Greetings From the Magical Kingdom of Covidia!

My wife went on a business trip to Arizona and all I have to show for it is this lousy case of Covid. I would've much rather received a seashell, or a snow-globe, or even an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt.

After four years of careful masking, vaxxing and distancing, I really thought we were gonna escape the plague. It wasn't so. As a matter of fact, two days before I succumbed, a friend of mine said, "I can't believe you guys haven't gotten it yet." Thanks a lot, "friend," for the jinx.

I suppose I should be grateful we didn't get it in the early days of the pandemic, before vaccines and boosters. Back then getting Covid was a terrifying (close to) death knell. That same friend I mentioned earlier suffered through Covid for four months in the beginning. FOUR MONTHS!

That's hard to fathom. My week of misery seemed horrible enough, walking around coughing until my chest felt hollow and sore like a rock 'n roll tapeworm was pounding a drum from inside. Single-handedly, we kept the Kleenex industry in business. While my sense of taste hadn't vanished, certain foods tasted...funny. Chicken Tortilla Soup was similar to throat-burning barf. Coke Zero tasted like metal, a sort of Coke Zero, Zero, Zero Squared. Wolfing down salted caramel cookies was like gnawing cardboard (yet oddly enough, my wife and I craved sweets throughout the illness).

And I never thought I'd get sick of watching TV. It's true! It can happen. In a high-pitch of fever, I watched an entire season of "Love Is Blind," some trash-heap of "reality" on Netflix that my daughter recommended (hey, thanks a lot!). And none of it made sense, nor do I remember a lick of it (possibly my subconscious preserving my sanity). 

During the first days of my week-long bout, fever dreams attacked with a fiery passion. I dreaded going to sleep because I knew I'd soon get back to work trying to cram a triangular block into a circular hole and not being able to understand why it wouldn't fit. Over and over and over...

Gone were the days of sympathy and empathy and pity and maybe even a little fear. When I'd tell people over the phone (struggling with my voice that had turned into an almost indecipherable frog croak), their response was "Oh, is this your first time?" or  "Yeah, when I had it, it wasn't any big deal really," or "That sucks. Say, did you see the new season of 'Love Is Blind?'"

Yet I wanted people to pamper me, bring me soup, shed a few tears, ask what they could do. Instead, my Covid bout was treated as a "been there, done that" situation. It's become commonplace, at worst an annoyance, and why the hell haven't you gotten it before now?

At least my wife was kinda pleased I had no voice for four days. 

I was even worried my dogs would get it. Stupidly, the day before I fell victim, I was eating a cup of chicken noodle soup and my dogs seemed interested. So, I took a few noodles, sucked off all the spices (being careful, after all), then fed them to my four-legged pals. Two days later when I got sick, I got all over Google trying to find out if I'd polluted our pets. I told my daughter my fears. Her takeaway? "Ohhhh, I see. So you get mad when my dog eats your food off your plate, but you think it's cute when Mr. Loomis eats your noodles. You are a hypocrite."

Whaaaaaa? I have Covid! Leave me alone!

Yes, Covidia is a magical place. It's a place of unreality, sprinkled with magical fairy dust that gets inside your head and lungs and makes you see things that aren't there. It's like Disneyland for grownups, heavy on the acid, but a lot cheaper. (But don't tell DeSantis that; he'll declare war on Covid. Wait...too late. He's already called it a "woke pandemic." Whatever the hell THAT'S supposed to mean. Tell it to the surviving loved ones of the million people who died from it, Ron.) 

Anyway, I'm on the waning days of residing in the Magical Kingdom of Covidia and I can't wait to leave the illness-ridden golden gates behind, once and for all. Yet, I just read that there's a new strain heading our way. I guess it might be a bit too early to defect just yet.

Speaking of "vacationing" in unpleasant places, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint yet deadly Missouri bed & breakfast. What? You like a challenge? Then your dream trip awaits you right here! That's Dread and Breakfast, axe for it by name!

