Straight Outta Applebee's

 

Meet the McCloskeys! Chances are you probably have by now, or at least you've read about them. They just take your breath away, don't they? Posing at full armed alert and in bare feet, Mark in a skin-tight pink polo and Patricia in her Blair nautical blouse, just whipping their guns every which way. Why, this could be an excellent freeze frame during a new Quinn Martin television action extravaganza!

Okay, you're probably wondering why I'm beating on this ol' dead horse. Why now, you ask? Because in April, Mark McCloskey said he's considering running for the 2022 Missouri senatorial race.

Why not? If Donald Trump can be president, then I don't see why Mark can't load up his guns and come out blazing at the Missouri capitol. Hell, toss in Lauren Boebert and we oughta be in for some rip-roaring, rat-tat-tat good times! Damn straight! Only in Amurica! Just like in the ol' West! Yee-HAWWWWW!

Let's look at Mark's other stellar qualifications for senatorial status... Hmmm. Both he and Patricia are personal injury lawyers (*cough* Ambulance Chasers *cough*). This certainly is experience enough for him to run for office. (Although I find it a little ironic that personal injury lawyers are packing heat...is it just me?).

A little bit of further background checking reveals...lessee... WHOA! Before they jumped on the Trump Train, they fought gun companies in court, winning hundreds of thousands of dollars for clients injured by faulty guns. In fact, they were at least partially responsible for bringing down Bryco Arms, one of America's biggest handgun manufacturer. Now they're pretty much the mascots of gun rights. (Pssst...just don't tell the gun lovers about this, even though Patricia is allegedly waving around a Bryco model handgun). Yessir, ol' Mark's definitely got the right stuff to be a politician, flip-floppy as can be.

The McCloskeys spoke at the Republican National Convention (*cough* Crazy Trump Town *cough*) and that's a shoe-in for a political seat. They've both gone on record saying they support the Black Lives Matter movement (*cough* A Lie! *cough*) even though they were threatening to shoot said protestors for taking a shortcut through their gated, private community. Yep! Mark's learned the surefire political methods and has mastered the proper tools for a seat in the senate these days.

Of course there's still that doggone, irritating charge of unlawful use of weapons facing them, but I wouldn't worry about that. Since when has criminal charges and accusations ever kept a great politician down (*cough* President Trump *cough)? Besides the Missouri governor has already said should they be charged, he'd "definitely pardon them."

Ta-dahhhhhhhh! Politics!

Our country is broken.

Further proof of how broke America is resides within the tales in my darkly comical and spooky short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. It's the dark underbelly of the Midwest written during the Trump trauma-filled term of terror.

A Mighty Peculiar Place to Visit...

Today, my favorite book of mine (outta 23 or whatever!) is republished by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press, Peculiar County, with a tremendous cover by the talented Jeffrey Kosh.

Why is it my favorite book, I hear you thinking? Not sure, really. Maybe it's the small Kansas town setting in the early sixties full of beyond quirky and sinister characters such as the librarian witch sisters. Perhaps it's the odd things going on around town such as Mittens, the ghostly dog or the mysterious creature that takes to the skies at night. Could be it's the (I hope) stylish prose. Or maybe it's just down to the protagonist, Dibby Caldwell, a smart, 15-year-old tomboy discovering romance, ghosts, danger, and mystery which upends her world.

I've had more than a few people ask how in the world I was able to channel the mindset of a 15-year-old girl so well. One person even suggested I'd transitioned. I don't have an answer for that except to say that once I got to know Dibby, she pretty much wrote herself. All of the best characters react that way. Frankly, Peculiar County was the easiest book I've ever written, too, and maybe that's why it's my favorite. I was on auto-write. The lazy man's book, the way I like it.

I dunno... Maybe it's my favorite because the last publisher who had it, didn't understand it and mishandled the hell outta it.

Here, give me a minute... 

 Okay, this is the cover they wanted to saddle it with. Sweet Mother of Pearl! See that Justin Bieber kid acting all coy and cutesy and bee-bopsy in the cornfields? That's supposed to be a six-year-old ghost in the early sixties. Geeze. Anyway, the diva cover "artist" wouldn't do a redo (everyone at that particular publisher bows down to her for some unknown reason), so I at least told her to ditch Bieber. Thank God she did that. But, still, the cover was lacking...What're we left with? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Even worse, maybe "Little House on the Prairie." Gah.

