Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

Ooooooh, That Smell!

I'm not talking about that crappy arena rock song from Lynyrd Skynyrd (You old-timers remember them? From back in the  70's when all music was crappy?) when I say "Oooooooh, that smell!"

Nope, I'm talking about our oldest dog, Bijou. Monday morning I let her outside to do her stuff and when she gets back inside she pops up next to me on the love seat. And I get a good whiff of her.

"Good God!"

I've never smelled anything like it. But then that wasn't quite true. I knew the offending odor from somewhere before, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But my nose sure did. Like a nightmarish, musky, rotting smell, the odor permeated the room, the house, my shirt, and permanently scarred my olfactory system for life.

I stood up and ran from the room, hoping she'd follow me. She did. Then I jumped back into the TV room, shutting the dog gate behind me. Still that smell followed me around like a heat-seeking missile.

I couldn't escape it. Soon I resorted to kicking her out in the backyard (along with her little brother). I figured a good long stay outdoors might diminish the stink. After about at hour I went outside. Even in the open air, her odor assaulted me.

I noticed a side of her coat was rough, so she'd rolled in something, God only knows what. Sneakily, I approached her slowly with the hose. But once she saw the burbling water, she ran away. After playing tag for a while, I finally gave up.

Back inside, I finally came upon a solution. A solution that wise men resort to as their last ditch effort. I texted my wife. "When you get home, you need to give Bijou a bath. You'll see." (She excels at this job, something I'm not well-equipped for.)

So my wife threw her in the tub. After a while, I'm cooking dinner, and she calls out, "Wow. She still stinks. Back in the tub with her."

But she still reeked, even after her second bath. Just not as badly. All night long she kept "eye-begging" to hop up into my lap. Sadly, I dejected those puppy dog eyes.

That night, about 4:30 in the morning, I woke up with a real eureka moment. I finally recognized the odiferous odor: dead animal carcass.

Okay, now on the "Walking Dead," I understand the survivors' need to wear human entrails on their body to be able to move amongst the zombies, but why in the world would a dog think it a grand idea to roll around in a dead critters' remains? Claiming their territory? Geeze, next time just plant a flag or something.

Speaking of furry, smelly varmints, have you heard the one about the business corporation that has a werewolf amongst the employees? No? Well, then, by skippy, you've got to read my darkly comical, satirical, horror, mystery, thriller Corporate Wolf available right here!

The Con is On!

Joe-Bob Briggs pretending to read one of my books!

The seal has finally been broken! I pedaled books at my very first convention, Scares That Care, in beautiful Williamsburg, Virginia, a couple of weekends ago. Huzzah! Play those celestial trumpets and end with a comedically sad wah-wah-wah-wahhhhhh trombone! I managed to sell a box of books and it only cost about $3,000 to get there!

Okay, it's a slight exaggeration. And it just so happens my wife had business to take care of on the East Coast as well, so we turned it into a "working vacation."

Why is this a big deal, you ask? Because everyone knows all writers are ridiculously introverted and given the choice, I'd much rather hunker down with Me, Myself and I. I've never been good at selling myself so it was a challenge. And now I'm ready for more.

Under the  tutelage of the maestro of the con, Russell James (read his books already! Great writer and I've supplied a handy-dandy link), I learned much.

What did I learn? Pay attention as class is about to begin...

A) People watching at conventions is awesome. Check out my photos.

What's a "Teatrix?" I dunno and was too afraid to ask!

B) I learned quickly how to spot readers from non-readers. When people shook their heads disparagingly and/or rolled their eyes when they spotted a table full of books, that was a huge, honkin' clue that my sales pitch would be wasted. Also, full families never--I repeat, NEVER--stopped to look at books.

Hey, it's Father Evil, truly terrifying in his malevolence.

C) Some people just wanna talk. It doesn't matter about what as long as it's not about my books.

D) Several Big-Name authors are very cool; others...not so much.

Me and my new BFFF Jonathan Maberry (one of the cool ones!).

E) When potential customers say "I'll probably be back," generally you never see them again. (I'd never worked so hard to make a sale as I did on the last day when a couple grabbed my book, stood there and read several pages, laughed appropriately, deliberated, hemmed and hawed, then vanished into a black hole. I put their photos on a milk carton. I still want that sale.)

He's havin' a yabba-dabba-doo time.

F) Now I know how it feels to be the last one asked to dance.

G) Standing for eight hours on end is tough, particularly after having been booted from the hospital two days prior. But at least I had an appropriately gruesome looking cut and multi-colored eye to sport at a horror convention.

Famed horror movie host Count Gore De Vol scaring up interest.

