The Roaming Mortician On the Run

Here's the beginning of a short piece I will be publishing soon.  It is basically an intro for my book Rooted.  As always, feedback always encouraged and appreciated. 
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The Roaming Mortician on the Run
“You ain’t got to tell me anything. I know all about the Roaming Mortician coming to Moonsock and raising Cain. Shoot, I was on Eleanor McQuiston’s porch shelling peas when he come rip roaring up the drive, hell bent on ploughing right through us in that battered old Mercury.

At the time, we’d never heard tell of the Roaming Mortician. Had no idea he was some musician from up in New York City. Never even heard of his kind of music. Punk he called it. Punk was the right word for him, too.

His real name was Slade Mortimer and I’m here to tell you that fool had a true talent for shaking things up. Ain’t never seen so many skeleton’s come stumbling out of a closet at once. Skeleton’s that hadn’t seen the light of day in a quarter of a century.

Slade come running into town in an old Mercury Montclair he’d stolen. Of course, that ain’t all the boy stole. He lifted every bit of gas and whiskey and pills and God knows what else he abused his body with.  Everything he came to town with was stolen; even his skinny leather britches.

Only thing I figure he didn’t steal was food. That’s because the boy didn’t eat. That sorry bag of bones was pretty much already dead by the time he reached Eleanor. Seemed like all he had left to do was lie down and let his worn out body rest in the good Lord’s eternal light.

It was all that running that wore him out. Come down from New York City like a bat out of hell, running from himself and everyone and everything he ever knew. How could he have known he’d run out of running when he hit Moonsock? How could the poor boy know what was waiting for him down McQuiston Lane?

Him not knowing was probably for the best. Had he known, he would have never pulled into Gus’ gas station, never stopped for directions on the square.

But that is what the boy did. And Lord love him, wasn’t anyone or anything the same after that.

Don’t take my word for it, though. Myrna Sue will tell you all about it. So will Verdie and Arliss. They were the first to encounter the Roaming Mortician.  Even if they didn't know who or what he was.”

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Giving Birth: Dreaming a Writer’s Journey

I don’t know about you, but when I am writing I seem to have dreams that directly relate to my work. But not in a way I would have expected. I would expect to dream about the content of my novels, but this is not how it works.

For example:
When I was writing about detectives in Wanted: The Roaming Mortician seems like my dreams would have taken on a judicial slant: mobsters and drag queens and morticians. But this did not happen.

When I wrote Operation Tub-butt, seems like my dreams would have been filled with revenge seeking middle-schoolers and cheerleaders. But this did not happen either.

When I wrote Cursed! My Devastatingly Brilliant Campaign to Save the Chigg, seems like I'd be dreaming about zombies and curses and stump toed soothsayers and pickles.  But no.



When I wrote about mud and guns and jeep chases and funerals in Rooted, seems like I would have dreamed about all of that. But no, again.

What I dream:
With the development of all my novels, I dream about babies: fresh in the womb, baking up good like a loaf of bread, and ultimately, their delivery.

When starting a new novel, I invariably dream that I have just learned I am with child. I’m not visibly pregnant, but a few weeks along.

As I progress through my rough draft, my pregnancy progresses as well in my dreams. After the initial pregnancy dream, there will be a dream where I’m five or six months pregnant, and then another dream of being full term. Finally, I deliver a healthy happy child. This occurs right after I finish my rough draft.

Only, with Rooted, I dreamed I delivered twins on a beach. Which obviously means the book is doubly good.

Lately, I’ve had a different set of dreams which relates directly to a side project I’ve started. I’m currently revising some old content I have lying about. Content which I feel may influence the literary world for generations to come. Not necessarily in a good way.

The dreams have to do with three novellas I am creating based on content which did not make it into my books. After starting these short projects, I have dreamed of returning to an old business I had and starting it over. But in my dream, my plan is to start the business on a smaller scale, with fewer clients to make it more manageable.

The next dream I had involved four or five small sailboats which were abandoned in a lake. The boats were upside down in the water. Once I righted the boats, I discovered they were in very good condition. In the dream I reclaimed these small boats.

These dreams center on reclaiming small things WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING WITH THESE NOVELLAS.

Spooky, I know. But I’ve come to consider these dreams nice little perks of my writing process. I welcome these dream babies, partly for the encouragement they provide, but mostly because they don’t need diapers.

