Oh, I can't just write books, you say? I need to market myself, do I? Like I'm a hydrogenated snack unit, here to feedertain you? Well, fine, then, I'll quit throwing myself into traffic like a sensible person*, settle down, and waste good novel writing time TO DITHER ON A GODDAMN BLOG.
FREE SAMPLE: Chapter 4 of Robert Ignatius Dillon's BEYOND THE BUSH
I'm just giving the family jewels away this week. Here's the fourth chapter from this truly odd satire. If you want to know what the hell is going on, just cough up $3.99 (is that less than a latte? I wouldn't know, I take my coffee as black and bitter as my heart) right...
“You are close to the edge,” repeated Eddie, presiding over his Brain
Trust den, known as “The Think Tank.” “As in: one more slip-up? And we send you
to the Body Banks!”
Dice shrugged, “Big deal.”
Dice smiled, “Body banks,
Eddie? As in, prostitutes?”
“Shut up, ass-clown!” shouted Eddie. “Don’t clown my ass! At Brain
Trust, you don’t get to make your own rules!”
Eddie said, “Here’s one rule you broke, Dice. You do not GET UP AND WALK
AWAY FROM A BRAIN QUALITY TEST.”
Dice said, “Look, Eddie. Fat Guy was talking trash.”
“Trash in your can, Dice!” bellowed Eddie. “New rules. As follows.
You’re going to Bronstonia. And you’ll do as we tell you! Got it?!?”
Dice squinted, “What’s Bronstonia?”
Eddie sipped some Michelob Beer, and he sighed loudly.
Dice said, “I’m being exiled, Eddie?”
Eddie said, “Think of it as a paid vacation, Dice. You’ll love it.”
“How can I refuse?” sighed Dice.
“Now,” said Eddie. “Do you know the Hollywood area well?”
Eddie said, “Very well. Jack Bronstein’s brownstone is a 20-minute drive
from here. You will find spare keys in the bird bath.”
“And then?” said Dice.
Eddie said, “I’m getting to that. You let yourself in. Then? Then, you
jump out the window.”
“I do WHAT?” gasped Dice.
“You jump out the window, Dice.”
“I’ll break my legs!” protested Dice.
Eddie smiled, “You won’t, Dice. At Brain Trust, we don’t just do genetic
“Yeah,” scoffed Dice. “Ya deal in bull—”
“Shut up!” snapped Eddie. “Inter-dimensional travel, Dice. Testing the
limits of space and time!”
Dice yawned, “What if I say no, Eddie?”
Eddie drew a gun, and he said, “You can’t say no!”
Dice shook his head.
“Don’t worry about your legs,” said Eddie. “Don’t worry. You will land
in Bronstonia. It’s a land of many…it’s a land of plenty. Happy trails, Dice.”
“Eddie? I have a question.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” shrugged Eddie.
Dice said, “This Jack Bronstein guy. Didn’t he work here?”
“Yeeaahh,” said Dice. “Jack Bronstein did Brain Quality Tests! And he
was supposed to do one on Fat Guy!”
Impatiently, Eddie sipped his Michelob.
Dice asked, “What, uh, what happened to Bronstein?”
“If you MUST know,” said an annoyed Eddie, “Jack was thrown out of the
Fat Clone Project. We moth-balled his ass!”
Dice burst out laughing.
Eddie barked, “It’s no joke, Dice! The Brain Quality Test is serious
business. Now get serious! And get out of here.”
Dice puffed on a cigarette, and he laughed, “Moth balls!”
“You smell like moth balls,” remarked Fat Guy.
Down in the Brain Trust basement, Fatty was seated across from Jack
Bronstein, and Hollywood’s Martin Sheen.
Jack puffed on a cigar, and he said, “Don’t bug me, Fatty.”
Fatty joked, “Your tie doesn’t match your suit, Jack!”
Jack made a face.
“This grab-ass doesn’t fool me,” said Fatty.
Jack quipped, “No fooling!”
Martin said, “Gentlemen, let’s begin, please?”
“Hold up, Martin,” said Fatty. “This Goldfinger grab-ass may fool YOU,
but it doesn’t fool me.”
Jack grinned. “Like the 1964 James Bond movie, right?”
“Just like that!” smiled Fatty. “James Bond gets captured. Gert Frobe’s
Goldfinger villain lets James Bond go. Then? Then? James Bond shows up on Goldfinger’s
stud farm, a half hour later! Like nothing happened!”
Martin took a bottle of vodka from a desk drawer.
Fatty said, “Here’s the thing, Jack. You ain’t no James Bond 007.”
“Martin is no Goldfinger,” continued Fatty.
Martin poured three glasses of vodka.