Actually, the original inspiration for Peculiar County was the great To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (although not even near that classic's league, natch), one of my all time childhood faves. Except for, you know, the supernatural elements I added. And no social relevance. Okay, on second thought, it's nothing like Mockingbird, so ignore my pretensions. I just get excited about this book.

Some readers are also surprised that I've never lived in a small rural town. Just made it all up. And from paying attention when we'd drive through such places. It must be said, though, that a couple characters are based on real people my in-laws told me about. The one-armed, military attired phone operator was real! And the legend of the ghost dog was a story I picked up from an Oklahoma diner. The things you learn while driving through the Midwest...

All of these reasons and more are why this is my favorite book. In fact, it's nearest in end result of what I'd intended out of anything I've tackled. Which is why I've slowed way down on writing. I don't know that I'll ever match this book again.

But enough of my blabbing...check out what one reviewer said...

"What Mr. West has accomplished is a book that keeps on giving phrase after clause after sentence after paragraph you'll want to highlight and say 'this is so amazingly good.'" 

That makes it all worth it.

Life is different in Peculiar County.

So is death, as Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell's mortician, is about to find out.

 

Witches lurk in the shadows.

A menacing creature haunts the skies.

And the dead refuse to stay dead.

Peculiar County. Available right about....NOW!

 

 

Spartacus Got Me Beat Up

I have a vague recollection of my parents dragging me to see "Spartacus," when I was a wee lad. It must've been a revival or maybe we even watched it on TV. Whatever. But forcing a six-year-old boy to sit through a three hour and twenty minute epic about boring politicians hanging out and talking in togas strikes me as not the greatest idea.

(Side note: My dad had a strange history of the films he chose for family viewing. We saw "Patton (tortuously dull)," "Walking Tall (how was this a children's film?)," and best of all, "Billy Jack (my first spotting of female nekkidness--three, count 'em, three times!--Thanks, Dad!)." Once we got older, his choices grew worse, leaning toward redneck comedies with Clint Eastwood and an orangutan. I finally broke with the herd; while they watched Burt Reynolds and cars, I snuck into the theater next to it to catch flicks like "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Dog Day Afternoon.")

Anyway, as a six or seven year old, "Spartacus" bored me stupid. But one thing stayed with me. Well, two actually: the gladiator fights and how the Roman emperors would react to the outcome of a match, usually with a dramatically downward turned thumb to end the loser's life. Cool!

So, the next morning, there I was on the school bus, all sparkly and glowing with gladitorial thoughts as we bumped our slow and nauseating way to school. All was terrific in my little world until we came to the inevitable stop to pick up this older, bus bully. That's when I always clammed up, for I'd felt his wrath before, having been tripped by him, shoved, called names, the entire fun package.

Once this monster boarded, I tried to make myself invisible and retract into my turtleneck shirt. It seemed to work, as he found a new target in the kid in front of me. But after a while, I'd had enough of watching this torment. I found myself wondering not what would Spartacus do in such a moment, but rather what would a Roman emperor do. The answer was quite obvious.

Slowly, methodically, oh-so-dramatically, I raised my hand. Made a fist with my chubby lil' thumb up. A hush fell over the bus. A spotlight framed by the sun pouring in caught me. For one glorious moment, all eyes were upon me in my most Roman magnificence. Then I turned my thumb down.

I don't know what I was thinking. The gesture was meant for the bully, not his victim, so it didn't make a lot of sense. And how in the world could I possibly get out of this? By inspiring the rest of the beaten and downtrodden smaller kids to revolt on my behalf? 

Clearly the bully understood the gesture was meant for him (even though I'm absolutely certain he didn't understand the context; I've never met a smart bully. I'm pretty sure that's why they are bullies). Quickly, his rage turned toward me. He grabbed my turtleneck, raised me, shook me, cursed me, and ended things nicely with a few punches. Naturally, the bus driver ignored the obvious ruckus, only because he was the second biggest bully on the bus.

