WHAT’S HOT features items and things that have generated a buzz around the internetz.
HOT: July-August 2013
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HOT: June 2013
The hospital room was small and dimly lit. The only occupant was an elderly man, asleep in bed. He was hooked-up to all sorts of drips and monitors. What was left of his dinner still lay on a try beside him: milk, a half-eaten apple and some tapioca. At a few minutes before eleven the door of his room creaked open. The yellow light in the hallway, the only light to be seen, projected the long shadow of a nurse across his bed. She quietly entered the room and softly closed the door.
The woman, the nurse, moved cat-like across the floor and then stopped at the foot of the bed and picked up a medical chart:
She eyed the chart for a moment and then she returned it to its place and took two steps until she loomed over the sleeping man. She pulled back the covers and studied the man for a moment, like the way that someone might stare at a particularly unusual specimen of insect, and then with complete dispassion she reached behind her neck and unzipped her uniform. It slid to the floor. She was completely nude.
The woman lifted up the man’s hospital gown, revealing his naked torso, and then she bent down and placed her lips on his genitals, taking them into her mouth and slowly stroking the shaft until the man’s penis began to grow hard. The old man, still unconscious, began to moan. The nurse then spread her legs and mounted the old man, placing his semi-hard cock inside of her. She began to slowly grind her groin rhythmically against his pelvis and, after a few moments, she too began to softly moan.
Suddenly the old man’s eyes fluttered open and as the reality of the situation gradually became clear to him, he opened his mouth to shout. Without missing a stroke the woman picked-up the man’s half-eaten apple and then crammed it in his mouth, jamming it in deep in order to silence him. The old man looked comical, like a suckling pig. The old man began thrashing wildly like a bucking bronco in an attempt to throw the nurse off of him, but she held on tightly and continued to ride his penis, and he only succeeded in pulling the drips out of his arms and knocking over his heart monitor.
Then the old man’s body suddenly stiffened and his eyes rolled back in his head, signaling both a sexual orgasm and the fact that he’d just suffered a major heart attack. A moment later he lay still.
The nurse ceased her pelvic gyrations and then bent down and listened at his chest. No heart beat. She placed her fingers on the pulse point on his neck. Nothing. Satisfied that the old man was dead, the woman slid off of him and stepped back into her uniform. She then took a small washrag out of her purse and wiped the old man’s semen from between her legs and from where it had spilled onto his belly. She then took the apple out of his mouth and bit off a large chunk of it as she exited.
At the bar in the Meatpacking District the scene was that of a typical Tuesday night: scores of overly-made-up women on the make and men drunk on testosterone and well-brand vodka, both on the prowl, both doing the dance called the hook-up to the accompaniment of throbbing dance music blasting from the speakers.
At the far end of the bar, smoking an electronic cigarette and sipping a dirty martini, sat a stunningly beautiful woman with a cascade of sooty black hair, cherry lips, long legs and eyes so blue that they appeared to be two lumps of coal. She was sheathed in a body-hugging, raven-colored, Tom Ford dress constructed completely from alligator skin and lace, and she exuded a heady funk of danger, a perilous perfume that hinted of kinky, illicit sex held in swanky penthouse apartments and in the back of sleek black limousines.
Every eye in the place, both male and female, was on the woman, mentally undressing and ravishing her imagined naked body; every furtive glance that fell upon her was one of pure, unadulterated animal lust and she not only knew and courted this she expected it.
At the other end of the bar sat two fellows, both well-heeled business professionals by the cut of their Brooks Brothers suits and insufferable douchebags by the tone of their conversation, one blond and the other bald. They were among those who were mentally raping the woman as they nursed their cocktails.
“Man-o-man, would you get a load of that,” said the blond douchebag. “That, my friend, is Grade-A ass.”
“Yeah. Prime pussy,” the bald douche replied.
“I’d like to drill her like a jackhammer.”
“Dude, I’d drill her so hard oil would be spurting out her ass!”
The two men laughed into their drinks, both content to lust at her from afar because they knew that they were nowhere in her league and to act upon their thoughts meant being shot down with extreme prejudice by the beauty.
Sitting next to the two douches was another man, cool and laid-back, athletically built and masculine, wearing a one-button midnight blue Armani suit, a lavender shirt, a grey silk tie that bore a subtle design of human skulls and Carlo Pazolini shoes. He had an angular face and wavy black hair, stylishly cut but swept back from his forehead revealing a small gold earring in his left lobe. His eyes were a rich brown and were piercing and his lips were full with a slightly cruel curl to them. His name was Johnnie Romano. He laughed at the comments of the two douchebags. The bald douche turned to Johnnie, a scowl on his puss.
“Something strike you as funny, pal?”
