Dead Man's Rain


The Widow Merlat sat across from me, breathed through her scented silk hanky, and did her best to make it plain she wasn’t one of those Hill snobs who think of us common folk as mere servant-fodder. No, I was all right in her book—not a human being like her, of course, but as long as I kept my eyes on the floor and knocked the horse flop off my boots, I’d be welcome at her servant’s entrance any day.
“You come highly recommended, goodman Markhat,” she said, daring Rannit’s unfashionable south-side air long enough to lower her hanky while she spoke. “The most capable, most experienced finder in all of Rannit. I’m told you are discreet, as well. I would not be here otherwise.”
I sighed. My head hurt and I still had cemetery dirt on my shoes. I did not need to have my face rubbed in my humble origins by a Hill widow who doubtlessly thought her son was the first rich boy to ever take a fancy to the half-elf parlor maid.
“I’m also told you are expensive,” said the widow. She plopped a fat black clutch purse down on my desk, and it tinkled, heavy with coin. “Good,” she added. “I’ve never trusted bargains, nor shopped for them. Money means nothing to me.”
“Funny you should say that, Lady Merlat,” I said. “Why, just the other day I was telling the Regent that money means twenty jerks a day, to me. Plus expenses. And that’s only if I decide to take the job.” I leaned back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. “And, despite your generous display of the money that means nothing to you, I haven’t said yes yet.”
The widow smiled a tight, small smile. “You will, finder,” she said. “I’ll pay thirty crowns a day. Forty. Fifty. Whatever it takes, I will pay.”
Outside, an ogre huffed and puffed as he pulled a manure wagon down the street, and all the silk in Hent wasn’t going to keep the stench out of the widow’s Hill-bred nostrils.
The widow shoved her purse my way. I shoved it back.
“Tell me what you want,” I said.
She nodded, once and quickly, and took a deep breath. A hint of color fought its way past the powder on her cheeks.
“My husband is dead,” she said.
She was wearing more black than a barge-load of undertakers. “No,” I said, straight-faced. “How long?”
“Two years,” she said. More color leaked through. “Two years. He caught fever.” The widow’s voice went thin. “He caught fever and he died and I buried him.” She took in a ragged breath. “But now he’s back, goodman. Returned.”
“Returned?” I lifted an eyebrow. “How? Rattling chains, wearing a bed-sheet?” I stood. “Nice talking to you, Lady.”
Her small bright eyes got smaller and brighter. “Sit,” she hissed. “I am neither senile nor insane. My husband has returned. He walks the grounds at night. He rattles the windows, pulls at all the doors. All but four of the staff left after his second visit.” The widow Merlat gave her hanky a savage twist. “I had to hire caterers for the Armistice Day Festival,” she said. “The canapés were spoiled, and two of my guests fell ill after sampling the stuffed mushrooms.”
“Tragic,” I said. “Shocking. And the wine?”
“Goodman Markhat,” she said. “Are you mocking me?”
I sighed, eyed the coin-purse, sat. “Lady Merlat,” I said, “this sounds like a matter for the Watch, or the Church, or both. Why me? What can I do that they can’t?”
She twisted her hanky and chose her words. “The Watch. The Church. Don’t you think I tried, goodman? Don’t you think I tried?”
“I don’t know, Lady,” I said. “Did you?”
She glared. “Sixty crowns a day,” she said.
“So your husband is a revenant,” I said, slowly. “And he’s tracking up the flower beds and scaring the neighbors and the coachman is also the butler and nobody can cook a decent meal.”
“Sixty-five crowns,” she said, her voice glacial, to match her eyes. “Seventy, if you vow to hold your tongue.”
I grinned. “Sixty-five it is,” I said. “And I need to make one thing perfectly clear, Lady Merlat. I saw a lot of folks get suddenly, tragically dead during the War. What I didn’t see was anybody walking around afterward complaining about it.”
“You doubt my word?”
“I believe you believe, but that doesn’t make it the truth,” I said. “Have you seen your husband, Lady Markhat? Really seen him?”
She shuddered, and went corpse-pale underneath the powder. “Once,” she said in a whisper. “The second time. I’d moved upstairs, kept the windows shuttered and bolted. But I heard the dogs barking and Harl, the footman, shouting and I peeked outside and there he was, standing there, looking up at me.” She shivered all over, fought it off. “It was him, goodman Markhat. Two years in the grave—but it was Ebed.”
She hesitated. And then she lowered the hanky and looked me in the eye. “Please,” she said, and the word stuck in her throat, so she repeated it. “Please.”
“All right, Lady,” I said. “All right.” I opened my desk, pulled out a pad of ragged pulp-paper and a pair of brass dipping-pens. “I’ll do this much. I’ll try to find out who or what you saw,” I said. “Give it three days. If I come up empty, you only owe me for two.”
“I saw my husband,” said the widow. “I saw him, and others have seen him, and I’ll pay you sixty-five crowns a day to find out why he has returned, and how I can put him to rest.”
I sighed. “I need to know a few things, Lady Merlat,” I said. “Names, dates, addresses. And the location of your husband’s tomb.”
She found a fresh hanky and took a big breath.
Revenants and funerals and aching in the head.
Happy birthday to me.

Yep.  I sneaked another promo into the blog.  For Dead Man's Rain, which is a fan favorite in the Markhat series, at least judging from the emails I get.
The excerpt is from the opening.  Later on, you've got a haunted mansion, a mob of ruthless heirs, and Ebed Merlat, who may or may not be the walking dead.  Oh, and there's a storm.  A stormy night, in fact.  Dark, too.  So, one might say, a dark and . . . .
One might say that but I certainly won't.  It's a spooky little tale of (literally?) undying love and a guilt so profound it can't even be buried.  But don't take my word for it -- here are a few reviews I've received via email:
"...tons better than anything I ever wrote."   W. Shakespeare, deceased. 
"...and if we do not receive your payment by the 15th, we will consider the account delinquent."   MasterCard.
"Greetings of the day to you dear.  I am Dr. Reverend Mbai Basoli, and I have a 100% safe and legal business deal for you."  drbasoli@yahoo.com
"...for more CONFIDENCE in the BEDROOM, with NO SIDE EFFECTS and NO PRESCRIPTION!"  zmaxplus@scamdrugs.com
By now you're either hooked or you long ago hit the back button, so I'll list the various formats below.  Choose your poison!










Free Sample Tuesday: THE BANSHEE'S WALK


When I'm not ranting about miscreants and ne'er-do-wells, I write books.

At infrequent intervals, I mention these books here in the blog.  Who am I kidding?  I plug my books shamelessly, hoping a couple of you will follow the convenient links below the sample to get your very own copy.  

Today's excerpt comes from my Markhat novel THE BANSHEE'S WALK.  Markhat, the feckless hero, is a finder, which is what private eyes in his world paint on their doors.  People who've lost wives or husbands or sons or hope come to see Markhat, and if they're lucky, he finds what they've lost.  

But what Markhat usually finds is trouble.  In THE BANSHEE'S WALK, Markhat is hired by a wealthy patron of the arts to determine who has been surveying her estate in the dead of night, and why.  Markhat suspects nothing but a petty land grab, or a squabble over property lines -- but what he discovers in the forest called the Banshee's Walk is something much older and far more sinister.

Enjoy the excerpt.  Links to various e-book versions and the printed book follow...


Excerpt from THE BANSHEE'S WALK

Moving through a forest at night is a perilous business. You can’t see briars before they tear through your clothes and into your skin. You can’t see rattlesnakes until you’ve annoyed them and they bite. And Heaven help you if you run into a wild boar sow with piglets nearby, because boars are worse than snakes and briars combined.

