Here Kitty Kitty

I think it’s important to start off by saying this didn’t happen in Florida. Wisconsin either has really cool cat toys or is in serious need of some gun safety training.

A 19-year-old named Jashanti (common spelling) in Kenosha, Wisconsin decided to use the laser sight fixed to the frame of a 9mm handgun as a cat toy. A 21-year-old man, we’ll call him Lucky, the guy who brought the weapon to the apartment, and was subsequently shot by Jashanti told police he thought he had removed the magazine before leaving it unsecured in Jashanti’s apartment. The report also mentioned that Lucky was violating terms of his bond while he was in possession of the gun if that tells you anything about what depth of the gene pool we’re in here.

So, we’ve got Jashanti, a woman so lacking in common sense or for that matter basic intelligence that she saw a gun with a laser sight and immediately thought of her cat. And Lucky, a 21-year-old criminal (alleged) who A-can’t clear his own illegally possessed weapon, and B- doesn’t recognize how bad an idea Jashanti is following through with until he takes a round through the leg.

My biggest question in reading this story is what’s the cat thinking this whole time? Do you think he fell for it and started chasing the light? Or did he just give Jashanti that look all cats have? That, I can’t wait till you die so I can eat you look. In my mind I see this cat, a dude named Mittens, sitting off to the side, bored. He’s licking a paw while this moron, I’m guessing the kind of girl you see roaming around Walmart at 1am wearing pajama pants (cat themed), fuzzy slippers, and a wife beater, dancing around the apartment, waving the gun around, to make the laser dance in front of him. Mittens narrows his eyes, insulted by the fact he depends on this woman for food. Then…

BAM!

Mittens watches as Lucky, whose existence Mittens has refused to acknowledge until now is bleeding and rolling around on the floor. In fact, he is bleeding really close to Mitten’s climbing tower which is the only reason Mittens is vaguely interested in him. Because if the fool messes up his cat tower he dies. Mittens watches the man start to cry while gripping his leg. His worthless owner drops the gun to the floor and starts running in place while she screams so loud Mittens wishes he had big enough paws to pick up the gun and finish them both off.

Disgusted with every human in the room Mittens turns his back on them and strolls over to hide patiently behind the curtain next to the front door. Next time that thing opens I’m out, he tells himself. Rather take my chances out there than spend one more minute with these mouth breathers.

Mittens seems like a smart guy.

Don’t forget to lock the slide back kids.

Reference:

https://www.kenoshanews.com/news/local/crime-and-courts/teen-charged-after-accidental-shooting-allegedly-trying-to-get-cat-to-chase-guns-laser-sight/article_6c979d0c-4926-54af-84bb-545652534f4e.html

Don’t forget to check out my new release Aqcuisitor, the second in my Jackson Cole Series.

Detective Miles Otis pointed, “That’s an arm…”

Detective Jackson Cole sighed, “Yeah.”

Otis studied the random severed limb for moment, “You ever miss the good old days, dope and drive bys…?”

You catch one strange case and suddenly they call you the Freak Police behind your back. If the case is even remotely weird Cole and Otis get the call. Now they find themselves in a vacant lot staring at a forearm.

Fingerprints give them a name. Hardnosed police work generates a suspect. She’s a witch, so was the guy who’s forearm sits in a cooler at the coroner’s office. The witch says a hellhound killed her friend. And its hunting the homeless of Charleston.

Witches, magic, and a…hellhound?

Any other two detectives would laugh at a story like that. But Cole and Otis have faced the supernatural before. It almost killed them.

There’s a reason they call them Freak Police.

But can they face the darkness again?

Food Fight

What is the dumbest thing in the world to get arrested for? Mutual Pasta Battery

What is the dumbest thing in the world to get arrested for? Mutual Pasta Battery.

I didn’t make that up.

First off, thank you again Florida, you guys really know how to do it down there. A couple in Clearwater, Florida were arrested on August 2nd when officers responded to a domestic violence call around one o’clock in the morning. When officers arrived on scene, they found Stephanie Lannas and her boyfriend Adolfo Rivera covered in Spaghetti sauce. The couple appear to have decided to have a late night (or early morning) spaghetti dinner. Somehow the conversation, or maybe the food, took a turn for the worse and an argument turned physical when they engaged in mutual combat wielding plates of spaghetti.

This is no way a true rendering of how or why this incident occurred, but this is how I hope it happened.

You probably don’t know this but there is a long running debate in America on whether Spaghetti sauce is a sauce or a gravy. I’m not kidding.

