Stuart R. West's Blog, page 18

I Had a...Nightmare of Nannies!

I'm super stoked to announce the republication of the third Zach and Zora comedic mystery series, Nightmare of Nannies from the fine, fine folks at Crossroad Press.

Why am I super stoked? Because these books are actually tons of fun to write. They make me giggle like my inner eight year old. I hope they might entertain a few of you, too.

In fact these books are so dad-gum outrageous, they've been banned in Florida for being much too woke and promoting Critical Male Entertainment Dancer Theory.

 Maybe I better give a little more background...

Juggling four kids while working as a detective is tough enough. Zora LeFevre sure didn’t need her nanny dying first day on the job. Especially when it looks like murder and something’s fishy about her nanny supplier.

Meanwhile, a serial killer van’s chasing her dimwit stripper (but don't call him that! He prefers "male entertainment dancer") brother, Zach, and his tear-away pants have been stolen. A mariachi band is his only hope for survival. Worse, Zach’s head-over-heels, willing to learn country line-dancing, in love.

Nannies are dangerous, no one is as they seem, bullets are flying, and it’s another uproariously bad day for Zach and Zora.

Okay, explosive hyperbole blurb over!

(Wait...I lied. I'm not done hyping yet...) 

One reviewer compared Zack and Zora to Nick and Nora from the old Thin Man movies. Someone said the books read like screwball comedies from the '30's. The best compliment I got was someone called it "hilariously un-p.c!" Yeah!

I also try to top load the books with nutty characters. Besides Zach and Zora (and her screaming, out-of-control four kids), we've got the singing police detective, the fried hippy parents, more zany nannies than you can shake a stick at, and murder suspects out the wahzoo.

And if you think the books sound a little too silly...I do try and include a creditable murder mystery each time as well. Nannies may be my favorite in the series so far as I actually try to plug in a little character development. Perhaps everyone's favorite male stripper (erm, sorry...male entertainment dancer), Zach, is growing up a bit.  Nahhhhh.

Anyway, read Nightmare of Nannies and see what all the fuss is about (in my head)! Pick up the first books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and Murder by Massage and find out why they're so critically acclaimed (by my cousin)!

(Psst...I'm back to work on the fourth Zach and Zora book, Massacre of Mustaches, coming soon to finer interwebs booksellers near your fingertips!)

End of shameless plug! Carry on...

A (post) Christmas Haunting

Back when I was single, I had a haunting. We'll call it the "Ghost of Christmas Past," because it took place in Summer, but was most definitely a Christmas themed haunting. Of course Marley didn't visit me, but I do suspect evidence of some particularly mischievous elf ghosts. Elves aren't all cute and cuddly and live in trees and make cookies, you know. (Which come to think of it...isn't that pretty horrifying to know that elves who make cookies live in the trees amongst us?)

 I live in an old house, originally a farm house back in the day, apparently the first in the neighborhood. The architecture is somewhat unusual. The master bedroom is ginormous and takes up most of the second floor, except for an attached half-bath and a spacious (at the time) unfinished attic. Now, true, I used to abuse the poor attic. Basically, it became my storage (i.e., lobbing unused or undesired crap into) area. Everything went flying into there from new, emptied boxes of junk just bought (this was before recycling) to yesteryear's unwanted lamps to broken down furniture to discarded clothing. Boom. Wipe my hands of dust and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind.

(Until years later when I met my wife. Because I didn't want her to see the impressive pile of junk I'd accumulated, I told her that the attic was where I hid the bodies of my victims. Honestly, I think she would've been less shocked by bodies than what she eventually uncovered. But I digress...)

So, lo, it came to pass that many, many moons ago, I was resting fitfully upstairs in my bedroom. A hot summer's night, I had kicked off my blankets and turned the fan on. I lay back in bed. Just as the Sandman came and sprinkled sand into my eyes ("Aieeeeee! My eyesssss!"), right as I began to sail the sleepy shores of slumber ("Pass the Dramamine!"), I heard a quiet, rhythmic tinkling. Or so I thought. Just a single little bell.

I tossed and turned, not wanting to pay heed to my imagination. Yet, the quiet tinkling continued. I had absolutely zero desire to contemplate the existence of supernatural hi-jinx in my house, so I enfolded the pillow around my head like a burrito. Just like the attic: out of sight, out of mind.

