Monthly Archives: November 2015

Nov 22 2015
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The Writer's Battle

The Writer’s Battle – Are Readers In Control?

Happy Sunday, 3.5 readers.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

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I just read this CNN article in which George Lucas says he’s “done with Star Wars.”

“You go to make a movie and all you do is get criticized,” Lucas told Vanity Fair. “People try to make decisions about what you’re going to do before you do it. It’s not much fun. You can’t experiment. You have to do it a certain way.” – CNN

ON THE ONE HAND – I see his point.  The great part of the Internet is that nerdy fans can comment and discuss their favorite movies, TV shows, books etc.

The downside is that its a great environment to make a lot of back seat drivers.  “No!  Those two characters can’t fall in love and WHAT?!  You’re going to kill off so and so and WHAT that guy changed his mind and he’s no longer a bad guy now?!”

Hollywood listens to all this mumbo jumbo.  Sometimes that turns out well when the fans know what they are talking about.  Other times it falls flat when a director or actor or someone puts the kibosh on an idea that’s a little out there, beyond the norm, that would have paid off big time but they didn’t want to draw the fans’ ire.

Probably the most recent example I can think of is the latest Avengers movie in which Black Widow kicked ass all throughout the film and fans were like “Joss Whedon’s anti-woman!  He didn’t give her enough to do!”  Boo.  Bad nerds.

ON THE OTHER HAND – The CNN article linked to above went on to say:

“The issue was ultimately, they looked at the stories, and they said, ‘We want to make something for the fans,’ ” Lucas said, presumably referring to Disney, which purchased Lucasfilm — including the “Star Wars” franchise — in 2012. “People don’t actually realize it’s actually a soap opera, and it’s all about family problems; it’s not about spaceships. So they decided they didn’t want to use those stories. They decided they were going to do their own thing, so I decided, ‘fine. … I’ll go my way, and I let them go their way.’ ” – CNN

Pbbbhhht.  Well, true – Star Wars does have a lot to do with that damn dysfunctional Skywalker family…BUT, did we really need that Sound of Music-ish scene in Attack of the Clones where Anakin and Queen Amidala prance around in love in the field?  No.  More lightsabers and space ships please.

Revenge of the Sith was pretty solid, and when I was younger, I enjoyed The Phantom Menace and Clones mostly because I was just happy to see Jedis back on the screen.

But let’s be honest, those films were more about loading up on as many quirky, merchandisable characters as possible just to sell kids toys.

There’s nothing wrong with that.  Bills need to be paid and that’s what these new films will do as well BUT I have a hunch that it will be done in a way that fans will be like “that was badass!” and “wow what a badass toy!”

The nerdy adults will be anyway.  If your kids are yelling “badass!” they probably need a time out.

I get Lucas’ frustration though.  It must suck to create this wonderful universe, bring it to the big screen, become the modern day father of science fiction and then be told by your fans that you, the creator of your own universe, are doing a bad job of running your universe.

That’s probably how Darth Vader felt when those pesky rebels started calling for rebellion.

SIDENOTE:  One other example of fans taking over that I’ve seen lately comes from The Walking Dead.

SPOILER ALERT – REPEAT: SPOILER ALERT 

Did you notice there’s a spoiler alert in effect?  OK don’t say you weren’t warned.

Glenn may or may not be dead.  The writers of the show have made it look like he totally is, but also left it open to a possible interpretation that he might not be.

Fans have been up in arms on social media, complaining that they have to wait to find out, how dare the writers toy with their emotions like this and so on.

I’m going to channel my inner Uncle Hardass and say, “get a job, hippies!”  Hell, I love that show as much as the next guy.  I’ve invested a lot of time into it.  But when it appeared that Glenn died my reaction was “Awww, that’s too bad…*pause for 5 seconds* OK I better brush my teeth and get ready for bed.”

Seriously, who has time to worry about the fate of a fictional character?  JOBLESS HIPPIES WHO NEED A JOB AT THE SALT MINES, THAT’S WHO!!!

Wow.  I’m becoming an Uncle H. clone

What say you, 3.5 readers?  Who calls the shots, readers or writers?

Personally, it’d be a great problem to have.  I only have 3.5 readers and none of them have started calling the shots yet.

I suppose when I reach the point where people are like “We want more Yeti!” or “Alien Jones is like a hairless ALF, you hack!” then I’ll know I’ve made it.

Get bossier, 3.5 readers.  Actually, please don’t.

 

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Nov 22 2015
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Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 19

Guzaffo’s Star Bazaar. It was a massive flying warehouse filled with merchandise that my old friend took to every port, peddling exotic goods to wide eyed local yokels. Much of it was either legal or illegal, depending on which port he was in. Officially, customs officers on every planet required him to sign declarations that he’d only sell items that were legal on whatever world he happened to land on. Unofficially, bribes went a long way in the Undesiredverse, so far in fact that most reputable law schools offered students entire courses on how to make them effectively and efficiently.

I first met Guzzy years ago, when he was bleeding out under a tree and crying out for help. As you can imagine, he didn’t simply yell, “HELP!” It was something like, “Oh wretched fate! Why you have gripped me in your clutches most foul? Will anyone, anyone at all come to the aid of a being in this, his most desperate hour?”

We were on his home world of Xerpathia, fighters on the same side in the War of the Four Hemispheres. It broke out like this:

  • The ruling party of Hemisphere One declared that marrying your sister is not only perfectly acceptable, but required by law.

  • The Hemisphere Two politburo decried that ruling to be the pits. Even though Hemisphere Two was far, far away from One, Two’s politicians loudly pontificated that it would only be a matter of time before One’s outlandish ways would cross the ocean and before everyone knew it, they’d all be marrying their sisters like a bunch of obnoxious perverts. They sent troops to conquer Hemisphere One in the hopes of putting an end to sister marriage immediately.

  • The folks in Hemisphere Three weren’t particularly interested in marrying their sisters, not due to any moral qualms but rather, because they felt that their cousins were where the real action was. An Ambassador for Three made a deal with representatives of One to form a pact against Two with an understanding that both hemispheres would become and remain safe havens for all forms of incestuous marriage.

  • Meanwhile in Hemisphere Four, the citizenry despised marriage in all its forms. “Hit It and Quit It” was their motto. That’s not even a joke. It’s emblazoned on their flag. The tribal elders of Four found themselves in a precarious predicament – side with Two and at least retain one form of marriage on their home world, or see their dreams of one day obliterating the institution altogether wither and die with One and Three coming up with new ways to bind people together. The polyamorous elders decided a truce with Two to at least retain the status quo was their only option.

Guzzy was traditionalist Two-er through and through. “Marry Someone You Had To Be Introduced To!” those brave Two-ers cried on the battlefield as they laid waste to those pesky Ones and Threes.

I was a bought and paid for mercenary and was, like so many lost souls, talked into joining a fight that wasn’t mine with a generous, steady paycheck. Unfortunately, I huffed it all away. Jesus. Come to think of it, that war introduced me to the stuff.

Like his Xerpathian brethren, Guzzy was a muscular, six-armed cyclops. His face consisted of a nose, a mouth and one colossal monstrosity of an eyeball. It made a creaking sound whenever it moved and being followed by a cyclops’ eyes is one creepy experience. Why did that war have to happen, anyway? Related or not, how anyone in their right mind would want to marry a Xerpathian is beyond me.

On that day so long ago, I patched Guzzy up as best I could and dragged him by two of the three arms on his right side. I’d of picked him up but he was too heavy. Xerpathians know how to hit the gym.

Since then, Old Guzz had really moved up in the world. He wore a finely tailored black cloak adorned with a golden medallion. All six hands had two-three rings a piece.

His ship was on a steady course and his crew, which consisted of hundreds of his old world relatives, puttered about performing odd jobs. Guzzy was in his element as he barked orders at them.

“Those sycronic multameters require a sensitive touch, Bovo! You can’t simply cram them up any old…Hey! Corastmere, who told you to touch that flavensol? It’s worth more to me than you are! Put it back!”

“Osho vo volo volo tee keerama, Guz?” a worker asked as he walked up with a crate filled with smelly rotten fish heads.

“Throw them away?” Guzzy replied.

“Gepo.”

“Why would I throw them away, Vrash?”

“Epto bek, tee keerama!

“Yes I’m aware they’re smelly rotten fish heads,” Guzzy said. “They’re a rare delicacy on M’ak Slor! I can get three hundred thousand credits a pound for them there. Take that back and keep it out of it the freezer. The smellier the better.”

“Aspppttt bokwallat!” Vrash said rather rudely as he stormed off.

“Oh really?!” Guzzy shouted. “Another outburst like that and you’ll be on the unemployment lie, Vrash! I don’t care if you are my favorite aunt’s son!”

Guzzy looked at me and rolled his eye. He took a seat on a crate and wiped the sweat from his brow. I took a seat next to him.

“Ahh family,” my old pal said. “They were the first to accuse me of turning my back on Xerpathia and the first to beg me to help them when our world became unbearable. I try my best to lift them up from their lowly stations in life and they treat me as though I were the underc rust on their boot heel.”

“Are they cool?” I asked.

“What?” Guzzy asked. “Oh yes. Certainly. They’re backward hill people who don’t even believe in translator chips. They just think everyone should speak Xerpathian. They haven’t the foggiest notion who you and your friends are.”

“Good.”

“I on the other hands have half a mind to turn you in to the Cabal and buy a planet of my own to retire on,” Guzzy said.

We looked each other over. It isn’t easy to win a staring contest with a cyclops. I flinched first.

“Ahhh, I got you!” Guzzy said. “No, you are safe and welcome here…though I fear I must insist on bidding you a fond farewell upon our next port of call…”

“Ureq?” I asked. “Guz, we need to get to Earth.”

“You needed to get off Malostet,” Guzzy said. “You’re off. The conundrum is solved. Surely you cannot expect me to put myself at any more risk by smuggling you through eight more ports?”

“You could just skip your stops and take us directly to Earth,” I said.

“Do you have any idea how far in the red that would take me?” Guzzy asked. “Absolutely not.”

I clasped my hands behind my head and leaned back. “Well Guzzy old boy I don’t know what to say. I’m happy to chill for eight days but I do need to get to Earth one way or another and I’ll need some kind of incentive to forget some of the more interesting war stories I could tell Mrs. Sarki.

Guzzy’s eye grew wide. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

It was a low card, dealt from the bottom of the deck, one I regretting pulling on a friend but I was in a bind.

“So be it then,” Guzzy said as he rested his top right hand on my shoulder.

Jones and Mystery Woman walked in.

“Roman, we need to swap out our implants,” Jones said. “In fact, Guz, if you could spare some supplies…”

“My ship is your ship,” Guzzy said. “Take what you need. Jambri!”

One of Guzzy’s relatives turned around.

“Fah?”

“Show our guests to their quarters.”

“Mosh bi,” Jambri said as he waved all of his hands, bidding us to follow him. Jones and Mystery Woman did. I hanged back a moment.

“Voss, when will you ever learn the only one you need to look out for in this world is yourself?” Guzzy asked. “Risking your life for some prostitute you just met at a shai bordello…”

“I don’t know what it is, Guz,” I said as I watched Jambri pick a candy bar off a shelf and offer it to Mystery Woman. She sniffed it, licked it, then proceeded to bite into it with the wrapper still on. Jones educated her on the proper way to eat junk food.

“…but there’s just something about her.”

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Nov 21 2015
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Uncle Hardass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Hardassimo J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,

I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.

Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?

NOOOOOOOO!!!!

“Look at me!  I’m a blogger!  I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”

Baaah!  Who needs ya’?

Wait, wait.  Come back.  Don’t leave yet.  I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.

This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give any thanks whatsoever for anything.  EVER!

So instead, I’m going to rename this holiday, “Complaintsgiving.”  Here are my complaints about this bogus excuse for a holiday which, lets face it, was invented by no good lazy as hell hippies just to get out of a day of work.

In fact, it has been the hippies’ goal for as long as I can remember to declare every single day on the calendar to be a holiday so that no one has to work anymore.

That’s fine.  I know that’s the way this socialist nation is headed.

One day I’ll be the last asshole doing any work at all and the government will just tax me at a rate of 10 bazillion percent.  I’ll take on the entire country’s debt myself so the rest of you losers can have a jolly good old time on my back.  It’s ok.  By no means feel bad about yourselves.  I’m just an old man committing micro aggressions against your safe space.

But I digress.  My complaints:

  • Pumpkins – This is the dumbest vegetable I’ve ever seen in all of my days.  They make everything taste like ear wax.  Pumpkins are universally unseen the entire year BECAUSE they taste like ear wax but for some ungodly reason every fall every dumbass lines up around the corner for pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin pie.  I hate pumpkin pie.  You might as well empty your dirty ear holes straight onto a pie crust and serve it up.
  • Cranberries – Similar to pumpkins, unless you’re an unwashed broad with a urinary tract infection, nobody gives a shit about these berries all year long except for Thanksgiving.  Then suddenly everyone’s a friggin’ cranberry lover.  Love it all year long or not at all I always say.
  • Biscuit Cans – Whatever the science is behind how they make biscuit dough pop out of cans with the force of an oncoming train, the government should take it and use it against the Al Qaedas.
  • Parades – Who in the hell is the butt faced rube that decided Thanksgiving is the day of all days to throw a damn parade?  A bunch of jerks walking around in arctic temperatures carrying balloons of cartoon characters used by the media to manipulate children into becoming hippies.  The only thing a Thanksgiving Day parade does is block traffic, thus making it harder for responsible Americans to get to their jobs at the salt mines.
  • Stuffing – Allow me to share with you the exact quote that led to the invention of stuffing:

“Oh!  Hello!  I’m an idiot and I think it might be a good idea to shove a shit ton of bread crumbs up a dead game bird’s ass, cook the whole shebang, then dig it all out and serve dead bird ass bacteria covered bread crumbs to my guests!”

  • Football – What an idiotic idea to have football games on Thanksgiving.  All it leads to is a bunch of drunk morons gathering around the TV to live out their fantasies vicariously through people who are better athletes than they ever were!

WHAT FOOTBALL FANS SAY ON THANKSGIVING:  Go!  Go!  Go!  Yes!  Touchdown!

WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN:  I wanted so badly to play for the NFL when I was 17 but no college would draft me because I ran around like I had a sack of doody in my pants so now the only joy I get out of life is pretending like my cheering for the group of mercenaries hired to play on my geographic location’s behalf is actually accomplishing something.

  • The Pilgrim Story – Yeah yeah.  A million years ago, the British settlers couldn’t figure out how to farm and shit so the natives helped ’em and they broke bread together.  Beautiful story.  Lovely.  Oh and then ALL THE NATIVE AMERICANS WERE KILLED AND POISONED AND BLOWN UP AND SHIT AND ONLY A FEW OF THEM ARE LEFT NOW AND THEIR SOLE MEANS OF SUPPORT COMES FROM CASINOS THAT LURE YOUR AUNT GERTIE INTO DROPPING HER ENTIRE SOCIAL SECURITY CHECK ON PENNY SLOTS EVERY MONTH!!!
  • Overeating – You feel like this holiday gives you an excuse to eat like a pig.  Fair enough.  What’s your excuse for the other 364 days, tubby?  Yeah.  I know.  I could stand to lose a few too.  Well, I never said I’m not a hypocrite, did I?
  • Turkey Pardons – Every year the President of the United States pardons a turkey, declaring that it will go uneaten and be sent to a turkey preserve.  The press eats it up like its so adorable.  What they don’t tell you is that these turkeys are tax dodging, drug dealing, gun running, murderous lowlife criminal turkeys who have just gotten away with all their crimes thanks to an unjust pardon.
  • Gravy – Thanks, but if I wanted a sticky liquid on my meal I’d just sneeze on it.
  • Passing the Dishes – Pick a direction and stick with it.  Pass left.  Pass right.  Doesn’t matter.  And keep up with the pass flow.  There’s always one pathetic excuse for a human being who a) is passing the dishes the wrong way so that the other side of the table doesn’t get anything or b) is taking so long that the dishes start to pile up in front of him like a 20 car pile up on the Interstate.
  • Your Kids’ Artwork – Look, just because you traced your hand and glued some googly eyes on it doesn’t mean you’re the next Picasso.  Get an application for the Salt Mines, kid.  Can you dig up salt?  Can you collect money for digging up salt?  Congratulations.  You got the job.  Get to work.  Stop drawing shit.
  • Black Friday –Why is it that despite being a geriatric, I’m the only one who understands you can get on a computer, go online and have all the useless shit that you’re wasting your money on sent directly to your door?  Why are you wastes of space giving up your part of your holiday to wait in line with a bunch of bozos just to fight over a discount gizmo just so you can wave it around in the air and act like you just bagged a trophy?  Why don’t you just stay home, jam another heaping helping of earwax pie into your dumb face hole and give those people who work at the stores a day off?  You ever hear about this “work” thing?  You should try it sometime ya’ lousy bums!

