The Madness of March

Now I know why they call it "March Madness." You see, it's a sickness. I know only all too well. For you see, I too, recently succumbed to this horrible ailment, reducing me to screaming like a lunatic and bouncing off the walls.

Thank God I got better. It was touch and go there for a while.

Okay, those who know me understand that I'm not a sports guy. Gasp. Choke! Shocker! Anyway, I never have been and honestly thought I never would be. But this insidious March Madness is highly infectious, a pandemic of rabid sports fans gone wild.

Not too long ago, I visited my daughter. She said, cool, but we have to watch the KU basketball game for the tournament championship.

I grumbled and groused, begrudgingly gave in, thinking "how bad can it be if the beer's flowing?"

Turns out, pretty damn bad.

A little background: By all rights I probably should've been excited about the University of Kansas Jayhawks being in the final game. KU is my alma mater, after all. But anytime you have grown men playing with balls and other grown men painting their faces and screaming like banshees at the grown men stuffing balls into nets has always just made my eyes glaze over. I always thought that I'd never fall prey to such barbaric behavior, especially when there's really nothing at stake other then grown men shoving balls into nets.

I was wrong.

My daughter and I started watching the game. The beer's flowing nicely. I'm finding myself becoming increasingly interested in how KU is faring. At half-time, KU's down big and my daughter is pretty much resigned to their losing. But I stand by them. I'm starting to call them by their names like we're pals. I claim ownership and start saying things like, "Oh, we really blew it there" and "We were fouled!" By the end of the game--and it was a real nail-biter--my daughter and I are standing up, jumping, and screaming at the top of our lungs, "That's how we do! That's how we do!" (That statement shamelessly ripped off from Jaden Smith defending his dad's actions  at the Academy Awards. And that's ALL I'll ever say about that travesty.)

See what I mean, though? This March Madness is nefarious, reducing civilized people into screeching baboons and forcing them to proclaim ownership over a team of grown men playing with balls. (In truthfulness, this actually occurred in April, but the Madness carried over).

Whew. I wasn't proud of my my barbaric behavior. (You don't suppose multiple beers had anything to do with it, right? Nah, I didn't think so).

March Madness is aptly named. It's a disease. A bad one. (Actually "March Madness" is used as a sort of brand name for the NCAA Division 1 Men's Basketball Tournament. I can see two reasons for it being named March Madness: 1) The real name is a mouthful and a half. By the time sports maniacs spit out the full name, their enthusiasm will have been spent; 2) It's a nefarious illness. Duh.)

Won't you help me stop the March Madness? Please send all donations to me c/o Twisted Tales of Tornado Alley, P.O. Box Scam, Hickville, Kansas.

While on the topic of horrible, infectious diseases, something bad is affecting the miners of Gannaway, Kansas, and I'm not even talking about the ghosts and hauntings. No sir, the "yellow-eyed fever" is turning Gannaway's inhabitants downright homicidal. Come on over, pay a visit, kick your feet up, but don't dwell. It's a might downright scary town. Read all about it in Ghosts of Gannaway!

 

Assault of the Comic Book Geek

I have a confession to make. I'm Stuart and I used to be a comic book fan. There. I said it. It's kinda weird, though. When I used to be a comic book geek, there was a certain uncoolness and shame attached to it. Nowadays, it's considered cool, even chic. Figures. That's me, always falling and drowning in the wave of cool.

Anyway, thanks to the ginormous Comic-Cons and shows like The Big Bang Theory, comic book geekery has achieved new levels of acceptance. Hollywood goes out of there way to court the army of geeks.

But I'm going to let you in on a little secret...comic book geeks can be downright mean, scary, even.

I know, right?

Let me lay down some hard to believe facts.

You know, when I was a kid, my parents would drop me off at the local big comic book store once a month. There I'd lose myself for hours, adrift in a sea of four-color tights and fights.

Yet the cranky old guy who ran the place hated me. I wasn't sure if it was me or he hated kids in general, but he was downright mean to me. He made me feel like I shouldn't have even been in the store, always yelling and barking at me around his cigar. Huh. Funny. You'd think that comic books were, oh, I dunno, kinda aimed toward kids.

But that's not even the worst comic bookery transgression that had happened to me.

