NoFace by Andre Duza

Our first serving is here. NOFACE by Andre Duza. Fitted with our new logo and a vintage VHS look,  we bring you more murder, mayhem, terror and delight.

Be on the lookout for a paperback giveaway through Goodreads!
no face jacket red

Want to know more? Check out this sample from the book.

“An audacious four-story house sat at the head of a suburban cul-de-sac. The number on the mailbox read 1329. Its position in relation to the other, similarly audacious homes that lined Fitzwater Lane granted it a sense of nobility that validated Crawford Camp’s otherwise lonely existence. He wasn’t a good-looking kid by any stretch of the imagination, but the girls seemed to flock to him just the same. He chalked it up to charisma and to his skills as a player, but everybody knew it was only because his father was Travis Camp.

Crawford had spent the better part of his childhood vying for daddy’s love, or at least his attention. Now at fifteen years old his persona as a first-class asshole was solidified among his peers.

Crawford sat, straddling the fabric-stitched patio lounger on the second floor porch, wrapped in a powder blue Snuggie and rocking out to the guitar-laden noise that poured from his bulky headphones. The cord snaked and looped from his ears to the high-end laptop between his legs. It was an unusually warm night, yet the autumn chill still managed to reach his core and keep his body on the defensive.

Crawford liked to bring all the pretty girlies up to the second floor porch to reap the rewards of his father’s fame, but it never worked out like he hoped it would. Between his stint at the Koechner Institute and his foray into politics, Travis Camp developed a reputation as a plastic surgeon to the stars. His clientele ranged from A-list Hollywood types to sports figures to politicians, which made Crawford a celebrity by proxy.

When the girls found out that Crawford’s day to day home life was as mundane as theirs was, they usually lost interest. Crawford was so immersed in the fantasy that he had yet to realize the mechanism at work and chalked the girls’ sudden disinterest up to low class ignorance. Then he’d retreat to the safety of the Internet, where his game could reach a wider and much more diverse audience.

Crawford hunched forward and leered at the monitor of his laptop. His fingers moved with a fluid hunt-and-peck style. Starfuckers.com was Crawford’s current favorite site. He went by the sceenname, HPPYCMPR.

On the computer screen…

Crawford Camp is logged into a chatroom at Starfuckers.com.

SGRTITS: R U famous?

HPPYCMPR: My father is.

Who’s ur dad?

Not telling, unless . . .

SGRTITS: Unless what?

Down in the street a distilled silence claimed the uber-dark suburban landscape. A broken canopy of tree limbs extended for blocks and attempted to divert the shoulder to shoulder formation of street lamps’ bright eyes away from the wide street below. A hooded figure staggered, liquid-jointed from the shadows one hundred feet away and stopped in the middle of Fitzwater Lane to jerk his posture erect. He stood motionless in the seconds that followed and reacquainted himself with patience. Leading with his ear, his head darted like an insect’s as he scanned the area. He honed in on the faint guitar embers that wafted from Crawford Camp’s headphones, and ducked back into the shadows.

Crawford continued to rock out to the noise in his headphones. He had the volume on high, which left him oblivious to the “CLACK! CLACK! Click . . . click . . . click” sound resonating from the street below.

The sound was getting closer and closer.

Crawford was smiling lasciviously as he hunched over the keyboard and hunted and pecked. It was this feeling and not the actual sexual gratification—jerking off in his case—that he often obsessed over while he languished in school.

Twenty minutes passed and then . . .

Light from a bedroom window. It was coming from the house to the immediate left of Crawford’s, but his eyes were glued to the computer screen, transfixed by its blinking spell and distracted by the hyper-sexualized image of SGRTITS that twisted and swayed in his thoughts.

Another bedroom light . . .

And another . . .

Crawford’s distracted mind disseminated the information as two rows of lit vertical rectangles when his peripheral vision caught wind of the bedroom lightshow. It reminded him of the intricate home theatre console that his father still wouldn’t let him operate.

