Tagged: Bobby Check

From Bobby Check, full of inside jokes.

William S. Burroughs, Timothy Leary, and Hunter S. Thompson sat at a table in my kitchen. The table was covered in a glowing white tablecloth. I looked over at them from the wild embrace I was involved in. Electric colors entwined with my fingers and toes, making me mumble with joy.

Mozart’s unwritten symphonies trickled out of my pores, down my face. They pooled on the floor, evolving into Beat Poetry and angry Rap.

“Poor bastard,” Mr. Burroughs commented. “He’s being tarted up by an agent from Interzone and he doesn’t even know it. Got any cocaine?”

“No. No. That’s nothing to do with Interzone, man.” Timothy Leary cooed, fading in and out of existence in the middle chair. “That’s deep love with a Kachina.”

“Fuck both of you. I’m a journalist, goddamn it. He’s being ass raped by Mothra. Can’t you see?” Thompson passed a cookie jar down the table to William Burroughs. “Don’t snort it all. Leave some for the starving junkies in Portland. Fuck. That’s nasty shit.”

An eternity later, dressed as Olympic event judges, they gave me my scores.

“The roach-powder sniffing judge gives it a 3. My asshole gives it a 4.” Burroughs cackled, dried up and blew away like dust.

“The deeper image shook me up, and it was all yellow. I’ll give it a squiggle that looks like a 3.” Timothy Leary smiled and faded away like the Cheshire Cat.

“Jesus Happy Christ! I’m calling my Lawyer, you creeping fucktards. Where’s the cheese? You promised me cheese. All I get here is buttsex and giant bats. Five, you stinky fucker! Five. That’s all. Five! Johnny Depp plays with my clothes.”

Dr. Thompson leaned back, lit up a spliff, and put his feet up on the brilliant table.

“Anybody got a Smith Corona? I’ve gotta write before the shmuck wakes up. I’m a Doctor of Journalism! Midget bitch! Suck my cock. Mothra. Jesus.”

Somewhere in the brilliant white and shocking maze of atonal colors, a porn star got his wings. A technicolor blob of spooge blew Hunter S. Thompson’s head off, launching it into the cosmos.

In the deep dark of the universe, a spark flared: the birth of a new galaxy. A tiny whisper could be heard, all the way back in Baltimore.

“Jesus Christ. I’m Tetsuo. Fucking bats.”

When Sci-Fi becomes social commentary…

I swear my characters have lives, opinions and political affiliations independent of my own. This bit came out from under my fingers while working on “Bobby Check” this morning, and I thought I’d share.

“We,” I whispered, “don’t live much past 80 years. Bonded? Huh?”

“Only 80 years?” Pesha clasped her hands over her mouth in distress … a mannerism our species seemed to share. “Is it because your sexuality burns you out before middle age? Do you not have adequate regenerative medicine or health care for everyone, regardless of income?”

I gasped. I didn’t have any energy left to answer such pointed questions, and I felt my answers wouldn’t make sense to her anyhow.

“Mother!” Pesha cried into thin air.

“Yes, daughter?” Misot replied from out of nowhere.

“Sex makes humans die young! They don’t even reach middle age before they’re mostly dead! I don’t think they have universal health care! Will fucking humans make us die young, too?” Pesha wailed and bit at her claws. “I’m so frightened!”

“No, my adored child, sex with humans will not subtract years from your life. The shy gray species has done studies, and there are no ill effects from copulating with human beings.” Misot paused as though considering something. “Yet, I can see how one could become addicted to their affections. That may be another reason why their planet is blockaded: they are a dangerous, mind-altering, sexual experience.”

“Oh, Mother! What have you done?”


It’s Christmas Night. I hope everyone had a splendid day, filled with everything one could possibly want!

A few bits of news and an observation are what I’ve got for you tonight. The observation comes first: as a writer of zombie fiction, most of the gifts I receive from other people will be zombie related… from now until I die.

News. “Bobby Check” is mutating on me. The characters have started to move the plot in an unexpected direction: alien romance comedy. Excuse me? What?

More news. BSA3 is now 5,800 words long, and the characters have thrown me an asteroid-size curve ball. Charlie is to blame for it. (And she tells me it is in the name of “icky, dramatic good times”.) The irony is that it bends the plot towards one of my early concepts for what would happen after BSAI ( back when the working title for the books was “Man Scythe: Freelance”).

BSA3 might, depending on whether or not I agree with Charlie, end up with “Blood-Soaked and Insane” as a temporary title. Not too sure how I feel about it… Bothers me a little.