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Green Sunday 2 Chapter 0 ‘The big Boss’

I done did it, I just kinda thought ‘fuck it’.

I’ve been really busy lately, why I haven’t been blogging in like two weeks. I took the final edit of GS1 a little too seriously and it took two weeks of me going over it with a fine tooth comb to get it ready for publication. I took some breaks to keep up writing the sequel of course. I’m not a total retard, it doesn’t take me two weeks to read my own book haha.

So now that’s out of the way I thought, ‘Hey why not?’ So here it is GS2; ‘Second Sunday’. I’m playing with the title, either that or ‘Another Sunday’

Keeping it short and sweet today, gotta leave more bullshit for tomorrow haha. So peace out folks and of course, check out the rest of the chapter on inkitt or just ya know wait fucking months for it to come out in a hard copy haha.

And we’re back to the icecream thing again because… it’s rough unedited shit man, straight from the insanity oven haha

See you…

GS2; Second Sunday Chapter 0

–

“Eh yello! Mr Peshwari-san how are you this fine Thursday?” A daper man said into a bluetooth headset. “Uh huh, yeah, oh yeah he’s dead, nothing left. We were picking up pieces of him with tampons and little packing peanuts soaked in bleach.” He let out a little unintentional laugh. “Oh yeah then we burnt the whole town to the ground, it was fun we roasted marshmellows and told racist jokes.” An Asian man in a golden suit was sitting at a large ostentatious onyx desk in the shape of two black women pressing their asses together. His feet resting crossed legged atop a curvaceous butt cheek.

He was listening on the phone smiling as the man on the end nattered Charlie brown style into his ear as he nodded smiling. “Well what can I say, don’t let your kids compete in zombie deep web gameshows I guess, I mean that’s a given right? Uh huh” He looked around his office getting a little bored now. Yawning with the affectation of one missing out on some interesting thing passing by the window while on the phone. He had the air of someone who would break his neck turning his head to see something. Anything to keep boredom from creeping in, but that was fine because he could afford to get it fixed.

His office aside from the desk was what you might except from some yuppy half-asian weeb. Zen gardens, samurai swords hanging on the wall, Japanese versions of old western movie posters and old ukiyo ed paintings. A mix of American and Japanese styles tastefully seething around the new looking tacky sex desk. A giant picture of himself behind his desk pulling a trollish grin giving the ‘ok’ sign. The plaque read “’Dirty’ Dan Pudgiwara – Ceo Pudgiwara industries.”

“Uh huh, huh, ok, well but- yeah, well I’m sorry, he signed a waiver. We’re not liable for his unfortunate demise competing in an illegal underground zombie hunting contest, ok, I don’t know where you’re going with this.” He nodded his head a little more, shaking it smiling like he was about to laugh. “You’re just saying words now, ok yeah, what do you want me to do about it? There isn’t enough of him to fill one of those little girl jimmy hats.”

He crinkled his nose listening, swivelling in his chair like a bored toddler. “He was a big boy and sometimes big boys get mulched by their own claymores, he wasn’t playing golf for the love of fuck. You’re just whining like a little bitch, what do you want me to do? You’re like a muslim or something right you’ve got to have more than one son, you fucking people breed like bunnies. Sikh, whatever.” A pause as he listened and his face grew some lines in an otherwise baby visage. “He was your only son, well sucks to be you I guess. Ironically I can’t bring him back to life unless you want a living dead puddle. Maybe you could put whats left of him in a paddling pool and soak your feet in the faggot.” He continued to listen only to wait for breaks to say more offensive shit. “Uh huh, yeah, well fuck me if you want to throw more money at it be my guest. Don’t you have more important things to do like fucking goats, plaiting your fucking beard hair?”

Mr Evergreen, a tall man, pitch black in skin colour but with the smooth symmetrical features of a clothes mannequin sidled into the room. He was wearing a pressed charcoal suit over a rigid atheletic frame a binder under his arm. He entered the room without making a sound. “Well good day to you too Peshwari-san.” Dan said smiling a shit eating grin as he put the phone down. Turning his best Nicholas Cage surprised smile on Evergreen as he propped his elbows onto the ass cheeks of his desk and cradled his head.

