(Note: The following was inspired by characters and events originally depicted in Clive Barker's Cabal. I do not own the right to any of these characters.)
Eigerman held the photo by the edges, as if to stymie anyone interested in his fingerprints. The image, grainy but clear enough, offered a telescopic close-up of a woman carrying a child wrapped in a blanket. The woman’s name was Rachel or something. The kid clutched a brown Macy’s bag with the top half of a teddy bear’s head sticking out of it. The bear’s head looked like one of those old Kilroy Was Here graffito’s. Eigerman wondered where she got the bag. There wasn’t a Macy’s within 300 miles of Shere Neck, and never had been.
When the phone rang, he let Darla answer it, even though he knew it was going to be for him. Answering phones was Darla’s job. It was just about her only job. He put the photo face down when she stuck her head in the doorway. She didn’t need to see his business.
“Labowitz, line 1,” she said.
He looked at the phone with more than a little aggravation. They’d all been getting flaky ever since the dust-up at that big boneyard, but Labowitz was supposed to be their rock. Now, two times he’d gone and called in sick, and everyone knew full well there wasn’t anything wrong with him, not in the physical sense.
But usually he had the common courtesy to call. Not today, at least not until now, almost at the end of his shift. Eigerman picked up the phone and grunted.
Darla was starting to flake out, too. Whoever this was, it wasn’t Labowitz.
“I’ve got a horror story for you, Eigerman.”
“Who is this?”
“I’ll get to that in my own good time. Did you ever hear of Josef Mengele, Herr Kapitän? They used to call him ‘The White Angel’. Just like you, Eigerman. You and your storm troopers riding in on your big white horses and your bright shiny badges. The way some folks saw it, Mengele was one of the good guys.”
Eigerman sat up and reached for his cigarettes, shook one out. “Give me a reason not to hang up this phone, come find you, and kick your ass so hard you shit shoe polish.”
“Have you seen Gibbs lately?”
That got Eigerman’s attention. “What do you know about Gibbs?”
“I know that the rest of you came out of Midian feeling 10 feet tall and bulletproof, while Gibbs left with a sort of sickness in his heart. Isn’t that right? The fires hardened the rest of you, but it somehow softened your comrade-in-arms. But that’s how things go, sometimes. Gibbs was slipping, and now he’s gone. Did you ever stop to think where he might have gone to? Or perhaps more importantly, what might have been waiting for him when he got there?”
“Maybe we could meet up somewhere and you could tell me more about it,” said Eigerman.
“You might not like that. Tell you what, say hi to your pal Labowitz. That’s a Jewish name, isn’t it? Dr Mengele had himself a couple of Jewish assistants at his lab in Auschwitz, did you know that? Helped the White Angel butcher all those children for his precious experiments, but they could hardly be blamed, being under duress and all. Although Labowitz was hardly under duress, was he?”
“I don’t suppose,” Eigerman said.
“And yet, he was practically up to his armpits in blood before that night ended – both ours and yours, did you know that Herr Kapitän? Did you know Labowitz went bezerk down there and killed 4 of yours?”
“Bullshit.”
“Is it?” There was a dry, reedy chuckle on the other end of the line. “Maybe I can make him talk for you one of these days. Better yet, maybe I can cut out your pet storm trooper’s tongue and hand it to you.”
On the other end there came a muffled scream, and Eigerman accidentally crushed the cigarette he was holding between his fingers. He shouted into the phone, not an actual word but the sort of noise you might make to ward off a wild animal. This earned Eigerman another one of those low, throaty laughs, but at least the screaming stopped.
“Do I have your full attention?”
“What did you just do?”
The voice continued as if the scream never happened. “Dr Mengele’s research was supposed to have some bearing on Eugenics, but mostly he liked to torture folks. Now, here’s your horror story, Eigerman. By the time the Nazis faced what they had coming, foxy old Josef Mengele was long gone. Sure, he was sentenced to death at Nuremberg, but the ugly bit of it is that the ‘White Angel’ was sentenced in absentia.
The real horror story is that foxy Mr Mengele died of perfectly natural causes on a beach in South America at the ripe old age of 67. He died – no joke – while actually splashing in the surf on a beach in Brazil. Playing in the goddamned ocean. Sometimes Eigerman, the monsters get away after all. The hell of it is, in this particular situation that could cut either way, don’t you think?”
Eigerman found himself gripping the phone so tight that it creaked in his fist. Finally, he managed “Who are you?”
“Why I’m the Devil to you angel, Eigerman. I’m a flaming rat. I am the fire that cleanses, Mein Kapitän, and you will know my name soon enough.”
The line went dead without another word. Eigerman stared at the phone in his hand for a good, long time before replacing it in its cradle carefully, as if it were a grenade.
He pushed away from the desk on legs that felt hollow, and as fragile as porcelain rose stems. He flipped the photo back over for one last look, and felt his stomach turn a slow greasy roll. He studied their faces. He’d seen them before, sure enough.
“Get me Labowitz on the phone,” He hollered out to Darla. He hated the way he voice broke.
“Something wrong, sir?”
Eigerman felt for his cigarettes, saw them on the desk, and left them there. “Nothing,” he said. “Just, get hold of him, will you?”
“He hasn’t answered in almost an hour, sir.”
***
30 minutes later, Eigerman was at Labowitz’s house, pounding on the front door. He went back to the car and radioed Darla. “Try his phone again,” he said.
“I’m trying,” Darla said. Nothing.
Eigerman cut off the radio. A cursory search of the porch yielded a spare key under the ashtray next to the rocking chair. “You’re in law enforcement, Labe-o,” said Eigerman. “You ought to know better.”
He let himself in, saying “Don’t shoot” and the like to what he discovered fairly quickly was an empty house. There was an unpleasant smell to the place, but Eigerman attributed that at first to the fact that Labowitz had the unsanitary habit of cleaning deer on the back patio, and didn’t always hose off the concrete right away.
