A while back, my wife and I were talking about our early relationship. More specifically, we were talking about those times, 17 years ago, when she’d try to dress me. At least the way I saw it back in 1992, she was trying to get me to wear fancy-boy jackets and shirts — outfits I thought were better suited for backyard-croquet dandies. Never mind the fact I was a serious slob who wore very old clothes that I kept in giant piles. I didn’t like being “controlled,” and at some point, there was a backlash.

So not too long ago, we laughed at it all. And I said the whole “Dress Greg” campaign was like trying to put a tux and top hat on a semi-feral cat. Point being, that tux and top hat ain’t gonna change anything about that cat.

Then I had an idea for a short story. I’ll leave it at that, but suffice it to say that my new short story, “Cool Breeze of Mercy,” is dedicated to all you guys out there who have struggled with deep-seeded fears that someone wants to change you.

I am proud to report that “Cool Breeze” was picked up by Pulp Pusher, the badass U.K. ‘zine run by the insanely gifted crime novelist Tony Black, author of the poweful new noir thriller GUTTED. The only bummer is that despite Black’s repeated best efforts, some limitations to a web-publishing system have left formatting of the story less than what we wanted. With that in mind, you can read the piece at The Pusher here, or if you’re having problems reading that text, you can try the properly formatted “reprint” here.

NOTE: If stories involving peyote, cat diarrhea, extremely hair men and pantsuited crazyladies wielding fire pokers aren’t your thing, you may wanna pass on “Cool Breeze of Mercy.”

 

Jed Ayres was right a few weeks ago when he noted that we were entering Anthony Neil Smith (ANS) season. Hell, the author of Hogdoggin’ is all over the place. Several weeks into ANS season, we’ve already had a virtual bike rally for his new novel as well as the far-reaching Hogdoggin’ Monday. Since then, he’s been all over the place – in the virtual, and the flesh. There have been Noir at the Bar events, book signings and interviews galore.

To mention but a few. … Hardboiled Wonderland gets deep into ANS’s skull and doesn’t leave, in an interview here. In the U.K., Pulp Pusher hands the mic over to ANS and Victor Gischler for a quickie here. And at Frank Bill’s House of Grit, ANS drops in here.

So, with all the work ANS is doing these days, you might be surprised to learn that he also put out another edition of Plots with Guns – this one a special edition Plots with (Ray) Guns, with each story set in the year 2509. The first two stories I have read so far – “Koko Takes a Holiday,” by Kieran Shea, and “Ill Nature,” by Kyle Minor – knocked my socks off, each leaving a mark in my mind that I have yet to shake off. Shea also has an equally strong piece in Pulp Pusher right now, so if you’re in the mood for a jolt, check it out here.

Speaking of The Pusher, some more news in that arena in a few weeks.

KIERAN SHEA UPDATE: Adding to the growing evidence that he and ANS secretly plan to take over the world, I’ve now learned that our man Kieran also has a piece coming out in Ellery Queen. Who’s the third party in this Axis of Noir?

The past few weeks more than two dozen writers have banded together to talk about a great book and its talented author. In the virtual biker rally that lasted two weeks and caused irreperable damage to the blogosphere (those stains will never come out, and that smell will never quite go away), we kicked up a storm of dust, laid down an inch of rubber, got into dozens bar fights and never really did stop talking about Hogdoggin’.

Because I had an advance copy of Hogdoggin’, I understood what all the fuss was about.

In Anthony Neil Smith’s follow up to the enthralling Yellow Medicine, we once again join up with Billy Lafitte, a former crooked cop whose worldclass cocktail of misfortune and bad deeds have earned him a reputation as one of the country’s most dangerous men. It’s also earned him a following of individuals who will do just about anything to bring him down.

With nowhere to go, Lafitte has found himself  ‘roided up in a biker gang that makes the Hells Angels look like the Sesame Street cast. Lafitte is now the No. 2 badass, behind the gang’s leader, Steel God, who rules the outtfit,  literally and figuratively, with a sledge hammer.

Lafitte’s new life comes to a screeching halt when he learns that his estranged family needs him — and needs him badly. Now.

It’s when  he attempts to make it home that we get a front-row seat to Smith’s talent — his ability to treat violence with a musky weight and yet with insight into all its dimensions, to expose us to the humanity beneath bad deeds, to suck us in with a cast of characters that most authors only handle with indictment, and to force you to keep turning the pages.