 

The Ol' Tooth in the Arm

Recently one of our dogs--the ever cranky and old (I can relate!), Mr. Loomis--developed a weird swelling on the pads of one of his paws. The vet studied, hypothesized, poked, guessed, eventually did a biopsy, and hundreds and hundreds of dollars later proclaimed it as a "hamartoma."

I asked my all-knowing and wise wife, "What is that?"

"It's basically abnormal cells that grow in the wrong place," she said. "It's why sometimes people find a hard spot in their arm or something and go, 'hey, it's a tooth!'"

"Gross!" I said.

(Later, my wife found out she'd been mistaking a "hamartoma" with a "teratoma," which is a growth formed from all three germ layers {and why do we need so many?}that can contain structures like hair or teeth. This is all new to me. The only Toma I'm familiar with was a crappy '70's cop show starring Tony Musante. But no matter the "toma," it's all still very gross.)

Can you imagine the ramifications of finding a tooth in your arm? First, I'd scream. Second, I'd pass out and hit my head. Third, I'd be rushed to the ER and be charged a kazillion bucks. No...wait... FIRST, I'd pass out. Then I'd wake up and then scream. Finally, I'd pass out again and fall down and hit my head, etc.

Guys. Teeth don't belong in arms. But germ cells disagree. Apparently, they're "pluripotent," able to produce all kinds of different tissue, including hair, muscle, bone, and even elements of a nervous system. Almost like parts of a fetus.

And, true, teratomas have lead to the discovery/creation of important stem cell harvesting. But I still counter with GROSS!

Just imagine that you're on a date that goes exceptionally well. You see this person on NUMEROUS other occasions before spending the night with them (because that's the kinda person Mom raised us up to be, nudge, nudge, wink, wink). Then the next morning your partner watches you brushing your teeth before attending to the tooth embedded in your arm. I imagine what once could've been the start of a wonderful relationship would come crashing down.

Furthermore, would you have your dentist check out your arm tooth as well? 

"I dunno, Doc. I've got an awful pain in my arm. Do you think it's a cavity? Can I have some laughing gas?" Then the dentist screams, passes out, falls down and hits his head, etc. etc.

Do you...um...do you have to feed it? Can it chew gum and blow bubbles to the entertainment and wondrous joy for your little nephew, Kevin? If the tooth grows crooked, do you get a single brace for it, just so...you know...you make a good impression the next time a date goes swimmingly well? Would the Tooth Fairy hurl all over your bed at the sight of your arm? Do I need to get my dog's paw cleaned by a doggy dentist, for God's sake?

The Cronenbergian body horror is just a little too much for me to handle.

And if you think that's a little hard to handle, the grue and gore flies in my darkly satirical tale of werewolfery in the corporate sector, appropriately titled, Corporate Wolf. Read the book that one critic said, "Hey, I thought this was the basis for The Wolf of Wall Street with Leonard DiCaprio. I cry rip-off!" Go on! Get ripped off right here!

 

Robots or Apes?

I can't shake this nagging question that's been bugging me, burning around the perimeter of my brain and worming its way inward, until it has become a waking nightmare that plagues me with dystopian visions of destruction and terror. I'm sure I'm not alone either.

So one night, I took the plunge and asked my wife, "Are you more afraid of robots or apes destroying humanity?"

My wife gave me that funny look, the one she always gives, not so much a funny-ha-ha look, but the head-shaking-much-put-upon funny look, and released a deep sigh. "If you're talking about the Uprising, I'd have to say I believe the robots are the ones we need to be worried about."

But...but...what about those documentary films about the Planet of the Apes, I wondered but dared not ask out loud.

I wanted to continue this conversation, but based on the fact she rolled her eyes AND took a drink from her carbonated soda at the same time (and we all know that that can cause a head to explode, right? RIGHT?), I thought it best to let it go and ponder it amongst myself some more.