Only, something whispered to him that might not be the case today. He unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his gun. The kitchen didn’t set his mind at ease. It looked the same as always, except for an overturned chair and a spilled bottle of Labatt’s on the linoleum floor. The bottle wasn’t shattered, just spilled. If this was a struggle, it was a quick one. Something else made the hair on Eigerman’s arms stand on end. It was a black matchbook with letters stamped in gold. They bore the words “Eden’s Draw.”
The very same place that the little girl and her mother had been photographed at.
Eigerman spun out of the driveway, almost losing control of the cruiser, running over a garbage can, veering out of the road culvert. All screeching tires and spraying gravel into the narrow unpaved road, he raced towards Eden’s Draw.
***
There were 4 police officers left in Shere Neck after the raid on Midian. That was 6 weeks ago. A week after that, Gibbs turned in his resignation and headed off to stay with some relatives in Calgary. Nobody heard from him since.
The thing was, nobody had bothered to look. That jab earlier about coming out of the fires hardened, that seemed true enough, but maybe they were all a little too hard. Maybe they’d gone brittle. Anyway, with Labowitz off the grid, that left just Eigerman and Pettine.
“Speaking of which…” Eigerman snatched up the radio and attempted to make contact with his (last) only other deputy. No luck – after 5 minutes on a half dozen bandwidths, he realized that all he was doing by now was making anyone with a police scanner very, very nervous.
***
There were 4 police officers left in Shere Neck after the raid on Midian. That was 6 weeks ago. A week after that, Gibbs turned in his resignation and headed off to stay with some relatives in Calgary. Nobody heard from him since.
The thing was, nobody had bothered to look. That jab earlier about coming out of the fires hardened, that seemed true enough, but maybe they were all a little too hard. Maybe they’d gone brittle. Anyway, with Labowitz off the grid, that left just Eigerman and Pettine.
“Speaking of which…” Eigerman snatched up the radio and attempted to make contact with his (last) only other deputy. No luck – after 5 minutes on a half dozen bandwidths, he realized that all he was doing by now was making anyone with a police scanner very, very nervous.
The Eden’s Draw Motor Lodge was a 90 minute drive from Shere Neck. Eigerman made it there in just over an hour. He got Darla back on the radio and conveyed without saying as much exactly how important it was that they get a hold of Pettine.
Puling in front of the main office, Eigerman saw 2 rows of duplex bungalows, no doubt with a privacy door between the suites. Most of the cars out front looked old and shoddy, many with meager belongings roped slipshod over rusted luggage racks, many more with cardboard and black garbage bags duct taped over the windows.
A center office housed a chain smoking elderly Russian immigrant named Bepka, who favored keeping her considerable iron grey mane piled up on top of her head in a 50’s style beehive hairdo, and wore cat eyed reading glasses with a faux pearl fob.
8 faded blue Cyrillic characters were tattooed on her prominent knuckles. She sat in a bulletproof glass booth that was nearly opaque from smoke stains. Now, Bepka lit a fresh cigarillo and studied the glossy that Eigerman had slipped through a stainless steel drawer, along with 2 twenty dollar bills.
“Ya, I seen them,” said Bepka after a moment. “They rented both rooms in building 13, paid cash."
“How many nights?” Eigerman asked. Sweat broke out on his upper lip.
Bepka slid the photo back through the tray and looked him over. “What do you want with women and children, Politsey? I don’t think there were, forgive me – are, up to anything that would warrant the attention of the law.”
“I just want to ask them a couple of questions. They aren’t in any trouble.”
“So you say,” Bepka said. She looked at the 2 twenties on her side of the bulletproof glass with a resigned sense of defeat. “I still say these two are better left alone, Härra Policeman. But, money’s money.”
Bepka rummaged through a small metal box mounted on a wall near the rear exit. After a moment, she slammed down a set of keys for 13A, and a second set for 13B.
“For what it’s worth, the woman and the little girl left either late last night or early this morning. I know because their car is gone, and hasn’t been back.”
“You see anybody else with them?”
“Ya.” She stared at him until he slid another twenty through the slot, but she pushed it back at him.
“No need, Härra Eigerman. I’ll tell you what I know. He was tall, but not as tall as you. He wore a long overcoat and a hat. A - what is the word – a cowboy hat. But he was no cowboy.”
“Did you see his face?”
“He did not have a face. I mean… I did not see his face. I am sorry, my English, there is not a …” She trailed off, and Eigerman saw that Bepka had gone the color of milk. She finally managed to say “I wouldn’t go looking for him if I were you.” Then, she slammed down the shade and turned off the light, and despite Eigerman’s knocking, Bepka never came back.
He tried calling Pettine again before screwing up the courage to approach Bungalow 13. In the air hung a foul, wild animal smell, along with the coppery scent of blood. Eigerman unhooked the holster strap, pulled out his .45 and thumbed off the safety before inserting the key into the lock.
The door gave some resistance, and the smell grew stronger. Driven by a mixture of fear and outrage, Eigerman drew back and stomped his boot against the door so hard it cracked in half and flew right through the frame.
Instantly, the figure on the bed rose up, draped in a crimson sheet with its arms stretched out forward, towards Eigerman. It moaned and thrashed, and it floated a full foot up off of the filthy mattress. It was a screaming, faceless skull, all wide wild yes and gnashing teeth. Its clasping fingers groped for the tip of Eigerman’s nose. Eigerman fired, a quick center mass double-tap followed by one to the head, tearing away chunks like bloody softballs. Acrid cordite filled the room and the smoke detector set off a piercing wail as the apparition began to swing slowly, back and forth like some nightmare piñata.
