Invitation to a Fistfight: Marlowe

OK...lazy Tuesday question...a question that has been beaten to death, but for anyone actually reading this stupid blog...talk movie Marlowe for a minute. Gould or Bogart or Montgomery or Powell or Garner or Mitchum? Don't be shy. Me? My vote? I was on the fence for Bogart, but the big lug Gould won for sheer originality and the last ten minutes of THE LONG GOOD-BYE. Sorry. The reason for this is Bogart's performance as a better character (Captain 'Rip' Murdock in DEAD RECKONING) crushed and clouded his previous performance as the private dick icon. Please, please, please discuss. Anyone? Anyone? Who could pull it off today? My thought is...wait for it...Guy Pearce. Throw the man a bone, Hollywood.

Zoo Story

Writers? I swear there's a crazy crime story hidden somewhere in all this. Over on the New Scientist....

Gettin' Ink Done - Karen Olson

At the risk of being pounded into a quivering sack of freckled flesh and bone, I confess...I used to pass on women crime writers because I couldn't identify with a female protagonist's point of view.

There. I said it.

Now that the wrath-wielding 900 pound gorilla has been kicked awake... hold up a second, will you? There are three words in that shameful confession above you should note before going off on me...yeah, you there...the tall blonde with the aluminum baseball bat, just chill out for a second, all right? Listen up. Those three important words are... I USED TO.

The woman who changed all that was Karen Olson and her first novel SACRED COWS. God's honest truth. She opened the floodgates and a whole host of amazing writers cascaded into my reading list thereafter. I am forever in her debt.

Now, ladies, is everybody's breathing under control? Yes? Good. Thank you.

Smooth, quick pacing and an ability to cut through the bullshit, that's Karen. Now she's taking off in a new direction from her Annie Seymour series with THE MISSING INK. Book comes out in a few days so please add a copy to your checkout list. All about a tattooist in Las Vegas...I hear there's a midget in it too.

Tats, midgets and Vegas? Sounds like fun.

Just a Hunch

Gee, you think?

Boohoo. ESAD....Not Going to Apologize

King of Pop? Who cares? Dude was a pederast. He should have gone to jail. Remember fans, the creep SETTLED out of court for eight figures. My brother Jack had a saying when he'd rebound on the basketball court and throw his big, gangly elbows..."ESAD! ESAD!" Huh..? Wha...? Simple. Eat shit and die.

God, I Love the French

Just one more reason I am a Francophile.

True Dutch

"Jack, you don't have an agent you're fucked. How do you think all these writers who don't know shit about dirty guys doing crimes get their stuff sold? My agent once had movie studios bidding on a book not one of 'em had read. The publishing business isn't about writing, Jack. It's about selling books."
- Agent Lou Adams bragging to Jack Foley, page 158. Goddamn, I love this book.

Greg Bardsley Story: PULP PUSHER

Man, I've said this before...Greg Bardsley is one of the funniest writers, period. Where others attempt to present the edge to you, Greg is the liquored up clown prince who pushes you over, laughing maniacally as you spiral down into the canyon. You wanna laugh? Read Greg's latest cat in the hat perversity Cool Breeze of Mercy here.

Allllright, Hamilton! - Flash Spicoli 121 Days Until B'Con

121 Days until B'con in Indy. Wow.

My only experience with Indy was a layover for my brother's wedding to a beauty from a popcorn growing family and, boy, did that bite. Not the wedding or my beautiful sister-in-law, but the layover. My fondest memory of their wedding was my Uncle Eddie (now passed) stuffing his foil-lined pockets with shrimp cocktail, much to my family's dismay. I could've cared less. I was so hammered and dancing like a cracked-out Kevin Bacon on his shitty VW.

Indianapolis. I hear there's great steaks to be had in this gem of the Midwest. I am so open to meat recommendations, soul food recommendations, BBQ. Give me a list people. Please.

Enough about B'con.

Idea for flash fiction challenge. Patti? You reading? What if those signing up for the challenge have to write a story where Jeff Spicoli (upper left) is either the main character or a walk on? Just a thought. I caught the end of Fast Times at Ridgemont High the other day, the Judge Reinhold closing scene--the one where Brad Hamilton (Reinhold) thwarts a hold-up by tossing hot coffee on gunman and Spicoli compliments him for his daring, "Allllright, Hamilton!"--Oingo Boingo cued--roll the credits.

