Monday, August 24, 2015

Snapping Death

Sorry I missed the West End Celebration, but my time was filled with the Greek Festival, Fisherman's Wharf, sail boats, the sunset and moonrise. My new Sony mirrorless camera was happy snapping nature and people, also with strangers asking me to take shots of them with their cameras (they are always happy about that).

Except for the one that wanted to snuff me out and steal my Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace. Well, at least he is hidden in an alleyway with his arms tied behind his back, his mouth duct tapped and a new scar forming across his forehead from my trusty EMT pocket knife.

Being a novelist is hilarious, when I'm away doing other things, like trying to sell a fake necklace, and then get back to my wordprocessor for the day, whether I write only one sentence or a complete paragraph or a thousand words (that's how I guage my production) I feel that I didn't accomplish enough. Time is fleeting as is this year.

Here is a shot for boat lovers, ocean lovers and sunset lovers.

Take a few seconds and view my amazon profile. Your life will benefit from it.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

South American Kill

Alexander Crown Trilogy

She is hot and if it wasn't for this photo op with the 200mm zoom lens, my butt would have been kicked, and perhaps I'd have been killed.

Across the street hidden behind a pillar I observed my new contact with the camera zoom lens. She was sitting on a wooden chair outside at the sidewalk café with a dozen other customers. I knew she was my contact because of the large strawberry margarita between her manicured fingers, the cold edge of the glass tipping on her red lips.

Through the zoom lens I saw the small handgun bulge in her small purse sitting on the little round table. I also saw the pocket knife slightly protruding from her other hand. And then, I noticed her cohorts, two suit clad men looking too slick for such a downtrodden restaurant, in a neighborhood suspicious for the sale of drugs, illegal alcohol, guns and artillery.

My plan was ready. I trotted across the street with my camera, plopped onto the seat opposite the pretty long haired brunette dressed in orange flip-flops (at least she couldn't chase me in those), army green shorts and tank-top and shades shaped like hearts.

Dumping the camera on the table like it was a piece of junk, Anita Kickstarter from the USA, eyed the camera then focused on me. She wasn't as much a sexy bitch as she was an excellent communicator.

"Hand over the fucking necklace," her forceful, tiny voice demanded. The Boston accent was obviously fake. My wide smile and nod toward her two backup dudes threw her off kilter.
"Tell your two mucho men to go home. I'll watch them walk down the street first and then I might show you the necklace."
"Show me the necklace, hahaha." She threw her head back in laughter. "What an idiot! I have a dozen boys surrounding this place, and not one will stall to kill you."
I stood, threw my arms sideways and turned in a circle. "The necklace isn't on me," I said. "If you or your boys kill me you'll never get the necklace." I sat down and picked up my Sony. "Dismiss all your boys and come with me. Just the two of us. I won't kill or even hurt you. Drop you GPS and knif leave your communicator on the table. You can keep the small handgun in your purse but leave the knife on the table. I have issues with knives. All I want is the ten thousand American you have in your bag."
She lowered her shades and suspiciously eyed me. "What are your issues with knives?"
"I had once been carved up across my heart by Iktar Stanktar. The scar of a large X crosses my chest."
"Show me."
I slowly unbuttoned my pale blue dress shirt, pulled the flaps aside and revealed the large zigzagged edged X. "That's it, a cliffhanger design by the famous Stanktar."
"Holly shit," she cried. "That must have hurt."
"Don't try to imagine the pain," I said, and tried to be honest. "I'm peaceful, I financially support a children's orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa, I had originally returned the Michelangelo necklace to the Italian Historical Society but they abused the situation. I now try to sell the necklace for orphanage support money."
"You fucking liar," she coyly said, and repositioned her shades on her nose. "Assholes like you abuse and ruin societies. You take and don't give. I hate your kind."
"Don't judge until you know me," I countered. "You're going on hearsay and not facts about me. I helped end the war between Serbian and Croatia, and I've discovered the DNA sequence that enables the human body to regrow diseased body parts. Okay, I had stolen the priceless necklace from a gorgeous actress at the Cannes Film Festival, but she shouldn't have worn such a delicate five hundred year old piece."
"Okay," she hesitantly said, "you hold my interest, but don't fuck with me."