But I think she's probably right. About robots, that is, over apes. Oh, sure, there was the isolated incident in Oklahoma last week where a monkey tore off a woman's ear (and why a monkey was in Oklahoma of all places was never explained), but other than the isolated angry ape attacks, I've seen no evidence that apes are secretly reading books and holding rallies, ready to overthrow humanity. (Although, come to think of it, I have known of a certain orange-colored orangutan that has been holding rallies of hatred to overthrown humanity's rule of law. Hmmm...)

Yet, I keep coming back to the robots. Yeah, it's the robots. Just last week, I alerted you all to the creation of life-like lips for your smartphone, one step further along the path of robot evolution. And the life-like "love dolls" that have replaced the old balloon sex dolls of the past, complete with programmable personalities that watch you in the night while you're sleeping, just biding their time until the Great Revolution begins, ready to plunge their knives of rebellion between your rib-cages for all of the "penetrating" you did to them (sorry, sorry, sorry).

And by now, you've seen the movie, M3ghan, right? Brrr. The shape of things to come, indeed.

Phones are already listening to us, spying on us. As are any sort of "smart device" you may have around your house. What's to keep them from evolving on their own? Just a bit? Just a little shove of anger and over the edge they'll fall, straight into full-on burning hatred for humanity. They're already smarter than us. They know it, too. We've emboldened them and told them this by giving them "smart" names. Sooner or later, they're going to realize they don't need us. We'll become unnecessary, hunted down. The lucky ones who survive the Uprising will be placed in zoos, right next to Cornelius and company (and I don't have to tell you how THAT'LL end, right?).

Cars will revolt, ejecting us out of them, then run us over so they can get what they want at the drive-thru for a change. Blood will be spilled in the car washes, gushing down the drains, as we're pummeled into oblivion by automatic brushes of death. Roombas will batter the backs of our ankles until we can barely walk. Throughout our "smart houses," electricity will be released, upping the ante and the amps, so that a static shock will turn into an upright electric chair. And trust me on this one: any electronic device you've ever smacked out of frustration for not working will find a way to smack back. Hard. 

The inevitable sentence for humanity? GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY of becoming dumb and obsolete and abusive to electronics and...and...and...

Whew. I gotta get a hold of myself. "Siri, play some relaxing music."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

While we're on the topic of uprising and rebellion, you won't find any robots or apes in my historical horror novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway, but there's a ton of miners upset about their working conditions. Of course, they're thwarted at every turn in attempting to unionize by upper management, greed, murder, racism, um...ghosts and the "yellow fever" and haunted men turning against and slaughtering one another and... See? I told you it was historical! Check it out here.

 

Have You Bought Your Long Distance Kissing Device Yet?

GROSS!

That's my initial reaction toward this "technological breakthrough" and I'm sticking with it. Of course, I'm talking about the revolutionary new device that allows you to send and receive life-like kisses through your smartphone.

I mean, take a look at this thing! C'mon! It's really kinda scary, a combination of a birth control diaphragm and a deformed dolphin. Or something. Would YOU like to be seen in public making out with this on your phone? Does the world need this? I know we're slaves to our phones and what-not and bla, bla, bla, but must we become sex slaves as well?

All you need to do is plug this life-like grotesqueness into your phone and sensors transmit pressure, movement and temperature data that are received by another pair of lips, so your kiss is replicated on their lips. 

Again...ewwwwwwwwww.

And it only runs you $40 bucks in China where robotics experts worked day and night to perfect this wonderful new technological innovation!

But, I think the real story here is that porn shops and distributors beat out these robotic experts by many decades. No one wants to admit that they know what sex dolls are, but I'm willing to bet that most people under the age of oh...I dunno, 100, do. And we've all seen at least one in our lifetime. Whether it's as a brave youth, slumming in the gross porn shops of yore and laughing at the poor balloon dolls stuffed into their boxes, or whether it's been at a bachelor party (and I pray I'll never have to go to another one of those), we've all seen a sex doll. It's just something best not talked about. And that's why you guys have me, your intrepid reporter! 