Yeah, people can point to Mystic River, or Dead Man Walking or even State of Grace as Penn's finest hour as an actor, but Spicoli? Tell me you don't love the guy. Dude can fix anything. His dad's got this awesome set of tools.

I've Heard....

I've heard from some of the slung-low in the writing ghetto as of late, those who are trying to make the leap, catch the break, make the deal, get the love...goddamn...it gets bleak.

Today, I am opting to be upbeat. And I'm saying this not just for everybody out there but for myself as well. Know what? We've signed up for this, people. Yep. We're crazy enough to aspire, jutting our chins out like so many light bulbs in the negative fist-storm waiting to be shattered. And it takes guts, strong bones, thick skin, humor, will. As the friggin' best live band performing in the world today sings...stay positive.

I love you all, you crazy bastards. Get big picture.

UPDATE: New story--"Elephant" is up over at the webzine Crooked.

Finally!

Like you didn't see this shit coming forty years ago. Finally. Can we now please get this drivel off the assigned reading lists for teens? Book of the century my ass. The closing line to this NY Times article sums it up for me. And another thing, stop giving kids (and characters) this pretentious, sniveling name. Yeah, Kevin Smith...I'm talking to you. I mean, dude, I worship Clerks, and laughed myself sick watching Chasing Amy but, man, fucking Holden? Bad enough you cast Affleck....

Paging Skynet:

So, umm, yeah...this seems like a cool idea unless, like, something goes horribly askew. Not that it would. Just saying. Lalalala...skipping through the minefields...lalalalala....

When Good Guys Go Bad: Brubaker

I'm sure I'm preaching to the converted. But if you're not a comic fan or haven't heard of Ed Brubaker and his recent CRIMINAL series (blink-blink...rubs eyes with disbelief), take a pull on his new series INCOGNITO. It will blow you away. Crime fiction lovers can really sink their teeth into Brubaker's mastery of bleak options, brisk language, and plot pacing playing out against the backdrop of retired/disgraced superheros. Yesterday #4 came out. Catch up.

Washington Post: Pelecanos - Surf ?

The Washington Post recently had their summer reading issue and in it they asked a bunch of writers what character from fiction they would like to hang out with for a day at the beach. Ho-hum choices mostly, but then...at the tail end there was this-- GEORGE PELECANOS: I would choose to spend my time with Preston Marsh, the anti-hero biker from Kem Nunn's classic surf/noir/coming-of-age novel, "Tapping the Source." Marsh's hard-won humanity and volatile nature would make for an interesting day at the beach. Frankie Avalon he's not."

Who knew the much lauded Greek DC crime scribe dug surf noir? Me, I would have swerved more toward the Winslow's legendary Bobby Zacharias. Now that mofo knew how to unwind post session.

By the way...happy Bloomsday everybody.

Castle Dope on Bookspot Central

The groovy cats over at Bookspot Central have shared the dope on horror/crime writer Tom Piccirilli getting his Castle on...just one more hardcore slugger in the Marvel bullpen. Others on deck are Huston and Hurwitz. I think I just had a minor cardiac fanboy incident. Read the news here.

The Writing Struggle: Pounding Sand Edition

To park ideas, to save, to file. I'm kind of all over the place with this-- post its, magazine inserts scratched with cryptic pen, newspaper clippings, napkins...maybe open a Word doc. and jot down some ale-adled opening lines...yeah, yeah, yeah...I've read interview pieces and talked with the writers who are meticulously organized, who keep vast note books with scraps of dialogue, descriptions, storyboards, etc. like a bunch of hived up mad scientists working on bridges to the 22nd Century. Often I've tried to emulate them, but I always, without question, fail. I just can't do it and eventually all the scraps I save end up in the can. Most of the time I find the mental jetsam I once thought was so organically cool turns out to be as dull as a bag of cold sewage. I don't think I'm alone here. Maybe is why I've always loved playing without a net.

Really. It's Easier Gone Than Said

As of today I'm on a kind of quasi, official hiatus from my measly employment. Not an axe blow so don't offer any sympathies as I am granted grace to come back in a month or so after some squirrel-like veering nails up the unresolved hours. It's my option. OK. That's fine. Let the others sweat. I'll write some. Read the stack. Watch Wimbledon. Take in life, go to the beach with my daughters, mow the lawn, watch the wonder. Not the first time and I'm giddy to be alive. You should be too. Life's a miraculous Brian O'Nolan joke anyway. Listen, laugh, and march on. Sail away indeed.

