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Monday, May 23, 2016

Sonnet

Count Basie and His Orchestra the fun’ral service play
Let cats cut rugs as flappers kipple till the break of day
Let vodka and tequila flow with whiskey through the crowd
And every thought be spoken and each speech be laughed aloud

Release the clowns!  The dancing bears!  Have Nero play his lyre
Confetti streets and motorcades and factories on fire
Shall light the way for mourners come with sparklers and balloons
No thorny walls, no teardrop falls, save for in old cartoons

I am not a dying gate, Porphyria yet lives
The maelstrom is a thing for fools who ledger as they give
And shout demands with silent looks, and club with flowers, cards and books
I can yet travel by the day and cross the running brooks

Be damned to rivers!  Tributaries never brought me joy
In anything!  Cast down the ocean!  The kraken is a toy
For old Greek ghosts who kill their hosts and sieve for water at the coasts
Those who go outside and live are those who ‘member me the most

Seal me in and face me down, dry wood and broken bone
If I am to be interred, best if I go alone

Monday, May 16, 2016

Illuminati

 Jasper Mala Necklace decorated with a Buddha pendant


There are one hundred and eight beads in a Buddhist’s mala.

I am told there are no coincidences. I am told this as proof of the Reptilians, and of their plans for world domination as revealed by the writings of that old prophet, Robert E. Howard.

I am Illuminatus.

This is the Law of Threes. My sensei tells me that there are one hundred and eight pressure points in the human body. So far, I have found only nine: the square of the third prime number. Nine is a potent number, but not completion. One hundred and eight reduces numerologically to nine.

In German, nine is a negation. Buddha had a hundred and eight statements of negation, and Jesus had twelve disciples. Jesus was a Buddha. Nine times twelve is a hundred and eight, so I know it is true.

I am told there are no coincidences.

This is the Law of Fives. There are seven letters in the name Axl Rose. Axl Rose is an anagram for Oral Sex. That means sixteen-year-old Sharon E. looked down on him and thought of cunnilingus. Sixteen reduces numerologically to seven, the fifth prime number. 

Sixteen is also the square of four… which, times forty-five, is a hundred and eight. Forty-five is nine times five. Robert E. Howard was first published at the age of twenty-three, which reduces numerologically to five.

I am told there are no coincidences.

There are one hundred and eight cards in the ancient Greek card game, Uno. This is because all the ancient Greeks were Buddhists. Penelope had one hundred and eight suitors, until the day that Odysseus returned and reduced them numerologically to zero. If we had only stuck to cunnilingus, we wouldn’t be in the boat we’re in now, and we would all be illuminated.

 Greek food pyramid | Eat Healthy | Pinterest

Sunday, May 15, 2016

We Have a Winner!


 bugs bunny Whats Up, Doc? Bugs Bunny Tickets at Wolf Trap

While I do not have the lady's permission to give out her identity, I heartily congratulate her just the same. She will soon be receiving by post the first three books of the O4S series, all inscribed and autographed!

And for those who did not win, please do not despair. The Order of the Four Sons series will continue to be available online, in both ebook and paperback format, as evidenced by the links to your right.

Keep reading, and and keep having adventures!

Sometime again,
--Coyote.





(Bugs Bunny is property of Warner Brothers, all rights reserved.)

Monday, May 9, 2016

And Now, a Random Gazette

I have now officially been accepted back into college after my hiatus to help the Dowager Empress with her living situation. With that, I should be able to begin classes again this coming fall.

And there was much rejoicing!

Fanfare: Sydney Opera House – Young Composers on High Alert! | The ...
There is also still time to enter the contest Lauren is holding to celebrate our release of Book III: Where Flap the Tatters of the King. If you weren't already aware, the winner gets autographed copies of Books I-III delivered to their door! (The initial offer was for one of your choice, but a misunderstanding on my part quickly became the winner's gain.) You can enter here, until the 15th.

