Damien
Blakey appeared refreshed and exhilarated as he emerged from the Dag
Hammarskjold Auditorium that evening. His speech before the delegation at the
UN Building had gone off without a hitch, and despite the gravity of its
importance, his audience proved both rapt and inspired.
He had convinced the world powers that the joint
agreement between the USA and the EU allowing simultaneous programming of its
Verichip satellites was a paradigm for the New World Order and its
implementation. It ensured that all persons embedded with the chip would be
immediately traceable throughout both America and Europe. They could be located
at any time or place, with their medical, financial and legal records fully
accessible. It was an absolute guarantee against kidnapping or other abduction,
provided full prevention against an individual becoming lost or detained
against their will. It gave a person immediate access to their bank accounts,
more secure than any credit or debit card. It eliminated the possibility of
identity theft, provided vital statistics to any emergency medical service, and
helped the authorities ascertain the legal status of anyone on both continents.
It was, he assured the world, automatic acceptance into
the world community.
He and his entourage crossed the street to the
Millenium UN Plaza where they had reservations for dinner in the glass-domed,
elegantly tiled Ambassador Grill. They enjoyed a sumptuous meal before it came
close to their scheduled flight back to Washington.
"I need to use the bathroom," Damien informed
his two Brownshirts and the MPDC detective at his beck and call. "Call the
limo and we'll take the chopper to the heliport."
Damien's ASPs (Armed Security Personnel) was becoming a
law enforcement phenomenon across the country. Known as the Brownshirts (or
Shirts in their ad campaigns), it started as a volunteer force recruited to
augment ICE (*Immigration Control and Enforcement) units in key cities across
the country. It was the high-profile campaigns in those areas that caused
volunteers to step forth in droves. Damien began to use them for a wider
variety of assignments, raising their profile even higher as an elite group. It
became an in-thing to be a Shirt, and there was always the possibility of being
assigned to a major political event where the media treated world political
figures like rock stars. Damien remained behind the scenes, playing his
Machiavellian strategy perfectly as he slowly but steadily reinforced his
position along the top echelons of government.
Only three nights ago, he found his anonymity compromised
by a weird event. He had returned home to his Georgian-style home in the
exclusive Kalorama Heights area Thursday night in his Porsche, activating the
garage door with his keyfob as he pulled into the driveway. He stopped it at
once in noticing graffiti on the door. He leaped out of the car and saw the
number '911' spray-painted on the door.
He cursed and swore as he pulled the car into the
garage and reactivated the door from outside. He decided to look around before
calling the police. He searched the driveway and the sidewalk, the tulip garden
and the shrubbery, then stalked up the walkway before stopping short at the
sight of more graffiti.
He saw the similar marking '9:11' appearing on his
front door in blood-red spray paint. He looked around angrily, wondering how a
vandal could have done something like this without having been seen. Even
worse, what would make him target Damien Blakey?
He decided not to tell his boss, Sandra Flores, the
Assistant Secretary of DHS (*Department of Homeland Security), about this. She
would probably tell Marlon Ritz, her future father-in-law, the Secretary of
Homeland Security, who would probably tether him to a full-time security team.
He decided his Brownshirts and his MPDC connections could take up the slack. He
would call Detective Mulvihill in the morning and see if he could get him to
pull a full-time watch. He would rather have Mulvihill than a bunch of Ritz'
watchdogs. He was sure that his connections with the MPDC would go along with
his request.
He entered the $1.5 million mansion with its 11-foot
ceilings and highly-buffed hardwood floors, switching on the light to study the
colonial-style living room furniture placed strategically around the brick
fireplace. He needed to use the restroom, but when he flicked the switch he was
shocked once more by what he found.
The words 'Rev. 9:11' were finger-painted on his
bathroom mirror with the same blood-red paint. He rushed to the study and
retrieved his .357 Magnum, rushing to check the upstairs bedrooms before
returning to the main floor and completing his search. Satisfied that the
intruder had long since departed, he switched on his PC and got online, putting
the abbreviation into his AOL search engine.
"And they had a king over them, which is the
angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in
the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon."
Damien put the words into his search engine, the
results raising the hair on the nape of his neck.
Destroyer.
Damien was astonished that his uncle dared to set foot
in DC, much less break into his home here in the Heights. The man had truly
gone insane and had to be stopped. He was already on top of the FBI's Top Ten
List as Public Enemy Number One, having surpassed Osama Bin Laden himself. He
knew that his uncle would continue to risk his life harassing him, as suicidal
as a moth drawn to a flame. He would forever seek justice in trying to avenge
his Dad's, Damien's Grandpa's, death. Yet it was hard to believe that the man
could be this foolish.
The elevator door sighed open at its appointed stop and
the quartet exited into the carpeted hallway. They walked along the corridor,
spreading out casually as Damien took leave for the restroom.
The three bodyguards separated, searching up and down
the corridors according to routine. Eddie Mulvihill stepped out into the main
corridor and was confronted by the taller of the two brownshirts.
"Guy on the fire stairwell says you got an
emergency call," the brownshirt peered from beneath the black rim of his
cap. "Think you can tell the guy on One that I got a break at ten?"
"Say who the call was from?" Mulvihill asked.
"Said it was a female," the brownshirt
shrugged, swaggering back down the hall. "Didn't get the name. Typical
rent-a-pig."
The detective glared at the back of the brownshirt,
swearing under his breath as he descended the corridor to answer the call. Most
of the volunteer force were toy cops, wannabees with more enthusiasm than
qualification. He trotted down the stairwell, determined to take it up with the
powers-that-be that they needed more professionalism in the introductory ranks.
Damien Blakey relieved himself in the lavatory, exiting
to find one of his brownshirts washing his hands at a sink.
"Everything okay?" he washed his hands in a
sink by the door. "We need to get airborne in about thirty minutes.
There's a tight schedule between here and DC."
"There may be a delay."
Damien's blood froze when he found himself face-to-face
with the Destroyer.
"You didn't think I was going to abandon my only
nephew so soon in life?" Richard Mc Cain seized Damien's left hand,
racking it in a wristlock, twisting it to the breaking point. Damien let loose
a stream of sulphurous curses as Richard led him to a toilet stall.
"You'll never get away with this," Damien
cursed and swore. "This building is packed with security and police."
"So far so good," Richard allowed. He next
locked his fingers onto Damien's carotid artery, blocking the flow of blood to
his brain and sending him into momentary unconsciousness. Damien collapsed to
his knees and Richard quickly wrapped his arms around the toilet bowl, binding
his hands with masking tape.
"This is a lot more than you provided me with at
your interrogation center," Richard stood with arms akimbo as Damien
regained consciousness. "A cell can have quite a stink after a week
without a toilet bowl."
