Snippet Saturday
Oct. 19th, 2013 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdSo, Undeath and the Detective comes out in time for Halloween. I'm doing serious promo work. There are guests on the blogspot for the next few weeks.
Today, it's Gay Totltl Kinman, Agatha Nominee and Eppie winner.
Snippet Saturday:
This is from my story in Undeath and the Detective, "S is for Succubus". It's a DJ Admire story
It was a slow Thursday evening. A light rain fell, turning the smog into mud on everyone's windshields and making the sidewalks steam. I had settled in with my good friend Captain Morgan for a nice long weekend binge. Maybe I could forget some of the things giving me nightmares. Here in Memphis, being a private investigator and sometime-skip tracer is one of the messiest jobs around. The only worse one is beat cop. The Preternatural and Magical Squadron isn't called The Bitch Patrol out of deep, abiding affection. Magic isn't good for humans. It makes us mean or crazy, or both.
I had emptied my pockets onto the desk: a crucifix (which was mostly useless except on brand-new vamps), Star of David (ditto, and it only worked on Jewish ones), garlic, wolfsbane, rose petals (all smelly), cold iron and salt (very effective), a .44 with silver bullets, .22 with regular ones (pretty useless), holy water (even less useful) and a couple ash stakes. One of these days, I was going to upgrade and start carrying a Desert Eagle. Sure, it only holds seven, but it has enough stopping power for things that the .44 doesn't even slow down.
I hate this town. If it isn't winter ice storms, it's summer heat and humidity. Being a normal who knows about the Nightside of Memphis only makes it worse. The Nightfolk know I know. That's even worse. The benign ones hire me. The nasty ones, well, let's just say I don't carry all that stuff 'cause I like the bumps it makes.
Me, I'm a No-Talent. That's someone with just enough of the mana to know about the Nightside, and maybe use some charms. But I didn't have enough to train, just enough to drive me straight into a bottle. No-Talents have a life-expectancy of about thirty-five. I was pushing forty. Let's hear it for beating the odds.
Today's Sound of the Season, a classic that doesn't get aired:
Creepy Pics:
Today, it's Gay Totltl Kinman, Agatha Nominee and Eppie winner.
Snippet Saturday:
This is from my story in Undeath and the Detective, "S is for Succubus". It's a DJ Admire story
It was a slow Thursday evening. A light rain fell, turning the smog into mud on everyone's windshields and making the sidewalks steam. I had settled in with my good friend Captain Morgan for a nice long weekend binge. Maybe I could forget some of the things giving me nightmares. Here in Memphis, being a private investigator and sometime-skip tracer is one of the messiest jobs around. The only worse one is beat cop. The Preternatural and Magical Squadron isn't called The Bitch Patrol out of deep, abiding affection. Magic isn't good for humans. It makes us mean or crazy, or both.
I had emptied my pockets onto the desk: a crucifix (which was mostly useless except on brand-new vamps), Star of David (ditto, and it only worked on Jewish ones), garlic, wolfsbane, rose petals (all smelly), cold iron and salt (very effective), a .44 with silver bullets, .22 with regular ones (pretty useless), holy water (even less useful) and a couple ash stakes. One of these days, I was going to upgrade and start carrying a Desert Eagle. Sure, it only holds seven, but it has enough stopping power for things that the .44 doesn't even slow down.
I hate this town. If it isn't winter ice storms, it's summer heat and humidity. Being a normal who knows about the Nightside of Memphis only makes it worse. The Nightfolk know I know. That's even worse. The benign ones hire me. The nasty ones, well, let's just say I don't carry all that stuff 'cause I like the bumps it makes.
Me, I'm a No-Talent. That's someone with just enough of the mana to know about the Nightside, and maybe use some charms. But I didn't have enough to train, just enough to drive me straight into a bottle. No-Talents have a life-expectancy of about thirty-five. I was pushing forty. Let's hear it for beating the odds.
Today's Sound of the Season, a classic that doesn't get aired:
Creepy Pics:
