Thursday, February 27, 2020

A Second Look a The Cutie-Pie Murders


dontravis.com blog post #378

Courtesy of pexels-photo
Man, did I get the hits on last week’s post, “Clouds.” Got over 1300 in one day. But not many comments. By the way, if you read my posts on Facebook, please be sure to “Like” them… if that’s appropriate.

On September 12 of last year, I gave readers a first look at The Cutie Pie Murders, the next in the BJ Vinson Mystery series. It was post Number 354, in case you want to look it up. Today, I’d like to give you a second look. The following excerpt comes at the beginning of Chapter 2.  BJ’s considering investigating the murder of nineteen-year-old Mateo (Matt) Zapata, who turns out to be the third handsome young man strangled and dumped naked in some public place. BJ’s having his first discussion with the father of the murdered youth.

*****
THE CUTIE PIE MURDERS

Hazel Harris Weeks stuck her head through the door of my private office. “Fellow here by the name of Juan Zapata. Says he has an appointment.” My office manager’s voice held a note of censure. One more appointment I hadn’t let her know about.
          I swung my feet off the corner of the desk and sat up. “Called him on the way back from Santa Fe yesterday.”
          Hazel frowned. “He any relation to Zancon Zapata?” Even though Hazel didn’t totally understand my lifestyle, she’d grown as protective of Paul as she had of me, and she knew every detail of what the Saints had done to him.
         “Somebody killed his boy. He’s entitled to the same respect as any other paying customer.” The word paying would get to her faster than any other explanation. She nodded and disappeared.
          A moment later, she ushered a younger, healthier version of Zancon into my inner office. The man’s overcoat was damp from the scattered snowflakes falling outside. Thank goodness I’d driven up to Santa Fe yesterday on a dry road. The snowfall didn’t amount to much, but ice was another thing altogether. I stood and gripped the man’s outstretched hand.
          “I’m Juan Zapata,” he said. “I understand my brother filled you in on my problem yesterday.”
          “B. J. Vinson. Everyone calls me BJ. Zancon told me about your son’s death but gave me no details. Said you’d do that when we met.”
          Juan took the seat I indicated and flushed. “Sounds like something he’d do. My son was gay, Mr…. uh, BJ. And that’s something Zancon can’t accept.”
          “Why don’t you fill me in?”
          The handsome man on the other side of my desk blew through his nostrils in exasperation. “I don’t know a hell of a lot. When I said he was gay, that’s not entirely correct. He was probably bisexual. He had a girlfriend, but I know for a fact he’s had a few boyfriends these past two years.”
          I rubbed an itchy eye. Score another one for Zancon. He not only wanted me to kill his nephew’s murderer, but he’d come to a gay investigator with the request. Probably figured it took one to know one. Some things never change.
          “Let’s start with the basics, Juan,” I said. Tell me about Mateo. I understand he was eighteen. Was he still in school? Live at home? Have his own place? Show me the young man before you tell me about his murder.”
          Juan took me literally, dragging out his billfold, removing a snapshot, and handing it over. The kid almost took my breath away. Beautiful eyes as brown as dark chocolate. Black hair with a fetching cowlick. Thin nose, broad sensual lips. This kid was movie star handsome with just enough irregularity to his features to render him sexy. A real cutie-pie.
           Juan sighed before starting down the road of his son’s short life. “Mateo… Matt finished high school last year, a year ahead of most of his classmates and immediately enrolled at the University of New Mexico. He wanted to be a commercial photographer. But I think that was just so he understood the camera. His real ambition was to be a professional model.”
          “He had the looks for it. Did he live on campus?”
          Juan shook his head. “Had a small one-bedroom apartment on Princeton. Easy walk to his classes.”
          I learned a lot about Matt Zapata while his father worked around to something that was obviously difficult to face, the thing Zancon hadn’t wanted to discuss yesterday. Matt was a swimmer. A tennis player. A whizz at poker. Popular with girls and guys alike. Played a mean guitar and had a decent singing voice. Finally, Juan hesitated, and I knew he’d arrived at his destination.
          “Although I provided for his needs, Matt was always independent. He’d recently taken a job. I discouraged the idea, saying he ought to enjoy these college years, but he insisted.”
          He was dragging his feet again, so I cut straight to the chase. “What kind of job.”
          Juan averted his eyes. “Escort. He was an escort. He… ah, he was an amazing kid. He fit in any social circle you could imagine. And when he dressed up in a suit or tux, he was really something.”
          “Who did he work for?”
          Juan rubbed his nose. “He was freelance. Booked his calls through a phone service. He was new to it. Only had a few assignments before… before….”
          “Did he die on one of those assignments?” I asked.
          Juan Zapata dropped his head to his chest. “I don’t know. He… he was found on the West Mesa.”
          He swallowed hard, but I could see he had more to say. “And?”
          “My son was naked. At least that’s what they tell me. And….”
          I spared him the agony of continuing. “Let me get a copy of the police report and talk to a couple of people, then we’ll talk again.”
           “So you’ll take the case?”
          “At the moment, I don’t see why not. Is there a question in your mind about it?”
          He lifted anguished eyes to meet mine. “My brother… the man who contacted you about this is someone you shot and put behind bars. My… my boy might have been a call boy. So—”
          Mr. Zapata… Juan, are you a good man?”
          A frown puckered his face. “I think so.”
          “Was Mateo a good man?”
          “To me he was.”
          “And his life was taken from him. Tell me, are you looking for justice for Matt or revenge?”
           A startled look passed over his face before understanding dawned. “I am seeking justice, BJ. I want the bastard who killed Matt identified, tried, convicted, and then locked up for the rest of his life.”
          I thought for a moment. “Locked up in Santa Fe where Zancon is just waiting.”
          “Send him somewhere else, I don’t care. Just so he can’t do that to anyone else’s son.”
          “The police can do that for you.”
          Juan passed a hand over his face. “That is one thing Zancon and I agree on. They’ll take one look and consider it simply as a gang killing a queer. I want someone fighting for me. For Matt.”