"There won't be enough of you left to dump in a
toilet bowl next time," Damien hissed, struggling against his bonds. He
was positioned so that his face was forced into the bowl, inches above water
level.
"Well, you may or may not have the chance to see
that day, Day," Richard grinned wolfishly. He rammed his fist into the
paper dispenser, breaking the shield and popping it open. He grabbed a roll of
paper and reached around Damien's head, jamming it down the toilet drain.
"I'm sure you remember this one from your days at
Brandeis University," Richard chuckled. "The water'll rise in a few
minutes after we flush. I hope you're real thirsty, or that you can hold your
breath long enough for your knuckle-draggers to show up."
"You won't get away with this!" Damien
screamed, his voice echoing in the bowl. "Guards!"
"You've got to admit, this is more of a chance
than you gave my Dad," Richard muttered before he flushed the toilet and
headed out the door of the restroom.
The Brownshirt swaggered down the hall where Mulvihill
reappeared from the elevator.
"Did you see my relief?"
"Nah," Mulvihill grunted, not having bothered
to ask. "Nobody knew anything about the call. I called my wife and she
said she never called here."
"You may wanna check to see if he fell in,"
the man continued past Mulvihill in a patrolling gait. "He's been in there
about ten minutes. Something about his hair getting wet."
Mulvihill's instincts sent him to the restroom directly
despite the cavalier attitude of the guard. By the time he rescued Damien and
alerted the lobby police, the Destroyer had vanished into thin air.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
"Both Sides Now" - A Sneak Preview!!!
The Joe Naszhti Show was the hottest new series on television. Its host,
who was nicknamed ‘Joe Nasty’ by viewers and the media alike, was one of a new
breed of talk show emcees who routinely baited their interviewees for shock
appeal on their broadcasts. He had a variety of guests on the show from all
walks of life, and garnered an increasing number of viewers across the country
when it was announced that he was going to have stars from the IWA on his
Sunday segment.
Jim Dandy and Mike O’Beirne entreated Lucien to appear on the show, insisting that it would be a major shot in the arm for the Company and wrestling in general. Lucien protested mildly before finally agreeing to go, requesting only that Anna be given a front row seat. He would have gladly gotten one for Manfred, who confirmed Lucien’s reservations by insisting he would not want to appear on such a show.
“I am afraid that I would end up striking that man for his insolence,” Manfred was adamant, having seen the show a couple of times to his consternation. “Be careful not to lose your temper, Lucien, lest you kill the dog on national television.”
Lucien waited in the wings, having inspected himself after having his coiffure sprayed and stage makeup applied. He looked like a movie star in a $500 blue cerulean suit with matching tie and jewelry, starched pearl shirt and patent leather Beatle boots. The theme music played as the show went on the air, the audience chanting “NASTY! NASTY!” before the host took center stage. He gave them his standard greeting before a preview of the evening’s lineup, then good-naturedly ribbed a few members of the audience before taking his seat behind the table upon the dais at center stage.
“Is is real or is it fake?” Naszhti asked rhetorically, resplendent in a $1,000 designer suit, his hair and goatee meticulously clipped. “That is the question in the minds of sportscasters, the media and audiences alike as they continue to watch one of the most fascinating spectacles in entertainment history. There are those who swear that this is as authentic as any other sport, while others say these are routines that are staged and even rehearsed. Yet many will ask, why ask why? Well, here tonight is one of what many are calling a new breed of professional wrestler. Here is a man who is not only a four-time amateur champion in his home town of Gottingen University, but a college professor at NYU who is known by his peers as a distinguished and well-spoken scholar and a gentleman. Ladies and gentlemen: Dr. Lucien Triskellion.”
The audience broke into an ovation sprinkled by hoots and catcalls as Lucien waved to the crowd, winking at Anna before taking a seat at stage left of Naszhti’s desk.
“Now, that’s no way to treat a University professor,” Naszhti chided the audience before shaking Lucien’s hands. “You’re billed at the Great One by the IWA, am I right? How did that come about?”
“I think it was started by some of my students trying to improve their grades,” Lucien cocked an eyebrow as the audience laughed with him.
“You know, you’re a pretty big guy, but you don’t look like the typical professional wrestler,” Naszhti mused. “You don’t look like a college teacher either. I think you’d make a great leading man in a German movie, or any other one, for that matter.”
“I’m sure my girlfriend is pleased by that.” More laughter.
“That would have been my next question. Is she here in the audience?”
“There she is,” Lucien pointed to Anna as she shielded her eyes in embarrassment, blushing violently. “She’s much lovelier with her hand away from her face.”
At that she playfully stuck her tongue out at him, causing the audience to laugh as they gave her a round of applause.
“Well, let’s start off with the sixty-four dollar question. Is it real or is it fake?”
“You seem to have plenty of room here,” Lucien looked around. “You seem to be in pretty good shape. We can roll around a bit and you can see for yourself. I’ll even let you have a free hold.”
At that point it was Naszhti who took the jeers and catcalls, mixed with whistles and cheers for Lucien.
“I think I’ll pass for now,” Naszhti laughed. “Let me put on about fifty pounds or so, get back in the gym, and I’ll get back to you on that.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a great draw,” Lucien kidded as the audience chortled.
“You’re currently appearing as part of a clique, if you will, headed by a particularly notorious fellow called Jim Dandy. Is that his real name?”
“Only his hairdresser knows for sure,” Lucien quipped.
“The other night, on national TV, one of your associates, Gojira Tsunami, attacked Athos Leonidas from behind with a metal chair. Now, Wrestling Galaxy magazine lists Tsunami at 6’6”, 400 pounds. They have Leonidas at 6’2”, 265. How do you justify that?”
“I’m not sure you can justify such a thing,” he speculated. “You do know that Tsunami has recently returned to the territory. He’s trying to reestablish himself, and I think he was probably trying to send a message of sorts. Perhaps the message was somewhat overstated.”
“Back to the sixty-four dollar question,” Naszhti continued as the laughter subsided. “Tsunami hits a man who weighs almost half as much as he does with a metal chair from behind. The man is helped back to the dressing room but, no police, no ambulances, no coroner. Is there something wrong with this picture?”
“Well,” Lucien weighed his words carefully, “let’s look at it from this perspective. You watch hockey players swing sticks at each other on a nightly basis. People get hurt, but you don’t see them hospitalized or killed. We’re not gladiators, we’re not trying to finish each other off. Put it this way, if Tsunami had hit Athos with everything he had, there would be a lot of Leonidas fans who might just stop watching our show. We certainly wouldn’t make lots of money doing that sort of thing.”
