Author Archives: bookshelfbattle

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 2

Unfortunately, I have no other graphics to offer except various photos of Alien Jones, who is stripped of his Esteemed Brainy One powers at some point before 2999.

Unfortunately, I have no other graphics to offer except various photos of Alien Jones, who is stripped of his Esteemed Brainy One powers at some point before 2999.

Narrated by Roman Voss

Rizzle Juice goes right through me.  I was relieving myself at the trough in the unisex bathroom when the door opened and closed all by itself.

Weird.  Was that the wind?”

The door locked by itself too.  It was not the wind.

Heavy footsteps approached.  I zipped up and turned around to see a feint, flickering shimmer turn into seven foot tall killing machine.  Flawless, gleaming chrome you could see your reflection in.  Red eyes affixed in their sockets.  Stenciled across its chassis was the number, “95.”

It darted a metal hand towards me, caught my throat in its impenetrable grip, and lifted me off my feet into the air.

“Scanning,”  the robot said as it painted my face with a red laser grid.  “Identity confirmed.  Voss, Roman.”

I wasn’t feeling like much of a conversationalist.  “GAAACK!” was all I managed as tried to pry his hand open to no avail.

“Standby to connect with my master.”

Ninety-five’s eyes dimmed down.  His head dropped.  His hand opened up.  I was released…straight to the floor on my ass.

My attacker perked up again.  This time, he had a new voice.  It still had a tinge of tin because it was being projected through a robot, but the tone, inflection…it was all very sentient.  Humanish, even.

“Heard a rumor you were on world, Voss,” the voice said.  “Ninety-five found you easily.  All he had to do was scan around for a washed up degenerate huff addict and here you are.”

I clutched my throat and gasped for air.  A metal hand was offered to me.  I took it and was helped up to my feet.

“Sourcemind,”  I said.

“In the flesh,”  the voice said.  “So to speak.”

“You touched my duster!”  I shouted as I punched the metal monster’s hulking frame, only to instantly regret doing so as it did not give one iota against my knuckles.

You’ve heard of Earth, Alaquan, and Drokmire, the three worlds where humans are the indigenous species.  Omcoros had been the fourth until twenty years earlier, when the powers that be on that world made the fateful mistake of commissioning the “Sourcemind Initiative,” a level twelve artificial intelligence that was supposed to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity by automating all of the government’s systems, from defense and weapons manufacturing, all the way down to the most mundane civil operations.

Long story short, Sourcemind took control of every last machine on the planet, decimated the Omcoran population from twenty billion to twelve million, who are currently kept as slaves to serve their metal master.

The politicians of the Undesiredverse aren’t packing much what it comes to brains, but it didn’t take long for every world to ban the production of an artificial intelligence greater than ten on the Jansen scale, named of course for the leading human AI scientist who developed a classification system designed to help AI developers to determine what actions their creations are capable of and correspondingly, how dangerous they are as a result.

Ironically, it was Dr. Jansen himself who created Sourcemind, but more on that later.

“If I were a gambling higher form of existence, I’d wager you’re here for the bounty on Izok Tau’s head.”

“Maybe,”  I said.

“Let me guess,”  Sourcemind said.  “His old Shai business partners were none too pleased when he ran off with all their money, which he used to buy his way into the Cabal.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re like the nerd in class who drones on and on because he’s in love with the sound of his own voice?”  I asked.

Sourcemind chuckled.  “A proposal, Voss.  You want Tau.  I want something in Tau’s possession.  Let us work together.”

I thought about it.

“I am a gambling man,”  I said.

“I’m aware,”  Sourcemind said.  “You’ve been banned from many casinos.  I’m surprised the authorities even allowed you to land on this planet.”

I ignored the jab.

“I’d be willing to wager that whatever Tau has, it must be pretty important to you, seeing as how the only thing keeping the Mighty Potentate from vaporizing Omcoros was an agreement that you’d never operate off world and yet here you are, propositioning me in a dark rave club bathroom on Malostet.”