Then I gave it some thought. You know how sometimes ambient sounds in the night, particularly when you're hanging onto that half-waking, half-dozing precipice before tumbling over into sleep, can sometimes sort of gestate into a familiar ear-worm of a song? How sounds of the night can form a melody of their own? No? Is it just me? Well, that's what I decided to chalk it up to. Or maybe it was just my imagination running amok. It'd been a long day at work.

I decided to come up from cover. Gain peace of mind by proving, without a doubt, I'd heard nothing.

But then it started again. A slow melodic tinkling. And as I listened very closely, it began to form a song. A very familiar song. One without lyrics, but unmistakably one big, honkin' helluva earworm song.

"You better watch out, you better not cry..."

Gasping, I sat up in bed. Tried to orientate myself, get my bearings. Like a dog will sometimes tilt its head to better lock in on a troubling sound, I did the same thing.

"...you better not shout, I'm telling you why..."

Nooooooo! The song was definitely there. Quiet as a bug's whisper, but very much present. At once coming from all around me, yet nowhere at all, from somewhere dark and mysterious and otherworldly and better off not being thought about.

I got up. Emptied my bladder, first things first. I tiptoed through the room, trying to find the source without rousting the ire of some angry ghost. I honed my hearing. Closed my eyes. Focused. The closer I came to the shut attic door, the more certain I was that whatever caused the otherworldly sound emanated from within.

With a shaking hand on the knob, I twisted and...

The tinkling stopped.

Maybe it'd been nothing. A trick of the mind. Something from far away. Perhaps one of the weird neighbors playing out-of-season Christmas music at 3 in the morning.

I decided I didn't want to know. Some things are better off buried.

I ran back to bed, settled in, did some deep breathing, and...

"Santa Claus is coming to towwwwwn. He sees you when you're sleeping..."

Noooooooooooooo! The gentle tinkling had started to tinkle tinklously again.

This time when I wrapped the pillow around my head, I held on tight, riding out the long wait until dawn broke.

At some point I must've drifted off. I awoke to blessed sunlight streaming in through the window, a nice, toasty Summer sunlight far, far removed from creepy, fat bearded men in red watching me when I sleep.

In the cold, most assuredly unsupernatural light of day, I went into the attic. Looked around. Found nothing off, nothing askew, no signs of nocturnal visitors, human, animal or ghostly.

And went to work.

Then around midnight that very night, the music fired up again.

This time I prepared myself to face my supernatural tormentors. I flung open the attic door and...the tinkling stopped. I flipped on the light. Nothing.

When I got back in bed, damn Santa Claus started stalking me again with his horrific music box.

While I wanted to tell people at work about it, I knew they'd think I was crazy. Hell, even I began to think along those lines. I didn't know what terrified me more: being crazy or having an active ghost next to my bedroom.

The hauntings continued throughout the week. Finally, Saturday afternoon rolled around and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. I tore apart my mountain of rubble, my empire of past indulgences. I opened box after box. Like a madman, I ripped apart everything, exorcising my old teddy bear, my warped Frampton Comes Alive album, my designer jeans, everything I thought could be touched of otherworldly influence, until...

"He sees you when you're sleeping..."

Of course! The Christmas junk box! I opened it, dug through it...

"He knows when you're awake..."

And there was the culprit! A stupid, damn Christmas ornament. A battery operated globe enclosing a little train circling around a miniature North Pole. I'd forgotten to turn it off. Or...HAD I?

Why would the music have been intermittent? Why did it just now start in the dog days of Summer and lay dormant over the hard, brutal Winter? Why did it stop every time I came toward the attic?

Naturally, the only logical reason was that my house was built on top of an elf burial ground. 

While on the topic of hauntings, check out my historical ghost novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway. While it's not nearly as frightening as my post-Christmas haunting, the entire small mining town of Gannaway, Kansas is under siege by evil spirits, ghosts, bad men with fat wallets, and the "yellow-eyed fever." For more info, scoot on over here right now!

Cowering Beneath the Tree of Doom

My wife and I are living in a war-zone! Except we're under fire from our trees, not people! They've turned on us, declaring war, and determined to destroy us! Just like a crappy nature attacks film from the '70's! I halfway expect to see Ray Milland tooling around in our yard in a wheelchair, ranting and railing against "those damn trees!"

Whew.

So. Not too long ago, I told you about our neighbors' tree toppling into our yard and taking out the fence. You guys remember that, right? Hang on a minute...I've got it around here somewhere. Here!