Turn the pages, I did. And the more I turned, the more sucked-in I became. It’s a book that sticks with you.

If you haven’t already surmised it’, this book enjoys a ton of grassroots support. There’s a reason — the pages pull you in, take you to a world you haven’t experienced before. So you can understand why all of us are asking you make today Hogdoggin’ Monday –meaning you join us in buying the book today, either online or at your favorite bookstore, with a mind to make the suits and bean-counters take notice.

All you gotta do is kick-start that bike of yours, and join us in making the ground shake.

Last Friday I took the family to the local bookstore for a triumphant little moment.

I was coming to pick up my copy of Sex, Thugs and Rock & Roll, the new Thuglit anthology that includes my story, ”Big Load of Trouble,” alongside those by Changa buddies Anthony Neil Smith, Jed Ayres, Jordan Harper and Patti Abbott. It also includes pieces by some very admired crime authors – Scott Wolven, Joe R. Lansdale, Marcus Sakey and Jason Starr, to name a few.

Of course, I could have ordered my copy via Amazon, and you surely can HERE. But I wanted the experience of seeing it in a bookstore, buying it in a bookstore, fanning through the pages to find my story — in a bookstore.

And I have to say, I felt pretty damn good. I felt like an average Joe getting called up to the majors for a weekend, and having a blast the entire time.

Then, when I started reading the pieces in this anthology, I got an entirely new rush. This, my friends, is a tight collection of compelling storytelling. Case in point: I re-read “Politoburg” by Ayres and was blown away all over again, and was reminded how my first reading of that piece in Thuglit in 2007 led me to praise it on this blog, which is how I got to know the guy.

I’m not the only one impressed by this anthology. One of the stories was nominated for a prestigious Edgar award, and Publisher’s Weekly recently weighed in with this review.

Robinson’s second anthology derived from the online magazine Thuglit is an improvement over 2008’s Hardcore Hardboiled. Jason Starr gets things off on the right foot with “Double Down,” a short but punchy contemporary PI tale, with an unapologetically amoral main character largely indifferent to the consequences of his greed. Joe R. Lansdale offers perhaps the strongest entry with “Bullets and Fire,” in which the narrator gets accepted into a hardcore urban gang by punching out a little girl, for reasons that only become apparent in the denouement. An ex-con’s despair over his estranged grown daughter drives Marcus Sakey’s “The Days When You Were Anything Else,” which ends with a twist that’s no less powerful for being predictable. While not every selection is top-notch, this volume also showcases a number of lesser-known authors who will undoubtedly be heard from more in the future. Sarah Weinman’s introduction extols the virtues of online publication. (June) — Publisher’s Weekly

So …. maybe you’d like to have a little Sex, Thugs and Rock & Roll in your life.

Today noir novelist Anthony Neil Smith brings his virtual biker rally to Chimichangas at Sunset as part of his epic blog tour for his soon-to-be-released fourth novel, the thoroughly engrossing Hogdoggin’. At each stop of his tour, Smith continues the story of a biker rally that keeps getting bigger …. and crazier…

Meanwhile, over at Smith’s blog, Crimedog One, you can learn more about Hogdoggin’ and read my guest blog post, in which the biker rally gets a little weirder (Neil’s tale below follows my entry, if you wanna read these in sequence). 

Be prepared to be offended, and disturbed in all venues, including Hogdoggin’.

In the Last Episode, we left Banks in Hell, where he belongs.

After signing Larry’s book in the basement, Steel God and Smith came upstairs and immediately began nailing two-by-fours across the door, hoping that might keep the bastard in for the rest of the rally.  Fat chance.

They pounded the last nail, slapped the dirt and sweat off their hands, and then turned to find a yuppie-type, like he fell off the screen during Office Space.  And he didn’t look so hot, a big gash in his shirt, bleeding.  In fact, he had a bit of the zombie look to him.  The wound looked more natural on him than the tie.

Grinned, said, “So you boys pounding some nails, eh?  Shit, you know what that’s all about, right?  That hidden subtext?  Hammering away.  Nailing it to the wall.  Dig it?”

Steel God punched him in the nose.  The skin split, but this guy didn’t even lift a hand to stop the blood flow.  He just dropped.

