Miss Havana Strikes Again

Interviewer: Today we welcome Miss Havana, the lead character in The Substitute; Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana!, The Training Bra and The Trophy Wife. It’s good to have you here Miss Havana.

MH: I’m sure it is. By the way, who dyes your roots? They look great. I can hardly see any grey at all.

Interviewer: Ah … this interview is about you, Miss Havana, not me. Tell me, do you get killed in your new novel like you do in all the others?

MH: You know, that’s a hard question to answer. I mean, my daughter, Lilith, did overdose me on chloroform … that came pretty close … except the Most High weighed in and saved me. I’m not sure if I’ll be killed off permanently during the edit cycle or not. Those editors can be brutal.

Interviewer: I see you have dyed your hair too. Aren’t you normally blonde?

MH: That’s a viscous rumor. I’m only blonde when my host is blonde. That’s the thing about spirits—it’s hard to wrap your hands around something that isn’t really there. As The Trophy Wife, my host is Cuban. She’s a knockout with beautiful ebony hair. I try to do her justice … you know, by not acting too blonde.

Interviewer: So you are The Trophy Wife. Based on your other books, I’m a little surprised by that. Whose trophy are you, anyway?

MH: Well, what a lame question. God’s of course. We have a child together too, but that wasn’t very satisfying, considering the whole Immaculate Conception thing and all. It’s not just me. He said Mary wasn’t all that satisfied either.

Interviewer: You had a child with God? How is that possible? Wasn’t your last mate Lucifer? Isn’t Lilith your daughter with him?

MH: I see … you are not a believer. Anything is possible with God.

Interviewer: No, no … that’s not what I meant. I mean … how could … He … consider you … a trophy?

MH: Now see here, a lesser person might take that line of questioning personally, but the answer to your question is simple. He likes me. I’m pretty.

Interviewer: You’re pretty. That’s it? That seems a little shallow.

MH: Well, there are those other things. I did stop the rise of the Antichrist in The Substitute … and I became the Angel of Death in Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! … and I prevented the apocalypse in The Training Bra when I broke up the horsemen. Those guys and girl don’t like each other anyway. They don’t like Lucifer either. Come to think of it, they didn’t like me much, if you can believe it. Although interfering with those events really got under Lucifer’s skin, God apparently appreciated my effort, even if most everything was an accident.

Interviewer: So God … does He love you?

MH (batting her hand across her face like chasing away a gnat): Oh, you are primitive, aren’t you? Of course He loves me—He loves everyone. The problem really wasn’t God’s love, but the issues associated with showing up pregnant. My sterile husband became suspicious right away.

Interviewer (flipping pages of notes): Oh, that had to be bad. It says here you are married to Samuel Jackson. The actor?

MH (looking disgusted): That Samuel Jackson is a liberal; my husband is a conservative. No one gets them confused … except possibly you. Yes, I would say the experience of showing up pregnant could have gone better. I suspect Joseph had the same issues, but hey, that was a long time ago.

Interviewer: Can you tell us a little about your new baby?

MH: You mean, Angel. Oh, she was a very sweet girl … while she lived. I have to talk to the author about that. He keeps killing off people I get close to. That just doesn’t seem right.

Interviewer: He killed your child? What kind of rat would do such a thing?

MH (nodding agreement): You’re right. Nailing her to the side of a barn seemed a little extreme, even to me. On the up side, he did replace her with two little girls Jackson and I adopted, fraternal twins we named Lily and Angel. They are the stars of the next novel, Sisters.

Interviewer: Will your children continue the battle between good and evil like you have … since the beginning of time?

MH: You must mean my brief stint as Eve. Yes, those were good times, but that’s the topic of another novel still being formulated. I think it might be called, In the Beginning.

Interviewer: We’re just about out of time, Miss Havana. Thank you for stopping by today.

MH: My pleasure. And, for those who wish to stay just a bit longer, I’ve provided an excerpt below from The Trophy Wife. The scene takes place when my daughter, Lilith, who inhabits the body of Lily, and her rotten boyfriend, Fred, Jr., who is haunted by Lucifer’s right-hand shadow creature, Waldo, attack me with caramel sauce and feathers. Of course, I strike back later, and the cycle of attacks just get worse and worse until someone dies. Isn’t that how it always works?

--------------------------

 

They laid in wait for almost forty-five minutes before they saw Miss Havana walking toward the garbage bin with her evening trash. They had pre-positioned their supplies, and the moment Miss Havana stepped into the dumpster enclosure with her trash, Fred Jr. sprinted to the gate and locked it from the outside with the chain and padlock. Miss Havana heard the chain rattle and turned to look. “Hello. Is someone there?”

Snickering came from outside the fence, and then the deluge began. Two focused beams of caramel sauce rained down on her from out of nowhere. She screeched and tried to cover her hair with her hands, but to no avail. The sauce kept coming … and coming … and coming. And when the downpour stopped, it rained feathers.

She could hear receding laughter, a man and a woman, before she heard screeching tires … and then nothing but silence. She spit feathers from her mouth and grumbled low, “It had to be Lily. That bitch!”

When she tried to leave she realized she was locked in. She had left her cell phone in the apartment, and began to shake from both anger and cold. The stench of rotting garbage made her want to gag. She slipped to a sitting position in one corner and looked into the dark celestial dome toward the stars. “Oh, God, please help me. This girl is driving me crazy. Remember the angel I asked for? I could sure use that now. Are you out there?”

She bowed her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. At first her sobs came softly, and then they grew louder. She cried like she had never cried in her entire life. Her tears flowed like an open hydrant. She felt alone, despondent and helpless, and began thinking of Sister Elizabeth’s words, “You can always work at Saint Mark’s.”