“What the Christ?” Eigerman asked to nobody. He leaned against the doorway and pivoted, clearing the room. Every door had been left open. Now he saw the silvery filaments that connected the bloody carcass to eye-bolts in the bungalow’s ceiling. Eigerman moved through both halves of the duplex without another word. His finger had about 4 lbs of pull on the 5 lb. trigger. If so much as a shadow moved the wrong way it was getting its head blown off. Meanwhile, the stench inside the place smell landed continuous square punches in his nose and solar plexus.
With his eyes darting everywhere, Eigerman flicked out his leatherman and unceremoniously cut the man loose from his moorings. He would have stood just over 6 feet tall, Caucasian, supine on the hotel mattress with his arms stretched out like a reclining Christ figure. Where his face should have been was a mask of blood and sinew. His hair had been removed too, leaving a hideous landscape of blood and gleaming white bone. His teeth jutted from his skinless lips like piano keys, and a hundred some-odd blowflies were engaged in a riotous airborne orgy, frolicking and splashing about in a surf paradise of gore.
What set Eigerman off though, wasn’t the man’s missing face, but the chunk that appeared to have been torn from his upper arm. It reminded Eigerman of a lamb shank bit down to the bone, and that was it. A geyser of noxious bile surged up his esophagus. His eyes were unable to stop processing the wretched tableau that stretched out before him – the bloody grinning skull, the chunk of meat missing from the muscular arm.
Then he saw the message, scrawled in blood on the wall behind the bed. Eigerman read it out loud in a tremulous, awe-stricken voice:
Les Yeux Sans Visage
He thought back to what B had said just before slamming her window shut: “He didn’t have a face.”
The phone began to ring.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
This made my whole day.
I got to meet one of my heroes last night.
Joe R Lansdale did a reading at The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale. He was funny and engaging and a blast to talk with. In addition to signing my copy of The Thicket, which totally rocks so far, he was nice enough to take a copy of Infernal Machines.
Then I saw this on my Twitter feed this morning...
So, I'm just going to bask in that for a few minutes before I go off to work. Later y'all.
Joe R Lansdale did a reading at The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale. He was funny and engaging and a blast to talk with. In addition to signing my copy of The Thicket, which totally rocks so far, he was nice enough to take a copy of Infernal Machines.
Then I saw this on my Twitter feed this morning...
@willmillar1 Been reading your book and am enjoying the hell out of it.
— Joe Lansdale (@joelansdale) September 18, 2013
So, I'm just going to bask in that for a few minutes before I go off to work. Later y'all.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Archive Stuff - Anatomical Nomenclature of a 4-Horned Goat, plus That Time I had my Identity Stolen
I've seen some variations of this idea on a few Tumblr sites and liked it enough to repost ...
Anyway, now that I got that out of my system, this is something that actually happened to me a couple of months back. After the conversation with a well-meaning but somewhat slow on the uptake customer service rep from my bank, I made some notes and here's the result.
The Identity Thief Who wasn't Very Good at his Job
So, somebody got a hold of my Visa card this past June and ran amok with it.
Well, they tried to, anyway. The problem is I think I might have had about 17 dollars in the account, and so what could have been a magnificent crime-spree for this young go-getter turned into a somewhat sad, tawdry affair.
I got the e-mail from my bank and started going through what some folks have described as an absolute nightmare. For me though, it amounted to a 15 minute phone call, followed by several hours of metacognitive contemplation on my part about the man who led some alternate version of my life for about 72 hours.
Here’s some of how it went down, as depicted in the conversation I had with the nice lady who helped me sort the whole thing out.
Operator: (redacted) Bank, How may I help you?
Me: I think somebody hacked my account.
(A bunch of personal questions followed this initial exchange that I won’t get into, as they were totally fucking boring. The 1st operator puts me through to the Fraud Department, where I get asked variations of the same set of questions, which I answer while wishing I had thought to call from a landline, so I could play Angry Birds or something while I do this. Finally we come to this …)
Operator: Okay Mr Millar, it looks as if your account has indeed been compromised. We’re going to have to go down the list of recent transactions to figure out where to apply your Fraud Protection.
Me: Umm, okay.
Operator: Now it looks like you spent $11.37 at a Quik Trip in Tempe AZ at 9:34am on Thursday, is that correct?
Me: That sounds about right.
Operator: Followed by another charge for $6.77 at a Walgreen’s in … that’s also Tempe Arizona, this one was at 1:55pm on Thursday as well.
Me: I’m pretty sure that’s correct also.
Operator: It looks like the next charge was for $232.47, this one was for Safe-T Transmissions in Park City, Utah at 2:43pm. Is that correct?
Me: I’m sorry?
Operator: (Repeats the charge and then adds) Shall I apply this charge sir?
Me: Are you asking me if I somehow traveled 600 miles and got somebody to change out my transmission in less than an hour?
Operator (Totally unfazed): Shall I apply the charge, sir.
Me: No, that wasn’t me.
Operator: Okay then. I also have a charge for $32.33 for MatchPlus.com, the gold membership.
Me: What’s that?
Operator: I don’t know sir, it’s a website.
Me: I didn’t do that either.
Operator: Okay, it looks like there’s another one for RedHotSingles.com, this one was for -
Me: Nope
Operator: Okay, and another charge for NoStringsAttache-
Me: Nooope.
Operator: That’s fine sir. There’s a charge on Friday for 47 dollars for the Starlite Motel in Washington Terrace.
Me: Awesome.
Operator: I’m sorry, sir?
Me: It sounds like he met somebody, maybe on one of those websites.
Operator: Oh …
Me: Yeah.
(Long pause)
Operator: Shall I apply the charge-
Me: No.
Operator: Okay, it looks like there were a couple more online purchases made (She goes on to name three more dating sites and 2 porn sites. Who pays for porn?)
Me: Okay maybe we can just speed this up by bumping off all of the online purchases.
Operator: Okay, it looks like 2 weeks ago you made a purchase at Amazon.com -
Me: All the online purchases from this weekend, then.
Operator: Okay. Also it looks like a donation was made for 5 dollars to the United Way just outside Ogden Utah on Saturday morning.