NYC Thing to Do: Food, Film, Crime?

Saw that they're doing the NY Food and Film Festival again. Back when I was working as a chef full-time, I contracted to write a series of food articles for Taste of the Bay Magazine. One time... up against a deadline and completely blanking...I jammed out at article on food in the movies. Now looking back, half of the films I recommended had a seemy underbelly of crime laced through them. Go figure. Restaurants (it's no secret) are home to some pretty shady characters. Double dealings, vendor cheats, greasy kickbacks, gambling, drugs, casual violence...recently I tried to touch on this in my story Angel over on Tony Black's Pulp Pusher. But this crime/food connection is not a recent revelation for me. Way back when I was sixteen and weighing portions and slaughetering lobsters in a seafood restaurant, I actually had a conversation with a co-worker telling me he could arrange a beating for a guy who was giving me trouble. Talked about the foreign scallop boat fishermen who tore up the bars in Pt. Pleasant for a night or two and then split for sea, never to be heard from again. I think at the time the price was a hundred bucks, no questions asked--a lot of money for me back then. I passed.

Anyway, makes me hungry...now I just have to write a story about the two line cooks going after each other--one with a knife, the other with a crème brûlée torch. Or maybe the time when those two dingbats tried to steal the bar safe, broke some glasses and bled all over the dining room....or the time....

2009 NYC Food Film Festival Trailer from George Motz on Vimeo.

Why Do You Write: Thomas McGuane

"I wish I knew. I think maybe it was that my parents were readers. My father read a lot of adventurous, natural history books. And I think I associated writing with a sort of an adventurous life. That went away eventually. But I know for a boy that was a great attraction. And I come from an Irish family. My parents and my grandparents are all Irish and my great grandparents are all Irish immigrants. And that's sort of a linguistic tradition, especially comical linguistic tradition, but it's a very verbal household culture. And all of those things kind of turned me toward writing."

David is Satan: Fours

David Cranmer tagged me with this (shakes fist with Kirk-like rage)...Four Movies You Can See Over and Over: The Pope of Greenwich Village, Jaws, Goodfellas, Fletch; Four Places You Have Lived: Washington-DC, Maine, New Jersey, Pennsylvania; Four TV Shows You Love to Watch: Jackass, Cash Cab, SportCenter, The First 48; Four Places You Have Been on a Vacation: Venezuela, Baja-Mexico, New Zealand, Ireland; Four of Your Favorite Foods: Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup, Duck Confit, Thai Grilled Snapper, Jersey Mike's #6 Sub-w/the works; Four Websites You Visit Daily: New York Times, Asbury Park Press, The Rap Sheet, 7th Street Surf Shop Web Cam; Four Places You Would Rather Be: In the ocean-New Jersey, in the ocean Santa Cruz-California, in the ocean Kauai-Hawaii, Spring Lounge-New York City. Four Things You Hope to Do Before You Die: Publish a crime novel, teach my great-grandchildren how to pull pranks, see the NY Giants (in person) at the Super Bowl, surf the west coast of Ireland. Four Novels You Wish You Were Reading for the First Time: 92 in the Shade by Thomas McGuane, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, A Good Day to Die by Jim Harrison, The Death and Life of Bobby Z, Don Winslow. Four People You Believe Will Respond: and not totally hate me? yeah, right. (*sigh*) Sophie Littlefield, Tim Maleeny, Russel Mclean, Karen Olson.

What About Bob?

Last year an amateur fiction contest was announced by Crimespree Magazine called "American P.I.dol". Modeled after the television show, the contest was slated to be part of Bouchercon '08 in Baltimore. Required a 5K word story featuring a private investigator (active, retired, disgraced, etc.), and finalists had to endure a series of grillings in front of probably the toughest audience one could imagine: actual crime fiction fans and writers, all jacked on caffeine and looking for bloodsport. I never, ever, EVER wanted to do a p.i. story, but somehow something told me I could do well in this contest. I mean, what did I have to lose? My pride? Fuck that. Humiliation and me go way back...and finally I could put all those years in regional theater to good use. I wrote a story called "The Lifeguard Method", got some feedback from friends, and sent it in.