I never saw an example of any of those. All I saw were soldiers, some mounted, most on foot. These weren’t all kids, either. Half were my age, which meant they were vets who done this sneaking around business before.

I just hoped none of them were better at it than me.

The stars wheeled by above. The coward Moon never rose. The wind kept blowing, howling now and then, reminding me of Buttercup. I still had a hunk of corn bread for her, mashed flat and wrapped in one of Lady Werewilk’s good cotton napkins.

I topped a tiny little hillock, made my way between the trunks of two mighty oaks, popped my head up long enough to count fires. I saw two.

And something else. A faint blue radiance, bobbing and trailing sparks that lay there glowing but didn’t touch off any fires.

I bit back a curse word. I’d watched five of the black robed bastards be yanked up into the sky and I’d been sure, absolutely sure, that I’d seen the last of sorcerers at least for the night.

But here was at least one more, still on the hunt.

I hoped Buttercup was somewhere safe. I wondered why they were so determined to snatch her.

I eased my way back down the hill on my belly, and then I crawled on, heading for the Faery Ring.

I chided myself a dozen times on that dark journey, about my destination. I was making an awfully long leap of faith, going from two mentions in an old Werewilk family history to being sure something ancient and potent was hidden along a creek that had dried to nothing generations before the War even broke. You’ll feel pretty foolish, I told myself, if you reach the Ring and all you find are oaks and midnight.

You’ll feel even more foolish if someone sees you and puts an arrow through your gut.

I couldn’t argue with either sentiment, but I kept going.

Halfway there, I began to see signs that I might have been right after all.

I found rutted wagon tracks, in the forest. Wagons had left the old road. I counted at least five. Men had cleared the way with axes, oxen and ropes. Some of the cut timber was so fresh it still wept sap.

But there were no men. Not a single sentry had been left in the wagons’ wake.

Although men had accompanied the wagons, in single file on either side of them, in numbers I couldn’t even estimate.

I stayed thirty feet or so off the new-cut road. I moved as quietly as I could, but I no longer crawled. Instinct told me that, at last, I was about to learn just what the fuss was about.

I smelled smoke from the fires before I saw them. A few moments later, I heard the first voices, and the first sounds of hammers and picks and axes. And then I topped another gentle rise, and it all came into view.

A ring of torches. Wagons. Men moving and shouting and working. Most were digging. Others were erecting a scaffold of fresh-cut timbers over the deep wound they’d dug in the soft, wet earth.

As I watched, chains were dragged from a wagon, and a heavy block and tackle, and ladders were propped against the scaffold and men clambered up them, chains and tackle in tow.

I felt a tiny hand slip into my right pocket. I didn’t even smell her over my own enthusiastic stink.

“Hello, Buttercup,” I whispered.

She found and unwrapped the corn bread, frowned at its mashed state, and then shrugged and began to gobble it down, using the napkin to keep the crumbs in place.

She stood pressed to my side, her right hand filled with corn bread and her left wrapped around my waist. 
The top of her filthy little banshee head failed to even meet the middle of my chest.

She was shaking. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to spook her, even though the realization that she was probably being tracked by at least one determined sorcerer was sending shivers up and down my spine.

“Did you lose your blanket?”

She looked up at me again and grinned.

And then she coughed, choking on a mouthful of dry corn bread.

It wasn’t the loudest cough I’d ever heard but it was close. But I dropped to my knees and dared putting an arm around her as I did so.

She didn’t bolt. She was shaking. She huddled close, still chewing, her eyes locked on mine.

I raised a finger to my lips.

She hesitated a moment, and then did the same.

I almost laughed. But instead I watched and listened.

The workers down below kept working. The movement of the torches and lanterns kept on as before, with none of them heading suddenly our way.

No booted feet rushed towards us. No iron hooves, either. I decided we’d found Fate’s favor, that time. I hoped the rest of the night would prove as fortunate.

“Do you know what they’re doing, down there?” I asked, in a whisper. I wasn’t really expecting a reply. I had no way of knowing whether Buttercup could speak or understand speech.

She tilted her head and eyed me curiously. I shrugged.

“No matter. We’ll just watch for a while.”

And we did. They dug. Dirt was hauled the edge of the light and dumped. I tried to pick out the ringleaders by looking for anyone not carrying a tool. Part of the activity right at the edge of the excavation was obscured by a tent that was being erected as I watched, and I wasn’t willing to risk moving just to see around it.

A horn blew, three short blasts. In the Army that meant archers to the fore. To the men below, it meant more shovels, on the double, because a mob of them leapt from the backs of various wagons and hoofed it toward the hole.

It was then I caught a brief glimpse of what I decided was the man in charge. A small group of men made a slow circle of the pit. Three of them carried odd glowing implements that they held out over the hole on lances.

The fourth was twice the height of any man I’d ever known, and as thin as he was tall. If he were a he at all. No way to tell, since he or she was wrapped in white robes from head to toe.

I tried very hard to sink back even further into the shadows. My knowledge of Rannit’s sorcerous crowd was by no means exhaustive, but anyone that odd would have been mentioned, here or there.

Which meant an out-of-town wand-waver was in the mix.

I thought back to those stories we told each other in the trenches. There had been something about an inhumanly tall wand-waver, way up in the Northlands. Longshanks or Longlegs or some such, fond of using plagues as weapons. The diseases had killed humans as well as Trolls. There had been grumblings that our losses to illness had been at least as numerous as those of the enemy.

After the War, the bulk of the Regency’s sorcery corps moved with the Regent to Rannit, which had survived the War with relatively little damage. The sorcerers who didn’t make the move were generally the ones who’d made powerful enemies among the wand-wavers who did.

Buttercup gobbled down the last of her corn bread. She then licked the napkin clean of crumbs and butter before deciding my other pockets might bear more yummy treasures.

“Whoa, sister, that’s no way to act.”

I grabbed her hands. They were tiny, but strong. She smiled and before I realized what was happening she leaped up in my lap and kissed me, square on the lips.

I fell over backward. Dry leaves crunched. Tattletale twigs snapped. Buttercup fell with me, giggling and redoubling her grip. I tried to pry her away without hurting her, but her tiny stature belied a powerful frame.
I was about to stand up and take her by the shoulders and just push her an arm’s length away when we both heard the sound of a horse trotting through the trees.

She let go. She drew her hands up over her mouth, covering a tiny mewling noise.

The blue glow shone through the limbs, coming our way.

--- End Excerpt

Want to read more?  Then clickety-click with your nimble little finger, dear reader.  Your choice of formats is below.

THE BANSHEE'S WALK as a printed book
(Pre-order now, comes out June 7)

THE BANSHEE'S WALK for the Amazon Kindle
(Available now!)

THE BANSHEE'S WALK all other formats!

Enjoy!

Trash on Parade: Kage Games LLC

UPDATE 4-26-2011 1612 CST -- The game app has been PULLED from the Android store.  VICTORY

The world, as you know, is filled with worthless, reprehensible scum.

This week, I present to you the creators of the Google Android app 'Dog Wars,' who have just edged out Westboro Baptist for the top spot in my coveted 'Waste of Skin and Air' list, which showcases the most flagrant examples of humanity gone horribly, terribly wrong.

I know that some of you believe no person is bad through and through.  Some of you believe that hidden in even the darkest heart, a tiny spark of goodness survives, needing only patient, compassionate nurturing to blossom forth into the flower of human kindness.

People like you are so cute.  Clueless, of course, and nearly defenseless in a world that eats kittens for breakfast, but you're cute nonetheless.

And utterly mistaken.  Take for instance the Dog Wars game I mentioned earlier.

The creators of this travesty find it amusing to equip and fight virtual dogs in bloody VR death matches.  I suspect they and their mutant scum customer base use the app between actual dog fights and felonies, i.e., passing the time between violent home invasions and hanging around various alleys in search of their next fix.