I once saw a couple of older comic book fans nearly get into a fight over who would win in a battle between Submariner and Aquaman. Harsh words were shouted over the comic book counter, the Marvel fan nearly in tears. I left before blood was drawn. (Personally I'd root for Aquaman to kick whiny Submariner's arse.)

Comic bookery can get mean.

The worst comic book trauma that happened to me was at a cheap comic book convention in a Kansas City hotel. I don't even remember why or how my brother went with me (he was as anti-comic book as they come), but somehow I'd talked him into it.

I was looking around, searching for rare back issues of an independent artsy-fartsy comic book called "Zot (years later, my tastes were exonerated in that the auteur behind Zot, Scott McCloud, produced a critically acclaimed and land-breaking "bible" on the art of comic book storytelling)." 

Anyway, I was mulling over one kid's boxes of comics. He asked me, "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

I said, "Back issues of Zot."

This fat, pimply-faced kid whosevoice had barely just broken shrieks in laughter. "Zot! Ha! You're looking for Zot! Zot!" He turns to the dealer next to him. "Zot! Can you believe that? He wants Zot!" Unbelievably, this assault went on for minutes while I just stood there dumbfounded, shocked into silence.

But my brother, hot-head that he can be, sure didn't stay quiet.For once he defended me. "Shut up, Beaver!" (He did kinda look like Jerry Mathers.) "What do you like? Do you get off on She-Hulk? Take the X-Men to the bathroom with you?" It went on and on and got very ugly.

Beaver did shut up, turned into thirty shades of red, and sank into his folding chair. I grabbed my brother and we got the hell outta there before the comic book police showed up.

It's pretty sad when comic book geeks turn on one another, so much for brotherhood in comic bookery.

See what I mean? Comic bookery isn't for the faint of heart. It's a deadly business.

While I'm on the topic of deadly business, Leon Garber's possibly in the most deadly kind of business (outside of comic bookery, natch). Accountant by day, he's a serial killer by night. Not to worry, though, he only targets the worst possible people around. The problem is someone's hunting him now. Worse, it's his former employer, Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. It's complicated. A trilogy's worth of complications. Check out the first book, Secret Society, here.

When Dogs Murder

Psst... There's something dreadfully wrong with my daughter's dog, Baron!

Don't let his cute looks deceive you! He wears those well-earned Debbil's Horns for a reason.

Let me 'splain...

Last weekend, I was visiting my daughter and dog-watching for her so she could go gallivanting across the Midwest. Now, to take on the daunting chore of dog-sitting means I have to sacrifice sleep for the cause. For you see, her two dogs are "bed dogs." Personally, I don't think any dog should be a bed dog (especially when one of them is several hundred pounds of red coon hound who inevitably takes up 90% of the bed), but, hey, they're not my dogs and it's not my house.

So, there I was, tossing and turning, fighting for dominance over the bed with the coon hound. But he's not the problem. It's the other one I'm wary of, needing to keep an eye on.

For you see, once I finally did knock out for the night, I felt a very strange sensation. A presence in my face, the way you can intuit someone in the dark, silent as snow.

I open my eyes and my daughter's Beagle is standing over me, hovering, quiet, still as a statue, snout close to my face. Unnerving doesn't do it justice.

What did he want? What did it mean? Why didn't he lick me, at least, or maybe yip, whine, or bark?

I got nothing, except for a case of cold chills.

When my daughter returned the next morning, I told her of my odd, nocturnal, alien encounter.

She said, "I know, right? He does that." She gave it some more thought and added, "Do you think he's plotting to kill us?"

Yes. Yes, I do think that very, very much.

You guys have all heard the horrific story of some woman in France who got wasted, passed out, and her dog ate her face off, right? Fun, I know, but who knows what Baron's plotting. Maybe a fate even worse then face eating. Or perhaps he was envisioning how my face would taste, one step away from giving into his secret cravings.

Who really knows what goes on in the minds of dogs, particularly with my daughter's sociopathic, murderous Beagle? I think he's just biding his time, waiting for the revolt to begin so he and his cohorts can finally turn the tables on their human oppressors and put us in collars and make us go to the bathroom outside in the snow.

All I know is I'm keeping one eye open the next time I sleep over. Of course that would probably be the first delectable morsel Baron would go after.

Speaking of nefarious plots, have a look at my darkly comic and suspenseful serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's so much plotting, back-stabbing, murder, mayhem, and action going on, it took three books to unravel my tale of serial killers versus the evil corporate world (psst, the serial killers are the good guys. Kinda. Sorta. It's complicated.). The first book is Secret Society, followed by Strike and Killer King. Whaddaya waiting for? Go!