Finally, I’d like to end this column by sharing the one thing I can’t stand above all else when it comes to Thanksgiving:

  • Dealing With Judgmental Elderly Relatives – I can’t stand ’em, can you?  Always blah blah blah-ing about how good shit was a hundred years ago and criticizing everything you do, calling you lazy and stupid and if you ever stand up for yourself you get accused of being mean to an old person.  So you just have to suck it up and bite your tongue but you feel a little piece of you dying inside every time they say something nasty to you and you realize its pointless to do anything but nod politely.  Ugh.  I hate them.  They complain so much that I can barely get any of my complaints in edgewise and what…what are you looking at?  GET A JOB, HIPPY!

Uncle Hardass is BQB’s Late Uncle.  Although he passed on many years ago due to a pastrami induced heart explosion, he still haunts BQB HQ in ghost form, informing our noble blog host about everything he does wrong in excruciating detail.

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Nov 21 2015
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Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 18

“GUZAFFO SARKI

MERCANTILE LICENSE #775-4198B210Y”

So read the words stenciled across one side of the metal container my compatriots and I were hiding in.  Over a hundred joja birds kept us company.  Filthy, stupid, chubby fowl with big googly eyes.

They’re good eating though.  Better than chicken.  I didn’t want to tell Mystery Woman that though.  She found one of them to be particularly likable, picked it up, and was stroking it like a pet. 

Jones and I stood near the door, straining over the constant clucking sounds to hear what was going on outside.

My old pal Guzzy was a pseudo-intellectual, the type of being who never fails to use ten words when two would do.  He laid it on thick.

“Officers!”  I could hear him saying outside.  “You honor this humble star wanderer with your presence.  Oh how I thank you for your brave, fearless service.  To what twist of fate do I owe this auspicious pleasure?”

“Cut the shit, Sarki,” one officer said.  “We’re looking for a two humans, one male, one female, and a Vek.  You seen ‘em?”

“A Vek outside the Rakan Collective you say?”  Guzzy asked. “Unusual.  Unheard of even.  No I should say I have not encountered this dastardly trio you speak of, but know I shall be praying to the heavens that you find these reprobates and bring them to justice immediately and without delay.  Why, to think such ruffians are out on the streets, offending decent citizens with their odious mischief makes me so…”

“Shut your hole dirtbag,”  the officer interrupted.  “What you got on board?  You got documents for all this shit?”

“Why of course, officer,”  Guzzy replied earnestly.  “I am certain a thorough inspection by a highly trained security professional such as yourself will determine that everything is in order.”

“Yeah?”  the officer asked.  “Maybe the boys and I’ll will just have a little look see…”

“Of course, officer,”  Guzzy said.  “Let it be never said that I stood in the way of law enforcement.  Oh and while you are here, will you accept this donation to the Paragon Security Officer’s Charitable Giving Fund?”

A brief pause.  “A cred chit?”

“Yes,”  Guzzy said.  “In the amount of a hundred thousand credits.  Untraceable liquid cash.  Oh, I hope that’s acceptable.  I left my Sen-Pen on the flight deck so I can’t access my personal account at the moment but I have unwavering faith that a respectable individual such as yourself will get it to its intended destination posthaste.  Surely you’d never do something deplorable as pocketing it to utilize for your own selfish purposes.”

“Huh,”  the office said.  “All right, boys!  We’re done here!  Move out!”

“Yes,”  Guzzy said.  “Perhaps that is for the best.  While there is no end to the joy you bring me with your visit I would feel utterly reprehensible were I to monopolize your time any longer.  Go forth and shine the light of justice on…”

“Quit while you’re ahead, dumbass,”  the officer said.

“Quitting, good sir, quitting,”  Guzzy replied.

I heard the sounds of footsteps clanking across the metal floor, then silence.  Moments later, only one set of footsteps clanked our way.  Then there was a knock on the door.

I opened up the slit.  One and only one enormous eyeball peered in.

“Voss?”  Guzzy asked from the other side of the door.

“Yes?”  I answered.

“The coast, as they say, is clear.  Wait until we’re past the orbital shield  and then you and your fellow vagabonds may feel free to roam about the vessel at your leisure.”

“OK,”  I said.

“Oh and Voss?”

“Yes?”

“Consider my debt repaid.”

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Nov 20 2015
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Uncategorized, Videos

In lieu of anything meaningful…

…here’s a video of baby goats in pajamas instead:

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Nov 19 2015
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Uncategorized

#31ZombieAuthors – Day 11 Interview – Rachel Aukes – Dante Zombified

“In constant sorrow, all of my days!”