Anyway, the contest was cancelled. Lack of participation was the call. My hunch was the intimidation factor just leveled people. Sure, I was crushed, but then I received a letter from Robert Randisi asking if, as consolation prize, I'd be interested in a critique of my story. He said what I submitted showed a lot of promise. Weird sensation. Half bummed out, half elated...something along the lines of--wait, ROBERT RANDISI is writing ME a letter? Not an email. Not a "tweet", a goddamn letter?! Hell, yeah! Yeah! Sure! I mean, come on people! Do I really have to count the novels, the genres, the sheer books in print Randisi has produced? The guy founded the Private Eye Writers of America! Yes! Yes! A few weeks later I received Mr. Randisi's notes.

Then came Bouchercon. I did some volunteering and cornered Judy Bobalik. Kept asking-- have you seen Robert Randisi? Is he here? I wanted to thank him for his encouragement. Judy gave me a pat on the arm and rasped, "He's usually around here someplace. He kind of just shows up. Check the bar." A lot more asking amidst the swarms of newly met crime fiction fans and writers, but no Randisi. Hmph. Dang.

Fast forward a day or two. Hotel bar again. I meet, of all people, a historical mystery writer who lives a few miles down the road from me, Lucia St. Clair. I ask "Loosh" the same thing I've been asking everybody, have you seen Robert Randisi? She looks at me like I'm high or insane or both. "What do you mean? Bob? He's right over there." Talking with John freakin' Lutz as it turns out.

Oh. John Lutz. Really. No pressure, no pressure....

So, I finally introduced myself to Mr. Randisi, bumbling my words of gratitude for helping me out. And few days after the conference I sent the revised story to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, thinking...well, that's that.

January this year. A cold Tuesday. I found my cell phone after searching for it for days, wedged beneath my car seat. Checked my messages. The story, as it turns out, was accepted at Ellery Queen.

And now it's finally in print. I can't bear to look at it but, man, I am thrilled to the core. Got my advance copies in last night's mail. August issue, if you're interested.

Anyway... thanks, Bob.

Strong Female Leads:

Almost Wednesday and I'm pulling on my fanboy boots. Snug black bastards, but they really offset my blinding white legs. Cowl completes the ensemble.

Goddamn it. Warren Ellis = bloody genius. Just when you think you've glimpsed it all, a quick combination and your eyes are again bleeding tears. Lately he's been pumping out the strong female leads. Mary Raven is just smokin', but take a sip of his steampunk character, Anna Mercury. Kind of a superhero Lara Croft crossed with The Shadow. Plenty of rooftop jumping, rayguns, and vamping badass. And quite the vocabulary. Ah, man, cue the old school LL Cool J...Bigger and Deffer. I need love.

Monday Thought: 2 From Walker Percy

"We live in a deranged age, more deranged than usual, because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing."

"...Writers are in the front line of sensibility, like the canaries miners take down in the shafts to test the air. Also: writers are the "Protestants" of art, with nothing but their Scripto pencils and Blue-Horse tablets; painters are the "Catholics," with concrete intermediaries, clay, paint, models, fruit, landscape, etc. This is why writers drink more and painters live longer." - Walker Percy

Fascinating Firepower

I'd imagine this kind of takes the skill out of the equation.

Crimedogs Shooting the Shit

Victor Gischler and Anthony Neil Smith banter the merits of charcoal, tacos, and crime fiction over at Tony B's PULP PUSHER. Check it out.

Premises

Premises are everywhere. Case in point. Shopped for new sneakers yesterday and I pulled into a convenience store slash gas station shortly thereafter. Top off tank and walked inside to grab a bottle of water. Mousey rain coming down like a haze. Something out of the corner of my eye near the wall of beverages. Man, mid-forties, dressed in...wait. Medieval friar outfit? With dagger and Rosary lashed to his belt? Plucking out an energy drink? I did a double take. What the--? Oh. Oh yeah. I remembered that there was a Medieval Times theme restaurant adjacent to the mall. Wow. Sure, we've all seen the movies The Cable Guy and Garden State but, umm...take it from there....

