I have mentioned here before that Noir and Hardboiled fiction are my guilty pleasures. The tough, cynical protagonists, the fast-paced, action oriented plots, the tone, the dialog, and the style all appeal to me in a way that no other fiction really does.

Manhunt first appeared in 1952. According to information Here is some information I found on Manhunt the Stark House Press website, which has republished a number of stories and writers featured in Manhunt over the years

 Manhunt was the acknowledged successor to Black Mask, which had ceased publication the year before, as the venue for high-quality crime fiction. By April of 1956 it was being billed as the “World’s Best-Selling Crime-Fiction Magazine.” On its pages, over its 14-year run, appeared a veritable Who’s Who of the world’s greatest mystery writers including: Ed McBain, Mickey Spillane, Richard Deming, Jonathan Craig, Hal Ellson, Robert Turner, Jack Ritchie, Frank Kane, Craig Rice, Fletcher Flora, Talmage Powell, Richard S. Prather, David Alexander, Harold Q. Masur, Gil Brewer, Helen Nielsen, Erskine Caldwell, Henry Slesar, David Goodis, Lawrence Block, John D. MacDonald, Clark Howard, Fredric Brown, Donald E. Westlake, Harlan Ellison, Harry Whittington and Steve Frazee.

Fletcher Flora, a Kansas native, served in the US Army during World War II, where he suffered significant injuries. After the war, he turned to writing short stories. As pulp magazines like Dime Detective faded in popularity in the early 1950s, Flora began contributing to new formats like digests, penning over fifty stories for publications such as Manhunt.

Fletcher’s story “As I Lay Dead” is classic Noir/Hardboiled fare. It is the story of twisted relationships, violence, and betrayal. It is like any good Manhunt story, dark, cynical, and enjoyable as hell.

To whet your appetite, here are the opening paragraphs of the story.

I recommend checking it out.

I rolled over in the hot sand and sat up. Down the artificial beach about fifty yards, the old man was coming toward us with a bright towel trailing from one hand. He was wearing swimming trunks, and with every step he took, his big belly bounced like a balloon tied up short on the end of a stick. Dropping the towel on the sand, he turned and waded into the water.

“The old man’s taking a swim,” I said.

Beside me on the beach, Cousin Cindy grunted. She was stretched out flat on her belly with her head cradled on her arms and her long golden legs spread in a narrow V. Her white latex trunks curved up high over the swell of her body, and the ends of her brassiere lay unattached on the sand. When she shifted position, raising herself a little on her elbows, my reaction was not cousinly. Not cousinly at all. “Hook me in back,” she said.

(cf. “As I Lay Dead” by Fletcher Flora)