“You guys sound like a couple of high school jerks,” Johnnie said. He sipped at his drink and allowed his comment to sink in.
“How’s that, pal?”
“Neither one of you actually have the balls to ask her out.”
“Yeah,” snorted the blond douche, “like you do.”
“Yeah, well, she’s just a girl,” Johnnie said.
“Yeah, right,” bald boy said. “You know who that is, pal? That’s Amanda Stroyer.”
“Aptly named,” snorted the blonde.
Johnnie shrugged. “So?”
“So? So her old man’s richer than God.”
Johnnie smiled. “I don’t care if her old man’s the Pope, I ain’t asking him out. Besides, rich bitches still fuck don’t they?”
The blond douche laughed. “You got a better chance fucking the Pope than fucking her, dude.”
“Yeah? Well I bet I can get a date with her.”
The two d.b.’s chortled. “Sure pal, you keep dreaming.”
“No, I’m serious. I bet I can get a date.”
“Yeah?” The blond douche was suddenly interested. “How much?”
“Huh? How much what?”
“How much do you bet?” Baldie reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet.
Johnnie eyed the man’s billfold. It was packed with bills. “Oh, well, I didn’t mean -”
The two douches laughed. “Yeah, about what I thought…” Baldie said. He thumbed through his wallet. “Five hundred bucks says she tells you to go fuck yourself.”
“I said that I bet you five hundred that she tells you to fuck off. “ He slapped five one hundred dollar bills on the bar.
“Shit, let me have some of that action,” blonde boy said as he slapped a mix of fifties on the bar. Johnnie eyeballed the cash and then he looked up at the men. They were smirking at him like a couple of cunts.
“Okay,” Johnnie said. “But let’s make it interesting…” He slipped off his Rolex and sat it atop the money and then eyed the douches with a dare. They gulped. Johnnie smiled. “Yeah? What do you say? Money talks. Bullshit walks.”
Baldie slipped off his Rolex and sat it next to Johnnie’s. Blondie did the same with his Tag Heuer.
“You’re on,” Baldie said.
Johnnie smiled and then threw back the rest of his drink. “Watch and learn,” he said as he stood up and walked over to where the beauty, Amanda Stroyer, sat.
The two douches watched – as did half of the bar – in anticipation as Johnnie began to chat with her, and then they collectively held their breath as he leaned over and whispered something that no one could hear into her ear. Amanda then slapped Johnnie hard across the face, stood up and stormed out of the bar. Everyone in the place howled with laughter.
Johnnie rubbed his reddened jaw and walked sheepishly back to his chair and sat down. “Sometimes the magic works, sometimes the magic doesn’t,” he said with a shrug. “At least I tried.”
A moment later the door of the bar flew open and Amanda swanned in. To everyone’s astonishment she marched over to where Johnnie sat and, without a word, she grabbed him by the arm and began to pull him toward the door.
“Well, what can I say fellows?” Johnnie said as he scooped-up his winnings. “Delayed reaction.”
Two minutes later Amanda and Johnnie were ensconced in the back of a black limousine, headed uptown. Amanda reached over and grabbed the cash in Johnnie’s hand and then flung it out of the window.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnnie cried as he watched bills sail away into the night.
“If you love something set it free,” Amanda replied. She dug a fingernail into a small plastic baggie and then sniffed up the coke.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Johnnie said. “That was a thousand bucks.”
“Oh c’mon Johnnie,” Amanda said with disdain. “Don’t be such a bore. You know this isn’t about the money to us. That’s just how we keep score.”
Johnnie sighed. “Well, sure but, shit Amanda, money’s still money.” He gave a nervous laugh. Amanda turned on him, her sweet mood suddenly soured.
“Yeah? Well, if money’s so Goddamn important to you I’ll stop the car. You can scrounge around on the street for it. Like a dog.”
“I didn’t say it was important, baby, it’s just… Never mind.” Johnnie turned and stared out of the window in a sulk; watching as street numbers rose higher: 34th Street, 42nd Street… Amanda pulled out a checkbook. “What are you doing?”
“Money seems to make you happy, so I’m making you happy.” Her voice was cold and brittle. She ripped the check from her book and handed it to Johnnie. He looked at it for a moment, ten grand, and toyed with the notion of taking it, but then he scowled and wadded it up and flicked it at her.
“I don’t want your fucking money.”
“What’s your fucking problem, Johnnie? You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass for the last week.”
“Nothing. I’ve got some things on my mind, that’s all. Excuse me for being human.”
He turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”
“No,” she repeated. “I won’t excuse you for being human.”
Johnnie started to reply but she cut him off. “You do what you want when you’re alone, you be a human being, you work your problems out on your own time. But when you’re with me you’re fantasy, okay?”