We considered that a precautionary tale. For some time, a huge lumbering beast of a silver maple tree has hovered over our neighborhood, dropping heavy-ass limbs left and right in our backyard with wild abandon. One of the biggest trees in the 'hood, it looms over our house in an extremely threatening way.

My wife decided to call in an "arborist." What is an "arborist," I hear some of you asking? It's an extremely overpaid "tree expert" who tells you if the tree is sick or dying, that's what an arborist is. (Actually this is the second arborist to come out and investigate the tree; several years back we hired another arborist {taking out a second mortgage to do so} to look at the tree. Through intense{and costly! There went my daughter's college fund}scientific analysis, he said {with a very smug arborist's smirk} "the tree might be slowly dying, but it won't happen in your lifetime." I suppose he must've thought I was at death's door or whatever, but let's get back to the here and now, shall we?).

So our new arborist says, "Hmmmm. Looks like you've got some fallen limbs." (See what I mean? Science!)

"What do you recommend, Mr. Arborist?" I ask.

"Well...I think it's got some dead limbs up high, but the whole tree is still kicking. Let me get my guys out here to trim it up."

ZZZZZZZZ. THUD! KRAK! KABOOM! BUZZZZZZZ! "AIEEEEEEEE!"

On and on it went, with sawing and swearing and climbing and things breaking on our deck until they collected their big fat pay-check.

A couple of weeks later, we hear a big thud. Another giant branch had taken the plunge, mercifully sparing the lives of us and our dogs.

The arborist comes back out (my wife has him on speed-dial, I think), always very stealthy in the backyard, never bothering to let us know beforehand.

He writes, "Well...huh. That tree is deteriorating a whole lot faster than I suspected."

Annnnnnddddddd, that's why we pay him the big bucks.

So he looks at his guys' schedule and says he'll let us know when they can come back out.

A couple of Sundays ago, my wife and I hear a huge crash. The Tree of Doom split off yet another huge-ass branch, this one destroying our fence and landing in the other neighbors' yard, barely missing their carport.

Huh. 

So, we sorta stress the urgency of the sitch with the arborist. "For God's sake, hurry man, we're gonna die!"

Again, the wrecking crew come back and take down a third of the tree. Leaving behind the largest, tallest portion: the bulk of the tree that's going to topple onto us, and squish us into pancakes while we sleep. I'm almost afraid to sleep upstairs. Those trees have it in for us.

It's not like we've done anything to them. I mean, they really should be raging against global warming and the ensuing, crazy wind-storms. Or maybe the creeping disease that took out our neighbors' tree. How about the extremely wealthy arborist who's making a career out of taking our tree down?

Just don't kill us!

What have we learned here? 1) Trees can be extremely ruthless, merciless and revenge-minded; 2) Move to a neighborhood where the trees are but saplings and leave your grandkids to worry about it; 3) If you have a child, steer them into arboristry. You'll be set for life.

Speaking of nature run amok, there's a whole bunch of it on the loose in my horror short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Let's see...we've got killer giant spiders, sentient plants with murder on the mind, a lovelorn Bigfoot, an entire underground community of mutated monsters, and lots more. Take a look at it here. But for God's sake, don't tell the trees!

Back in the Lap of Godland

You guys ever visit little Godland, Kansas? Well, don't! Trust me... It's a small, ironically Godforsaken little rural armpit of a town stashed away in Western Kansas populated by...well, I don't want to give it away.

Maybe in my excitement, I got ahead of myself here...

You see it's fine to read about Godland. Just don't visit there. In fact, I would urge you to read my book, Godland, and then you'll certainly want to stay away from the Hades hole.

Godland means a lot to me. It was the first out and out horror novel I'd written and was initially published in 2016. Alas, that publisher went under this year, but thanks to the great guys at Grinning Skull Press, they've resurrected my very first horror novel and given me a chance to spiff it up (and correct a LOT of troublesome timeline issues). Ta-dahhhhhhh!

The novel introduces a lot of themes that came to trouble my sleep and dominate my books: dysfunctional families, evil people (sometimes worse than the supernatural kind), lots and lots of plot twists and surprises, multiple characters' point-of-views, a so-dark-and-nasty-you-gotta-really-dig-deeper-in-the-grave gallows sense of humor, and (I hope) an impending sense of dread and mounting suspense. All of this set in my stomping grounds of the sometimes creepy, at times terrifying, more often than not pious red state of Kansas.

Call if farm noir.

Wait...here's the big tease:

An embittered farmer.
A New York corporate raider.
Two teenage high school girls.
A failed small business owner.