Dear Published Authors: Stop Stealing My Unpublished Writing, It’s Getting on My Nerves

This one time at writing camp, I wrote short story about undead beings that glitter in sunlight and the next thing you know a little book called Twilight is published chocked full of GLITTERY UNDEAD VAMPIRES.

Okay, so I never wrote about glittery vampires and Stephanie Myers did not steal from my unpublished writing. And say what you will about Twilight, it wasn’t too bad (for a third grade primer).

But I have had instances where my characters show up in print or on television while I’m still in unpublished edit mode. And I’m getting pretty sick of it.

In my novel, Rooted, my villain was powerful, viscerally cruel, dark and cunning. I had every aspect of his character down: his accent, his hand made clothing. The way he moved like a bull in one scene and Fred Astaire in another. This man had any women he wanted, and he wanted all of them, often. He was an animal.

Thinking back on him, I miss him terribly. Of course, I can visit with him anytime I like. All I have to do is watch an episode of the Sopranos and there he be, the physical version of my solitary writings. Only, I wrote the durn character a couple of years before the Sopranos debuted. By the time I got around to watching the Sopranos, several years later, Rooted was pretty much solid. Only, my villain was now such a cliché he would never work in the story.

It was back to the drawing board. I changed my villain from a charismatic mob boss to a revenge seeking coal miner from West Virginia. I’m taking a gamble that HBO does not intend to develop a series about a coal miner with a mean streak and missing fingers. This, I hope, takes care of any future infringements on what I have already written in my unpublished novel, Rooted.

Two weeks ago I listened to the audio version of The Help, only to discover that one of my main characters currently in development has a name very similar to one of the main characters in The Help. And like the character in “The Help”, my character is a black female in Mississippi.

How in the world did The Help’s author know I am currently developing the most tragic literary figure of all time with a name very similar to Abeline, one of the main characters in The Help? My character is a black child in Mississippi, but her timeframe goes back to the 1880s. Her speech is so similar to Abeline’s from The Help, that I can’t get Abeline out of my head.

It’s like I’m now writing the child version of Abeline from The Help. Which makes me wonder, how did Kathryn Stockett know that one day I would develop a character so similar to her published Abeline? And how dare she write Abeline knowing I would be writing a similar character so soon after the publication of The Help?

To be plagiarized prior to anyone reading my work is quite unnerving. To be plagiarized before I even write anything is downright spooky.

So I beg all you hotshot published authors, have pity on this struggling writer. Please do not beat me to the punch. Leave me a few crumbs of my own writing to be sprung on the unsuspecting masses like a tiger from a bush.

For if you do, there will be a special place in heaven for you. And 36 virgins. I promise.

Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables?

If You Search For My Website With: “Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables”…


Apparently and unfortunately, you will get my website. But I do not understand how. Sure, I’m glad it gets you to my site, but really, how embarrassing to search for me with such an unflattering question.

First off, my character Slade is a washed up drugged out punk rocker, prone to violent outbursts and the most offensive behavior. But he certainly has not pooped on a glass table. I’m not ruling out other types of tables, rugs, socks or small furry animals. But I assure you, he’s not defiled a glass table. At least, not yet.

Secondly, if anyone were to associate the word “poop” which one of my characters at least get the character correct. When I think of my writing (which I assure you if of the highest caliber) and poop, I think of Chigger “FreckleFart” Larson who was caught praying on the pooper.

Quite scandalous, I know. In Chigg’s defense, the bathroom stall was the only place she could find for such a private moment. The praying, I mean.

As a writer, I’d like to think that readers could find my website by searching for any of the following:

• “Greatest writer on the face of the earth.”

• “Winner of every Nobel Prize for Literature for the next eighty years.”

• Or simply, “She who’s name cannot be spoken.”

As a realist, I’m pretty certain the last selection would not direct people to my website. But as my literary career progresses, I’m fairly confident readers will be able to find my site using the first two selections.

But until then, I guess just search for me with, “Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables”…

You’ll get me every time.

Introducing the Duanes and The Dead Cow Winch

Excerpt from my book ROOTED:

Grover McQuiston stood on the front porch pleased with the clear sky and early morning sun. The day would be full of preparation and he expected the weather to do its part to assist.

Bug Patter was around back unloading the chairs for the viewing. The casket would be arriving shortly. The boy had done a decent job with Eleanor, proving all the more that he was Matthew’s son.

But he didn’t want to think about Matthew, or of Slade’s mother. The two were as dead and buried in his mind and heart as his wife soon would be.