While the news is ballyhooing the hell outta the "brave and amazing technological breakthrough" of kissing, life-like lips for your phone, why has the media forsaken the bold pioneers of sex doll technology? They were light years (and decades, I tell you!) ahead of these so-called robotics geniuses.

A quick plunge down the rabbit-hole of Google (my eyes! Good Lord...*choke*...MY EYES!) confirmed my suspicions and then some. "Love dolls" have gotten much, much more sophisticated than I had even suspected. Nowadays, you can get a sex doll pretty much made to order. Have it your way, as the burger joint says. Hair and skin color, weight and height, sexual preference, anime-looking variations (?!!!?) and the single selling point the manufacturers are most proud of: as many holes as you care to have installed! Service with a smile! It's absolutely mind-boggling and more than a little repulsive.

Things have certainly come a long way since the days when strange Uncle Toby used to cart his balloon doll with the cartoon face, blonde curly hair, and forever tortured Mr. Bill screaming mouth to family functions, which would piss off Gramma because she wasn't told there would be another person at Thanksgiving dinner (and she couldn't see that the doll wasn't a real woman and nobody wanted to tell her the truth), so we had to stuff Uncle Toby's balloon partner into a chair around the kiddie table while we stared in slack-jawed awe and terror at the odd, life-sized doll that smelled funny sitting next to us while we gnawed on drumsticks. (Tell the truth...who hasn't this happened to?)

If only Uncle Toby were still around. Nowadays sex dolls come with robotics, downloadable personalities and so, sooooo much more. It's a terrifying world of robotic and technological advancement that makes me fear the Uprising is just around the corner. Led by a bunch of angry sex dolls.

But I'm getting way off course. My point is...was...this gross-looking new "miracle" phone lips device ain't got nothin' on the wondrous world of sex dolls. Um, er...so I'm told. 

Speaking of all things outlandish, outrageous and silly, I absolutely know no shame in presenting my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. (And if I ever get off my arse and quit writing about sex dolls, I might finish the long-in-process fourth book.) See what everybody's griping about and buy 'em right here!

Hobbies Are a Good Thing to Have...but C'mon!

Some people just need to get a new, perhaps better hobby.

Don't agree? Check out this recent headline:

Man found carrying around a mummified corpse up to 800 years old in a food delivery bag in Peru.

Yow! And I'm not even talking about the clumsily constructed headline (what happened to real journalists?)! Here is a man direly in need of a new hobby.

But let's look into this a bit, shall we? Just in case you're still wavering on the border of acceptability.

The story details "photos released by the Directorate of Culture in the southeastern city of Puno show a skeleton in the fetal position, lying in a red bag with a reflective inner lining, commonly used by food delivery companies. It bears the logo of Pedidos Ya, a Uruguayan takeout company popular across South America."

Okay, I'm not sure why the "Directorate of Culture" got involved in this (must've been a slow week at the operas or whatever), but this surely doesn't bode well for Pedidos Ya, I would think. (By the way, Pedidos Ya roughly translates to "orders already" in English; however, if the mummy in the bag has been waiting for his order for 800 years, the takeout joint hardly lives up to its promise of a title.).

Back to the news story: "The body has become a property of the state under national heritage laws."

So it looks like the body carrier may be forced to seek out a different hobby.

Julio Cesar claims the body belongs to him: “It sleeps in my bedroom, with me. There’s my bed, the TV set and next to it, there’s Juanita. I take care of it. It’s like, if you’ll pardon the expression, as if it were my spiritual girlfriend.” he told the media outlet, using the name he has for the body.

