A real man always carries cash. At best it's your bribe, at worst your rolling papers.
Ah, that magical land where you can pick a fight and claim self-defense. Wait, are we talking Florida or Iraq?
When I eat strawberries, I like to pretend they're the wizened hearts of my enemies. Ah, memories.
I'm chagrined at the necessity of even mentioning itespecially in light of the fiasco that was Chairman of the Boardbut the very novella that kickstarted my so-called career back in 1985 is in print again.
It's called Deus ex Machina, and though I wouldn't wish a copy of this abortion on my worst enemy, I sincerely hope you'll grit your teeth and buy a copy.
It's coming in an e-blah version later this year, but until then you can get the (admittedly attractive) hardcover edition here. For a limited time only, my publishers have discounted it by 25%. (I suspect that, to them, "a limited time" means "forever," but don't delay anyway.)
Here's what those bean-counting freaks have to say about this appalling little volume:
With the computer called ARTHUR, Cliff Peabody has made a major breakthrough in artificial intelligence. It should be the most triumphant event of his professional career -- but why, then, is the federal government invading his laboratories? Why is half the country suffering an inexplicable power outage? And, most disturbing of all, why is reality itself going haywire in the vicinity of Cliff's office?
To learn the answers to these questions, Cliff will have to sacrifice everything -- and everybody -- that has ever been precious to him. And even then, there's no guarantee that he'll like what he discovers. Especially when it points toward the overthrow of the ultimate Creator of the universe itself...
First published in samizdat form in 1985, this rollicking, inventive, and blasphemous sci-fi adventure heralded the emergence of Perry Slaughter as a force to be reckoned with in American letters. Nearly three decades later, Deus ex Machina still retains its power to shock, astound, and entertain.
Falser words were never spoke, but if you're the type to be swayed by blatantly pandering marketing copy, by all means please click through and buy right this instant.
And hold onto your hats, because Sinister Regard still has one more of my books in the hopper. (But not in the Dennis Hopper.) Lord have mercy.
I'm here to make your Christmas just a bit more colorful, with a cozy little story I wrote a few years ago, and which my less savory associate Mr. William Shunn deigned to record for me a few years ago.
So pile another log upon the fire, gather the family around, turn up the volume on your streaming media device, and attend to my sweet seasonal tale "Jolly St. Nick Is Dead, Alas."
I was microblogging before microblogging existed. We called it writing on the bathroom wall.
Call me a pop-culture idiot, but I thought Britney Spears was a male porn star from northwest France.