Grover’s thoughts were interrupted by the familiar and unwelcome sound of a truck racing up the drive. The low grumble of dual exhausts and the unmistakably loud music of Bocephus invaded and conquered the morning silence. The black Ford was a beast with blackened windows, thirty three inch tires and four inch lift. The truck whipped into the yard and through the grass until Grover was certain it would climb right over Lucy. But the truck stopped short and the occupants emerged.

Grover said, “The Duanes,” then pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes narrowed.

Myrna’s husband, Duane, and son, Duane Jr., were unaware of their audience as they helped themselves to beer from the cooler in the back of the truck. Can in hand, they drank while Hank Jr.’s voice sang,

If I get stoned and sing all night long

It’s a family tradition…

The Duanes guzzled and then tossed the empty, crushed beer cans into the back of the truck. Additional beer was immediately retrieved from the cooler. The cans made an audible popping sound as the tabs were pulled.

Grover stepped to the railing and shouted, “Turn that music off!”

The Duanes had not been keeping an eye out for Grover, and were surprised to discover him on the porch. Fumbling, they quickly tossed their cans into the truck-bed.

“Junior, turn that music off!” The music stopped midway through Grover’s yelling, leaving Grover’s angry voice alone in the early morning.

Stepping off the porch, Grover marched over to Duane. “What do you think you’re doing showing up here making all that racket?” Duane and Junior lowered their heads as Grover continued. “In case you haven’t heard, Miss Eleanor has passed.”

Duane glanced up at Grover. “Oh no, Myrna told us about Miss Eleanor yesterday.”

“Of course she did, you idiot,” Grover exploded. “Eleanor was her mother.”

The Duanes mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, then. I’ve got a job for you two. You bring those shovels like I said?”

Duane nodded proudly and pointed to the back of the truck. “Got two in the back.” Grover looked into the back of the truck and saw the shovels, and the crushed beers cans.

Leaning into Duane’s beefy face, Grover studied him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You been drinking?” Duane looked down at his shoes and shook his head emphatically. “No, sir.” Despite Duane’s denial, Grover continued to glare.

“You’re lying.”

Junior fidgeted uneasily as he waited for Grover to get to him, which he immediately did. “And you, you’re as drunk and as useless as your father.”

Junior nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, sir.”

Grover stepped back and looked around for a second. His hard eyes fell on Lucy. “You got a chain?”

Junior saw that Grover was looking at Lucy and he brightened up. “Got a chain, and this here winch.” He ran around to the front of the truck to show off his wench. “We gonna pull her? Huh?” Excitement filled his muscular body.

Grover studied Junior suspiciously and then grudgingly inspected the winch’s cable.

“It’s a nine thousand pounder,” Junior offered proudly. “Pull anything you got, including that dead cow.”

Grover glared at Junior. Duane hurried forward to run interference for his one and only son. “What you need us to do, Grover? We’re here to help.”

Grover looked down disapprovingly at Duane’s bloated beer belly. “Looks like you’ve already helped yourself to plenty.” Duane lowered his head in shame.

Grover placed his hands on his hips, looked from the truck to Lucy, and then back to the truck. The Duanes stood out of the way, eager for Grover to finish with them.

“You say this winch will pull her?”

Duane nodded as Junior said, “Yes sir.”

Grover thought for another second. “And it won’t hurt her?”

Duane and Junior shook their heads and said, “No, sir,” in unison.

Grover appeared to have a hard time accepting this as fact. He put his hand on the winch and tugged at the cable. Finally, he said, “All right. First off, I want you two to pull Miss Lucy back behind the barn. I was supposed to have a front-end loader out here the past two days, but it hasn’t come. You’ll bury her back there behind the barn.”

Junior’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I been wantin’ to try that winch out!”

Grover’s stern look stripped all joy from Junior. “This is not fun and games, boy. Show some respect.” Junior lowered his head and apologized once again, but Grover could still sense his excitement. “And there better not be any mishaps. Do I make myself clear?” The Duanes nodded.

“When you finish,” Grover continued, “you two can start on Miss Eleanor’s grave.”

With that, the Duanes jaws dropped. Any excitement they may have felt quickly evaporated. They stole a glance at each other, each as horrified as the other.

Duane said, “I ain’t never dug no grave before.”

“Well, it’s not rocket science. You dig down six feet deep, and go maybe four or five feet wide. That’ll be plenty for the casket.”