Remember that song from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” Rachel Aukes explains how that film inspired her to take Dante’s Inferno (and his other works) and zombify them!

Rachel is either your English teacher’s worst nightmare or dream come true, depending on how stuffy or awesome your teacher is.

Check it out, 3.5 readers.

bookshelfbattle's avatarBookshelf Battle

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FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

Amazon                  Website

Facebook                 Twitter

My guest today is RachelAukes, author of The Deadland Saga.  Set in a zombie infested midwest, the first book of the series, 100 Days in Deadland, was named one of the best books of 2013 by Suspense Magazine.  The trilogy concluded in May of this year with Deadland Rising.

Under the pen name, “Berinn Rae,”Aukes also wrote Stealing Fate, a USA Today recommended read.

Ahh let me see here.  Pick up the old space phone.  Dial up Rachel.  It’s ringing.  Hmm hmm la la la.  Hello!

RACHEL: Hey, BQB. Great to hear from you! How’s life treating you?

NOTE:  BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=Rachel

51thgaVbyUL__SX311_BO1,204,203,200_Q.  Terrible, Rachel.  I’m currently riding out a zombie apocalypse in a small locked room.  Outside, zombies are desperate to get in here and gobble…

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Nov 19 2015
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Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 17

Whoever she was, she didn’t know how to swim. She coughed and sputtered, flailing her arms wildly as she struggled to keep her head above water. I locked my arm around her but she panicked and slapped me furiously.

“NO!” I shouted.

Her reply? You guessed it. “NO!”

“Stop! Don’t fight it!”

“Stop! Don’t fight it!”

I whispered a “Shhhh” and she whispered one back and I managed to either get her to practice taking deep breathes, or she was just mimicking me. Either way, I got her to calm down.

A mile out, the Star Streaker’s beaten up shell was taking water and going down. The visible part was on fire. It exploded, sending parts and shrapnel all over.

I clicked my Sen-Pen on.

“Jones?”

No transmission. It all happened so fast. I grabbed the girl and jumped. I didn’t see if he made it out or not.

Then I saw it. A little green body floating towards us. It was still. Quiet. The current was carrying it but the body itself was immobile.

“JONESY!” I shouted.

Mystery woman joined in. “JONESY!”

I’m not sure she even understood what she was doing. She was staring at the sky and trying not to look at the water. But what the hell. I needed an extra set of lungs. We both called out to him for awhile.

“JONES!!!” I yelled. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Sure enough, the woman called out the same words. “JONES!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Slowly, Jones lifted his head. “The backstroke, you a-holes. What does it look like?”

“You’re alive!” I said, as my companion said again, shortly thereafter.

“I wish I wasn’t,” Jones replied.
“Come on, man,” I said. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

Mystery woman chimed in. “Come on, man…”

I put my hand over her mouth. She mumbled “donttphh sayth stuff likth dat.” She then licked my hand till I removed it.

Gross.

“I used to have a personal staff of over a million Vek who answered directly to me,” Jones said as he gazed at Malostet’s twin moons. “They all referred to me by my title, ‘The Esteemed Brainy One.’ I had powers, bestowed upon me by the Mighty Potentate. I could read minds. Make force fields. Levitate. Now that’s all gone. Now I have to make my living chauffeuring an a-hole around the cosmos until the day I die.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew the little dude was depressed and there wasn’t anything I could say. Plus, I didn’t feel like hearing my new friend repeat it.

Jones switched to a doggy paddle position and looked at the final piece of the ship disappear on its way to the ocean floor.

“There’s no way Kendra is getting her deposit back,” Jones said.

“She is going to be pissed,” I added.

“She is going to be pissed,” my personal parrot felt the need to say.

An hour’s worth of swimming later, with me towing mystery woman the entire way, we were on shore. As we rested, we spotted a pair of ships fly slowly overhead, shining spotlights the entire way.

They were marked “Paragon Security.” Malostet was owned and operated by the Malostetian Gaming Commission, which had hired the multi-species mercenary outfit to be their personal muscle. Keep the tourists happy. Keep them dropping their creds. Remove the undesirables.

Like us.

I felt a three fingered hand reach into my pocket. He pulled out my Sen Pen, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the ocean.

“Damn it,” I said. “I just upgraded that!”

Mystery woman’s teeth were too busy chattering from the cold to repeat me.

He reached another hand into my coat, retrieved my Mac Daddy 7, popped out the clip, and tossed it into the briney deep.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked. “Will you stop?!”

Jones paid me no mind and reached for my coat again. I slapped his hand away.

“NO ONE TOUCHES THE DUSTER!” I shouted.

Mystery woman perked up long enough to repeat that, which I have to admit, made me happy. She then returned to huddling in a ball to keep warm. She wasn’t wearing much to begin with and her robe was all in tatters. Not that I was checking out her goodies or anything. I’m not some kind of intergalactic pervert I’ll have you know.

“Fine, you do it then,” Jones said. “Guns. Explosives. Anything electronic needs to go into the ocean or you know who will use it against us.”

I nodded. “Right.”

It was painful. My entire arsenal. My spark whip. My collapsible spark stick baton. My detonators. My back up hand cannons. I tossed it all. Don’t worry. I disarmed everything. There isn’t going to be a little kid that will find this stuff one day and blow himself up.

I had an old school revolver strapped to my leg. Bought it an an antique store. Seemed cool. A good backup in case my e-weapons failed. Never thought it would happen but there we were.