She took a deep breath. Yes, she did have options. Maybe she should consider them.

Just then she heard Jackson’s voice. “Miss Havana? Are you in there? Hello?”

“Jackson? It’s me,” she yelled. “I’m locked inside this damn fence. You don’t have any bolt cutters with you, do you?”

She heard a loud thump followed by some scraping sounds, and then Jackson’s smiling face appeared at the top of the fence. “Evening, Ma’am. Can I be of assistance?”

She looked up without standing. “That’s a fool question, Jackson. Get me out of here.”

“Okay, give me a minute.”

She heard the chain rattle again, followed by, “Hum, it’s chained up pretty tight. I’ve got to go to my car.” She heard him snicker before saying, “Stay where you are. Don’t leave.”

She put her head in her hands. “Oh, my God. I need rescuing, not a comedian.”

In a few minutes Jackson returned. She heard the high-pitched whine of a battery-operated power tool, and could see sparks flying through a small slit in the fence. It looked like Jackson was playing with a Fourth of July sparkler out there. In another few moments the equipment went silent and Jackson popped open the gate. “Hello. I heard someone in here needed the fire department. Is that right?”

With her head held low, Miss Havana slinked out of the enclosure. Feathers covered her from head to foot. Jackson shook his head. “My goodness, Ma’am, looks like you plum been run outta town.”

“Very funny,” she said dryly. “I don’t know whether to hug you or slap you.”

Jackson took a step back. “You could use a shower … then I could use a hug.”

The hot shower never felt better. Miss Havana scrubbed the feathers and caramel sauce while Jackson kept reaching in to remove the feathers clogging the drain. It was a two-person operation he enjoyed, especially the view from where he sat. He thought it best to wait until she completely cleaned herself before questioning her. She didn’t seem too receptive at the moment.

About thirty minutes later she turned off the water and glanced down at Jackson. “Towel, please.”

He handed one in. “Ah, heck. Looks like the show is over.”

She asked the question foremost on her mind when she stepped out. “Why are you here, Jackson? I thought you were on duty tonight.”

He grinned. “Terry owed me a favor. I asked him to fill in for me so I could ask you out for dinner. Are you up for that … or do you just want to ‘stick’ with what you’re doing?”

He thought the comment was clever, but she just glared before her face softened. “More than anything, I want to be held. Are you up for that?”

“Sure, but I’ll owe Terry big time if I’m not back in two hours.”

“Terry’s a big boy,” she said as she let her towel drop and began dragging him toward her bedroom. “He can handle it.”

-----------------------

Thanks for reading!

James L. Hatch

amazon.com/author/jameshatch

Christmas in October

A message from Penny Estelle:

The holidays will be here before we know it!  If you’re like me, you have at least one person who already has EVERYTHING!  Not to mention your sons, daughters, or nieces and nephews – who have so many computer games and toys, you trip over them when you walk into their bedrooms?

Instead of one more toy that will be forgotten by January, or spending money on a gift someone MIGHT like, why not go for something different. A gift that sparks a child’s imagination or allows your friends to relax and lose themselves in a world of humor, romance, mystery or fantasy – a book!

We just might have the solution and the good news is you just might get them for free!

During the month of October we have over 40 authors to showcase their book covers with a short blurb and a give away.  Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, for the entire month, different authors will show you what they have to offer! 

How does this help you?  Simple.  All you need to do is add a comment at http://pennyestelle.blogspot.com.  The more you comment, the more chances to win.  On November 1, you might get an email stating you are the lucky winner of the big jackpot!  There will also be other prizes!

Keep watching – more info will be coming the entire month of September!

 A Message from Me: My side-splitting paranormal comedy, The Substitute, will be given away on Oct 3! Don't miss the chance to get this great novel for free!  

Review: The Long Shooters by Daniel C. Chamberlain

From beginning to end, The Long Shooters is an incredible five-star read. The dialog got me hooked; the story kept me enthralled. This book so involved me I was genuinely sorry when my journey through its pages came to an end. I have never fancied myself a fan of westerns, but The Long Shooters is much more than a western. It is an intriguing mystery novel set in a western venue at a time during and shortly after the Civil War. It is also a novel that penetrates the thoughts and feelings of highly-skilled assassins of the time – perhaps of any time.

An excerpt posted by Mr. Chamberlain led me to request the book for review. Even in that short posting, the dialog pulled me in. It was so riveting I couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of the book would be that good. It was, and the book is impeccably edited as well. I love to read stories that are put together with such extraordinary care. The story dragged me into the era and kept me involved, almost to the exclusion of everything else. That’s what I hope to find when I read for pleasure, and this book delivered in spades.

In 1877, Shaw, a former Captain in the Union army and accomplished long-range rifleman, is hired to protect a mining claim. He does so with deadly force, killing a would-be claim jumper with a shot from across the valley. But Shaw is more than a hired gun. He is ethical, honorable and ensures his brand of righteous justice is only brought to bear in cases where the law can’t or won’t get involved. Thus it is that Shaw agrees to pursue the killer of Samuel Roark’s only son in 1878.

Samuel descends into deep depression after his son’s murder, and wants only one thing more than his own death – to be the one to kill the person who took his son’s life. As Mr. Chamberlain describes it, “Samuel was at the initial stages of something known as a death run. Not a physical death per se, but certainly an emotional one… A man like that may not commit the physical act of suicide, but he wouldn’t lift a finger to go on living either.”