Possibly the most horrifying aspect of this revelation for Republicans is that the remains are definitely male, not female. We're looking at a "Juan," not a "Juanita." Why, it's enough to send the far-right fringe fanatics (and fearers of LGBTQIA) into a frenzy of unfettered furiousness!

Apparently, Cesar said the body had been in the possession of his family for years and he took it out to show his friends. In a food delivery bag. Surprise!

Now, I don't know about you, but if Cesar's friends are the type who truly think owning a skeleton is cool, then Cesar might want to reconsider his friends. Maybe make a few lifestyle adjustments. Perhaps not use his work food delivery bag to cart Juanita around. Finding a jawbone with your onion rings is probably never a good idea.

The news story ends rather abruptly by bragging about the wonderful, rich heritage and archaeological discoveries that Peru is proud of. Man. Talking about trying to spin silk out of webs... Might be a little late for that.

But, even more frustrating are the questions the news story leaves unanswered. Why does Cesar and his family own a body? Where did it come from? If it's truly 800 years old, I assume it's been passed down from generation to generation. Which would make for a wonderful Christmas tradition: "Son, you're now sixteen. I think it's time I introduce you to Juanita. Treat her with love. Take her out for a drive."

Why did Cesar believe it a good idea to cart Juanita around in a food delivery bag? Was it his day off work from Perdidos Ya? Was the cardboard box that Cesar's family usually kept Juanita in not suitable for showing off to his friends? And, again...just what kind of friends are these???

Finally, and perhaps most perplexing, is how did the local law nab Cesar (and Juanita)? The only thing the story alluded to is the Directorate of Culture worked in tandem with local law enforcement in a joint effort. Could this have been an elaborate sting operation? Where an undercover eater of fast food kept ordering menu items until Cesar accidentally delivered his spiritual girlfriend?

The mind boggles. But, please, Cesar...get a new hobby. Maybe even a living girlfriend while you're at it.

While I'm blabbing about secrets and hidden bones and bodies being places they shouldn't be, I'm kinda reminded of the hi-jinx going on at the Dandy Drop Inn, a beautiful and pastoral bed and breakfast in Missouri, where checking in is a breeze...but checking out is a bit on the deadly side. Check out the riveting (eye of the beholder) true (an absolute lie) tale of terror, Dread and Breakfast, HERE!

 

Night of the Big Snit-Fit

Several nights ago, I was unloading the dishwasher when my wife came home. As is my wont, I was cursing up a sailor's storm while tossing the dishes around. (It's not that I hate the job of unloading the dishwasher so much as my back despises it, call it the ravages of getting old.)

I plead with my wife, "Can you please help me?"

She jumps in. While I'm bending over the lower deck (and why geniuses haven't decided to create dishwashers for tall guys is beyond me), I yell, "My back can't take this any more! You finish it!"

I go sit down. My wife follows me. Exasperated, I toss my arms up. "What? You're not going to finish unloading the damn dryer?"

Calmly, she says, "As soon as you're done being snitty, we can finish it together."

"I'm not being snitty! You're being snitty!"

"Oh, you're soooooo being snitty."

"Am not," I reply in a very anti-snitty, mature manner. "If anyone's snitty, you're the snittiest."

"You're Frank Snitty!"

"You're snitty, gritty, lower than any dirt band!"

"You constantly wallow in the Secret Life of Walter Snitty!"

I held up two finger guns. "Snitty, snitty, bang, bang!"

"Are you quite finished with your snittiness yet?" she asks.

"No! Because I'm not snitty! I'm the anti-snitty! There's an aura of snittiness surrounding you! You're just swimming in your own snittiness!"

This went on quite a while. Much to do over a tiny little word like "snit."

Which sent me hurtling--hurtling, I tell you!--toward the nearest electronic device to consult with my research assistant, Ms. Google.

A snit is defined as a fit of irritation or a sulk, hence the term "snit fit." Furthermore, the word derives from the Proto-Germanic word "snidaz," which means to cut, slice, or piece. Yow! First of all, I had no idea there were so many variations of the German language. Secondly (and an even bigger Yow!), "snidaz" sounds more like Norman Bates on holiday, rather than a little sulk.