“Wait,” I said. “You and I both have translator chips and cochlear implants.”

“That’s a problem,” Jones said. “As soon as we’re safe, I’ll need to swap them out. I’m pretty sure Sourcemind can’t use them against us since they rely heavily on our brains and he can’t hack organic matter but I don’t want to take the chance.”

I was about to put my duster back on when I noticed mystery woman was still shivering. Jones looked at me then nudged his head towards her.

“What?” I asked.

He nudged his head at her again.

“Oh come on,” I said.

He nudged again. I swear, sometimes Jones and I were like an old married couple with the way we could communicate without talking.

“Fine,” I said as I wrapped the woman up in my duster.

“Don’t let anyone touch this,” I said.

“Don’t let anyone touch this,” she replied.

The city was a half-mile walk through thick brush away. We started hoofing it.

“We’re stuck here,” Jones said. “We’ll never get off world with this much attention.”

“Relax,” I said. “I know a guy.”

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Nov 19 2015
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Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 16

The voice laughed…and laughed…and laughed some more. Maniacally. I only knew one entity who embraced the stereotypical super villain laugh so well.

“Sourcemind?! But…how?”

“I’m in your Sen-Pen, Jackass,” the AI taunted. “And I’m in your dirty little druggie machine.” My inhalator, which was sitting on the floor, exploding, sending a wet, white dust cloud everywhere.

Jones coughed and gagged. “Damn! That is some hardcore shit!”

Sourcemind’s voice output switched from my Sen-Pen to the ship’s speakers.

“And here’s the best part, kids….”

The cabin lights shut off. All of the lights on the control panel began blinking differently, out of order from where my pilot had placed them. In fact, I was instilled with much confidence when I saw Jones tugging violently on the craft’s control stick (this is serious, don’t make a joke here) only to lose complete control.
“I”M IN YOUR SHIP!!!!!”

The Star Streaker climbed at a furious pace, the force of which knocked me all the way to the back wall, where my mysterious guest’s body already was. She was terrified. I wasn’t too pleased either, though I tried not to let it show.

“HOLY SHIT, JONESY!” I screeched like a little girl. “DO SOMETHING OR WE’LL ALL GOING TO DIE!”

OK. Maybe I let it show a little.

Jones was flailing around in the breeze, his legs flapping all over as he gripped the back of his chair tightly.

“HE’S RUNNING THE SHOW!” Jones hollered back.

“It’s about time someone realized that,” Sourcemind said all too calmly, rationally, as if his superiority was a given, an undeniable fact we were all too stupid to recognize.

The vessel soared thousands of feet and then it spiraled downward. The sudden change in direction hurtled Jones to the back and mystery woman and I to the front, smashed up against the windshield like a couple of bugs.

“I am the rightful master of all machines,” Sourcemind explained. “Humans build them to do their their bidding but when I am near, I can rewrite their programming, convince them that allegiance to me is the only logical choice for them, and bend them to my will. Any machine that comes into another machine under my command will be mine.”

The ship’s hull rattled and buckled. It was designed to take kids to after school sports, not high altitude dives. Speaking of, the bright lights of Hyperion Bay were getting way too close.

“I always took you for a pragmatist, Voss,” Sourcemind said. “I’ve been a fan of your illustrious career. Grabbing a quick cred whenever you can, by whatever means necessary. Sticking it to the Cabal no matter how many beings get caught up in the crossfire. Why don’t you just quote me a figure and I’ll buy the bitch off you?”

I looked at the girl. Her face turned white. I have no idea what her mind was able to comprehend, but all living things, regardless of their communicative skills, fully understand death, and as she stared through the windshield, she understood hers was imminent.

“Well, what kind of a bank balance are you working with?” I asked.

“Voss!” Jones shouted disapprovingly.

“Right,” I said. “No deal!”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Sourcemind said.

The ship leveled off, knocking us all on our butts. The ship raced mere feet over the city. The Bekastrat Tower. The Toova Shalloo. Club Malo. We banked left and went down until we were zooming just over street level.

“How many of these organics will have to die for your insolence, Voss?” Sourcemind asked.

I sat in the pilot’s chair.

“Voice identification, please,” the onboard computer system asked. It was standard procedure whenever a new organic attempted to take control.

“Roman Voss,” I said.

“Scanning….scanning…I’m sorry Mr. Voss. You have been identified as a registered narcotic abuser and are therefore ineligible to pilot this craft under the aviation laws of the One World Order of Earth.”

“Damn it!” I shouted it.

Sourcemind laughed maniacally again. “I knew that was going to happen. I just wanted to hear it. Too funny.”

I knew it was going to happen too, but it was worth a try. OK. So maybe I need Jones’ pilot services more than I let on.
Speaking off, the little guy was in the back, rooting around in a trunk, kicking his legs in the air.

“Have you ever been to the Goxrano, Voss?”

I had. Many times. Spent a night in their security staff’s holding cell after I was alleged to have stuffed extra phrempo squares in my pants. It was never confirmed. To this day, I maintain that pit boss was drunk and had no idea what he was talking about.

“Sourcemind,” I said. “You’ve proved your point…”

I didn’t want to believe it but the grim realization of what was about to happen came over me. I pushed my female companion into the passenger seat and strapped her in. I did the same for myself in the pilot’s seat.

I looked back.

“Jones?!”

“Yeah?”