Like peeling a delicious onion, the story reveals layer after layer of deception as Shaw follows subtle leads to find the man who did the killing … and all others involved as well. It is a masterful tale of suspense, punctuated with an exquisite knowledge of the weaponry and events of the time. The Long Shooters also intertwines a moving love story. In his depression, Samuel pushes his beautiful young wife, Sarah, so far away emotionally as to destroy the love they once shared. Sarah is attracted to Shaw because of his strong an upright character, but repelled by him because of the violence he represents. The dilemmas Sarah faces are as real as the story is fascinating.

Early clues indicate Samuel’s son was killed by another long shooter, a dangerous man named Ballou, and after Ballou kills Samuel in showdown in the mountains west of Denver, Shaw and Sarah are directly in his sights. Ballou is one of the most well-known and feared assassins in the world and the interplay of wits and skill between Shaw and Ballou play out as the story builds to a breathtaking conclusion.

I will not disclose how Sarah, a vibrant young woman locked in a dead marriage, deals with her longings for Shaw, or how the confrontation between Shaw and Ballou ends. I will only say this: you will not expect the outcome; the plot is far too complex. What I can say, without the slightest reservation, is that the characters will move you, the dialog is realistic and you will truly enjoy the intricate way clues are presented, almost subliminally. In my opinion, you will love everything about this book. I certainly did.

Reviewed by James L. Hatch, author of The Substitute

What the Hell? When is the Devil’s Torment Too Much?

I recently finished the third novel in my (dark) comedy series consisting of The Substitute, Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! and The Training Bra. I have been through a few self-editing passes on The Training Bra—and received one disturbing comment from a female beta reader—but I have not sent the book to a publisher as yet. The disturbing comment troubles me, and I wish to pursue it in this blog. I need some opinions on the following question: if a novel is based in hell, can a writer go too far in describing the despicable conditions encountered there?

First a little background. All three novels are chock full of comedy/parody and they have no relationship to anything or anyone real. Heaven and hell, as presented in the books, are figments of my imagination and nothing else. The three books follow the lives and deaths of one main character, Miss Havana, through her spiritual growth from being absolutely evil to being somewhat tolerable. She makes lots of mistakes, but generally pulls out a redeeming quality when she needs one. The characters that surround my heroine are primarily the devil, Lucifer, the daughter of the devil and Miss Havana, Lilith, and a couple of brute-like shadow creatures named Waldo and Croco. Many less important characters populate the stories, but those just mentioned are the main ones.

Although comically presented, hell is described in the series as being a pretty nasty place. There is a long waiting line to get in that is only three-feet high where people wait in stooped position for eternity. Broken hot glass lines the walls and sulfur fumes choke the air. So does the smell of the person next in line. Croco manages the waiting line with an iron fist, branding anyone who dares violate his arbitrary rules with “line jumper”, “strike one” and other short messages.

Waldo’s job is less well defined because, as you might imagine, he’s hard to find. He shows up when Lucifer needs him, but stays hidden most of the time.

The other three characters can be ordered on a scale of evilness: Lilith (most evil), Lucifer (so-so evil) and Miss Havana (least evil). In the novels, the three characters jockey for power, fighting each other to determine which one will control the underworld. As the characters vie for prominence, they do despicable things to each other: electrocution, murder, hot coals over the head, mustard packs under the toilet seat bumpers … that sort of thing. And this is where the burning question comes in: how much is too much? After having his throne ripped away by his daughter, how much retribution can the devil heap on his daughter’s head before a (real) reader is offended?

My thinking is this: hell isn’t a nice place, so dirty tricks can be pretty seedy. The characters involved in the power struggle do a lot of scheming, plotting and bargaining, and the stakes are high—one slip and it could mean the end of existence for their soul (what little they have). Family means nothing—they all pretty much hate each other—there is no love lost between any of them. They are all users and abusers, but generally in a comical way.

Okay, here it is. At one point the devil cuts a deal with Waldo and Croco that could transfer control of Lilith to the two beasts for eternity, assuming Lilith can be unseated from the throne of power. She is the strong one; all the others are subservient to her, but everyone watches out for their own self-interested and no one can be trusted. Trying to gain a few important followers to overthrow his daughter, Lucifer “trades” his daughter (if she can be deposed) for the loyalty of the two shadow creatures. The word “rape” is never used, but it is clear that will happen if the two ever get their hands on her. The devil considers the deal a good one because Lilith has screwed him so often in the past and, besides, she has no soul to permanently scar. Furthermore, if the two are abusing Lilith, he won’t have to watch his back one hundred percent of the time.

This is where my beta reader got concerned. All the killing and maiming didn’t bother her (souls heal quickly in the books, so most of the time a supplicant can be returned to service, and further pain, rather quickly), but the thought of Lilith being violated by two monsters pushed her over the edge. Just for background, my beta reader is eighty-four-years-old and quite brilliant. I generally listen to her with rapt attention, but this time I’m not so sure. So I thought I’d ask those of you who might read this blog: can a writer go too far in describing the evil conditions in hell? Is bargaining with his daughter’s fate—literally promising sexual servitude—too despicable for Lucifer?

I would appreciate hearing from some of you, but you don’t have to answer the question in a vacuum. Below is the excerpt where it happens. At the time of the excerpt, Lucifer is haunting one of Shelly’s classmates, a boy named Dick, and Miss Havana is haunting Shelly. Lucifer does not know Miss Havana’s spirit exists within Shelly, or he’d kill Shelly outright, and Miss Havana doesn’t know Lucifer’s spirit inhabits Dick’s body, or she would kill Dick outright (like I said, no love lost between the main characters). The excerpt is from Lucifer’s point of view.

*****

My thoughts of deep revenge are interrupted by the musings of my host. He is seated on a bench on campus ogling young girls who pass in review. The idiot actually believes he can see through clothing without my help. What a fool. Without me, all he will get is eye strain to add to his headache. This is my game, not his.

