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..................................FAR OUT, MAN!
................NOW THE MEANIE IS A BOOK
AND AN AUDIO BOOK.!
....................Click here for the audiobook.

........Here's where to buy the paperback and kindle editions worldwide:

.....................United Kingdom....... Spain
....................Canada .......................Brazil
....................Germany ....................Japan
....................France ........................Italy
.......................................India

Saturday, June 29, 2013

LINKS TO TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE




#5: ESCAPE TO VENICE BEACH

#6: THE NIGHT OF THE PIGS

#7: ENTER THE MAD BOMBER

#8: ANGELS FROM A TOPLESS BAR

#9: RIOTOUS BEHAVIOR

#10: MRS. MAD BOMBER'S LAMENT

#11: A DOGGY THANKSGIVING

#12: NEW YEAR'S EVE WITH SANTANA

#13: MONDE CANE TIME IN VENICE

#14: THE DOOR IN THE FLOOR

#15: THE BIKER AND THE POET

#16: THE LIGHT BULB IN THE BALLOON

# 17: WILD THINGS & THE HAPPENING

# 18: JAILHOUSE ROCK

#19: THE MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR: PART 1

# 20: THE MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR: PART 2

#21: CH-CH-CH-CHANGES

#22: HE'S BA-ACK!

#23: ROGER HAS THE LAST LAUGH

*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE:
IT'S A BOOK!
AND IT'S AVAILABLE WORLDWIDE

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
Here's where to get both paperback and Kindle editons:

U.S. ........................................France
United Kingdom ..................... Spain
Canada.................................... Italy
Germany ................................ India
Brazil ..................................... Japan 

Here's what it's about:

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. 

*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!


Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com

*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES



Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.  

*****

***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!

Friday, June 21, 2013

ROGER HAS THE LAST LAUGH



*****
LATE TO THE BLUE MEANIE PARTY? CLICK HERE TO CATCH UP
*****
(Note from Allan: This is the last episode of Tales Of The Blue Meanie. A new blog - Lucky In Cyprus - will debut next Friday.)

*****
I was sitting on the front porch of my new abode on Carroll Canal, looking over my tiny but productive front-yard organic garden as the quacking ducks floated by on the ebbing tide.

Out of the corner of my eye I also kept watch on the stark-naked hippie chick who was sprawled on a surfboard – tits, and other nice stuff, turned to the sun – getting an all over tan as she floated on the gentle waters.

I had a joint in one hand, a cold beer waiting patiently near the other. In the house, Hoyt Axton was on the stereo and he was singing in that fabulous, whiskey voice of his: “… I wish I may,/ I wish I might;/ Had the money that I spent last night…”

Just as Hoyt started on his rooster crow, the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer, but what was the point of possessing something so modern as a very long telephone cord that could reach you no matter where you were? The Funk brothers had paid for a pretty elaborate phone system in my house – for the early ‘70’s, I mean - so I could be on constant call as their city editor.

I answered the phone. “Allan,” the voice said, “Bill Cohen, here.”

Damn. My old boss.

I was sorry I had answered. I mean, I liked the guy and he had always been straight with me. Pepperland's short existence was do to the freedom he'd given me to run it. However, I was now on to new things as well as some very heavy responsibilities and I was loath to interrupt my Sunday reverie. But there nothing to do but be polite and see what was up. I excused myself for a second so I could go inside and switch off the stereo.

I returned to the porch, pinched out the joint and swigged a little beer to get the pot roughness out of my voice.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cohen?” I asked.

“It’s about Roger Gagne,” he said.

My heart sank. Oh, hell. Of all the things that were delicate in Mr. Cohen’s empire, Roger needed the most careful handling. I’d said as much when I turned over the keys to the new manager.

