From the publisher: “Brandon Getz redefines the space opera and werewolf genres with the irreverent, action-packed, and heartfelt Lars Breaxface: Werewolf in Space. Exiled from his home planet after exposure to a lycanthropic virus, orbit-salvager Lars Breaxface roams the cosmos as muscle for hire, the ultimate lone wolf. But when he meets a mysterious stranger in the far reaches of space, the wolfman finds himself in the middle of an alien plot he doesn’t understand, breaking a lot of faces. With the galaxy hanging in the balance, can Lars tame the beast? Or is he only capable of super apocalyptic werewolf mass destruction?”
“How to describe something like Lars Breaxface?! Lars is like a punk Han Solo adventuring through the sleazy space underground, trafficking in the occult and supercharged with gore. It’s as colorful as The Fifth Element but mixed with the gritty irreverence of Heavy Metal; it’s a teeth-gnashing action throwback; it’s grind house science fiction.” – Tom Sweterlitsch, author of The Gone World
Don’t miss out: The launch party for Lars Breaxface: Werewolf in Space will be at Caffè d’Amore at 7 p.m. on Friday, October 11th. Books will be for sale (also: limited edition Lars Breaxface shirts)!
About the author: Brandon Getz earned an MFA in fiction writing from Eastern Washington University. His work has appeared in F(r)iction, Versal, Flapperhouse, and elsewhere. Lars Breaxface: Werewolf in Space is his first novel. He lives in Pittsburgh, PA.
“There’s high concept, and then there’s high concept with monsters, space opera, and a throwback to all those awesome nostalgic memories you have from the ‘80s and ‘90s. That’s what Lars Breaxface has in spades. Featuring a vibrant band of ragtag heroes, this is one incredible ride through the recesses of time and space, as werewolves, witches, and other beasties chew up scenery and pursue every adventure they come across (and then some). Perfect for those who love their science fiction with a shot of pure adrenaline and fun, Lars Breaxface: Werewolf in Space is a rhapsodic good time.” – Gwendolyn Kiste, author of The Rust Maidens
The tremuloid sagged through neon and noise, parting the crowd with its branches. Lars scratched himself and inhaled the stink of the station: sweat and secretions, blood and slime, menstruation and ovulation, rotting flesh in the butchers’ stalls and overspiced goop simmering in streetfood carts. In odd corners, religious pilgrims in bright robes burned incense on their shaved heads, and buskers maneuvered unlikely instruments of chitin and brass as travelers and smugglers and soldiers on leave scattered coin at their feet.
The tree-thing skulked into a swank, blue bar glowing with aquarium light, the trem’s top branches shedding leaves as it scraped against the archway. The place was full, as noisy as the hub outside. Slinking across the tables and bottle shelves, translucent station cats eyed the freakish fish in the aquariums, green musculature shifting beneath their skins. Lars salivated. The cats smelled like lunch.
“If you want to take me to dinner, sticks, just be a gentleman and ask.”
The tremuloid hobbled to the left, finding some chance vacancy in the crowd large enough to accommodate its foliage. At the table directly in front of him, Lars saw a gothic knockout of a woman who put to shame even his deepest spank-bank fantasies. She sat with legs crossed, a dark leatherette dress shrink-wrapped to her athletic alien body. Her skin, pale as death, was pocked and lined with ritualistic scars like scriptures for the blind, radiating from a complex brand that bubbled in the flesh above her breasts. Where hair would’ve been on most humanoids, tendrils hung like living rubber tubes, ornamented here and there with silver rings, the tendrils nearly the same purple as the grog he’d swilled and spilled in the Pickled Quasar. Her eyes: translucent ovals of amethyst with disco balls inside, flashing at him. She reached for one of the cats, brought it toward her, caressed its sticky skin with a sharp purple-painted nail.
She opened her mouth—a row of razor teeth behind black blowjob lips—and said, “You’re the wolf.”
The tremuloid’s yellow eyes were watching. It had another cup of chlorogin glowing fluorescent green in its prehensile branch.
“That your pimp?” Lars said. “Doesn’t say much. I like him.”