“Who was that?”

–

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Green Sunday Chapter 17 ‘Fatal Hesitation’

Hey there,

Back again for some of that theatrical writterly shit haha.

Ok right off the bat if anyone complains that I’m not crediting the cosplayer for my header image, you can just blow me because you can’t copyright ass and titties ok haha. Cosplay is cancer anyway and I fucking forgot where I got this picture from. Fuck cosplay ok haha.

So what’s new? Barreling ahead with the sequel for GS for a start, I’m almost amazed by how insane it is. Like I’m almost afraid to edit it, because it’s just like the ravings of a lunatic and I love it. I’m afraid to change it.

But in other news, signed that contract so now I’m working on the cover in tandom with Muddy Boots and we’ll have a launch date soon enough, which is cool.

I do this horrible thing where I look back on my work to try and see what it is I’ve done and right now all I have to my name is this dumb fun zombie book haha. Like all the standalone stuff is kinda ethereal at this point, it’s not there yet, it’s kinda scattered so this is really the only thing I can sink my teeth into and that sort of makes me miserable haha. But what’s good about it is it forces me to move forward in my head with the other planned series’ I have namely the Dexter homage and the weird ass fantasy series I was planning both nameless at this minute in time haha.

I think I’m ready for that, it’s weird, it’s not that I think I’m not good enough to write them, it’s like I don’t want to binge on them. I don’t want to have too much fun all at once and have nothing left at the end. I like pacing myself, writing some slock in between, like eating your vegetables before you get to desert. But I just couldn’t contain myself when it came to the sequel for GS. I was either going to rush the slock filler novella I was writing or I just had to drop it like I did and move onto a project that was more fun and just inherently immediately necessary.

This is not a job, its all passion but sometimes passions have to be measured. It’s easy to abstain, easier to binge, its hard to be balanced and think about every move you make because each step is another step closer to the grave.

Cheery motherfucker I am haha.

Anyway, wanna thank all the people signing up to my mailing list and all the people who have taken review copies and are letting me know what you think on the daily, its fantastic to hear. Mailing list will be in triple digits soon, its looking good. Love life is still in the toilet haha, but you can’t have everything all I can do is complain, its not like I’ve been looking or would even know what to do with a woman right now if I caught one haha.

Enough of that jive, got a chapter for reasons, why not? This is one of the last times this is gonna be free haha. So heres fatal hesitation, enjoy and peace out.

Fatal Hesitation

~

Pete’s fingers fidgeted, fumbling for the large knife in the decorative sheath on his hip as Dave lumbered towards him, scratching and mumbling unintelligibly.

“Itchy-scratchy…itchy.”

“This isn’t right.” Pete drew the twelve-inch blade, it seemed to take longer than he remembered “That caant said it wasn’t contagious; we’re s’posed to be immune!”

Dave stumbled forward, as if pulled at the hip by a lasso. His joints locked and released seemingly beyond his control.

“You’re alright, lad. We’ll get you looked at. Just sit down,” Pete said calmly as he slowly raised the kukri to chest height.

Dave stumbled again, then his whole body curled as if his spine were made of a Slinky. Without warning he lunged at Pete.

Pete swung, missing one beat and sinking the large knife into Dave’s shoulder. It went about six inches into meat and bone and got stuck. “FACK!” Pete screeched as he tried to push and pull the big knife out of Dave’s shoulder. Dave was unaffected; the wound didn’t even bleed, just oozed a strange, black ichor. Dave scrabbled all over Pete like an insect on its back. His fingers were all over his face and in Pete’s mouth as he pushed him to the lip of the gun store roof.

Pete reeled backwards, forcing Dave’s hand out of his face. Dave fell over him like a wave: no self-awareness, no thought, just a tidal wave of primal hunger, washing over Pete as he was swept closer to the edge of the roof.