H) The "Celebrity Room" was kinda creepy and a little sad; there wasn't a whole lotta joy to be had as you navigated a sea of handlers. Just ask poor Wilford Brimley sitting at the back wall. I never did get a chance to chat with him about oatmeal. (And the awful, sickly green walls were...sorta oppressive and demoralizing.) Feeling sorry for awesome character actor Sid Haig (and more than a little afraid of him), I gave him a wave and knowing nod to which he returned.

The llama suit looks kinda comfy except for the massive head-gear (and I don't even wanna know about going to the bathroom).

I) After a while, I started playing with my sales patter. I had nothing to lose and didn't want to lug home one hundred pounds of books (yes, I was naively over-zealous). "Winnah, winnah, book winnah!" and "We got thrills, chills, and blood spills! Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped!" Anything to keep it entertaining for three days.

J) The last day? Yawwwwn. Everyone was broke and they let us know about it.

I'm sure I felt pretty similar to this tortured Hellraiser guy on Sunday.

There was much to be learned. And as Russell James had stated in his excellent three-part article on doing conventions, you're not there to get rich. Because you won't get rich unless you're Stevie King. Nope, you're there for the love of books, writing, and meeting the fans. I hope I made some new ones and I can't wait to do another con.

Speaking of cons, something's not quite right at Lerner, Incorporated, a huge billion dollar corporation dedicated to... well, what exactly is it dedicated to? Could it have something to do with...WEREWOLVES? Read Corporate Wolf and find out!

Hospital of Horrors!

Hey, it's a new week and what does that mean for me here at Tornado Alley? Why, another new medical crisis, of course!

Except for when it's not. As I kept explaining to all of the medical experts who wanted to study and dissect me, "Dammit, sometimes a fall is just a fall!"

I see a little background is needed. Couple Sundays ago, my full bladder woke me up at 5:30 A.M., business as usual. Except I got up too fast, became dizzy.

Calamity occurred. Lots of high-speed thuds, bangs, and cracks ensued as I renovated the bedroom in a hurry. As a last minute Hail Mary before I fell, I snatched onto a book-rack, pulled it down on top of me, and gashed my head open on the cedar chest at the end of the bed. Blood flowed. We're talking George Romero gushers. On the floor, I sat up, felt the blood pouring from above my eye. My wife rushed to the rescue.

Not one for drama (although my wife would beg to differ), I jumped up, showed her how okay-fine-and-dandy I was. 

Um, except not, I suppose. The next thing I know I'm waking up on the bathroom floor and my wife's on the phone calling 911.

I say, "Hey, that's not necessary. I'm fine."

She tells me to stay put and I fight her on it, stupid me. I tell her I need to go to the bathroom.

She says, "Yeah, no. You've already gone."

Consciousness swims back in. So does a gross liquid warmth in my boxers. "Oh," I say.

Along with the first responders, I find out exactly what happened. Apparently, I made it as far as the bathroom, passed out again, fell to the floor, and started "gurgling." Then I went dead silent for 90 seconds. My wife thought I had a seizure.

But I was intent on showing the cops, medics and my wife I was okay. Just a little wet, humiliated and bloody. When asked who our president was, I scoffed (perhaps a little too long as I don't even like mentioning the Orange Dorito's name), then gave the appropriate answer. Regardless, the medic wanted me to go to the ER.

My wife decided to drive me as a luxury cruise in an ambulance was beyond our budget.

Alright, I've never lied to you guys (exaggerate is a different beast), so it's truth time. Sunday night, I had beers. Too many. So it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out what had happened.

But bring on the brain surgeons the hospital did! Along with every type of medical doctor, specialist, intern, psychologist, chaplain, and janitor they could find. I went through tests of all sorts. I was poked, prodded, probed, jabbed, jolted, shocked, studied, stared at, talked about, forgotten when it came to meal times, and bored outta my mind.

I kept explaining to everybody, "I drank too much, I'd just restarted the low-carb diet, my blood pressure medicine makes me dizzy, and I got up too fast! Let me outta here!"

No one would listen. My nurse--who I fondly look on now as a classic "frienemy"--was younger than a pesky hang-nail  and probably weighed about 60 pounds, half of that being her various piercings. We battled round and round and round. I had my jeans and shoes on from day one, ready to blow the joint. She kept telling me I wasn't going anywhere yet (even though I think she'd rather I had skedaddled). 

After a day-and-a-half of horrific boredom (I watched about every movie the hospital offered on TV, down to my very last pick, Crazy Rich Asians, a romantic comedy, for Gawd's sake!), the results finally came in. Everyone's fanciest guess was my "seizure" was delayed trauma from the blow to my head. Nurse Ratched, Jr. told me, "You know, I think you just fell."

Smartest person in the place.

Speaking of horror in the most mundane environment, check out my new thriller, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe werewolves WORK among us! I'm not kidding. Really. No lie. It's a friggin' true story.