She motioned for her boys to leave. At least fifteen men upended off the chairs on the sidewalk café and started walking down the street independently of each other. From inside  the restaurant two woman exited, looking like they held handguns in their purses. Two more men up the sidewalk, turned and walked away. Anita Kickstarter popped the earpiece from her left ear and sat it on the table beside the knife she had in her hand.

"Your phone," I said, "leave it on the table."
"The hell I will."
"Then turn it off."
She took it from her purse, turned it off and stuffed it back inside. "There, lets go."
She looked sweet and perhaps a little pretty, like an innocent teenager. We both stood. "Walk beside me," I said, smiling, looking directly at her glossed lips. "You don't have to hold my hand, but maybe give me a peck on the cheek."
"The hell I will."
We started walking side by side. Not one of her co-workers was in sight. A half block away from the sidewalk café, under the hot sun, I stopped, yanked her in front of me, pulled her in close to where our crotches rubbed, and then I smacked her soft lips with mine. At first she pulled away, stalled and then relented. I felt her bend one knee behind her just like I knew she would.
"I'm a better guy than you've been lead to believe. If you still want to kill me after I give you the necklace, then kill me. But if you kill me you better be prepared to financially support my children's orphanage."
"I've got my killing gun right here in my purse, and, I won't hesitate to kill you."
"With how you rubbed your sex across my sex just now, I'll say you have one other plan for me before you kill me."
"You think?" she smiled. "Not today. Not ever. Killing is my forte not sex."
"You think? I replied. "Come with me, we have business to conduct.

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Saturday, August 15, 2015

FREE - Alexander Crown Trilogy - 8/16/2015 -- 8/20/2015

I love giving away my eBooks.

Okay Bloggers, the Alexander Crown Trilogy eBook is free starting tomorrow. Power, gambling, money, sex, Alexander Crown mercenary turned philanthropist is on the loose in Europe and Washington DC. Don't miss out on reading these three exciting adventures.

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Rio - Da Vinci Code

"Vitruvian Man"

Keeping tabs on all the women I have slept with around the world used to be easy. You see, when in China I slept with Chinese women. When in Germany I slept with German women. When in Greece I slept with Greek women and when in France I slept with French women. Do you now understand how easy it was for me to keep tabs? I have a count of all the women I had slept with from each country. I mean, it's not a Holy Jesus thing that I can recall all the women I've slept with, but I certainly give that a halleluiah.

But now, women are international, infused into the work force, employed in varied careers,  living in different countries from the ones they were born in, even living in multiple countries since adulthood give me trouble keeping track of who lives where and when. The best part is that women still want to sleep and have sex with me. I'm no Jason Bourne or James Bond, but the worst part is that many women want to either hurt or kill me after they sexually use me. Mostly, they're after my priceless Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace.

Whatever the necessity of anybody wanting to possess the necklace, it all feels frivolous to me. The artisan designed and constructed the jeweled enclosed gold necklace over 500 years ago, and that's enough to admire his creativity and craftsmanship, to admire and respect how he crafted such a gorgeous piece of jewelry with crude tools and inferior materials, but to possess, understanding that you might get killed for it while possessing it? It all rudimentary stupidiand receipt.

I don't possess Michelangelo's necklace, I use it for bait, to make wealthy buyers salivate thinking they own it without repercussions. Sometimes I feel the necklace is ill-fated, or is hexed, or that there are secret inscription etched into the stones or gold. This necklace isn't a Da Vinci Code genius mystery story, rich in puzzles or conspiracies. it's just an aged necklace whereby historians and historical buffs want to fell the necklace is more than common. They want to elevate the jewelry above all theories that it possibly reveals a riveting story, establishing richer and more fascinating details about Michelangelo.