Shelly said she could see through clothing, too. I wonder if that was a lie, or if there really is something going on within her. If she can see past solid objects like she claimed, then she could have a spirit within her, like Dick has me, perhaps one Lilith sent to ensure I don’t sample the merchandise.

My mind is muddled on this point because I did not initiate the attempted sexual encounter with Shelly. No, she came on to Dick and kept fanning the flame. If Lilith ordered a spirit to spy on me from within Shelly’s mind, like she ordered me to observe Shelly from my Dick host, then what’s really going on? Surely a spirit from within Lilith’s camp would not attempt to offer me pleasure.

I find it equally hard to accept Shelly could be infected by a spirit from the other side because the other side would not have initiated anything like that. No, if there is a spirit in her, it must be one of ours. Either that, or Shelly is the first surface dweller to develop the ability to see through solids. Maybe that’s the real reason Lilith wants me to watch the kid; maybe Shelly really is different.

All I know for sure is that multiple personalities are running around in Shelly’s mind. Her accident could have caused that, or Lilith could be involved. As I contemplate the possibilities, deep in thought, I accidentally press the button on my collar while mindlessly rubbing the back of my neck with my hand. The 100,000-volt Tazer embedded in the collar immediately reminds me of my mistake. The smell of ozone follows the crackling sound of current surging over my skin, and … UNHOLY ALIANCE OF LILITH AND WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION! A burley shadow creature must have come through the side door, picked me up and savagely body slammed us both to the floor, over and over and over again.

I wake in the fetal position with dry tears irritating my eyes. My body is soaking wet, both nipples are on fire and my testicles are either missing or tucked up deep inside my body. My left arm is twisted under my body in an odd position and there is tingling in my legs. I hear unusual dog whining sounds in the distance, lots of them, like the restrained half-laugh of hyenas holding back because laughing of any ilk is forbidden in Lilith’s realm. Her dog things must be hovering in the blackness just out of range to avoid being slammed by my body flopping all over the slimy floor.

My triceps, right thigh and both nipples continue twitching as my body comes to rest. My face feels like it has been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighs eighty pounds. Drool runs down my chin. I think I’ve crapped myself, but I’m too numb to know for sure and my sense of smell is missing.

I take a deep breath, trying to see anything in the darkness. That’s when the dogs attack. Now those bastards are laughing! Their onslaught is vicious, and I hear Lilith’s stern voice mock amid the high-pitched whine of the dogs gagging on flesh ripped from my arms and legs, “You’ve picked a bad location for a vacation, Father. You had better have a damned good reason for being here, besides stupidity.”

I shake my head as the dogs fall back and my eyes adjust to the dim orange glow of molten sulfur and flickering torchlight. Lilith glares down at me, waiting for my reply. I hear distant whispering from the gallery, “Hen pecked, hell, he’s buzzard fodder.”

I stand with great effort; my knees are weak. Regaining as much dignity as possible under the circumstance, I brush off some of the mess the dogs deposited on me and respond, “This shock thing sucks—did you really need a new pan to burn things in?”

Her glare deepens. “Don’t make me smite you, Father. You know the rules. All trespassers will be maimed; survivors will wish they were dead.”

What a haughty bitch. I look at her with disgust, realizing full well the old saw, “childbirth is not for the meek, but it does seem to be for the stupid,” applies to both males and females equally. I glare back with all the hatred I feel at that moment, which is considerable, and my body lurches forward on automatic pilot.

Before I can reach out to grab her by the neck, a huge canine creature bites down on my shoulder, stopping me dead in my tracks. With a smirk that seems to further disfigure her face, Lilith mocks, “Tut, tut, Father, don’t do something permanently stupid because you are temporarily upset. Maiming you isn’t the last thing on my list, but it is on my list.” She motions to her dog to release me, and jams her index finger toward the slimy cavern floor. “Subservience is a virtue. Learn it well.”

I don’t have an opportunity to protest. Croco’s huge fist smashes against the back of my neck, and I wither in screams of pain as the shock collar administers another of Lilith’s gifts. The demons and shadow creatures in the gallery hoot and jeer while throwing feces and vomit to demonstrate their delighted approval. In all eternity, I never considered my afterlife could suck this much.

Still jerking with violent spastic muscle ticks, Croco hauls me off to his waiting line. Talk about irony. I helped the oaf set up that tunnel of horror an eternity ago, but I never thought I’d be hauled to the woodshed there myself. Croco slams me against the fire-hot broken glass that lines the wall and growls, “When you stop twitching and can show proper respect, she will see you.”

The brute turns to leave, but I stop him with an observation. “Croco, my old friend, I couldn’t help but notice the huge bulge in your pants that crops up on its own when you’re near the Princess. Was her delightful body, perhaps, a gift to you from my ex-mate while I trained Lilith on the surface?”

He pivots into a war-like crouch and his beady eyes seem to recess even farther back into his sloped skull. “There are worse things than death, my former tormenter.”

I smile and begin with a bit of useless conversation before re-engaging with meat. “Lilith has also alluded to that. I wonder what it could be. I’ve been thinking, old friend, about the time you saved Miss Havana from certain death. I would have killed her without your intervention. Why, Croco? Why did you intervene on her behalf?”

The brute glares and drools but remains silent. I interrupt his lack of discourse, lying like I already know the answer. “There is only one reason, old friend, and I have confirmed it with Miss Havana. You had Lilith. Her body was your sex toy while I trained her spirit on the surface. I can also see in Lilith’s reaction to you that she doesn’t know about the arrangement between you and my ex. Imagine Lilith’s fury when I mention that arrangement to her. Imagine that. The halls of hell will shake to the ground, and you, old friend, will be at the bottom of that particular heap of rubble.”

