Jurassic Pulp - A parody mash-up thing

[Excerpt from full novel. Download it for free from Smashwords. Search: Jurassic Pulp.]

1... THE CLUB

LOS ANGELES – JULY, 1993

Two men in suits descended stairs and entered a basement bar. They paused in the doorway and checked their watches. It was 8am and the place was quiet. A barman was wiping down a table in the far corner. He looked up and acknowledged them. ‘Guys...you’re early.’ He waved at the bar. ‘Take a seat...I’ll be right over.’

The two men said nothing. They had stern faces and were dressed in black suits, skinny black ties and white shirts. One man was black, with a ball-shaped afro, boot-shaped sideburns and a handlebar moustache. That was Jules. The other man was white, with shoulder-length black hair that was greased back over his ears. That was Vincent.

They crossed the dance floor and waited by the bar. Vincent examined the neatly arranged bottles, whilst Jules ran his eyes over the building.

The barman came over, walking quickly. He picked up a phone behind the bar and pressed a number. ‘They’re here, Mr Wallace.’ He hung up and turned to Jules and Vincent. ‘Mr Wallace will be out in a few minutes. Get you guys a drink?’

Vincent shook his head. Jules didn’t even respond.

A few moments later, a pair of double doors swung open. A black man stepped through them. He was the size of a truck with a gleaming bald head and gold hoop earrings. He had a mixing bowl under his right arm and was wearing an apron over his suit. This was Mr Wallace.

‘Motherfuckers,’ he said, in a voice as deep and slow as lava. ‘Get your asses over here.’

Marsellus Wallace was a businessman, at least, that’s what it looked like on paper. In truth he was a criminal kingpin, with his fingers in a great number of illegal pies and pastries all over LA. Rumour was that he was a multi-millionaire. How many millions, nobody knew, and nobody outside of the IRS really cared, so long as they kept getting paid. And Jules and Vincent had been on the payroll for a long time now. Their work for Mr Wallace was varied. It sometimes involved putting muscle on someone, collecting debts, sending a message, or even just running errands like picking up Mrs Wallace’s dry cleaning. So long as they did it with respect and without fuss, there were no problems and everyone got paid.

Jules and Vincent took a seat. Marsellus Wallace, all 300lbs of him, squeezed into a chair opposite them. They watched as he stirred the bowl with a wooden spoon.

‘Black forest gateaux,’ explained Marsellus. ‘It’s Leroy’s birthday. This needs plenty of air.’

Jules and Vincent nodded. When Marsellus wasn’t being a criminal kingpin he was a keen amateur baker, and he’d won several rosettes at local fetes. Rumours he’d threatened to kill the judges if he’d lost were misplaced, so he said.

Marsellus turned the cake mixture slowly. ‘I need you to go out of town for a few days. I have an investment...I wanna know it’s protected.’

Both Jules and Vincent sat up. This sounded like a bigger job than normal. When anyone says “out of town” you know it’s going to be something big and Marsellus had contacts all along the West Coast, even stretching as far out as the Nevada desert.

‘These are dark times,’ continued Marsellus. ‘A man’s got to be wise with his money, and his money got to be wise. I decided to invest some of mine in a pioneering new resort. I’m told it will be one of kind. Something the world has never seen before. And Marsellus Wallace likes to be ahead of everyone. I bought a piece, so people can say Marsellus saw the future...but right now...I ain’t seen shit. I have an associate that hasn’t been particularly forthcoming with details...and my ass is tired of waiting.’