“B…b…but…,” Duane stuttered nervously. He looked to Junior for some backup, but Junior had tangled enough with Grover for one day.

“B…b…but nothing,” Grover answered. “Let me know when you get Lucy buried around the barn. I’ll take you out to the family cemetery and show you where I want the grave. Now get going, we don’t have all day. There’s going to be a lot of people here this afternoon, and I don’t want Lucy lying in the yard.”

The Duanes said, “Yes sir.”

******
Click here to read more excerpts from Rooted

The Greatest Thing You've Ever Read In Your Entire Life: Yes, No, Maybe So?

Please read following and let me know if this is the greatest thing you've ever read in your entire life and makes you absolutely, drop dead have to read the book right this minute!

NOTE: If its not the greatest thing you've ever read, please be kind enough to tell me why and what needs to change.  I fear I suck at this.

Rooted jacket copy:

In the late 1970’s, West Tennessee is a sea of white cotton, a land of “Yes Ma’ams” and “No Sirs” populated by good God fearing people who are mostly unaware of the mohawked, nose pierced, in your face, raw anarchy gripping New York City by the throat. But all of that is about to change.


Washed up and drugged out, punk's poster-boy, Slade Mortimer, is on his last leg. On the run from his dead girlfriend’s revenge seeking father, Slade heads south desperately seeking an inheritance and a chance at a new life.

What Slade finds is the blood kin he never knew he needed or wanted, the powerful yet fractured McQuistons who hold the keys to Slade’s past and his future.

With secrets and roots both deep and dark, the McQuistons bind Slade to a terrible task, one he’s spent his entire life running from. But in those flat, delta fields Slade discovers he can no longer escape what he has become, just as the McQuistons can no longer hide the truth about the sudden disappearance of Slade’s young mother years before.

Only when the powerful roots that ground and sustain families take hold and the guilt and loss of the past is accounted for can Slade and the McQuistons begin to forgive themselves. Only then can they begin to heal.

*******

Again, you are required to leave a comment and let me know exactly how great or how much this copy sucks.  My future as a writer depends on your input.  Don't leave a sista' hanging.

Thanks,

Idabel

All a Man Needs: Good Gun, Good Dog, Good Woman

From my novel ROOTED: 

Slade came to when he heard a deep voice drawl, “Afternoon, Miss Eleanor.”

Eleanor nodded to the man and quietly said, “Hello, Bullfrog.” 

The man laughed easily in his muddy boots and Case tractor hat. “Shoot, I didn’t know you knew they called me Bullfrog. In class you always called me by my name proper. I can still hear you saying, ‘Rodney Hollister, go stand in the corner,’ like it was yesterday. ’Course I spent most of fourth grade in that corner. Still, you were my favorite teacher.”

“That’s nice,” Grover said. “Now if you’re done reminiscing, I need your help.”

“Yessir.” Rodney looked over the scene. When his eyes set on Slade he said, “Excuse my language, but what kind of a sorry sack of shit you got there on the lawn?”

The words were hardly recognizable to Slade, so thick was the accent and the wad of chewing tobacco in Rodney’s mouth.

“And what happened to your cow?”

“What’s it look like?” Grover sputtered. “He crashed this pile of rusted junk into Lucy and killed her.”

Rodney inspected the scene with a critical eye and then spit a long stream of brown tobacco juice, barely missing Slade’s cheek. “Looks like she was shot in the head.”

“Of course she’s shot in the head,” Grover thundered. “I had to put her out of her misery. You don’t think I’d let her lay there suffering. She’d already been through enough.” Grover cast Eleanor an accusing look.

“You taking her down to Paulson’s meat house? Bet you’d get some good cuts off of this’n,” Rodney said appreciatively. “She’d make for a good-sized barbecue if -”

“Say another word about a barbeque and I’ll lease that hundred acres to some other farmer with enough sense to keep his mouth shut.”

Rodney looked down and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“That’s better. All I need you to do is get him over to the sheriff’s. Tell him,” Grover kicked Slade’s foot. “You tell Watkins he killed Lucy. I want him locked up.”

Even in Slade’s compromised state, the word sheriff was enough to put some life back in him. Slade opened his mouth to defend himself, but all that emerged was a gross gurgling sound followed by a thin line of drool that ran down his chin.

“Yessir,” Rodney answered. “After that, you want I should come back for Sarah Jane?” The barrel-chested farmer’s eyes gleamed.