Past and present collide, secrets are revealed.
These disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm
for a hellish night not everyone will survive.
Godland is a dark psychological suspense horror thriller.

A Midwestern nightmare.
Farm noir.

There you have it. Oh! I almost forgot... Some of the incidents in this book are based on real events. One particularly nasty scene (I'm not telling which) sprang from something that happened to my dad. Another incident occurred to a friend of mine. I'll leave it to you guys to suss out the reality from the fiction.

And if you guys are really, really nice and buy the crap outta this book, I'll toss you a bonus and drop my original, dunder-headed, so bad it's hilarious, "happy" ending in a future post. Thank Godland, I came to my senses!

Okay, folks, that's Godland, published by the great Grinning Skull Press (best horror editor in the biz!) and available through the omnipotent, unavoidable, faceless leaders of the world, Amazon. Kindle version or spiffy trade paperback. Tell 'em "Edwin" sent you. Go on...do it. And then wait for funny hi-jinx to ensue.

 

Sociopathic Childhood Pals

We've all had 'em. I'm not talking about bullies. I've enjoyed those, too, mostly because I was an overweight kid. (Fun fact: bullies hate fat. It's like being overweight personally affronts their otherwise good-natured, fun-loving, huggable temperaments). No, I'm talking about the kids we befriended as children who turned out to be Jeffrey Dahmers.

I was contemplating this the other night during a particularly nasty bout of insomnia and discovered that I've had quite a few in my upbringing (Hey, counting psychotic children is much more lucrative than wasting time counting those endless, infernal bleating sheep jump over a fence.) 

I'll start with my first because you never forget your first. We'll call him Dickie Hutchinson. I first befriended Dickie in the sixth grade where I found out that he had a collection of ultra-rare forties comic-books in his attic. Pleading with him to see these rarities, he continued making excuses about how he can't reach them or they fell into a crevice that would destroy the house trying to get at them. So, we found other things to waste time with (because that's what kids do; waste time. We can't drive, don't want to rely on parents, haven't quite discovered the opposite sex outside of nice smiles or cool attitudes, and haven't yet found a way to get beer). One day, Dickie and I were out walking past a suburban neighborhood privacy fence. Beyond the fence, a huge menacing dog growled, scrabbled at the wood, barked, and basically wanted to tear our throats out. A few minutes later, a collared cat wanders up to us. Dickie picks it up and pitches it over the fence. Then runs. I'm stunned, shocked. Felt horrible, but ran away as horrific yowls and meows ensued.

When I caught up to Dickie, I read him the riot act. "Why in the hell did you do that, you dick? (Sixth grade was when I discovered the fun of naughty words; still couldn't bring myself to drop any "f-bombs," though.)"

Dickie just shrugs, tries to turn it around on me. "Whatever. Don't be a pussy."

I storm off with these parting words, "You're a dick! And a liar 'cause your comic books don't exist!"

That was the end of that friendship. I had no idea he derived pleasure in torturing animals and I spent many a worried night about that cat.

See what I mean? That's how Jeffrey Dahmer got started.

But as I grew older, the sociopathic slant of my childhood friends changed as well. Animal torture was out. But turning on your so-called friends was the "new cool!"

Meet Barry Burgenstock. I did in eighth grade. He was new to school and even though a lowly "sevvy (seventh grader)," I soon discovered he shared an offbeat sense of humor with me. I just had to befriend him. For a while, everything was cool. We snuck into some R-rated films, had some laughs, cruised the mean streets of suburban Kansas at night and lived to tell about it.

Until one afternoon, I brought Barry home with me. My parents were at work, so we went outside to hang in the backyard. My friendly, retired neighbor was out. I hollered hello, introduced Barry. 

The neighbor said, "Hi Barry, how are you?"

Barry, with a stupid innocent grin, says, "Eat shit."

Crickets. Sooooooo many crickets.

Again, I was gobsmacked. As was the neighbor who blinked, turned snow white, than fire engine red, furrowed up that brow, and stormed inside. Once again, I yelled at my "friend" for doing this. He just grinned and said, "What's the problem? You're being a pussy." (Amongst boys, that word's the ultimate insult. I haven't used that derogatory term since high school, haven't even heard it until our ex-orange-president made it vogue again.)

Later on, I had to apologize to the neighbor one-on-one for my buddy's behavior. But stupidly, I gave Barry a second chance.

