Today I’m excited to welcome author Beck Sherman to my blog. This is part of his blog tour for his book ReVamp.
Say Hello To My Little Friend
In case you are unfamiliar with this movie line, it was spit from the mouth of Al Pacino in his role as Scarface, right before he machine-gunned about a billion of his enemies. I mean, they were on his property. Stupid enemies. When it comes to people doing us wrong, most of us aren’t Cuban drug lords with the luxury of heavy artillery. Sometimes we yell, sometimes we ignore, sometimes we do get our sliver of revenge. But mostly, we move on and box up the hatred deep inside, where it will stay, perhaps forever.
As a novelist, writing is my machine gun. Sound weird? Maybe. But that’s how I get things off my chest. High school bully, overbearing mother, conspiring coworker. I say, kill them all. In words, that is.
In reality, the characters in my stories aren’t just nameless, faceless ideas, despite the disclaimers (ahem). They’re real people that I’ve known in the past or still know, and one character can be a combination of several people. Some of these people I have pleasant memories of, and others, not so much. But whether they’re my Hitler or my Gandhi, they will get dropped intomy worlds, where the former most likely won’t fare too well and the latter may struggle but will live the life of a hero.
So how do I do the deed, you ask. As a horror writer, there are numerous, gruesome revenge methods at my disposal. To name a few, well, we have axing, boiling, crucifying, dismembering, eating, falling, guillotining, hanging, impaling, jack-hammering, knifing, liver-removing, machine-gunning, napalming, overdosing, poisoning, quartering, rats, suffocating, torturing, unboweling, vampire draining, whipping, x-raying (to death), yo-yo pummeling, and zombie hording.
Now on to the moral of this guest post: be nice to others. Or more specifically, be nice to me. Because you won’t like me when I’m angry and typing.
And to the Beamer driver who cut me off at the lights today on Dorchester and Broadway – I’ll be seeing you in my next book.
FOR THREE DAYS, IT WAS DARK.
News reporters scrambled. This was the biggest story to come along in weeks.
They called it a blackout.
The last one was in New York City in 2003, but this one was different, special, because the grids in six major cities across the country had been fried, kaput, see-you-next-Sunday. Everyone with some jurisdiction blamed each other, and when there was no one left to blame, terrorism rode in on its gallant steed.
It was the media’s fault. They were so busy stuffing fanatical Muslims with a penchant for Allah and decapitations down the American citizen’s throat, that they never saw it coming. I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on them.
They were partially right.
It was terror after all, but a whole new kind. And when the lights came back on, things had changed.
The dark had brought us visitors.
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