Because those are the sorts of people who enjoy dog fighting.  They also enjoy rape, murder, and of course armed robbery, and they'd do them all at the same time if they had just a few more appendages.

The owners of Kage Games LLC know their market base (scum, worthless, see also Trash, Vermin, etc.) and are pandering directly toward it.  Of course, they defend their wares with a variety of mentally-challenged arguments,  claiming their 'game' is a harmless simulation.

Sure it is.  Just like 'Wife Beater 2.0,' and 'Mega-Rapist 2000.'

What?

Those last two aren't games?  Why not?  After all, they're just harmless simulations.

Oh, right, because they not only depict but glorify violent crimes.  My bad.

I've looked for contact information for Kage Games LLC.  There's a web page, but it's a static image with no links or contact info.  I suspect the 'owners' pulled anything resembling an actual page when news of their disgusting game hit the web.

I'd love to let  Kage Games LLC know what I think of them.  Too bad they don't have the guts to put their names out in public.  But since they're hiding, the best I can do is call them out here:

An Open Letter to Dog Fight Fans, the Makers of the 'Dog Wars' App, and the Defenders Thereof:

You are filth.  Trash. Aberrations. Utterly and wholly contemptible.  Without worth or value as people of any sort.  Even the base chemicals which comprise your gap-toothed, foul-smelling bodies are worthless, since they must be riddled with impurities and laced with raw sewage.  


I can only imagine what sort of creatures brought you into the world.  Siblings, of course, who were in turn descended from a long line of siblings.  I suspect you were raised up in a remote cabin, where you practiced random cannibalism when you weren't molesting livestock or trying desperately to evolve opposable thumbs.


And now you've discovered the Internet.  Wonderful.  And you saw a need among your like-minded brethren for a 'game' that glorifies the killing of innocent dogs.  Lacking any sort of compassion or other higher mental functions, it's no surprise that you dived in with both club feet, eager to make a few fast bucks off your two favorite things, suffering and violence.


It appears that your 'game' will be yanked from the Android market any moment now.  And that's good.  Your sort of 'entertainment' has no place in a civilized society.


And neither do you.  It is my most sincere wish that each of you and your 'fans' contract something both truly nasty and inexorably disfiguring.  Huge anal warts, for instance.  Untreatable.  Incurable. And slow.

Now that would be fun.  Maybe you could even make it into a game app!  Plot the spread of the cancer through your system, maybe even have the raging tumors fight.  


Sounds like a fun game to me!  

If you'd like to email android and ask them what in the **** they're doing keeping such a piece of trash on their Market, do so here:

press@google.com













Westboro Baptist -- Ya'll Don't Come Back Now, You Hear?

I don't follow the gap-toothed meanderings of the inbred loons who comprise Westboro Baptist church much these days.  I do have a Google alert set in case a headline containing the words 'Westboro Baptist church bus plunges flaming explosion carnage' pops up.  I'm always ready for a good laugh.

So I had no idea the whole wretched Westboro mob was heading for my home state just last week.

But they were.  To Brandon, Mississippi, to 'protest' during the funeral of USMC Staff Sgt. Jason Rogers, who was laid to rest last Saturday.


I can't imagine what Sgt. Rogers' family was going through.  I can imagine their reactions to seeing the misshapen, drooling troglodytes from Westboro waving signs that mocked their son's untimely death.  No one should be forced to endure that.


I know, I know, free speech, even for those who don't deserve it.  And I agree with that.


I also agree with the people in Brandon who decided the Rogers family had quite enough to deal with without adding the Westboro protest to the list.


According to my sources, trouble started early for the Westboro 'faithful,' in the form of an impromptu beat-down outside a Brandon gas station at which a passer-by demonstrated to a loudmouthed Westborite that yes, you have a perfect right to defile the memory of a dead man, and by the way have you met my fist?


The pugilistic stranger left the scene, and due to poor lighting conditions and a sudden uptick in sunspot activity witnesses gave conflicting descriptions of the assailant to the Brandon police.  Some claimed the stranger was tall and white.  Others maintained he was short and African-American.  Still others produced elaborate sketches of Gandalf, or the Green Hornet.


The Westboro street preacher waddled back to his hotel, sadly unavenged.


The actual morning of the planned  protest brought even more difficulties for the various primates from Westboro. When the Westboro bunch emerged from their motel rooms, after doubtlessly spending their night picking through each other's hair in search of lice and ticks, it seems careless motorists had parked their large and unwieldy pickups behind all the Westboro vehicles.  Inexplicably, the drivers of the poorly-parked trucks could not be found.


The Westborons demanded a tow truck.  Such was dispatched, but became lost in the teeming metropolis that is Brandon, Mississippi.  The delay was such that the 'protesters' were unable to travel to their appointed spot in time to disrupt the funeral.


What a shame!  They are after all such lovely, wonderful people.  I do hope their experiences here don't sour them on the state.  


In fact, I'd like to extend to each and every Westboron a special invitation.  


Come back to Mississippi anytime. 


We are, after all, the hospitality state....  

Weary Bones

Tonight, I'm just tired.

I shouldn't be, really.  I'm 87,000 words into a new novel.  Yes, you read that right.  Eighty-seven thousand words done, which leaves another thirteen thousand to go if I'm aiming for an even hundred thousand.

This isn't a Markhat novel, either.  It's something new and completely different.  And it's nearly done.

I should be turning cartwheels.  Shouting. Frolicking in sun-dappled meadows in slow motion while a string ensemble provides soothing background music.

Okay, maybe not frolicking.  I'm too old to effectively frolic without risking a hasty, expensive trip to the ER afterward.  Too, the visual was disturbing.  So, new policy:  No frolicking.

But why am I so lethargic, all the sudden?

Maybe it's just physical.  It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Whatever the cause, I need it fixed, right now.  I need to stick THE END on this new one, and get moving on the edits.  But right now I'm having trouble focusing.  A few minutes ago I wrote the same sentence twice, and while some might hail such repetition as a brilliant example of the new avant-garde it will just get me rejected.

I think what I need is coffee.  And a new day.  This one is shot.

I'll leave you with the title of the new work-in-progress.  It's called All the Paths of Shadow.  I love the title. I can almost see the cover art, too.  And the movie posters.  Especially those.

Now that's the kind of thinking that might just restore me.





What I'm Reading Now: Moon Dance

I snagged a great Kindle e-book a couple of days ago.

One of the great things about owning a Kindle is the opportunity to browse thousands and thousands of indie and self-published titles.  Now, I'll say up front that most of these books are, to be blunt, crap.  In many cases, there's a reason the authors chose to self-publish, that reason being no publisher on Earth would read past the first paragraph, let alone pony up a small fortune to see the awful thing lurch to life in print.

But they're not all bad.  I can always tell before I'm done reading the second line of the book description, because the same writer who writes that wrote the book.  If it's a confusing, wandering quagmire of cliches and purple prose, I move on.

But there are gems hidden amid the refuse.  One such gem is Moon Dance (Vampire for Hire #1) by J. R. Rain..

It's only 99 cents.  Yeah, I'm a tightwad.  But J. R. Rain should really be asking more than a buck for Moon Dance.

I have a weakness for film-noir private eyes.  I firmly believe the world should be black and white, stuck circa 1940.  Fedoras.  Rainswept streets at midnight.  Dames.

So you're probably thinking Moon Dance is set in a world just like that, right?

Wrong.  The protagonist is a working mom, with two small kids and a lot of laundry.

She's also spent the last six years as a vampire.

So no fedoras.  Rainswept streets, maybe.  But what the book has is the most important thing of all -- it's got the heart and soul of a gritty, unflinching PI novel.