 *****
Sounds like a father’s cry for help to me. And so it does to BJ, as well. Now we’re off and running in our intrepid investigator’s search for justice. Hope this held your interest.  Let me know what you think about it.

Until next week.

The following are buy links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

Thursday, February 20, 2020

Clouds


dontravis.com blog post #377

Courtesy of Flickr,com
Not much comment on Jim and Miss Lily but got lots of hits. I take that as a sign of approval.

Had a little drama in my life recently. I open this web site every morning to check on statistics and to answer any questions I might get. Lo and behold, I opened it on Sunday to find that… it wasn’t there. Google said, sorry, we have no blogs for you. Something akin to panic set in, so I called my computer guru who said, sorry, but I don’t know web sites or blogs. I called a friend of a friend who creates web sites, and she tried to help, but failed. The only suggestion she could make was to recreate the sites from scratch.

I learn slowly, but I do learn. So I went online and located an outfit that came out and recovered all my sites (they’d all disappeared) within thirty minutes. So I was able to post and continue life as if it had not been rudely interrupted.

This week, I’m going mystic on you. Can’t explain why… just feel like it. I’m really interested in hearing any comments you may wish to make (good or bad) about today’s offering. Here we go.

*****
CLOUDS
       
            It first came in a cloud a year ago this past January, although I could not tell if in a billow of vapor or a clouding of my mind. Whatever the manner of arrival, It remained to bedevil me. I cast back into my long-lost youth to discern the origins, but my parents, uncomplicated farm folk, had demonstrated no such vexation. Nor had my sister, now a respected professor of Medieval French literature at a major university.
           Seeking to understand, I shivered as if cold, which I was not. Fever touched my brow, but I did not suffer the ague. My hands trembled without aid of tremens. The me I knew, became the increasingly stranger me I did not want to know, as the mists—now darkish gray—descended, unbidden, unwanted. I fought through a darkness tantalizingly sprinkled with shards of light to what I knew lay at the center. The vision It brought.
           The haze grew thinner, the light stronger as the masking mist drove me toward a scene as yet unmanifested. I loathed these revealings… all too often harbingers of disaster.
          As the roiling strands of vapor parted, my head pounded at the sight of my neighbor Ben sprawled across the floor of his own kitchen, his body and clothing smeared as if attacked by a scarlet-rich palette. My breath caught. Not an oily hue but mortal blood. One sightless blue eye was broken, perhaps cleft by the meat cleaver lying on the floor, handle and blade smudged with crusted gore. A pungent, unpleasant odor invaded my reverie.
          Horrified, I shrank back into the protecting folds of dirty fog, but they pressed me forward to kneel and fruitlessly seek signs of life. Yielding to my fondness for the young man, I cradled his lifeless body to my breast and muttered incantations of sorrow. He gave offense by ignoring me, although the rational me recognized the shunning as no fault of his own.
          I eased his inert frame—alive and vital and handsome only hours ago—back onto the linoleum and gained my feet to take out my phone and dial 9-1-1, providing my name and address to the dispassionate voice on the other end of the line—a phrase no longer appropriate as there was no “line” in this age of unfathomable electronics.
          Done here, I gathered my now welcome cloud around me and returned to my corporeal self across the street.