“Okay, let’s talk dollars and cents. Vito Mastrangelo has been the champion for over four years now. He’s been selling out Madison Square Garden every month throughout that time. Obviously this man is a virtual gold mine for your company. If he loses the title and, as you touched upon, Mastrangelo fans stop showing up, your company stands to lose a ton of money. Do you think your company would take that risk in allowing Vito to be defeated for the belt?”
“Consider the fact that Vito bench-presses over five hundred pounds,” Lucien replied. “Plus he has four years’ experience of defending himself five nights a week against some of the toughest men on the planet, some of who have resorted to every dirty trick in the book to beat him. With that kind of strength and skill, I don’t know if it’s a question of someone allowing anyone to beat him.”
At once the chant of Vi-to! Vi-to! Vi-to! began booming throughout the studio.
“The word is out that you also bench press five hundred, and, of course, you have vast experience in what lots of people might call ‘real’ wrestling. Plus there are lots of rumors that Jim Dandy is putting you in position for a title shot against the champ. Do you think you’ve got what it takes to carry the flag for your company?”
“I’ll tell you, Joe, at this stage of the game I’d be delighted just to get voted Rookie of the Year.”
“Well, Lucien, I hate to heat your seat more than it already is,” Naszhti allowed, “but we have another special guest from your company who may be able to shed some light on the competition on the title scene, as well as give us some additional insight into that weird and wonderful world of pro wrestling. Ladies and gentlemen…the IWA heavyweight champion of the world, Vito Mastrangelo!”
Lucien surprised himself by feeling slightly jealous as the fans went wild when Mastrangelo made his way up from the dressing room onto the stage. The champion was meticulously dressed in a tailored midnight blue suit, white shirt and dark tie. He was nearly mobbed by fans, and security guards had to rush from the rear area to clear his path.
“Vi-to! Vi-to! Vi-to “, they yelled as he waved before shaking hands with Naszhti, sitting alongside him opposite Lucien. He felt somewhat slighted that Vito did not shake hands with him, but immediately realized that he was probably observing kayfabe.
“Mr. Mastrangelo, it’s an honor to have you here with us,” Naszhti began. “I’m sure you got to watch our discussion with Lucien Triskellion on the monitors backstage. There was an altercation between you fellows on your show out of Washington DC a couple of weeks ago. It looked a lot like a hype for your coming title bout at the Garden with Professor Moto. What a lot of the fans want to know is why you and Jim Dandy aren’t cutting to the chase and giving Lucien the title shot instead.”
“Well, neither Jim Dandy nor I have any control over the rankings, it’s the same situation you have in boxing,” Vito replied in a soft, respectful voice. “I have all the respect in the world for Lucien Triskellion, but I’m not about to look past Professor Moto. He’s a very tough and powerful man, and he is going to pose a serious threat to my championship. I’m just hoping that my fans will be able to come out and give me some support, and I can guarantee them I’m going to give it everything I can to beat this man and come out on top.”
Just then there was a commotion in the rear, and the fans began standing as a massive figure dressed in black made its way to the stage. Bill Ohms came down the aisle dressed in a Stetson, Western shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, stopping at the foot of the stage in front of Mastrangelo.
“Now, I just heard you say that Professor Moto was a serious threat to your title, and I also heard you say that you had all the respect in the world for Lucien ‘the Great’ Triskellion,” Ohms’ deep voice could be heard even without a microphone. “I know that this show is being broadcasted across the nation, and Mr. Naszhti is giving the American audience a chance to see what pro wrestling is about. My question to you is: why are you not telling everyone who the real threat to your title is, and why you aren’t willing to give Bill Ohms a shot at the world heavyweight championship?”
“Well, now, like I just said, I don’t have anything to do with the rankings, and I don’t have any control over the promotion,” Mastrangelo tried to explain.
“That don’t have anything to do with it,” Ohms stepped up onto the platform, staring down at Vito. “The truth of the matter is, you’re a yellow, egg-sucking dog!”
With that, he grabbed Mastrangelo by the hair, yanking him forward and snatching hold of his suit jacket. He pulled it over Vito’s head, ripping it up the middle before kicking and stomping at the champion as he fell out of his chair. Both Naszhti and Lucien rose from their seats, backing away as the security guards came storming down the aisle and tackling both men. It took six men to pull Ohms back to the dressing room, while two men helped the champion to his feet. Lucien walked over to the edge of the stage and held his hands out, shrugging at Anna as she watched the scene in astonishment.
“Uh, I’m going to have to check with our sponsors and see if I’ve got any vacation time available after this,” Naszhti managed as the audience was stunned by the altercation. Lucien returned to his seat as Mastrangelo was helped back to the dressing room.
“Now let me get this straight,” Lucien sat back. “Were you wondering why I didn’t want to be the champion?”
“I think that’s kind of a rhetorical question at this point,” Naszhti chuckled weakly. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen it with your own eyes, you be the judge. Is it real or is it fake? I’ll tell you one thing that I know for a fact: we’ve had a true gentleman and a great athlete on our show tonight. Let’s have a round of applause for Lucien Triskellion.”
The audience expended their remaining energies into a boisterous ovation for Lucien as he waved back in leaving the stage. By tomorrow morning, replays of the show would be broadcast around the country as viewing audiences marveled at what had happened.
Cowboy Bill Ohms, within a matter of minutes, had become the biggest heel in the business, and Mike O’Beirne had become completely powerless to stop it.
Jim Dandy and Mike O’Beirne entreated Lucien to appear on the show, insisting that it would be a major shot in the arm for the Company and wrestling in general. Lucien protested mildly before finally agreeing to go, requesting only that Anna be given a front row seat. He would have gladly gotten one for Manfred, who confirmed Lucien’s reservations by insisting he would not want to appear on such a show.
“I am afraid that I would end up striking that man for his insolence,” Manfred was adamant, having seen the show a couple of times to his consternation. “Be careful not to lose your temper, Lucien, lest you kill the dog on national television.”
Lucien waited in the wings, having inspected himself after having his coiffure sprayed and stage makeup applied. He looked like a movie star in a $500 blue cerulean suit with matching tie and jewelry, starched pearl shirt and patent leather Beatle boots. The theme music played as the show went on the air, the audience chanting “NASTY! NASTY!” before the host took center stage. He gave them his standard greeting before a preview of the evening’s lineup, then good-naturedly ribbed a few members of the audience before taking his seat behind the table upon the dais at center stage.
“Is is real or is it fake?” Naszhti asked rhetorically, resplendent in a $1,000 designer suit, his hair and goatee meticulously clipped. “That is the question in the minds of sportscasters, the media and audiences alike as they continue to watch one of the most fascinating spectacles in entertainment history. There are those who swear that this is as authentic as any other sport, while others say these are routines that are staged and even rehearsed. Yet many will ask, why ask why? Well, here tonight is one of what many are calling a new breed of professional wrestler. Here is a man who is not only a four-time amateur champion in his home town of Gottingen University, but a college professor at NYU who is known by his peers as a distinguished and well-spoken scholar and a gentleman. Ladies and gentlemen: Dr. Lucien Triskellion.”