Pete let go of the knife. He took a split second to look at the drop from the roof to the street below. It wasn’t that high. The building was just one storey; he could survive a drop. He scanned left and right, looking for something to use as a weapon. Time slowed and it took him forever just to turn his head. He looked to his left: nothing but a pile of MRE wrappers and a bed roll. To his right, his air bow. He snatched it up and locked it into his shoulder, pulling the trigger to an exasperated hissing sound.

The bolt rebounded in a dull ricochet off Dave’s jaw, leaving a ragged rip across his face. His lower jaw lost tension and fell open like a snake’s. “FACK!” Pete scrabbled for his quiver of bolts, knocking it over. Shiny black bolts spilt out all over the roof. “FAAAACCK!”

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 15 ‘Strange Eyes’ (Edit)

Hello lovely people,

First I want to thank all those new people who joined my mailing, so I hope and assume you’re reading this, if not who gives a shit ahah?

Ok so on to updates, personal life; still trash.
Looking at, oh shit that reminds me I can post those. I have sketches for the initial cover designs of Green Sunday. So that’s underway, having more sketches drafted. I’ll post the ones I have down here somewhere.

I’ve worked out the contract and paid for the edit of Ladies Close Your Eyes but the cover could take a bit longer, so as soon as I get the edit back I’ll just clean it up as is and send it via my mailing list to everyone on it as promised.

As usual got a little excerpt of the next edited chapter of GS ‘Strange Eyes’. It’s a fun one, had to fight to keep my inner weeb coming out haha. It’s hard to restrain yourself from writing this big stupid self indulgent action scene that runs away with itself, but I had fun so fuck it haha.

As usual you can read the whole thing by following the link to inkitt right here.

Strange Eyes

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These are just some basic sketches for outlining the finished design, so please don’t judge yet haha.

http://pagdon.com/

This is the guys page, he’s a real artist folks, not no comic book hustler haha, check him out and peace out.

–

The brief silence was ripped apart like a piece sugar of paper. A red Beetle door, with garish orange flames spray painted on it, flew across the garage, spinning like a coin flipped by a King Kong size index finger and thumb. It hit the wall of the shop, pancaking the fat biker and embedding itself in the concrete and sheet metal, load-bearing wall.

The fat biker was eviscerated by the force of the door and his body hitting the wall. He looked like he’d fallen from space. His body was only recognizable by garish, near-human-shaped body parts: hands, feet, an eyeball, a tongue, a limb with bone shrapnel perforating the skin. His wet carcass popped like a water balloon full of dark red jello, sticking in some places and plastered to the wall. Heavier matter slopped onto the floor, making a cringe-inducing, wet, slapping noise.

He looked inside out. Grown men, who watched people beat each other to death and fed people to half-dead freaks, threw up raw hotdogs onto the concrete floor.

Mojang shook as he clutched the grenade launcher in his large hands.

The bikers watched as a puckish boy hopped off the rim of the pod. He could have been anywhere between sixteen and twenty. He had a slim, strong frame, and was around five foot four.

He scanned the room. His face wasn’t visible for a carbon fibre helmet covering most of his head, making him look like a cross between a paladin from WOW and a Power Ranger. His body was covered in a skin-tight compression suit made from individual plates of space age metal. The plates moved and breathed with his body, like the scales of a dragon.

A slit in his visor revealed a penetrating stare and a strange set of blue-green eyes. One eye was blue; the other was green.

The boy looked around the room, like the Terminator, but his eyes had a faint smile to them, as if he was in on the joke. His gaze nevertheless was cold and unfeeling. When he’d finished, he flashed a cocky grin with his eyes and turned around. He hopped back onto the pod, like Peter Pan, dislodging a strange chrome rod. The rod flared out in both directions, forming two conical points. It was almost the length of the boy’s entire body.