Me: Nope, I didn’t do that one, either.
Operator: Shall I apply the charge, sir?
Me: Nah, fuck those guys.
(Long pause)
Me: Hello?
Operator: Just dropping the charge, sir.
There was about 5 minutes more that I won’t get into, because they were boring. I cancelled the account and hung up. This sort of thing can probably be a real pain in the ass for some people and I guess I got off easy.
It kills me that the dude who stole my card donated some of the stolen money to a charity fund. I wonder if that’s just how identity thieves roll in Utah, though.
Anyway, now that I got that out of my system, this is something that actually happened to me a couple of months back. After the conversation with a well-meaning but somewhat slow on the uptake customer service rep from my bank, I made some notes and here's the result.
The Identity Thief Who wasn't Very Good at his Job
So, somebody got a hold of my Visa card this past June and ran amok with it.
Well, they tried to, anyway. The problem is I think I might have had about 17 dollars in the account, and so what could have been a magnificent crime-spree for this young go-getter turned into a somewhat sad, tawdry affair.
I got the e-mail from my bank and started going through what some folks have described as an absolute nightmare. For me though, it amounted to a 15 minute phone call, followed by several hours of metacognitive contemplation on my part about the man who led some alternate version of my life for about 72 hours.
Here’s some of how it went down, as depicted in the conversation I had with the nice lady who helped me sort the whole thing out.
Operator: (redacted) Bank, How may I help you?
Me: I think somebody hacked my account.
(A bunch of personal questions followed this initial exchange that I won’t get into, as they were totally fucking boring. The 1st operator puts me through to the Fraud Department, where I get asked variations of the same set of questions, which I answer while wishing I had thought to call from a landline, so I could play Angry Birds or something while I do this. Finally we come to this …)
Operator: Okay Mr Millar, it looks as if your account has indeed been compromised. We’re going to have to go down the list of recent transactions to figure out where to apply your Fraud Protection.
Me: Umm, okay.
Operator: Now it looks like you spent $11.37 at a Quik Trip in Tempe AZ at 9:34am on Thursday, is that correct?
Me: That sounds about right.
Operator: Followed by another charge for $6.77 at a Walgreen’s in … that’s also Tempe Arizona, this one was at 1:55pm on Thursday as well.
Me: I’m pretty sure that’s correct also.
Operator: It looks like the next charge was for $232.47, this one was for Safe-T Transmissions in Park City, Utah at 2:43pm. Is that correct?
Me: I’m sorry?
Operator: (Repeats the charge and then adds) Shall I apply this charge sir?
Me: Are you asking me if I somehow traveled 600 miles and got somebody to change out my transmission in less than an hour?
Operator (Totally unfazed): Shall I apply the charge, sir.
Me: No, that wasn’t me.
Operator: Okay then. I also have a charge for $32.33 for MatchPlus.com, the gold membership.
Me: What’s that?
Operator: I don’t know sir, it’s a website.
Me: I didn’t do that either.
Operator: Okay, it looks like there’s another one for RedHotSingles.com, this one was for -
Me: Nope
Operator: Okay, and another charge for NoStringsAttache-
Me: Nooope.
Operator: That’s fine sir. There’s a charge on Friday for 47 dollars for the Starlite Motel in Washington Terrace.
Me: Awesome.
Operator: I’m sorry, sir?
Me: It sounds like he met somebody, maybe on one of those websites.
Operator: Oh …
Me: Yeah.
(Long pause)
Operator: Shall I apply the charge-
Me: No.
Operator: Okay, it looks like there were a couple more online purchases made (She goes on to name three more dating sites and 2 porn sites. Who pays for porn?)
Me: Okay maybe we can just speed this up by bumping off all of the online purchases.
Operator: Okay, it looks like 2 weeks ago you made a purchase at Amazon.com -
Me: All the online purchases from this weekend, then.
Operator: Okay. Also it looks like a donation was made for 5 dollars to the United Way just outside Ogden Utah on Saturday morning.
Me: Nope, I didn’t do that one, either.
Operator: Shall I apply the charge, sir?
Me: Nah, fuck those guys.
(Long pause)
Me: Hello?
Operator: Just dropping the charge, sir.
There was about 5 minutes more that I won’t get into, because they were boring. I cancelled the account and hung up. This sort of thing can probably be a real pain in the ass for some people and I guess I got off easy.
It kills me that the dude who stole my card donated some of the stolen money to a charity fund. I wonder if that’s just how identity thieves roll in Utah, though.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Notes from the Refractory Zone, Revisited
So, by my count it's been approximately 15 years since I actually posted anything here. Most of the entries past January or so have been guest posts of some sort. If you've been checking for actual new content, please allow me to formally apologize for my truancy.
Here's some stuff that I've been up to lately, for those of you who are stil following along. There was this article I wrote for Cracked in July ...
Along with this one that was published in August ...
I'm going to really try harder to stay on top of this blog, I figure if nothing else I'll use it as a means to keep folks aware of the different projects I have coming up, for example, this anthology that's coming out in early 2014 ...
And finally in the interest of putting some sort of actual content on this page today, here's a joke I wrote:
A horse walks into a bar.
The bartender asks: “What’ll you have?”
The horse says: “Jack Daniels. Double. No ice.”
The bartender: “I don’t get it.”
The horse: “Get what?”
They size each other up. A long, uncomfortable silence ensues.
Finally the bartender shrugs and wanders off to get the drink. The horse swivels in his stool and surveys the place. It’s a smoke-filled wreck of a dive, the kind of place where trouble comes to you even if you’re doing you’re damndest to just mind your own business. The bartender lays a tumbler of bourbon onto a napkin. The horse raises the glass to his nose and sniffs, nods approvingly and slaps a 5 dollar bill on to the bar.
From behind a voice says, “It’s you.”