Gravy is defined as, “A sauce made from cooked meat juices together with stock and other ingredients.”

Sauce is defined as, “thick liquid served with food, usually savory dishes, to add moistness and flavor.”

Researching this nonsense, I found out that the debate is quite the big deal in some Italian American circles. So, When I read this article my first impression, after saying to myself, What the hell? Then seeing this happened in Florida being like, oh, I get it. Then, after all that, I had to guess that this is what happened.

Since I’m completely making this next part up, I’m changing the names of the accused to something a little more…fictional.

Samantha and Al didn’t close down the bar like they usually did every Monday night (the 2nd was a Monday-these two obviously know how to party). Al was hungry. Starving in fact. But he didn’t want something easy like Waffle House. He wanted spaghetti and meatballs, and he wanted the spaghetti and meatballs that was in the fridge at home. Because Sam made it and her sauce was the best. The pasta, seasoned meatballs, and sauce/gravy (?) called to him so he convinced Samantha to bail before last call so they could eat.

By the time they got home Al had complained so much about being hungry that Samantha was starving too. They warmed the leftovers in the microwave and Al made them each a plate. Samantha noticed when he served her that he had a bigger helping than she did, but she let it go because there was more in the fridge. She took a stab and rolled the pasta around her fork then took a bite. It was a little dry from the fridge and being re-heated. That’s an easy fix, she thought.

“Hey Bae, can you pass the gravy?”

Al stopped eating and looked at her. Through a mouthful of noodles and a bite of meatball he asked, “Why do you want gravy for spaghetti and meatballs?” Gross, he thought.

Samantha scoffed, “What else would I put on spaghetti?” she pointed at the big bowl of spaghetti sauce/gravy(?) sitting next to him, “come on I can’t reach,”

Al checked out the bowl of spaghetti gravy/sauce (?), “You mean spaghetti sauce?”

Samantha sighed, “Oh no, you’re one of them,”

“One of what?”

Samantha put her fork down and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, “Spaghetti is a pasta which is covered by a red gravy for flavor and taste,”

Al is confused, “Spaghetti is covered in spaghetti sauce. It’s in the name, s-p-a-g-h-e-t-t-I s-a-u-c-e,” he over enunciated the words.

Samantha slammed her hand on the table so hard he thought she might have broken a nail, “Tell that to my grandma! She cooked the gravy for us every week since I was a little girl! Every Sunday we eat spaghetti, with the gravy she spent all week cooking!” Samantha stood, towering over him, “Spaghetti is covered with gravy, not a sauce!”

No one talks to Al like that, no one! He jumped to his feet, getting right back in her face, “It says spaghetti sauce on the goddamned label!” he screamed.

Samantha’s eyes flared. She yanked her plate from the table and smashed the spaghetti and meatballs in his face. Al’s favorite Affliction t-shirt an acid washed jeans, destroyed. Pasta was worming its way into his nose and the ‘gravy’ burned his eyes as Samantha gound the plate around his nose, “That taste like a sauce to you! Gravy is a liquid made from cooking meat juices and other seasonings! There’s ground beef in this bitch!”

Al groped blindly at the table before latching onto his plate. He whacked the plate and its contents across the side of her head lodging some ground beef in Samantha’s ear. The attack completely destroyed her make-up and more ground beef got stuck in her hair.

“Ahh!” she squealed as a warm plop of gravy/sauce(?) landing on her toed slip ons, “How could you?” she screamed.

The doorbell rang before Al could show her what she did to his shirt.

“Clearwater Police! Open up!”

“Oh shit,” says Al.

Samantha waved her hand in a flourish, “See, now look what you did!”

“Police! Open the door!” this time the voice was louder.

The two of them tracked red sauce/gravy(?) across the living room carpet and opened the door as one.

Two cops stood to either side of the front door. The one to the lefts jaw fell to the floor. The one to the right started laughing.

“Something wrong officers?” asked Al.

The cop on the left recovered before the one on the right, “Your neighbors reported sounds of a struggle coming from your residence,” he lets the accusation hang in the air for a moment as he watches pasta and tomato fall from Al’s chin.

Samantha tried a ‘get out of a ticket’ smile and batted her eyes through a face full of food, “Officer, do you know the difference between sauce and gravy?”

The cop on the right is stumped, “What?”

The one on the left’s name plate reads ‘Spinelli’,

“No,” he answered.

Samantha takes in a deep breath, her eyes growing wide.