Johnnie didn’t know what to say. She sensed his anger and then leaned over and nuzzled his neck, but he pushed her roughly away. “Jesus–get off of me! What sort of coke-brained shit is this? I’m not a fantasy, Amanda, I’m a real live human being with real live human problems.”
Amanda eyed him coldly. “In that case, I don’t have any use for you, Johnnie.” She leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Paulo, would you stop at the block?”
The limo stopped at the end of the block and the rear door opened and Johnnie went spilling out on to the asphalt. The rear door then closed and the limo pulled away. As he lay on the pavement he could just make out the bumper sticker on the back of the car:
“Jesus Told Me He
Doesn’t Love You.”
Johnnie got up and silently cursed as he dusted himself off. He discovered a rip in his trousers. His knee was bleeding. He began to walk. As he limped his way toward the end of the next block he saw the limo parked at the curb. He stopped and looked at it. A moment later the rear door was pushed open – an invitation. Johnnie swallowed what was left of his diminishing pride and clambered inside.
HOT: April 2013
There’s been a wave of interest in my new novel ICE which should be available for purchase in mid-April. ICE is a psychological thriller that tells the story of a mild-mannered, small town barber who steals a valuable necklace on a whim and then undergoes intense psychological terror as an insurance investigator tightens the noose. Before long the barber is on the run with the blood of numerous victims on his hands – or is he? Everything may not be as it seems.
HOT: March 2013
“Zany, goofy fun. Had me laughing out loud several times.” – Times Journal & Review
“‘Sciency-Fictiony’ humor at its best since Douglas Adams rode his thumb through the galaxy.” – Barton’s
Thanks to all of the recent asteroid and meteor and other celestial activity since late 2012, my novel “The Myoshi Effect” has suddenly gone from being a goofy tale about an asteroid headed toward earth sure to cause the end of the world, the splitting of the US in to two separate countries and an invasion of the US by Canada, until now seems almost prescient. Obviously, because I suppose everybody has asteroids and/or certain death on their minds, the sales of “The Myoshi Effect” have put it in the #1 spot on the “What’s Hot” chart. Here’s the first chapter and, like they always say “The first taste is free…”:
THE END IS NIGH
March 1st, 2020. The grand ballroom of the Hilton hotel in Nampho, North Korea was crowded with members of the press, bloggers, official delegates, distinguished scientists, dignitaries, high-tech visionaries, millionaires and billionaires and heads of state – all of who had had gathered, from far flung regions around the world, for the start of the Third Annual International Global Warming Conference. There was much work to be done that week, a lot of hard decisions to be made about how to move forward, but tonight was for fun, for catching-up; an evening of crystal chandeliers, elegantly appointed tables, lively discussion and flowing Champagne served by black-tied waiters.
The house lights then began to dim, everyone’s cue that the evening’s program was about to begin, and so the small clusters of conversation broke up and everyone went to find their assigned seats.
Dramatic music filled the room, a score written specially for the conference by the Oscar-winning music composer John Williams, as a massive L.E.D. viewing screen was lowered and then a filmed presentation on global warming began.
The chairman of the committee, Professor Ira Helsinki, sat alone at a small table near the edge of the stage and sipped at his vodka Martini. He gave the film scant attention – after all he had produced it – and instead he scanned the room, doing a little people watching, making mental note of everyone that was present and especially of those that were not.
He was pleased by the turnout. Al Gore was there (of course) and Bill Gates. There were several assorted influential senators and lobbyists, as well as the usual celebrity/activists, actors and musicians – but there were also a few surprises, like the noted Texas oil billionaire T. Boone Pickens and that extremely right wing conservative radio host that always called global warming “a hoax; an attempt by the liberal left to codify their ideology as science.”
While it was quite probable that he was there just to start some trouble, the fact that he was wearing a disguise brought up the question as to where or not he actually believed the rot that he espoused on air, or whether he said it just to appeal to a lot of tin hat wearing morons that paid his salary, and that he secretly believed in climate change.
Helsinki smiled, knowing the surprise that he had in store for them. It was going to blow them all away, it was going to rock their world – hell, it was going to rock the entire planet! But most of all it was going to make him a celebrity, a household name. He was going to be somebody, a man of destiny.
He’d be on all of the television chat shows: Today, Good Morning America, the Tonight Show, the Daily Show… Hell, he might even get his own show, on the Science Channel or something or, at the very least, he’d get a book deal (did the public still read those? he wondered) and even some sort of medal wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. He’d done the calculations.