The audience broke into an ovation sprinkled by hoots and catcalls as Lucien waved to the crowd, winking at Anna before taking a seat at stage left of Naszhti’s desk.
“Now, that’s no way to treat a University professor,” Naszhti chided the audience before shaking Lucien’s hands. “You’re billed at the Great One by the IWA, am I right? How did that come about?”
“I think it was started by some of my students trying to improve their grades,” Lucien cocked an eyebrow as the audience laughed with him.
“You know, you’re a pretty big guy, but you don’t look like the typical professional wrestler,” Naszhti mused. “You don’t look like a college teacher either. I think you’d make a great leading man in a German movie, or any other one, for that matter.”
“I’m sure my girlfriend is pleased by that.” More laughter.
“That would have been my next question. Is she here in the audience?”
“There she is,” Lucien pointed to Anna as she shielded her eyes in embarrassment, blushing violently. “She’s much lovelier with her hand away from her face.”
At that she playfully stuck her tongue out at him, causing the audience to laugh as they gave her a round of applause.
“Well, let’s start off with the sixty-four dollar question. Is it real or is it fake?”
“You seem to have plenty of room here,” Lucien looked around. “You seem to be in pretty good shape. We can roll around a bit and you can see for yourself. I’ll even let you have a free hold.”
At that point it was Naszhti who took the jeers and catcalls, mixed with whistles and cheers for Lucien.
“I think I’ll pass for now,” Naszhti laughed. “Let me put on about fifty pounds or so, get back in the gym, and I’ll get back to you on that.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a great draw,” Lucien kidded as the audience chortled.
“You’re currently appearing as part of a clique, if you will, headed by a particularly notorious fellow called Jim Dandy. Is that his real name?”
“Only his hairdresser knows for sure,” Lucien quipped.
“The other night, on national TV, one of your associates, Gojira Tsunami, attacked Athos Leonidas from behind with a metal chair. Now, Wrestling Galaxy magazine lists Tsunami at 6’6”, 400 pounds. They have Leonidas at 6’2”, 265. How do you justify that?”
“I’m not sure you can justify such a thing,” he speculated. “You do know that Tsunami has recently returned to the territory. He’s trying to reestablish himself, and I think he was probably trying to send a message of sorts. Perhaps the message was somewhat overstated.”
“Back to the sixty-four dollar question,” Naszhti continued as the laughter subsided. “Tsunami hits a man who weighs almost half as much as he does with a metal chair from behind. The man is helped back to the dressing room but, no police, no ambulances, no coroner. Is there something wrong with this picture?”
“Well,” Lucien weighed his words carefully, “let’s look at it from this perspective. You watch hockey players swing sticks at each other on a nightly basis. People get hurt, but you don’t see them hospitalized or killed. We’re not gladiators, we’re not trying to finish each other off. Put it this way, if Tsunami had hit Athos with everything he had, there would be a lot of Leonidas fans who might just stop watching our show. We certainly wouldn’t make lots of money doing that sort of thing.”
“Okay, let’s talk dollars and cents. Vito Mastrangelo has been the champion for over four years now. He’s been selling out Madison Square Garden every month throughout that time. Obviously this man is a virtual gold mine for your company. If he loses the title and, as you touched upon, Mastrangelo fans stop showing up, your company stands to lose a ton of money. Do you think your company would take that risk in allowing Vito to be defeated for the belt?”
“Consider the fact that Vito bench-presses over five hundred pounds,” Lucien replied. “Plus he has four years’ experience of defending himself five nights a week against some of the toughest men on the planet, some of who have resorted to every dirty trick in the book to beat him. With that kind of strength and skill, I don’t know if it’s a question of someone allowing anyone to beat him.”
At once the chant of Vi-to! Vi-to! Vi-to! began booming throughout the studio.
“The word is out that you also bench press five hundred, and, of course, you have vast experience in what lots of people might call ‘real’ wrestling. Plus there are lots of rumors that Jim Dandy is putting you in position for a title shot against the champ. Do you think you’ve got what it takes to carry the flag for your company?”
“I’ll tell you, Joe, at this stage of the game I’d be delighted just to get voted Rookie of the Year.”
“Well, Lucien, I hate to heat your seat more than it already is,” Naszhti allowed, “but we have another special guest from your company who may be able to shed some light on the competition on the title scene, as well as give us some additional insight into that weird and wonderful world of pro wrestling. Ladies and gentlemen…the IWA heavyweight champion of the world, Vito Mastrangelo!”
Lucien surprised himself by feeling slightly jealous as the fans went wild when Mastrangelo made his way up from the dressing room onto the stage. The champion was meticulously dressed in a tailored midnight blue suit, white shirt and dark tie. He was nearly mobbed by fans, and security guards had to rush from the rear area to clear his path.
“Vi-to! Vi-to! Vi-to “, they yelled as he waved before shaking hands with Naszhti, sitting alongside him opposite Lucien. He felt somewhat slighted that Vito did not shake hands with him, but immediately realized that he was probably observing kayfabe.
“Mr. Mastrangelo, it’s an honor to have you here with us,” Naszhti began. “I’m sure you got to watch our discussion with Lucien Triskellion on the monitors backstage. There was an altercation between you fellows on your show out of Washington DC a couple of weeks ago. It looked a lot like a hype for your coming title bout at the Garden with Professor Moto. What a lot of the fans want to know is why you and Jim Dandy aren’t cutting to the chase and giving Lucien the title shot instead.”
“Well, neither Jim Dandy nor I have any control over the rankings, it’s the same situation you have in boxing,” Vito replied in a soft, respectful voice. “I have all the respect in the world for Lucien Triskellion, but I’m not about to look past Professor Moto. He’s a very tough and powerful man, and he is going to pose a serious threat to my championship. I’m just hoping that my fans will be able to come out and give me some support, and I can guarantee them I’m going to give it everything I can to beat this man and come out on top.”
Just then there was a commotion in the rear, and the fans began standing as a massive figure dressed in black made its way to the stage. Bill Ohms came down the aisle dressed in a Stetson, Western shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, stopping at the foot of the stage in front of Mastrangelo.
“Now, I just heard you say that Professor Moto was a serious threat to your title, and I also heard you say that you had all the respect in the world for Lucien ‘the Great’ Triskellion,” Ohms’ deep voice could be heard even without a microphone. “I know that this show is being broadcasted across the nation, and Mr. Naszhti is giving the American audience a chance to see what pro wrestling is about. My question to you is: why are you not telling everyone who the real threat to your title is, and why you aren’t willing to give Bill Ohms a shot at the world heavyweight championship?”