Friday's Forgotten Books: THE CROSSING by Jim Flanagan

When I was in high school a teacher there, Dr. James Flanagan, wrote a novel published by Random House called THE CROSSING--a cruel tale of deep resentment and criminal abuse just below the thin veneer of New Jersey affluence. I recall a forced abortion, a dramatic chase on the Garden State Parkway, and a grim opening scene of a suicide in front of a train. The suicide was an actual event witnessed by the author and served as the inspiration for the novel.I can’t find this book. Every time I'm in a used book store's stacks I search and search...and it seems online used book cues aren't as up to date as they advertise. Apparently they made THE CROSSING into a quickly forgotten TV movie called "The Haunting of Sarah Hardesty". Of course they changed the location (no longer New Jersey) to Oregon and took some strong liberties with the plot. Hell, they threw most of it out the fucking window as expected in Hollywood adaptations. In high school Dr. Flanagan was the advisor for the school's literary magazine. At the time I was scrabbling out from beneath my older brother Jack’s brainy shadow. One of the keen memories for me of that time (other than nearly being expelled before graduation for a “misunderstanding” and other assorted parochial school humiliations—Christian Brothers for teachers, after all…) was when "Doc" Flanagan stopped my brother in the hall. I was on my way to class, lost in the adolescent cow-shuffle, and he shouted to Jack, “Hey, Shea! Your brother? That kid can write.” It was my first story, a brief piece of garbage called “Strange BLT” about a three foot talking rabbit in a purple tuxedo invading a railroad car diner just to fuck with the employees’ afternoon. But Doc Flanagan's comment to my brother fueled my fire, for better or worse….Teachers are important. Doc Flanagan, wherever you are, thanks. I think.

Flash Fiction Challenge #5

Ok, hopefully this will work. Below is my flash vignette for challenge #5.

Executive Action

“I mean, how many absolutely pure opportunities to fuck with someone’s head present themselves in this life, chief? She was asking for it.”

“Asking for it, huh?”

“Yep.”

“The girl you speak of is all of twenty-two.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being you’re fifteen years her senior, dickhead. Whatever happened to being decent? Whatever happened to doing the right thing?”

“Oh, please. The right thing. Stop being such a pussy.”

“People have feelings, you know. She’s a sweet kid.”

“Listen to yourself.”

“I am.”

“Sound like Dr. Phil. Like Oprah. When the bartender comes around again remind me to order you a white wiiiiiiine.”

“Fuck you.”

“Man, think about it. That girl should be thanking me. I gave her experience, insight, world wariness. The universe can sense this. The universe is on my side. I’m an educator. ”

“No, you’re heartless dickhead is what you are.”

“Okay, I’m a heartless educating dickhead then. But girls like that? They should know better. Hothouse flowers the lot of them, never had a hard lesson cross their pretty little paths, not once. All sunshine and lollipops.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You want evil, my friend? Real cruelty? How about mommy and daddy sending girls like that unprepared into the world with meat eaters like us stalking the perimeter?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Parents crippling them with indulgence, coddling. The named her Sydney for Christsakes. Sydney!”

“What’s wrong with Sydney?”

“Might as well hang a sign around her neck saying—please eat my soul.”

“So what happened? You dumped her. How’d you do it?”

“OK, OK. Get this. I did dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“You broke up with your smoking, hot twenty-two year old girlfriend doing dreams?”

“Let me explain. She’s been sleeping over my place fairly regular, right? Which is, like, the only option since she lives in a pathetic group house that’s like sleeping over at a sorority from hell. That is, like, over for me like a decade ago, all right?”

“Yeah. So your place, ye ol’ thunderdome of bachelorhood.”

“That’s right, you know it, fuck-o. Right ambiance, right view of the city, and put the young talent through their paces.”

“Remind me to kill you.”

“You’re just jealous. Truth was she wasn’t half bad on that front. Pretty much up for anything. Athletic but not scary athletic. Varisty tennis, some shit in college. Anyway, you’d think for an ordained minister and college president’s daughter she’d show some restraint. But, no.”

“Spare me.”

“I knew I couldn’t stand her anymore. That simpering dreamy look teetering right there on the edge of the three most God-awful words in the English language, knowing she was probably going to ask for a goddamn key one of these days or for me to go to her folks place for Thanksgiving or some shit. So she’s dead asleep and I bolt out of bed and start crying.”

“Crying?”

“Yeah. Crying like a little baby. Fake crying, but she can’t see that I’m faking because it’s all dark. She asks me what’s wrong—and I start freaking out like a total mental case. Jumping around, smashing things. I tell her this horrible dream I just had where we were burying a baby.”

“You told her what?”

“Burying a baby. You know… funeral, mourners, tiny casket, the whole nine yards. I said it was her baby.”

“That’s sick!”