They shrugged and stepped over him.

The bar had taken on a creepier quality.  Moody music from some freakish types on the stage.  A stranger (albeit hotter) class of women.  Men who looked like they belonged performing on the streets of New Orleans. 

“What did you say these guys were called again?”

Smith said, “Skull Patrol.”

Steel God nodded.  “You know…if I’m not mistaken, that’s the club that belongs to, um…what did she say his name was?”

“Who said?”

“The chick who tried to castrate me, the one I bought the bike for.”

“I thought Anastasia put her in traction.”

“She did, but not before I had a good ride with her and all.  Anyway, she said some guy promised to pay her a couple hundred to either kill me or take my cock back to him as a prize.  I think it’s the guy who leads this crew.”

Smith took a gander out at the hypnotized, gender-challenged, middle-manager-type, hipster, bizzaro crowd.  “I don’t know his name, but I heard one of them call him El Muerto Avocado.”

 “Wait…The Dead Avocado?”

“Either that, or Hot Guac.  It’s hard to hear in this joint.”

Smith stepped behind the bar for a moment and emerged with a double-barreled shotgun, which he fired into the ceiling without warning.

Everyone shut up and covered their ears, crouched.  Steel God could barely hear above the ringing. 

Smith took advantage of the quiet to shout, “One of you fuckers take me to Hot Guac or I start shooting you douchebags!”

They got a volunteer.

* 

Outside, they followed this guy who must’ve been mute.  He kept looking over his shoulder and waving his hand like Folllow me, yeeesss.  Come now from some old horror flick.  Smith kept the gun on him, but all three of them knew he wasn’t going to fire it again.  Steel God told Smith he didn’t even have revenge on his mind so much.

“Instead, I’m just so damned curious.  I don’t think I even know this guy.”

“Maybe you accidentally killed his brother or something.  You know, a blood feud.”

They arrived at one of the town’s two travel motels–the shittier one, actually.  At the other, people actually lived there long term and took care of the place.  But not at the Double-D-Luxury Motor Hotel.  It hadn’t been luxurious since 1981.  And apparently, no one had cleaned up the vomit from the sidewalks since the mid-nineties.

Mute Man waved them towards room 107 and stepped out of the way.

Smith went to knock when Steel God braced him, whispered, “What if it’s a trap?  You knock, he blows your head off.”

Before Smith could answer, the door swung open, and the dude standing there said, “I wouldn’t do that.  Come on in.  Grab a beer.”

He turned and walked back into the room.  He was definitely one of those laid-back Californians, loose jeans and a shabby T-shirt, no shoes. 

Smith and Steel God followed, not sure if they should.  Soon as they were in, Mute Man reached for the door handle and slammed it closed.  Made everything feel itchy. 

Hot Guac, if that’s who this was, had already settled on the floor, bottle of Pacifico in his hand.  “Beer.  Or this new batch of guac I just made.  Don’t tell anybody, but I think the secret is to use lemon instead of lime.  And the organic red onions.”

Smith looked around the room.  He stepped over to the bowl of guac and picked up a chip, scooped some up.  Shrugged.  “Not bad.”

Hot Guac laughed.  “Dude.”

Steel God was noticing something else.  On all the walls, there were mounted things.  All on nice high school spelling bee award wood, metal plates at the bottom with names like “Shifty” and “Dr. Heartbreak” and “Indian Burn”.  Was it some sort of animal?  Hard to tell.  Shriveled, dried out.  Was he mounted slugs?  Snakes?  Worms?

Then God got it.  “Shit, these are cocks.”

Smith had never seen the big man so stunned.  He looked at the wall, then at Hot Guac, the wall again, down at his crotch, the wall again.

“You fucking collect biker cocks?”

He shrugged.  “Let me tell you a story.  It might better explain something about myself.  You see *gack*–”

Cut off because Steel God had grabbed him by the throat and dragged him up the wall.  “Make it quick.”

Hot Guac, turning purple in the face, wheezed out, “A biker killed my brother.”

Smith said, “Yeah, I called that one.”

God asked, “Why me?  Why was I next?”

“Be.  Cause.”  Sucked in a mighty breath  “Your rally.  I.  Fish.  Big.”

Steel God smiled, kept his grip on.  “You know, if you’d given me some sort of sob story, something I’d done to you, I was prepared to be merciful.  But I can’t be seen supporting this sort of hobby.  You understand, right?”