“Well, now, like I just said, I don’t have anything to do with the rankings, and I don’t have any control over the promotion,” Mastrangelo tried to explain.
“That don’t have anything to do with it,” Ohms stepped up onto the platform, staring down at Vito. “The truth of the matter is, you’re a yellow, egg-sucking dog!”
With that, he grabbed Mastrangelo by the hair, yanking him forward and snatching hold of his suit jacket. He pulled it over Vito’s head, ripping it up the middle before kicking and stomping at the champion as he fell out of his chair. Both Naszhti and Lucien rose from their seats, backing away as the security guards came storming down the aisle and tackling both men. It took six men to pull Ohms back to the dressing room, while two men helped the champion to his feet. Lucien walked over to the edge of the stage and held his hands out, shrugging at Anna as she watched the scene in astonishment.
“Uh, I’m going to have to check with our sponsors and see if I’ve got any vacation time available after this,” Naszhti managed as the audience was stunned by the altercation. Lucien returned to his seat as Mastrangelo was helped back to the dressing room.
“Now let me get this straight,” Lucien sat back. “Were you wondering why I didn’t want to be the champion?”
“I think that’s kind of a rhetorical question at this point,” Naszhti chuckled weakly. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen it with your own eyes, you be the judge. Is it real or is it fake? I’ll tell you one thing that I know for a fact: we’ve had a true gentleman and a great athlete on our show tonight. Let’s have a round of applause for Lucien Triskellion.”
The audience expended their remaining energies into a boisterous ovation for Lucien as he waved back in leaving the stage. By tomorrow morning, replays of the show would be broadcast around the country as viewing audiences marveled at what had happened.
Cowboy Bill Ohms, within a matter of minutes, had become the biggest heel in the business, and Mike O’Beirne had become completely powerless to stop it.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Excerpt From "The Vulture"!!!
“So tell me about Peter Richards. According to the reports, you kept contact with him over the past thirty years. When was the last time you actually saw him?”
“Did you want to rephrase the question?”
Agnes Dowd was a reporter for the Village Voice for over forty years. She was a native of Cobble Hill in Brooklyn and attended grade school with Richards. It was what interested her in the case, as well as the fact that she had previously interviewed Blaine Hyland. The Mayor’s ex-lover had been involved in a major discrimination lawsuit a few years ago and the story catapulted Agnes into national prominence.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps we’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”
“Let’s just get this over with. I’ll help you try and get your story straight, and maybe you’ll have a different side of the story than what Blaine is giving everyone. I’ll be the one who pays for it, I have to go back to the Cave after this.”
“I’d like to get back to that, but first I want to find out when you last made contact with Richards.”
“We kept contact over the phone over the years. In my situation, your cell phone is your lifeline. He was one of the few people left who kept touch after they moved away.”
Anna Montero was an attractive invalid who had been blinded and crippled for nearly thirty-five years. She and Richards had survived a bus accident during which he had pulled her to safety. He had moved to Kentucky a couple of years afterward, but the childhood friends had reportedly maintained contact ever since.
“The last time, Miss Montero. When was the last time?”
“I guess it was around Labor Day. He was going through hard times and he said something about completing his mission, coming to the end of the race. He was like that, sometimes he had a new project going and he was very upbeat. Other times he was dejected and I’d have to pump him up. It was the same thing on my end. I’d get depressed and he would lift me up.”
“Did he give you any indication he was coming to New York?”
“I already went over this with the police dozens of times,” she grew impatient. They were in Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan where both she and Richards were being treated since the incident on Halloween. It was the first week of December, and Richards was being transferred to the Metropolitan Center of Mental Health. Anna would be released tomorrow. “He never said a word. He did talk about his sister, how she was going to hell for what she did and how the day of judgment was coming. He always talked like that whenever her name came up. I didn’t think he was going to actually do anything.”
“Do you think he’s insane? Or do you think that Blaine Hyland’s story about Richards faking his insanity is more accurate?”
“Well, he killed twelve people in that house. I don’t think that’s something a sane person would do. Do you?”
“You defend him a lot. Do you think he’s innocent by way of insanity? You don’t think he planned killing the Hylands when he left Kentucky before Halloween?”
“I think he had a vision,” Anna took off her sunglasses, her eyes staring intently. “I think he knew that things weren’t right at that house, and maybe he felt as if things had to be made right. Maybe he just planned to drive up, get in touch with me and some of our old friends. He’s always had visions, though. He’s always been able to see things that ordinary people couldn’t see. Or maybe he just had the guts to declare his visions. You see things that you don’t tell anybody about. We all see things that we don’t want to admit. Peter sees things, and he’s not afraid of anyone or anything. Peter has always spoke up, he’s always taken a stand against evil. He’s always been a light in the dark. He can see into your soul, Agnes Dowd. What would you think if I told you he knew you were here right now?”
“How would you know that?” Agnes started feeling very uncomfortable as Anna began staring right at her as if she were part of the wall.
“I know him, I know all about him. He’s part of me, and I’m part of him. We are all as one. We’re not the only ones. There were twelve of us, and even though Mary has betrayed us, another of us can step up once Peter’s gone. But he’s not really gone, is he? You can put him in that hospital, but he’ll get out. Maybe Lisa is gone, but Blaine is still there. Peter will continue to follow the vultures. You can always find death when you follow the scavengers, those who live off dead men’s bones.”
“Ms. Montero, Dr. Martinez is here for your session,” an intern came into the room. “Ms. Dowd, I’m afraid you’ll have to wrap it up.”
“Certainly,” Agnes stood and collected her items, reaching over and taking Anna’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. The best of luck to you.”
“My pleasure. Uh, don’t forget your pen.”
“Thanks.”
Agnes followed the intern out the door. It was only after it closed behind her did she hear Anna’s laughter, and a chill ran down her spine. It was a laugh that she would remember in her nightmares for a long, long time.
Friday, March 7, 2014
"Hezbollah (3rd Edition)" --- Coming This Summer!!!
David Diamond was propped up on the couch by the
humongous Aiwa sound system. The Velvet Underground's distortion-driven
masterpiece, "Sister Ray", blared at ear-splitting volume. He had cut
his platinum hair himself so that he looked like an Auschwitz survivor. His
eyes were sunken into their sockets and his cheeks were sallow as a corpse. His
wraparound sunglasses hid the parchment yellow of his bloodshot eyes.
"Well, well, well," David croaked. "If it isn't the Bobbsey Twins. Brenda Starr and Basil St. John in person."
"We had a great time out there tonight," Debbie was enthusiastic. "There's so much to see and do in this town. I don't think we'll be here long enough to see everything."
