fantasy

Frank-n-Furter is Complete

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This is it for Ladies of Horror for awhile. Frank-n-Furter has brought me to the point I need a break from this style, although the characters in The Rocky Horror Picture Show could keep me busy with these for months. We’re planning on seeing the movie in the theater this year around Halloween. Can’t wait!

I really need to do something different. Something a bit more detailed. What shall I do? Feel free to request something. Otherwise, I have a million things to do on the list, so the fact that I’m wondering what to do is kinda insane.

Chugging forward on Corner of Hell and Second Chances. It was a hard start, and it felt like I was writing a novel for the first time. Once I started writing about Barry and Candy, it got easier. Really love that author/character relationship during the writing of the first draft.

Guess that’s all. Have a GREAT week!

Warrant for Damnation Cover Reveal

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Revealing the cover for Warrant for Damnation today. Special thanks again to Rebecca Treadway at Atrtink. Below is chapter 1 of the book.

ENJOY!

Who in his right mind goes home with a stranger he met on the highway like I did last night? Then again, it’s not the stupidest thing I’ve done over the past four days.

I peek outside the bedroom where I’ve tossed and turned the last few hours. At nearly five in the morning, the second-floor hallway is deserted. Perfect for a speedy getaway. But there’s no telling who or what lurks behind the oak doors that break up the flowery red-and-gold wallpaper.

On an ordinary workday, I’d rush off to my courier job for Hell. Yes, the literal Hell. Then I’d spend half my day pissing off my demon boss Margery, although not on purpose.

No work today though. As of yesterday, life is…complicated.

While I’m innocent, Margery managed to convince Satan that I sabotaged his plan to open the Gates of Hell. And God believes I sacrificed hundreds of His white warriors to get the job done. Worst of all, Margery’s Minotaurs took off with my friend Nina before we were able to escape together.

Floorboards creak under my skater shoes as I duck into the hallway, my messy brown curls brushing under the doorframe. The smell of pancakes rises from the first floor and awakens my senses in a bad way. Fruity flavored cereal and gin are more my breakfast of champions, but it doesn’t matter. No time to eat. I’ve got to sneak out and save Nina from the seven levels of misery that Margery’s likely inflicting on her.

A doorknob clicks to my left.

Damn!

Pete exits a bedroom with a smile. “Morning, Barry. Able to sleep?”

He’s the stranger who brought me to this old farmhouse, and he’ll try to convince me to stay. Pete professes to be a miracle worker for the Catholic Church and can smooth things over with God. He’s also promised to nullify my contract with Satan and provide protection against Hell’s bounty hunters. Boy, I want to believe him, but the mosh pit of butterflies in my stomach warn to trust no one.

My grip tightens on the wood-carved railing. Get out. Find Nina.

On impulse, my feet take off, descending the stairs at hyper-speed, as if I’m The Flash in the comic book series. Unable to control this ability attained during a trip to Hell’s refugee camp, all I can do is tuck and go into a double somersault to put on the brakes. I land on something rigid at the bottom of the staircase, pain erupting in my ribs.

“Damn!” I shiver at the sight of a wooden shard from the broken coat rack piercing my t-shirt and torso at my side. I grit my teeth, grab the protruding spike, and yank. Cupping the gash is no help. Bright red blood oozes between my fingers and drips onto my baggy jeans.

Seems everything I do lately turns to shit or a fountain of gore.

Pete descends to the first floor, my body twitching with each heavy step of his cowboy boots. He’s more wrinkled than I remember. Maybe his jet-black pompadour concealed his age.

He sweeps back his tan tweed jacket and slides a thumb into the front pocket of his jeans. The way he dresses, the guy could be a cowboy professor.

“I’d ask how you feel,” he says, “but that wound is answer enough.”

While struggling to pick up my glasses and stand on unsteady legs, I clench my jaw tighter and suck air between my teeth.

“Hold on, Barry.” Pete skips down the last few steps. “Let me help.”

Still clutching my ribs, I recoil, suspicious of anything he’s offering. “It’ll heal in a few minutes.”

“Let’s at least get you tidied up,” he says, “and into clean clothes.”