I doff my hat -- a damp fedora, with two bullet holes -- to J. R. Rain, whoever they are, because not only do they know how to write, but they know how to write the stuff I like.

I'll post a full review when I'm done.  Again, that's Moon Dance, by J.R. Rain.



Near Midnight for Lennox

I've received word that tomorrow is the date for the final appeal for Lennox.  If the new judge rules to uphold Ken Nixon's tragically erroneous ruling of last week, then poor Lennox will be put down on the grounds that he is a dangerous pit bull dog even though he is not a pit bull and has never demonstrated any aggression or received a single complaint.

Look.  This entire situation is ridiculous.  The Belfast City Council Dog Wardens had a warrant, and the address was wrong on the warrant, and they wound up at Lennox's house.  Being the stunning paragons of intellect that they are, the Dog Wardens looked about, spied a black dog, and hauled him away on suspicion of being a pit bull.

Fast forward ten months.  Yes.  Ten freaking months.  I've seen photos that leaked out of poor Lennox, a beloved housepet, crammed into a tiny cage surrounded by his own feces.  That's what passes for animal care in the merry old town of Belfast.  Hay and crap.

You go, Belfast.  Keep that sort of mindset up, and you'll hit the thirteenth century any decade now.

The Belfast City Council also kept Lennox's status and whereabouts a secret during this time.  Lennox's owner, a twelve-year-old girl in ill health, had no idea whether her furry friend was alive or dead.

Another score for Belfast.  First we've got animal cruelty, now we get just a hint of child abuse.

Belfast, is there any reprehensible low to which you will not stoop?

But the story gets worse.  When poor Lennox's case is finally heard by a judge (remember the ten months part?), District Judge Ken Nixon ignores DNA evidence which proves Lennox is not a prohibited breed pit bull dog.  This judge ignores Lennox's lifetime of good behavior.

No, District Judge Ken Nixon sentences Lennox to death, because apparently all pit bulls are black and thus all black dogs are pit bulls and ipso facto, hocus pocus, abracadabra!

Guilty.  The sentence is death.  Next case please.

Nice work there, Judge Nixon.  I suppose jurisprudence is a lot simpler when you hide an old Magic 8 Ball toy under those robes.  Guilty, Innocent, Reply Hazy Try Again Later -- have I told you how much I admire your keen legal mind?

No?  Good.

But now Lennox has one final chance, before one last judge.

I hope that justice will win the day.  I hope that finally, someone in authority will look at this whole sordid convergence of incompetence and outright stupidity  and dismiss the wretched case once and for all.

That won't make up for the year Lennox has suffered at the barbaric hands of the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens, or the little girl's suffering as she mourned for her missing friend.

But it's at least a step in the right direction.

And that will be a first for Belfast in this sad matter.

UPDATE:  The news I got about Lennox's appeal was incorrect.  Today is the day the date for the appeal will be set, not the day of the actual appeal.  My apologies.

Belfast Buffoonery: Judges Sans Judgement

The case of Lennox, the dog who was seized in Belfast for being a pit bull despite a DNA test which confirmed he was NOT a pit bull, has taken a sudden tragic turn for the worse.  Scroll down to see my earlier posts about this travesty.

The Belfast City Council Dog Wardens, more commonly known locally as 'sheep fanciers,' kept Lennox locked away in a tiny tiny cage for a year before a judge finally heard the case.

Not that the Wardens had much of a case.  They identified Lennox as a pit bull, a breed prohibited by local law. The Wardens came to this conclusion after engaging in a stunning bit of police work.

They measured Lennox's back legs.  With a cloth tape measure.

Yeah.  That's "CSI: Belfast."  A couple of quasi-literate bumpkins and their mum's old sewing tape.

Anyway, after a lengthy round of finger-counting and open-mouthed division, these paragons of law enforcement declared Lennox a pit bull and carried him off.  Lennox then spent a year in the tiny cage I just mentioned, surrounded by his own feces.

I was appalled at that, until a friend who's been to Belfast assured me that sleeping in a bed of one's own droppings is quite commonplace there.  Oh, a few rich society Belfasters do use fancy outdoor toilets, but they are in the minority.

But back to the case.  This judge, a District Judge we'll call Stupid McStupidson, heard the evidence, wiped drool from his bottom six chins, and declared that Lennox was a menace to public safety, and must therefore be put down.

Unless Lennox's owners can win an appeal, Lennox the not-pit-bull is doomed.

Doomed for the crime of being large and black.

Public safety, Judge Mac MacStupid O'Shaunesy?  Yes, yes, I can see your point.  This dog, which has never harmed anyone, could secretly be procuring anti-tank weapons from North African arms dealers, and burying these weapons in his backyard, just waiting to strike.  You are very wise, District Judge Stupid McStupidson .  Most of us were completely fooled by Lennox's lack of opposable thumbs and speech or writing abilities.

But that makes him the perfect terrorist!

And since Lennox has a spotless record, and since he isn't a pit bull, why else would he have spent a year in solitary confinement?  He must be guilty!

It's all so clear now.  All so obvious.

And all I had to do to understand District Judge  Stupid McStupidson's reasoning was apply a little common sense.  Well, apply a little common sense and huff five cans of cheap gold spray paint.  That knocked my IQ down several hundred points, and now I'm in a perfectly Belfast state of mind!

If I huff another half a dozen cans, thus reducing myself to a mental level somewhere between that of carrots and sand, I might even be qualified to run against District Judge Stupid McStupidson in the next next election!

Wait, wait.  I'd need to move to Belfast to do that.

And even after picking up a drug habit and rendering myself Belfastish, I'm not stupid enough to do that.

PS --

I hope someone will forward this blog post  to the judge.  Then I hope someone else will read it to him, slowly, explaining the big words as they go.  I know that will take time, but I've heard if you keep a bucket of fish handy he'll sit still as long as you keep feeding him.  Try, won't you?


UPDATE 9-30-2011:

In a stunning display of judicial incompetence and profound stupidity, Judge Dereck Rodgers just decreed that Poor Lennox, after spending 18 months locked up, is to be put down.

I am appalled beyond words at the thuggish, brutal cretins who run Belfast.  From the Dog Wardens to the bloated, ham-faced dog 'experts' to the witless judges, Belfast is nothing but a blight upon the Earth.  I wish everyone involved with the prosecution nothing but misery and misfortune.


UPDATE, REDUX --

Lennox was not put down in September of 2011. Instead, he was held in legal limbo, with no visits allowed, while the Belfast legal community struggled with weighty matters including but not limited to 'how to read without sounding out the words aloud' and 'what kind of rash is this.'

Lennox remains on Death Row.



Banned from Belfast!

I knew it was coming.

The Belfast City Council has blocked me from posting on their Facebook page and has deleted all my previous posts.  It seems they do not love having their penchant for murdering dogs spoken about in public.  Or maybe they were simply intimidated at the sight of two-syllable words.  Most of the posts created by residents of Belfast were of the 'wher i gits beere?' variety.  Several were open solicitations for intimate relations with underage donkeys.  And people claim Belfast has no night life!

Honestly, I was surprised to find a Facebook page for Belfast at all.  Setting up any sort of web page seems beyond the grasp of that mob of raging alcoholic leprechaun-molesters -- but wait, they probably paid a human to set them up.  Yes.  I should have realized that immediately, since the Belfast page lacked any references to bestiality, inbreeding, or public urination, which are all time-honored civic traditions in quaint little Belfast.

A judge ruled on Lennox's case a couple of days ago.  Now, let's take a quick look at the facts.  The Belfast City Council Dog Wardens, hereafter referred to as 'Child Molesting Guinness-Swilling Sheep-Buggering Fascist Drooling Inbred Morons,' grabbed Lennox the not-pit-bull after going to the wrong house.  That's right.  The warrant wasn't even for the address at which poor Lennox lived.