"That's fine," David grinned, reminding Mel of a Jolly Roger. "We're in the middle of the desert. Everything stinks like sweat."
"May have something to do with your friends," Debbie glanced around at the zombies shuffling around the room. "I think you need a change of pace. We're taking you with us to the bazaar tomorrow."
"You and what army?" David began coughing, then hawked and spat green slime onto the carpet before lighting a Camel.
"You look like crap," she said cheerily. "We're taking you out for lunch."
"I don't think it'd hurt you to skip a few meals," David gave her a once-over. "The show's a week from now, y'know."
"Yeah, so?" she patted her tummy. "This dress is size ten. You're the one who needs to get in shape."
"I think you weigh more than I do," David smirked.
"My mother weighs more than you do," Debbie retorted.
"The problem, Munson," David peered at her over his shades, "is that you're getting old. There's nothing you can do about that. I can go pig out and get healthy in a week. You can't stop being old."
"What was that?" she asked in disbelief.
"C'mon, Debbie, let's go," Mel pleaded.
"No, wait, I didn't hear what you just said," Debbie put her finger behind her ear. "Would you repeat that?"
"Debbie, please," Mel reached out and held her arm.
"Don't cross me, Mel," she jerked away from him before turning to David. "What'd you just say?"
"Go out and play with your boyfriend," David sighed.
"Hey you!" Debbie yelled over at the scarecrow by the stereo. "Turn that fucking shit off!" The teen stared back uncomprehendingly. David was pouring himself a shot of cognac as Debbie wrenched the bottle from his hand and fired it across the room. It exploded against the Aiwa, and the room became still as the grave.
"Now," she loomed over him. "I can hear you better."
"I said," David sneered up at her, "you look like ten pounds of baloney in a five pound bag."
"What?"
"You come waddling in here after eating five pounds of pitas, and expect to tell me how to look?" he chuckled. "Face it, Munson, you're pop rock. I'm punk. You don't have it anymore. You look like Britney Spears on steroids. You and the rest of the band. You all look like you're at an office party on stage. I'm the survivor here. The rest of you are a bunch of sellouts. Posers."
"You're calling me a fucking poser?"
"Look at you, Munson. You got the tits to go around dressed like that? You don't know whether you want to pose for Playboy or Weight Watchers."
Mel cupped his forehead in anticipation of a vicious migraine.
"Hey, you," she said, then reached down and wrenched David's sunglasses off, flinging them across the room. "Look at me. Fuck you!"
"Gee, Debbie Munson, you're my hero," David narrowed his eyes.
"I'll go out and get a gun off one of those ragheads in the hallway, and blow your balls up into your teeth," she screamed in his face.
"I smell alcohol," David replied.
"That's your problem," her lovely features were flushed with anger. "All you do is sit around here with these hopheads and get fucked up all day. Why don't you go out and get something to eat, you son of a bitch? You sick fuck, all you do is talk about people, write your sick fucking songs about everybody else. The reason why you're so miserable is because you're a no good, skinny-looking miserable scumbag. Understand?"
"Do you know what a brontosaurus is?" David turned to Mel.
"Leave him out of this," Debbie warned him.
"It was an enormous dinosaur that was so big, it had a brain in its head and a brain in its ass so it could walk," David informed him.
"Okay," a vein stood out in Debbie's temple as she started for the door. "You wait here. You wait right here." The creepy crawlers began making a beeline towards the door as well, blocking her path.
"I think she's going to kill me," David sat up eagerly.
At once the door flew open, and James Lincoln appeared along with six beefy black men and a crowd of reporters from the Ha'aretz and other Israeli newspapers. They shrank from the phalanx of the walking dead fleeing the suite, and eventually Lincoln came in to confront the occupants.
"What in hell is this?" he demanded. "This is a pig sty!"
"Not until you showed up," David frowned.
It was at that moment that she realized what was going on here. This was where David lived. Nearly twenty years of cramped motel rooms, sleeping in cars, cheese and crackers. He had done the college circuit as a self-parody, reciting his lyrics with the music sucked out of them. It hit her in her tummy like a bowling ball. He had done purgatory for all this time, and now that Lincoln had brought them here, it wasn't any different. Not for him. He was just hanging on to see if it meant anything.
"Listen to me," Lincoln said quietly, trying to remain calm, his $5,000 powder-gray suit giving him a tentative air of authority. "We need to get a grip on this thing. There are millions at stake here."
"Okay," she held the sides of her head, trying to quell the torrent of blood raging through her temples. "I'm cool, I'll deal with it. Mel?"
She held out her hand, and it seemed as if he had no choice but to follow her out into the light, some misplaced Joan of Arc sacrificing herself on the altar of the world press. He turned to David before coming to her side.
"I won't let you use her like that," he said tersely.
"If I were you, I wouldn't either," David agreed.
Debbie Munson emerged into the hallway as the Jews quietly gathered around. Her face shone as an angel of light. She seemed translucent in the white dress as she fielded their questions effortlessly, casually, as if there were nothing at all unusual or strange about an Irish Catholic woman in her thirties preparing for a punk show in the Valley of Megiddo under threat of death by militant Islamic groups.
"This'll make you rich and it'll make me famous," David rose from the couch, an excruciating pain shooting from his diseased bowels into his cranium.
"But it's not about us. This story's about her." Lincoln smirked as David tottered to gain his footing.
"We're so close, brother, so close," Lincoln encouraged him. "Just one more week. Three hours up there, in and out. The dream of a lifetime. I just need you to hold on, brother. Hold on."
"It's out of my hands," David shrugged. "Don't you read the papers? It's Hezbollah, it's the party of God. And the party's already started."
"If only I'd met her - met you people - five years ago," Lincoln stared wistfully at the doorway. "God knows what we might've accomplished."
"Maybe God does know what we might've done," David flicked his cigarette butt onto the carpet. "Maybe that's why it's all right here, right now."
The countdown to Armageddon had begun.
"Well, well, well," David croaked. "If it isn't the Bobbsey Twins. Brenda Starr and Basil St. John in person."
"We had a great time out there tonight," Debbie was enthusiastic. "There's so much to see and do in this town. I don't think we'll be here long enough to see everything."
"That's fine," David grinned, reminding Mel of a Jolly Roger. "We're in the middle of the desert. Everything stinks like sweat."
"May have something to do with your friends," Debbie glanced around at the zombies shuffling around the room. "I think you need a change of pace. We're taking you with us to the bazaar tomorrow."
"You and what army?" David began coughing, then hawked and spat green slime onto the carpet before lighting a Camel.
"You look like crap," she said cheerily. "We're taking you out for lunch."
"I don't think it'd hurt you to skip a few meals," David gave her a once-over. "The show's a week from now, y'know."