A couple nights later we were walking down the street. He'd found a metal pipe and started swinging it around. Suddenly he swung it at me a few times like a ninja with involuntary spasms.

"What're you doing?" My false smile trembled.

"I'm going to kick your ass." He swung it a few more times in front of my face. Then he threw it down. "I don't need that to beat your ass."

Through it all, I attempted to maintain my unsteady grin, thinking that surely he was pulling my leg. He wasn't. 

I walked away as he continued to hurl insults after me. 

I went through a LOT of "friendships" in my youth.

Finally, I'm reminded of Steve Brynner. Now, Steve was actually my brother's best friend (both one grade below me), and we'd started hanging out together a couple times over the summer after I graduated. All of us eighteen at the time, we discovered the joy of beer!

After one night in a bar, we walked back to the car, and Steve starts telling us how he could kick both our asses. Inwardly, I sigh. I've been down this path before, but can't lose face because I'm a year older. My brother just watches and Steve grabs me, throws me to the ground and starts wrestling with me as a huge crowd of teens gather to watch. No punches were hurled, but it was highly embarrassing, not to mention unnecessary. I didn't get it.

Later, my brother said he was a psycho and that he always turned on a dime.

Figures. A trait the West boys shared: really cool friends.

Cut to a year later, when I ran into Steve in Westport, the local summer College bar hang-out area. Outside of a bar he wanted to talk. I just sorta laughed him off, shook my head derisively, said, "whatever," and walked off with my friends.

Steve wasn't having it. In the crowded street, he starts screaming nonsense, howling like a madman as I sped up to get out of there. Seriously deranged, yelling weird things like, "You used to be my best friends brotherrrrrrr! And now I want to killllllllll youuuuuuuuu!" It went on and on, echoing throughout the buildings until his voice started choking with sobs and rage-filled tears.

Thankfully, that was the last either of us ever saw of him (even though he didn't live too far from us). Probably ended up taking his rage overseas. Or to prison.

There were several others, but these guys were the highlights. And I wouldn't be surprised if one or more didn't go the route of Jeffrey Dahmer. Maybe they did and just haven't been caught.

Maybe I need to be more careful in who I befriend. I don't want to ride out my golden years as a serial killer magnet.

While we're on the topic of serial killers, have you guys read my serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated? There're more serial killers than you can shake a stick at in these pages. Watch as they stalk, betray, befriend, and annoy one another. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped! In other words, good wholesome fun for the entire family. (And I'm pretty sure I'm friends with at least four of these guys). Check out the first book in the series, Secret Society, right here!

My Doggy Bodyguard

I feel so safe with Mr. Loomis having my back. For you see, he's my bodyguard.

It's not like we chose him to do this job. We didn't train him for the position. No, he's taken it upon himself to keep an eye on me 24-7, never letting me out of his sight, always following me even into the bathroom (which is becoming more of a communal experience in our house; not only does my wife have the uncanny accuracy of a heat-seeking missile while tracking me down whenever I'm sitting on the porcelain throne, but when you toss in two dogs into the small bathroom as well, it makes for a very unsatisfying time, if you know what I mean. But I digress...).

I have to wonder if Mr. Loomis feels he's doing a good job. Let's look at the facts: A) He's all of 22 pounds; B) He's fourteen years old; C) He's extremely hard of hearing. I have to kind of wonder what this little furry old man would do in case someone broke in. Piddle on the floor? What would he do if I fell and couldn't get up? Stare at me like I'm just one big bone as he always does?

Maybe it's in the breed. The Lhasa Apso dog originated in Tibet, where they were bred to be indoor "alarm dogs." They were taught to bark at fire and intruders. This makes somewhat sense, I suppose, in that Mr. Loomis doesn't want me to accidentally set myself on fire, but he rarely barks. Really, the only time he does yip is if he's pissed off at his sister, Bijou, or he wants to be noticed.

My other theory is perhaps something bad happened to his previous owner (we adopted the bonded duo) and he doesn't want to see history repeat itself. This kinda breaks my heart a little bit, but it also explains his neurotic tendencies, especially toward me. I can't sneak off to the kitchen without his shadowing me.

Now if only someone could explain why he's constantly licking the carpet. Maybe he just wants a steady diet full of fiber(s). (I know, I know, sorry, sorry, sorry...)

Speaking of furry critters, did you hear the one about that big corporation in Kansas City whose upper management is largely composed of werewolves? You haven't??? What's wrong with you??? Here's your chance to better yourself as a human being by reading my morbidly amusing horror tale, Corporate Wolf .