“Thanks, but no time.” I face the front door, decorated with panes of yellow-stained glass. “Besides, I shouldn’t be here. I have to find Nina before Margery turns her into a demon chew toy.” My gaze drops, knowing what a gutless loser I am for leaving her behind.

“Two seconds outside and you’ll have Hell’s bounty hunters fighting to take you in for closing the hellhole. At least stick around long enough to break your contract with Satan. They won’t be able to track you.”

“You saw me move. I’m too fast to catch.”

“But not very coordinated.” He lifts an eyebrow and half grins.

After a brief pause, I sidestep toward the door.

“Nina’s fine.” Pete pulls a cell phone from his blazer pocket. “Oscar’s keeping an eye on her at the warehouse. Call him. He’ll let you talk to her.”

“He hates me, not to mention he’s Margery’s lackey.”

“Like I told you. Oscar’s a double agent. He’s been feeding me information for years and has always been reliable.” Pete waves the phone. “Go ahead. His number’s the last incoming call.”

I blow out a long sigh, reach for the cell, and grasp it with blood-soaked fingers. Instead of contacting Oscar, I flip through the call log and find the names of people close to me. I glare at Pete, feeling more guarded than ever. “Why’ve you been talking to my mother and Father Timothy?”

“She’s worried…” he stutters. “They’re worried, Barry, and I’ve been watching—”

“Watching Margery take my soul and turn me into a wanted man.”

“Remember last night, when I mentioned Margery blamed me for closing the Gates of Hell the year you were born? I understand what you’re going through. It’s why you should stay. Barry, please, there’s so much more you need to know.”

The phone slips out of my hand and falls to the floor. My only thought, No one can be trusted, not even Mom. I’m out the door at hyper-speed, my side erupting with pain.

Angels Dark And Dumb Margery Reveal

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It’s reveal time. Got lots to show, but today is devoted to Margery the Demon. She is awesome! Special thanks to Rebecca Treadway at Atrtink.

So, it’s only fitting to share Margery’s introduction to Barry in Call for Obstruction. This is chapter 2, which is basically Barry’s job interview.

BTW, Angel’s Dark and Dumb eBooks will be $1.99 for
Amazon Prime Day from July 11-12.

ENJOY!

The OTG parking lot’s blocked by a couple car carrier semi-trailers. Parked willy-nilly across the lot are a dozen or more new OTG vans. Hopefully a sign that the company’s doing well, and this job will last longer than a month. I park on a side street and jog through the mayhem of vehicles to the entryway.

My phone sounds off near the office door. I clench my teeth. This time it is my mother. It’s like she has a sixth sense about me wasting all the money she spent on my private college education. The fact that I acquired a Computer Science degree by nineteen burns a little more with each unskilled job I take, and lose. How can her smart boy be such a loser?

My finger swipes hard against the surface to ignore her call, but she always tries twice. After counting to ten in my head, the device announces another incoming call from Mom. Only this time the screen blacks out after the first ring. I press the power button. No response despite the half-charged battery. Why argue with good timing? I put the phone in my pocket and step inside the OTG lobby.

The place is deserted even though Margery said she’s always here. Her office is nothing like the typical delivery drop-off site. Reminds me a little of my grandmother’s basement, or a time warp into the nineteen-seventies. Wood paneling, windowless walls, and dark brown cabinets along one wall make the room eerie despite the florescent lighting.

The empty liquor bottles scattered across an olive green countertop and beside the color-coordinated refrigerator could explain her confusion about the accident. The smoke rising from an ashtray on a nearby table tells me she’s prone to bad habits. Who am I to complain? My other bosses this year run stiff competition for worst manager of all time.

“Barry, you made it,” says a now familiar voice that seems to come out of nowhere.

I jump, turn, and look downward. A hunchbacked crone with flaming red and orange streaked hair stands behind me. Either she’s light on her feet or a magician in her spare time. Her hairdo’s combed upwards, like a troll doll, lifting her height to nearly five feet. The woman sure likes orange. It’s also the color of the leggings below her blue oversized Broncos t-shirt.