"Yeah, so?" she patted her tummy. "This dress is size ten. You're the one who needs to get in shape."
"I think you weigh more than I do," David smirked.
"My mother weighs more than you do," Debbie retorted.
"The problem, Munson," David peered at her over his shades, "is that you're getting old. There's nothing you can do about that. I can go pig out and get healthy in a week. You can't stop being old."
"What was that?" she asked in disbelief.
"C'mon, Debbie, let's go," Mel pleaded.
"No, wait, I didn't hear what you just said," Debbie put her finger behind her ear. "Would you repeat that?"
"Debbie, please," Mel reached out and held her arm.
"Don't cross me, Mel," she jerked away from him before turning to David. "What'd you just say?"
"Go out and play with your boyfriend," David sighed.
"Hey you!" Debbie yelled over at the scarecrow by the stereo. "Turn that fucking shit off!" The teen stared back uncomprehendingly. David was pouring himself a shot of cognac as Debbie wrenched the bottle from his hand and fired it across the room. It exploded against the Aiwa, and the room became still as the grave.
"Now," she loomed over him. "I can hear you better."
"I said," David sneered up at her, "you look like ten pounds of baloney in a five pound bag."
"What?"
"You come waddling in here after eating five pounds of pitas, and expect to tell me how to look?" he chuckled. "Face it, Munson, you're pop rock. I'm punk. You don't have it anymore. You look like Britney Spears on steroids. You and the rest of the band. You all look like you're at an office party on stage. I'm the survivor here. The rest of you are a bunch of sellouts. Posers."
"You're calling me a fucking poser?"
"Look at you, Munson. You got the tits to go around dressed like that? You don't know whether you want to pose for Playboy or Weight Watchers."
Mel cupped his forehead in anticipation of a vicious migraine.
"Hey, you," she said, then reached down and wrenched David's sunglasses off, flinging them across the room. "Look at me. Fuck you!"
"Gee, Debbie Munson, you're my hero," David narrowed his eyes.
"I'll go out and get a gun off one of those ragheads in the hallway, and blow your balls up into your teeth," she screamed in his face.
"I smell alcohol," David replied.
"That's your problem," her lovely features were flushed with anger. "All you do is sit around here with these hopheads and get fucked up all day. Why don't you go out and get something to eat, you son of a bitch? You sick fuck, all you do is talk about people, write your sick fucking songs about everybody else. The reason why you're so miserable is because you're a no good, skinny-looking miserable scumbag. Understand?"
"Do you know what a brontosaurus is?" David turned to Mel.
"Leave him out of this," Debbie warned him.
"It was an enormous dinosaur that was so big, it had a brain in its head and a brain in its ass so it could walk," David informed him.
"Okay," a vein stood out in Debbie's temple as she started for the door. "You wait here. You wait right here." The creepy crawlers began making a beeline towards the door as well, blocking her path.
"I think she's going to kill me," David sat up eagerly.
At once the door flew open, and James Lincoln appeared along with six beefy black men and a crowd of reporters from the Ha'aretz and other Israeli newspapers. They shrank from the phalanx of the walking dead fleeing the suite, and eventually Lincoln came in to confront the occupants.
"What in hell is this?" he demanded. "This is a pig sty!"
"Not until you showed up," David frowned.
It was at that moment that she realized what was going on here. This was where David lived. Nearly twenty years of cramped motel rooms, sleeping in cars, cheese and crackers. He had done the college circuit as a self-parody, reciting his lyrics with the music sucked out of them. It hit her in her tummy like a bowling ball. He had done purgatory for all this time, and now that Lincoln had brought them here, it wasn't any different. Not for him. He was just hanging on to see if it meant anything.
"Listen to me," Lincoln said quietly, trying to remain calm, his $5,000 powder-gray suit giving him a tentative air of authority. "We need to get a grip on this thing. There are millions at stake here."
"Okay," she held the sides of her head, trying to quell the torrent of blood raging through her temples. "I'm cool, I'll deal with it. Mel?"
She held out her hand, and it seemed as if he had no choice but to follow her out into the light, some misplaced Joan of Arc sacrificing herself on the altar of the world press. He turned to David before coming to her side.
"I won't let you use her like that," he said tersely.
"If I were you, I wouldn't either," David agreed.
Debbie Munson emerged into the hallway as the Jews quietly gathered around. Her face shone as an angel of light. She seemed translucent in the white dress as she fielded their questions effortlessly, casually, as if there were nothing at all unusual or strange about an Irish Catholic woman in her thirties preparing for a punk show in the Valley of Megiddo under threat of death by militant Islamic groups.
"This'll make you rich and it'll make me famous," David rose from the couch, an excruciating pain shooting from his diseased bowels into his cranium.
"But it's not about us. This story's about her." Lincoln smirked as David tottered to gain his footing.
"We're so close, brother, so close," Lincoln encouraged him. "Just one more week. Three hours up there, in and out. The dream of a lifetime. I just need you to hold on, brother. Hold on."
"It's out of my hands," David shrugged. "Don't you read the papers? It's Hezbollah, it's the party of God. And the party's already started."
"If only I'd met her - met you people - five years ago," Lincoln stared wistfully at the doorway. "God knows what we might've accomplished."
"Maybe God does know what we might've done," David flicked his cigarette butt onto the carpet. "Maybe that's why it's all right here, right now."
The countdown to Armageddon had begun.
Monday, March 3, 2014
"The Brand" Coming Soon on Rogue Phoenix Press!
Say WHAT???
Yep, after all that work.
Actually this is a milestone for the Spoiler Publishing Company. This is the first one we've put out that was picked up after the fact by a publishing company. This led me to contact Amazon and retire The Brand on our label to honor our new commitment. Fortunately the link is still good, so buyers will still be able to check out the reviews. And, if not...
Yep, after all that work.
Actually this is a milestone for the Spoiler Publishing Company. This is the first one we've put out that was picked up after the fact by a publishing company. This led me to contact Amazon and retire The Brand on our label to honor our new commitment. Fortunately the link is still good, so buyers will still be able to check out the reviews. And, if not...
By S.A. Check on February 24, 2014
Format: Kindle Edition
The whole book had an Ocean’s Eleven feel with a Colonial American twist that I found entertaining and engaging. Any fan that enjoys a high stakes romp through the early history of America will enjoy John Reinhard Dizon’s The Brand .
John Reinhard Dizon produces an admirable and well thought out historical fiction novel with The Brand. The story focuses on the early days of the American Revolution and the turbulent times faced in the birth of a nation. Dizon piques the history aficionado’s interest by making reference to several pivotal points in early American history and special guest appearances by some of the country’s forefathers. The author spins it again by introducing an intricate heist into the book that stretches across continents and forms unlikely partnerships and budding romances.