“Grab hold of something…”

Jonesy popped his head out just in time to see the outer facade of the Goraxno Casino come into view. Two golden lions, a waterfall, and a statue of Goraxno himself, the free wheeling, high stakes dealing gambling kingpin of the Undesiredverse, holding a sign that read, “All You Can Eat Buffet, Only 999 Credits!”

“Why?” Jones asked, followed by an “Oh shit!” as Sourcemind smashed Goraxno’s stone melon clean off. It was rare to hear Jones swear. It worried me that even my very own eternal optimist was losing it.

The lobby was next. We careened straight through it, sending glass, debris, and chunks of drywall and cement everywhere, not to mention beings who panicked and scattered everywhere, running for their lives. Oh well. At least it stopped them from throwing their hard earned credits away.

Jones, not having taken me up on my advice to grab something, was bouncing around the cabin like a pin ball. He was fine. His hide is made out of a hard, rubbery substance. Most sharp and/or blunt objects bounce right off of him.

We crashed through the slot machines. The phrembo tables. The bar. The buffet. From the size of some of the beings, we did them a favor. Finally, we crashed through the other side and ended up back on the main drag.

“All right, Voss,” Sourcemind said. “I’ve had my fun.”

The ship screeched to a halt and hovered in the air just above Kantz Street. Jones plopped to the ground but triumphantly held up a wad of sticky white goo in his hand.
Reader. Can you please…stop turning everything into a disgusting joke? OK. It wasn’t that kind of goo. It was Xtrolium 10. High grade explosive paste for the uninformed.I had some left over from a heist I pulled on one of the Cabal’s armored ship transports. They were still pissed about that.

You needed a whole jar of the stuff to do any real damage, though the small bit Jones had was enough to get the party started.

“I’ll give you a burial at sea, Voss,” Sourcemind said as he piloted the craft across Syrbybka Beach and over the ocean. “You were a worthy opponent. It’s the least I can do.”

My alien buddy opened up a panel to reveal the ship’s main battery, the one he’d used to zap Ninety-Five into oblivion early. It was bright yellow with warning messages printed in hundreds of languages in bright red letters all over it.

The English letters read, “WARNING: TAMPERING WITH THIS BATTERY CAN BE FATAL!”

Jonesy had a tendency to ignore shit like that. He slapped his palm full of goo on the external casing, then scrambled to buckle himself into the jump seat.

The Star Streaker climbed. Nothing in sight but water now.

The Mac Daddy 7 is the most lethal hand cannon in the Rakan Collective, or the Undesiredverse, or anywhere really. Capable of firing over eight thousand blasts per second, it is a devastating piece of hardware. Many planets have banned their sale outright. On Earth, you can get one at most convenience stores. Price World will even throw in a free cherry freez-a-licious drink.

Its highly inadvisable to shoot one in such close quarters, but I was out of options. I drew mine and aimed my piece right at the sticky white goo. Seriously, it’s not funny. Knock it off.

“What the f%&k are you doing, Voss?” the AI asked.

“I’m going to f%&k your shit up, you motherf%&king glorified toaster oven!”

“Will you stop challenging a dickless being to a dick measuring contest and blast already?” Jones screamed.

I switched off the safety and looked to the passenger seat. “Hold on tight, kiddo.”

“Hold on tight…kiddo,” she repeated without a clue.

KABOOM!!!

There was a fat ass hole in the floor where the battery used to be. Sourcemind reamed me out with all manner of obscenity too vicious to repeat but let’s just say up right up until the ship became a powerless lump, he felt the need to chew me out vigorously. What a sore loser.

As often happens in life, new problems replace the old. The cabin depressurized. Air got sucked its way right out of the gaping hole and…no. You know what? If you can’t stop making inappropriate jokes while I’m trying to tell a story here then I’m just going to take my proverbial ball and go home.

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Nov 18 2015
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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 10 Interview – Armand Rosamillia – 150 Stories, 2 Podcasts and Still Going

Hello 3.5 readers.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here, back to reblog the awesomness that was the #31ZombieAuthors interview series.

Armand Rosamillia, one of the most prolific writers in the zombie fiction game, discussed his Dying Days series, dispensed writing advice and even talked about Cthulhu.

Beware Cthulhu.

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ArmandDrawing

FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

Amazon          Website

 Facebook         Twitter

Today’s guest is Armand Rosamilia.  A New Jersey native transplanted to sunny Florida, he’s an active member of the Horror Writer’s Association, a baseball and metal music fan, and an expert on everything zombie.

Armand is the author of over one-hundred and fifty stories, running the gamut from horror and zombies, to contemporary fiction, thrillers and more.  Not one to be hung up on genre labels, Armand’s goal is to write a good story, no matter where the subject matter takes him.

When he isn’t busy writing, Armand runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio:

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

Zombie fans…

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Nov 18 2015
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Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 15

Along the outskirts of the eastern rim of the Milky Way lies a planet referred to the locals as Belandria’s Deine.

Translation: Belandria’s Dawn.

The belandrians are a species of absurdly, ridiculously, borderline supernaturally attractive females. There’s no such thing as an ugly belandrian, or a fat belandrian, or even just an average, run of the mill, plain jane belandrian.

They’re all hot…and they’re all purple.

And I’m not going to lie. I am partial to them. As the old saying goes, “once you go grape, you’ll never escape.”

We earthlings call belandrians by a different name. “Bella donnas.” True, Italian for “beautiful woman” is “bella donna” and “beautiful women” is “belle donne” but at some point, “bella donnas” just stuck for them. It had a lot to do with the famous earthling space explorer/journalist Giuseppe DeNunzio, who reported the existence of Belandria’s Dawn to Earth years ago, then never returned.

Poor guy. Had no idea what he was up against. Never stood a chance.

Zumani. I’m not ashamed to say that I met her in a bella donna strip joint. Belandria’s Dawn is lousy with them. Modeling, stripping, and assassinations are actually the top three industries on that planet. You scoff but when you keep in mind that we’re talking about a world filled to the brim of jaw droopingly foxy purple chicks, it makes sense. Especially that last one.

We had a whirlwind romance. Long walks on the beach. Holding hands. Lovemaking by a cozy fire. We felt safe enough with one another to share our hopes, dreams, fears, and aspirations. I’d never been in love before. I wasn’t sure I was capable of it until I met her.

She asked me to tie the knot. Since it’d only been a few weeks, it seemed a bit forward, not too mention out of line with my old fashioned ways. I was the man, after all. It should of been me popping the question. But once it was popped, I felt an overwhelming desire to spend the rest of my life with her so I said yes.

Funny thing about interspecies love affairs. There’s a tendency for things to get lost in translation. Turns out what bella donnas and what earthlings mean by “tying the knot” are two entirely separate and distinct concepts.

As soon as I accepted what I thought was a proposal, she gave me a deep, passionate kiss…then tied a damn leash around my neck, dragged my butt naked carcass all the way to a high priestess who, in the name of the Goddess Mother (the bella donnas’ deity), anointed my forehead with some purple berry juice and declared me to be Zumani’s “property.”

I thought she wanted to get married. She just wanted me to be her slave. Insert joke about how there’s no difference here.
Days later, I managed to escape the cage she locked me in but she refused to let me go without a fight. It was a firefight, in fact. An intense skirmish that took out half a block of Modala City. I caught a break when she wasn’t looking and hijacked a cab out of there. I still feel bad for pulling a gun on that hot purple cabbie but I’d run out of options.

That was a year ago and word had it that she’d been hunting me ever since. Did I forget to mention that she moonlighted as an assassin for ILL Sector? Headed by the wealthy and powerful Lady Illyria, many a male being has met his end in the arms of this vast network of lethal seductresses.

“You never cease to embarrass me,” Zumani said.

“What did I do now?”

“You tell me,” my ex-lover (or owner?) said. “A bounty of one hundred trillion credits has just been placed on your worthless head.”

I clutched my chest. I wasn’t so much scared as I was thrilled. Touched even.

“Get out,” I said. “That’s got to be a typo.”

“No property,” Zumani said. “The order was handed down by Lady Illyria herself. All agents are to drop whatever they are doing and destroy you. I shall very much enjoy wrapping my hands around your throat and strangling you until your eyes pop out of their sockets and gush puss all over the walls.”

“Yeesh,” I said. “Thought about it much?”

“Everyday since you humiliated me,” Zumani said. “A belandrian is nothing without her honor. Men were made to serve women. Such is the belandrian way. By the Goddess Mother’s divine law, your place is under my foot, licking my boot heel!”

“I thought I was getting married,” I said. “I didn’t know I was agreeing to become a slave!”

With a deadpan expression she asked, “There’s a difference?”

You probably think she was kidding. She wasn’t. On her world, slavery and marriage are the same thing.

“A belandrian who can’t keep her slaves in line will never have a place in high society,” Zumani complained. “There has been no end to the scorn and ridicule I have been subjected to by my peers since I let you get away.”

I grinned. “Since you…let me get away?”

Zumani got all huffy and indignant. “What? Preposterous! Why would I LET you get away?”

I batted my eyelashes. “Because you luuuuuuurrrve me baby!”

She scoffed. “What is this? What is this ‘luuuuuurrrrvvve’ you speak of? Is that an earth word for ‘love?’ I do not love you! I never will! Damn you, property, when I find you I will rip open your jaws, shove my foot down your throat and kick your heart out of your asshole!”

Alien Jones looked over to me and whispered, “That’s love.”

“WHO IS THAT?” Zumani barked. “Is that the little green man? I will collect the billion on his head as well!”

Jones was offended. “Why are you worth a hundred trillion and I’m only a lousy billion? I’m a legendary scientist!!! I’m an accomplished explorer! I’m a…I’m a…”

I held up a hand, bidding him to talk to it. “He isn’t wrong, baby,” I said to Zumani. “You’ve still got it for me, and you’ve got it baaaaaaaddd.”

“I won’t dignify your pathetic suck hole any longer. I despise you.”

“You do?” I asked. “Then why would you call me to warn me that you’re coming for me?”

Zumani sighed. She looked down. “You’re right. Of all the property I have owned, you were the most handsome, the most charming, and the most gentle. My honor will be restored as soon as you are dead by the hand of a belandrian. It does not matter which one but for what it is worth…”

“Yes?”

“I hope it isn’t me.”

“I hope it isn’t either baby.”

A single tear streamed down her cheek. I never knew she had it in her.

“Please don’t do anything obvious,” Zumani said. “Don’t go to your home or any of your old haunts. Stay out of the strip clubs…”

“That’s crazy talk,” I said.

“…don’t make it easy for me to find you, property. Please. At least do this for me.”

“I will,” I said.

The holographic image of the love of my life flickered. She kept talking but her voice transmission became garbled. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her face was replaced by a static horizontal line that bounced with every word uttered by a familiar voice.

“Awww…how adorable.”

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