She holds out her hand. “Margery.” We shake and electricity surges up my arm. When I stumble backward, she lets go. A crooked smile turns up one side of her puckered mouth and she winks. “You find the warehouse okay?” Her breath packs a punch that smells like raw hamburger rotting in an ashtray.

With eyes popped wide from the lingering electricity, I nod my head.

She points toward the table and leaves me standing in the middle of the lobby. I follow, stroking my vibrating knuckles.

At the table, a chair slides out and hits my leg.

I pause.

The last half hour replays in my head: a strange van, an unexplained phone call, and now the furniture moves on its own.

I should have followed my first instinct. I should have gone home.

I peer across the table to tell her I’m leaving.

Margery’s charcoal eyeliner spirals around a bloodshot gaze. She draws me in like a tractor beam. In a slow, hypnotic hum, she says, “Have a seat.”

I flop into the chair, but not of my own free will. Set in front of me is a foot-high stack of paper that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. I open my mouth to ask about it.

Margery shushes me and reaches for the remnant of the still smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. She holds it between her thumb and index finger, places it between pursed lips, and inhales deeply. The cigarette crackles and snaps until it fires against her skin. When there’s no more smoke to draw in, she drops the butt into the ashtray and tamps her thumb down on the red-hot tip. The aroma of tobacco mixed with burning flesh fills the air.

“Before you can work for us”—she pauses to lick ash off her blackened fingertips with a serpent-like tongue—“you must agree to a few employment terms and sign our standard contract. All our drivers sign one.”

Bile rises to the back of my throat. I swallow hard and point at the tall stack of paper. “The contract seems excessive. What’s in it?” Not that I’m going to sign it.

She falls back in her chair, lifts her arm, and a newly lit cigarette appears out of nowhere. “Top copy’s salary, fifty-five an hour plus time-and-a-half overtime. There’s other standard stuff for liability and such.” She flips her hand as if the latter part is unimportant.

My eyes open wide at the thought of making more an hour than any job I’ve ever landed. But I don’t like that this lady can make me sit like a trained dog. I slide my chair back, ready to get up and leave, and at the same time wonder what sort of liabilities require that much documentation.

“Driving for us or any courier service can be dangerous, among other things,” she says, as if she heard my thoughts.

“Are you talking about accidents? Are these like insurance forms?”

“Sure.” She picks up the pen and holds it out. “Like insurance forms.”

I rub the back of my neck and watch her wave the pen like a pendulum. “So if anything happens to me, I’ll be taken care of?”

“Yeah, Honey. We’ll take care of you.” That creepy grin curls up one side of her mouth again.

As much as I’d like to get the hell out of here, this job’s salary will keep me independent, not to mention buy me a new computer. Hell, I would sell my soul rather than move back in with my mother. My chair slides back up to the table with no effort from me.

“Right there at the bottom,” she says. “Sign your name and you’re employed.”

My eyes fix on the nib as it continues to sway left and right. In the background, Margery duplicates into two hovering heads, then three, then four. The more she multiplies, the blurrier my vision, until all the colors turn to blackness.

* * *

“All done,” Margery’s voice echoes in my head while the room comes back into focus.

“I signed?” Smoke belches out of my mouth. I jump to my feet and the chair screeches across the floor. “What did you do to me?”

She stands and pulls the tall stack of papers to her side of the table. “Be here tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp.”

“I don’t think so.” More smoke escapes my mouth and clouds my vision. I turn around, full circle, and find I’m wasting my breath. There’s no one left in the room but me.

Go to the Angels Dark and Dumb Series Page from July 11-12 to get the eBooks for $1.99.

Warrant for Damnation Preview

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Let me start with the boring stuff. Two main things added here on my website this week: the Contact page and newsletter sign up are back. Exciting, right?

What’s truly exciting is that Warrant for Damnation is DONE!!! It’s completely edited and ready for upload on Amazon. WHOO HOO! Only got one problem…I changed the name of the series and I have no clue what I’ll have to do to change the series name for the other books. I don’t like to do anything easy. Remember when I changed my name from W. J. Howard to Winnie Jean Howard. That included unpublishing and republishing Call for Obstruction.

