Let me explain. I write humor. Not just any humor, but the distorted humor you might hear in a men’s locker room. Flatulence, anorexia, serial killers, fat people, skinny people, dead people, liberals, dismemberment, sewer drowning … even rape—all topics are targets of humor in the right context. I write about hell. It’s not a nice place and the characters that exist there aren’t nice either. Societal norms don’t apply. All I can say is that I try to keep foul language to a minimum and never depict anything sexually explicit.
Still, some readers have difficulty separating what happens in my novels from real life … especially when it comes to rape. To them, I am just a stinking old white man with zero sensitivity. One elderly beta reader even went so far as to call the works “deviant” because some of the events are far outside of the value system of normal society. Well, duh—hell is, well … hell. Those spoil sports are the exceptions; many others like the books. Before I go on, I need to provide an example from The Trophy Wife, just to show a shade of humor in an attempted rape situation. In this ménage à trois, Miss Havana has been kidnapped and chloroformed.
Waldo and Lily removed their clothes and positioned themselves on either side of Miss Havana. Lily unbuttoned the top button of Miss Havana’s blouse. “This little piggy went to market.”
Fred Jr. raised his eyebrows and unbuttoned the next one. “And this little piggy stayed home.” He cupped Miss Havana’s breast through her clothing. “It’s a shame we have to waste her when we finish. She’s a beauty.”
“Don’t get caught up in the fantasy, Fred. We screw her; we kill her. That’s the end of it. She knows who I am.”
He unbuttoned the third. “This little piggy had roast beef.”
Lily shook her head and snorted as she exhaled. “Fuck this.” She ripped the blouse open causing the remainder of the buttons to scatter about the blanket.
Waldo’s host immediately caressed Miss Havana’s exposed bra. “We need to roll her over to undo this thing.”
That’s when they noticed Miss Havana’s ragged, irregular breathing and, as they stopped to pay closer attention, her breathing stopped. Lily sat straight up. “That’s it? She dies before we’re finished with her? That’s just not fair.”
Waldo’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, come on. You’ve got to be shitting me. Is she faking?”
Lily held her hand over Miss Havana’s mouth and pinched her nose. “If she is, we’ll know in a minute.”
But Miss Havana did not move. Lily continued to hold Miss Havana’s nose and mouth. She shook her head and frowned. “The only difference between this bitch and your job is that your job still sucks. She’s as dead as conservative thinking.”
Fred, Jr. slapped his forehead. “Shit. You bitches will do anything to spoil my fun.”
Lily grinned as she looked down at her victim; a little chill crept up her arm as she ran her hand over Miss Havana’s bra. She waggled her eyebrows at Fred, Jr. “It’s not rape if they’re deader than iced catfish. On the other hand, if you slide over here, I can make it up to you. I feel horny as hell.”
Fred, Jr. sighed. “Me too. I suppose you’ll do; necrophilia is dead boring.”
Of course, the humor here fits into the context of the novels. The spirits of Miss Havana and Lucifer have been dueling for three novels by the time I wrote The Trophy Wife. They hate each other and do despicable things to one another. The spirit of Lilith, the daughter of Lucifer and Miss Havana, resides in Lily, and the spirit of a giant shadow creature named Waldo (Lucifer’s BFF) haunts Fred, Jr. Miss Havana and her daughter are natural enemies, and they are working out which one is predator … and which one is prey.
Does Miss Havana die? Of course not. She’s my heroine. Her spirit dips in and out of heaven and hell on a regular basis, and her “surface” hosts die along the way—sometimes in comical ways, sometimes not. As I see it, horror comes in many flavors, from death and rape to carrying the child of God (who, by the way, is subsequently murdered with a nail gun). People in my novels face death in creative ways and are tormented in hell with a touch of ironic depravity. The only constant is that everything happens against a background of comedy. The banter is loaded with barbs, the characters are course and the reader will often be confused about who to root for—the good guys or the bad ones. In fact, Miss Havana can be so evil many reviewers have found themselves in the uncomfortable position of rooting for the devil.
In all of my paranormal comedies, there is also a “biblical theme,” another view of something many readers might believe they’ve seen before. In The Substitute, the attributes of the antichrist are accurate, but presented in unusual ways. For example, the antichrist is supposed to recover from a serious wound so, in my novel, the devil materializes on the “the surface” in the body of a man facing a firing squad, and is sent right back to hell before he can assert any of his powers. Disguising the real story is part of the fun.
Likewise, Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! is about the Angel of Death, and The Training Bra is about the four horsemen of the apocalypse (they aren’t named in the bible, so they are Macho, Stupid, Scourge and Sin in my book). I went even further with The Trophy Wife, which follows in the mold of Orwell’s Animal Farm. The novel tells a complete biblical story beneath the humor, but the reader has to think fast to catch it.
So, why do I write paranormal comedy? There are several reasons. First, it makes me laugh. There is nothing as uplifting as sitting at your keyboard snickering for hours. At the end of the day, I just feel good. Second, it’s challenging to try to hide a secondary story in the main story, especially one which is the exact opposite of the words in the text. Third, the characters never get boring. If one host sucks, just kill him/her in some despicable way, and let heaven or hell sort out the pieces before the spirit returns to haunt another host.
So, in summary, horror doesn’t have to be horrible. It can be funny and deceptive as well. Thank you for stopping by.
James L. Hatch