“Isn’t it though? But, brilliant, my man. True classic. I kept working myself into a froth. Academy-award winning performance straight up, like Matt Damon Good Will Hunting crazy. Stormed into the bathroom and started whipping these prescription bottles across the bedroom, pills flying everywhere.”

“Wait, you’re on medication? You didn’t tell me that.”

“Dude! Hell, no! Just props. Scripts were full of breath mints. Altoids. She never even looked at the labels. I kept yelling out the names like I was chanting out the starting lineup. Batting first from Kansas City Archiballllllld Zoloft! Batting second from the University of Las Vegas Daaaaaviiiiid Cymbalta! But then I go real crazy. I pulled a gun.”

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Dude, it was totally fake! Another prop. Just a novelty piece of plastic Taiwanese I bought at a mall but in the darkness of a dimly lit bedroom, Venetian blinds slicing across my pecs like bars on the flag? I’m telling you, I was looking all serious gangsta. She was so scared I think she tinkled in the bed a bit.”

“Jesus….why did you do that?”

“What do you mean fucking why? I told you. She needed to stop being so gullible. Get some jade on her. I told her to leave and never-ever call or come near me again. Took off like a scared deer.”

“Christ….”

“Wow, you should’ve seen her face, man. Priceless. Like her wedding cake was in the middle of the road and I just mowed it down with a supercharged El Camino. Want another?”

“No.”

“Wait-- where’re you going?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Go? Got to go? We just got here, dog. Where do you got to be that’s so important?”

“Someplace else.”

Flash Fiction #5 WTF?

Damn. I had a piece up here this morning for Patti Abbott's Flash Fiction Challenge #5 but by some weird HTML comeuppance the vignette vanished. Totally mystified. Thing is, I don't even know if I still have a copy of the piece. Got to search the other laptop and that's at home and I'm at work. Just goes to show. We should have stayed in the cave and stopped with fire.

We Want to Get Loaded:Thuglit

6-9-09. Down on the edge of the Village, on the corner of W. Houston and Sullivan, go get tanked. So, it's a school night, what're ya, a puss? It's a nice respectable bar...full of nice respectable people. Maybe.

http://www.xrbar.net/

The new issue is here.

Hogdoggin' Headbutt: Operation Shifty Bastard 2

Right. I'm preaching to the friggin' choir here. Most people who even casually cruise this blog know about Doc Noir's new novel--HOGDOGGIN'. I've my copy and I've convinced a couple of people new to crime fiction to scoop up theirs. Now then. Book stores. The head-butt assault continues. Make a quick friend with someone at your local megastore who arranges the STAFF RECOMMENDS shelf. Tell them Hogdoggin' should be there. Bribe them with a latte or tell them their Dave Matthews Band t-shirt looks cool, tell them you'll even fill out the stupid, little card and maybe score them a little weed. Next, if the "S"s are way down near the bottom, slyly turn Neil's book to face out so people can see the achingly beautiful cover. Ok, maybe achingly beautiful are not the words I'm looking for (more like putrid flesh--but in a very cool way!). Get creative, grassrooters. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Go ahead and ask the good people at Gischler Corp. They'll vouch for me. Well maybe. I got laid off. Bastards.

Summer Reading: Get Graphic

"Richard "Junk" Junkin has always lived on the wrong side of trouble. A former pro football star whose career was cut short by injury (and a nasty gambling problem), Junk now spends his time dreaming of what might have been, selling cars in Jersey and lusting after the boss's unbelievably spoiled, unbelievably sexy and unbelievably rich daughter, Victoria. So when the boss asks him to be Victoria's personal bodyguard while she tears up the New York City club scene, Junk leaps at the chance. But before long, he's finds that Victoria wants a lapdog and not a chaperone, someone who's going to do all of her dirty work—all of it—someone who wants to get filthy rich…From Brian Azzarello, the multiple Eisner Award-winning writer of Vertigo's long-running crime series 100 BULLETS and the smash-hit graphic novel, JOKER, and artist Victor Santos, the creator/writer/artist of the hit French series Young Ronin."

I've been waiting for this for almost a year, since I saw some advance panels at B'con during the comics and crime discussion. This killer graphic novel hits the stores in August. That's right about the time when those addicted to Azzarello's 100 BULLETS will be in the psychotic phase of their cold turkey (it concluded this Spring) and ready to eat through a baby's head for some fresh material. Pre-order or get in line, chump.

Why Read

And now, your moment of Hank....“I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it. We must search for fragments, splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and the soul.” - Henry Rollins