 

Bait and Switch at the Grocery Store

I didn't want to do it.

I never envisioned myself doing it.

But, recently, I went full-on Karen on a poor, hapless assistant manager at our neighborhood grocery store.

(Hangs head in shame.)

It really wasn't her fault either. I kinda knew that at the time, but when you're mad, you're mad. Yelling always helps. Well, not really... Or does it?

Anyway, my local big chain grocery store was running a promotion, the kind they do so often. If you're a card-carrying "Rewards" member, this entitles you to special sales, promos, gimmicks, and all kinds of crap. This week, the featured promo was if you spend $65 bucks on groceries, you'll get 65 cents off a gallon of gas. In this day of inflation with $4.00 gallons, that's what I'd consider a SCORE!

So, I start piling unwanted junk into my cart. Lessee...gotta have those bacon-wrapped jalapeno peppers, can't live without stuffed mushroom caps, french onion dip I need to sustain. You know, all the essentials. Anything to get the cart to tally up to 65 bucks.

So, the old check-out guy rings me up. When I get my receipt, I notice my 65 cent gas deduction isn't on there. I think, no problem, an oversight, I'll go directly to customer service and have it corrected, not the first time.

So the young girl grimaces and says, "Did you ask for it?"

"What?"

"Did you ask for it? You have to ask for it now."

Crickets. So many crickets. 

"I've never had to ask for it before," I say.

"I know," she says, her grimace growing. "It's a new rule that just came down from corporate. You have to ask the cashier for the discount."

My crickets slowly morphed into rockets red glaring. "It wasn't advertised! If that's not illegal, then it's highly unethical!" By this time, I'm gaining quite an excited crowd of looky-loos. Surely I'm on YouTube somewhere.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's not my rule."

"I'm not happy about this." I thought, wow, those strong words will show her.

"I know, I'm not happy about it either," she says.

"Well, can't you give me a break this once?" Like I'm pleading with a cop to let me go with a warning or something. "Can't you honor the gas discount since it wasn't advertised?"

"I wish I could," she says. "But it's the new corporate rule."

"I'm not happy about this." I keep chanting this like some kind of delusional mantra from a crazed bag lady. "I'm not happy about this." I hang my head, shaking it in disbelief. The further I travel through the store toward the exit, the angrier I'm getting. I can feel my face simmering with fireworks rage. I start yelling and cussing, Karen gone wild. "Goddammit! Had I known about this I wouldn't have bought sixty-five bucks worth of this crap! You didn't advertise it! That's illegal! Bait and switch! I'm not happy about this!!! I'm not happy about this!!!"

I'm getting louder and louder, truly looking and sounding like a schizophrenic bag lady pushing my cart by this point, yelling at no one in particular.

By the time I get to the car, I'm shaking. Ten minutes later, I'm home and feel really kinda bad about the way I treated the poor, hapless assistant manager. I've been searching for her for a month now, hoping to apologize, but haven't found her. I hope I didn't cause her to quit.

Meanwhile, the corporate office still hasn't replied to my Karentastic ranting messages. I wonder why?

While on the topic of bad behavior, there's plenty on display (of the "normal" and supernatural sort) in my darkly comic suspense thriller, horror, mystery, satire werewolf extravaganza, Corporate Wolf. Give it a look-see and learn how not to compose oneself in a corporate setting. (And how not to eat your coworkers). 

Melissa Etheridge...Unveiled!

I've got nothing against Melissa Etheridge. She's never done anything to me. But apparently she had to my friend. So in my endless efforts to uncover foul play and various hoo-hah through my intrepid reporting, I bring you this amazing expose! Hype! Ballyhoo! Maybe not even true!

I have a long-lasting friend. We'll call her "Carla." Carla went to Leavenworth High School in Leavenworth, Kansas, as did grammy-winning, multi-platinum superstar, Melissa Etheridge.

But all was not right with Ms. Etheridge. Apparently, she claimed to be dying (I'm not sure what the illness was). So Carla and her classmates decided to toss a fund-raiser and make all kinds of money to donate to Ms. Etheridge.

But...she didn't die. I'm pretty sure her classmates were waiting and waiting and waiting, the longest death watch in history. They got sick and tired of waiting. Anger spread around like wildfire.

And then...graduation! Ms. Etheridge beat feet on to fame and fortune, while the rest of her class wondered how they'd been scammed.