Eleanor glanced nervously at her husband. “Grover, surely you’re not -”

“You best wait a day or so. I’ve got a few things to take care of around here.”

Rodney’s shoulders slumped noticeably. “I cleaned my truck out and everything. Put the Colonel in the bed.” He hitched his thumb at the hound in the back of his truck.

“It’ll still be clean when you come back out, so quit your whining. Take care of this for me, and I’ll make sure Sarah Jane’s ready for you.”

Rodney thought about it and then nodded. “I can do that.”

Shaking Rodney’s hand, Grover said, “I expect you’ll be respectful.”

“Mr. McQuiston, you seen how fine I treat my bitch pups. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. Besides, all a man needs is a good gun, a good dog, and a good woman. I already got the other two. Sarah Jane might be a little ornery at first, but she’ll come around.”

Eleanor whispered furiously, “Don’t do this. Please, Grover, I’m begging you.”

Grover slapped Rodney on the back and said, “I know I can count on you.”

“Yessir.” Rodney spit again, this time striking Slade’s arm. Then he grabbed the sorry sack of shit around the waist and tossed him over his shoulder. At the truck he dumped Slade in the bed with Colonel.

Slade lay on his back with his eyes open, the dog panting and slobbering excitedly above him. He felt outside himself, as though everything was happening to someone else. Then Eleanor was at the tailgate, silent, faded and defeated. He wanted to be with her, that calm, sad woman. He wanted it to be true, her being his grandmother. He wanted her to nurse him, to be at his side wiping the blood from his brow once more.

But when she reached her hand out as if to touch him, the truck began moving and she was gone.

*****
Click to download sample chapter from Rooted.

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No, He Is Not Marvelous - He Is Satan, In The Flesh

From my novel, ROOTED:

After exiting the truck, Grover grabbed Slade by his bony arm and pulled him toward the house. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a month of Sundays. Got a pot of beans and a pan of cornbread inside. Get yourself filled up.”

Slade tried to resist, but Grover was stronger. “But…”

“But nothing,” Grover replied. “Come on.”

They mounted the porch and entered the house. The warm smell of cooking made Slade want to vomit, but there was nothing in him to come out. In the kitchen, Althea stirred a pot at the stove while Miss Josie spoke on the phone. Sarah Jane turned toward the men as they entered, and then turned quickly back to the sink full of dishes.

Grover marched Slade to the table and pushed him into a chair.

“Get him a plate, Althea,” Grover instructed, “and make sure he eats it.” Grover kept a stern eye on Slade.

“I’m not eating crap,” Slade mustered weakly. The truth was, even if he wanted to eat, he didn’t know if he could manage a fork.

Althea placed a plate of white beans and two large slabs of cornbread on the table before him. “Oh, you’re eating,” she stated, “and you’re going to clean your plate like a good boy.”

Slade looked at the plate. “This looks like puke,” he protested, crossing his measly arms across his measly chest. He looked up to find Althea and Grover standing over him.

“I don’t care if it tastes like puke,” Althea countered, “you’re gonna eat it, and you’re gonna eat it all.” She wagged a large and intimidating metal spoon in Slade’s sullen face.

“What about that one?” Grover nodded at Sarah Jane. “She been helping out?”

Althea frowned. “Of course, as best she can under the circumstances.”

Grover studied Sarah Jane’s frozen back at the sink. “Make sure she don’t run off on you. There’s cleaning to be done. I expect we’re going to have a houseful of guests, and I don’t want them thinking we live like trash.”

“Leave that girl alone, Grover McQuiston. You got enough to worry about without fussin’ about the house.”

Just as Grover opened his mouth to reply, Myrna rushed into the kitchen. Her eyes fell, solely on her father; she did not see anyone else.

Myrna’s many chins quivered and her lips shook. “Daddy…,” she held her arms out to Grover, who looked very uncomfortable with what was about to happen. “Daaaa….ddy,” she wailed and flew to him.

Grover reluctantly allowed Myrna to clutch him in a bear hug. Her sobs rose, her tears fell and her nose ran, all on Grover’s suit jacket. Her grief knew no bounds. Grover’s arms slowly and mechanically embraced his daughter. She failed to notice his stiffness, his unbending authority.

Grover patted Myrna’s formidable shoulder three times, and then said, “That’s enough, Myrna.” He opened his arms and expected Myrna to release him. But Myrna was not through needing her daddy. Grover had to say, “Myrna, that is ENOUGH,” to be free of her.