          Seconds later—or perhaps minutes or hours later—the mournful alarm of sirens shredded the neighborhood calm as I huddled alone and trembling in my easy chair. But perhaps my horrible dream would not prove reality, as was sometimes the case.
          Exhausted, I did not peek through the curtains as my neighbors almost certainly did, seeking titillation from police swarming this staid and sedate neighborhood. Ah, but my mind wanders. Be still and wait.
          I have no idea how long before the knock, but I started like a mouse belled by a cat when the rap came. My legs managed to hold my weight as I shuffled to the door for affirmation of my fears.
          A blunt-faced man stood on my porch with a wary hand on his holstered pistol. "Mr. Fisk?"
           I nodded mutely as his piercing eyes raked me.
           “Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Charles Grant.” He flashed a shield in my face.
          “Come in, Detective,” I said, backing away from the door.
          He remained cautious but accepted my invitation, although he paused until I turned away and returned to my favorite recliner. Another man followed him into the room. The second policeman was younger and much more attractive, putting me in mind of Ben. “Did… did you find him?” I asked.
          “Yes, sir, we found him. Dead in his kitchen.”
          “Murdered,” I mumbled… a question sans question.
          “Hacked with a meat cleaver. Probably his own.”
          “Poor Ben. A nice man.”
          “What was your relationship with him?”
          “Neighbor. Friend.”
          The second, unnamed man’s mellow baritone tickled my ear. “Is that all?”
          I smiled at him. “Ben moved in about two years ago, and over time we became acquaintances. Shouted hello across the street. Met in the middle of the pavement to share our day.”
          “Nothing more?” Grant’s voice was an intrusion. I preferred dealing with the other man.
          “What else could there be?”
          “Before we get into that, how did you know he was murdered?”
          “I saw him.”
          “Him who? The murderer?”
          “No, I saw Ben lying on the floor.”
          “Let me get this straight. You entered his house and saw him on the floor of his kitchen?”
          “Not exactly. You see, I have these visions.”
          Grant’s eyebrows reached for the moon. “You saw a vision of him being killed?”
          My eyes locked onto those thick, dark brows. Would they dance like that again? “I occasionally see things.”
          “Before they happen?” the younger policeman asked.
          “Sadly, no. All my reveries come after the event.”
          Grant’s harsh voice grated on me. “Did you go over to your neighbor’s house after your… vision?”
          I shook my head. “No.”
          The detective’s sudden glare raised the hair on my arms.
          “Then why are you covered in blood? Most likely his blood.”
          My chin dropped as I held my hands before me. Red-streaked. Bloody! “I-I don’t know.”
          “Are those bloody fingerprints on the meat cleaver gonna turn out to be yours?”
          “How… how could they be?”
          His voice dropped into a near snarl. “You left them when you hacked your neighbor to death. Get up and turn around.”
          I expected the younger policeman, the nicer one, to speak up, but he didn’t.
          “You’re under arrest for the murder of Benjamin Pitman. You have the right—”
          “You’re wrong. Why would I do that?”
          “I checked your record. He lodged a complaint against you. You propositioned him, but when he refused, you wouldn’t let it go. So he got a restraining order.”
          “For all the good that did,” the formerly nice officer said.
          As Detective Grant snapped the manacles around my wrists, I saw things as they were. It had a name now.
          Madness.         
*****
Does writing about madness make me mad? You tell me.

