That is, the one I've been working on for almost a year (or I think that long, I am never good at keeping track of those things). Usually when I working on a novel or a story, a name emerges, usually toward the end of the first draft. I never come up with a title until then.
But now this new one just refuses to give one up. For a long time, I've just had the working title - which I won't share, in case that ends up being it, but it better not, because it sucks.
Deep into second draft now, and working slow (as usual), but trying to get immersed into the whole Mexican vibe (the novel begins in Mex.) I keep thinking at any moment something will rise out of the sea I call my subconscious and yell at me like a drunken mermaid. Hey, wait, the Drunken Mermaid - that has possibilities. Um, right.
Anyway - my other books, the ones with names, are on a free promo right now. Click one of the pics on the right to pick one up. I have another short, Dunked, which is available, but at Slurpee prices (I think it's a buck).
Lastly, here, for the first time is a teaser for the new one. It is called, um, well, you know.
The camera lens inside my head rotated and light flooded into my vision. I focused on a patch of wall that was the exact shade of a honeydew melon. The colour looked so perfect that I almost forgot about the .45 pointed at my forehead.
I fast-tracked through my brain. I had dipped into a touristy joint that sold overpriced Chili Rellenoes to the polyester bermudas and flip-flop set. I recognized Mr. Charmer on the account of his glowing bald head and ugly-ass lizard tat. Two Pacificos and bowl of tostados later, I followed him into the bathroom and—
“Who are you supposed to be?” Charmer nudged an extra crease in my forehead.
I looked at the walls again. What a damn nice colour for a bano – more like south Florida than Mex.
“Fish for what?” Another nudge. “You were watching me at the bar. You some sorta perv? Is that some sort of homo term? Fisher? Following me into the john. I should rap you another one.”
The rest of my head caught up with my vision. I got the not being awake part, and the growing pain at the back of my head.
“How about I do some of my own fishing wise-ass?”
He pulled out my wallet and riffled through it like he was about to do a magic trick.
“Humpf. So that’s your name. Well big-fuckin-whoop. You ain’t fishing this guy you son-of—”
I yanked hard on his dangling shoe lace that I’d grabbed while he flipped through my ID. It was enough to throw him off balance. I slammed my hand under his wrist and smashed the end of the 45 into his forehead. The way he handled it, I don’t think the guy knew how to fire it anyway.
“I hope you didn’t barter for this piece of junk. You bought it on the Malecon, didn’t you?” I slammed my knee into his chin and kicked hard into his chest. His trailer trash ass skidded across the floor. “Probably right next to the sand castles. And you call me a jackoff.”
The bathroom door flew open. It was the overly-bicepped guy that Mr. Charmer had been slamming tequila with at the bar. I was still half into a crouch when he took a wild swing at my head. A quick feint and a duck, and then an uppercut into the basket. He face-planted, gasped on the floor like a trout on the beach. Charmer got up from his ass-over tea kettle posture and came at me hard.
I stopped him with his raised, and shitty, but now cocked, revolver.
“So, here’s the thing. I actually know how to fire these.”