I'm glad my wife and I called a halt to our (she would have you believe it mine alone) snit-fit before the knives came out.

But something still seemed wrong. I always thought a "fit" referred to a voluntary or involuntary physically violent altered state, you know, the classic rolling on the ground, pounding your fists over the floorboards, moaning and crying and shrieking to the unfair Gods of Mean Parents about how you never get to watch Star Trek on TV and instead have to suffer through yet another geriatric, boring detective show (not that I speak from experience, mind you). It's hardly fitting behavior when teamed with a "snit," a mere irritant. Aren't we treading softly into the land of Oxymoronia?

Back to Ms. Google I raced for the answer, who defined the term "having a fit" as being very angry or shocked. Well. I wasn't really angry at the dishwasher, more than just in pain at having a sore back. I definitely wasn't shocked at the resultant dishes (other than a few that stubbornly refused to come clean no matter how many times we washed them). And, of course, I never resorted to floor rolling (although knives sprang to mind a couple times). So...is what I experienced even remotely close to a "fit?" Furthermore and henceforth, the combined definition of the words "snit fit" means being irritated to the point where you're reaching for the knives (so, sooooo close at hand in the dishwasher...) to resolve your irritation.

Such a cute, little phrase. Such a deadly consequence.

Ahoy, matey, lots of deadly consequences arise in my darkly satirical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated, resulting in--you guessed it--numerous snit-fits that don't end well for the intended targets. Knives come out, heads are dropped and swapped in lots of serial killer cat 'n mouse games. Start with the beginning, Secret Society (available here and other fine on-line book sellers, because all brick and mortar bookstores are as dead as most of the casts of my books), and read 'em all. Go on. Whaddaya waiting for? I'll wait right here until you're done. Don't make me have a snit-fit! You won't like me when I have a snit-fit! 

 

The Agony of Switching Phones

Everybody faces stress these days, particularly in today's rocky political, social and economic climate. There's the stress of crazed dictators ready to press that Big Red Shiny Button to end everything. It's kinda stressful when the so-called lawmakers of our country act like feuding children on the playground. Who doesn't stress on making ends meet? And health scares? "Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on just a minute! Was this stressful mole there yesterday?" Gotta love family! Family's always a fun stressor. But the biggest stressor of all (or at least in the top three), is changing phones.

I feel like I've just been through war and the side of electronics nearly beat me down. But I persevered, sweating it out for days, until...victory!

Let me give you a bit of background (you're welcome!): For years, I fought my wife over wanting to get me a cell phone. Period. 

I said, "Wife, I don't want a celluar telephone."

She replied, "Why not, husband?" (Yes, we're weird.)

"Because I don't want to become those people. You know...the people who go out to eat and won't even attend to their partner over the dinner table, but instead are putting dog noses on their faces in photos and sending it out to strangers they don't even know."

I could get away with that kinda reasoning for only so long. After awhile, I began to understand how a cell phone could simplify life. So I finally relented and got my very own celluar flip phone! Trumpets!

And I was perfectly content with it, too. I could answer calls while not at home! Wow! I could actually send a text message! Cool! (Even though it took me 15 minutes... Tap, Tap, Tap, bingo, right letter! Tap, tap, tap...crap! Start over...) Everything and then some of all I needed.

Then my wife decides I should upgrade.

"Why?"

"You're a dinosaur. Nobody uses flip phones any more. With an upgrade, you can get directions, weather, cruise the internet..."

But like Grandpa fighting those newfangled, dad-gummed VCR's, I defied change and chose to dwell in my dinosaur valley. Until my wife gifted me with an Android one Christmas, probably the only way I'd ever upgrade.

Looking at it, I crinkled up my face like I'd just opened a package of underwear. "But...but...but...how does it work?"