Clutching it in the middle, by what was now evidently a handle, the boy crossed his chest with the strange, chrome, double-ended lance and let out a cocky, breathy laugh.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? This clown need to make you balloon animals? GREASE THIS MOTHERFUCKER!” Mojang stuttered, wrestling with the volume of his voice as his whole frame shook.

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Green Sunday Chapter 16 ‘Kill too hard’ (Raw)

The end is nighe, it’s coming thick and fast now, only two chapters left to proofread for the raw version of the manuscript. I’ll probably chop it all up later because some of the chapters are a little too long. I call it ‘Dan Browning’ for the people with short attention spans as my audience most certainly is. To quote the loveable Donald Trump “I love the uneducated” haha.
I know I said I hate having these chapter excerpts side by side but I’ve been too busy submitting to indie publishers and literary agents on top of being enthralled in a new synopsis for my next book (which is almost done, shaping up nicely) to think thoughts unrelated to writing.
So a ridiculous blog about current events or things I’ve raid and enjoyed is hard to fathom. Even a rant about a knife I like would be pale in comparison to the passion I feel for my latest creation pre-creation.
I’m really happy with it, the synopsis is really taking shape, making it mine, reminds me a lot of true detective, the first season of which I loved. I’m not sure if I’m excited or scared to actually start writing it. Am I ready for what could be a real success? Or will I ruin it just despite myself? Regardless I’m pushing forward with GS. I was reading bios of agents and trying to pitch to them and I literally had to social justice up my pitch to sell to some people. Threw a little lgbtqrstuvwxyz-sploitation in there to get their tumblr accounts hot and bothered. It’s true people, Sunday is now ‘Gender non-conforming’ whatever that means haha.

I have officially sold my soul haha.

Ok enough of that bullshit, I’ve got shit to do. So as usual you can find the rest of the chapter on inkitt by following this link I am about to post below.

Chapter 16 ‘Kill too hard’
~

An old fashioned touch tone phone rang on a ratty looking desk.

The small messy office filled with the tinny analogue ringing sound of the old phone.

Mojang clung to the grenade launcher the wooden sawn off stock firmly poking his ribs. He ducked behind the desk taking the small phone with him.

He took the phone receiver out of the cradle with a plastic clicking sound. He pressed it to his greasey looking ear.

“Hey boss!”

“Bernie, you double crossing pinche’ puto!”

“Come on, it’s not just me”

“What are you talking about you fat lousey fuck?” Mojang spat into the receiver.

“It’s the fans man”

“The fans?”

“They’re bored Mo, we’re winning too much. We make it look easy, there’s no drama, no suspense. Long story short they’re replacing you”

“What the fuck, with who?”

“Ahem”

“You? Your fat ass is replacing me? No way, put me through to the top guy, there’s no way they can do this, this is our last game, we’re out, we’re clean. They promised-“

“Sorry Mo, this comes from the top. Our approval ratings are tanking, they thought they needed to shake things up”

“No you motherfucker you put him on no-“

Click

The phone went dead. Mojang bit down on the receiver. Snapping it in half over the desk and throwing the rest of the phone on the floor.

He cracked open the grenade launcher, seeing there was a hot grenade still in the chamber. He clapped it close and stiffened his lip.

“Fffuck!” He threw the heavy grenade launcher across the desk and hurried over to the window. Barred, on top of that it was covered in a heavy mesh, impossible to remove, there was no way he was getting out. He clanged the cage mesh looking like a kid in a playpen too long for his nap. His face welling up with sweat and nervous tears.

“FUCK ME! FUCK ME!”

A clatter outside hushed him as he ducked behind his desk again. He scrabbled for the grenade launcher on the desk.

“No please, no, I’ll suck dick, I’ll suck your dick” A muffled woman’s voice said behind his door. An angry banging “FUCK MOJANG, LET ME IN YOU LIMP DICK MOTHERFUCKER!”

The noise quickly stopped after a brief gurgling sound. An ominous silence fell on the garage, not a croak or a death rattle to be heard. All the blood was already on the floor.

