Hunter & Spider Newsletter: Happy Samhain! Wish You Were Here Pre-Order, Bad Romance Cover, & More

ABOUT THE ARTIST: ALI HENSON
Alicia Henson has been drawing since she was old enough to hold a crayon. Nowadays, she tends to draw fantasy characters such as vampires, demons, mages, or mermaids. You can find her Tumblr @  www.tumblr.com/vampyr-nyrd or Instagram @alih_creates.


ABOUT THE BOOK:
Bad Romance features Alan Augustine in his first full-length adventure, and is heavily influenced and inspired by the music of pop, punk, and emo artists like Marianas Trench, Good Charlotte, Smashmouth, Madonna, & Lady Gaga.
 
Alan Augustine hasn't been lucky in a very long time, so when a too-good-to-be-true business venture drops in his lap, he snatches it up. Unfortunately, a few of his old clients aren't too thrilled. And he can't seem to stop seeing grim omens in his tarot. 
 
PRE-ORDER & RELEASE DATES: 
Wish You Were Here is now available for Pre-Order on Kindle. The book itself will be released December 21, 2023.

Our hope is to release #6 Bad Romance on New Year's Day, 2024. 

BAD ROMANCE SNEAK PEEK: SOY UN PERDEDOR

“Is it customary to tip?” John asked.

Alan Augustine pulled his black mesh t-shirt back on, tousling his thick, black hair into some semblance of style. “Well, did you have a good time?” 

John’s tanned skin betrayed a blush. “Yeah.” 

Alan smiled, sliding in close to John to help button up his navy blue dress shirt. “Did you want to do it again sometime?” 

“Yeah.” 

Alan placed his palm against John’s cheek, giving him his sweetest look. “Then yes, you should tip.” 

Alan left the backroom of Moonlight with an extra fifty bucks tucked into the front pocket of his tight red jeans. It was ladies night and the club was slam-packed with all types. Women in short, tight skirts, men eyeing them and anything else that passed by. Purple and blue lights strobed through the shadows of the club, illuminating the low stages upon which Infernal strippers danced. Alan saw Lurleen, her blue skin laid bare, a long, toned leg wrapped around the pole, arched backward so her gorgeous breasts were on full display, her long sapphire blue hair trailing on the floor. 

Squeezing his way through the crowd, Alan made his way to the bar. Two bartenders worked, slinging cocktails and beer bottles left and right, stuffing bills into the lockbox beneath the counter. It was too busy to bother passing out change. 

After several minutes of trying and failing to get either bartender’s attention Alan draped himself dramatically on the bar top and loudly asked, “Whose a guy got to fuck to get a drink around here?” 

“Yeesh. I hope you’re gonna give me a better cue than that.” 

Alan identified the voice in less than a second, and spun to find the speaker. 

The werespider sat at the end of the bar, under a smokey halo, and before a small cup collection. When he drank, Crimson liked to stack his cups upside down on the counter, much to the chagrin and dismay of demonic bartenders the city over. One shot glass lay on its side. The others made a precarious nine glass pyramid.

“Hey, precious.” Crimson had two pet names for every person he met. With Crims, it was always “sweetheart” or “precious” or “doll” or “angel” or some other endearment. In the low light, his young-old face had a grayish cast, like faded celluloid film. Blood dehydration. And bad. The ailment hit spiders harder. Granted, a little fading wasn’t unusual. In fact, for as long as they’d known each other, Crimson had always gone through spurts where, for a month or four, he grew too morose to eat or socialize. Today, he looked even grayer.  

“How’sit goin’?” added Crimson.   

“Better, now you’re here.” 

The werespider, Crimson Apocalypse, was a lean, tall, drink of a demon, with dreamlike dark eyes, a spaghetti western demeanor, a hard boiled voice, and a fickle, dual nature. An oversimplification perhaps, but… that was how he looked, acted, and sounded. That was who he was. That was Crimson. “D’ya have a poison of preference this evening, mi amor? Appletini? Sangria? Old Fashioned?”

“I’ll drink whatever you’re buying,” Alan said. “But just for your personal reference, old fashioneds are vile, repulsive, nasty, and bitter, and anyone who says different is stuffed with nostalgic syrup and hot horseshit.” 

Crimson knocked back two thumbs of top shelf tequila, and capped his glazen creation with a tenth shooter. “So don’t order an old fashioned then. Order somethin’ else. Order anything on the menu. Whatever your heart desires. Or. Whatever will getcha sloshed the fastest. If that’s whatcha prefer.” 

Crimson talked a lot with his hands and the proximity of the glass tower made both Alan and the nearest bartender flinch at the werespider’s every emphatic gesture, of which there were many. 

This anticipation distracted Alan too long from answering, thus Crimson continued on his tangent uninterrupted, “C’mon. Didja hear me? Or dontcha have a poison? You might as well order whichever’s to your likin’. Don’t let the dimes an’ nickels dissuade. I won’t pay a penny, whatever ya order. I helped ol’ Mr. Loomis solve a little problem yesterday evenin’-- nothing worth a true favor, see, but serious enough he felt compelled he should make me some small compensation. And I said don’t sweat it, we’d straighten it out later, but Looms’ the sort’s gots to square things on the spot or else he tosses and turns and can’t get to sleep at daybreak. Well, you’d know.”

Alan didn’t. Not really. He kept on good terms with Mr. Loomis, but did not relish his company. Loomis felt likewise about Alan and the other employees, so they never did more than exchange baseline pleasantries.
 
With no response forthcoming, Crimson persisted on with his story. “So me an’ him bartered back and forth a bit and then, in the end, split the difference in drinks! I know, what a sucker. It’s like he don’t even know me or somethin’, huh? Now, you’d better order, ‘fore he catches his mistake an’ cuts me off.” 

A mistake, indeed. Crimson’s werespider constitution in conjunction with constant use (and abuse) gave him a high tolerance for substances, even amongst the demonic. His all-liquid digestive system meant he could comfortably consume upwards of forty-two liters of fluid. A shooter of tequila weighed barely an ounce. Alan’s one drink wouldn’t dent the overall bill. 

Alan ordered a cosmopolitan. He didn’t ask what sort of problem Crims had helped the proprietor, Mr. Loomis, solve. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted a drink. “What do I owe you?” 

Crimson warded off the question with a wave, the disruption contorting and twisting the halo. “Say, weren’t ya listenin’? We can talk about all that later. No hurry but-- Hey, by the way, are ya up to anything the third week of April?”

WEBPAGE UPDATES:

- Here's hoping everyone is having a wonderful Samhain! Strangers in the Night is free today on Amazon in celebration. 

- There's still time to Vote in the September-January Poll. This poll will directly contribute to the writing of The Hunter and the Spider #7, so be sure to make your voice heard.

- Book Reviews will now be included on www.hunterandspider.com.

- Read EM Jeanmougin's flash horror, Chilled Coffee.

OPEN CALL FOR BETA READERS: 
Beta reader feedback helps us make better choices. Beta readers are likely to receive digital copies in early-to-mid-November. Copies will be in next-to-final draft condition and may contain errors. Volunteers will be credited in the Acknowledgements section. If interested, please contact us @ hunterandspider@gmail.com   

Thanks again for all your support and encouragement.

X-O-X-O-X,
EM & Jay