The horse turns around. Sure enough, trouble has found him. In this case trouble is a tall 30-ish redhead. Tattooed, muscular shoulders and improbably high tits. Fake no doubt - the tits, not the tattoos. She must have turned her fair share of heads back in the day but a lifetime of bad choices has a way of aging some folks prematurely, and this particular filly looks as if she’s been rode hard and hung up wet just a few times too many. It’s the corners of her mouth, mostly. The way they turn down as if a pair of invisible filaments are tugging on them have a way of making her look more than a little unsympathetic.
She raises her eyebrows at him. The horse realizes she’s asked him a question.
The horse says: “I’m sorry?”
She says: “I’m sorry, too.” A pair of tears slide down her leathery cheeks, dragging a couple of ounces of black mascara with them as they join together at a point just below her chin. She wipes them away absentmindedly and pulls out a yellow manilla envelope.
She leans in close, and her full red lips brush the horse's ear. She whispers “Make it look like an accident, okay?”
She slaps the envelope down on the bar right next to his drink and then turns and storms out of the bar. A second later, the sound of tires screeching outside undercuts the tinny jukebox music as a pair of bikers push through the saloon style doors.
The horse tucks the envelope away as the bikers sit down about 3 stools down. He stands up and finishes his drink and walks outside. He is trying not to tremble. Later on he’ll open it up and find $5,000 has been stuffed inside. He has no idea who the woman is, and he doesn’t care, either. As far as the horse is concerned, it’s time to mosey on to the next town.
Some time later, an undercover cop walks into the bar. He orders a drink, checks his watch, and curses under his breath. He finishes his drink and checks his watch again.
He says to the bartender: “Another round.”
The bartender nods, draws him a beer and asks: “So why the long face?”
Here's some stuff that I've been up to lately, for those of you who are stil following along. There was this article I wrote for Cracked in July ...
Along with this one that was published in August ...
I'm going to really try harder to stay on top of this blog, I figure if nothing else I'll use it as a means to keep folks aware of the different projects I have coming up, for example, this anthology that's coming out in early 2014 ...
And finally in the interest of putting some sort of actual content on this page today, here's a joke I wrote:
A horse walks into a bar.
The bartender asks: “What’ll you have?”
The horse says: “Jack Daniels. Double. No ice.”
The bartender: “I don’t get it.”
The horse: “Get what?”
They size each other up. A long, uncomfortable silence ensues.
Finally the bartender shrugs and wanders off to get the drink. The horse swivels in his stool and surveys the place. It’s a smoke-filled wreck of a dive, the kind of place where trouble comes to you even if you’re doing you’re damndest to just mind your own business. The bartender lays a tumbler of bourbon onto a napkin. The horse raises the glass to his nose and sniffs, nods approvingly and slaps a 5 dollar bill on to the bar.
From behind a voice says, “It’s you.”
The horse turns around. Sure enough, trouble has found him. In this case trouble is a tall 30-ish redhead. Tattooed, muscular shoulders and improbably high tits. Fake no doubt - the tits, not the tattoos. She must have turned her fair share of heads back in the day but a lifetime of bad choices has a way of aging some folks prematurely, and this particular filly looks as if she’s been rode hard and hung up wet just a few times too many. It’s the corners of her mouth, mostly. The way they turn down as if a pair of invisible filaments are tugging on them have a way of making her look more than a little unsympathetic.
She raises her eyebrows at him. The horse realizes she’s asked him a question.
The horse says: “I’m sorry?”
She says: “I’m sorry, too.” A pair of tears slide down her leathery cheeks, dragging a couple of ounces of black mascara with them as they join together at a point just below her chin. She wipes them away absentmindedly and pulls out a yellow manilla envelope.
She leans in close, and her full red lips brush the horse's ear. She whispers “Make it look like an accident, okay?”
She slaps the envelope down on the bar right next to his drink and then turns and storms out of the bar. A second later, the sound of tires screeching outside undercuts the tinny jukebox music as a pair of bikers push through the saloon style doors.
The horse tucks the envelope away as the bikers sit down about 3 stools down. He stands up and finishes his drink and walks outside. He is trying not to tremble. Later on he’ll open it up and find $5,000 has been stuffed inside. He has no idea who the woman is, and he doesn’t care, either. As far as the horse is concerned, it’s time to mosey on to the next town.
Some time later, an undercover cop walks into the bar. He orders a drink, checks his watch, and curses under his breath. He finishes his drink and checks his watch again.
He says to the bartender: “Another round.”
The bartender nods, draws him a beer and asks: “So why the long face?”
A Guest Post from S.M. Boyce - Book Nerds, Don't Miss Out on This, Noveltunity Book Club and Giveaway
I have to talk to you about Noveltunity. I don't usually get excited about websites, but this one looks fantastic. It's all about putting power in the hands of the readers. Noveltunity is going to make it so much more fun to be in a book club.To keep things interesting, he and I put together a really fun giveaway. That's at the bottom, but I want you to learn more about what Noveltunity is going to do for you. It's really cool. I've spoken multiple times with Rick Karlsruher, President of Noveltunity®, and the info he's given me on his new website is going to make life easier for both readers and writers on a global scale.
About Noveltunity
Noveltunity® will be a worldwide ebook/audiobook club that will feature and promote new and undiscovered writers. Members will also have classes and meetings with fellow writers and readers from around the world.
If you are a reader, you get the chance to create the next Stephanie Meyer, JK Rowling or John Grisham. You’ll also be able to meet the writers in meetings as well create friendship with other readers from around the world. In the past two months people from thirty countries have expressed interest in joining.
Seriously. How FUN is that? You get to meet with the chosen authors every month. Just talk to them, like they're normal or something.
So here's the skinny: Noveltunity® launched a crowdfunding campaign on www.rockethub.com on September 9.
As part of the crowd funding campaign, there are lots of ways to donate. However, one sticks out most to me: the $50 contribution. The bonuses that come with this are ridiculously top-notich. Almost every writer in our group will use this.