Of course, Miss Havana never shared anything with me. However, in the eternity I ruled the underworld, I grew proficient at reading the slightest nuance of body language that reveals the truth behind the torrent of lies my victims spewed. I watch Croco now as he considers what I might or might not know. A huge fart gives him away. I have touched a nerve; his bowels must be in turmoil. My incredible powers of observation have again served me well. Before I can pat myself on the back, Croco turns to lumber down the corridor, leaving me with only two last words, “Fuck you!”

Okay, that’s not acceptable at all, and I call out, “Croco, my dear friend, Lilith will call for me soon. Are you entirely certain you want our little secret exposed?”

Croco stops with a halting jerk, and then slowly turns as his eyes flash red from his deeply recessed sockets. “If you are issuing a challenge, Lucifer, remember where you stoop. This is my waiting line; it is no longer yours. I can do what I want here … to whoever I want.”

I believe the walls of the narrow passageway vibrate under the footfalls of the giant as he marches within inches of my face, never taking his threatening glare from my eyes. I ignore his stinky bad breath and smile. “Now Croco, let’s not get too excited. There could be a huge benefit in this for you if you take a moment to consider your options.”

His throat rumbles with anger, but he doesn’t attack. “Go on.”

“You see, dear friend, I have a plan … a way to restore things to the way they were in the good old days. Remember when we tormented souls together? Don’t you sometimes miss those times of anguish? Now you are relegated to this long and narrow little passageway and never get to come out to play with Waldo and me. How very sad, so very sad indeed.”

His glare softens a tiny bit. He does remember some of the good times, when he and Waldo ripped the arms and legs off supplicants who came before me. The gallery especially enjoyed those little tug-o-war games he and Waldo played. “Wouldn’t it be fun, my friend, to re-live those good times, and I could throw in a special bonus for you. How about I give you Lilith to do whatever you want with, say every other day? Wouldn’t that be fun? Think back, old friend, think back to the way it was while I trained her spirit on the surface … when Miss Havana offered you her body for your loyalty. Lilith is still suspicious of that, you know. She still doesn’t understand why she had such a terrible yeast infection when she returned from the surface.”

Of course, I strongly suspect Lilith didn’t have a real yeast infection. That was just a lie Miss Havana told Lilith, and it worked to a limited degree. At least Lilith didn’t kill Miss Havana outright when she had the opportunity. If Lilith knew for sure what happened, I suspect things might have been different. In fact, perhaps I can work that to my advantage. I wink and pat Croco on the forearm. “We both know it wasn’t yeast at all, don’t we dear friend, you nasty oversized bull?”

The longer Croco remains silent, the more convinced I am that I have guessed right. No wonder my faithful servant betrayed me when I returned from training Lilith. Miss Havana bribed him with Lilith’s body. The brute is still a lecher, and he knows he will never again have the opportunity to violate Lilith without my help.

Yes, yes, I know. Some might think it a tad shady of me to offer my beautiful daughter up in such a brazen swap for loyalty, even if the loyalty is only temporary, but hey, it’s not like violating her will permanently scar her soul or anything like that. That would require her to have a soul and, let’s face it, she doesn’t. I see a bead of drool slip from the edge of Croco’s mouth. He’s thinking my proposal over. He knows Lilith mistreats me constantly, so he’s not suspicious of my motives. In a few moments he grunts, “What’s your plan?”

Of course, I don’t really have one, so I offer, “All in good time, Croco, all in good time. For now, old friend, bide your time. Let the creatures of the cavern and all others below know I will soon return. Let them know … and let them fear. But if a single creature should breathe even the slightest hint of my impending return to Lilith, I will rain pain down on it the likes of which it cannot imagine. Let all creatures know—be watchful—the time of my arrival will be crystal clear to them.

“Tell them I will send ahead a sign of evil they cannot misunderstand, a sign for all to see, a harbinger of my imminent arrival. And when I take the Throne of Judgment that is rightfully mine, any of my creatures that do not support my return to glory will suffer a fate far worth than spiritual death … far worse than eternal pain. Tell them, when I sit upon the Throne of Judgment once again, that their loyalty will be tested individually. If I detect even the slightest hint of wavering or disloyalty, I will entertain the gallery with the sound of their crushing bones and the wailing torment of their souls.”

Croco bares his broken teeth in what could be interpreted as a smile. “Sometimes I do miss … the old days, but why every other day? Why wouldn’t I have her every day?”

I grin internally; he’s hooked. I pat him on his huge forearm again. “My dear Croco, we can’t be too greedy. After all, Waldo will want a piece of her as well, now won’t he? The important thing is that you will be first.”

*****

Okay, so that’s it. Take your best shot. Were you offended?

Thanks for reading,

James L. Hatch

http://cookinwithmisshavana.blogspot.com/

Author for Solstice Publishing, Eternal Press and xoxopublishing.com

How long must I go on doing God’s job?

The interview below was featured at http://sweetnsexydivas.blogspot.com/ on January 11, 2012. It is offered here to provide humor for those who follow this blog.

*****

Welcome to an interview by Sweet And Sexy Divas (SASD). Today we welcome a celebrity of dubious fame and character, Miss Havana (MH).

SASD: Thank you for joining us today Miss Havana.

MH: Why, thank you SASD, I’m sure we’ll give your readers something to talk about. By the way, do you pronounce SASD like “sadist”, or do I have that confused with another acronym?

SASD: You can just call us “Sweet”, as in Sweet Jesus. And speaking of the Man, we understand you have a few complaints. We are fairly open here, as long as you don’t invite retribution. Feel free to get a few things off your chest … maybe even your blouse. We think the words “attention whore” embossed across the front is a bit much.