Then a dull banging noises started against the thin door. Accompanied by stifled whimpering noises. The noises got quieter as the dull banging sound against the thin door got wetter sounding. Each banging noise accompanied by soppy slapping noises.

The pathetic bolt lock popped off, screws popping out and rolling on the concrete floor. The door swinging open on just one hinge.

Mojang peaked over the desk and saw the door way was empty from his angle. The flimsy door itself was pasted in blood and brain matter with a big crack down the middle. Strands of long hair sticking out of it.

He recoiled as a mass like a dead animal was slung hard across the desk like a deer hitting the hood of an suv. His face was splattered with blood and brains as the girls body was tossed with some force. Her limp limbs twisted around in every direction, her head was caved in, using it to open a door will do that.

Mojang winced, using the barrel of the grenade launcher to turn her face around. He used his other hand to move her hair out of her face. Her eyes were half open, they rolled loosely around in her head like dolls eyes. He swallowed and closed her eyes feeling bad for a minute before he remembered he locked her out.

The Lancer stepped into the door, his feet made a metal stiletto sound. They were covered in some sort of skin tight metal sandal. On the concrete floor they sounded like tap shoes or a dog with long nails on a hard wood floor.

“We can talk about this, I’ve brought in a lot of business, we’re the best, we win, we can do better. Fuck man we can do whatever you want, I’ll learn to fucking juggle if that’s what you wa-“

“Sorry, you’re cancelled.” The Lancer said a cold chill riding his words all the way down Mojang’s spine.

He squeezed the grenade launcher with it’s wood inlays. He fingered it delicately as he looked at the girl sprawled across his desk like a tigerskin rug.

He took a deep breathe and scrunched up his face, ringing out vicious tears from his one good eye.

“Fffuck you silver surfing faggot!” He lifted the grenade launcher up and turned his body so he was pointing it at the Lancer with one arm out stretched. His face twisted into his death mask, what would be left of it.

The Lancer let out a breathy laugh and wicked smile with those strange eyes. He dropped into a pounce closed the gap with a murderous intention as fast as falling.

Mojang fell back, his heart leaping to meet the challenge. His feet stumbling over a broken phone cord. His finger squeezed the trigger and he proceeded to make an even stupider face.

The building popped open like a giant shook up soda can. The sheet metal peeled back and curling up with the flames licking them. The explosion viewed by an indifferent drone flying overhead. The flames reflected in its ambivalent lens.

~

 

 

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Green Sunday Chapter 5 ‘Little man what now’ Edited

 Here’s the latest edited chapter. It’s a slight change of pace, I hope you like it, it’s more development on a few of my favourite characters.
A bit of an update on my shiiiieeettt! I tried to start one of those novellas I talked about, just some short, under 40k story to keep me sharp and maybe pimp out to some anthology or something. But this new project I have pinned for nanowrimo is just too tempting to not fiddle with and instead I spent all day writing and assigning chapter titles from Nick Cave and Tom Waits songs haha.
It’s going to be in four parts, I’m really going to get my teeth into some neo-noire on this one kids. I have a good feeling about it, I can see it coming to an airport newsagent near you haha.
So that’s what I’ve been doing in between blogging and trying to get this zombsploitation printed.
As usual you can find the full chapter on my inkitt page for viewing on phones and tablets or whatever. Now begone with you I have a psychological thrill ride to plot haha!

Cheers.

Green Sunday Chapter 5

~
“MOOOOOOMMMMMM!?!?” TJ screamed, frustration and a hopeless terror filling the emptiness in his chest. He heard the shower turning off and waited a few seconds. TJ breathed restlessly through his mouth, his throat burning, child tears queuing at the corners of his eyes.

“WHAT?” he heard as the bathroom door opened.

“WHERE’S MY STUFF???” he shouted, to stop from bursting into a tearful downward spiral of self-loathing and impending doom. He inflated his chest to keep his lungs from collapsing.