“Perhaps you haven’t sniffed all your brain cells away, Voss,”  Sourcemind said.

“And you sent Nintey-five, your most powerful underling,” I noted.  “Usually you send androids on your off world black ops missions.  They blend in with the locals a lot better than this contraption.”

Sourcemind opened up the metal doors in Ninety-five’s shoulders to produce two high caliber laser cannons.

“I don’t have all day, Voss.  Do we have an accord or do I paint the wall with your brains and send Ninety-five after Tau on his own?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“I knew you’d listen to reason,”  Sourcemind said.  “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Once again, the robot shut down and restarted.

“Master has instructed you on mission parameters?”  Ninety-five inquired in a sterile, monotone.

“Yup.  It’s you’re lucky day, Ninety-five.  The Cappo Di Tutti Clink Clank has talked me into watching your six.”

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Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 1

As Narrated By Roman Voss

Malostet – 2999 A.D.

Alien Jones laughs when he learns he will get no profits from Undesiredverse sales.

Alien Jones laughs when he learns he will get no profits from Undesiredverse sales.

1:00 A.M.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

The bass launched an assault on my eardrums.  The strobe lights weren’t helping either, though they achieved the desired effect of making thousands of useless lowlives look more interesting than they actually were.

The DJ shouted some nonsense then cranked his synthesizer on high.

“Ladies, gentlemen, andacrons, filozens, polaprops, and all of the various, assorted Rombekian sexes too numerous to mention at this time, welcome to Loktai Cren!  Is everybody having a good time?”

No,” I thought as I moved through a crowd of scantily clad flesh. “I am not having a good time.”

Loktai Cren.  Roughly translated from Shai to English, it means, “The Skin Palace.”  If you’re a pervert who enjoys hooking up with random strangers and don’t have much in the way of standards, you’ll of enjoy this joint.  Hell, you’ll of love all of Malostet for that matter.  The entire planet is Andromeda’s answer to Vegas.  Just pop a few penicillin chews before you book your trip.

I pushed my way across the dance floor, bumping into tails, claws, scales, all kinds of non-human body parts, although there were plenty of my kind in attendance as well.  In fact, one of them, wearing nothing but his underpants and a pink top hat jumped out in front of me and got in my face.

“Dance, man!”  the loser said.  “You gots to dance, baby!”

“Move,”  I replied.

Feel the vibes, guy!”  the idiot said.  “Let go and become one with the music!”

“Your snot box is about to become one with a clothesline,”  I said.

The dumbass put a greasy hand on my shoulder.  Right on my duster.  From the outset of this tale, I’ll tell you one very important rule.

No one touches the duster.

Punch.  Drop.  No one noticed or cared.  That’s the type of place it was.  Frankly, that’s how most places in the Undesiredverse are.

I stepped over his twitching body.  Stop worrying about him.  He was warned.

I reached into my pocket and retrieved my Sen-Pen 89.0.  It looked more or less like a regular silver writing implement.  As mobile devices went, it got the job done, though it was no Nokarima Mind Box. 

I clicked it, turned it on, then put it back in my pocket.

“Call Jonesy,” I said.

My pilot’s reply came through on my cochlear implant.

“Boss?”

“You ready to bug out?”  I asked.

“What, you’re not scoring with the talent?”  Jones asked.

What timing.  Just as he said that, I spied a slimy Steegotz, shimmying all seven hundred of its grotesque pounds around the room, spewing a heavy mist out its blowhole all over anyone who got too close.  The medical community claims that Steegotzian blowhole discharge doesn’t contain any contagious germs but I still didn’t want any of that gunk on me or my duster.

“There’s no talent to speak of.”

“I’m just powering up,”  Jones said.  “You’ve got a real crap bucket here.  They want extra because they had to dig up a hundred year old converter unit.”