As the film drew to a close he rose from his chair and strode across the deep rose carpet, over to the podium, and waited for the house lights to come back up. When they did, and the audience applause finally died away and he had finished fiddling with some papers, he donned his reading glasses and then read a prepared statement:
“Three decades ago,” he began – he smiled inside, he was in fine form and the little bit of reverb on his voice sounded nice – “I stood at this very podium, along with my fellow scientists, and stated that there was little doubt that the planet was experiencing a ” – and here he made quotation mark fingers – “‘global warming’ – a new term at the time – and that over the last century Earth’s core temperature had risen by around 1-degree Fahrenheit – or 0.6 of a degree Celsius – and that this was the warmest the planet had been since the mid-1800’s.”
He paused as the clapping overtook him. It always amused him whenever people applauded that line. He knew that they weren’t applauding him for what he had said, because what he had said was a terrible truth – an inconvenient truth (he’d never forgive Gore for stealing that phrase from him) – but that they were applauding him because he was so brave for saying it. He knew all of that, but it still amused him.
He adjusted his glasses and then continued: “I also stated at that time that if nothing was done to prevent this trend, then the global temperatures would rise by 3 to 10-degrees Fahrenheit by the century’s end – enough for the polar caps to melt and submerge a vast majority of our countries borders under water.”
He took a sip of water and waited again for the applause to subside. He drew a deep breath, as he was about to blow their minds. “Today I stand here to report – happily – that through the committed and diligent efforts by our world leaders and by the citizens of planet Earth; through the use of hydrogen power, synthetic chemical fuels and, most importantly, the criminalization of aerosol cheese products: We have successfully reversed the planet’s warming trend; that the Earth is, in fact, cooling.”
As he’d expected, this drew enthusiastic, fervent applause, cheers and whistles from the crowd. Helsinki smiled and had to speak louder over the rising commotion: “The latest findings show that the icecaps have stopped melting; that sea levels have stabilized; that the rainforest is replenishing and that several very cute polar bear cubs have been born in the Artic!” He then put down his report and addressed the audience directly. “Ladies and gentlemen, the point is, for all intents and purposes, the war against global warming… is over. Earth is saved. We won!”
The crowd erupted in wild cheers and applause and whistles. Several people hugged and cried. Al Gore fell to his knees and wept like a baby. Bill Gates fainted. As more John Williams music reverberated through the room, Helsinki stood at the podium, his arms stretched out wide, and basked in the adulation. “We did it people…”
After a moment his aide, who had had to push her way through the shouting, dancing, singing crowd, reached the podium and she leaned over and whispered something into Helsinki’s ear. The professor’s face sank.
“Are you certain?” he whispered back to the aide. She nodded gravely and handed him a piece of paper. He scanned it quickly, his face growing more dour and somber as he read. Professor Helsinki then held up both of his hands in an effort to quiet the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen!” – but no one was listening. He pounded on the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen PLEASE! If I can have your attention please…” He took the microphone and placed it near one of the audio speakers. This caused an enormously loud audio feedback that squealed incessantly, like a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, but it did the trick and eventually managed to silence the crowd.
Once he had their attention he held up the piece of paper that his aide had given him and waved it like a white flag. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been informed of some… very bad news…” He sighed. “Scientists and astronomers at both NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, as well as at the Near Earth Object Information Centre in Great Britain, have just reported that… an asteroid, known as 2020-QQ47, has escaped from the star belt located between Mars and Jupiter… and that it is headed on a direct collision-course with plant Earth.”
There was a horrified gasping as the audience took in this terrible news. Helsinki continued: “2020-QQ47 is estimated to be roughly twenty-five-million-tons, 1.5 miles wide and that… on impact… it will have the effect of sixty-five million Hiroshima atomic bombs.” Horrible and terrified screams erupted, and the people began to run toward the nearest exit in complete panic.
“Impact is estimated to occur somewhere along a curving thirty-mile-wide swatch, stretching across Russia, the Pacific Ocean, Central America and on into the Atlantic. Managua, Nicaragua; San Jose, California; Mexico City and Carcass, Venezuela are all in line for a direct hit… and complete destruction.”
The screaming and shouting people were now violently pushing and shoving each other out of the way as they all struggled to exit the ballroom simultaneously. The actor, Brad Pitt, punched one of the members of the band, the Foo Fighters, in the nose after he had attempted to cut in front of him. The folk singer and activist Joan Baez, who had been scheduled to perform that evening, had her guitar smashed against a wall after she had tried to calm the crowd with a rendition of “Put Your Hand in the Hand of the Man.”
Helsinki was still speaking at the podium; his voice was now low and laced with dread, distressed at both what he was saying and in the knowledge that what he was saying meant that his hopes and dreams for fame and fortune were now irrevocably shattered.
“The potential strike date is one month from today,” he mumbled. “in the afternoon hours of April 12th. Around two-ish.” He then tossed the paper into the air and gave out a sardonic laugh. “Well, out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire, huh?”
To purchase THE MYOSHI EFFECT click HERE
Copyright © 2012 by Jim Yoakum
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.