He looked up from the computer screen and squinted to adjust to the darkness that dominated the scenery.

Something was going on. Probably an argument spilling out from behind closed doors, he figured. That was about the only thing that ever happened out here.

Crawford slid the headphones from his ears.

A bloodcurdling scream leapt at him even before the music had gone away completely. And it sounded like it was coming from inside his house.

Crawford sat there in a shock pose, dreaming up mundane explanations for what he had clearly heard. Maybe someone had his or her television turned up really loud. That seemed the most probable reason.

Going on that assumption, Crawford expected that the situation would resolve itself, and he could go back to getting his rocks off online.

Another scream. It began a succession of terrified vocal sounds. Although she conveyed a level of primal-pitched terror that he never knew she was capable of, Crawford recognized the voice as belonging to his mother.

With his movement set to stealth, Crawford slinked inside through the sliding glass door and tiptoed across his bedroom toward the screams coming from downstairs in the family room. His head was too in the present to be as afraid as he should have been.

His parents had probably gotten into a fight, was all. A really bad knockdown, drag-out fight? That was the new explanation that Crawford forced himself to accept.

Crawford was in the hallway now, looking over the railing as he skulked toward the stairs with his back pressed against the wall.

Eva Camp was against her husband’s decision to run for governor. She had her fill of the limelight back when Travis Camp was hob-knobbing with his celebrity patients. She was tired of the public persona that he put on, tired of sharing him with the rest of the world. She was even tired of the perks that came as a result of their status in the community. She hated it so much that it made her ill.

Eva longed for a normal family life. But she knew how much her husband wanted to be governor. Somehow he convinced her that this time it was about more than just his ego. So she kept mostly quiet save for a passive aggressive jab every now and then. Maybe she had taken it too far this time. Crawford couldn’t imagine his father hurting her though, not physically.

The longer he went without hearing Travis’s voice, the less likely Crawford’s argument scenario became. But then . . .

“Please! Not my wife!” Travis Camp pleaded. “Nooo! Please! Leave her alone!”

A third person involved! An intruder!

That was how Crawford’s mind processed his father’s plea. He had never known his father to even ask nicely for anything, let alone beg and plea like . . . well, like a pussy. That’s what his father would’ve called the way he sounded.

Their voices were louder once Crawford rounded the banister at the top of the staircase and crept down the steps trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Please! I’m begging you! Just let my family go!” Travis yelled.

Crawford stopped on the bottom step and prepared to set his stance to carefully peek around the wall that hid the family room from his sight. He pressed his shoulder against the wall and inched toward the edge. He hadn’t realized how badly he was sweating until his shoulder slid along the wall and left a dirty streak. He had just about reached the edge when . . .

A wiry hand reached around the wall. Cold fingers clamped tightly around Crawford’s throat and squeezed out a verbal wince.”


You can find the book here and read it for free with Kindle Unlimited.


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Andre Duza is an actor, stuntman, screenwriter, and a leading member of the Bizarro movement in contemporary literary fiction. His writing has been described as horrific, bizarre, smart, funny, and fast-paced, with lush, finely-detailed prose.

Andre’s novels include NOFACE, WZMB, KING DOLLAR, TECHNICOLOR TERRORISTS, NECRO SEX MACHINE, JESUS FREAKS, DEAD BITCH ARMY, and his graphic novel, HOLLOW-EYED MARY. He is the co-author of VOODOO CHILD co-written with Wayne Simmons, SON OF A BITCH co-written with Wrath James White, and the comic book OUTER LIGHT co-written with television writer/producer Morgan Gendel.

Andre has also contributed to such collections and anthologies as BOOK OF LISTS: HORROR, THE BIZARRO STARTER KIT, UNDEAD, UNDEAD: FLESH FEAST, and THE MAGAZINE OF BIZARRO FICTION.

Andre is also a Certified Fitness Trainer and a Kung Fu Instructor. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and four children.

 

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