For me there is no historical secret about the necklace. There is no ancient or current secret society whose members included Botticelli, Hugo or Da Vinci, and there is no truth concealed or encrypted within it that has been veiled through inscriptions.

And yet, here I am in bed with a woman of unusual ethnicity; perhaps she Indian or Iranian, Egyptian or Serbian with a little Spanish thrown in, but I do know she will attempt to kill me to get the priceless necklace after we've engaged in sex, showered, and eaten breakfast in this fabulous hotel in Rio de Janeiro looking up at Christ the Redeemer

Friday, July 24, 2015

Accidental Kill - Deliberate Love


The great zoo of China, the Paris vendetta, one hundred years of solitude, Reggie Rocketship and his galaxy of secrets? There is no paradise lost in that crown.

Paradise lost and, paradise found again. Lost and found is both less and more than it can be. Is love lost and then found again more than it can be? I think so.

Sometimes you have to accidentally kill to find love, and sometimes love happens deliberately.

Love is a powerful weapon, it can work for you or against you. This time, love was definitely my strongest weapon working for me.

My problem was; either be killed or kill and be done with it. All victims have parents, possibly a sister or brother, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, and so do the perpetrators. The person getting killed is much less a victim as are the relatives and friends. They have to live with the death of their loved one, perhaps haunting them or possibly it could be a 'good riddance', whatever the situation, after somebody dies or gets killed, we remember and cry and laugh and then mourn, except for the killer. The killer only laughs.

He wasn't so handsome, nor was he debonair, yet he had an air of sophistication James Bond could use in social situations. I was somewhat of a Ninja fighter but he got the best of me, his right forearm around my neck, my left arm twisted behind my back. How could that be, I didn't kowtow to anyone, not even in the sights of a sniper. I bent over, lifted the middleweight killer on my back, grabbed his right leg underneath him and shoved backward. We fell, him on his back me on top of him. I forced the backside of my cranium in to his tightened jaw. It snapped and cracked, his head also cracked on the cement, and then he relaxed his grip and fell away. I jumped to my feet.

The sun had just set in an alleyway in Munich. My killer and I were two lonely men who had confronted each other, our minds and bodies our only weapons. I hated guns and knives, as apparently he did, so we fought to the death, him trying to kill me and me, only trying incapacitate him.

His neck artery was static. His face was now crooked. His body afloat in death, and my wet eyes were suddenly filled with anxiety. Explaining my emotions was rudimentary yet the circumstances called for me exiting the alley, leaving the area far behind me as fast as possible without drawing notice.

Who was I but pawn in a world of kings, a man full of anxiety trying to help orphaned children, robbing the wealthy, and scoring with a chick whenever a situation arises. The man wanted me to give him my Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace without him paying me for it. That was unacceptable.

My walk along the crowded sidewalk was filled with self-anger. My thoughts were depressed, the world around me distant, a piece of earth quietly eating away time until...until she bumped into me...purposely bumped into me. We both stopped, turned to face each other.

The beautiful redhead spit in my face. I grabbed both her arms and pulled her into a tight, deep kiss. She struggled, her taste of peaches something to die for, my sweat and anger something to live for.

I held onto her steadfast. My back fell against the brick building. Pedestrians angled around us. I took her rear with both hands and pulled her tightly against my groin. She protested but didn't try to escape. Our bodies rubbed together, we continued to kiss until a few seconds later she forcefully withdrew. I let her go.

She stepped away her eyes glued to mine, and then with great effort her arm came up like a tornado and she slapped me harder than I'd ever been slapped.

"Who the hell are you?" I said, holding my jaw.


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Love - Sex- Guns - Knives

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Giving up sex isn't easy, however, I haven't given up sex so I don't know if it's easy or not. Giving up guns was easy, giving up my knives was ease, but love, I'd never give up on love. In Rio de Janeiro I was meeting a new client. She'd expressed interest in purchasing my priceless Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace. The Latin women are an exception to the engaging rules of womanly beauty, especially Brazilian woman, when waxing their muffs had created their own Brazilian style of beauty between their legs.

