Showing posts with label Shannon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shannon. Show all posts

Monday, March 3, 2014

Shannon #3: The Mindbenders


Shannon #3: The Mindbenders, by Jake Quinn
January, 1975  Leisure Books

As half-assed and leisurely-paced as its predecessors, the third and final installment of the Shannon series once again sees our titular hero more concerned with downing whiskey and scoring with his hooker girlfriend. Meanwhile an Anton LaVey-styled “medium” is implanting mind-control devices in the heads of UN employees in some unspecified plot to do something. And Shannon’s gonna stop him, even if it takes him the entire novel to get around to it.

Once again Jake Quinn (more on whom below) is more content to wheel-spin, casually doling out his lackluster tale with absolutely no sense of urgency. Well, anyway, here’s the story: Alexander Garth, the LaVey-type, is a famous medium with jet-set clients all over the world, and is now famous on his own. However, he uses his hypnotic powers to lull his unsuspecting clients into a trance, during which Garth implants them with a mind-controlling device. We learn this only gradually, the novel opening with the sudden “suicides” of two of Garth’s clients, both of them UN notables: Akasaka of Japan and Haslev of Denmark.

Shannon’s brought into it when he catches his latest girlfriend, a UN translator from Norway named Aurora, snooping around in Shannon’s penthouse study one night. When Shannon sees that the girl’s taking photos of Shannon’s top-secret MORITURI files (the top secret organization Shannon “works” for), he chases after her…and the girl willingly jumps off of the high rise, killing herself. (All this just a few pages after some explicit sexual shenanigans between the two.)

Well, you know it’s Shannon when his reaction is to… break open another bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. Yes, friends, Shannon the drunk is up to his usual page-filling tricks, biding his time throughout the narrative and not really doing much of anything. Hell, he doesn’t get in a single action scene in the entirey of The Mindbenders, at least of the fist-and-guns variety. Now as for sex action, Shannon’s got that covered, with this volume getting pretty down and dirty at times; it’s much more explicit than the previous two volumes.

But anyway, just a few minutes after some hot n’ heavy screwin’ in Shannon’s bedroom (a scene in which we’re graced with the unforgettable tidbit that Shannon “watched himself in the ceiling mirror as he entered Aurora” ), the poor girl’s become a human pancake on the sidewalk far below. And after his drink, Shannon eventually gets around to doing something about it…namely, pestering his boss, the unimaginatively-named Number One, who poses as a priest in a NYC Catholic church.

Here’s the funny thing, though, despite the fact that the two dead men and Aurora all worked at the UN, and the Number One-revealed info that there’s apparently a mole leaking important secrets at the UN, no one believes Shannon that all of it might be tied together! In one of the more preposterous page-filling gambits I’ve encountered, our author instead has Shannon constantly butting heads with Number One and everyone else, who tell Shannon he’s crazy to even suspect that these “random suicides” might be the work of some nefarious foe.

Not that Shannon does much about it. No, he’s more content to call up his hooker friend Lillian, the female lead of the previous two installments whose name I could never recall. Lillian, a stacked redhead who is in love with Shannon, once again serves as more of a star in Shannon’s own novel. However Joe-Dad, Shannon’s black/Chinese cook and best pal, plays a much smaller role, and his un-PC jive talk is also greatly reduced. But then in this particular installment all of the characters talk like automatons, doling out expository info or filling pages with blather about irrelevant stuff, like even Joe-Dad bitching about how literary critics “complain about everything these days”!

Alexander Garth receives an arbitrary background section in which Quinn provides lots of useless backstory – but at least it’s all nice and lurid, especially when Garth hooks up with another Anton LaVey type who introduces Garth to the wonders of Satanism, complete with a Black Mass that features a willing “virgin” and lots of explicit sex. However Garth’s mind control ability isn’t really elaborated on; we learn that some other dude came up with the technology, and after learning how to master it Garth killed him and began using it, so as to spread his own power base. But again, why exactly he’s focused on the UN is never explored. 