“Fine,”  I said, disgusted.  I was even more disgusted when I felt a claw pinch my ass.  It happened so quick I couldn’t figure out who did it. 

“Just put it on my credit.”

“Which account?”  Jones asked.  “They’re all maxed out.”

“Improvise.”

“Oh.  Charge and barge.  Gotcha.”

“Get over here,”  I said.  “I don’t want to spend a minute longer here than I have to.”

“Aye aye, mon capitan.”

Finally, I made it to the bar.

A stage hovered above the crowd.  There were thirty stories worth of dance floors in the entire tower and all the beings above gathered at the bannisters to look down on the main show below.

I took a seat.  The DJ babbled on.

“And now beings, put your hands, hooves, flippers, paws or whatever you’ve got together for…THE ZIMBA ZIMBA GIRLS!”

“Christ on the cross,”  I thought.  Anyone but them.”

The Zimba Zimba Girls were Earth’s top act.  You couldn’t step two feet out the front door of your unit without hearing someone playing their dopey cyber funk songs.  All screeching and moaning.  Elaborate costumes.  Multicolored hair.  Crazyness.  I assumed this trip was going to give my ears a rest but I walked right into a stop on their intergalactic tour.

“Who do I have to spark to get a drink around here?”  I asked out loud.

Poor choice of words.  I cringed as I felt a cold, six fingered hand wrap itself around the back of my neck.

“You can hit me with your big spark stick anytime, lover,”  cooed a sultry female voice.

I turned.  That elongated forehead.  Gray, scaly face.  Two creepy yellow eyes.  The daintiest pair of nasal slits I’d ever seen.  Otherwise, a fabulous human-like figure.  She was hot for a perrek.  On Earth, we’d of called her a butter face.

“Keeva?” 

“Hello Roman, dearest,” she said.  “I knew it was you.”

I struggled for words.

“How uh…how are you?”

“Absolutely dreadful since you walked out of my life,”  Keeva replied.

“Oh please,”  I said.  “I bet you say that to all your tricks.”

She lit up a crex pipe.  It was pink, like her dress.  She puffed it and attempted to pass.  I cut her off.

“Yeah thanks but no thanks,”  I said.  “I like to live.”

“Gorgoza shit,” the lady of the evening said.  “You’re going to sit there and tell me you’re clean?”

“I didn’t say that, but crex will kill a human as sure as orange juice will waste a perrek.”

“It will?”  Keeva asked.  “I swear, I need a flowchart just to keep track of what kills who anymore.”

The barkeep took a moment out of his busy schedule to mosey on over.

The Shai.  There’s been a long dispute as to whether or not they count as humans.  Essentially, they’re very close to being human albinos, with the exception that their eyes are completely blank, devoid of any retina and as eerily white as their skin.

Loktai Cren was owned and operated by some seedy Shai underworld types, so naturally all the paying gigs in the club went to their own kind.

“Your mother licks herpes sores off the backsides of dead elephants then eats waffles for dinner in the company of a flatulent orangutan,” the barkeep said.

“Excuse me?”  I asked.

The booze jockey reached a finger into his mouth, brushed it along his bottom lip, then shook his head.

“Sorry about that.  Lousy defective translator chip.  Gotta reset it constantly.  What’ll it be, mac?”

“Rizzle Juice,”  I replied.  “And don’t skimp on the rizzle.”

“One rizzle with an extra drizzle of rizzle, coming up.”

Keeva leaned in closer.

“You know I have missed you.”

“I’m surprised you even remember me,”  I replied.  “That was forty years ago and…”

I stopped myself. 

“Have many suitors?”  Keeva asked.  “True.  But none as memorable as you.”

I was certain that was just a hooker line, but it was nice to pretend that someone cared.

She brushed her fingers over my head.

“You’ve grown your hair long.  You barely had any that night.”

“Basic training regulation haircut,”  I said.

