Random Musings

She had a body to die for, and a gun up to the task.

Is This Cool or What? I am Elated! And Very Honored.

Calliope

  A Publication of The Writers' Specialized Interest Group (SIG) of American Mensa, Ltd.

From The Fiction Editor

sreditor@clearwire.net

Congratulations!

April 2, 2011

David Kentner

5424 Rt. 20 W

Freeport, IL 61032

Dear David,

It is my pleasure to announce that you have won FIRST PLACE in Calliope’s Eighteenth Annual Fiction Contest.   You will soon receive a check for $75, a certificate suitable for framing, a one-year subscription, and other premiums from Calliope’s warehouse of goodies.

Your story, “The Caretaker,” will appear in the Summer 2011 issue of Calliope; I will be sending you a proof copy of the story via email for your review and approval before we go to press.  We’ll also need an updated bio to go with the story. 

 Again, congratulations—and a big thank you for your ongoing support and promotion of Calliope. 

Warm regards,

Sandy Raschke

Born to Please - GA Hauser

Blurb for Born to Please:

Twenty-nine year old charismatic, Cary ‘Colt’ St. John, felt almost too confident in himself even before he graduated law school and began working for an LA law firm. Acting out his sexual fantasies as a powerful dom in nightclubs was near perfection. Until he grew bored with that as well. He yearned ‘fresh meat’, someone he could train. The repetitive ‘acting subs’ in the same scenarios he played each night no longer excited him.

Straight, masculine, twenty-four year old Ashton Lake, had been through much in his troubled teens. But he was trying to hold down a steady job, stay off drugs and stick to his support meetings.

When Colt lingers one night at his office, he discovers the shy janitor, already submissive to his assertive gaze. Colt knew he had found the perfect slave. He only had to groom him.

What neither Colt nor Ashton could have predicted was the connection that bonded them. Soon Colt had to wonder, who was serving whom? The scorching heat that was created between them convinced both men, they were born to please- each other.

Visit GA at: www.authorgahauser.com 

Buy this book at:  http://www.amazon.com/Born-to-Please-ebook/dp/B004FN1QWE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1302723433&sr=1-1

 

Sample Chapter Born to Please:

The halls were dim as the night drew near and only security spotlights lit his way. He was about to use his key to get into the offices when he found the door unlocked. He pushed it back and looked around. No one was at their desk, but he did hear noises.

Walking to his office to drop off his briefcase, Colt noticed a young man in a blue jumpsuit emptying trash pails.

When the man heard Colt behind him in the hall, he looked over his shoulder at him.

Colt stopped in his tracks.

Bright blue eyes met his stare. Colt’s mouth watered as he inspected the man, estimating him to be in his early to mid-twenties, closely cropped brown hair showing off a tattoo on the back of his neck and a sleek build.

The man didn’t seem quite as mesmerized as Colt and went back to cleaning.

Colt continued on his way to his office and removed the paperwork from his briefcase to lock in a file cabinet. That done, he stood in the stillness of his work space to listen. His cock twitched as he heard the sound of this man, the janitor, cleaning.

No other noise came to his senses. Colt knew he and this man were alone.

He snuck back, watching. Leaning into the room, Colt inhaled. The scent of a man and either musky cologne or deodorant made his skin rise in goose flesh. Delicious.

The man spun with a start, very shy to Colt’s predatory gaze.

“Am I in your office? I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not.” Colt entered the room, staring at the tattoos running down this man’s right forearm.

The man appeared nervous as he replaced the trash can under the desk and used a cloth to dust the computer and shelves.

“Are you new?” Colt asked, intrigued.

“No. I’ve been here nearly a year.”

“Really?” Colt feigned surprise and extended his hand. “Funny I’ve never met you before. I’m Cary St. John, but everyone calls me Colt.”

The man went a deep shade of crimson and wiped his palm off on his jumpsuit. He mumbled his name.

Colt gripped his hand, leaned in closer and asked, “Sorry? I missed your name.”

“Ashton. Ashton Lake.” The man didn’t look directly into Colt’s eyes.

“Ashton,” Colt said as he took a deep inhale of him. “Nice name.” He knew Ashton wanted to get his hand back, but he held it longer, because he wanted to. “So nice to finally meet the man who is responsible for keeping our place so clean.”

Ashton chuckled, his eyes cast down.

Colt released his hand reluctantly. “You have something. Some soot. Right there.” Colt used his index finger to wipe at a non-existent spot on Ashton’s cheek.

Ashton reacted, stepping back.

Ah…the touch of a man is unfamiliar to you. Yummy! Colt couldn’t be any more pleased. “It’s still there.” Colt licked his fingertip and went back for another touch.

Ashton retreated, wiping his own face. “I got it.”

“How often do you clean here?” Colt stared at Ashton’s crotch, trying to judge the size of his package.

“Monday through Friday. Every night.” Ashton began to wipe shelves again, but appeared paranoid and anxiety ridden.