I’d explained to the guy who replaced me that Roger basically kept more than fifty units running, in locations that included not just the Ocean Avenue complex Mr. Cohen had bought up, but some rather exclusive buildings he’d recently purchased on the Marina oceanfront. Not only did Roger keep everything working, but he also very cheaply renovated each unit as the old tenants moved out, so Mr. Cohen could justifiably hike the rent.

I had explained all this to the new guy, but I could tell that he wasn’t listening. I immediately summed him up in my mind as more than a bit of a jerk, but what the hell, over? It was his job now, not mine.

“What about Roger?” I asked Mr. Cohen.

“He’s moved,” Mr. Cohen said. “He’s no longer working for me.”

I knew that. Jack had told me that Roger had gotten pissed off at the new guy and had moved out. Nobody knew where just yet, but not to worry – he was somewhere on the Venice Canals. He’d hunt us up by and by.

“Yessir, I’d heard that,” I said.

“Have you seen him?”

“Nossir,” I said. “But I’m sure I’ll run across him soon. He’s still in Venice – I know that.”

“Well, Allan,” Mr. Cohen said, “I’d like to ask you to do me a favor. See if you can find Roger for me, please.”

“What for, sir?” I asked, my curiosity starting to cut through my reluctance to get involved.

“Tell him I’d like to get my floor back,” Mr. Cohen said.

I almost said, “Fucking what?” But I buried that outburst with a small gobble, covered by a sip of beer.

Mr. Cohen explained, but never mind his explanation – he was way too businesslike to really tell the story properly.

Here is what happened: The new manager was an overbearing control freak. He continually fucked with Roger. So Roger fucked back. He warned the guy flat out, I learned later, that he’d better “get the fuck out of my face or I’ll remove your face, you dumb mother fucker.”

Now, when Roger said he was going to “remove the face” of a “dumb motherfucker,” it usually meant that he was about to go into high gear. But Rog liked his job and his apartment with its bomb shelter so he backed off a bit, trying to give the guy a little room.

Despite Roger’s best diplomatic efforts – meaning he hadn’t ripped the new manager’s face off - matters continued to go downhill. What really pissed Rog off was that the guy had apparently mistaken his attempt at diplomacy for weakness.

Their mutual piss-off escalated.

Eventually, it reached the point where Roger really was considering removing the “mother fucker’s” face, but sweet Nancy intervened and convinced him that maybe it was time to move on.

Roger was doing damned well at that point. He’d paid off his fines and attorney fees for the marijuana fiasco and had a helluva business going doing upscale work for upscale people. I mean, when Roger went to appointments to check out new jobs in Beverly Hills, he wore a very nice jeans outfit, picked out by Nancy. No paint spots. No grease. They were clean, clean, clean. And she never, ever, let him forget his two false front teeth when he went out on a bid.

In short he was at a point where he didn’t really need the free rent at the Blue Meanie Apartments. Especially when it meant that he’d have to take shit. Truth be told, when Roger was broke – I mean sleeping in the streets, broke -  he wouldn’t have taken shit from anybody for any reason. So why in hell would he start now?

Anyway, Roger told the new manager to fuck off, but let him keep his face. He moved his family out – leaving a very desirable single unit vacant that the new manager could rent at a much higher price and preen before Mr. Cohen.

The manager immediately posted a sign and got an immediate response. Within twenty four hours of Roger’s departure, the manager took a young couple over to view the apartment. Being a lazy SOB, he hadn’t viewed the unit himself before the showing.

Anyway, he talked up the place like a storm. Sure, it was a single, but it had an enormous kitchen – a kitchen as big as his own – a walk in closet large enough to be a small bedroom and a main room that was not only very large but had been completely refurbished, down to gleaming, newly renovated, hardwood floors.

Do you remember the floors?

I ask again, Dear Reader, do you recall the episode where Roger was under fire and found it necessary to cut out the living room floor? The very same floor that he’d cut out to create the bomb shelter bolt-hole beneath his apartment just in case Mrs. Mad Bomber started shooting at junkie whores who were coming on to her husband again.

Remember that?

Sure you do.

So, Mr. New Apartment Manager approached the unit, waxing large about the marvelous amenities the young couple would encounter. Plus, he emphasized, this was a perfectly decent complex, with very nice people – upscale people – mostly their age and with interesting jobs in the music industry, the arts, and so on and so forth.

He unlocked Roger’s door and threw it open.

“Come see,” he said, striding into Roger’s old apartment.

And he fell face first, seven feet or more, onto the sandy floor of Roger’s bomb shelter.

It seems that when Roger left, he’d taken the entire floor with him.

The only things that could vaguely be called flooring were the six-inch borders that Rog had left all around the room.

“I left all of the joists too,” Roger told me later. “I didn’t want to be a butt wipe for the guys putting in the new floor, so I left them something to tie into.”

As kind as Roger was with the joists, the manager was totally demoralized. Humiliated before his potential tenants, who at first reacted with horror when he plummeted into the room, then laughed their heads off when they realized he was uninjured and just spitting sand, instead of his teeth.

They laughed even harder when he tried to lay the blame on a former handyman, and they wisely walked away, still laughing, but having no intention of paying rent to a guy who was such a son of a bitch that the previous tenant had removed the entire floor.

I gleaned all of the above while Mr. Cohen was politely, and succinctly, relating his problem.

Finally, he said, “It’s going to be really expensive to put in a new floor, Allan.”

I agreed. Carpets are expensive. Tiles are expensive. A whole frigging floor has to be really expensive.

He said, “You would be doing me a big favor if you could find Roger and tell him that I will pay him to give me back my floor. I won’t even consider pressing charges.”

That was a laugh. No way could I see Mr. Cohen waltzing into the Venice PD and filing charges to get his floor back. He’d be laughed out of the station, and humiliated to boot. The Venice PD did not like black people, Hispanic people, young people with long hair, and they had a particular hate on for gay or lesbian people. If you were a member of any of those groups you were basically putting your life into their hands. Given the slightest excuse, they would club you half to death.

But he was a really nice guy, even for a landlord. So I said, “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Cohen.”

Time passed. Not a lot. Weeks, maybe a month and a half - no more.

I walked to Shanahan’s Market. It was a nice walk, going through all the canals, stopping at each bridge to see what you could see.

Did I mention the naked chicks on surfboards?

Well, it wasn’t always like that. But one could hope, couldn’t one?

Besides, the canal waters were peaceful, the few row boats upon them making an Impressionist painting, and there was music everywhere, pouring out of hundreds of stereo speakers. There was Rock ‘N Roll, of course. But when I reached the last canal I could hear a wonderfully live Flamenco guitar number - each plucked string clearly defined, each strum a waterfall of classical musical colors. The guitarist was a noted musician who just happened to be the president of the local Communist Party. In order to eat and pay rent to the “Capitalist running dogs” he played and taught music on the side. I never got the nerve up to ask him for lessons. Stupid me.

As I listened and watched, I wished Steve Lenzi was there to limn the scene in a poem. But he wasn’t so I walked on.

Eventually I arrived at Shanahan’s, bought a bag of groceries and exited.

Roger came out at the same time. He was carrying a 12-pack of beer.

“Hey, Rog,” I said.

“Hey, Allan,” he replied.

I said, “Got a minute? I need to talk to you.”

He grinned, that malicious smile of his curling up. I’m certain he knew what I wanted to talk about.

“Sure, let’s talk,” he said, easing down on the curb.

I sat next to him and he freed a couple of beers, opened them with his key-chain opener and handed me one, kept the other for himself.

He took a long pull. I did the same.

Roger said, “So, what’s the haps, man? What do you want to talk about.”

I said, “Mr. Cohen called.”

Roger took this in. Sucked up more beer. Nothing more in the way of explanations was required.

Even so, he wanted to grind it.

“What’d he want?” Roger asked, giggling and knowing very well what Mr. Cohen wanted.

“He said he wanted his floor back.”

Roger laughed and laughed at this. He laughed so hard that he couldn’t stop for a long time. He asked about the discovery of the missing floor and when I told him about the manager doing a sky ground into the basement he laughed some more.

I thought it was pretty funny too, but I was on a mission of mercy for Mr. Cohen, so I didn’t join in. I smiled in a friendly manner, but sipped beer whenever the humor of the situation threatened to overcome me. I must confess, that when I related the scene of the asshole manager doing a sky ground into the sand, I nearly snorted beer through my nose.

When I judged that Roger was laughed out, I said, “Mr. Cohen told me to tell you directly that he will pay you one hundred dollars if you return his floor. No questions asked.”

Roger got suddenly serious. “No, shit?” he said. “A hundred dollars?”

“No questions asked,” I said.

He chewed this over and I could see his attention fading.

“I’m pretty sure I could get him up to a hundred and fifty dollars,” I said.

“Sonofabitch,” Roger said. “One hundred and fifty dollars for a floor.” He laughed. “It’ll cost him more to replace it, not counting the down time on the apartment rental.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “He authorized me to go as high as two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Fuck,” Roger said, very much in awe. “That is one helluva temptation.”

He paused, opening us some fresh cans of beer. “I’m just down the canal from you, Al,” he said. “Old place I’m fixing up. Two stories, but small, you know?”

I nodded. I’d seen the place on one of my walks. It was a small house, painted bright Mexican blue and set upon an enormous lot where someone had started an elaborate vegetable garden.

Roger said, “If you saw my place, you saw the floor.”

And I remembered seeing this enormous wooden object leaning against the side of the house. It was odd, not just because of its size – it reached nearly to the top story of the building it was propped against – but because it was so well finished. Stained oak, varnished and finished to a gleaming masterpiece. But with an apparent purpose that I could not fathom at the time.

“Yeah, I think I saw the floor,” I admitted.

I took a slug of beer. “So, what do you say? Will two hundred and fifty dollars do the trick? Hell, I could maybe even boost him to three hundred. Christ, Rog, you could do a lot with three hundred dollars. Return the floor, no questions asked. Collect three hundred dollars. How can you go wrong?”

Roger nodded, tipped back the can, and swallowed the contents. He burped, opened another, but this time he took careful sips, small sips, as he considered.

Finally, he raised his head and looked at me, that crazy Roger smile creasing his face.

“Fuck his three hundred dollars,” he said.

“It’s too good of a fucking story.”

THE END

NEXT: A NEW WEEKLY BLOG - LUCKY IN CYPRUS
*****
NOW SUPPORT YOUR STARVING
WRITER: BUY THE BOOK!

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

FREEDOM BIRD: THE SUMMER OF LOVE

During the Vietnam war, GIs who managed to survive their tour of duty were flown home in chartered airliners, which they called “Freedom Birds.” This is the story of three young men – from  wildly different backgrounds – who meet on such a plane and make a pact to spend three days together in San Francisco. Their goal: to spend every cent of  their mustering out money in a party of  a lifetime. And they’ll get more than they bargained for: because when they land, it is July 1967 – in a time that would come to be known as “The Summer Of Love.” A place and time where each young man will have to confront the ghosts who followed them home from the jungles of Vietnam and contemplate a future none of them had imagined. 




*****
ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP


The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books.  The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!

Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY
Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT
Here's the Kindle link for DEATHMATCH

*****
HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN 



YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!


*****
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.  

*****


IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 






HERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT

*****



STEN #1 NOW IN SPANISH! 




Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four 
episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands.  Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!





Friday, June 14, 2013

................ HE'S BA-ACK!!!


LATE TO THE BLUE MEANIE PARTY? CLICK HERE TO CATCH UP
*****
Tasha was feeling restless and out of sorts, probably because the household was disrupted by the upcoming move to the Venice Canals. When you are an 80-pound German shepherd it is hard to work off restless energy in a two-bedroom apartment.

I got my brother, Charles, to take her for a run. Jason and Carol were napping upstairs, so I was essentially alone in the apartment.

A few minutes after Tasha and Charles left I sensed a presence at our door.

It was such a strong feeling that I almost went to the curtain to see if anyone was there. As that thought crossed my mind there was a heavy knock. Three times – Boom, boom, boom.

My heart leaped. I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt as if I was trapped in an Edgar Alan Poe horror tale.

“Yes?” I called, rising from my deck chair, following the stiffening hair on the back of my neck.

The reply was another series of boom, boom, booms.

I’d already made my last trip to the bank for Mr. Cohen, so there wasn’t any rent money in the cash box to tempt a thief. Besides, after Tasha went through the window to attack the would-be burglar that long ago New Year’s eve, the scumbags in the area knew better than to mess with us.

On the other hand, what if the scumbag in question was new to the area, or canny enough to watch our place and see Tasha and Charles depart. Normally I’d be at work and Carol and Jason would be alone in the house, but I’d taken time off for the big move.

I squared my shoulders and headed to the door. Even so, I was apprehensive. There was something just not quite right about the atmosphere. I kept a baseball bat next to the door for emergencies, and a hammer on the ledge above the door. Call me paranoid, but this was Venice, California, circa anytime. Venice was a cool place, but if you weren’t careful bad shit could definitely happen.

I checked that my equalizers were close to hand and opened the door.

What I saw there standing before me took my breath away. Christ, never mind my breath, my blood froze in my veins and a veritable ice-storm swept through my brain.

I don’t mind admitting that I was scared. So scared that I could actually feel my balls tighten up and then ascend into the relative safety of my core.

Why?

Because it was the Blue Fucking Meanie, man!

Three hundred plus pounds of hate-filled muscle lumped on a six-foot-seven body.

His bulk filled the whole door frame, blocking out all light.

Shit, shit, shit.

I flashed on the big damned Marines he’d lifted off the ground so he could bang their heads together and both of those guys were well over six-feet, two hundred plus pounds of American fighting man - straight from the jungles of Vietnam.

And they had been helpless before his fury.

Now, after all these years, the Blue Fucking Meanie was back – and I just knew he was pissed as hell because it had finally sunk through the metal plate in his skull that I had played him for a fool with my credit rating/security clearance bullshit.

And he had returned to take his revenge on my sweet Irish ass.

I thought of the bat. But, hell he’d just shove it up my butt and call me a Popsicle.

I thought of the hammer on the ledge above me and realized that if I went for it, he’d just take it away from me after I hit him and use the hammer to pound me into the ground.

My only hope, I thought, was Tasha. She wasn’t here, but she and my brother might be back at any minute. And if she thought I was being threatened she’d hurl her snarling teeth at anyone, no matter if they were practically King Kong. And the thing is, even big men run from attacking dogs.

Maybe even the Blue Meanie would run.

You think?

Then while the Blue Meanie was trying to pull her off of him I could run to the Mad Bomber’s house and borrow a bazooka, or something, and come back and blow him to smithereens. Or at least knock the wind out of him.

I craned my neck, stretching to see if Charlie and Tasha were anywhere in sight.

They were not.

I drew back a step, smiling my friendliest Irish smile. I was practically singing, “Danny Boy.” I mean, I really put the grin in, and widened my baby blues, putting on all the boyish charm I could muster whilst shaking in my sandals.

I’m sure I said his name, or I wouldn’t be writing this story today, but the way I remember the conversation was like this:

“Mister Blue Meanie, sir, how do you do? What a pleasant surprise. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

While I spoke - trying to control the quaver in my voice - I was checking him out.

It gradually came to me that other than his immense size, he didn’t look like the Blue Meanie of old. Instead of filthy blue overalls, a bare chest and blood-caked shower shoes, the Blue Meanie was wearing what I could only describe as a suit.

He had on a brown suit coat and brown suit pants, a white shirt, brown combat boots and a by-god green bow tie. None of this fit, including the bow tie. His neck was so huge he’d left the collar button open and there were bare batches of muscle-bound skin on either side of the bow. The suit coat was stretched across his massive form, center button barely holding it in place. The sleeves were inches short, showing an expanse of tattered white shirt cuffs. The pants were also too short, rising well above the tops of the sturdy, but scruffy boots. The bow tie was brand new, you could see that right off, it was so green.

And here’s the thing. The whole outfit was topped off with a too-small straw boater on top of his massive head, with a green feather in it that exactly matched his bow tie. The hat made him look a little like a freak show pin-head.

I’m saying that he looked like a character out of “Hee Haw,” except the show hadn’t been invented yet, and although the whole thing struck me as being funny, I knew that if I laughed my life would be over there and then.

Not that I really felt like laughing. I was too much in awe. I just took this whole thing in, half marveling, half wondering if in the next few seconds the Blue Meanie would take his revenge.

He tensed. Suddenly drawing himself up ramrod straight. I tried hard not to shrink back. You know - “Tell Ma I died game, Sarge.”

Suddenly, the Blue Meanie stuck out his massive hand. I almost jumped, thinking he was going to hit me. Instead, he grasped my hand in his mighty paw and shook it. Actually, he shook half my arm, because his paw was so big that it practically engulfed my right arm up to the elbow. It was like sticking your hand into the mouth of one of those legendary Mississippi catfish.

With incredible earnestness, the Blue Meanie said, “Mr. Cole, I just came by to thank you for what you did for me.”

I goggled. “Uh… Did for you?”

He continued shaking - my whole hand and arm going up and down like a blacksmith’s bellows.

“Yessir, Mr. Cole,” he said, “your little talk made me see the light. Why, I’d been wastin’ my whole life away with drinkin’ and thinkin’ evil things about folks. But, thanks to you, I’m living with my sister in Northridge now, and I’m taking my medicine every single day without fail and I been goin’ to the VA doctors real regular. Haven’t missed one appointment in more’n two years. Also I haven’t had a drink since the day we talked. Well, maybe the day after, ‘cause I got drunk first. Thing is, way things look I maybe can even get a job real soon.”

He stopped his shaking and looked me straight in the face. His eyes were just as fierce as before, but I no longer saw the fires of madness dancing in them.

“Thank you, Mr. Cole,” he said.

Without another word, he dropped my hand, turned and strode away. 

I gaped after him. What in the hell? It was like he had a duty to perform and he’d completed that duty. ‘Nough said.

Indeed.

A second later, Roger came strolling around the corner. He acted casual, but I could tell that he was on full Roger alert.

“Did I just see the Blue Meanie?” he asked warily.

“You did,” I said.

“What did he want?”

“To thank me.”

“Fuck me,” Roger said in total awe.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

NEXT: THE GRAND FINALE - ROGER HAS THE LAST WORD
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

FREEDOM BIRD: THE SUMMER OF LOVE

During the Vietnam war, GIs who managed to survive their tour of duty were flown home in chartered airliners, which they called “Freedom Birds.” This is the story of three young men – from  wildly different backgrounds – who meet on such a plane and make a pact to spend three days together in San Francisco. Their goal: to spend every cent of  their mustering out money in a party of  a lifetime. And they’ll get more than they bargained for: because when they land, it is July 1967 – in a time that would come to be known as “The Summer Of Love.” A place and time where each young man will have to confront the ghosts who followed them home from the jungles of Vietnam and contemplate a future none of them had imagined. 




*****
ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP


The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books.  The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!

Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY
Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT
Here's the Kindle link for DEATHMATCH

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HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN 



YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!


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THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.  

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IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 






HERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT

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STEN #1 NOW IN SPANISH! 




Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four 
episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands.  Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!