Myrna continued to cry and sniffle but had exchanged her big, gulping sobs for more of a whining whimper.

Grover looked at his daughter with a little disgust and a lot of dismay. “Pull yourself together, Myrna. That is no way to act at a time like this.”

“How’s the girl supposed to act?” Miss Josie questioned after hanging up the phone. “You could stand a little grief yourself, Grover McQuiston.”

Suddenly, Slade developed a strong need to lie down. His head hurt beyond anything he could have imagined, and the plate of puke before him only added to his discomfort. In his heart he knew what he really needed was a cigarette, and maybe a little blow, a couple of drinks to set him right. He was just low on reserves. He needed to refuel.

But there didn’t appear to be any fuel in sight. The only thing in sight was beans, white, puky beans. All thought left his head as he studied his food. Without being aware of it, he was drawn closer and closer to the plate mesmerized by the general pattern of the beans. His nose was only centimeters away from the bean pillow when a loud, piercing scream broke the spell and brought him back to reality.

It was Myrna. She had discovered Slade at the table and was shrieking. She clutched her chest and neck with her hands and scuttled to the far side of the kitchen. Everyone in the kitchen, but Slade, stared at her in amazement.

“What has got into you, child?” Miss Josie asked.

“He- he-,” Myrna gasped for air and pointed wildly at Slade. “That.. he’s the one… him…,” she babbled incoherently. Her wild eyes searched each face in the room.

“Stop that this instant,” Grover ordered. But Myrna would not be calmed.

“At the gas station, yesterday...” She pointed at Slade and managed to speak an entire sentence. “He attacked me. He attacked me and Precious. He’s…he’s a rapist!”

Slade turned his head to the side and said, “Give her the fucking beans.” At which point Althea struck his shoulder with the metal spoon and commanded, “Eat.”

His hands full with Myrna, Grover only said, “Mind your manners, boy.”

“Are you crazy?” Myrna screeched wildly. “Call the police, quick!” Myrna beseeched hysterically. She turned wide-eyed to Miss Josie and Althea and croaked, “We’re not safe, we’re not safe.”

Precious entered the kitchen and was not so much startled by Myrna’s screeching as the sight of the ghostly, blue-haired stranger. She opened her mouth and whispered breathlessly, “Isn’t he marvelous?”

“No, he is not marvelous,” Myrna hissed. “He’s Satan, in the flesh. Avert your eyes from the abomination!” Precious’s doe-like eyes remained glued to Slade as her quivering mother jerked her by the arm. Placing her substantial body protectively before her daughter’s unquestioned virtue, Myrna eyed Slade with panicked intensity. Precious squirmed behind her mother, desperate to see past the mammoth maternal object blocking her vision.

Slade dropped his fork and said, “Anyone got a smoke?” He looked hopefully at everyone in the kitchen, but didn’t recognize anyone but Grover. His eyes rested on Myrna. “Hey, aren’t you that dead cow from out front?”

*****


Click for full excerpt from ROOTED.


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Introducing Grover McQuiston: The Root

From my novel, ROOTED:

Someone was saying, “Get up, boy,” but it didn’t make any sense. Then someone shoved him on the shoulder. Slade flapped his hand for this someone to go away. Then he was shoved even harder.


Slade snarled, “Piss off,” and curled up tighter on his cot.

“What did you just say to me?”

Slade groaned. This person was really irritating the crap out of him.

The voice commanded, “Get up,” but Slade ignored it. Then something hard landed on Slade’s shoulder, sending shockwaves of excruciating pain shooting through his withered body. Slade emitted a high-pitched squeal and scrambled to face his abuser.

“You!” Slade accused. “You’re that asswipe with the gun!” He pressed himself against the wall and held his injured shoulder close.

“And now I have a broom handle,” Grover countered, “so I’d watch your mouth.”

Slade grew indignant. With effort, he managed to pull himself to his feet. When he felt he was as steady as he was going to be, Slade puffed out his wasted chest and said, “Go fuck yourself, you goddamned geriatric goat-grinder!”

Then he hocked up a large glopping glob and spit. It landed on Grover’s tie.

Grover’s arm shot out, snatched the nose ring from Slade’s nose, and slung it to the floor, causing Slade to scream “Motherfuck!” as his hands flew to his outraged nose.