The Order of the Four SonsO4S Book II: CarcosaWhere Flap the Tatters of the King

And yes, it's true: Lauren, my esteemed co-author and friend, is moving from the Midwest to sunny Florida. Her husband, Patrick, got a new job there. New adventures beckon from white sands and emerald waves, and they will make the perilous journey with only their wits and their Ferocious Beasts to guard them.

Bane of all the Technologeez.

But while this will give us a few challenges here and there, never fear. We will continue writing until the series is done, and perhaps even longer. One of the glories of modern technology is that distance is simply not the barrier it once was.

The Dowager Empress is preparing to dwell in her new and permanent home. Lauren is embarking on a new journey across the land. I return to academia, triumphant. In addition, I will have two of my Magnificent Offspring attending college themselves soon, shortly followed by the third. All this, and continuing formatting in preparation to release Book IV. This is a time of change and adventure for everyone, and I could not be more excited.

Coming soon: I will have the pleasure of interviewing author D. Allen Rutherford. Mr. Rutherford is the author of The Wargs Trilogy, as well as a former army officer and a retired international technology consultant. Until then, keep reading, keep living, and keep having adventures!

Sometime again,
--Coyote.



(Trumpets picture courtesy of thecultureconcept.com; photograph of the most ferocious of all possible beats courtesy of laurenscharhag.blogspot.com; the three covers for our books are, of course, by the ever-talented Erin Kelso. All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

She

She walks with the grace of ten thousand suns
The shadows fall in behind her
Her eyes are the tales of bittersweet risk
Her lips a goblet of silverlost wine

She is the Maiden whenever she wishes
She gasps with surprise as her legs lock behind
The Mother in her heart as she guides their steps
The Crone in her hands as she washes the dead

She stares at the light and beckons it forth
And follows its course to extinction
She calls to the darkness and echoes its howl
And wears midnight rain as her vestments

She gathers the green where there is only stone
And leaves her footprints in the dust
She is a creature of infinite worth
And it has been an honour to know her

--Coyote







(Pic is courtesy of judgybitch.com, all rights reserved by the original artist.)

Monday, May 2, 2016

Hunt for the Ferocious Beasts

Elmer+Fudd+pictures+looney+tunes-+Elmer+Fudd+Color+Sticker.jpg



The first clue when I woke up that day was the terrible state of things.  Every lived-in room has its own certain rhythm, like a fingerprint.  And what I woke up to was not the particular chaos I was used to. 

The place had been ransacked, tossed like a veritable Caesar salad.  Cracked door frames and stair rails, broken picture frames, book shelves shattered.  Tiles smashed, windowpanes with gossamer spider webs glistening in the moonlight.  Half my books were gone, and all my porn, though what was left was neatly alphabetized.  My periodicals weren't gone, but parts of them were missing.  Paragraphs and even whole sections had been cut out from my magazines and newspapers.  And whoever these phantoms were, they’d taken my entire firearm collection, my swords and assortment of medieval weapons, and my Body Count CD, first edition. 

A few of my son’s video games were missing, as well.  But only the best ones, marked “M for Mature.”  And so were my daughter’s birth control pills.  In their place were pamphlets and bumper stickers.  Their schoolbooks were also missing, though there were applications in their place.  It seemed that McDonald’s was always hiring. 

But I had been left with a bullet-proof vest, a lifetime’s supply of Viagra, an old back copy of the Village Voice, and a brand-new leather bound bible. 

Strange burglars, indeed.

I donned the bullet-proof vest and stepped outside.  All my neighbors were out, watching the house.  A few had brought out grills, and were cooking steaks.  To one side, a game of frisbee had started up.  At once, I began my interrogations.  Had they seen anything?  What did they hear?  Could anyone give a description?  They mostly shrugged, though a few pointed and laughed. 

“Serves you right,” I heard one shout from a safe distance.  “How could you sleep through all that, anyway?”  I had to admit, that was a fair question.

I called Officer Obie to check the place out, but he just looked and shook his head.  “Nothing to do, young fella,” he said, “Your garden variety crook I could handle, and for the Mob we’ve got the FBI.  But you’ve been hit by the Ferocious Beasts.  There’s nothing to be done about that.”