“Are you still in the service?”  Keeva asked.

“That didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

The barkeep returned with a stein full of sweet, delicious rizzley goodness.

That scaly hand was on my knee now.

“Perhaps we can pretend you’re on shore leave all over again, sailor?”

I took a swig.

“That ship…has sailed.”

Keeva was taken aback.

“And here I thought that night was special.”

“It was,”  I said.  “And I’m still itchy.”

“You haven’t gone paloproptastic have you?”  Keeva asked.  “Sure, the outer glands are thrilling but once you get underneath that mushy layer its all sharp bone and acidic excretions.”

“No,”  I said.  “It’s not like that.  I’m here on business.”

“Pleasure IS my business,”  Keeva said.

“No sale, baby,”  I said.  “Peddle your inputs somewhere else.”

Keeva’s face turned sullen.

“I’m not peddling, Roman.  I really am quite pleased to see you.”

“Can’t say as I blame you,”  I said as I turned away.

Keeva took another puff then brushed her hand across my cheek.

“Poor thing.  I can see you’ve grown cold since our special night.  I wonder what happened to make you so?”

“I’d tell you but it’d probably take three or four days,”  I said.

I took out my Sen-Pen and set it to hover vertically above the bar.

“Last photo,”  I said.

An image of a Shai male popped up.  Tall guy.  Long beard.  Muscles.  Scar on the right side of his face.

“Has he been around?”

“Izok?”  Keeva asked.  “Sure.  He’s got the penthouse suite.  Something tells me you’re not here to just say hello to an old friend?”

“Something tells you right.”

“Keep my name out of it, please.”

“Of course.”

“Its none of my business, Roman,”  Keeva said, “But you do know Izok is a made being in the Cabal?  You’re inviting a lot of heat on yourself.”

“That heat’s been there for years,”  I said.  “I never asked for it.”

Keeva smiled, opened her mouth and stretched her long tongue out all the way to my cheek, slathering it up and down before pulling it back with a snap.

“You still taste delicious.”

“I moisturize.”

I had a few prepaid cred chits in my pocket.  I pulled one out and slid it across the bar.  She stood up and slid it back.

“I don’t want your money, fool.  I want…”

“What?”  I interrupted.  “A man to take you away from all this mess?”

“Maybe.”

I took another belt of rizzle juice.

“I’m not him, baby.  I’m knee deep in it.”

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Undesiredverse: Wanted – BQB’s Attempt at a NanoWriMo Novel

Hello 3.5 readers.

NanoWriMo is upon us and we will soon find ourselves in 2016, the year I promised myself I would release a novel.

So I’ve decided to give it a go with National Novel Writing Month.

I’m about to share with you two chapters of a story set in a world that I’ve been writing and re-writing for quite some time now. Technically, the characters, in one form or another, have origins in ideas I had as a kid.

And needless to say, Alien Jones’ rantings on this blog helped them to take shape.

So here goes nothing:

UNDESIREDVERSE: WANTED

The year is 2999.  Bookshelf Q. Battler is long dead, his bones merely dust mixed within the dirt of East Randomtown Cemetery.

Since time immemorial, the Vek, a species of super intelligent three foot green beings, have ruled over the Rakan Collective, a union of over a hundred billion peaceful planets.  In fact, it turns out that the default desire for most species is to be peaceful, productive, educated, happy, and non-hostile.  Under the leadership of the Mighty Potentate, the citizens of the collective live only to study science, philosophy, art, literature, and other subjects. They’ve built a mighty army to protect what they have, but amongst themselves, war is unheard of.

Then there’s the Milky Way and Andromeda Galaxies.  Together, they form a cesspool of depravity, chalk full of beings who never met war they didn’t like.  Violence over religion, over corruption, or just for the hell of it, these “garbage planets” as the Mighty Potentate refers to them are undesired.  They’ll never be welcome in the Rakan Collective, due to chaos they foster.