“Drink, Fatty?” smiled Martin.
Fatty said, “Not just yet, Martin.”
Martin made a face.
“Never say never again,” said Fatty. “But I am no Odd Job!”
Jack quipped, “What? ‘Never say never again.’ Huh?”
Martin explained, “Sure, Jack. Never Say Never Again is the
upcoming James Bond film, starring Sean Connery.”
“I’ll have my drink now,” smiled Fatty.
Martin handed Fatty a glass of vodka.
“Well, I never…” mused Jack.
“I don’t do odd jobs for NOBODY,” muttered Fatty.
Jack grabbed a vodka, and he pounded it.
Gagging, Jack spit out vodka.
“How does anybody drink that stuff?” he gasped.
Fatty sipped some vodka.
Martin sipped some vodka.
Jack said, “Sean Connery is back as 007, huh?”
“What happened to ROGER MOORE as 007?” wondered Jack. “What about Octopussy?”
Martin frowned. “Knock it off. This is no time for—”
Fatty slammed his glass on the desk, and he barked, “Hey! You can both
shut up! What’s goin’ on here?!?”
“I’m here to narrate the Brain Quality Test,” Martin said calmly.
“Hold it,” growled Fatty. “This stretches the limits of credibility.
Even for California. First, I get kidnapped. Then I’m smokin’ with Andrew Dice
Dickman. Then? Some DOG Soldier from the BODY Banks picks me up for copyright
violation! What is this?!?”
Jack sighed, “We’re all ‘Blade Runners’ now, Fatty.”
“Really?” smirked Martin. “I thought we were all ‘little people.’ Eh,
“Yeah?” laughed Jack. “Except for Fat Guy!”
Martin laughed, and he poured some more vodka.
Fatty said, “Funny stuff, Jack. Keep it up.”
Jack raised his glass.
Fatty yelled, “Keep it up, skin job! And I’ll knock you into the middle
of next Wednesday!”
Jack put down his glass.
Martin said, “Take it easy, Fatty. Intellectual capital is a valuable
thing. Those copyright laws are there for your protection!”
Fatty sipped his vodka, and he sighed, “Unbelievable. Jack is a
back-stabbing SKIN JOB. Always has been. No big surprise. But YOU, Martin?
You’re a Hollywood hero! What are you doin’?”
“It’s just a job, Fatty,” said Martin.
Fatty scoffed, “SKIN job, more like.”
“Brain Trust is all wrong,” went on Fatty. “They suck people’s
brains—and they spit out the seeds!”
Upstairs at Brain Trust, Eddie Berthanse was talking to his boss, Dr.
“The seed money has been arranged,” grinned Eddie. “It’s official.”
Distracted, Biddaddy looked up from his Lincoln Log set, and he said,
Eddie said, “Yes, Doc. Bronstonia is up and running! I need to fill you
in on some details.”
“Are we sending people the right message, Eddie?”
“Of course, Doc!”
Biddaddy said, “Sure, ya wanna present mind control in a flattering
light. Image, and whatnot.”
Eddie smiled triumphantly.
“But, Eddie?” said Biddaddy. “You’re naming a theme park after a cheesy
“Knock it off, Doc,” snapped Eddie.
Eddie said, “Listen up. If you say the name ‘Biddaddy’ in Bronstonia,
there’s a stiff fine.”
“Why?” gasped Biddaddy.
Oblivious, Eddie said, “No Alice In Wonderland stuff, either.”
Biddaddy said, “No?”
“Uh-uh,” said Eddie. “No red pills—and no blue pills.”
The Doc shook his head.
Eddie went on: “And I’ve made a decision about the MUSIC in Bronstonia,
Doc poured a glass of vodka, and he took a sip.
“Come September, of this year,” smiled Eddie. “We switch to Prokofiev’s Cinderella.”
Doc yelled, “You punk! My signature is the second movement from
Prokofiev’s Symphony No. 6!”
Eddie shook his head sadly.
“I run Brain Trust!” continued Biddaddy. “Who told ya you could screw
around with the music playlist?”
Eddie clucked his tongue.
Doc sipped vodka, and he said, slowly, “Look, Eddie. I have a vision for
“Blurry vision,” quipped Eddie.
Doc slammed the glass down on a table.
Doc roared, “It’s still my vision, Eddie! And the Fat Clone Project?
That’s mine, too!”
“We’re doing all we can, Doc,” said Eddie.
“Shut up!” sputtered Biddaddy. “Stop bugging me!”
Eddie made a face.
Biddaddy stood, and he concluded, “And Eddie? Don’t mess with the
Prokofiev? Or I’ll knock you into the middle of next week!”