood up to leave, his boss smiled again, “Oh, one more thing, Robert, run along and get me a cup of coffee, will you? There’s a good chap.”

“Of course, Geoff,” Robert said meekly.

He went into the corridor and bought a coffee from the vending machine, white with two sugars, just how his boss liked it. He paid for it with his own money, as he always did, in a vain attempt to curry favour. His boss’s coffee habit was costing Robert twenty-five pounds every week. He knew that he ought to ask his boss for the money to pay for the drink but he couldn’t. The pattern was now too firmly established to break it.

Freddy Barnes was hanging around near the vending machine. He grinned when he saw Robert.

“Paying for our boss’s coffee again, are we Robert?” He asked.

Robert glared.

“Geoff paid for mine this time,” he said. “We take it in turns.”

Barnes sneered.

“Course you do,” he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“We do take it in turns,” Robert insisted.

“Yeah, what- ever ,”

Robert lowered his head and silently mouthed the word “tosser.”

He was fed up of Barnes making remarks about his loserish behaviour but there was nothing he could do about it because Barnes had been promoted over him. When the vending machine had done its job, Robert took his drinks and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. He briefly considered pissing in the coffee he’d just bought, but he knew deep down that he was too much of a suck-up to ever do a thing like that. Instead, he took the coffee to his boss, then, cursing himself for his grovelling behaviour, he went back to his own office to contemplate the task he’d just been given. It’s impossible, he thought sadly.

The organisation he worked for, Fave Repeats TV, (known as ‘FRTV’), was an obscure digital channel sandwiched between ‘Naked Babes Live’ and ‘Gay Rabbit Chat and Date’. It was dedicated to the endless re-running of ancient TV shows which it bought on the cheap. FRTV never wasted its own money on the production of new shows.

No-one in their right mind would ever have watched the repeats shown on FRTV, as every man, woman and child in the country had seen all of those shows at least a dozen times already. Anyone who clicked on that channel by mistake would usually click off it right away, without even waiting so much as a second to see whether they liked it or not. This made Robert’s job near impossible. He was charged with coming up with gimmicks to make the repeat shows appear fresh and interesting, so as to entice people into watching them, and to make the air time more appealing to advertisers.