Excerpt:
I stow my tablet, and pull an empty
shoulder harness out of a drawer. Standing, I slip it on, before going to the
nearest bookshelf and pushing it aside to reveal my personal armory. I move the
Magpuls out of the way to grab two Beretta special duty pistols. They’re in
dire need of replacing, but they’ve seen me through quite a few tight spots
over the years, and I hate to fix what isn’t broken.
As I make my way down the stairs, Justine’s
stuffing a stack of bills into her desk drawer. Looking up at me, she winks and
points out the door. “Your chariot awaits.”
The moment I step out the doors, I wish I
hadn’t.
Parked in my driveway has to be the most
godawful atrocity ever built on four wheels—a Pepto-Bismol-pink Hummer, with
matching cow print seats that are edged in the ugliest blue, fluffy, faux fur
fringe I’ve ever seen. It’s like a train wreck—you want to look away, but the
horror of it won’t let you. Oh God, are those multicolored rhinestones on the
spinners? This is a crime against nature and an abomination to the car gods.
The passenger window slides down, and she
yells, “Get in, we’ve got places to go and people to see.”
I wish fervently for nothing more than to
pass through the rest of this day unseen, especially if I’m being forced to
ride in that…thing.
“You’re kidding, right?” Pointing at the
vomit-inducing heap of pink, I say, “Please tell me you didn’t pay actual money
for this oversized Barbie go-cart.” Shaking my head, I fold my arms and stand
my ground firmly. “Nope, not doing it. I refuse.”
After snapping several photos with her
phone, she throws back her head and laughs. “Get in, you big baby, or I’m
leaving you here.”
Oh God, the shame. The closer I get, the
uglier it becomes. How’s that even possible?
With immense regret, I slip into the seat,
mumbling, “Your parents did a bad job raising you.”
She backhands me in the chest and points.
“Buckle up, buttercup. I’m not paying a $180 ticket ’cause you’re a whining
bitch.”
Grabbing the rhinestone seatbelt, I feel
nauseated. “You’re a horrible person. You realize that, don’t you?”
She lifts her phone and snaps several more
incriminating photos. “Oh yes, yes I do! The look on your face makes it worth
every last cent I paid for it on eBay. You look absolutely ill…my life is
finally complete.” She looks up at the sky, closing her eyes in prayer. “Thank
you, God. This is the best day ever.” She cackles once more and turns into
traffic.
“God can’t hear you when you’re driving
such an abomination.”
She steals a glance at me. “Then we should
consider ourselves lucky, since neither of us are on his list of favorite
people. You because you’re an ass, and I’m guilty by association.” She holds up
her phone again. “Smile.”
Blurb:
My name is Viktor Engel Warden, and I’m
here to tell you that there’s more to this world than you might suspect.
There are things that slither and pass
unseen through the night, and it’s my job to stop them. But sometimes that’s
easier said than done. Twenty years ago, I ended a nightmare that would’ve brought
the world to its knees. I thought it was over…but I was wrong.
The Cult of Fenrir has returned, and
they’re stronger than ever. Now I’m in a race to find the survivors of that day
so I can stop them again. Permanently. If I get things wrong…which I wont…but
if I do…it might just bring about the apocalypse. But, hey, no pain, no gain,
and all that BS. Right? Yeah, I’m not buying it either.
Amazon
US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N3S3C0P
Amazon
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N3S3C0P
Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01N3S3C0P
Author bio:
Ken Lange is a current resident of the 'Big Easy', along with his partner and evil yet loving cats. Any delay, typo or missed edit can and will be blamed on the latter's interference.
He arrived at this career a little later in life and his work reflects it. Most of his characters won't be in their twenties and they aren't always warm and fuzzy. He is of the opinion, that middle aged adults are woefully underrepresented in fiction and has made it his mission to plug that gap.
Translation, he's middle aged and crotchety.
Twitter: @KenLangeAuthor
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