Stealing My Thunder

It's no big deal but I have made a few bucks peddling my novella on the Internet. When Michael Casher gets paid by Amazon.com for ebook sales I eventually get a piece of that action if anyone bought any Kindle copies of Blind Fool Running. Michael's never stiffed me yet. So, naturally, when the old indie author got his first royalty check from his publisher today I'll get a piece of that action if anyone bought the paperback edition of my novella at either Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com or Lulu.com. As a matter of fact, I moseyed on down to the Lounge tonight to blab about it but I immediately saw that someone had beaten me to the draw.

I wouldn't mind so much if the real Michael Casher had gotten to the soapbox here first but it wasn't him. The joker in question (see pic) doesn't have the trademark Vineyard ball cap on his head but under what looks like an English snap brim cap just has to be the face of The Author From Another World. I can't wait for Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, to throw the otherworldly bum out on his keister. Of all the unmitigated gall (I always liked that worn-out phrase). There's more to this Author From Another World royalty deal than meets the eye. I'd bet a solar sawbuck on it.

Man, the things you see on this side of the space-time continuum. No wonder I stay on my side of the looking-glass most of the time. The other side is just too unpredictable and way too scary.   

Cosmic Power Balls Warning

Warning to Powerful Earth MenFrom The Big Black Hole of Hell

The Secret Room Part 1

Now that summer's a distant speck in my rearview mirror, I was eager for a little diversion the other night so I moseyed on down to Think-A-Holic Lounge for a quick belt of think-a-hol and a refreshing bubbly chaser. I'm trying not to think about Hurricane Sandy and the American 2012 Presidential Election that's finally over and done with. That's reality. I mosey on down to Think-A-Holic Lounge to escape from reality. Especially since two chapters of my latest novella manuscript mysteriously disappeared a couple weeks ago, leaving me with the option to either eighty-six the whole project or face a grueling rewrite of thirty pages from memory. Only time will tell.

Anyway, after I'd slugged down two shots of the ol' elixir and two bubbly chasers and made sure to totally avoid imbibing that overpriced think-a-hol knockoff they call Death-A-Hol, I headed to the male species room for some relief. That's when I spotted the door to the new back room they added since I was last in here. I immediately suspected that an illegal poker game was probably in progress in there or maybe a little senator tossing tournament on the Saturn Outernet or maybe some nuns from Uranus were bowling for dollars (highly illegal on Uranus) but there was no TV sound at all coming from the back room.

I had to go like the proverbial Russian bull but I decided to indulge my curiosity for a minute because my curiosity was bigger than my urge to go. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like pigs squealing and snorting and squealing and then some muffled voices and then more squealing and snorting. My scalp snapped back and the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up as I entertained terrible notions of animal torture and illegal sports betting. I wanted to run but I held my ground. There was a little peephole lid on the door and I had no qualms whatsoever about lifting the lid and taking a peek. If people want to put up a peephole they'd better be ready for Peeping Toms, that's how I looked at it. But I was in for a big surprise.

to be continued...

A Message From Hell