Why anyone would have the Child Molesting Guinness-Swilling Sheep-Buggering Fascist Drooling Inbred Morons of the Belfast City Council a written warrant is quite beyond me.  That's like sending my dogs to the grocery store with a shopping list written up in a 32-bit cipher code.  Good things are simply not going to happen.

And they didn't.  The Child Molesting Guinness-Swilling Sheep-Buggering Fascist Drooling Inbred Morons showed up at the wrong house.  Deep in the recesses of their dim little minds, they knew they were sent after a pit bull dog.

I can almost hear the stunted synapses in their miniscule brains struggling to connect.  Pit. Bull. Dog.  Lennox. Dog.  Lennox. Black Dog.

A pair of neurons managed a single brief connection.

Lennox pit bull dog!

And thus poor Lennox was led away.

Led away to languish in a tiny cage filled with his own feces.  Photos prove this.  Worse, Lennox remained in this cage for a year.

A year?  Really, people.  I know the Belfast City Dog Wardens -- pardon me, the Child Molesting Guinness-Swilling Sheep-Buggering Fascist Drooling Inbred Morons -- have a lot to do.  They have to remember what shoes are for.  Every morning for them is a struggle with door-knobs and buttons and a dozen other fiendishly complicated devices.

Just stumbling from the alley beside the pub and down to the Dog Warden office probably occupies most of their morning.

Finally, though, Lennox's case was presented to a judge.

One would think that a judge would posses certain mental qualities.  Detectable brain activity, for a start.  Some meager command of language.  The ability to relieve oneself without soiling one's robes.

That's what one would think.

But remember, this is Belfast.  Belfast, often referred to as the open, running sore of the United Kingdom.  Belfast, land of enchantment, if by enchantment you mean buggery, outdoor lavatories, and frequent encounters with piles of human feces.  That Belfast.

And so, in keeping with a millennia-old tradition of making the kinds of legal decisions that leave mollusks gasping in open disbelief, this Belfast judge decreed that Lennox the dog should be put to death, for the crime of being not-a-pit-bull, having black fur, and not living at the address listed on the warrant.

Way to go, Your Honor.  High-fives and dark skunky beers all around.  Keep up that level of stellar legal work, and you'll be Lord High Mayor of the malodorous trash-heap that is Belfast before you can say 'let's go club some baby seals.'

I don't know what's going to happen to poor Lennox.  I hope that the recent outpouring of rage aimed at Belfast might convince them to relent.  Understand I'm not expecting an appeal to their better natures to work. I don't think anyone on the Belfast City Council has a better nature.  But even a band of bloodthirsty goat-fanciers understands economic loss, and the whole 'Hey, let's kill some black dogs, just for the lulz' attitude isn't helping draw tourists toward the cloud of black flies that hangs like a noisy cloud over Belfast.

If you're angry about the treatment of this dog, let the mouth-breathers on the Belfast City Council know it.

Hit them here on Facebook.  Email the toothless beer-swilling gits here.

And then let's all hope that someone in Belfast grows an extra brain cell or three.

Yeah, it's a faint hope, but that's about all Lennox has right now.






When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, A Dog is Probably Dying: Lennox Part Deux

If you're new to my blog, you might want to scroll down and read yesterday's entry before you dive into this one.  

To recap, yesterday I learned about the sad case of Lennox, a mixed breed dog who was seized by the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens in Belfast last year on suspicion of....well, who knows?  Lennox spent five years living peacefully with his family.  There were no complaints about Lennox, from anyone.  He'd never displayed aggression, overturned a tour bus, or even barked all night.  He might have chewed on a rubber ball as a puppy.  Accounts vary.

Perhaps, though, Lennox's incarceration has nothing to do with him at all.  Maybe the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens ran out of kittens to drown.  Maybe the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens were in a foul mood because they woke up and realized all the cool people fled during the Potato Famine.  Maybe the only woman in Belfast lost her razor.

In any case, the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens seized Lennox after determining his back legs were 'pit-bullish.'  Poor Lennox is now on Death Row, crammed in a tiny cage and surrounded by his own feces, because that's the way they roll in leprechaun-infested Belfast.


This makes me angry.  I love dogs.  Unlike the people of Belfast, dogs are loyal, trustworthy, intelligent creatures. Creatures who for some reason love humans.  I've known quite a few humans in my time, dear readers, and 'lovable' isn't the first word that leaps to mind when attempting to describe them.  Mainly because it's only a few brief interludes of inbreeding that separates humans from the drooling primates that reside in scenic Belfast.

I wrote the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens and expressed my views on their policies, their practices, the parentage, and their overall lack of personal hygiene.  A reply may be a long time in coming, since I used words like 'hygiene' and the combined efforts of the entire Belfast City Council may be required to open a dictionary, much less read from it.

Which leads me to wonder -- just what sort of people make up the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens?  Internet sleuth that I am, I soon stumbled across a document which each applicant for the office of Dog Warden must complete.  I'll share it with you, since I believe it explains much about the reasons behind Lennox's sad imprisonment.

APPLICATION OF PROFESSIONAL EMPLOYMENT
TITLE: BELFAST CITY COUNCIL DOG WARDEN

Minimum Physical Position Requirements:

Applicant MUST be able to lift 20 Kg club high enough to deliver lethal blow to puppies.  Ability to stomp kittens and goose-step preferred but not required (will train on the job). 

Hours:

Applicant must rise from their crypt promptly at sunset.  Some Sunday work may be required, if Puppy Croquet games run over.

Renumeration:

The successful Applicant may be paid in Euros or with the blood of infants, as requested.

APPLICANTS MUST COMPLETE THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS IN ORDER TO BE CONSIDERED:

1) You spot a puppy approximately eight weeks old playing with a pair of children in a private yard.  When you decapitate the puppy, to which screaming child do you present the severed head, the lad or the lass?

2) While on patrol, you receive reports of a tabby cat resting quietly on a sunny window-sill.  After fining the owner and dispatching the feline with a cricket bat in the name of Public Safety, do you also charge the owner remove the cat's remains, and if so, how much?  Be specific.

3) Select which of the following attributes identifies a dangerous dog: 
A) Four legs   
B) Three legs      
C) Any legs, or none    
D) Eyes    
E) A detectable pulse    
F) A tail

4) Tail-wagging by a dog is a sure sign of:  
A) Cannabalism     
B) Allegiance to Satan, the Dark Lord 
C) Both of the above

5) In your tenure as a Dog Warden for the Belfast City Council, you may encounter members of the press who see the tortured carcasses strapped to your Vespa and offer disparaging remarks about your work.  How will you respond to these persons? 
A) Club to forehead     
B) By eating their young
C) Will claim to be Belgian      
D) With blank, vacant stare


Thank you for your interest in this position.  The selected Applicant will receive the corpse of a small terrier as a token of our esteem.


There you have it.  I understand a little better now why our hump-backed brethren across the sea feel compelled to keep poor Lennox locked up for so long and for no apparent reason.

They don't need a reason.  Lennox is a dog.

To the good people of the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens, just being a dog is reason enough.







Ire at the Irish


Who am I mad at tonight?

Ireland.

No, they didn't blow up my favorite pub in the 1970s.  I'm angry with Belfast; specifically, with the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens.  I'm mad because last year, these Dog Wardens (spelled 'goose-stepping Nazi bastards') seized a five year old pet named Lennox from his home.

What misdeed led to Lennox's removal?  Had he bitten a toddler, chased a mailman, growled at a neighbor?

