Sunday, April 12, 2015

7. PitchSlam: DEEP, DARK, TRUTHFUL MIRROR, Adult Urban Fantasy

Title: Deep, Dark, Truthful Mirror

Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy (with erotic elements)

Word Count: 114,000

MC's Fav. Movie Genre: Growing up, Declan read TV Guide cover to cover and stayed up all hours to watch every classic gangster movie he could find. Though he'd forgotten his special talents, his family hadn't, and treated him like a feared outsider. In his favorite films, he saw outsiders unfazed by rejection, who thrived on their disrepute and spoke in patter with panache, like word jazz. They would later influence his stage persona and lyrics. 

Pitch: Being a god beats turning tricks, until Declan learns he's the Reaper. Caught between his vow to never kill again and zealots committing murder in his name, he must choose: his power or his soul. 

First 250: 

Ramones blared from massive speakers, and sticky-sweet funk assaulted Declan's nostrils. Edgy drunks packed Rubber Room's floor. He scanned again. Still no Thad. Where the hell was he? Dec didn't have time to screw around. After three days of detox, the reaper crawled under his skin, itching to snuff out life. Dope hadn't kicked the killing jones. He needed enough to kill it–and himself–or he'd stand over another corpse soon.

The damned stink coated the back of his throat. Opening his mouth, he gagged on death. Most of the thugs surrounding him carried the same mark: two months, and they'd drop in a massacre. Dumps like this were beacons for the doomed. He ought to know.

When he entered the crush around the bar, a pair of imminent tragedies angled for position. Spotlights bathed them in blood crimson, the universe's cruel in-joke. They still had the fresh faces they'd brought to Hollywood, but their eyes matched the reaper perfume, stone dead.

The brunette wobbled on her heels, wearing a familiar grimace. "Didn't you used'ta be that singer?"

Dec didn't even flinch at pity anymore.

"You have an impressive grasp of specifics." He couldn't spare energy to play twenty embarrassing questions.

"Supposta be bigger'n Guns N' Roses." She slurred the accusation, a finger circling at her temple. "Guess not."

The ginger shrugged an apology. "She's had a rough day. You won't complain, will you?"

They were hustlers too. He should've known. Civilians didn't chat up junkies at the ass end of the food chain.

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