MH: What don’t you like, the lettering or the attitude? Being an unstable bitch is part of my mystique.

SASD (rolling eyes upward): Can we just move on? All we ask is that you keep it relatively clean.

MH: Great, I love an open forum, and you needn’t worry—I always keep my words soft in case I have to eat them. Let me get my list. Ah, yes. Let’s start with this. I hate to bitch about the weather, but it’s just too damn dry in Texas. People are killing mosquitos just to see if they’re carrying canteens. Hell, they’re catching catfish with ticks … and fire hydrants are bribing dogs.

SASD: So, is the Texas weather you only complaint for God?

MH: I’m not finished. The weather is beginning to impact Texas churches. Baptists are baptizing by sprinkling, Methodists are using wet-wipes and Catholics are praying for wine to turn back into water. But no, weather isn’t my only complaint. Too many people are escaping the heat at the beach, and some of that beach wear just grosses me out. Why don’t males realize that men who wear Speedos force women to wear blindfolds?

SASD: That’s a good question. Is that something you want God to address?

MH: Maybe. I hate groping around on the beach blindfolded, but Speedos are just the beginning of things I’m angsty about. I mean, why does my non-buttered bread land butter side down? And don’t get me started on disease … especially that one … ah, you know … the one where you forget everything.

SASD: You mean Alzheimer’s?

MH: Yeah, that one. I’m pretty sure I don’t have it because I still remember what sex was like, but I’m sure a lot of people I run into do have it, not that I’m judging. I mean that disease … what you just called it … is so debilitating God should do something. The only reason people with it exist is to be a warning for others, like they believe mistakes are too much fun to make only once. Karma used to come in the form of your children; now it comes in the form of your parents.

SASD: Not that we’re judging, but don’t you think railing at God for a disease is, well, kind of a “blond thing.” You know, we just don’t think He’s going to drop down here to fix that … or Speedos for that matter.

MH: Blond thing? Really. Everyone wants to be blond like me, even brunettes. That’s something I just don’t get. Why will brunettes ruin their hair trying to be blonde? I would rather have brown hair that looks like silk than blonde hair that looks like hay.

SASD: So you think God should do something about hair color?

MH: Oh, no, I’m not that shallow, although I do sometimes feel bad for brunettes. They just have to accept the fact that they are the statue and not the pigeon. Life is full of disappointments.

SASD: Okay, we are delighted for you … really … but can we get back to your issues with God.

MH: Ah, yes. I think my big issue is injustice. Everywhere I look, I find it. That’s the reason I took on so much of that crap in Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! The novel is another wonderful story about my continuing adventures. In that one, I get to be The Angel of Death … in the Old Testament sense. Unfortunately, I also answered my own question about how long I could go on doing God’s job. He’s rather sensitive, you know, and He won’t turn a blind eye forever. I thought he was supposed to have infinite patience, but I apparently pushed His envelope. Either that, or there could have been some jealousy up there … not that I’m judging.

SASD: Jealousy? We’re not following?

MH: Well, you know, I’m quite fetching, and I did notice that God only took action after I checked on the status of Mrs. God. I think she might have taken offense and put pressure on Him. I mean, certainly I could not have done anything so extreme to get in that much trouble, could I?

SASD: Ah, we’re not so sure. Do you have anything else you’d like to say?

MH: Well, I’d like to thank SASD for having me here. And for all of you readers who didn’t stop by, I’d just like to leave you with one thought: If you don't go to other people's funerals, they won't go to yours. So there!

SADS: You do realize readers that didn’t stop by will not get your message, right? However, for those who did stop by, we’d like to thank you for being here. We have included a tag line, blurb and short excerpt from Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! below. The paranormal comedy is the sequel to The Substitute. The novel was released December 30, 2011, and is available for sale at Solstice Publishing, Amazon.com and other e-book outlets. It will be offered in print soon.

*****

Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! Tag Line. Advice columnist by day, assassin by night, Miss Havana’s spirit wrongly considers itself the Angel of Death, but is brought to task by God.

Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! Blurb: Having performed a single selfless act, Miss Havana finds herself on probation in heaven. After many missteps, she discovers she still retains the powers she had as The Queen of Darkness, and realizes she’s on probation as much to keep her from joining forces with her daughter, The Princess of Darkness, as anything else. The Brazilian, a large black man with a dreadlocks beard who waxes regularly, is her “guide”, but she ignores his advice until he’s taken off her case. Guideless and in a foreign environment, she consorts with evil spirits from her former realm, especially Waldo, a shadow creature so named because he’s so hard to find. She acquires a copy of “The Angels Guide to Earth”, comes to believe she is the Angel of Death, and returns to the surface as an advice columnist and assassin. She wreaks havoc before God intervenes for a final showdown...which, as it turns out, isn’t as final as most would hope.

Oh, Heavens, Miss Havana! Excerpt: Tiny light creatures scurry over my shoulders like tailless white rats, their combs in constant motion until tangles halt progress. I grit my teeth with each painful yank, knowing the bastards will inflict as much discomfort as they can in the time they’ve got. One multi-colored weasel bites out a knot, leaving flared split-ends, shakes something like snot off its paws and spews vile commentary with the inflection of a put-out teenaged girl. “Yew! It’s such a tangled mess, just like your attitude.” It farts near my nose, looks up with an evil grin and belches a rancid stink before slurring, “They’ll work on your crappy disposition when you get where you’re going.”

Extreme insincerity permeates the degenerate’s voice. It must know I attach light creatures to the business end of a toilet brush in Lucifer’s den whenever I can catch the little shits. I enjoy a brief thought of one gasping for breath in Lucifer’s toilet before being jarred back to reality by an enveloping fog of hairspray. It sticks to my nose hairs and penetrates my lungs, but I refuse to cough or wheeze. These bastards are pissed I’ve been promoted, and are trying to make me miserable. I won’t give them the satisfaction of showing it.

