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.