You will receive:
- A state-of-the-art multi-media ebook conversion from eBooks In Motion. This program will allow audio, video and other media to be included in your work. This could separate your book from others and would normally cost over $200.
- 2 one-year memberships for Noveltunity®. Each will include 36 ebooks and 12 of which will be made into audio books.
- Audiobooks - included. Yes - they will make audiobooks for you. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure that was pointed out.
Just for following my blog, Rick has offered our group the ability to use his meeting rooms for classes when we need them. His mission is to help writers succeed. We share that goal.
Let’s all participate! Boyce's Books can put Noveltunity® on the map, and I want you to share in this with me. I'm excited to be with Noveltunity from the beginning, and I want you to be there with me.
So how about it? Are you in?
[button link="http://www.rockethub.com/29957" size="medium" target="_blank" color="blue"]Grab Your Spot @ Noveltunity![/button]
If you have any questions, email Rick directly (Rick [at] noveltunity [dot] com) or me.[divider]
The Giveaway
a Rafflecopter giveawayWednesday, July 3, 2013
Exciting YA Fantasy Cover Reveal for Illusion (Grimoire Saga #4) a Guest Post by S.M. Boyce
The Grimoire Saga is an Amazon bestselling series by fantasy author S. M. Boyce. Boyce has been designing and outlining this series since 2006, and the final book is nearly here. The cover for Illusion (Grimoire Saga #4) was formally released by Caffeinated Books Publishing. And because I’m awesome, I got you a sneak peek.
International Amazon Bestseller. Fantasy Author. Twitter addict. Book Blogger. Geek. Sarcastic. Gooey. Odd. Author of the action-packed Grimoire Saga.
S.M. Boyce is a novelist who loves ghosts, magic, and spooky things. She prefers loose-leaf tea, reads far too many books, and is always cold. She’s married to her soul mate and couldn’t be happier. Her B.A. in Creative Writing qualifies her to serve you french fries.
Boyce likes to update her blog a few times each week so that you have something to wake you up in the morning.
For those of you new to the series, here’s the first book, Lichgates. Make sure you get your free copy (links are below).
Spring 2013 Rankings
#6 Kindle Store | #1 Science Fiction & Fantasy | #1 Epic Fantasy | #1 Sword & Sorcery | #1 Teens
Fans of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and Eragon will enjoy this contemporary remix of the classic epic fantasy genre.
Kara Magari is about to discover a beautiful world full of terrifying things—Ourea.
Kara, a college student still reeling from her mother’s recent death, has no idea the hidden world of Ourea even exists until a freak storm traps her in a sunken library. With nothing to do, she opens an ancient book of magic called the Grimoire and unwittingly becomes its master, which means Kara now wields the cursed book’s untamed power. Discovered by Ourea's royalty, she becomes an unwilling pawn in a generations-old conflict—a war intensified by her arrival. In this world of chilling creatures and betrayal, Kara shouldn’t trust anyone… but she’s being hunted and can’t survive on her own. She drops her guard when Braeden, a native soldier with a dark secret, vows to keep her safe. And though she doesn’t know it, her growing attraction to him may just be her undoing.
For twelve years, Braeden Drakonin has lived a lie. The Grimoire is his one chance at redemption, and it lands in his lap when Kara Magari comes into his life. Though he begins to care for this human girl, there is something he wants more. He wants the Grimoire.
Welcome to Ourea, where only the cunning survive.
Available Fall 2014
In 2014, the Grimoire Saga ends with Illusion. Blood is spilled. Love is tested. Loyalty fades. Peace will come at a hefty cost. And in the final moments of the war, both Braeden and Kara must make a heartbreaking sacrifice to win. (Set to release in Fall 2014.)Gorgeous, right? Want to get an advance review copy (ARC) of Illusion? Sign up for email notifications of when all Boyce's ARCs become available.
----------------
About S. M. Boyce
International Amazon Bestseller. Fantasy Author. Twitter addict. Book Blogger. Geek. Sarcastic. Gooey. Odd. Author of the action-packed Grimoire Saga.S.M. Boyce is a novelist who loves ghosts, magic, and spooky things. She prefers loose-leaf tea, reads far too many books, and is always cold. She’s married to her soul mate and couldn’t be happier. Her B.A. in Creative Writing qualifies her to serve you french fries.
Boyce likes to update her blog a few times each week so that you have something to wake you up in the morning.
For those of you new to the series, here’s the first book, Lichgates. Make sure you get your free copy (links are below).
----------------
Lichgates
“The writing is flawless. The kingdoms and surrounding landscapes breathtaking. The Grimoire is a piece of imaginative genius that bedazzles from the moment Kara falls into the land of Ourea.–Nikki Jefford, author of the Spellbound Trilogy
Spring 2013 Rankings
#6 Kindle Store | #1 Science Fiction & Fantasy | #1 Epic Fantasy | #1 Sword & Sorcery | #1 Teens
Fans of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and Eragon will enjoy this contemporary remix of the classic epic fantasy genre.
----------------
Kara Magari is about to discover a beautiful world full of terrifying things—Ourea.Kara, a college student still reeling from her mother’s recent death, has no idea the hidden world of Ourea even exists until a freak storm traps her in a sunken library. With nothing to do, she opens an ancient book of magic called the Grimoire and unwittingly becomes its master, which means Kara now wields the cursed book’s untamed power. Discovered by Ourea's royalty, she becomes an unwilling pawn in a generations-old conflict—a war intensified by her arrival. In this world of chilling creatures and betrayal, Kara shouldn’t trust anyone… but she’s being hunted and can’t survive on her own. She drops her guard when Braeden, a native soldier with a dark secret, vows to keep her safe. And though she doesn’t know it, her growing attraction to him may just be her undoing.