Thousands surround me, standing on each other to reach my height while working at fever pitch to primp me for my destination. I glare at the one who left his stench and ask a cheery question. “I thought you eunuchs were genderless, but your voice sounds male. Are you ‘proud cut?’”

They all stop moving. Dead silence reigns. They don’t like being referred to as animals, especially fixed dogs.

A rotund fuzzy demon waddles forward, stops near my feet, places its tiny paws on its hips and rebukes in baritone, “We can only clean the outside, Miss Havana. Cleaning the inside would take an eternity.”

I kick at it, but it darts out of the way. As if by reflex, the others fall in on me. I can’t move anything but my mouth, and muffle out a protest while spitting fur off my tongue, “Give me some space, assholes!” I gather my strength and, with a vigorous shake of my body against their collective grip, feel extreme delight as dozens tumble to the floor.

They relax their hold and pass gas in unison. I gag for breath. It stinks like Lucifer’s Home, like kicking a skunk. Knowing they’ve silenced me for the moment, the combing resumes until the baritone somewhere in the horde mocks, “You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”

Come to think of it, I don’t. I was the Queen of Darkness before arriving in purgatory. Family ties speak volumes about a person, and in my case they are shouting, “She shouldn’t be here!” Lilith, The Princess of Darkness and absolute ruler of hell, is my daughter. The shithead Lucifer is my ex. Is it any surprise I never expected to arrive here? I probably shouldn’t admit it. Where I come from, we lie about everything. I should probably lie about this too, and answer with an insult instead. “To a place you’ll never go, twerp, unless toilets here flush up.”

I hear snickering, something forbidden below, but the primping continues until one of the little perverts shinnies up my leg. My body shudders with disgust. The deviant is taking advantage of the situation to sneak a peek. I swat at it when I hear its muffled prayer, “God help me, the devil’s pit reeks!”

I snort. It could be right. Hygiene isn’t high on the list of important items below, but things could be different above. I grit my teeth, ignore the humiliating “Whistle While You Work” ditty it’s warbling, and bear down like I’m giving birth. Phassttlatt! It’s a good one; makes my eyes water. I wonder if light creatures can whistle through a gas mask. The stunned swine drops from beneath my scoop-necked robe like a wounded fly, and I offer a comment dripping with sarcasm, “Not very good at your job, are you?”

On second thought, perhaps I should have held my tongue. After it catches its breath, it glares at me, grabs some tools, slips on a filtered mask and rushes back up my leg. It isn’t long before the plucking begins, one hair at a time. I won’t pleasure any of them by yielding to the pain, even though it hurts like Lilith’s Home. Instead, I reach out and grab two random creatures from the pile and squeeze hard with each pluck, being certain to dig my nails into their disgusting furry backs. Their tiny screeches make my pain bearable. I believe I could make music with their wailing if I could catch the baritone.

The plucking stops when one of my squeeze toys screams, “Uncle! Uncle! You were supposed to leave sadism below.”

I glare at them both. “If your pal so much as touches one more pube, I will damn well wax you both, and I won’t be gentle!” Just the thought of ripping off their fur with a hot wax strip makes me feel warm all over.

*****

The author would also like to thank you for being here. Please stop by my web site at http://cookinwithmisshavana.blogspot.com/ for additional excerpts, book reviews and more. There are two free cookbooks and one award winning short story there … you just need to ask.

Thanks for reading,

James L. Hatch

Author for Solstice Publishing, xoxopublishing.com and Eternal Press

Review of Homemade Sin, a novel by Mark Covington

The great thing about reviewing books is reading them. That was especially true of Homemade Sin. If you like a novel where the beautiful, slutty, ambitious female predator gets her just due, this book is for you. Ever wonder if there’s an upside to being a zombie? Want to see those who really control the world (e.g., your health insurance company) draw the short straw? Want to read about an evil cat with a God complex brought low … or was he? Do you like it when a genuine good-guy gets the girl and wins the day? How about a Greyhound with multiple personalities stopping during a dog race to dance like a Chihuahua as he has visions of himself in a pink tutu? In fact, take all your distorted perceptions about odd things that make you titter and roll them into one delicious jelly roll, and you have Mr. Covington’s newest novel, Homemade Sin. You will savor it; you will delight in it. Who would have believed buzzard puke could be so darn funny … and interesting. Who knew voodoo was homemade sin?

I must say I did not expect the story that unfolded with such wonder before my eyes. The descriptions of Key West and other Hemmingway haunts blew me away, and I was fascinated by Mr. Covington’s clever use of words and extensive vocabulary. Take the description of the Florida sky, for example: drunken charcoal-gray clouds, in the shape of beer kegs, staggered across the wine-purple sky like dark spirits coming together for a cloud coven. I loved it; I couldn’t put it down.

More than anything else, I enjoy witty writing, like when the main character, Roland, finding himself caught between two unsavory characters, refers to himself as the dead meat in the middle of an evil sandwich. I laughed out loud when GD SOBs turned out to be Gods, Deities and Supreme Omnipotent Beings. And the bastardized quote, absinthe makes the heart grow fonder brought a huge smile. These are just a sample of clever material salted throughout the novel; it was a joy to read.