Spinelli, put a hand up, trapping the pregnant tirade in her lungs, “No one cares about spaghetti sauce, both of you turn and put your hands behind your backs,”

Al and Samantha comply meekly. As the cuffs go on Al speaks over his shoulder, “You guys think I could get a towel before we go?”

Samantha hissed, “Shut up Al. You’ve done enough,”

Al looked at her, defeat clear across his red smeared face, “You guys gonna make me ride with her to the station?”

Reference:

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/documents/stupid/spaghetti-battery-629538

“Twenty Bucks Says…”

I’ve never done meth but the look on this guy’s face is exactly what I would expect once he realized what he had tweaked himself into.

According to the Smoking Gun referenced below, Mr. Kelly, Doug to his friends, called the Putnam County Sheriff’s Office, Florida (of course) because he thought his methamphetamine dealer, lets call him Kevin, sold him some bad shit. He called the cops after having a bad reaction to his score and wanted his stash tested to make sure it wasn’t something dangerous…that’s something more dangerous than methamphetamines… Kelly is forty-nine years old. At his age, a strong cup of coffee could make his heart explode…

I doubt this is in any way how the real story went down but if it were me; this is how I would want to tell it once we started sharing war stories at the bar.

Detectives Penhall and Hanson (Names changed to protect the innocent) were in the office cleaning up some reports when the phone rang. Penhall picked it up,

“Narcotics, Penhall?” the call was from dispatch. Penhall listened for almost thirty seconds before laughing, “Oh absolutely put him through,” He picked up a paper clip and threw it at Hanson.

Hanson looked up about to say, “What the fuck?” but Penhall had his index finger to his lips.

Penhall put the desk phone on speaker, “This is Detective Doug Penhall, how can I help you?”

The caller’s breath was clipped and heavy in the phone, “Uhh, yeah, uhh, can you guys help me? I’m not feelin too good, I think my guy screwed me,”

“What do you mean Sir?”

“I bought some crank from him last week, I think he gave me some bad shit, Flacca maybe. My freakin heart is beating like crazy,”

Penhall bounces his eyebrows toward Hanson who immediately threw crossed forearms over his chest. Penhall’s eyebrows scrunched as he put the guy on mute, “What?”

Hanson jabbed his finger at the phone, “Twenty bucks says you can’t talk that guy into bringing his shit to us,” he slid back in his chair to relish in the challenge.

“Fifty says I can,” Penhall shot back, grinning. He took the phone off mute, “That’s not good Sir, that Flacca is nothing to mess with. How much have you done?”

“Umm, only one quick hit. I knew it was off, now I can’t freaking keep my hands from shaking,”

“How much you got left?”

“Couple ounces,”

“It’s a good thing you called; we’ve been having trouble with some bad reactions lately. You should really get that stuff checked out. I got a test right here. I don’t mind doing it, better safe than sorry,”

The caller sighed, “That’d be real cool of you man,”

“Yeah, I’m right downtown, you know how to get here?”

“I do,” the caller sounded excited to answer the question correctly.

“Great, what’s your name so I can come down and meet you,”

The caller paused, “Uh, well, I don’t know if I should give you my name,”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m talking about drugs with you…um,”

Hanson was grinning, flapping his hands together like he was making it rain.

Penhall shot him the finger.

“Oh that,” he said, “Don’t worry about that I don’t need your name, just ask for me when you get here,”

Another pause, “Uh-okay,”

“Ok, you good to drive?”

“My mom said she’d drive me,” Penhall had to gulp air to keep from losing it, “That’s a great lady right there, Sir,”

“She is,”

“Ok, you on your way,”

“Be there in a little while,”

When the line went dead Penhall stood and took a bow before holding out his waiting hand palm up.

“He’s not here yet,” warned Hanson.

“Money in the bank,” said Penhall.

“You really think some dipshit, even that one, or his mom is going to deliver us a couple of ounces of meth?”

Penhall interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, “I do, he will,” he said confidently.

“Better be good for it,”

They had paperwork to finish but all the expectant, and or suspicious, cops did for the next twenty-five minutes was watch the cheap clock hanging over the door to the squad bay. When the phone rang Hanson leaped at it, but Penhall was faster, “Just not your day bro,” he quipped, “this is Penhall,” he listened, “Yeah Sarge, I’ll be right down,” Penhall hung up the phone then spun gracefully in his chair to face his partner, “You need to stop at the ATM on the way down?” he asked.

Hanson was smiling now too, “Let’s see what we got,”

In the lobby of the Sheriff’s Office Penhall and Hanson found a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and shifty feet looking around like a prairie dog popping out of his hole to check for hawks.