Instantly, the broom handle struck Slade’s abdomen. He said, “Ooowmph” as his breath was knocked from his body. Slade doubled over and was immediately struck again across his hunched back. This blow sent Slade to the floor and into the fetal position.

“I don’t much care for your language,” Grover declared, striking the curled-up punk rocker across his bottom repeatedly.

Slade shook with pain and shock as he begged, “Stop, stop, oh please stop!”

Grover stood over the begging boy, with the hard handle poised to strike again. “Do I make myself clear?”

Slade nodded his tear-stained face. “Yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.”

Grover looked at him closely and demanded, “Yes, what?”

Slade panicked. He wasn’t sure of the answer for this. Then a word from his past occurred to him, long unused and forgotten. “Yes…sir?” he asked uncertainly.

Grover lowered the broom handle. “That’s better.” He stepped back and said, “Now stand up here and stop acting childish.”

In disbelief, Slade mouthed the word “childish,” but did as he was told. When he stood, he noticed the black bars and the concrete floor. He was in jail. Nothing new there. But how did he get there? His hand strayed to his head and felt the enormous goose egg. The old man had hit him with a gun, but there was more. He tried to think but was confronted with that endless darkness that kept so much of the past from him.

Then he realized the old man was staring at him, and this made him nervous. Slade looked away, studied the empty hallway beyond the bars, took in the surprisingly clean toilet and sink. But there’s not a whole lot to look at in jail and so Slade finally blurted out, “What?”

The old man didn’t speak at first. Finally he asked, “Who are you?”

Slade was surprised at the question. “Is this a trick? Are you going to beat my a - me if I answer wrong?” Slade glanced again at the broom handle. Why didn’t the old man just put it down?

“Answer the question.”

The way Grover looked at him made Slade feel nauseas. “I gotta sit down, man.” Slade dropped onto the cot, wincing as his bruised buttocks touched the mattress. He groaned. “What do you want?”

“Are you who you claim to be?”

“Claim to be?” Slade’s head shot up defiantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Grover slammed the broom handle down on the bed next to Slade, causing Slade to jump. He blurted, “I’m the Roaming Mortician, man. I’ve got a band, you know, MORTIFIED.”

Grover shook his head. “Not all that garbage. Is what you said yesterday evening true? What you told Miss Eleanor?”

Yesterday evening? Shit, what the fuck had he said? His mind drew a total blank and his face revealed as much.

Exasperated, Grover finally asked, “Are you Matthew’s son?”

A window of light began to cut through the thick haze in his head. It had to do with the letter, that stupid motherfucking letter that caused him to coke up and tear up Pouncy’s, ruining his chances of ever playing there again. And he could forget ever getting MORTIFIED back together. So much for proving to Donny and to everyone else that he was clean, changed, that he was off the junk and that he still had what it took.

Everything was completely and totally fucked up. And now he was in jail being abused by some redneck Nazi with a broom.

But at least he remembered now, at least he knew why he was there. So he said, “I’m here for my godda - my inheritance.”

Grover looked away. “It’s true then. Matthew is dead?”

“Yeah.” Slade shrugged. “So?”

“You ever work with him?” Grover asked quietly, watching Slade closely.

“How the fu- how do you think I got the name Roaming Mortician?” Suddenly Slade was back in Pittsburgh, in the basement of the funeral home, with the bodies, and he smelled death.

After a thoughtful moment, Grover said, “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Slade crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re fu- you’re insane.” The hard look that seized upon Grover’s face made Slade uneasy, but he added, “I’ve got a letter from a lawyer that says I got something coming. I’m here to get it.”

“A letter?” Grover asked skeptically. “Where is it?”

“I don’t remem…” Slade thought for a second and then frowned. “It should be in my car. It says for me to see some guy named McCrap or something.”

“McQuiston?”

A light went off in Slade’s head. “Yeah, McQuiston. That guy’s got my money.”

“Well, come on then. We don’t have all day.”

“What are you talking about?”

Grover answered with a straight face, “I’m that McQuiston guy.”

Slade couldn’t help it. He said, “Oh shit.” Grover lifted the broom handle.

Slade’s hands flew up instinctively before his face. “It just slipped out, man.”

Grover kept the broom handle ready to strike. “If you want that inheritance you best come with me. Understand?”

Slade knew he didn’t have a choice. “You promise not to beat my ass?”

Grover just stared at him.

Slade rolled his eyes. “All right, let’s go.”