Was I up for selling the necklace? You bet I was up in more ways than one when we met near the slick beach of Ipanema, in the South Zone of the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Shapely as in bikini shapely, beautiful as in gorgeous with long flowing black silky hair to her waist, long slim arms and legs, lips as puffy as Angelina Jolie's, but that body was inside an see-through white tank-top, black shorts and bare-footed. As long as she was in possession of a bag full of ten thousand American dollars, without a gun or knife, and without snipers hiding as tourists, I was fine with exchanging the fake Michelangelo necklace for the dollars and not the Brazilian real.

We exchanged the gifts. Inside the bag was the ten grand and a piece of paper with her name, address and phone number legibly printed on it. Inside my black felt bag was the fake necklace and a whisper, which she couldn't hear, but my whisper profession my love for her, no matter where and no matter when. I wanted to be her new boyfriend, snuggle between her legs, kiss her endearing body and explain the significance of cosmological attraction she has on me.

That would have to be some other time because if I didn't exit, any second I could be killed by a sniper. Her red lips puckered, one dark eye blinked and he lips formed the words, I'll fuck you anytime, any day, anywhere, just tell me now.

"At my hotel tonight," I said, and of course she was lying, and I'd given her a fake hotel.

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Love For Sale

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Around midnight love was for sale. The lady was a prostitute but who cares? There's no greater love than love for sale, but was she a prostitute? Perhaps she was my contact, a wildly, extravagant pair of orange stilettos holding up a provocative female specimen, whose legs were as shapely and as long as a racing yacht, whose body was as sleek as a shark's, her face adorned with pumpkin size pink lips, her eyes resembled Michelangelo's St. Peter's Basilica dome, her arms reached three feet, in a slinky silver dress, a petite size one I supposed, fit the large body like shrink wrap.

There she was, razor sharp at midnight, cunningly deceptive in dress, arrogant attitude and diligently on time. What was I to do, pay her for possessing the look of love, tip her for suggesting sex with the tilt of her hips, or kill her for the ten thousand American dollars she carried in a paper bag she sat on the cement beside her orange stilettos? I wouldn't kill her. That was against my morality, but I could injure her if her negotiating style elicited it.

White noise surrounded the deserted area underneath an overhead lamp in front of the Abbey Bookshop at 248 Rue de Rivoli, Paris. Perfect, books and money, sexy lady and temptation. Imperfect, an aggressive transgender thinking I'd believe she's a woman of the night, all spices and sugar, a prostitute not wanting to fuck me but to rob me. I was ready to take the money but not the harassment, and I'd weather whatever she will throw at me.

"I have your pleasure right here in this felt bag," I said, not threatened by her.
"Je dois ici votre trésor dans ce sac," she said; I have your treasure right here in this bag.

She snatched my felt bag from my fingers and stashed it inside her paper bag. Her right stilletto shot up headed for my groin. I caught her heel with both hands and twisted. She tossed her paper bag over my head. The bitch fell backwards on the cement.

My turn was swift but a man's shoe stomped on my toes. I bent in pain but grabbed the big guy's knee and threw it over my shoulder. The bag flew straight up. As I snatched it in mid-air, my heavy foot came down on the man's wrist that was holding a gun. Crunching bones and a loud human cry filled the air. I sprinted in the darkened evening, skipped across the street, ducked around several parked cars, skidded around a corner and jetisoned down the block getting lost in my freedom, high from the contact and delighted that I escaped without injury.

Truning another corner, I stopped and inspected the contents of the paper bag. Two stacks of cut up newspaper with a note written in French; Vous serez mort avant longtemps, M. Alexander Couronne. Vous le savez et nous le savons. Iktar Stanktar gagne toujours; You will be dead before long, Mr. Alexander Crown. You know it and we know it. Iktar Stanktar always wins.

I pulled out my black felt bag with the fake Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace in it, dropped the note back in the bag and dropped the bag in the gutter. What better place to leave it than in the sewer of Paris.

Alexander Crown Trilogy