Sometimes heroes are born, others are made. Irish native Sean Coleraine never asked for his fate but played the cards life dealt him back, in spades. Picking up an array of allies consisting of a legendary thief, a warrior princess, and a rebel pirate, Coleraine travels an ocean seeking revenge and finds a country torn struggling to find its own independence while still under British rule. He and his colleagues must uncover and stop the secret plans of a super fortress that would crush any hope of rebellion and forever change the course of history. Playing a cat and mouse game of trust and power, Coleraine and his crew walk a fine line between danger and death, relying on their wits to lead them back home.
Sometimes heroes are born, others are made. Irish native Sean Coleraine never asked for his fate but played the cards life dealt him back, in spades. Picking up an array of allies consisting of a legendary thief, a warrior princess, and a rebel pirate, Coleraine travels an ocean seeking revenge and finds a country torn struggling to find its own independence while still under British rule. He and his colleagues must uncover and stop the secret plans of a super fortress that would crush any hope of rebellion and forever change the course of history. Playing a cat and mouse game of trust and power, Coleraine and his crew walk a fine line between danger and death, relying on their wits to lead them back home.
By J.D.Tucker on February 24, 2014
Format: Paperback
Dizon's newest novel, The Brand, is a tightly written exposition of two men during a turbulent time in American history. Sean Colerain is an Irishman 'branded' for past indiscretions who migrates to America for his safety and the hope of wealth. Captain James O'Connell is an honortable Captain in the US Army entrusted to deliver a gold shipment to Boston, something Colerain and his allies seek to intercept and steal. Along the way, O'Connell's rebellious daughter Beth falls in love with Colerain and...the game is on.
The Brand is a book that mixes fiction and history and is on a par with any of John Jake's American History/Fiction novels. The time period is captured with ease, the customs and characters jump off the page and into your heart, and Dizon's writing style makes him a writer to keep an eye on. Check out his other books while you're at it. Five stars and worth every minute, and every cent.
The Brand is a book that mixes fiction and history and is on a par with any of John Jake's American History/Fiction novels. The time period is captured with ease, the customs and characters jump off the page and into your heart, and Dizon's writing style makes him a writer to keep an eye on. Check out his other books while you're at it. Five stars and worth every minute, and every cent.
By P.S. Winn on February 10, 2014
Format: Paperback
I feel like I just stepped back in to this century from 1777. Sean Colerain was branded for his beliefs. It seems that wartime strategies don't change much through the ages as we follow Sean on his adventures in America during its early years struggling to become a nation and fighting wars to do it. This novel is also a love story as Sean meets the love of his life while at the same time trying to escape danger. An unlikely hero is found in Sean during his escapades. This novel is well written and really does take the reader back in time and history. Thanks to the author for yet another wonderful adventure. This is a great read told by a great storyteller.
By Natasja Hellenthal, author of The Queen's Curse on March 3, 2014
Format: Kindle Edition
Review by Natasja Hellenthal, author of The Queen's Curse.
'The Brand' by John Reinhard Dizon is a well written historical tale that will captivate the reader from page to page. The combination history/fiction works well here and will interest many readers, not only people who are interested in early American colonial history with surprisingly interesting facts on politics, torture, Indian involvement, the Irish and Spanish to name a few.
It reminded me slightly of The Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon for its combination of history (though Scottish) set in the same time-frame and action/mild violence and adventure.
If you're looking for a fresh good action/adventure with well fleshed out characters read The Brand!
I especially loved the strong female protagonists in this story who aren't anything less than the male leading roles. Although they are treated as love interests by the men they can very much hold their own. Iroquois princess Nightshade and the mysterious female pirate leader were my favourites. Can I sense a follow up with their adventures? If not, can I have one please?
'The Brand' by John Reinhard Dizon is a well written historical tale that will captivate the reader from page to page. The combination history/fiction works well here and will interest many readers, not only people who are interested in early American colonial history with surprisingly interesting facts on politics, torture, Indian involvement, the Irish and Spanish to name a few.
It reminded me slightly of The Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon for its combination of history (though Scottish) set in the same time-frame and action/mild violence and adventure.
If you're looking for a fresh good action/adventure with well fleshed out characters read The Brand!
I especially loved the strong female protagonists in this story who aren't anything less than the male leading roles. Although they are treated as love interests by the men they can very much hold their own. Iroquois princess Nightshade and the mysterious female pirate leader were my favourites. Can I sense a follow up with their adventures? If not, can I have one please?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"I get by with a little help from my friends." --- John Lennon
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Blacko?
Here’s my entry in The Cult of Me fiction challenge…
The young man woke up that morning and felt there was something very different going on. His head was lying on the pillow at a weird angle as if something was underneath. He drowsily reached under and found that his head was in the way. He snapped immediately and tried to turn to his right, only it was as if his head was being held in place. That startled him and he rolled hard, which nearly wrenched his neck. He painfully struggled to a sitting position on the side of his bed, and it was as if there was a weight tied to his head.
He staggered erect and tottered over to his dresser that dominated the bedroom in the small apartment he shared with his parents and younger sister in East Harlem. He stared through blurry eyes into the mirror and was shocked by what he saw. Somehow his face had been transformed into what looked like an African mask. His forehead had grown to twice its size as did his cheeks and jaw. His eyes had narrowed to long insect-like slits, his skin had turned coal black, and his nose was a dull yellow that matched the stripes running upwards, left and right from it. This was not going to be a good day.
There was a street fair going on outside on 137th Street, and he had volunteered to participate along with some of his friends. They had been working on skits for a while, combining hip hop rhyming with comedy routines, and interjecting street-wise messages meant as community advice for the kiddies. It was going to be visionary and innovative, but now he wasn’t sure how much he would be able to contribute.
He opened his closet and had to dig out a button-down shirt because no pullover would fit over this big head. His first concern was over his parents. His Dad had been out of work, and he assured them he would start work next week rather than have his Mom apply for food stamps. It was a major crisis in having to seek public assistance, and if he backed down his Mom would have no choice. He would have to figure something out, but right now there was a show that must go on.
“LaDainian, are you coming to breakfast?” his sister tapped on his door. “Mama made grits the way you like them.”
“No, I’m running late for the show,” he called out. “Tell her to save me a plate, I’ll nuke ‘em when I get in.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll come on down and check you all out when I get done with the laundry.”
He waited until she walked away before peeking out, then made a rush for the door. He raced down the stairs and ran right into his friends in the vestibule.
“What the HELL?”
“Okay. I’m sure you’ve heard of Groucho, Harpo and Chico Marx.”
“Yeah?” his friends stared uncertainly.
“Well, then,” he said confidently. “I am Blacko.”
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