For twelve years, Braeden Drakonin has lived a lie. The Grimoire is his one chance at redemption, and it lands in his lap when Kara Magari comes into his life. Though he begins to care for this human girl, there is something he wants more. He wants the Grimoire.
Welcome to Ourea, where only the cunning survive.
----------------
Note: All eBook copies of Lichgates are free
Amazon: USA | UK | Germany | France | Spain | Italy | Buy the Paperback
Kobo | Apple | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords
Add to Goodreads | Watch the Trailer | VIP List
Learn More (free chapters and excerpts)
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Old People, True Crime, and Nature Taking its Course
I met Helena a few months ago when she needed somebody to install a new fountain in her front yard. She's at least 90 years old, has one of those big-ass humps on her back and a wispy white goatee. She also talks in a child-like, sing-song voice about (at least to the casual observer) seemingly whatever pops into her head. You would think she was losing her marbles at first glance.
If you look carefully though, you see it's all an act. The fact is, she's a whole lot smarter than she lets on to most people and the whole senility thing is a put-on she does to amuse herself. I figured this out after spending a couple of afternoons doing odd jobs at her house, which I guess could be described as a "McMansion" in one of those sprawling, super-expensive golf course communities in North Scottsdale.
Anyway, ever since I figured out her act she's been a blast to talk to, and I try to stop by at least once a month or so to shoot the shit with her. This past week, I walked into her living room and the Jodi Arias trial was on TV. So, we talked about her for a few minutes.
Here's a few things she actually said over the course of our conversation, so you can get a sense of why I always make it a point to seek her company.
Her: What do you think about this awful Jodi Aryan Nation business?
Me: Arias
Her: What's that?
Me: It's 'Arias' Helena. She's not in the Aryan Nation, her last name is Arias.
Her: Nuts to that. The girl's a lunatic.
Me: She certainly seems that way.
Her: Not to mention a big old liar.
Me: Well, to be fair I don't think the guy she killed was a very nice man, either. I'm not saying he deserved to die or anything, but ...
(Long pause)
Her: I think in a way, all the lying was worse than the murder. Don't you think so?
Me: I don't know. Murder's pretty bad. I guess lying's bad, but you definitely shouldn't going around murdering folks.
Her: My sister's a great big liar.
Me: Oh yeah?
Her: I bet if she murdered somebody she'd get away with it. She's such a liar that she could probably get rid of a body and meet you for lunch and you would have no idea.
Me: (Stunned silence)
Her: (Speaking slowly, for emphasis) No. Idea. (Then, as if I had just walked into the room she brightens up) Will! Would you like a coke? It must be almost a hundred degrees outside!
Helena and I actually talk about murder a lot. She's a big Ann Rule fan, she's gone and had several books signed by Ann Rule at appearances and stuff, and she knows I write horror stories so it's kind of a conversational tent-pole between the two of us. The truth is, I hate doing research on criminals, especially serial killers. It's the one subject that generally scares the shit out of me. Throw me a copy of anything by Jack Ketchum or Edward Lee and I can usually burn through it in a single afternoon, while eating, no problem.
But a hundred or so pages on somebody like Richard Speck or Ted Bundy and I'm taking an extra Xanax that night, on account of that stuff is real. It doesn't even have to be serial killers, either. I had a spate of horrible nightmares after spending a few weeks researching some of the more prominent Mafia families in NY in the late 60's. (Possibly on account of a lot of that stuff happened where I grew up, but who knows?)
Anyway, Helena's made of tougher stuff than I am. She doesn't read true crime so much as devour it. One of our favorite subjects to bat back and forth is H.H. Holmes and the Chicago World's Fair of 1893. We talk about the Murder-Castle Holmes built and speculate on how many women he managed to actually trap in that thing. That usually leads us to the fact that the thing burnt to the ground, before investigators were able to really figure out how a lot of the traps worked, while Holmes was incarcerated in another state.
By the way, soon after that, the entire World's Fair White City burned to the ground, too ...
Such talk will eventually bring us around to "The Curse" , referring of course to the startling number of Holmes's prosecutors who came to mysterious ends after Holmes was sentenced to death.
This past week, the talk of Jodi Arias naturally brought us around to H.H. Holmes. I love shooting the shit with Helena, but whenever we start really stirring up Holmes's bones I spend the rest of the day in a state of low-grade freakout, and read ominous intent into whatever other events may occur.
Case in point, that afternoon's job at another nearby client's house - we'll call them the Baxters. The Baxters are a totally normal, well-to-do family. If there's anything odd about them, it's that they have more pets than most families. I've seen at least four dogs and a half dozen cats patrolling their yard. An unknown number of parrots, cockatoos and budgies squawk and chirp from various windows, and there's a koi pond the size of a truck trailer in the back of their yard as well. The Baxters are constantly adding to their menagerie as well, although most of the time if I'm doing any work in their yard they're pretty good about penning up the larger, more aggressive animals.
Most of the time.
Like I said earlier, my hackles were kind of up by the time I got to the Baxter's and as I was crossing the back yard (which is set up like a miniature rain-forest) I heard a series of low, persistent grunts. Aware that one of the Baxter dogs is a Doberman that I'm pretty sure was either cross-bred with a Clydesdale or part of some bizarre military growth hormone experiment, I hurried back to their front door and confirmed that yes, the Hound of the Baskervilles was safely inside. So I went back around and heard it again.
*Grunt-Grunt-Grunt*
With thoughts of a mustachioed demon armed with a flit-gun full of knockout gas fully ready to attack, I steeled myself and pushed some brush aside in order to face whatever lay in wait. And saw ...
Yup.
Now, this is a stock photo I pulled from Google, but it's a fairly accurate representation of what I stumbled upon. If you've never seen two giant desert tortoises getting it on, let me just tell you, it's quite a sight. Turtles are normally slow, deliberate creatures, but when it's time to get their rut on, they can thrust just as fast as, well rabbits, I guess. And they're loud.
