I base my novels on reality. However, reality sucks, so I make it ‘my job’ to work out all conflicts. I also guarantee that all of my characters fall in love (except for the bad guys who die such horrible deaths that even their own mothers wouldn’t recognize their bodies in the morgue). In my books, everyone’s favorite pets also become immortal. By the last chapter, everthing is tied up in a pretty, neat little bow. Better than reality & far more satisfying, yeah? Then, if any of my readers DON’T like my ending, I’ll have them speak with my friend Vincent. After 15 minutes with Vinnie, I can guarantee that they’ll change their mind.
Dauna Robinson is a 3000-year-old Fijian shark goddess. She works for Interpol. Her job is to protect the gifted ‘God Whisper,’ Bernie ‘Eggs’ Benedict the newly hired agent. Bernie was dubbed ‘Eggs’ because of his public conversation with Jesus, who appeared on his breakfast plate, when the disguised Dauna ran her Bolsa Chico diner. Bernie has hobnobbed with many gods lately, and Jesus wants a date.
Together, their job is to preserve peace in the Pacific and protect Dauna’s Fijian people from the brain eating mad cow diseased New Guinea cannibals who have now taken their ancient slaughter across the American continent.
Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest molten, runny, squishy mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The ‘living,’ yet disappointed chair didn’t appreciate gross, hairy man butts.
Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.”
Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the Crimes of Exotica Division (COED), hun? she asked from the behind the door. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
“Agent Robinson, is something wrong?”
Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where in the fuck did you dig up that wardrobe? At Bad Will?”
Bernie had been asked by T.K. (his half-human, half-tiki partner, to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why he needed this knowledge — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess returned wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt and set her soft bottom upon the ‘thrilled’ window sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the wooden board. Dauna paused to light another ‘happy’ cigarette while she admired the Hawaiian scenery below her office, derelicts sleeping in their pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown.
Suddenly….“SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk.
Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?”
“What is it, Hun?”
Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s buds away with her icy condescending looks.
“I said snap out of it, cupcake! Or it’s your funeral!” said Mary.
“Funeral? Please! Not now!”
“Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, lion chow, again, is it?”
“Lion chow? No. It’s his mom, Mary. Uh…Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son lion chow?”
Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward Dauna, then Heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder.
“P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna, “Fuck off!” It seemed that Jesus’ mom had already left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.”
“Jesus’ mommmy, Snow White on my fucking desk thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy hippie pal wants ‘a taste.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.”
“Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial.
“What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that my common gutter mouth actually turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck (marks from past shark mating sessions) caught Bernie’s attention.
Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Bernie’s eyes drifted from stem to stern, settling on her stern. He thought about spinning her slow, like a rotisserie chicken. He was only thinking it, when…
“Stop that. Interpol needs your special powers, sweetie. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty. I could see, in my mind, that you were staring at my ass. Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck.”
Dauna sucked down another ‘very-Lucky’ Strike.
In Print: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002N60GRQ
NSFA (Not safe For Anyone)
“Rock n’ Roll! The kids will love it!
It’s the perfect music for busting sh*t up.”
On March 18, 1955, Terpsichore, an ancient muse, opened a bar in LA called The Duck n’ Fishes. On that day, she updated her name to Cheri and began to create much of the great music that we enjoy today.
The ‘D n’ F’ bar was also a place where the exhibitionist goddess could dance ‘au naturale.’ (“Her loose overalls were flashing sides of everything except bacon.”)
Everything was good, until…
… the late 70’s ( ‘The Dark Age of Music.’ ) when evil forces lead by The God of Sleaze, Anthony Rubio, began to replace real musical talent with pony-tailed middle-aged lawyers. To save music, Cheri had to gather her collection of unearthly friends to fight Rubio’s ponytailed army of cocaine snorting Hollywood sh*theels.
Johnny Passion was her chief weapon. The washed-up leader of the 60’s rock band, The Love Muscle, was Cheri’s faithful friend. She always protected Johnny and believed that his voice would lead music’s new renaissance.
But despite the goddess’ blessing, Johnny felt that his life was going nowhere, and one day jumped into his Mustang and drove deep into Nevada — to ‘find himself.’
Instead, Johnny found Sheena and the Queens of the Jungle, a statuesque, all hungry, female Las Vegas music revue — neighbors of billionaire Howard Hughes. Johnny somehow managed to become their slave …. their ‘house boy.’
The Amazonian ladies loved their Johnny (every day — and twice on Sundays). After twenty years the aging cougars decided to cut him loose, at midnight, in the middle of the desert.
Back home, Cheri patiently waited.
In August of 1992, Johnny limped back into to LA begging Cheri’s forgiveness.
To accomplish a big Las Vegas comeback for Johnny, Cheri needed to make sure that Johnny had the best coaches, the best songs and, most importantly, a reason to sing.
Cheri also had to find the only cure for Johnny’s broken heart. She needed to find the girl named Rebel, Johnny’s first, lost and last true love.
With the help of ghosts and two aliens,
Cheri would put Johnny and Rebel together again.
The Man From Nantucket
Adapted from The Timeless Children’s Classic
‘The Bountiful Mutiny’
With naughty nautical limericks
The Bountiful Mutiny (unabridged)
“Tales of Salty Sea Men and Soaked Sirens”
(Tragic Lust #65)
Born on the Island of Nantucket, in 1906, Sam Swathorn was the only surviving grandson of the celebrated William “Barnacle” Balls (the sailor). In the early 20th century kids matured early and that is when young Sam sprung forth, like a boner, to take his place in the world as The Man From Nantucket.
This is all thats left of Goldie, who I won at a school fair in 1985. She lived in our bathtub and then our pool.
eBook $3.99, Hardcover $14.99 Free to many readers… on Amazon! Links at the bottom…
Interactive map from my novel Batshit on Amazon.
Order your copy of Batshit for Halloween (It’s the 5th (2021) edition of BATS).
Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08NVFSKJX/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i4
This book of short stories needs a few (actually a sh*tload of) reviews so that it can be ‘found’ on Amazon, and it is free on Amazon Kindle Unlimited…
Full of surprises and wicked fun.
My original, acrylic ‘Flahridah’ collection. For sale on my FB page soon.
My latest, original flamingo painting selection.