Inside the truck, Grover pulled a long wrench out from under his seat and laid it next to him. He gave Slade a stern look and warned, “Mind your manners, boy.”

*****

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Introducing Slade Mortimer: The Roaming Mortician

From my novel, ROOTED:
Washed up and drugged out, punk's poster-boy, Slade Mortimer, is on his last leg.  After years of running, Slade descends on Moonsock in a desperate attempt to claim an inheritance and escapte his dead girlfriend's revenge-seeking father.

Excerpt:
While the women looked to each other for a volunteer, the door opened of its own accord. They were instantly assaulted by antagonistic screeching, harsh chords, and crashing drums; still they did not recognize the sound as music. The smell that poured from the car had the familiar trappings of rot and decay.


The women instinctively took a step back, and another. Then, slowly, one unlaced black combat boot was lowered to the ground.

“Bet it’s some deranged military man,” Althea determined loudly over the volatile noise. “One of them disgruntled Vietnam veterans.”

“Hush, Althea,” Eleanor warned as the other boot lowered to the ground. At this point the driver’s body slumped forward into view. He rested his bloody, searing blue spiked head on his hands, placed his elbows uneasily upon his knees, opened his mouth and succumbed to several harsh, dry heaves. He emitted a small amount of watery vomit, which dribbled onto his boots.

The women shuddered with revulsion, and then leaned forward for a better view. “My sweet Jesus,” Miss Josie cried. “Look at that mop.”

The driver managed to pull himself to his feet and stood wobbling for a moment before doubling over and succumbing to a gut-wrenching heave. “Auwaughhhhhh…”

Still bent over, they heard him faintly curse, “Shit…shit…shit…shit.” After a moment or two, he recovered enough to stand upright again. He looked around with dazed eyes and then promptly fell to the ground unconscious; his bloody face inches from Lucy’s bloody cow face.

Eleanor stepped forward and whispered, “Oh my! He’s hurt.”

“He’s hurt all right, but that still doesn’t explain the hair.” Miss Josie pointed at the bloody blue spikes. “Or the earrings.”

“Or all those tattoos,” Sarah Jane whispered, studying the driver’s naked torso, the word SWEET tattooed above his right nipple and SOUR above the left. A scaly red dragon breathing hellfire snaked up the side of his abdomen from his hip to right beneath his armpit.

“Or the way he looks all starved to death,” Althea pointed out.

“Or the way he just looks like death,” Miss Josie added. And that was what they all solemnly agreed; he looked like death. He did not even look like death warmed over, no, he just looked like death. His gaunt, alabaster body was emaciated.

“He’s fishbait all right,” Althea hissed loudly.

Eleanor disagreed. “He looks like a bruised and battered kitten.”

Miss Josie was more skeptical. “A kitten wearing black leather pants and eyeliner? I wouldn’t give my daughter any kitten like that.” She shook her head at the driver’s total inappropriateness. “And what,” she demanded, pointing, “for the love of God, is that?”

They looked away from the nose ring, ashamed for the man.

*****

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Introducing Sarah Jane McQuiston: Accused Vagitarian

From my manuscript ROOTED:
Stubborn and rebellious, Sarah Jane McQuiston is an untamable recluse hiding from a traumatic past and a scandal that has the entire town talking. All Sarah Jane wants is to remain at Moonsock: unseen, unwanted and untouchable.

Excerpt:

The sheriff said, “First, Mr. McQuiston, let me say how everyone knows Sarah Jane is, well, she’s just different is all.

Like how when someone talks to her, she just stands there with her eyes on the ground, like she doesn’t see or hear no one. Almost like she’s holding her breath until they go away. Shoot, I’ve hardly ever seen her talk to anyone other than that mechanic over at Patterson’s garage. And it ain’t natural, her not dating or having a boyfriend, not at her age.

She don’t work a job or go to school. And she just looks a mess anytime she comes to town, always looking like she just rolled out of bed, or ain’t even been to bed in days. She’s a pretty girl, but ain’t none of us ever seen her in a dress, not even to church. Just wears those cut-off shorts and all.

And how she runs round all night at the river, like she don't have no upbringing."

“I know all about Sarah Jane, Watkins. I don’t need you telling me about my blood.” Grover might have said granddaughter, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he hated using the word “blood” to describe Sarah Jane, when it had never been proven to him that even a drop of McQuiston blood flowed in her veins.

*****
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