Anyway, as promised, I’ve got a preview of Warrant for Damnation from the center of the book. There are some new characters introduced, and I absolutely love them and hope you will too. As you’ll see, Barry ends up in a place called the Earthbound Spirits Pub with Chump and Javier. No spoilers in this chapter…just a bit of fun at the expense of Barry.

Warrant for Damnation Preview

With a thud, my movement ceases. I hold out my hands and prepare for another drop, but I’ve somehow landed on a chair or tall stool. Down below, the floor is composed of a black nothingness that causes my head to spin. Good thing the seat feels fixed, but…

Where the hell am I?

I grip the edge of a bar top, recognizable because straight ahead, liquor bottles levitate in two horizontal rows.

Of course. The pub.

My gut burns. How could I have been so gullible again? Not that they gave me a choice. At least I’m not being roasted for Satan’s dinner.

To my right, Chump slaps my back. “Wasn’t such a terrible trip.”

Javier laughs. “Thought we were sending you to Hell to collect the bounty, didn’t ya?”

“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes, but I’m still suspicious. These guys will do anything to get what they want. For once, I’d much rather be back at the hotel, doing what I’m told.

I cough, my breath stirring up ash that coats the surface of the metal bar where my glasses and twenty plus smoldering cigarettes landed. Scratching my head upsets more residue. How did I jump without lighting my hair on fire? Hopefully, the hexed butts taught them an electrifying lesson during our trip. Maybe they’ll think twice before screwing with me in the future. More likely not.

“Listen, man,” a chubby dark-haired bartender says in a brash voice, “smoke all you want, but for God’s sake, use this.” He flings a clear glass ashtray in my direction. Miraculously, I catch it against my chest.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry!” While he mocks with air quotes, a blue sock and tattered tighty-whities drop out of nowhere and hit his head before falling on top of the mess. He closes his eyes and pulls at his hair with both hands, leaving it scruffy. His eyebrows dip into a demonic frown. “Who is this guy? He’s disgusting.”

“He’s not so bad.” Chump snatches the undergarments and shoves them in his pocket. “Clothes are mine. Lost ‘em yesterday.”

Interesting that he’s sticking up for me. Also interesting that our server looks disturbingly familiar.

“Good Lord!” The bartender tugs at his belt, lifting his baggy jeans over his black button up shirt and to the base of his beer gut. “Empty the lint trap before you jump, so I don’t have to look at your nasty drawers again. Otherwise, I’ll charge extra for the trauma. Now, what do you dickheads want to drink?”

“Whiskey for me and Javier. Our friend likes gin.” Chump pays with gold coins the size of pennies.

“Nothing for me,” I say. “I’m not staying.”

The bartender’s quick to bark, “You pay every round whether or not you order.”

“Bring another whiskey,” Chump says.

As our server picks up the last coin, a cigarette on the counter pops and snaps. He jerks, retracting his hand. I cover my wide grin with my palm. The others avert their eyes.

“Clean up this fucking mess or I’ll serve you a Virgin Mary!” The guy slams three shot glasses onto the metal surface, then spins around and retrieves a floating bottle with amber liquid.

My fingers jitter while I sweep the butts into the ashtray, but there’s no reaction to my touch. Either they’re depleted of magic or have identified their new master.

The bartender pours the first round of shots, spilling alcohol onto the remaining litter. Wet ash covers the side of my hand and smears the surface. I purse my lips and keep my opinion to myself.

“Who is he?” I whisper to Javier.

After the bartender walks away, he answers, “Comedian. Name’s Ted Fielding, but you might be too young to recognize him. Died back in the eighties, at the prime of his career.”

“Wait. I know him,” I say. “He’s in a film I love.”

“Was in a lot of stuff,” Chump says, “but no one can ever remember what.”

“No, wait. I know it. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” I gawk at Fielding, star-struck, but no matter how hard I try, my memory fails me.

“You won’t remember,” Chump says. “The Earthbound Spirits’ Pub is a neutral zone for otherworldly types, same as the Purgalator Coffee Shop. Souls in Limbo run the pub, and the bartenders are celebrities who’ve committed suicide or overdosed.”

I shiver, remembering Margery used to send me on Purgalator coffee runs.