Until next week.

The following are buy links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Jim Heightly and Miss Lily (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

dontravis.com blog post #375

Courtesy of Pixabay.com
Last week, Jim Heightly's little world was turned on its end by a new man in town. A burly, handsome Arkansan who caught Miss Lily's attention. Let's see what happens next. 

*****
JIM HEIGHTLY AND MISS LILY

           For a while, it looked as if nothing was going to change, and for Jim that was about as bad as having something change. He kept waiting for it… whatever it was going to be. Then the day, or to be more accurate, the night arrived when the world tilted. At two o’clock closing, Jim started up the stairs, but Miss Lily’s hand on his arm put a halt on him.
          “What?” he said.
          “Other plans tonight.”
          “What other plans.”
          “I’ve invited a gentleman friend upstairs. You’ll have to go home tonight.”
          Jim turned, stared into Pistonrod’s dark eyes, and croaked, “Gentleman?”
          “Now don’t make a fuss, Jim. I’m thinking on hiring Mr. Peston as a bouncer. We need to talk over turns.”
          “You never had a bouncer before. Why now?”
          “Ain't you noticed things getting a little wilder? Had two fistfights just this one evening.”
          “In the parking lot. You have people busting heads every night. Never needed a bouncer to handle them.”
          Miss Lily laid a pale hand on her bosom. “We don’t want the Stateline to get a reputation, do we?”
          “Rep—”
          “Now, Jim. Don’t make a fuss. Go on. Skidoo. See you tomorrow night.”
          “Miss Lily, you don’t wanna do this. This fella’s never gonna be more’n a grease monkey in somebody else’s garage. Heck, I bought you a new Jukebox and put that new neon sign up. I—”
          “Honey, it ain’t always about the size of a man’s wallet,” Mis lily said with a blink of her big eyes.
          “If you’re just gonna talk about a bouncer’s job, it oughtn’t take long. I’ll hang around and—”
          “Now, Jim. You go on home. Scoot. Shoo!”
          His ears steaming, Jim stalked out of the now empty honky-tonk into the cool night air. He didn’t know why, but he took a seat on a stump underneath Miss Lily’s bedroom window as the parking lot emptied of cars and pickups… and a bike or two. Pretty soon he was sitting in the dark not much relieved by the new red neon sign he’d bought.. How long did it take to make a deal to hire a bouncer?
          Then he heard sounds that let him know Pistonrod was already auditioning for the bouncer's job… by bouncing up and down on a mattress. Pretty soon came the sounds that sometimes caught the ear of passing motorists, except this time it was Miss Lily doing the moaning and screeching.
          “Oh, baby, gimme more of that piston!”
          Right then, Sasquatch, a big, shaggy dog of uncertain origins hit the fence separating Jim from the back of the place and raised a ruckus. If Big Foot walked on all fours, he might well have been one. Friendly until now, old Sas turned on him. Just like Miss Lily.
          A harsh voice came from the upstairs window. “Who’s there? Jim, is that you? I already told you to get outa here. You don’t skedaddle, I’m gonna call the sheriff. Go on, git!”
          Jim did, but he took the time to kick out the headlamps on Peston’s black Ford-150. For good measure, he did the same to Miss Lily’s brand-new Buick LeSabre. He got in his panel truck and tore out of the parking lot, screeching and leaving burnt rubber on the asphalt as he made a hard right toward town. And somewhere on that nine-mile drive, as he was seeing red and mouthing threats, the fuse blew or the circuit-breaker tripped… whichever. He almost wrecked the truck pulling a U-turn in the road and scorching pavement all the way back to the Stateline. He roared into the parking lot and skidded to a halt, bailing out of the seat with a 30-30 in his hand. Without even thinking about it, he shot out all the downstairs windows. Then he took out the neon bar sign he’d paid good money for.
          Miss Lily’s voice screeched from the upstairs window. “Jim Heightly, have you gone plumb crazy?”
          Jim noticed old Pistonrod didn’t make a sound. Neither did Sasquatch, for that matter. Two peas in a pod. All show and no go. Yellow right down to the quick.
          Finding he was out of ammunition, Jim rummaged around in the back of the panel truck and found several jugs of the unadulterated stuff he sold… damned near pure alcohol. He pulled out a couple and jogged to Peston’s truck. Emptying the contents of a jug all over the cabin of the pickup, he tossed in a lighted match and stepped back is it caught and flared. Still not finished, he repeated the process on Lily Stopperscale’s Buick. How about that… she wasn’t Miss Lily no more.
          “I’ve called the cops, Heightly!” she screamed from the upper floor. “Now you’ve done it. You’re going to jail.”
          His cork totally popped now, Jim yelled back. “And you’re going to hell.” With that he flung his last jar against the side of the building and tossed a whole book of flaming matches. The wall went up like it was just waiting for the chance. Lily let out a real yell then, and Jim thought he caught a more masculine screech. Should he go round back and set fire to the back entrance?
          A wailing siren in the distance made up his mind for him. He jumped in the panel truck and roared out of the parking lot. Hesitating just a second, he turned east and crossed the state line into Arkansas. That’d stop the country cruiser for the moment, but he was just delaying things. They’d get him sooner or later.
          And Lily Stopperscale? Hell, she had insurance out the gazoo. She’d build the Stateline bigger and better than it was before. But she’d sure as hell have to find a new supply of liquid goods.