And what a scummy place the Undesiredverse is.  The Cabal operates a vast organized crime syndicate, dipping its toes into every facet of life, from business to government.  The Tarazni Clan, a group of renegade Tollusks who roam about stealing as much territory as they clan, have occupied Earth for forty years.

Oh, and don’t forget Sourcemind – the highly evolved Artificial Intelligence that conquered and enslaved a human world and can’t wait to expand his control further.

But every story needs a hero, doesn’t it?  Ours are Roman Voss, a routinely down on his luck, debt addled human bounty hunter and his pilot, a disgraced Vek/former advisor to the Mighty Potentate, Jones, or as Voss refers to him, “Jonesy.”

Our tale begins with Roman and Jones on a simple mission to collect a bounty on a ne’er-do-well, only to find themselves in possession of a bald woman who has no idea who she is, why every dirtbag wants her, or why the fate of the Undesiredverse (and even beyond) rests in her hands.

Roman, Jones, and Our Mystery Woman are about to become the most wanted beings around.

Let me know what you think, 3.5 readers.  If you like it, say so.  If it’s crap and I should quit, say so too.

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Greetings Earth Losers

Hello humans.shutterstock_124337023 copy

Alien Jones, the Esteemed Brainy one here, finally back after a long hiatus spent saving Bookshelf Q. Battler’s hide from the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse.

Yes, BQB likes to make himself out as the big hero but surely we all know that nerd would be a processed and expelled zombie turd by now had it not been for yours truly.

Now that I’m back I can get back to the business of answering your questions.

Yes, you, BQB’s 3.5 readers, a reminder that you can consult my genius brain on any and all matters and I’ll answer your questions right here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog, along with a plug for your books, blogs, or whatever it is you’re promoting.

So ante up with the gray matter, poindexters, because where else can you ask an alien a question?

Leave your questions in the comments, sent them to BQB on Twitter @bookshelfbattle or while you’re at it, like BQB’s Facebook page and use it to ask me a question, will you?

Also, if you could all try to stop watching reality TV, it would really go a long way to getting the Mighty Potentate to step off my ganderflazer.

Until next time, humans,

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Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party vs. Universal Halloween Horror Nights

By: Some Random Jerkface, BQB’s Editorial Assistant

Hello 3.5 readers.  Some Random Jerkface here.  While BQB was mired in the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse, yours truly was living it up in sunny Florida.

So in Orlando, there’s Walt Disney World and its unruly upstart rival, Universal Studios.

Who puts on the better Halloween shindig?

Probably all depends on who your are and your personal preference.

MICKEY’S NOT SO SCARY HALLOWEEN PARTY

Yeah.  They aren’t lying about that not so scary party part.  They pretty much take the guy in the Mickey Mouse costume and whip a Halloween costume over his mouse costume.

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Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that.  After all, it’s Walt Disney World.  Of course Mickey isn’t going to be scary.  If you have ragamuffins, this is where to take them on Halloween.

Maleficient is a little scarier:

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Meanwhile if you ever go on a Disney Cruise, you might spot Jack Sparrow, up high:

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Or down low:

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However, if you’re sans ragamuffins and want the ever loving crap scared out of you, Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights is the place you want to be.

Disney has Mickey in a Halloween costume.  UHHN has Jack, a damn murderous psychopathic clown:

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He brings up “spectators” on stage to be maimed and/or murdered in his show, the Carnival of Carnage.

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SPOILER ALERT:  I’m pretty sure she’s just an actor pretending to be one of Jack’s victims.  Still, if you see Jack walking down the street, you might want to beat feat in the opposite direction just to be safe.