The Ferocious Beasts?  My mind spun.  There had to be some mistake, those two hated each other.  And anyway, there was no trace to be found.  I looked again, but no: not so much as a track.  But Officer Obie just nodded.  “Oh, they’re clever, but sure it was them.”  He showed me what I’d missed before: the hoof marks in the garden I’d taken for oversize deer tracks, the foot prints in the peanut butter.  “You’re not the first they’ve taken this way,” he told me, “and sure as gravity you won’t be the last.  They’ll fight in the daylight like George and the Dragon, while their followers curtsey and wave.  But at night they split the profits by two, and laugh themselves to sleep.”

“Well, then, what are we waiting for, Obie?” I said, “Come on, let’s bring them in!” 

But Officer Obie just laughed gently, in that oh-you-poor-kid kind of way.  “Nothing to be done,” he said again.  “I’d help you if I could.  But if it was the Ferocious Beasts, well son, it ain’t even a crime.  Still,” and here he got all thoughtful, and his eyes got a strange kind of look.  “It’s how you slept through it all that beats me.”

After Obie was gone, I took an inventory of my own.  Maybe I’d been pushed too far at last, or maybe I was just angry at myself.  Regardless, I loaded up on what was left.  I’d seen all the movies.  I grabbed a bear trap and a couple of kitchen knives.  Magic Marker to camo up my face.  Boots, shades, breeches and belt, gusseted pants and a spare cell phone . . . and my great-grandpappy’s harpoon gun that I kept around for “just in case.”  Not much to work with, I grant you.  But I had a killer’s eye.  And with my mission branded on my soul, I headed out after my prey.

It’s an easy thing, actually, finding Ferocious Beasts.  For one thing, once you know how to look, their spoor is unmistakable.  For another, well, it wasn’t exactly like they were hiding.  They were playing Watch Me in a railway shed, money on the table, and five aces in every hand.  When I opened the door they became stock still.  But actually they were pretty relaxed about the whole thing.  That should have warned me.  “Now, you two freeze, or we’ll settle this here and now,” I said.  “Cards on the table and your hooves held high.  You, with the ivory – nice and slow.  That’s right.  And you – you’d better cut out that braying crap.  This thing’s liable to go off.” 

That last part got their attention, and from then on they were more cooperative than I’d ever have believed.  Not that I blamed them.  It’s one thing to be threatened by a stone cold killer.  It’s another to think some squirrely amateur is waving something in your face that might go off by accident.  First we found all my things in the back room, and then we sat tight and I made a few calls: news stations, cops, the works.

Everybody got there within around twenty minutes.  And with them all working together, they were able to get some wonderful footage for the ten o’clock news of me in handcuffs, being led to the police truck by Officer Obie.  He drove me to the local hangout of the Goddamn Gendarmes and dropped me off, shaking his head all the while.  There, I was stripped, hogtied, tossed into a wicker cage, poked with sharp bamboo sticks, covered with powdered sugar, paraded on talk shows, and ultimately used for a one-hour documentary on the antisocial mind, available on DVD and Watch It Now.  The Ferocious Beasts are nowhere to be seen in the film, of course.  Out of respect for their privacy, and their families.

So, now it seems I’m a terrorist.  Funny.  I’d have thought I’d have to chain myself to something for that kind of recognition.  There’s some debate between the Ferocious Beasts as to whether I should get a trial or not, and the public is just eating it up.  The good news is I did finally get a lawyer, and he haggled them down to lethal injection if found guilty – originally, there had been talk about crucifixion.  Well, one takes the little victories where one can. 

But even on camera, Obie spoke kindly as he took me away that night.  “Sorry, kid,” he said.  “I warned you, or at least I tried.  Anything done by the Ferocious Beasts, well, it ain’t even a crime.  But still,” he said, and he got that look again.  “It’s how you slept through it all that beats me.”

Beats me, too.

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(Elephant art by Daniloco, courtesy of designcrowd.com; donkey art courtesy of libertypundits.com; Elmer Fudd is (c) Warner Broters.  All rights reserved by original creators where appropriate.)