*****
I hope we all learned one thing from this story. Never--but never--plug a 150-watt bulb in a 50-watt socket.

Until next week.

The following are buy links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

Thursday, February 6, 2020

Don Travis: Don Travis: Impotent-Chapter 7-Finale (A Serial No...

Don Travis: Don Travis: Impotent-Chapter 7-Finale (A Serial No...: Don Travis: Impotent-Chapter 7-Finale (A Serial Novella) : dontravis.com blog post #374     Courtesy of maxpixel.net So their experi...

Jim Heightley and Miss Lily (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

dontravis.com blog post #375


Courtesy of Pixabay.com
Sure got a lot of comments on my serialized novella, Impotent. Also got a bunch of hits. Thanks for tuning in and beefing up the statistics, guys. By the way, for the uninitiated, to me “guys” is a gender-neutral nouns, so my female readers (and I’ve got some because I’ve heard from them) shouldn’t feel left out when I use the term.

Today, we go lighter. It’s a little short story that came to me while I was daydreaming the other morning. Here’s part one:

*****
JIM HEIGHTLY AND MISS LILY

          Jim Heightly. A 150-watt bulb in a 50-watt socket. Everyone in the little Oklahoma farming town of Lynchpin knew one day the fuse was gonna blow. He’d go twenty-four hours straight before crashing to recharge his batteries. Jim was a “delivery driver,” or so he claimed. His 56’ Chevy panel truck looked like hell—brown paint chipped and front bumper awry… back one missing altogether—and smelled like burnt motor oil, but it purred under the hood like a tomcat contemplating a pussy. And when Jim tromped on the accelerator, it yowled like that he-cat had caught what he was looking for.
          At five-eleven with husky shoulders and muscular thighs, Jim boasted a mop of untamed honey-brown hair, and a nose somewhat crooked from a teenage brawl. That nose must have looked good to some because Jim was considered “presentable.” At least by the ladies. He went through the available damsels one by one, but none of them stuck for very long.
          Until he met Miss Lily, that is. Everyone in town knew her as Lily Stopperscale, but to Jim she was “Miss Lily.”
          Miss Lily—a former waitress and exotic dancer who’d saved her “tips”—opened a bar out on the state line where thirsty workers from dry Arkansas could cross an invisible stripe on the highway and slake that craving. Miss Lily’s Stateline Bar served the cheapest alcohol, and everyone is this rural county knew exactly the cost of every drop no matter where it was served. The highest places were in town, but they at least sold food along with the drinks. Not the Stateside; you went there for booze, jukebox dancing, flirting… and a fistfight if that was your inclination.
          Jim Heightly was one of the reasons Miss Lily sold so cheap. He didn’t mooonshine but bought from those who did and delivered to his own customers. A middleman, he called himself when he settled up with the county sheriff at the end of each month. Jim knew all the stills and shiners and bought from only the very best, the “delicious to the last drop” kind. Well, maybe not delicious, but that last drop sure as blazes held the same punch as the first one.
           Most bars in the county bought Jim’s white lightning to cut drinks, but that was the only product Miss Lily served. She poured the stuff straight from brand bottles without fooling anyone. Nonetheless, the price and the “old west” atmosphere of the Stateline kept them coming.