Okay. First all of my disclaimers: I don't know how much of the story is true. Oh, I have no doubt that Carla was telling the truth. But could it be possible that Ms. Etheridge was sick and miraculously got better? Or had it been an epic scam? Did Ms. Etheridge just want attention? High school can make desperate kids do desperate things sometimes.

Beats me.

I would've pressed it with Carla, but clearly she didn't want to talk about it any more, still carrying that ol' high school grudge. When you'd mention it in passing, Carla turned Hulkish and wanted to smash. I wasn't about to get in her way.

Years later, Ms. Etheridge was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 and successfully beat it. Today, she's known for being a big cancer awareness advocate. Good for her! And good for Karma!

We'll probably never know the truth. The only truth I know is that Ms. Etheridge won't be welcomed to come through Carla's window anytime soon.

Speaking of intrepid reporting, you won't find much of it in my historical ghost extravaganza, Ghosts of Gannaway, although it is (very loosely) based on the true events of Picher, Oklahoma. Excluding the ghosts, horror, characters, and story line. Everything else is true, though! (Mostly...kinda...sorta...maybe...)

I Have a...(gulp) Deviated Septum!

Hi. My name's Stuart and I have a deviated septum.

Greek chorus: Hi Stuart!

Not too long ago, my wife said, "I think you have a deviated septum."

My first response? "Well, thanks a lot! Rude!"

Honestly, I had no idea what it was. But just say it out loud. Go on, do it. I'll wait.

See what I mean? It sounds like I should be on the sexual offenders list or something. I suppose I should go door to door in the 'hood and introduce myself and tell everybody that it's part of my parole requirements to let them know about my deviancy.

Let's take a minute and break the term down. "Deviated" is derived from "deviant," which of course mutated from the ancient Greek term, "deviantus." And we all know what a deviant is, right? According to that know-it-all Webster...

...it means "departing from usual or accepted standards, especially in social or sexual situations."

Yow!

"Septum," of course, comes from a body part that was frequently used in Roman orgies ("Septumus"), later morphing into "Septic," and everyone understands what septic tanks are used for. (Of course, I'm going wildly on speculation here, but whatever; if major "news" outlets can make up stuff, so can I.)

So, putting what we've learned here together, apparently I suffer from a perverted posterior.

"I do not have a perverted arse!" I said, rather defensively.

My wife (who suffers no fool, which is odd she likes me) set me straight.  A deviated septum occurs when your nasal septum is significantly displaced to one side, making one nasal air passage smaller than the other. 

"Oh," I said.

It all makes sense now. I guess. It explains why my Covid mask nose clenchy thing is always swayed to one side. I suppose it might lend some explanation as to why I snore on my right side, but not my left.

Naturally, my dentist had to throw in her two cents. "Hmmmm," she says.

"'Hmmmm?' What's 'hmmmm?' Don't 'hmmmm' me when I've got tubes and your fingers in my mouth! Level with me, Doc! Are my teeth falling out??? What fresh hell does 'hmmmm' mean???"

(Of course this all came out as "Mmmm? Wha mmmm? Nah mmmm ee en ah gah uuh ah yah eeee..." Dentists always want to chat when your mouth is stuffed with fingers, tubes, and tools.)

"I believe you might have sleep apnea. I'm seeing signs of it."

So, I go in for a six-month check-up, and suddenly I'm leaving with this bagful of apparatus that I have to plug into my nose and strap over my head, chest and fingers. And supposedly sleep with.

"That'll be $400, Mr. West."

"What??? But...but...I didn't have any cavities! My insurance is supposed to pay--"

"We'll see you tomorrow."

As expected, I couldn't sleep, nothing new there. But this went the extra mile. I felt like a cyborg with all kinds of unnatural new add-ons not conducive for a peaceful night's slumber. I logged in maybe one hour tops.

After a month of not hearing from them, I gave the dentist's office a call. 

"Oh, sorry," says the dentist two days later, "I guess I missed the email. It looks like you have mild sleep apnea. We can hook you up with a device...let's see, it'll run about $2,500."

"$2,500! Because I snore? I can't afford that! That's crazy! I just wanted to get my teeth cleaned! Besides, I snore because I have a devia--"

"Um, there's no need to tell me about your personal life, Mr. West." (Okay, she didn't really say that, but I call it "taking artistic liberties." Sounds much better than lying.) "I would really recommend you get the device. Unfortunately, insurance won't cover it."

"$2,500!"

"That's correct."