“He’s gonna bolt,” said Hanson.

“He still brought it,”

“Deals not done until it’s in your hands,”

“Deals done,” Penhall smiled broadly, “Sir, you the one that needed our help?” he asked.

“You Penhall,” the guy’s pupils were big as saucers and his eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives like he was watching the fastest ping pong game in history.

“I am, lets go back and see if we can’t figure out what you’ve got,”

Penhall started leading the man back to the office.

“Where’s mom?” asked Hanson drawing a low growl from his partner.

The guy looked at him suspiciously.

Too late for second thoughts now, numnuts, Hanson kept that comment to himself.

“Waiting in the car,” he finally said.

“Smart, I’m Tom,” Hanson stuck out his hand.

Eyes darted again, “Doug,”

The two shook hands and left the lobby for the Narcotics Unit office space. Once inside Penhall motioned for Doug to take a seat. Hanson went to his go-bag and pulled out a box of methamphetamine field kits. Doug watched them closely as he withdrew a crumpled-up wad of tin foil from his pants. He handed it to Penhall and Hanson realized he was fifty bucks poorer, but also extremely entertained. Penhall stared at his partner as he placed the foil on the desk in front of him,

“Detective Hanson will do the honors,” Penhall held an odd, Joker-esque, sneer as he spoke.

Hanson opened the foil to reveal a clear plastic bag with a little less than a cup of white powder. He took a tiny sample and dropped it in the plastic test pouch. One by one he broke three glass ampules releasing chemicals to mix with the dope. The contents of the pouch turned blue as the liquid reacted with the Amines present in the meth.

Penhall couldn’t resist, “It’s a boy,” he cheered.

“Its not Flacca?” asked Doug.

“No, it’s a felony,”

Doug blinked, “A what?” he asked, a tone of sobriety calming his features,”

Hanson pulled his cuffs from his back pocket, and held them out to Doug, “It’s a felony Doug, better call your mom, turns out you’re not going to need a ride home,”

“Fffuuu…” he stuttered.

“Yep,” answered Penhall, smiling as Hanson slid a fifty across his waiting palm.

Reference:

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/buster/dumbass/man-seeks-meth-test-563914

Writing so Hard I had to Sit Down


So I write in the morning before my day job. I drop the wee one off at day care, try not to cry, and head to my office. I leave the light off so it’s just me and the screen for about forty-five minutes. I started my newest novel, untitled, the other day. So far we’ve got a broken down former Army Ranger caught up in an ethnic cleansing where a cabal of demon possessed humans are trying to wipe out all the remaining fae-folk on Earth, or realm as we call it.

Anyway I was writing a scene this morning where my Ranger buddy wakes up to find himself face to face with a cybernetic ‘interrogator.’ It’s kind of a black, scorpion looking thing that’s half underworld beastie and half robot that is used to infiltrate the nervous system of a prisoner and make them docile for simpler information retrieval. This thing is strong, it’s ugly, and it is not the kind of thing you want to meet immediately upon being jolted awake from a drunken stupor. As you can imagine the scene is pretty dynamic with my guy battling this thing as it wraps itself around his arm and tries to get at his brain stem. No spoilers but the scene ends with him bashing the thing against a stone fireplace until he shatters its carapace and takes a bath in yellow goo. He’s exhausted, and gross, and to add to that he’s hungover but still has that feeling you get when you wake up right before you hit the ground in a dream. You know kind of fidgety and weak like you just got done going five rounds with Randy Couture. That was where I had to leave it since it was time to start the job that actually pays me. I shut my computer down and put it away and started my morning ritual. Like most people, my morning ritual starts with coffee. I go through the motions setting up the coffee pot, cleaning out the basket that I forgot to clean yesterday and start organizing myself when I notice my legs feel a little jiggly. My arms also have that kind of tense feel you get at the end of a good heavy bag workout.


Weird, where did that came from? The most strenuous thing I had done so far in the morning was wrestle with my fifteen month old to change his diaper and get his clothes on (the little guy is a fighter in the morning…red head, go figure). It’s a strange feeling but I remember what people say about visualization techniques and dream states. How the body reacts to the events in your brain even if you’re not moving. I was intrigued, I’m still intrigued, so I did a little research.