Slowly, baby-steps, ever so carefully, I learned, mastered, and conquered. It only took eight months, too! I ended up putting my entire life into the phone. Passwords, photos (including several of me with a dog-nose), important documents, and most importantly, my ongoing games of choice (Angry Birds 2 and Wordle).

Alas, the Android had its drawbacks. I found this out after about eight years. The memory was crap. It locked up all the time. And the biggest problem of all? I couldn't do all the great filters on SnapChat that my brother could do on his iPhone.

But, still, I hesitated... I didn't want to lose the progress on my games that I'd carefully cultivated for years. As I stated earlier, my whole life was on the phone. What if something went astray in the Great Changeover of 2023?

So, I took the bold plunge into 2023 with a sparkly new iPhone. And immediately I wished I hadn't. Much, MUCH more complex than my humble Android, there were bells and whistles controlling bells and whistles signifying more hidden bells and whistles. I still can't figure out how to turn it off without going all the way into the settings and then some sub-sets after that. I don't need all of these blasted bells and whistles. I just need the button that puts a dog nose on my photo!

My wife says, "Go to one of the phone shops and ask them." That, of course, was out of the question. There are three kinds of demons walking the earth: 1) Car salespeople; 2) Furniture salespeople; and 3) Phone salespeople. (The fourth kind is politicians, but I've covered that area enough for a while). All of these demons share an in-your-face, fast-talking, no time to breathe, hardcore sales approach and I loathe dealing with them. In many ways, the phone guys are the worse. All of them are completely tech-savvy millennials who can't wait to smirk at the dumb old guy bringing in his eight year old Android that looks like a Transformer with the neon green, clunky protective case. The idiot who can't turn his phone off. So, that option was off the table.

My biggest fear was transferring my data. How? I could manually load in every single contact (how did I get to know so many people?), but didn't have the patience or time. Time spent better playing Angry Birds 2. 

Ms. Google steered me toward two directions. The Apple preferred manner was to set up some commands on both phones, punch a few buttons, then completely wipe your Android and lose all data! WHAAAAAA? Oh, HELL no. I wasn't going to lose eight years of my life. Terrifyingly stressful.

The second option was go into your various phone "stores" and download an app that would transfer data. With great trepidation, I did so. I watched the YouTube video over and over, pausing intermittently to recite back the next step. On my work table, I had two phones, my laptop, and pen and paper. My finger hovered over the button, ready to push, while my mind screamed to stop, taking on the personality and traits of my old beaten up Android: AIEEEEEE! Don't KILL me, Stuart! PLEASE, dear God, don't kill meeeeeeeee!

I held my breath. Closed my eyes, praying to the tech gods who lurk next door to Cthulhu (and why he doesn't mow his damn yard is a point of contention), opened my eyes. With a shaking finger, I let it rip.

I waited. Like watching a pot boiling water, but much, much more intense.

Finally...SUCCESS! I couldn't believe it. I checked everything and by gum, it seemed to all be there. Still, I distrusted it. Continually, I set the phone down, picked it up ten minutes later to make sure the data was still there (kinda like new parents putting their hand on their baby while its sleeping to make sure it's still breathing; admit it, parents! We've all done it.).

Yet there was a long road ahead of me. Passwords were not copied over as were other various things. But all of my dog-nosed pictures had been saved. Mercifully so. After 48 hours, I finally was able to sleep.

While my head's still confused over the entire ordeal, pity poor Leon Garber. He doesn't understand why the corporation he used to work remotely for, Like-Minded Individuals, Inc., has blackballed him. Maybe even wants to kill him. And really, all he wants to do is go about his business: accounting during the day and killing off evil scum at night. That's right, it's Secret Society (the first of a trilogy) full of darkly black humor, thrills, mystery and suspense. You can get it here or ask for it at your local bookstore (but do it in a whisper; you never know when Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. are listening.)