Shannon works (well, sort of) in private eye mode throughout, talking to those who knew the two murdered UN employees. One of them is Andrew Lee, a young actor who served as a “friend” for Akasaka, whom we learn was gay. Quinn does actually pepper the novel with goofy stuff, and the Andrew Lee subplot is the goofiest of all, for we learn that he acts in an all-nude, off-Broadway play based 100% on Hair. Quinn, clearly having fun with it, takes us through the show as Shannon watches, and the opening song is “Did You Ever See Anything Like It In Your Hole?” The humor also extends into a darker realm, when a Garth-brainwashed Andrew Lee actually guts himself live on stage. (And then later some dude in the audience complains about having paid for his ticket!)

But man it just kinda keeps on going. Shannon talks with his friends, goes to bars, screws Lillian, and then wonders when the case will wrap up. Even though it’s clear Alexander Garth is somehow connected to all this, Number One refuses to give Shannon permission to do anything. He does however approve Shannon and Lillian going to a party at Liz Manderson’s, a Southern belle who is responsible for spreading Garth’s fame. This middling sequence, which makes a big deal of Shannon dying his red hair brown, at least serves to up the ante, as Garth takes a sudden interest in Lillian, offering to give her a reading the next day.

After Lillian herself is “mindbent,” Shannon ensures the implant is successfully removed in the hospital and then finally gets Number One’s approval to friggin’ do something. This leads to a lackluster climax that plays out during the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving Day. Even here Shannon doesn’t punch or shoot anyone, merely just running after Garth, who ends up doing in himself accidentally (and gorily). Quinn, not realizing he had an entire damn novel to do so, instead plays out a veritable last-second reveal that Garth was really getting his orders from elsewhere, bringing this up and closing it over the course of a single page.

So, a middling end for a middling series. I think Leisure was even sick of it; notice how the cover design is vastly different from the previous two installments. In fact I’m betting this art was commissioned for a different book, as it has nothing whatsoever to do with the contents of The Mindbenders. And for that matter, the back cover copy (which I’m betting was written by Leisure editor Peter McCurtin, as it’s very much in his style) also has nothing to do with the actual novel, spewing out vague hyperbole about how tough Shannon is – actually it occurs to me that it’s mostly just a summarization of the events shown in the cover painting!

A couple months ago I came across some eBay listings where a seller was auctioning off author copies of the Shannon books. (I can’t remember how much they were listed for, but I think they ended without any bids!) According to the listing, “Jake Quinn” was in reality J.C. Conaway, aka James Curry Conaway (1936-2012), a prolific pulpster who turned out a wealth of paperbacks in his day. The listing further stated that Conaway never learned to type, and thus dictated every word; further, he apparently wrote all three Shannon novels in a single month!

At any rate The Mindbenders was it for the adventures of Patrick Shannon, but much like the similarly-boring Joe Rigg series, one could argue that Shannon’s adventures never even really started.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Shannon #2: Shallow Grave


Shannon #2: Shallow Grave, by Jake Quinn
November, 1974 Leisure Books

I nearly forgot about the Shannon series; the initial volume, The Undertaker, was one of the first reviews I wrote on the blog. Shallow Grave is very much in the vein of its predecessor; author Jake Quinn, whoever he was, is once again more focused on sex and drinking than on gun-blazing action, more focused on the "leisure" in Leisure Books.

Our hero Patrick Shannon is still a globe-trotting spy who likes his Jameson's whiskey and his women. In fact the novel opens with not one but three girls hitting on Shannon as he swims in the pool while on vacation in Montego Bay, and they all go up to his hotel room for a little lovin'. As I wrote in my previous review, Shannon is incredibly idealized, but this series has to be a satire or spoof of the genre...I mean, we learn in this volume that Shannon is even a best-selling author, churning out a series of books about a spy, all of them based on his "real life" missions.

Quinn takes his good ol' time setting up the plot. Apparently some voodoo cult in New York City is hacking up hookers and leaving their mutilated corpses laying around...but who cares, 'cause Shannon's on vacation and he's getting laid. He soaks up the sights with a friend who lives down here, eventually ending up in a swanky club where a gorgeous black lady dances for the audience. One lucky member can share a drink with her if he can do the limbo, and sure enough, Shannon's the man. But the lady doesn't just have a drink with him; she of course goes back to his place.