(Side note #2: A college friend of mine was indoctrinating his girlfriend into the "joys" of "Spartacus" at a revival, as she had never seen the film. When they drove up to the glorious old Glenwood Theater {the last of it's old-fashioned massive kind}, she read the marquee and got angry. Beneath "Spartacus" was the title for another film, "One Good Cop." She read it all as one title. "You didn't tell me this was a cop movie," she yelled. Even better, when they watched the credits and writer Dalton Trumbo's name came up, she screams, "That's my uncle!" "Spartacus" touches everyone in different ways.)

Recently, my wife and I watched Spartacus again and all of these painful memories came flooding back. Some kind of leader, that Spartacus. Not only did he get all of his followers crucified, but he made a grade school kid take one for the team, too.

I am NOT Spartacus!

While on the topic of bullies from my past, they run absolutely amok throughout the first book in my high school/supernatural/murder mystery/comedy/social issues trilogy, Tex, the Witch Boy. These characters, too, are based upon my bullies in high school hell. Give it a look-see if you dare.

 

The Man Who Ruined Bowling

Maybe that title's a little misleading. Fact is, I've never liked bowling. But because of my own personal Bowling Bully, I'll never pick up a ball again.

It seems like all of my life I've been dragged into bowling alleys. From an early age, I thought it was kinda dumb, barely a sport at all. I didn't like the sounds of the alleys (thrumble, thrumble, thrumble, SPACK-BAK-CLACKETY-CLACK!) and I certainly didn't like the idea of sharing shoes with fellow sweaty outta shape men (and isn't bowling the sport for sweaty outta shape men?).

But everyone I know has always wanted to have a bowling experience with me. A rite of passage, I suppose...to HELL.

Which brings us to "Brad."

Really it's my fault that I found myself bowling with Brad in the first place.

Let me 'splain... I knew Brad back in the day when he worked at the same company I did. He was an affable enough guy and we became acquaintances. First came happy hour, then came friends, then came Stuart in the bowling alley.

Most definitely against my will, I was dragged into the alleys of deep, dark depression.

It's funny you don't really know someone until you either A) get hammered with them (I had many "friends" turn into ugly, violent drunks); or B) go camping with them (I wouldn't know, though, because a guy's gotta draw the line somewhere); or C) go bowling with them. 

Things got worse with Brad. MUCH worse. 

Once I entered the loud and odoriferous den of despair, I discovered Brad fancied himself an expert bowler. On the other hand, I knew I was a horrible, no-good, embarrassment-to-amateurs bowler. I had been conned.

Nine outta ten balls I sunk into the gutter. Hell, I didn't even have the coordination to ever launch off the correct foot. Just isn't in my clunky nature.

And every time I sunk a ball into the gutter, my ego sunk even further. Mainly because Brad sat at the table, roaring with giddy delight over crap beer, basking in his moment of supreme schadenfreude. 

See Brad laugh! See him giggle like the broken wind! Listen as he brags about how well he handles big balls! (Hold up...that didn't sound right...)

He didn't stop at guffawing. Soon, the "good-natured" insults began. 

"Hey! Hey, Stuart! Your lane's the one in front of you! Hoo-HAH!" and "Ha! I didn't know you were blind!" and "Maybe you'll get one pin this time! Ha HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!" and other choice bon mots.

As if my fragile male ego hadn't been battered enough into the gutter, the next thing I know, Brad's got his arms around me, trying to show me his alley expertise. Completely emasculating.

I slunk out of that hell-hole vowing never to bowl again.

And I haven't.

Coincidentally enough, on my last visit with my daughter, she told me of her last time in a bowling alley. A chip off the ol' block, she was dragged in kicking and screaming by a "bowling ace." He then berated, laughed, hooted at, and denigrated her lack of alley skills. I'm so proud of her.

Anyway, this guy, too, ruined bowling for my daughter for life. We commiserated (even though we both agreed "the sport" sucked to begin with).

Let's put an end to bowling alley bullying (say that three times!). Make a difference today. Only you can do it. Help save the children. Please send money and gifts to me, Stuart R. West, care of Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (or should that be "Bowling Alley?") to help me battle against bowling bully PTSD.

Speaking of shameless plugs and desperate Trumpian level grifts for your hard-earned cash, check out my short story horror (and dark humor) collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There aren't any bowling bullies in the tales, but there are some dark characters that could give Brad a run for the gutter. Plus, it's one alley that's even scarier than a bowling alley.