No.  Lennox never did any of these things.  In fact, if Lennox ever so much as befouled a flowerbed no record of this act exists.  He had all his shots and licenses.  He lived indoors with a respectable family.  He was, by all accounts, every bit as dangerous as a damp sponge.  A damp sponge stored in a box.  A box put away and forgotten in the attic.  In your saintly old grandmother's house.  We're talking a Threat Level of Fluffy Pillow here.

But enter the Belfast City Dog Wardens!  Undeceived by Lennox's spotless record of good behavior or the glowing reports from friends and family, these feckless experts in the field of canine sleeper-cells whipped out a tape measure, performed a bit of on-site necromancy, and declared Lennox a slavering, rampaging beast just waiting for the right moment before tearing his way through a nursery school, Cujo-style.

And so they took Lennox away.  Now, I'm not entirely familiar with the laws in Belfast.  I do find it mildly disturbing that beloved family pets can be seized by the approximate equivalent of Wal-Mart greeters after being charged with, um, nothing at all.  Except for being black.  And looking a bit pit-bullish, if one sticks one's head in a bucket of oil and squints just so.

Once the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens had Lennox, the dog's family was kept in the dark.  Again, I find this puzzling -- were the Dog Wardens fearful that Lennox might somehow pass state secrets in and out of his cage?  Was Lennox being held of suspicion of espionage, as well as being somewhat big-boned?

Were the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens trying to break Lennox, convinced he was in fact the notorious Belfast Bank and Vault Robber ("They're always after me lucky charms!")?

We'll probably never know that.  But what we do know is gleaned from a photo of poor Lennox which was leaked to his family.

It shows Lennox in a tiny, tiny metal cage, surrounded by his own feces.  Food or water?

I suppose the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens consider food and water to be luxury items.  Or maybe they lost the recipe for water.

I've written a letter to the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens.  I don't expect a reply, mainly because A) literacy may be a bit of a stretch for people who can't tell pit bulls from mutts, and B) I doubt they like me very much.  Which is fine, because I don't like them either.

The text of my letter is below:


My name is Frank Tuttle.  I am an author and blogger from the USA.


By now you've realized why I'm writing, and you're correct -- this is indeed about Lennox, the dog seized a year ago and held since then on suspicion of possibly resembling something that from a considerable distance and in a dim light might look like a pit bull breed.


I've also seen the photographs of poor Lennox in what passes for acceptable quarters in merry old Belfast.  Tell, me, mister or miss Dog Warden, is it customary for the citizens of Belfast to sleep in small cages surrounded by their own feces?  That certainly doesn't fit with the tourist brochures which depict Belfast.  Or is it only small harmless dogs that are housed in this manner?


Seriously.  You people storm in to a private home, haul away a harmless pet, keep it confined on ludicrous grounds and in deplorable conditions, and you call yourselves 'dog wardens' and 'public servants?'  What's the matter, you couldn't  find openings as bull-stabbers for Spanish matadors?


I'd always thought the Irish were a kind and compassionate folk.  I suppose all those brochures were in error as well.  Note to Self: Call travel agent, cancel any plans to visit Belfast.  I don't do well in cages, feces or not.


I feel certain I'll never receive a reply to this email.  After all, with your busy schedules of goose-stepping through quiet neighborhoods looking for puppies to snatch and inspecting your cages to ensure they are small and filthy, you probably have little time left over to reply to the emails of foreigners.  


But that's okay.  I'm posting this on my blog, for all the world to see.  Hopefully I can educate others as to the attitudes of dog wardens in Belfast.


May a leprechaun piddle in your beer,


Frank Tuttle


I never said I was a very nice person.

I encourage all my readers to visit the SAVE LENNOX website and read the story for yourself.  Oh, and if you'd like to drop the good people of the Belfast City Council and/or Dog Wardens a few lines, here are the addresses.  Tell 'em Frank sent you!



The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Pointless Animal Cruelty

Spain, Spain, Spain.

What am I going to do with you?

First you insist on not only retaining but celebrating the barbaric spectacle (I am not going to call it a sport) that is bullfighting.  Frankly, that's bad enough.  Some nights, when I have trouble sleeping, I stroll down to my secret subterranean lair, pull up a world map on the UberComputer, and put the crosshairs on Spain while I fiddle with the ANTIMATTER ANNIHILATE button.

I haven't pushed the button.  Yet.  Mainly because of Penelope Cruz.  She's Spanish, and up until now that was reason enough to sway me from pushing the button.

But now I see this. Be warned, the link is quite gruesome.  Allow me to summarize for the tender-hearted -- horse abuse is now rampant in Spain, as the economic calamity there renders droves of the newly rich suddenly poor.  Which means thousands of horses are being abandoned at stables, left to starve, or left to suffer any number of other cruel and undeserved fates.

I'd probably have skipped over the story with a shake of the head had a Spanish vet not remarked that she'd seen numerous cases of horses with untreated gunshot wounds to their legs.

Gunshot wounds received when revelers fired shotguns close to the horses' hooves in order to make then dance.

Let that sink in.  There are people out there who find it not only acceptable but amusing to wound horses just to make them dance.

Elsewhere in the article, someone theorizes that the horses are being abused in response to some sort of repressed rage on the part of the formerly wealthy owners.

So again I ask -- Spain, what is your freaking problem?

Spanish crowds mob stadiums to watch some latex-clad jackass prance around and stab a bull until the poor thing bleeds to death. The crowds throw flowers.  Despite dressing like Pee Wee Herman, Spanish matadors have somehow achieved rock star status in Spanish culture, all while performing acts that result in swift arrest in civilized parts of the world.

I'm not sure who disgusts me more -- the crowds or the matadors.

I'm sure you'll all seen those videos of bulls managing to skewer some slipper-clad twit of a matador.  Or videos of an enraged bull leaping into the stands and trampling a few 'spectators.'

I cheer at both.  The video I really want to see is the one in which a bull gives a bovine colonoscopy to a matador before flinging him into the crowd and then leaping atop the shrieking mob until blood and cheap wine run down the stands.  Followed by a rushing inferno that roasts each and every 'fan' while they crush each other in a vain attempt to escape.  And then maybe a news helicopter crashes into the fire, just to make absolutely sure there isn't one single survivor.

I'd get the Blu-Ray of that.  And laugh for the full length of it.

I know full well Spain doesn't have a monopoly on animal cruelty.  Americans fight dogs to the death every day.  But at least we arrest them when we catch them, and we don't set the dogfights in arenas and praise the courage of the idiots running the shows.

I think I've had it with Spain.

I think the next time I have trouble sleeping, I'm not only going to press the ANTIMATTER ANNIHILATE button but hold it down until all those geologists who've spent years wondering what Earth's mantle looks like can stroll over to the edge of the smoking crater and have themselves a look.

Yes, Spain, even Penelope Cruz can't save you from my wrath now.


MidSouthCon 29 Roundup, With Pics and Darrell Award Goodness

It's a cold windy day in Mississippi, and the travelling Tuttles are home after enjoying the many sights and sounds of MidSouthCon 29.

I've got pics!  They're below.  I'm using them a bribe, hoping you'll stick around for the text too.

My big news from the Con is of course the Darrell Awards for 2010.  The Cadaver Client won the 2010 Darrell Award for Best Novella.  And much to my surprise, The Banshee's Walk won the award for Best Novel.

First of all, I need to thank my editor at Samhain Publishing.  Without Bethany Morgan and her patient, wise editing, the Markhat stories and books would all still be languishing on my hard drive.  So Beth, a huge thanks to you!

And of course a huge Elvis thank-you-very-much to the hard-working Darrell Awards folks, who read huge stacks of entries every year with little or no thanks.  So thanks, all!