I found an article in Psychology Today titled, “Seeing is Believing: The Power of Visualization,” by AJ Adams. The article cited a study that compared muscle gain in two groups of weightlifters. One group worked out at the gym, the other conducted mental rehearsal, visualizing themselves lifting rather than physically doing it. Here is a quote from the article:


“A study looking at brain patterns in weightlifters found that the patterns activated when a weightlifter lifted hundreds of pounds were similarly activated when they only imagined lifting. In some cases, research has revealed that mental practices are almost effective as true physical practice, and that doing both is more effective than either alone. For instance, in his study on everyday people, Guang Yue, an exercise psychologist from Cleveland Clinic Foundation in Ohio, compared “people who went to the gym with people who carried out virtual workouts in their heads”. He found that a 30% muscle increase in the group who went to the gym. However, the group of participants who conducted mental exercises of the weight training increased muscle strength by almost half as much (13.5%). This average remained for 3 months following the mental training.” https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/flourish/200912/seeing-is-believing-the-power-visualization


The article also went on to explain that visualization is a common practice among elite athletes, Olympians, and the like.


Interesting. I found a few more references alluding to the effect mental training has on the physical body but that article explained it the best. So, Was I in the zone, so focused that the story in my head was translating to my physical body? That hasn’t happened before that I have noticed. It was an interesting thing that happened this morning. Thought I would share.


What do you think? Writing so hard I had to sit down? Or am I reading into things and I need to hit the gym more since making coffee appears to tire me out?

Don’t forget to check out my work on Amazon or at any bookstore. My newest novel, Where Angels Sing is on sale now.


Ungentlemanly Warfare, Yup that’s a Real Term

Quite possibly one of the longest titles in history: “Churchill’s Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare: The Mavericks who Plotted Hitler’s Defeat,” was also one of the most fun books I’ve read in the last five or six years. Giles Milton managed to find and capture an aspect of World War II that I had never heard of, and I am a history buff.

In 1940 the Nazi’s were taking over Europe. Winston Churchill had just taken over in Britain and was pretty much the last man standing up to Germany. He recognized Britain was on Germany’s hit list and wanted a plan in place to resist once the Nazi’s invaded Britain.

Hence the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare.

“Churchill’s Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” details how a secret ministry of sabotage started from scratch and became and industry unto itself. Milton does a great job of capturing the cultural, genuinely British, conflicts that were a constant between the regular military and Section D of the Secret Intelligence Service. The idea of saboteurs and assassins did not sit well with the right kind of English gentlemen. On the flip side Section D argued that dropping a hundred bombs on a target might accomplish the mission. But a group of highly trained and motivated saboteurs could guarantee a surgical strike at a fraction of the cost or the collateral damage bombs dropped from 30,000 feet apt to cause.

The book follows Colin Gubbins, who stood up and made Section D into a powerhouse. Gubbins created a factory for explosives, specifically designed for devious small unit raids. He organized a kill school run by two old British ex-pats tossed aside by the establishment when they came home to fight for Britain. And he inspired a world-wide intelligence network that facilitated acts of sabotage from a vital hydro-facility in Norway to an ancient aqueduct in Greece used to supply Rommel’s tanks in Africa. Not only does Milton take you through each of these adventures but he does it by capturing the wild spectrum of men and women who fought the secret war. Professional adventures, engineers, secretaries, and even a conscientious objector turned operative made Section D what it was. Of note among Section D and its saboteurs, Milton does a particular service to the contributions and the sacrifices women made to ungentlemanly war.

If you are a history buff and want to read about an important but forgotten part of World War II give Giles Milton’s “Churchill’s Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare” a serious look.

Here is the back-cover blurb:

“Six gentlemen, one goal: the destruction of Hitler’s war machine

In the spring of 1939, a top-secret organization was founded in London: its purpose was to plot the destruction of Hitler’s war machine through spectacular acts of sabotage.

The guerrilla campaign that followed was every bit as extraordinary as the six men who directed it. One of them, Cecil Clarke, was a maverick engineer who had spent the 1930s inventing futuristic caravans. Now, his talents were put to more devious use: he built the dirty bomb used to assassinate Hitler’s favorite, Reinhard Heydrich. Another, William Fairbairn, was a portly pensioner with an unusual passion: he was the world’s leading expert in silent killing, hired to train the guerrillas being parachuted behind enemy lines. Led by dapper Scotsman Colin Gubbins, these men―along with three others―formed a secret inner circle that, aided by a group of formidable ladies, single-handedly changed the course Second World War: a cohort hand-picked by Winston Churchill, whom he called his Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare.

Giles Milton’s Churchill’s Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare is a gripping and vivid narrative of adventure and derring-do that is also, perhaps, the last great untold story of the Second World War.”

Don’t forget to check out my work on Amazon or any other bookstore. My newest novel Where Angels Sing is on sale now.