I should mention here that though there is quite a bit of sex in Shallow Grave, it isn't the page-filling gratuitous kind like one would find in The Baroness. Yet for all of that Quinn doesn't dole out the sexual euphemisms that Paul Kenyon is known for. In other words, he calls a cock a cock.

Eventually Shannon returns to his penthouse suite in Manhattan, where you will recall he lives in ultra-swank '70s style, complete with a bedroom which is furnished with mirrored walls and ceiling. His stalwart companion Joe-Dad is there, the half-Chinese/half-black sidekick who serves up drinks, meals, and politically-incorrect banter. And too there's Shannon's stacked and gorgeous prostitute best friend, who is as ever in love with Shannon.

This time Quinn better works the lady into the plot; it's her friends who are showing up dead, prostitutes whose mutilated and heroin-ridden corpses are popping up about NYC. So she plays a much larger part in Shallow Grave than in The Undertaker, even going out on reconnoiter missions with Shannon and Joe-Dad (who himself plays a larger role here).

But again our man Quinn is more concerned with the good times. Rather than jumping right into the case, Shannon instead bides his time, more focused on looking out from his penthouse view and belaboring over the misery of the world while sipping on some Jameson's. As in the previous book Shannon drinks a whole bunch here, and I still say a case could be made for an "alternate reading" of the text, that Shannon in "reality" is a drunk who lives in his own fantasy world. Hell, the "bestselling writer" tag added with this volume only clinches it. Maybe the "real" Patrick Shannon is a drunk hack who churns out James Bond rip-offs while living in his own imaginary, booze-filled world.

Anyway this has nothing to do with the plot itself. Finally Shannon becomes involved, demanding that his boss, "Number One," assign him to the case. Shannon's method of research is so casual as to be hilarious; he basically just looks around New York City and waits for another body to show up. Quinn keeps the ball rolling with lurid scenes of hookers getting murdered every few chapters. A voodoo cult has sprung up in the city, and it likes to gather together, pound the voodoo drums, and sacrifice heroin-ravaged hookers.

Despite all of this, Quinn is still more interested in the non-action stuff. He even manages to slip in long flashbacks of not only Shannon's bio, but also how he met his prostitute best friend/occasional lover (whose name I have obviously forgotten and am too lazy to look up). It's funny, really, and while it might sound annoying it's actually fun just because it's so goofy and so unconcerned with action or thrills. In many ways Jake Quinn is like the alternate universe version of Joseph Rosenberger. Where Rosenbger is all action, all of the time, Quinn holds off on the action until absolutely necessary, and then dispenses with it quickly.

Strangely enough I really enjoyed Shallow Grave. In fact I enjoyed it even more than The Undertaker, which despite being a bit more lurid (what with its dwarf villain who wanted to hack off Shannon's manhood and have it sewn on his own body...!), was actually a bit more boring. Actually, it's that Shallow Grave is just so super-'70s.

There's a great website/blog called Plaid Stallions, which is devoted to shaggy '70s pop culture. The owner of that blog created a character to personify the he-males of 1970s fashion and lifestyle ads, and called him Brick Mantooth. Well, if Brick Mantooth starred in a men's adventure series, it would be very much like Shannon.

And is it just me, or does it look like Shannon's punching Gerald Ford on the bottom left of the cover?

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Shannon #1: Super-Seventies Man of Action (and Booze)


Shannon #1: The Undertaker, by Jake Quinn
September 1974, Leisure Books

Published a month before I was born, Shannon #1 is a prime example of '70s men's adventure fiction; main character Patrick Shannon is a globetrotting superspy so irresistible to the ladies that even supermodels hit on him. He drives a sportscar, carries a pistol, works for a clandestine agency (Morituri), and is the successful author of a series of novels based on his "real-life" adventures. He employs a half-black/half-Chinese servant/best friend named "Joe-Dad" who cooks him his meals, serves him his drinks, and cleans his penthouse apartment, all while speaking in an ultra non-PC patois of "black" and "Chinese-English."

Further, Shannon's good friends with a "stacked" redheaded hooker who is in love with him and who would give up her high-paying career if he'd only commit to her, but she's thankful enough for his occasional booty call...even cancelling said high-paying jobs to run to him for a night of good lovin.' He wears all the latest styles, he's in perfect physical shape, and of course he's hung like a horse (indeed, we read that his "large cock casts a shadow over his thighs!"). And if that isn't enough '70s action for you, Shannon's bedroom has a mirrored ceiling. And mirrored walls. Even a mirrored floor!