If you're wondering why I didn't try to take a picture while I was there, congratulations. You've just asked the same question that my girlfriend, parents, co-workers and everybody else I've told this story to. And the answer is two-fold:
1 - As I said earlier, I'd spent the better part of the morning discussing murder most foul and was already pretty much bent out of sorts, so ...
2 - If while snapping a photo, one of the turtles looked up and made eye contact with me, I'm pretty sure I would have totally lost my shit that day.
If you look carefully though, you see it's all an act. The fact is, she's a whole lot smarter than she lets on to most people and the whole senility thing is a put-on she does to amuse herself. I figured this out after spending a couple of afternoons doing odd jobs at her house, which I guess could be described as a "McMansion" in one of those sprawling, super-expensive golf course communities in North Scottsdale.
Anyway, ever since I figured out her act she's been a blast to talk to, and I try to stop by at least once a month or so to shoot the shit with her. This past week, I walked into her living room and the Jodi Arias trial was on TV. So, we talked about her for a few minutes.
Here's a few things she actually said over the course of our conversation, so you can get a sense of why I always make it a point to seek her company.
Her: What do you think about this awful Jodi Aryan Nation business?
Me: Arias
Her: What's that?
Me: It's 'Arias' Helena. She's not in the Aryan Nation, her last name is Arias.
Her: Nuts to that. The girl's a lunatic.
Me: She certainly seems that way.
Her: Not to mention a big old liar.
Me: Well, to be fair I don't think the guy she killed was a very nice man, either. I'm not saying he deserved to die or anything, but ...
(Long pause)
Her: I think in a way, all the lying was worse than the murder. Don't you think so?
Me: I don't know. Murder's pretty bad. I guess lying's bad, but you definitely shouldn't going around murdering folks.
Her: My sister's a great big liar.
Me: Oh yeah?
Her: I bet if she murdered somebody she'd get away with it. She's such a liar that she could probably get rid of a body and meet you for lunch and you would have no idea.
Me: (Stunned silence)
Her: (Speaking slowly, for emphasis) No. Idea. (Then, as if I had just walked into the room she brightens up) Will! Would you like a coke? It must be almost a hundred degrees outside!
Helena and I actually talk about murder a lot. She's a big Ann Rule fan, she's gone and had several books signed by Ann Rule at appearances and stuff, and she knows I write horror stories so it's kind of a conversational tent-pole between the two of us. The truth is, I hate doing research on criminals, especially serial killers. It's the one subject that generally scares the shit out of me. Throw me a copy of anything by Jack Ketchum or Edward Lee and I can usually burn through it in a single afternoon, while eating, no problem.
But a hundred or so pages on somebody like Richard Speck or Ted Bundy and I'm taking an extra Xanax that night, on account of that stuff is real. It doesn't even have to be serial killers, either. I had a spate of horrible nightmares after spending a few weeks researching some of the more prominent Mafia families in NY in the late 60's. (Possibly on account of a lot of that stuff happened where I grew up, but who knows?)
Anyway, Helena's made of tougher stuff than I am. She doesn't read true crime so much as devour it. One of our favorite subjects to bat back and forth is H.H. Holmes and the Chicago World's Fair of 1893. We talk about the Murder-Castle Holmes built and speculate on how many women he managed to actually trap in that thing. That usually leads us to the fact that the thing burnt to the ground, before investigators were able to really figure out how a lot of the traps worked, while Holmes was incarcerated in another state.
By the way, soon after that, the entire World's Fair White City burned to the ground, too ...
Such talk will eventually bring us around to "The Curse" , referring of course to the startling number of Holmes's prosecutors who came to mysterious ends after Holmes was sentenced to death.
This past week, the talk of Jodi Arias naturally brought us around to H.H. Holmes. I love shooting the shit with Helena, but whenever we start really stirring up Holmes's bones I spend the rest of the day in a state of low-grade freakout, and read ominous intent into whatever other events may occur.
Case in point, that afternoon's job at another nearby client's house - we'll call them the Baxters. The Baxters are a totally normal, well-to-do family. If there's anything odd about them, it's that they have more pets than most families. I've seen at least four dogs and a half dozen cats patrolling their yard. An unknown number of parrots, cockatoos and budgies squawk and chirp from various windows, and there's a koi pond the size of a truck trailer in the back of their yard as well. The Baxters are constantly adding to their menagerie as well, although most of the time if I'm doing any work in their yard they're pretty good about penning up the larger, more aggressive animals.
Most of the time.
Like I said earlier, my hackles were kind of up by the time I got to the Baxter's and as I was crossing the back yard (which is set up like a miniature rain-forest) I heard a series of low, persistent grunts. Aware that one of the Baxter dogs is a Doberman that I'm pretty sure was either cross-bred with a Clydesdale or part of some bizarre military growth hormone experiment, I hurried back to their front door and confirmed that yes, the Hound of the Baskervilles was safely inside. So I went back around and heard it again.
*Grunt-Grunt-Grunt*
With thoughts of a mustachioed demon armed with a flit-gun full of knockout gas fully ready to attack, I steeled myself and pushed some brush aside in order to face whatever lay in wait. And saw ...
Yup.
Now, this is a stock photo I pulled from Google, but it's a fairly accurate representation of what I stumbled upon. If you've never seen two giant desert tortoises getting it on, let me just tell you, it's quite a sight. Turtles are normally slow, deliberate creatures, but when it's time to get their rut on, they can thrust just as fast as, well rabbits, I guess. And they're loud.
If you're wondering why I didn't try to take a picture while I was there, congratulations. You've just asked the same question that my girlfriend, parents, co-workers and everybody else I've told this story to. And the answer is two-fold:
1 - As I said earlier, I'd spent the better part of the morning discussing murder most foul and was already pretty much bent out of sorts, so ...
2 - If while snapping a photo, one of the turtles looked up and made eye contact with me, I'm pretty sure I would have totally lost my shit that day.
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