The woman almost smiled. “You misunderstand,” she said. “You’re not buying me. I’m buying you.”
“My lucky day. Been a while since I’ve been paid for it.” He pulled a chair from another table and slumped into it, leaning back. “This one of those DNA gigs? Impregnation from a stud with good genetic batter?”
“I’m not buying your dick, wolf. If it even twitches in my direction—” This time she did smile, showing that mouthful of shark’s teeth, blazing white and dangerous. Lars winced instinctively. Even the cat skittered away, a waste of a good meal.
“Listen, I’ve been in the black for a long time. Weeks, months. I’m just looking to get fucked, fed, and drunk. I’ve seen enough jobs to last me a decade in one of these shithole waystations. You hear about the Cacotopian civil war? Or that shit with the cyborgs on the metal planet out by Vega, the one whose name is in binary so you sound like an asshole rattling off all those zeroes? Been there and a hundred others—casino systems, outlaw moons, vagrant desert worlds, wherever somebody needs somebody like me to break somebody else.” Lars grabbed someone’s drink and chugged it, slapping it back on the adjacent table. “I don’t need your job. The dick, however—give that away free.”
The tremuloid shifted beside him, and the woman’s tendrils twitched like snakes dreaming bad dreams. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. Tits bulged forward like halfmoons, making his blood uneasy.
“Let’s start over,” she said. “My associate beside you is Frank. He can’t speak because of a blight he picked up from a flytrap whore, but he’s loyal. I’d tell you my name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it with your primitive tongue. Call me Jay.”
“Jay,” he said, liking the taste. “Lars.”
“I know. Lars Breaxface—the werewolf in space.”
“It’s got a ring to it.”
“Show me.”
Jay settled back into her chair, crossing her arms under her breasts. Sparks flashed inside her heliotropic eyes.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Lars said. “It’s the moons. Place like this, it isn’t even orbiting a planet, just some half-dead star. No moons out here.” He scratched his neck and smelled the cats and creatures pulsing in the corners of the room. He could smell the meats for sale in the hub, too, beckoning. Fuck, he was hungry. And horny. Sometimes it felt like the same thing. “I’ve got plenty of lunar batteries in my cruiser. Rig them up, I can turn even if I’m lightyears from moonscape. But they’re expensive—not wasted on demonstrations.”
“Then how do I know what I’m getting?”
Lars stood, hulking. “You sent sticks—Frank—here to find me. You came all the way out to this borderland spinner. You already know what you’re getting.”
She cracked another smile. A cat rubbed viscously against her pale shoulder.
“They say you’re quite the killer,” Jay said. “A wild animal with a massacre or two behind him. Might be that’s what I need.”
Lars knew what she meant. Officially, Dys-7—a farming planet with delusions of independence—had succumbed to some exploding plague dug up from alien soil. But word gets around. Dys-7 had been a massacre, his only massacre. From before he’d learned to control the beast inside him. It still gave him nightmares when he went to sleep sober. He didn’t list it on his résumé. “You heard wrong. I’m a merc, lady. Soldier of fortune. Sellsword. Private contractor. Bodyguard. Et cetera, et cetera. Just happens to be I’m a bodyguard with some unique lupine attributes.”
“I have a bodyguard,” said Jay, nodding toward the drunkard tree. “I need a monster.” She reached into the purple hive of tendrils and pulled out a small cylinder. In the blue light, it took a moment for him to see what was inside: a solid black cube, enough negativium to power his cruiser till the next Big Bang. He could only sell half and still be disgustingly rich.
“Jeezus butt-fucking Joseph,” he muttered.
Jay closed her hand, and the cylinder was swallowed back into its hiding place in her living hair. “Payment. For the job and for transit. The route Frank and I took to this system is no longer viable. And we have a few more stops to make before we get where we’re going.” She stood, and the cat behind her hissed.
“Where are we headed, then? You, me, and Treebeard over there.”
“It’s not on any starmap. Not even backspace.”
“You make it sound like Hell.”
“Close,” she said. “Home.”
This excerpt of Lars Breaxface: Werewolf in Space (Spaceboy Books, 2019) is published here courtesy of the author and should not be reproduced without permission.
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