Won't Get Fooled Again

I was working pretty late the other night. Right up until midnight, in fact, running more ads in online newspapers for Michael Casher, my flesh-and-blood other self, despite the fact that only spammers and scam artists respond to these pathetic book ads.

I was low on think-a-hol at home so I decided to mosey on down to the Lounge and knock a few big ones back and then stroll leisurely home while enjoying the clear, starry night. About a block from the house this odd-looking vehicle pulled up beside me (see pic) and I heard a mechanical voice talking to me from an external speaker.

"Hey, pal," said the alien voice, "need a ride?"

"No thanks," I said almost automatically. "Been there and done that." I was, of course, referring to Michael's childhood alien abductions and the alien pricks in this particular flying saucer damn well knew it.

I thought the bastards would zap me good after that remark or just beam me aboard for the hell of it but the alien craft just zoomed out of sight. When I rounded the corner there it was again, asking another guy the same question.

It was Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, getting something from his car. I watched in utter fascination as ol' Angus dropped his trousers and mooned everybody in the ship. Then I laughed like hell when the goofy-looking UFO tore out of there like it was under attack or something.

I was so impressed by Angus McCloud's spontaneous, almost lackadaisical spurning of these extraterrestrial mad scientists (that's all they really are) that I gave Angus an extra large tip that night. And, by the way, neither one of us has seen that UFO ever since that strange, starry night.

Thank heavens for that.

Over My Limit

As I've said before, I usually hang out at Think-A-Holic Lounge in the afternoon when most people are off doing other things and rarely do I close the place up at night. But, lately, I've been in a blue funk because of supernaturally orchestrated events that have been keeping our five published science fiction thrillers out of the hands of the reading public. "Me" being Jonco Bugos, the inseparable and overlooked alter ego of a certain independent science fiction author.

Only Angus McCloud, the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet and our big-ass head bartender, is willing to listen patiently to my several conspiracy theories about how otherworldly forces have conspired to keep people from reading Michael Casher's books. I'm convinced that these "psuedo gods" pull this shit because they know damn well that no one can read even one of my novels and remain the same person (sounds arrogant, I know, but it keeps me going when the going gets rough). But I get tired of crying about it to Angus, whose responses are just occasional grunting or head wagging or a slight tipping of the chin. Hell, I know he's not really listening, he's just being polite.

So I've been lapping up the think-a-hol pretty good after midnight these days and even way after last call. I feel like I'm not myself anymore, that I've become someone else, an alien life form in this author's body. I still feel this way and especially after last night at 2:00 am when I stumbled out of the Lounge and down the front steps. It was dark, of course, and there was a clear sky. And when I looked up to view what I thought was a full moon, this is what I saw instead (see pic).

Well, maybe I was just a wee bit over my limit of think-a-hol. But, then again, maybe not.

Devil in a Red Dress

I had just sent a book off to a reviewer on the planet Mercury, where the surface temperature is that of molten lead on the side that always faces the sun. On the side that doesn't face the sun, your saliva would freeze in your mouth so no one goes there either. Apparently, Mercurians live inside their hollow planet, just like the Venusians do.

This reviewer got a free book and the cost of sending it to her via NASA was a thousand times the cost of the book itself. I figured she'd be objective and, being an expert of some kind in my genre, she'd write a decent review.

One afternoon I was telling all this to Angus, our big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge when I heard high-pitched laughter coming from the end of the bar. I was pretty well high on think-a-hol by then and all I could make out was this hideous red face with horns.

I asked Angus who in the hell she was or who in the hell did she think she was. Ol' Angus fought hard not to laugh in my face and he finally spit it out. "I think she's your book reviewer," he said, "and it looks like she came all this way just to see your face."

When I turned to look at her again she was gone. But she left her trident behind and one day she'll return for it and then I'll have the last laugh.