The Gonzo Wolf Stretches, Irritated By Morning’s Inconsiderate Glow…

It’s Friday morning; my cheek squished against the couch cushion. I think my butt was dangling in the air as though I was attempting to get a White House promotion. It’s dry, though. The hole, I mean. That’s always a good sign. Either it was all in my head or I didn’t get the job.

The first song to kiss my ears on this day:

Geez. Remember Iron Eagle? That Top Gun knock-off with two equally crappy sequels? It shared the same effects styles and foley work as Red Dawn, and it drove me insane. The disadvantage of being an alien in the mid-eighties. I could hear deception in Hollywood trickery.

Seriously, it’s like a super power. The world calls it Autism now, but I’ve always possessed the keen ability to find auditory similarities and imperfections. Looped tracks in old Disney movies? Over-produced rock music? It tortures me still. It’s why I was so attracted to Electronic Voice Phenomena in the early 2000’s. EVP’s were my investigation bread and butter for ten years.

I’ve thought about that a lot lately, as I knew I would.

My deal was that I’d dip my toe back into the paranormal pool and NOT chase every ghost and cryptid who crossed my path; literally, figuratively & virtually.

I still have fever dreams of locking myself in the back room with a set of wired, over-the-ear headphones for eight hours at a time. Why would I do such a thing? Multiple digital voice recorders needed reviewing, whether it be behind white noise or a conversation two of my group members were having within detection range. I never heard anything worth repeating. It would explain why certain members didn’t want to operate in those areas, though. Seriously, that whole “Me and Daphne will go this way; you, Shaggy and Scooby go as far away from us as possible so you won’t hear the moist snogging” gig is fire. Unfortunately, there’s not much room in ambulances. There is a bed, of sorts. Convenient.

Disclaimer: Don't dwell too much on those last lines; it's an inside joke. It's been a decade now and I feel as though I can incorporate the shenanigans into my schtick. I know it's about as comedic as a papercut from the Bible on your pee-pee head, but the joke was meant for me. Applause is inconsequential to my enjoyment, but I digress.

The new tagline on this page is “Write as though love’s illiterate.”

In the dawn of my craft, I did so incognito. No one knew it was me. It was so liberating to thirty years of pent rage. Then I was published. Big mistake.

Speaking of which…

The Dime Western Returns!

“Reading Jim Walker and the Redemption Hymn is equal parts quirky fun and riveting action. Cloud’s confident, entertaining voice draws the reader in like an old radio western: the perfect bite-sized story with a main character you’re ready to follow through every adventure he finds himself on. So, tune in next time…”

– Megan Stockton, author of Lovely, Dark & Deep

The history books would read that Jim Walker was brutally executed after the Battle of Goliad, but a few promises in the right ear blurred the contrast between blood and ink. Now an aging bounty hunter on the verge of retirement, his services are requested in the Northern Arizona Territory to solve the terrifying mystery of the Verde River Massacre. With guns from a local Deputy, courage from a saloon proprietor, and a deathbed confession from an all-too-familiar Medicine Woman, Jim sets off on what could be his final adventure. Will he lay the ghosts of his past to rest once and for all, or is he simply whistling his Redemption Hymn?

Signed & Personalized

From Amazon

Since then, there’s been those who monitored my work for various reasons; keeping me in check via various blackmail subjects. Even today, twenty years and two lifetimes later, there’s still a family here in Dallas who monitors my shit closer than the 8mm snuff films they have hidden in the safe. Also, the Klan cops back home think I don’t notice them when they get lost in my neighborhood ninety minutes away. The sniper perch sees all, as it should. No need in selling defective sniper perches these days.

I just don’t care anymore. What are you going to do? Spank me and take away my birthday? The world is on fire; I give two poops and a poke about wealthy society’s pre-conceived levels of naughty. Naughty is a point of view, and subject to interpretation by the individual. At least, that’s how it would’ve been perceived in a court of law prior to the Trump administration. Free speech will get you shot nowadays. My only retort is that I hope they’ve been attending the gun range on a normal basis. If you fire, don’t wound me. I’ll beat your ass to death with a bloody stump, and laugh the entire time I’m doing it. Maniacal is also a point of view. On paper, at least.

Today, I must venture to the eye doctor who’s monitoring a degenerative imperfection in my right eye. I despise the ocular poking and prodding, and ask they’d just give up and hand me my goddamn eye patch. We’ll see how he feels when I show up with a head full of crop and my pupils are bouncing all over the place like a game of Pong. It’s Friday; have a sense of humor, doc. Sounds like something from a mid-nineties Jim Carrey movie. Man, what a time to be alive.

The best part of all of this is driving home through Dallas traffic with my eyes dilated. It’s like buying a new videogame and instinctively beginning it on the hardest difficulty setting. Legend.

I may or may not be bullshitting in the two previous paragraphs. I just wanted Daddy Warbucks & his skeletal arm-candy to gasp collectively over their morning blood smoothies. Goddamn vampires; the lot. I’m into aliens now, though. Running through Highland Park with a backpack full of wooden stakes sounds exhausting. I’d make an exception if my “Willow” wanted to come with me.