Oh and don’t forget his hot she-clown girlfriend, Chance:

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Yeah, she’s a total Harley Quinn ripoff but she was funny just the same.  Jack and Chance know how to work a crowd, or work it over, as the case may be:

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But try to stay off the stage:

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For the Bookshelf Battle Blog, this has been Some Random Jerkface

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #TBA – Kill ‘Em Again – Part 5

OK Battler.  You want answers?  I’ve got ’em.shutterstock_246824188-2

A man gets chased by a psychopath.  Suddenly the man gets the upper hand on the ne’er-do-well.  Knocks him out cold.  Lays him out on his ass.  Assumes he’s dead but we all know what happens to you and me when you assume don’t we?

A cynic might just say it’s for dramatic effect.  Lull the audience into a false sense of security.  Make them think that the worst is behind them then whammo, the killer works up his second win.  Like life, the bad guy strikes when you least expect it.

Personally, if that Michael Myers fell you’re all so keen on come Halloween came near me, I’d whip out Betsy and put one between his eyes, followed by five in his heart with perfect grouping.

But therein lies the rub.  Most of these characters in slasher films are just kids.  Young people.  Camp counselors and students and the like.  They haven’t experienced much in the way of adversity, have never fought anyone and when it comes right down to it, don’t have the demeanor of a 1950’s hardboiled private eye.

Bottomline: good people don’t know how to kill people, at least not in a way that keeps ’em dead.

So while double tapping Jason might be the wisest decision, it’s also a sign you’ve lost your humanity.

That’s this private dick’s two cents anyway.  Take it or leave it but either way you owe me five bucks, nerd.

Oh, and a notebook full of my recollections of Operation Fuhrerpunschen is on its way to our mutual blonde acquaintance.  Hope it helps though if you get blown up I won’t lose any sleep either.

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The Yeti

He sucks big time.  That’s all I have to say today 3.5 readers.

Stupid Yeti

Stupid Yeti

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My Ideas for Next Year

Hello my 3.5 friends.

As we approach the end of the year, we also approach the end of the one post a day for a year challenge.

Sadly, this means that once next year rolls around, I must switch my focus from blogging to novel writing.

I don’t intend to abandon the blog obviously.  I’ve worked too hard to build it up.

However, I will have to cut back to make time to write novels.

I have a number of potential projects rolling around in my head.  I feel like completing 2 projects a year is a valid goal so heres what I’m thinking about pursuing next year:

IDEA 1

A SPACE OPERA – Set 1,000 years in the future and rife with BQB’s underlying sense of humor mixed in with enough seriousness to keep things flowing.  A wayward rogue who only looks out for himself finds himself in the middle of a vast conspiracy.  He’ll need to start caring about others and quick.

NOTE:  Alien Jones will be the as yet unnamed rogue’s sidekick/pilot.  I’ve toyed with various possibilities for an alien sidekick and figured I’ve already created the perfect one.  AJ has a long lifespan and it is set 1,000 years in the future, long after BQB.  There might be a minor reference to him once befriending a human in the early 2000’s.  For mysterious reasons, he’s been ousted out of the Mighty Potentate’s good graces, stripped of his magic-like powers, and now earns his living as the rogue’s pilot.

AJ will be a secondary character – he’ll provide comic relief, be the rogue’s conscience and confidant, but the rogue will be the main character of the novel.

I have an idea to release it as a TV style book serial – not as a way to simply chop up a long book, but I legitimately have ideas where parts could end with cliffhangers where the reader would be like “Well, I gotta know what happens next!”

Alternatively, I realize maybe I should realize one book before releasing several small installments.

I don’t want to give too much away at this point other than the rogue and AJ find themselves in possession of a powerful something that various bad people/groups want and they must race against time to get it away from them.

POP CULTURE MYSTERIES – I feel like I’ve written so much of Season 1 that I should just see it through.  So I’d like to finish a season’s worth of blog posts, put them up on a spin off PCM website, and follow it up with a novel about how Jake punched Adolf Hitler in the face.

I do have many other ideas.  Many of them I love, one I love dearly.  But I also have to realize nothing gets done without committing to something.