Hot Guac nodded.  Or maybe he was just passing out.

Steel God turned back to Smith and said, “You go on back.  I’ll handle it from here.”

“You sure?  I can help.”

“No, I mean it.  This is for my eyes only.  Like that Bond movie, dig?  Only for me.  I’ll see what no one else will see.  Me and this fucker here.”

Smith tried to think of something to say.

“I said GO!  Now!”

Smith beelined for the door.

Right before he stepped out into the night air–hot wind kicking up dust–Steel God said, “And when I see you tomorrow for breakfast, you do not ask about this.  You blank it from your mind.  What’s about to happen officially never happened.  You feel me?”

Smith cleared his throat, figured that was answer enough, and got the hell out of there.  As he cleared the motel’s property line, he heard Hot Guac make a noise only his mother should ever be allowed to hear, and only after she’d died.

*

I first learned of this Greg Bardsley fellow when he submitted the story “Upper Deck” to my re-boot of Plots with Guns.  It only took the first page to convince me I’d found my first acceptance.  And it only got wilder and better. 

I’d been looking for stories that put into practice what had only been theory in my head–contemporary noir with a transgressive edge.  Stories that got to me at a gut level.  Stories that I would find impossible to shake from my memory.

“Upper Deck” did just that.  It made me laugh, made me flinch, and grossed me out (that last one isn’t a necessity, but if done right, well, congrats). Check this:

He tells you about upper-decking, and he tells you how he’s gonna use Harvey as a decoy. He tells you how they’re gonna come over to Ernie’s for the season finale of “Scott Baio Is 45 and Single,” and right in the middle of it all, Calhoun’s gonna excuse himself and saunter off to Ernie’s hall bathroom. He explains how he’s been preparing for two weeks, how he’s been getting into “the rhythm of nightly deuces,” how he’s gonna chow down lots of carnitas and beans for two days before and show up at Ernie’s at 7:45 with a giant mug of creamy coffee. How Harvey is gonna distract Ernie in the TV room while Calhoun’s in the can, gently removing the lid to the upper water basin of Ernie’s toilet, pulling his sweats down and slowly navigating onto the toilet until his ass is practically falling into the exposed water basin, his feet planted firmly on the toilet-seat lid, his hands reaching to the sink counter and window frame for stabilization, and then (the exaltation) releases “a monster” into Ernie’s upper deck, where it will either wreak immediate havoc on the flushing system or simply reside unnoticed for months on end.

See what I mean?  How can this possibly go wrong?  You want to know, right?

Move on through his other work, like “Funny Face”, “She Don’t Like Hecklers”, and “Some Kind of Rugged Genius” (on the fabled 3AM Magazine site), you’ll come to “Headquarters Likes Your Style” from Out of the Gutter, which I found to be another high point in a mountain range full of high points.  A cubicle jockey finds a way to get back at management by insinuating to his office neighbor that the supervisor is making moves on him.  And damned if the guy doesn’t buy into it.  Really stellar stuff.  Many times, he takes mundane office drones with active imaginations and gives them that one extra little push they need to send it over the edge, and by then it’s too late to reel themselves back in.  Consequences abound, and the horrific black comedy that ensues will burn into your brain like a branding iron.

That’s why Bardsley’s work will be around a long time.  He forces you to remember. 

My prediction, as soon as the novels start rolling out: Bardsley will be as big as Palahniuk.  But the critics will like him a lot more.

So, if the wild-man who is Bardsley tells you Hogdoggin’ is good, then you have no goddamned excuse not to pick this thing up and make it your next round of bathroom reading.  And if you don’t mind, get it on June 1^st (HOGDOGGIN’ MONDAY) online, at your nearest local bookstore, or at any of the indie bookstores I’ve marked as my territory along the route (places and dates at Crimedog One).

*

Next, from out there in the morning fog, Patricia Abbott is watching you…

Tonight on the Main Stage: Primus, “Those Damned Blue Collar Tweakers”

Some of  you know that the only thing I’m cocky about is my guacamole. I have won more than my fair share of guacamole showdowns, and last summer, after years of secrecy and paranoia, I released the recipe to Guacamole Gregorio to the world.