“YOUR LITTLE FRIEND FROM NEXT DOOR CAME OVER WHEN YOU LEFT. HE SAID, YOU SAID HE COULD BORROW SOMETHING FROM YOUR ROOM; IS EVERYTHING OK?” Her voice trailed off at the end and TJ felt pricks of looming dread on the back of his neck.

“YEAH MOM, JUST STAY INSIDE, I’M GOING NEXT DOOR!”

“OK.”

He picked himself up off his bedroom floor; he felt like throwing up. His legs were hollow and he struggled to stand, but he had no choice. He swallowed hard and put his hand on the knob of his bedroom door. He closed his eyes and whispered a pathetic prayer to any god that would listen. When he opened his eyes he was outside the door of his neighbour’s house.

The house was almost identical. It had been built at the same time, but apparently everything was the opposite way around. TJ had never been there before because his neighbours were massive douchenozzles. He had hated them since childhood, when they had poured lemonade on his head and rolled him in the sand pit. He got a good look at the interior purely because the door swung wide open as he put his hand on the knob.

The hallway was a crime scene: pictures smashed on the floor, furniture looking off kilter, shoes tossed aside, small drops of blood and a telling trail leading up the stairs. It looked staged, fake, like the set of some cheesy rural crime drama.

He stepped in through the door frame, gingerly trying not to touch anything or make a sound. But his visions of a silent entry were dashed by the distinct sound of glass crunching under the rubber sole of a ‘Dora the Explorer’ slipper. He mused to himself: why hadn’t he changed into some more practical shoes? Before he could put more thought into that vital question, his attention fell on a flashing battery light shining through a bloody shirt.

He pinched the corner of the shirt, bending at the knee as he leaned over an upturned wardrobe at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled the damp shirt towards him and it drew across the device with a slow stickiness, the damp blood throwing up a musty copper smell as he pulled it closer to him.

He pulled the shirt all the way off, revealing a small digital handycam: the same one they had used in the backyard to record their show. He picked it up slowly, by the handle strap, and turned it around to look at the viewfinder.

~

Frantic steps fell on the cold sidewalk across town. A shoe fell off in a desperate struggle to get off the street. Ankles twisting, people falling into the road. A quiet, slow rolling panic pouring out into the morning light.

The door of a small mom and pop grocery snapped shut. Three shadowed figures watched from the slats in the wood and glass storefront door as a slow boiling chaos milled around outside.

“What’s going on? Who are those people? Is it the army?”

“Shhh.”

An obnoxious car horn tore through the furious cacophony of anxious whispers. The small road, one of three that led out of town, was blocked by two large trucks, guarded by faceless men in black tactical gear. The car horn didn’t seem to bother them; they stood like wind-up toys, waiting to be over cranked.

The small town was a flat plateau; it was elevated, secluded, surrounded by a dense wood on one side, mountains all along the other, leaving few routes out. People came to live here for that seclusion. For the peace and the pine smell, fresh mountain air, clean water. Most of them commuted to work and lived in lavish suburban homes. The local businesses slowly starved together, only kept alive by a small contingent of hipster college kids, back for the summer, spending their parents’ money.

The roads leaving town were boxed in by these small storefronts.: some empty, some almost empty, boarded up; half the town seemed to be in boxes already. The trucks completely sealed the town. The line of cars was large. It was made up of early morning commuters and families leaving to visit relatives out of town. Mixed in were a sprinkling of nervous people who had seen something that deemed a quick exit. A subtle base level of fear was snowballing, passed back and forth between the people in the traffic jam, like a Ping-Pong ball covered in PCP. Impatient fingers drummed on steering wheels; a roll of cold sweat wiped away by a clammy hand; cacophony of throats clearing, reminding others of their existence. Children in buggies were reassured by uncertain tones from nervous parents.

A feeling of drunken mass hysteria was winding up for a curveball, the traffic jam growing larger and longer and less uniform, the people feeling more boxed in by the small sleepy store fronts. Glass and soft woods gathered dust, the bones of an old town looming over them like gravestones. A claustrophobic feeling closed in on them, suffocating their better senses, changing them into cornered animals.

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

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