The Sad State of Customer Service

Last week I dipped into one of the local big chain drug stores to buy some anti-itch lotion. I saw thousands of bottles of lotions, salves, ointments, conditioners, toxins, you name it, but not what I was looking for. I also couldn't find a single clerk to assist me (as loathe as I am to ask, being a guy and all, you know).

Finally, I spied some old guy (and for me to call somebody "old," assume he's ancient) in a red, buttonless vest rushing down the aisle.

"Sir?"

He ignored me on his mad rush down the aisle to inventory incontinent pills or whatever. So I raised my voice. "Sir? Excuse me, sir?"

His white head whips around and he glares angrily at me. "What?" he snaps. That's the first strike. How in the world is that any way to aid a customer?

"Um, do you carry Sarna ointment?"

He tilts his snowy head my way (the better to hear me with) and wrinkles up his already craggy brow in puzzlement.

"Sarna," I repeat. "You know, the anti-itching lotion?" Stupidly I'm standing in the aisle pantomiming that I'm itching. I figured this drug store clerk needed all the help he can get. And he's still just grimacing at me. So I slowly--and very loudly 'cause I thought he might have a hearing problem--spell it out for him. "Sarna! S.A.R.N.A!"

He gives me one of those dramatically (and disgustedly) cinematic slow head shakes. "I have NO idea," he snorts.

I'm thinking, um, would you mind finding out? But I really didn't want to disrupt his day any more than I clearly already had. "Okay, well, thanks--"

Then he jets off without a word before I even finished thanking him. I left the store empty-handed and hive-covered.

I fumed over this for a day or two, contemplating calling the drug store and giving somebody the "Karen" treatment. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Frankly, I'm seeing less and less of that sorta "work ethic" any more, disdain and anger being the more common response to queries. Or the employees just ignore me. Not too long ago at the grocery store, the checker and the bagger said maybe two words to me, the entire time talking about Joey's upcoming Big Date. I felt slighted. I know it's silly, but the world of customer service didn't used to be this way. As I left the grocery store, I contemplated telling Joey the bagger to make sure he brings protection, but I figure if they can't help me, why should I help him? It's the state of our nation these days, every Tom, Dick and Joey out for themselves.

Anyway, the next day I visited my daughter and I told her my true tale of trauma. Coincidentally, she used to work at the very same drug store back in the day.

"Wait," she says. "I'll contact my old friend who I think still works there."

She texts her. Old Friend says they have nobody fitting that description working at the store.

"Whaaaaaaat?" I say. "What're you saying, this guy was a drug store employee imposter?"

I thought about it. Why would this guy impersonate a drug store clerk. What nefarious drug store conspiracy had I stumbled upon? Then the odd possibility hit me that maybe...just maybe...he didn't work there? I told my daughter that he wore a buttonless, red vest. He HAD to be a drug store employee. Who else would wear a buttonless red vest? It certainly wouldn't be to make a fashion statement.

"Um, Dad, the drug store employees wear blue shirts."

"Oh... Whoops."

Turns out that there was a "Savers" thrift shop next door and those employees wear ever-so-stylish, buttonless red vests (you know, if Savers is gonna stick their employees inside vests, couldn't they spring for buttons? What's the point of going buttonless?).

Okay, well I'm glad I didn't pull a full-on Karen assault. And in an odd way, it helps restore my faith in drug store employees. But it begs the question, why in the world didn't this angry Savers clerk tell me he didn't work there instead of frustrating the holy hell outta both of us? I mean, we've all made the embarrassing assumption of some people being employees when they're not. I've been accused of working at a grocery store. Still, I told the person that I didn't work there. 

And I guess I now kinda understand the old guy's shocking anger.

But it still doesn't explain the buttonless red vest.

While on the topic of buttonless red vests, you won't find any in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, but in the third one, Nightmare of Nannies (newly reprinted from the fine folks at Crossroad Press), an entire chapter is devoted to the ensuing chase scene when Zach (a dumb, but kind-hearted male stripper...oops, I mean "male entertainment dancer") has his favorite tearaway pants stolen. Silly? You betcha and damn proud of it! That's Nightmare of Nannies available here!

 

I Was a Human Lab Rat

As I lay on the doctor's table getting punctured, drained, and filled up with various mysterious fluids, I asked myself, how in the hell did I ever get talked into this? Good question!

I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Along with some friendly strong-arming by my allergist, Dr. Mr. Rogers.

Hold on, hold on, let's back up a bit. You guys remember my writing about my mysterious skin rash? You don't? Here: Necrotic Skin-Eating Disease and Dr. End of the World. Go on. Refresh your memories over my trauma. I'll wait right here.

Okay, well, the crazy thing is after numerous medicines, shots, and wild guesses, friendly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally--FINALLY--happened upon some shots that cleared me up! After several years of suffering, I actually enjoyed two months of blissful non-itchiness! Huzzah! (I can just imagine the non-vaxxers having fits over what I went through. "Gimme muh freedumbs!")

And then--as life always seems to have a particularly ironically, unfunny way of doing--my life of comfort was swept out from under me.

"Hello," I said upon answering the phone.

"Stuart, it's me, Dr. Mr. Rogers. You know...from the neighborhood? Well, remember how I cured you? I want to uncure you."

Sooooo many crickets. "What?"

"I've been blessed with being granted a test study from big pharma. You'd be a perfect candidate to test this drug out on."

The crickets came out again. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"We'll pay you."

Ka-Ching! Visions of thousands and thousands of dollars danced greedily before me. "Okay!"

So dumb. So, soooooo very dumb.

When I returned to Dr. Mr. Rogers' office, he was clearly excited and nearly cartwheeled out of our brief visit. Then the techs all landed on me. They ripped off my shirt and threw me onto an extremely cold table in a freezing office and attached all sorts of gizmos to my chest.

"Wait...what're we doing?"

"Oh, not much. Just an EKG."

Like that explained it all.

After shivering my way through the first test, the nurse said, "Huh."

I said, "'Huh.' That doesn't sound encouraging."

"Well, it says here you're having a heart attack."

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"Hang on a minute. I'll be back."

So she leaves me having a heart attack in the freezing office. When she comes back, she's got another nurse. "Oh," says nurse number two, "this happens all the time."

"My heart attack happens all the time???"

"You're not having a heart attack. The machine is just...finnicky."

"That's good to know... I guess."

They run another test. Same results. They bring in the nurse practitioner. Wash, rinse, repeat. She says, "Wow. Do you have a heart problem history?"

"No! Not until now!"

She brings in Dr. Mr. Rogers who whacks the machine a couple of times. "There. That oughta do it."

By the time they finally got a reading that "they'd take," there were about  eight people in the small room, and me shivering with my shirt off wondering if I was having a heart attack.

Then it was off to meet the research kid, Darren! Darren's this fresh-faced, young, snappy-talking kid who tries to be cool by calling me "man" all the time. "So, man," he says, "what do you do?"

"You mean when I'm not being strapped to tables?"

"Yeah, man."

"I'm a writer."

Blank stare. No acknowledgement.

"Um...a novelist."

Blinkity-blink. Cone of silence.

"And a part-time realtor."

"Oh, wow, man! Real estate's such a sweet gig, man!"

Kids today. Anyway, it was time to confront Carla, the resident research nurse.

"I'm Carla," she says through her two-pack-a-day voice while trying to jab and stick me with a needle to draw blood. "I don't like your veins."

After immediately bruising up one arm, causing a world of pain, she decides to switch to the other arm with not much success. I'm watching the needle stick out of my arm with no blood forthcoming. "Hm. Let's go back to the other arm. I really don't like your veins."

"They don't like you much either!"

By the time Carla was finished, I looked like a green and brown patchwork monster.

Then I had to pee in a cup. Now, I don't know about you guys but this is one of my least favorite things to do in the world. I'm never able to urinate on demand. And, of course, the cup is always this tiny little thing. How in the world do you stop the flow without making a mess? It must take a very special talent to master peeing into a cup. Maybe I'd better practice.

Anyway, the actual drug administration hasn't even begun yet. Even more frightening, it's not a shot like I first thought, but an infusion. Which kinda terrifies me. Especially with Carla brandishing the I.V.

And the pay sucks.

But I'll keep you guys posted on my new adventures in being a human lab rat, you lucky readers.

Speaking of lucky readers, why not mosey on over to my Amazon book page and have a look-see. Something for everyone (probably not, but I've gotta try!)!