Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz & Are You Loathsome Tonight?
by Poppy Z. Brite[ Horror ]
Available for the first time as an ebook pairing, these two short stories were specifically chosen by the author Poppy Z. Brite and her fans as favorite examples of her work.
MUSSOLINI AND THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ is a thrilling mix off historical fact and fiction surrounding Freemasons, WWI, and New Orleans’ only verified serial killer, the Axeman.
ARE YOU LOATHSOME TONIGHT? showcases the author’s dark, unique take on the man and the myth that was Elvis Presley.
Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz
Sarajevo, 1914
Stone turrets and crenelated columns loomed on either side of the Archduke's motorcade. The crowd parted before the open carriages, an indistinct blur of faces. Francis Ferdinand swallowed some of the unease that had been plaguing him all day: a bitter bile, a constant burn at the back of his throat.
It was his fourteenth wedding anniversary. Sophie sat beside him, a bouquet of scarlet roses at her bosom. These Serbs and Croats were a friendly crowd; as the heir apparent of Austria-Hungary, Francis Ferdinand stood to give them an equal voice in his empire. Besides, Sophie was a Slav, the daughter of a noble Czech family. Surely his marriage to a northern Slav had earned him the sympathy of these southern ones.
Yet the Archduke could not divest himself of the notion that there was a menacing edge to the throng. The occasional vivid detail--a sobbing baby, a flower tucked behind the ear of a beautiful woman--was lost before his eyes could fully register it. He glanced at Sophie. In the summer heat he could smell her sweat mingling with the eau de parfum she had dabbed on this morning.
She met his gaze and smiled faintly. Beneath her veil, her sweet face shone with perspiration. Back in Vienna, Sophie was snubbed by his court because she had been a lady-in-waiting when she met the Archduke, little better than a servant in their eyes. Francis Ferdinand's uncle, the old Emperor Francis Joseph, forbade the marriage. When the couple married anyway, Sophie was ostracized in a hundred ways. Francis Ferdinand knew it was sometimes a painful life for her, but she remained a steadfast wife, an exemplary mother.
For this reason he had brought her on the trip to Sarajevo. It was a routine army inspection for him, but for her it was a chance to be treated with the royal honors she deserved. On this anniversary of their blessed union, Sophie would endure no subtle slights, no calculated cruelties.
The Archduke had never loved another human being. His parents were hazy memories, his uncle a shambling old man whose time had come and gone. Even his three children brought him more distraction than joy. The first time he laid eyes on Sophie, he discerned in her an empathy such as he had never seen before. Her features, her mannerisms, her soft ample body--all bespoke a comfort Francis Ferdinand had never formerly craved, but suddenly could not live without.
The four cars approached the Cumuria Bridge. A pall of humidity hung over the water. The Archduke felt his skin steaming inside his heavy uniform, and his uneasiness intensified. He knew how defenseless they must look in the raised carriage, in the Serbian sun, the green feathers on his helmet drooping, Sophie's red roses beginning to wilt.
As they passed over the bridge, he saw an object arc out of the crowd and come hurtling toward him. In an instant his eye marked it as a crude hand bomb.
Francis Ferdinand raised his arm to protect Sophie and felt hot metal graze his flesh.