This is like a marriage.  You’ll never develop a loving relationship with your wife if you keep cheating on her with every other bimbo you see and you’ll never develop a finished novel if you keep dumping your current project for the next pretty idea that walks along.

So I have to pick 2 ideas and focus.  Also, I realize given the rest of my life, this might be too much for one year.  If that’s the case and I need more time than so be it.  I hope to finish them both next year but ultimately, as long as I get a book of some kind published on Amazon next year, the year will be considered a success.

What say you nerds about these ideas?

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #TBA – Kill ‘Em Again (Part 4)

October 25, 4:45 A.Mshutterstock_224428027

“No!”  I shouted.  “No don’t do it!  Running upstairs is a rookie mistake!  There’s nowhere for you to go now, girly!”

“She’s a ditz,”  Agnes replied.  “All boobs and no brains.”

“My kind of dame,”  I said.

“Ugh,”  Agnes said.  “Really?”

“Just ask my first wife,”  I said. “Her brassiere had its own Congressman.”

Together, on opposite sides of a phone line, we watched as a beautiful buxom babe bought the farm at the edge of a maniac’s butcher knife.

“This fella has issues,”  I said.  “Where are all the coppers?  Someone needs to run this palooka in on any number of charges.  Breaking and entering.  Assault.  Battery.  Attempted murder.  Actual murder.  And I’m not sure what specific crime it is to wear your victim’s entrails as a hat but it’s got to be against some kind of law somewhere.”

Only one survivor left.  He hid off to one side of an open doorway, only to bash the murderer’s face in with a shovel as he walked into the room.

“Ahh,”  the hero said.  “Time to celebrate!  I’ll have a glass of champagne, maybe a nice snack, take a nap…”

“No!”  Agnes shouted.  “Kill him again!”

“I’d of pounded this cat’s face into hamburger and set him on fire by now,”  I said.  “No.  Come to think of it, I’d of just fed him to good ole reliable Betsy.”

“Betsy?”  Agnes asked.  “A girlfriend?”

“No.  A gun I keep under my coat at all times.”

Silence for a moment from Agnes’ end.

“You need help, Jake,”  she said.

The hero’s back patting session was cut short, literally, when the psychopath cut him in half.  What a gruesome sight.  Worse than some of the depravity I saw in World War II.

“Which movie do you want to watch, next?”  Agnes asked.

“Ahh,”  I said.  “Sorry Aggie old gal but I have to make like Fred Astaire and shuffle off.  I’ve got a report to file.”

“OK,”  Agnes said.  “I think Herb’s finally going to sleep for awhile anyway so I’d better join him.”

“Herb’s one lucky fella,”  I said.  “If I were over seventy, wretchedly ravaged by age and with no other options, your door would be the first one I’d knock on, Ag.”

“It’s…it’s too late to explain to you why that’s rude.  Thanks.  This helped me get my mind off of my problems.  You know, it’s just so hard sometimes, to be a caregiver for an ill loved one.  I try to do my best but it’s so difficult to…”

“Yeah, yeah,”  I said.  “Sorry Aggie, but I’m a dick, not a shrink.  Sayonara.”

I hanged up a phone.  It was time to give Battler the goods.

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #TBA – Kill ‘Em Again – (Part 3)

October 25, 2015 – Midnightshutterstock_239019751

The air was stale – cheap food, booze and leftovers.  I wasn’t helping the situation with my cigar.  My head was reeling from the evening’s festivities.

Upstairs, there was a couch in my office with my name on it.

But I needed to find out what the hell Battler wanted.

I slit open the manilla envelope, procured the piece of paper inside and read:

Hatcher,

A group of teenagers in peril.  A vicious psychopath wants them dead.  One by one he picks them off until the last one or two, depending on how gracious the film’s screenwriter was feeling at the time.

Somehow, our hero manages to get the upper hand.  He shoots, stabs, maims, or even runs the killer over with a car.  Alas, thinking the madman to be dead, the protagonist celebrates too early.  To the audience’s dismay, the killer gets up and starts chasing our hero around again.