          Jim didn’t set out to become involved with Miss Lily. In fact, he didn’t know he was until he overheard a couple of boozers in the bar speculate on whether the two of them were an “item.” Not long after that, Miss Lily came over to his table and plopped down. Spurred by the eavesdropped conversation, he took his first good look at her and decided she was a fine figure of a woman. He’d heard that phrase somewhere—didn’t know or much care where—and thought it fit her to a whopping T. Heavy on top and bottom with a wasp waist separating the two. A pile of frosted brunette curls on her head and huge, black eyelashes hovering over a pert nose and big glossy lips just added to the pleasing mix. Jim’s ears went deaf to the loud talk, the shuffling of feet, the laughs and occasional coughs. The place no longer stank of beer and cigarettes smoke and stale sweat, and raw, unpainted planking. It smelled like the rosewater Miss Lily wore.
          That was the moment—the very instant—Jim Heightly fell in love. He didn’t know when—or if—Miss Lily reached the same conclusion; he just knew their three o’clock tumble in her apartment over the bar after closing that night ended with a yowl that woulda done that old tomcat justice. It was the best summersault he could recall in all his thirty-three years.
          After that, Jim’s life fell into a strict pattern. He bought his wares in the morning, delivered them in the afternoon, and spent the night at Miss Lily’s establishment until the two o’clock closing. Then… well, it was tomcatting time. People claimed that tourists passing by on the two-lane paved highway in the dead of night wondered at the size of felines in the area from all the caterwauling going on in that oak-planked building with a bar sign on top.


          There’s some that say Jim’s 150-watt lifestyle caused the problem—although Miss Lily didn’t seem to be suffering any. Others claim Rod Peston’s coming to town brought things to a head. Rod moved in from Hot Springs, Arkansas, took a job at Clancy’s Auto as a grease monkey, and it didn’t take him more’n two shakes of a lamb’s tail to find the Stateline Bar… and Miss Lily. Except he called her Miss Stopperscale.
          The first time Jim came barreling through the door and spotted Miss Lily sitting at a corner table with a big, brawny stranger, he stopped dead in the sawdust on the floor. Miss Lily claimed she put the stuff down to soak up spilled drinks and catch misses to the spittoons scattered around the place… mostly out of the way so they didn’t get kicked over. Jim figured she did it because it dulled the noise. The Stateline was a rowdy place, somewhat akin to a rodeo, clowns and all.
          At any rate, when Jim halted in his tracks, Miss Lily cast him a glance and gave something between a grin and a grimace. Some claimed Jim blanched, others swore he turned beet red before marching over and demanding what was going on?
          “Honeybun, sit yourself down and meet the new fella in town. Jim Heightly, meet Rod Peston. You can call him Pistonrod. Everybody does.”
          Such was the power of Miss Lily’s—or Miss Stopperscale’s, if you prefer—introduction that the two men actually shook hands. In so doing, both managed to graze Miss Lily’s ample breasts looming over the table. But they didn’t exchange a word. None were needed. The whole place fell hushed. Even the jukebox chose that moment to moan its last. Nobody moved. Nonetheless, a gauntlet had been thrown down and picked up.

*****
Reminds you of two roosters sizing one another up, doesn’t it? Are we about to have a cock fight? Tune in next week. Oh yes, better tell everyone I know that piston rod is two words. But allow me some poetic license, please.

Until next week.

The following are buy links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

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See you next week.

Don

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