Now, about the Con.  I had a great time, met some gracious and fascinating people, talked to a zombie or two, got to rub elbows with other writers and publishers, and sat in on some great panels.  I was reassured to hear that no matter our places in the publishing food chain, we writers all seem to struggle with the same issues and jump much the same hurdles.  At least that hasn't changed.

I was surprised to see so many publishers walking around above the ground.  To hear the news coming out of the Big Six, you'd think the publishing industry was nearly as decomposed as the zombie pictured below.  But the small presses at the Con appeared to be doing just fine.  They're selling new books and signing new writers.  That's good news indeed.  Check out Yard Dog Press for a great example of a small press doing big things (wave to Selena!).

I'd need a kick in the head if I didn't also mention the artists.  Look, I've got a couple of Michael Whelans, a signed Vincent Di Fate, some pretty good stuff.  But the Art Room at the Con was a real eye-opener this year.  There are some fantastic artists out there, doing incredible work.  We grabbed a piece and even got to meet the artist, which as a blast.  You should check out Nene Thomas online.  Wow.  Just wow.

Pictures, I promised you pictures, didn't I?  Okay.  Here they come, in no particular order...

Fig. 1, A Zombie.  

He was cool.  He followed people around the lobby until they noticed he was behind them.  The Con-goers would smile and laugh.  The insurance salesmen from Duluth stood there wide-eyed, which is why the only people who will survive the coming zombie apocalypse are are science fiction and fantasy fans.  We know better than to stand s;till when the zombie closes in.

Kids and R2

There were a lot of kids at this Con.  Normally, I'm not all that enthused when I see a nunch of kids areound, but these kids weren't the yelling-shrieking-running-amuck sort.  They were well behaved and having fun, and R2 was a big draw.  I talked to the guy running R2; it took him three full years to build the little droid.  And believe me, it was movie-quality.  R2 moved, reacted, had all the right lights and sounds.  Heck, I doubt anything actually used in the movies was half as cool.

Steampunk Cowboy

Okay, you all know I've made some Steampunk stuff myself.  But sheesh.  These guys are artists.  Look at that gun.  It's [powered and lighted.  The vacuum tubes glow.  All made by hand, just because it's cool.

The Power Pack

Above is the backpack for the guns.  It lights up too.  The awesome generated by this piece cannot be measured by the instruments of Man.  And this wasn't the only piece of hand-made art roaming the halls -- no, it's just one I managed to get a picture of.  There are some insanely talented people out there.  



Ghostbusters!

Who you gonna call?  Well, if you're me, you'd call Room Service for another pizza, but these guys are handy if you've got haunts.  All their gear was movie-quality or better.  All handmade.  I wanted so bad to steal the PKE Meter, but they kept a sharp eye out for potential thieves, darn their hides.



Fig. 3B, Serious Business


Of course it wasn't all Steampunk and robots.  Above are the authors who presented the Different Flavors of Fantasy panel -- Stephen Zimmer, Jeannie Holmes, Ruth Souther, and Violette Reid.  I was hiding in a crawlspace to the right of the table.



You Really Need a Caption Here?

Above is Wonder Woman, and why not?   Pssst -- she told me Supergirl dyes her hair...


Storm Troopers.

No SF/F Con is complete without the diligent presence of the hard-working minions of the evil Galactic Empire.  And we had quite a few Storm Troopers, all arrayed in brilliant white.  They help out with crowd control at the Masquerade, and there's nothing more fun that being told to 'Move along' by a Storm Trooper's crackly little helmet radio.  

Darth Vader Searches for the Men's Room


I times are tough for the Empire too, because Darth was poking around without a single minion.  I saw him slip into a bathroom.  I'm not sure he heard me say 'Look out, it's a trap!'  but maybe that's for the best.





Finally, there's this guy.  No, that's not a photo from the Con.  We ran into him in a Chevron gas station just off I-240 in Memphis.  Lucky for us, he was almost immediately brought down by stray small-arms fire from a  club across the street.  Stay away from the airport frontage roads, kids!  

I had a blast at the Con.  The people are fantastic, the programs and panels are worth their weight in Unobtanium, and here's a big huge thank you to all the people who worked hard to make MidSouthCon 29 another complete and total success!

And thanks again to Beth!






Live From MidSouthCon 29!

I'm surrounded by Storm Troopers and Hogwarts staff and even a few Ghostbusters.  So I'm either hallucinating (again) or I'm at the Con.

It's been a blast.  I've managed to meet Laura J. Underwood and Angelia Sparrow, and a few others. I sat in on a humor in horror panel and listened to the adventures of some real-life ghost hunters. We've got a bid in on a brilliant piece of artwork down the Artist's Room.  Tonight is the Darrell Awards ceremony.

It's busy but it's fun.  Here are a couple of pictures, just to give you an idea of who's wandering the halls:

Guest of Frank Tuttle (lol) strikes a pose

Small Con-goers meet a fully animated R2


Who will you, in fact, call?

Will post more later, have to get to a panel now...

More Con Ramblings -- WITH EVIL!

Well, I've packed up my business cards, my zoot suit, my spare eyeballs, and my extra skin in case the skin I'm wearing starts turning green early.  So I'm as ready for MidSouthCon as I can possibly be.

As promised, I'll be blogging about the Con, and posting pictures.  If I spot you at the Con with your Kindle you'll be immortalized in medium-resolution pixel fame on my blog, right above a snappy caption.  Show me one of my books on your Kindle, and I'll bump you up to a hi-res image and shower you with praise and as many of those little packages of crackers restaurants put on tables as I have in my pockets at the time.

Yeah, baby, that's how I roll.

I'm really looking forward to the Art Show, which I think I neglected to mention before.  There will be an entire room devoted to SF and fantasy artists and their works, and I saw some amazing items there last year.  Sadly, security in the room was competent, and I didn't manage to leave with any art, but this year I'm bringing money, just in case.

And of course I'd be remiss if I didn't notice people in costumes.

Do I wear a costume?  No.  Mainly because my usual workaday appearance is cartoonish enough.  I'm a middle-aged white dude with greying hair and what is kindly referred to among smaller folk as 'a few extra pounds.'  Sticking orange horns on my head or wrapping myself in a cape isn't going to fool even the most myoptic of observers that I'm anything but a bookish IT guy who refuses to act his age.

I do like the costumes, though.  It adds to the fun, looking up and realizing you're standing between a towering Klingon complete with filed incisors and a pair of slave Princess Leias.  And while some of the costumes are last-minute affairs worn just for grins, quite a few people devote considerable time and effort to their rigs.  Who doesn't enjoy a free art show?

The news people will drift around, of course, spend a few minutes laughing up their sleeves at us, get a brief clip of Storm Troopers mugging for the camera.  And in most cases media coverage doesn't go any deeper than that; after all, they're just looking for a 25-second short to stick between News and Sports.

But there's a lot going on, behind the elves and the aliens.  An industry  is rewarding its fans for their support, and giving the writers and the artists and the editors and the publishers a peek behind the curtain.

It's great fun.  Hope to see you there!













MidSouthCon 29

Science fiction and fantasy fans are a unique breed.  We have a subculture all our own.  And like any subculture worth its weight in fluff news stories and the occasional police report, we have our culture-specific gatherings -- in our case, cons.

'Con' is short for 'convention.'  There are numerous science fiction and fantasy cons scheduled for many times and places all across the world, but when I say 'the con' I mean MidSouthCon.  MidsouthCon is nearly 30 years old, and is held in Memphis, Tennessee, former home of Elvis.  This year the Con is at the Hilton, which has yet to be renamed the Frank Tuttle Hilton.  I suppose they're waiting for the opening ceremony at the Con for that.

