thank you, stevie!


ok, here is an exerpt from The Master’s latest novel, “Duma Key.” just a little nibble for ye; go to cheap-mart and drop your own $16.88 and you can experience the entire entree! i am certain that the best is yet to come, but i already have a huge shit-eatin’ grin {whoever coined that disgusting phrase?}, and i just opened the book!

his wit, craftiness and sarcasm is what draws me to him, and keeps me hungry for more. i also happen to cherish the way he secretly names people according to their personalities or traits…

for you Constant Readers, you well know that although he has been called “the master of horror,” the body of his work is not always terrifying monsters that jump out at you in the dark. sometimes it’s the very real, palpable terror of what transpires in the deep dark regions within the mind.

…just at page ten, already reeling me in with his introduction to characters so familiar, they could be people we all know:

   …”Kathi Green the Rehab Queen had only been divorced once, but she and Tom were on the same wavelength. I remember her sitting cross-legged in her leotard, holding my feet and looking at me with grim outrage.
      “Here you are, just out of Death’s Motel and short an arm, and she wants to call it off. Because you poked her with a plastic hospital knife when you could barely remember your own name? Fuck me ’til I cry! Doesn’t she understand that mood swings and short-term memory loss following accident trauma are common?”
      “She understands that she’s scared of me,” I said.
      “Yeah? Well, listen to your Mama, Sunny Jim: if you’ve got a good lawyer, you can make her pay for being such a wimp. Some hair had escaped from her Rehap Gestapo ponytail and she blew it back from her forehead. “She ought to pay for it. Read my lips: None of this is your fault.”
      “She says I tried to choke her.”
      “And if so, being choked by a one-armed invalid must have been a pants-wetting experience…”


      My next visitor was Dr. Kamen, the psychologist who gave me Reba. I didn’t invite him. I had Kathi, my rehabilitation dominatrix, to thank for that.
      Although surely no more than forty, Kamen walked like a much older man and wheezed even when he sat, peering at the world through enormous horn-rimmed spectacles and over an enormous pear of a belly. He was a very tall, very black black man, with features carved so large they seemed unreal. His great staring eyeballs, ship’s figurehead of a nose, and totemic lips were awe-inspiring. Xander Karmen looked like a minor god in a suit from Men’s Warehouse. He also looked like a prime candidate for a fatal heart attack or stroke before his fiftieth birthday.
      He refused my offer of refreshment, said he couldn’t stay, then put his briefcase aside on the couch as if to contradict that. He sank full fathom five beside the couch’s armrest (and going deeper all the time–I feared for the thing’s springs), looking at me and wheezing benignly.
      “What brings you out this way?” I asked.
      “Oh, Kathi tells me you’re planning to bump yourself off,” he said. It was the tone he might have used to say Kathi tells me you’re having a lawn party and there are fresh Krispy Kremes on offer. “Any truth to that rumor?”

o.k., that’s all for now. gotta go…back to Duma Key.


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