Jason.  Freddy.  Leatherface.  Happens all the time.

Why, Hatcher?  Why, oh why do heroes in slasher flicks refuse to double-tap?

I’d heard that phone books had become a thing of the past and that it was possible to get a person’s number by dialing 411.  I tried it.

“Hello, thank you for dialing 411, how may I direct your call?”

“Uhh, yeah, hiya Toots,”  I said.  “Do you know Agnes?”

“Who?”  the operator asked.

“Agnes the Librarian.”

“You want the number for the public library, sir?”  the operator asked.

“Jeepers H. Crowe, dollface,”  I said.  “What kind of a question is that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well I doubt the library is open at this ungodly hour, don’t you?”  I asked.

“I have no idea what you want me to do, sir.”

“Agnes,”  I replied.  “Get that old broad on the line and make it snappy.  I’m a busy man, see?”

“Do you have her last name?”  the operator asked.

I slapped my forehead.

“Oh for the love of Edward G. Robinson’s sneer,”  I said.  “What was it again?  Aloysius?  Anchorage?  Alabaster?  No…ABERNATHY!  Yes.  That’s the ticket.  One Agnes Abernathy please.”

“I have one listing for Herbert and Agnes Abernathy,” the operator said.

“That’s it.  Put me through sweetheart.”

All of a sudden there was a robot talking to me.

“The number you have requested can be dialed for an additional charge of thirty-five cents by pressing the number one…”

Thirty-five cents.  Highway robbery if you asked me.  “Aw screw it,”  I thought as I hit the number one.  “I’ll just send an invoice to Battler for it.”

“Hello?”  came an old lady’s voice.

“Agnes!”  I shouted.

“Yes?”

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you at home but I’ve got quite a caper transpiring here…”

“Who is this?”  Agnes asked.

“Jacob R. Hatcher, Pop Culture Detective,”  I answered.

“Oh for the love of…”

There was a long trail of unlady like obscenities I won’t bother to offend the ears of you fine 3.5 readers with.

“Jake, are you nuts?  You can’t bother me at home!  This is very inappropriate for you to be calling my home this late.  How did you get this number?”

“Information,”  I replied.

“Are you some kind of weirdo sex pervert?”  Agnes asked.  “Are you stalking me?”

I laughed.

“No offense old gal, but I wouldn’t touch you with Herb’s business,” I said.  “Say Agnes, now that you’ve got all that out of your system, what’s a fella gotta do to find a monster movie around here?”

“A what?”

“A mons…Jumpin Jehosaphat, Agnes, are you deaf?  MONSTER….MOVIE!”

“Jake, I’m not in the mood for your nonsense,”  Agnes said.  “Herb’s been up all night throwing up in the bathroom and I’m exhausted.”

“Yikes,”  I said.  “Sorry to hear that.  You should tell him to lay off the bottle.  That’s why I do when I start praying to the porcelain god.”

I could hear the disdain in Agnes’ voice.

“HE HAS CANCER YOU JACK ASS!”

“Oh,”  I replied.  “Even worse.  Tell him I’m pulling for him.  So howsabout that monster movie?”

“It’s Halloween time,”  Agnes said.

“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”  I inquired.

“Put on your TV and there will be one on every channel.  Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

“I doubt it,”  I said.  “Ma Hatcher was a world class baby rearer.”

I grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV Ms. Tsang had mounted on one of the side walls of the restaurant floor to entertain the customers.

The old gal was right.  Every channel I flipped through had images that were gorier than the last.

“Thanks Ag,”  I said.  “I’ll let you go.”

Silence.  An exasperate sigh.  Loud heaving sounds in the background.

“What the hell,”  Agnes said.  “I’m going to be up for awhile.  Tell me what channel you’re putting on and I’ll watch it with you.”

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