Click the con link above if you're curious.  I went last year, and had a blast, so naturally I'm heading back this year too.

Part of my reason for going is business.  I like to see what other writers are doing, hear publishers talk about the industry, listen to authors talk about publishers.  There are panels about everything from aardvarks in fantasy to zombies in romance, and you'd be surprised who leads the panels sometimes.

I've also been nominated for the Darrell Award, and as a self-aggrandizing hog for attention, there's absolutely no way I'd miss being there in case my name is called.

I'm going to take my camera and blog all about it, so be on the lookout for that.  And if any of you are planning to make MidSouthCon 29 in Memphis this year, please, look me up!  I can usually be found clinging to the pant-leg of a hapless publisher or being escorted to the lobby by Security.  In the case of the latter, please wait until the tasing wears off before initiating a conversation.

Those things sting no matter how many times you've endured them.

Hate-Filled Spew

I'm messing with you.

I can see how many times each of my blog entries is read, you see.  And I've noticed a distinct correlation between inflammatory titles and the number of hits.  So I decided to test my observations with this blog entry.

Thank you for your kind participation.

Of course, if I wanted to actually write a hate-filled spew, I'd find no shortage of material or targets.  Heck, as long as professional idiot Glen Beck has a TV show, the field is bursting with ripe, tender targets.

And I do owe you something for clicking.  Hmm.  Very well, gentle reader.

There.  A quick Google session, and I found that just yesterday Beck was ranting about how rival network MSNBC was a tool o' Satan.  Which is funny, because I'm pretty sure the Prince of Darkness could pull in better ratings.  The average re-run of a three year old episode of 'SpongeBob SquarePants' scores more viewers than MSNBC's highest rated show, and if you're the singular embodiment of all the evil in the universe, you've simply got to do better than that.

Beck then went on with some bizarre rant about end times prophecies and famine.  Well, Beck should take a close look at his best buddy Rush Limbaugh, and that should pretty much alay any fears about famine, because Limbaugh is still finding the caloric equivalent of an entire Denny's each and every day without any apparent difficulty.  Let's not start worrying until Rush loses a couple of chins, mkay, Glen?

Honestly, I wondered how Beck and Limbaugh stay on the air.  Then I went to Wal-Mart and had a look around at the mouth-breathing troglodytes waddling through the aisles and it all made perfect sense.  Again.

Does that satisfy the minimum requirements for a hate-filled spew?  Please say it does.  Don't make me drag Michael Vick into this.  That makes my right eye twitch.

Enough.  I've got work to do, and by work to do, I mean a new NCIS to watch.

Peace out, fellow babies.







Now for the Nook!

I have a Kindle e-book reader.  I love it, too -- Amazon sells more e-books than I'll ever be able to read, and I can grab anything I want with a couple of clicks and be reading it in minutes.

But the Kindle isn't the only game in town.  Barnes and Noble has the Nook, and now Barnes and Noble has e-books for the Nook written by none other than me.

So if you've got a Nook and the subliminal mind-control programming built into this blog post is working, you're now feeling a powerful urge to head on over to Barnes and Noble and load up your Nook with my books.  

Helpful guy that I am, the links to Nook e-books are below.  Don't fight it.  Browse...buy....obey....

The Banshee's Walk -- Markhat's latest case starts with a possible land-grab, but ends with his discovery of a banshee.  Does the banshee's cry sound Markhat's doom?

The Cadaver Client -- Rannit's most skilled finder is hired by a dead man to locate the wife he left behind.  Or so Markhat is told -- but do even the dead tell lies?

Hold the Dark -- When Markhat's world falls apart, he's left with nothing but a burning desire for vengeance, even if it costs him his soul.

The Mister Trophy -- Will a rich man's trophy room re-ignite the War that Markhat still struggles to forget?

Dead Man's Rain -- A dead husband.  A rich widow.  Scheming heirs.  And one very haunted mansion -- all brought together for one dark and stormy night...

Of course, all these titles are also available from Amazon, for the Kindle (just click on the cover pictures to the right).

Want a format other than Nook or Kindle?

No problem.  Head on over to Samhain Publishing.  They've got my titles in every format imaginable, including plain HTML and pdf.


What I'm Reading Now: Pale Demon



Nope.  No spoilers here, because I'm only a quarter of the way through the book.  So don't feel like you need to hit the back button if you're a Kim Harrison fan who hasn't read Pale Demon.

If you're a fantasy reader who isn't already a Kim Harrison fan, you should be.  She writes a great yarn -- fast-paced, unpredictable, imaginative, and just plain brilliant.  Her Rachel Morgan character is every bit as much fun as Jim Butcher's Harry Dresden.  And from me, that is high praise.

The Rachel Morgan books are the books I thought Laurell K. Hamilton was going to write with her Anita Blake novels.  I stopped reading the Anita Blake books after book three, I think it was -- too much were/vamp romance and angst and not enough, well, anything else.  Anita is in love with this guy, and this guy, blah blah blah.  If I wanted Twilight with an R rating I'd -- well, I have myself beaten to a pulp, that's what I'd do.  Twice.

But Harrison has avoided the bogged-down-in-drama pitfall.  I love the way she takes a simple premise and weaves a whole book around it.

I'm not giving anything away that isn't on the book blurb by saying this much.  Rachel, Jenks, and Trent wind up taking a very unlikely three-day road trip across post-Turn America.  There may or may not be assassins on their heels.  Trent and Rachel may or not be at each others' throats most of the time.

I'm only a quarter of the way through, but man is it good.  Magic is flying.  The tension is palpable.  The stop in St. Louis?

Somebody please make a movie out of this.

Most of the time, when I read a book, I find myself picking it apart, chapter by chapter, word by word.  If it's good, I want to dissect it, see what makes it tick.

I can't do that with Pale Demon.  The pages won't let you not turn them.

I'll probably read it a second time with an eye toward stealing Miss Harrison's pacing tricks.  But for now, I'm just sitting back and enjoying the ride!






The Little Things

Writing is a solitary pursuit.  There is me.  There is the keyboard.  There are dogs, and desks, and chairs.

But mostly there is a lot of silence, some eye-rubbing, some frowning.  All that is interspersed with furious spates of typing, followed by more frowning, stabs at the DELETE key, and then it's back to silence and eye-rubbing.

Rinse and repeat until you hit 100,000 words.  Then start all over with the editing, which looks just like the writing except for the muttering and the scribbling of cryptic notes on a paper notepad beside the keyboard.

My point is that it's easy to forget why, exactly, you're hunched over a keyboard for hours on end.  I get so wrapped up in the process, sometimes, that I forget all about the most important part of the scene, which is of course the reader.  Sneaky of me, wasn't it, to never mention the reader?

Because all this eye-rubbing and typing is nothing -- less than nothing -- if no one ever reads the book.

But people do.  I just got an email, minutes ago, from a reader who just finished the most recent Markhat book, The Banshee's Walk.

This intrepid soul finished Banshee while they sat in a rental car on a hill in Hawaii, waiting for the tsunami to hit the coast.

I'm not a big fan of the water.  The nearest coast is more than 400 miles from me, and that's just the way I like my coasts. Because if I was anywhere near the beach and I heard a rumor of a rumor that a wave more than knee-high was on the way, I'd be hijacking planes and heading for the Himalayas before you can say 'run-on sentence.'

So for me to learn that someone out there chose to read 'The Banshee's Walk' while nature threw a deadly temper tantrum across half the planet, well, I am deeply and profoundly touched.

So thanks for the email, Mo.  I am thrilled that you like the Markhat books, and I'm honored that you or anyone for that matter devotes some of their time to read the things I write.

It makes all the scribbling and the muttering truly worthwhile.




Tula Cemetery EVP recording, October 1, 2017

 

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