08/05/2026
Excerpt from "Vic Valentine vs the Vampires," coming by Christmas from Thrillville Press:
We stopped walking and sat down at the only empty table outside Café de Flore on Saint-Germain, apparently called that because of all the ivy strangling the sign. “This is a very popular spot, for locals and tourists,” Venetia told me. “We’ll be seen here, because it’s so crowded that anyone can watch us without us knowing. But that’s perfect since this will show them that everything is going according to plan and you’re still under my spell.”
“So like James Bond and P***y Galore in Goldfinger.”
“Um, how so?”
“Remember, Bond was sitting at an outdoor table with P***y and Goldfinger on his Kentucky ranch, and Goldfinger noticed two dudes with binoculars spying on them, whom he figured were either racing horse scouts or Federal agents, so he told P***y to keep Bond entertained so they would think everything is copacetic and they’d beat it, safe in that assumption.”
“Which of us is James Bond and which is P***y Galore in that scenario?”
“Which do you think?
“I guess it’s interchangeable.”
“What?”
She laughed. “You’re too easily riled, Vic.”
“You know, this whole thing about women conquering men reminds me of this movie. It’s either called The Frightened Woman or The Laughing Woman, depending on who you ask, though she looked more amused than scared to me. Basically, it’s about this sexy woman who gets held captive in this rich sociopath’s Pop Art lair. He claims to be a serial killer, but it turns out he’s just a misogynist who pays women to pretend to be his victims, then he takes provocative photographs. I don’t want to give anything away, but his intended victim is way ahead of him. There’s one part early on where he tells her that there are vials of s***m being stocked away, so eventually women won’t need men to procreate, so they can take over the world. This was also one of the plot threads in The Romance of Chumpy Walnut, by Will Viharo.”
“Sorry, Vic. That’s one more obscure reference I've never heard of.”
“Neither have most people. Viharo is an exclusive club with a selective clientele. He’s the son of that guy from Bare Knuckles I was telling you about. Anyway, you may not know the movie or the book, but the concept of female human dominion over the Earth and manless breeding must ring Quasimodo’s bell in your brain.”
“Yes, but we did it first, before there were any movies or this Will Viharo person.”
A waiter finally came by, and we asked for two caffe lattes with almond milk. Rather indignantly, he told us they had no plant-based milks. I was about to make a scene when Venetia hand-shushed me and said to the waiter with a smile, "Deux French 75, s'il vous plaît.” He nodded with a pert smile and split.
“I forgot they’re traditionalists at this place,” Venetia said apologetically.
“Ironic for a joint fu***ng named after fu***ng plants. What did you ask for instead?”
“Two French seventy-fives.”
“I’ve heard of those. What are they, exactly?”
“Basically, fancy booze with fancy champagne. Even better than coffee. You’ll like it.”
“Probably, but I will never understand why humans think they need cow milk more than calves.”
“Because humans suck harder than vampires, Vic.”
“Maybe we should try that place over there.”
“Which one?”
“The Two Maggots.”
“The what?”
I pointed at the crowded cafe right across Rue Saint-Benoît.
“Les Deux Magots? That’s pronounced mah-go, not maggot. It means the two statues. What’s wrong with you anyway, Vic?”� “So many things I’ve lost count.”
“I can’t tell if you’re really this dumb or you’re pretending, just to annoy me.”
“I’m not that good an actor, so my annoying ignorance is genuine, if nothing else. I’m no phony.”
“Well, they don’t have non-dairy cream either, Vic. These two cafes are legendary rivals.”
“Oh, I see. Like Pat’s and Geno’s.”
“What’s that?”
“Couple of famous cheesesteak stands in South Philly, right across from each other on Passyunk. The patrons have to pick their preference. I only ate the fries so I couldn’t call it myself.”
“The competitive cuisine here is a bit more sophisticated, Vic.”
“Okay, but the cafe that offers plant milk would win because it would be giving the people what they want.”
“What people?”
“Me and you. It would win by two people. It’s a squeaker, but that’s still a win.”
“I’m glad no one can hear you talk like this. The locals would be offended. They’d just tell you to shut your American mouth and suck it black.”
“If I don’t stand up for French cows, who will? I wonder how they moo in French. Mooo-oui?”
“Let it go, Vic.”
“No.”
When the waiter came back with our cocktails, I said to him, “Why don’t you have plant-based cream here? You really hate cows that much?”
The waiter was so prissy I couldn’t tell whether he was your basic bitchy queen or just a fruit salad with extra French dressing. Probably both. “Why don’t you go plant yourself, monsieur,” he said before walking away in a huff. I was too stunned to reply. I just gave his back a dirty look.
Venetia was laughing. “That was a good one.”
“I have to admit, I wish I’d thought of it.”
“I told you, Vic. Don’t f**k with the French unless you want to get shot down with style. Anyway, what were we talking about?”
“Squeezing souls for sustenance as if you have the right, like t**s on a cow.”