And you thought James Bond was idealized.

This first novel takes its time getting started up; we meet Shannon on his first "real" date with his latest conquest, a high-fashion model who's in the news due to a magazine spread she's done for a jewelry line...a photo spread she did fully in the nude (!). Yes, this incredibly gorgeous blond approaches Shannon on the street and hits on him, even pulling said magazine from her purse to show off the photos. (What, this has never happened to you?) The model, Ginny, goes out with Shannon a few times; tonight will be their "big" night (read: sex), but before the wah-wah'd action can begin, Ginny's kidnapped by a horror-faced ghoul.

At first Shannon thinks he's just been stood up; he spends the night polishing off a few bottles of booze. But soon he suspects foul play, even though his Morituri superior (imaginatively named "Number One") disagrees. Shannon investigates on his own and soon discovers that his suspicions were correct, and all of it hinges upon a newly-opened funeral home across from his apartment. For there a group of lowlife scum have orchestrated the kidnappings of three other gorgeous and blonde women, stealing them away to a remote island for some nefarious purpose. Ginny is just the latest victim.

The novel soon flies straight off into the hinterlands of full-on exploitation: an island of encaged, beautiful women which is run by a hirsute dwarf who has sex with one of the women a day; a Nazi lesbian of a plastic surgeon who works for the dwarf, trying to figure out a means to amputate his stunted legs and replace them with longer ones; a ghoul with fanged teeth who wants to throw Shannon into his pit of pet crocodiles. And of course the Nazi lesbian falls in love with Shannon, despite her Nazi lesbianism. Speaking of Shannon, throughout all of this he's doing what any other Super-'70s man of action would be up to: banging all those beautiful chicks. Yes, it's all a bunch of sordid fun, and the plot could easily have been turned into a piece of grindhouse cinema.

The book suffers from the usual poor writing of the men's adventure genre. Grammar is shall we say eccentric; commas appear at random intervals, breaking up sentences for no apparent reason. Most frustratingly, the point of view bounces around like a ping-pong ball; one paragraph we're in Shannon's head, the next we're in someone else's, and back and forth. Consistency is key! But then again, changing-POV is a commonplace in trash fiction, so it's not like Shannon is unusual in this regard. However I can't make any excuse for some of the lame dialog (particularly Joe-Dad's; he's already breaking out a "Lahdy!" when we first meet him), and Quinn's insistence upon spelling everything out becomes grating.

One thing, though -- whereas the men's adventure novels of the '80s were more focused on guns and action and bloodshed, '70s men's adventure novels were a bit more focused on sex. (As an adult, guess which of the two I've grown to prefer.) Shannon #1 doesn't shirk on the sex; one early page is mostly comprised of a lovingly detailed description of Ginny's breasts! During the many and frequent sex scenes, Quinn's writing of course improves; I must say he has a talent for writing them, churning out prose as purple as a fresh bruise.

Maybe it's the post-modern reader in me, but it came to me that the entirety of Shannon #1 could be seen as the deranged hallucinations of a washed-out drunk. I mean, think of it. Patrick Shannon is a perfect he-man, an agent for a super-secretive US agency, a guy who drives a sportscar, gets hit on by supermodels, has sex with countless gorgeous women, and lives a life that would make James Bond envious. But yet, the guy is drunk throughout the entire novel. To be sure, Quinn never outright states Shannon is drunk. But damn this guy hammers the licqour throughout this novel! Whiskey (mixed with milk no less!) for breakfast, polishing off entire bottles of champaign and his ever-favorite Jameson's whiskey, hurrying to the nearest bar because he "needs" a drink (after which he finds solace for his loneliness in a hooker); these are the signs of an alcoholic, not "the wildest secret agent since James Bond."

So then, I propose an alternate reading of Shannon #1. Perhaps it all takes place in this guy's head, and, rather than a kick-ass secret agent who gets babes to spare, he's instead a recluse, a penniless hack without a cent to his name, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey as he sits all alone in his mirrored bedroom, with no companionship other than his increasingly-deranged fantasies...