Then, at the end of the 2008 gaucamole season, I announced that I was considering retirement, Brett Favre style (meaning, I would tease the public throughout the off-season as to whether I truly would retire).

I was on the fence until this past weekend, when I whipped up perhaps my best batch ever. It all worked — the organic red onion, the ripe avacados, the cilantro, the touch of cumin — and I was able to create joy in my small corner of the universe.

So today, I am announcing that I am returning for one more season. One more season for this crafty old bird. One more season of wholesome ingredients, Latin jazz and ice-cold Tecate. One more season of making my friends and family smile. One more season of working very carefully with my hair-trigger ingredients.

‘Nuff said. … Let the 2009 guacamole season begin.

Now I know.

Now I know that when you’re visiting a communist compound deep in the heart of  China, you shouldn’t wander. It doesn’t matter if the grounds are lush and inviting. It doesn’t matter if the guards clearly saw you arrive with the your company’s delegation. It doesn’t matter if you’re from the West and you assume you have protections. It doesn’t matter that you have this open-mouthed, couldn’t-harm-a-fly goofball look to you as you saunter the grounds.

Now I know.

Disregard the fact everyone seems friendly enough. Disreard the fact you hear hundreds of men singing nearby and would love to investigate (and in that case, didn’t). You are a visitor from another country. You don’t stroll. You don’t investigate. You should just be happy that you’re experiencing something (visiting a communist compound) you never could’ve predicted six months earlier. You should stand there, stay put and appreciate the moment.

A couple weeks ago, I did not stay put. 

I had come to China on business. During the trip, my bosses had several meetings with the Chinese leadership in Chongqing (both parties are planning to do some good things that will help a lot of people of China).  I was more or less a fly on the wall. In the course of the meetings, we ended up at this compound. And because I wasn’t in that meeting, I had time to kill.

So, yes, with time to kill, I did go for a stroll. I don’t think I ventured too far, but in retrospect, after telling my bosses (and my family) that I had gone for a walk and even wanted to explore further,  I realize I should’ve stayed closer to the area where we had arrived. I guess you just don’t go for adventurous strolls on communist compounds, especially when you’re a visiting American. Luckily, I didn’t have to learn that lesson the hard way.

Brian Lindenmuth has a great series of interviews brewing at Bookspot Central, where he’s profiling “bookless” up-and-comers in the crime-fiction scene. Hence the series name, “Conversations with the Bookless.”

So far, the featured “bookless” have included Sandra Seamans, Anonymous-9, Keith Rawson, Jedidiah Ayres, Frank Bill and Jordan Harper.  That’s a talented group, right there, and I’m flattered to featured with them.

So, am I as crazy as some might have you believe? You can check out my profile here, and weigh in on this heady matter at the end of the interview.

Not too long ago, I saw a guy walk past my desk eating something on a stick.

It looked like it had little legs, that thing on a stick.

It jarred me.

I soon realized it was just a corn dog, but it gave me a great idea for a short story. Well, that and the troubling reality of acronym-inflation.

Add an interesting item from my son’s recently acquired book on Northern California insects, and I had some of the primary elements of my new short story, “Some Kind of Rugged Genius,” which now appears in 3:AM Magazine.

Of course, if roasted rat on a stick, California stink beetles and acronym insanity ain’t your thing, you may wanna pass on this one.

Imagine my rapture.

Imagine the delicious joy that coursed through my veins when I glanced the telltale signs of something wonderful — the sans-serif font, the classic black-and-white color scheme and the distinct humor screaming from the tabloid headline, “OBAMA CANCELS JUNE!,” and the sub-head, “11-month year will save Americans billions.”

Was I hallucinating? Was this a dream? Was this actually a flash of the defunct print mag, my dearly departed Weekly World News, right there beside the supermarket checkout line?

I took a closer look, picked up the tabloid. It was the Sun, a lesser tabloid, but in this issue it was offering a bonus insert of the World News, which broke my heart when it folded 2007.

Long story short, I gladly bought a copy and soon was enjoying stories about a 275-pound, 10-year-old boy who beat muggers to “within an inch of their lives,” a doll house that is haunted by a “tiny spirit” and a “killer-duck” crisis in the Midwest. Yes, I do know the Weekly World News offers stories online [see, "Tax Extension for Bat Boy"], but there was something so very special about having a new printed version in my hands.

Hillary’s alien lover would understand.