"You do know that the results probably aren't correct, right?" I explain. "I mean, really, I only slept an hour. You understand that, right?"

A rattle of paper. "The report says here...that you have mild sleep apnea."

I knew she wouldn't listen. So, I decided to at least hear her out. "Okay, how intrusive is this device? I couldn't even sleep with the stupid test equipment on."

"Well, it's two pieces. The lower piece juts out your lower jaw."

"What??? I'd never be able to sleep with that! It sounds tantamount to torture!"

Long silence. Very long silence. "It's true some people can't sleep with it. But I would recommend you try it."

"$2,500 is a lotta green to throw down on an experiment I know I'll fail, " I say.

"I would recommend it."

Of course you would. "How 'bout I just lose some weight to stop my snoring?"

"I suppose that might help," she says, clearly doubtful that I can accomplish that goal.

"Well, how's that gizmo gonna fix my deviated septum, which is probably why I snore?"

"Mr. West, really...if you're going to talk like this, I'm hanging up now."

We went back and forth for some time, neither one of us coming to a settlement. Fighting dentists is harder than battling lawyers. I'm not sure who charges more either.

The moral of the story is never get a deviated septum.

Speaking of everything deviant, there's quite a few deviants running throughout the Dandy Drop Inn bed and breakfast. Maybe even some serial killer(s). But you'll have to check in to find out what I'm talking about. I understand their peach cobbler is just to die for! That's Dread and Breakfast, definitely (not) recommended by Oprah!

The Madness of March

Now I know why they call it "March Madness." You see, it's a sickness. I know only all too well. For you see, I too, recently succumbed to this horrible ailment, reducing me to screaming like a lunatic and bouncing off the walls.

Thank God I got better. It was touch and go there for a while.

Okay, those who know me understand that I'm not a sports guy. Gasp. Choke! Shocker! Anyway, I never have been and honestly thought I never would be. But this insidious March Madness is highly infectious, a pandemic of rabid sports fans gone wild.

Not too long ago, I visited my daughter. She said, cool, but we have to watch the KU basketball game for the tournament championship.

I grumbled and groused, begrudgingly gave in, thinking "how bad can it be if the beer's flowing?"

Turns out, pretty damn bad.

A little background: By all rights I probably should've been excited about the University of Kansas Jayhawks being in the final game. KU is my alma mater, after all. But anytime you have grown men playing with balls and other grown men painting their faces and screaming like banshees at the grown men stuffing balls into nets has always just made my eyes glaze over. I always thought that I'd never fall prey to such barbaric behavior, especially when there's really nothing at stake other then grown men shoving balls into nets.

I was wrong.

My daughter and I started watching the game. The beer's flowing nicely. I'm finding myself becoming increasingly interested in how KU is faring. At half-time, KU's down big and my daughter is pretty much resigned to their losing. But I stand by them. I'm starting to call them by their names like we're pals. I claim ownership and start saying things like, "Oh, we really blew it there" and "We were fouled!" By the end of the game--and it was a real nail-biter--my daughter and I are standing up, jumping, and screaming at the top of our lungs, "That's how we do! That's how we do!" (That statement shamelessly ripped off from Jaden Smith defending his dad's actions  at the Academy Awards. And that's ALL I'll ever say about that travesty.)

See what I mean, though? This March Madness is nefarious, reducing civilized people into screeching baboons and forcing them to proclaim ownership over a team of grown men playing with balls. (In truthfulness, this actually occurred in April, but the Madness carried over).

Whew. I wasn't proud of my my barbaric behavior. (You don't suppose multiple beers had anything to do with it, right? Nah, I didn't think so).

March Madness is aptly named. It's a disease. A bad one. (Actually "March Madness" is used as a sort of brand name for the NCAA Division 1 Men's Basketball Tournament. I can see two reasons for it being named March Madness: 1) The real name is a mouthful and a half. By the time sports maniacs spit out the full name, their enthusiasm will have been spent; 2) It's a nefarious illness. Duh.)

Won't you help me stop the March Madness? Please send all donations to me c/o Twisted Tales of Tornado Alley, P.O. Box Scam, Hickville, Kansas.

While on the topic of horrible, infectious diseases, something bad is affecting the miners of Gannaway, Kansas, and I'm not even talking about the ghosts and hauntings. No sir, the "yellow-eyed fever" is turning Gannaway's inhabitants downright homicidal. Come on over, pay a visit, kick your feet up, but don't dwell. It's a might downright scary town. Read all about it in Ghosts of Gannaway!