“They’re given a choice to come here or go to Hell’s Refugee Camp.” Javier hops off his stool, leans against the bar, and balances on the bottomless abyss of a floor.

“Ted committed suicide,” Chump says, “not that it’ll help you remember his movies and TV shows. Everyone remembers the servers’ names, but customers can never remember their accomplishments. Guess it’s a preferable punishment than going to the refugee camp.”

After a trip there, I’d push drinks too.

“I know you’re concerned,” Javier says, “but God’s and Satan’s forces can’t hunt here. All patrons are required to keep the peace.”

“Sucks,” Chump says. “Nothin’ funner than a good brawl every now and then.”

By the sound of Chump’s opinion of this place, keeping the peace is more of a suggestion. With any luck, we’ll keep our visit low-key. No telling what might happen if I’m recognized as Hell’s most wanted, even if the pub’s neutral.

“The coins offered at the dryer were for Fielding’s section,” Chump says while using his index finger to draw boobs in the wet residue. He admires his artwork with a chuckle and adds, “He takes care of ex-couriers.”

“Really? He’s kind of an asshole.” Then again, I’m sitting between two pricks who shoved me through a portal against my will.

Chump picks up a glass and exposes veins, bulging on his twenty-inch bicep. He downs the shot of whiskey, then snatches up the one in front of me, liquid spilling over his thumb. “Here’s to living another night with our heads.”

With a pretend glass in hand, I motion to swig the air whiskey. Javier savors his spirits with dainty sips. After a deep breath, I spin around and notice a wall of decorative mirrors, hanging midair and willy-nilly in the darkness, drifting like the bottles. Oddly, the glass reflects the bar’s furnishings and other objects in the place, but we patrons are invisible, as if we’re vampires. Or it’s how the pub assures anonymity, not that it’s giving me a warm fuzzy that no one will recognize me.

A stream of color whooshes through a gold-leaf frame and targets a barstool a few seats down from where Javier stands. It solidifies into a demon with alligator skin. An orange glow radiates from the cracks over his face and neck and hands. The rest of him is covered in a black tracksuit with white stripes trimming the legs and sleeves.

Explains our transport into this place, the mounts being the portals, but how do I make the exit offering to slide back to the laundry room?

The hunched over demon tosses a gold coin onto the bar, and Fielding glides in with a blue flaming froufrou drink. When Tracksuit turns and stares though glowing eyes on a hairless gorilla-like face, I divert my attention to the opposite side of the room.

There are quite a few demon patrons, and the pub extends farther than the eye can see. With Satan’s bounty hunters on the prowl, the dim setting is welcome, unless our new neighbor has recognized me.

“How big is the pub?” I ask. “And why is it so chilly?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” Chump motions for a refill.

“It’s Limbo,” Javier says, “not a warm day at Disneyland.”

When I turn to face the demon, he’s still looking at me.

I ask the guys, “How do we return to the hotel?”

“Too many questions,” Chump says.

“Hey, this place may be neutral, but I doubt it applies to someone with a warrant for damnation and a father like…” I snap my mouth shut when Fielding glides in, not wanting him to know my kinship to an escaped fallen angel.

The bartender sloppily pours our second round and says, “Crazy ex-courier alkies and your bottomless glasses.”

“Speaking of drunks, Izi should be nearby.” Javier takes a few steps backward and scans the area. His body bobs as if he’s on a trampoline.

“Seen Izi and her crew?” Chump asks Fielding.

“Tracking your stupid friends isn’t in my job description.” Fielding glares at me. “I hope you wipe your ass cleaner than you scrubbed my bar.”

I straighten and bounce a knee.

Chump leans back and checks out my butt. “Don’t see any flies.”

Fielding flings a rag at me. The cold dampness slaps my face before falling into my lap. I get to work, polishing the surface while biting my tongue.

“Izi must be here somewhere.” Javier shifts closer to the decorated frames. “Guess I’ll go find them.”

“Hey, wait!” But he’s already out of sight.

I motion to follow him until Fielding slaps the bar and yells, “Finish your job.” “Okay, okay.” I wipe faster, my intent to discover a way out of here rising.