The Pleasure Merchant

“Tanzer’s first novel is a splendid page-turner of a Weird West adventure [...] This hugely entertaining mixture of American steampunk and ghost story is a wonderful yarn with some of the best dialogue around.”

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on
Vermilion

“Old West steampunk has another appealing heroine in Lou (pair her with the equally winsome female lead of Elizabeth Bear’s Karen Memory) to go along with the delightfully over-the-top villains. The pages turn themselves in this debut novel from a small press that deserves a big audience.”

—LIBRARY JOURNAL on
Vermilion

“Lou is one of the most delightful and charismatic fictional creations in recent memory. Her compelling blend of world-weary wryness and wide-eyed vulnerability makes for some firecracker dialogue, but it also reflects Tanzer’s kaleidoscopic view of the Old West, a place that’s far more dazzling and diverse than most history books have led us to believe. ...
Vermilion
is a unique, hearty, thought-provoking romp that rewrites history with a vivacious flourish.”

—NPR on
Vermilion

“All too infrequently do I encounter a new voice as delightful, compelling, and intelligent as that of Molly Tanzer. Or, for that matter, an author with such a range. But here, in
A Pretty Mouth
, is that shining gem that keeps me sorting through the rubble. If this is only the beginning of her work, I can hardly wait to see where she’s headed!”

—CAITLIN R. KIERNAN on
A Pretty Mouth

“
A Pretty Mouth
is a fine and stylish collection that pays homage to the tradition of the weird while blazing its own sinister mark. Tanzer’s debut is as sharp and polished as any I’ve seen.”

—LAIRD BARRON on
A Pretty Mouth

“If Hieronymus Bosch and William Hogarth had together designed a Fabergé egg, the final result could not be more beautifully and deliciously perverse than what awaits the readers of
A Pretty Mouth
. Molly Tanzer’s first novel is a witty history of the centuries-long exploits of one joyfully corrupt Calipash dynasty, a family both cursed and elevated by darkness of the most squamous sort. This is a sly and sparkling jewel of a book, and I can’t recommend it enough—get
A Pretty Mouth
in your hands or tentacles, post-haste, and prepare to be shocked, charmed, and (somewhat moistly) entertained!”

—LIVIA LLEWELLYN on
A Pretty Mouth

“Molly Tanzer is a prose Edward Gorey, decadent, delicious, and ever so slightly mad.”

—NATHAN LONG on
A Pretty Mouth

Lazy Fascist Press

PO Box 10065

Portland, OR 97296

www.lazyfascistpress.com

ISBN: 978-1-62105-194-7

Copyright © 2015 by Molly Tanzer

Cover Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Revert

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Printed in the USA.

For Sabrina,

and for Lucretia,

and all disappointing Galateas

I have a story to tell you.

It is not a love story, but there is love in it. True love, even.

Neither is it a revenge tale, though it contains plenty of that, too.

It is a story about
pleasure
.

Everyone thinks something different when they think of pleasure.

Most people immediately consider the carnal—‘pleasures of the flesh.’ They imagine bodies pressed against bodies, wriggling or pumping, diddling or caressing, moaning and releasing. Shuddering, trembling encounters, be they sweet or savage, between two lovers in the secret darkness of a boudoir, or shared among many, before onlookers, in a brilliant ballroom, a shadowed schoolroom, a candlelit church… or some place yet more scandalous.

Others, when they think of pleasure contemplate a table, laden—no,
groaning
under the weight of every delicacy. Fruits from all seasons, meats from every creature, spices from the East or from the Indies, sugared treats, piping hot teas from Formosa, coffee from the Americas, the tenderest vegetables, the rarest cheeses; the flakiest pastries and the richest gravies.

Some think of revenge. It is a dark pleasure, yes, but a pleasure nonetheless. That most loathed of rivals—how hated are her success; how despised, his triumphs! What many would give to see someone brought low before all and sundry, kneeling, red-faced and humiliated, tears running down a running nose, furious but sorrowful, embarrassed but impotent…

Others still think of freedom. Freedom to, sometimes; other times, freedom
from
.

If there is one thing I know well—
intimately
, even—it is pleasure. It is my trade, as it has been since I was very young indeed. I have made a fortune selling people their pleasure, as my master promised I would—it is how he made his fortune, and his mistress, too. There is money to be made in pleasure, something any courtesan, chef, or crook knows quite well—money to be made in the procurement or someone’s pleasure, and money to be made in keeping the secret of what that person’s pleasure turns out to be.

When one deals in pleasure, one must also deal in the reverse. In pain, in sorrow; in anguish, misery, and despair. I confess I know all of those sensations intimately, as well.

You only truly know a man when you know his pleasure.

That is what my master told me when I decided to become his apprentice, and my extensive experience has proven this statement true. When you know a man’s pleasure, you hold him in the palm of your hand. You know his truest self—his darkest secret and his brightest dream. You have a power over him… which is why my master and I enjoyed safety and security, along with our wealth.

Violate our contract at your peril. Never ours.

But even truer is something my master never said, which accounts for its lack of pithiness (I have exceeded him in various ways, but never in producing
bons mots
):

Sometimes, a man only
thinks
he knows what his pleasure is. And when you know not what a man believes his pleasure to be, but what it truly is, well… then you know him better than he knows himself.

Ah, but I promised you a story, not pages of rambling, oblique speculation. It is just, now that I have resolved to write down this story, I don’t quite know where to begin. I have kept so many secrets for so long—lived a secret life for so many years. It is overwhelming to sit here, putting quill to parchment, to tell, well… any of it.

There is no way to do this without betraying many people, all of whom trusted me. But my master, the only person whom I can say with certainty I have never betrayed, is dead. No harm can come to him. And anyone who recognizes themselves in these pages would do worse damage to their reputation by protesting their depiction—to come forward would only serve to confirm any suspicions that might potentially be aroused.

And yet, I possess such a volume of information about the entire affair that I know not how I shall organize it all into a compelling narrative. Life is not a story. It must be shaped for the page—which is why, in the end, this effort of mine will likely be accused of beggaring belief, possessing as it does similar motifs to popular novels of the day.

But my story, unlike said novels, has the benefit of being true.

Having said all this, it is time to begin in earnest. And I shall begin… in a wig shop.