While it is hard to boil down what I loved most about the book, I think I’d have to say the use of Tourette’s syndrome by the evil vixen villain was just wonderful. Under the guise of having no control of her frequent outbursts of obscene words, she told people exactly what she thought of them and their actions whenever she felt the need. Did the villain really have Tourette’s syndrome? I can’t say for sure, but I can say her use of expletives seemed darn convenient. But isn’t that the point with humor? Aren’t the cleverest things you’ve ever heard based on something real? After you stop laughing at something outrageous, don’t you say to yourself: That had to be real; no one could make that up! So it is with Homemade Sin.

I also liked the inclusion of aspects of Mr. Covington’s life in the book, the aspirations of a writer, snippets from his earlier play (Shakespeare in the Trailer Park) and the little boy who discovers a secret world in his parent’s liquor cabinet, to name a few. The humor is not all in your face … some is subtle. My favorite in this category was when Cutter (a piece of work in his own right), who just finished berating zombies for being transfixed, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the outside world, eyes glazed over, etc., immediately sits down to watch television in exactly the same state.

There is no question about it, this is a five-star read.

Thanks for reading,

James L. Hatch

The Tower's Alchemist by Alesha L. Escobar

"The Tower's Alchemist" takes place in an alternate WWII era. I've included a food-related excerpt as well as an authentic wartime recipe for bread pudding! Here’s the excerpt:
-----

I still hopelessly tried to make an American dish every now and then but then I would only end up frustrated and yearning for home while my belly groaned. I decided to see what Jane was cooking and went downstairs to her flat on the first floor. I knocked a couple of times and she answered the door, wearing a dirty apron and wiping flour from her hands. Her freckled face broke into a smile and she welcomed me in.

“Please, have a seat, Isabella. I was just finishing the liver sandwiches.” She went back into her kitchen and pulled a dish out of the oven.

“Liver sandwiches?” I wanted to grimace but unless I was cooking for myself I had no right to object.

“Well, it’s more like a meat-filled pastry.”

“Filled with liver?” As if I were supposed to overlook that fact.

“Not everyone in the world eats just loads of fried cows and cheese.”

“This is going to be interesting.”

“I’m trying to follow the ration recipes from Woman’s Weekly.” She gestured toward the magazine on her coffee table.

“Is it that bad?” I went over and grabbed the magazine and flipped through its pages. I took a few moments to scan its housekeeping articles and recipes.

“It’s starting to be. If you went to buy food more often, you’d know.” She arranged the liver sandwiches on two plates and invited me to come sit with her at the dining table.

“You’re cooking an awful lot lately.” I took a bite and gave silent thanks that she had at least seasoned the meat.

“Well I’m just honing my housekeeping skills, you know.” She bit into her sandwich and turned her left hand to reveal a diamond engagement ring on her finger. She must have slipped it on in the kitchen.

“Congratulations, Jane.” With a smile I got up and threw my arms around her. “I didn’t know...have I been away that long?”

“It was all so sudden, even I’m still surprised.” Her face simply glowed.

“Garret is a lucky man.” I frowned when she took it upon herself to plop another sliver of sandwich into my mouth. I wondered if she hid some stew or dumplings in the refrigerator and this was all to torture me.

-----

Certain foods were luxuries during wartime, and many meals consisted of soups, vegetables, and … SPAM. Okay, stop making that face.

Below is a recipe for bread pudding—give it a try! This recipe (and others) can be found at The 1940's Experiment.

Bread Pudding

· 10 ounces of stale bread (you’ll have to use your kitchen scales!)

· 2 ounces of margarine or butter

· 1 ounce of sugar

· 2 ounces of dried raisin sultanas

· 1 egg (fresh or dried)

· milk to mix

· cinnamon

· extra sugar for topping

Method

Put bread into a basin and add a little water. Leave for 10 minutes.

Squeeze bread out until fairly dry

Return bread to empty basin and add all the other ingredients (except spice) adding a little milk to make a sticky consistency

Add cinnamon a little at a time until your own taste

Place mixture into a greased pan (like a lasagna pan)

Cook at 160 degrees C for an hour or so until edges are browned and centre is hot

Sprinkle sugar on top 10 minutes before end of cooking

Allow to cool a little, slice and serve

Serves 8 to 10

Alesha L. Escobar
Author, The Tower's Alchemist (The Gray Tower Trilogy #1)
http://www.aleshaescobar.com

An Excerpt: The Thinking Man, Paralysis by Analysis

Now, for a satirical excerpt from "The Thinking Man, Paralysis by Analysis" by Nadina Boun.

No party or ceremony is ever complete without a drink or two. Hence, follow the rules of the drink as established by the king of the castle, The Thinking Man. Here is an excerpt for your your enjoyment:

"Rules of the drink host:

Should His Highness ever invite thee over for a drink, acceptance is mandatory.

Always bring His Highness a nice bottle of scotch regardless of what thou drinkst.

Plenty of refreshments will be provided by thee, please make sure His Highness’ glass is always full.

An invitation is by no means a contract to a shag. A Shag requested by His Highness on the other hand is mandatory.

Please treat the castle in regards to cleanliness only, as though it were yours.

Upon the last tune, make sure thou do not findst thyself lounging on couches.

Whence His Highness is no longer in sight, please find thy way to the exit door, promptly.

Do not attempt to make a toast unless thou art boasting about His Highness.

If by chance thy hands are full and a toast is proposed by His Highness, thy glass must be raised using one or another of thy limbs.

Vacate the lavatory immediately regardless of thy position, should His Highness attempt to open the door.

No fornication is to be allowed on the premises unless it includes His Highness.

Lastly, thou shall never lay thy hands on His Highness’ last bottle of scotch, else thy punishment is death in exile.

Thank you for accepting the terms and conditions of the drink invitation.”

May your glass be full, always, and thank you James and Miss Havana!

Nadina

http://www.nadinaboun.wordpress.com
http://www.interviewsbynadina.wordpress.com