“Really? Every night?” Colt had an erection that was throbbing in his suit slacks. “At the same time, every night?”

“Sometimes later. It just depends if I can finish other jobs first.”

“Other jobs?” Colt sat on the corner of the desk.

“I clean two other floors here. It takes me a while.”

“All alone?” Colt pouted out his lower lip.

“I can do it.”

“Well...” Colt stood. “In that case, I’m sure I’ll see you again, Ash…You mind me calling you ‘Ash’?”

Ashton shook his head, but kept busy, not looking at Colt.

“Goodnight, Ash. See you soon.”

“’Night.”

Colt licked his lips as he got a look at Ashton’s tight ass when he went back to his cleaning.

Heading to the elevator, Colt put his hand into his pocket and rubbed his stiff cock through the lining. Got you, you gorgeous motherfucker. Once you’re in my line of fire, I always strike my target.

Random Musings

New term: latte-late

Meaning: "I'm late for work because I stopped for coffee, but it's okay because I brought you one."

Random Musings

If Julius Caesar had survived his assassination, he'd still be dead.

Random Musings

Failure to plan on your part, does not an emergency on my part make.

Wraith's Forest - LJ Leger

Fairy tales and haunted woods lead us through L.J. Leger's Beauty and the Beast story of one girl with the weight of a village on her shoulders and the attention of a very unlikely soul.

Jenna is chosen for the coveted task of gathering the magical fruit to preserve the peaceful balance of the secret valley where she and many others live. During the harvest, one fruit is damaged and the task of healing the bruise falls on Jenna’s shoulders. She must enter the Wraith’s Forest, retrieve a magical blade from the specter who lives there so the valley will remain a utopia. But once she makes contact with the Wraith, her fear slowly disappears and her curiosity is aroused with more questions of why the Wraith is in the Forest and the true purpose for the harvest.

If you love Beauty and Beast type fairy tales, Wraith’s Forest is the book to read. Perfect for Young Adults!

To Buy Wraith's Forest for $.99: http://www.amazon.com/Wraiths-Forest-ebook/dp/B004VGW2M8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1302298681&sr=1-1-catcorr

WRITING A BLURB IN FIVE STEPS by Amber Green

For some markets, you might be allowed only 120 words to engage the potential reader, while the most generous spaces rarely allow more than 200 words. How do you choose, allocate, and arrange these precious few words?








Start with either the SETTING or the PRIMARY PROTAGONIST.

PRIMARY PROTAGONIST


The protagonist is the person who makes the story go; he isn’t necessarily the narrator or point-of-view (POV) character. Watson is not the protagonist of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Normally, you should lay out the protagonist’s full name along with two or three words of description. Each word of the description should have the resonance and relevance of a blog’s keyword, of a library’s subject catalog, of an Amazon tag. Physical descriptions might come to mind, but should be used only to the extent the physical description hints at the story’s conflict or stakes. If you had only six words to describe Spock, would you waste one on his hair? Medusa, on the other hand, cannot be clearly imagined without mention of her hair. If you have a reason not to categorize the protagonist so completely, allocate part of his space to identifying (and characterizing) a second character in terms of his or her relationship to the protagonist. If you have a romance in which two protagonists play equal roles, the primary protagonist for the purpose of the blurb is the character who has the most to lose in the first half of the book.






SETTING


These lines orient the reader to the reality of the story--to be specific, the reality of the first half of the book. If the reality shifts halfway through that first half, such would happen if the primary protagonist were shipped off to school or enlisted in the military, focus on the second of those realities. Ten to twenty words is necessary and sufficient; at least two of them should be keywords. You can then spend another ten to fifteen words to show how the primary protagonist fits into that reality. Think in terms of sentence fragments instead of sentences, so that you can rearrange them more easily. Choose details carefully to create a mood--which must echo the mood of the story itself--and remember to include keywords. You might combine these bits of sentences with those used for the primary protagonist, but for your first draft, keep the setting in a separate paragraph until you’re satisfied with it.






SECOND CHARACTER

After having introduced the primary protagonist and the setting, you can describe a second major character. If the second character has POV scenes, and if you have room, introduce him much like the first. If not, give him much less attention. Either way, focus exclusively on details that reflect on his relationship to the primary protagonist or to the primary conflict of the story. A second character is not an essential part of every blurb.






COUNTERFORCE AND STAKES


What is the primary protagonist up against? What happens if he fails? If your story has an actual villain as the antagonist, she deserves almost (but not quite) the same level of introduction as the protagonist. If the protagonist got four key words, the villain gets three. An antagonistic force, though, should only be described to the extent you can do so in vivid, concrete terms. One trick here is to focus on the counterforce that the characters actively face in the first half of the book. Do no more than allude to what they must contend with after reaching what they thought would be their goal, after their reality and goals shift in the middle of the book. Whether to focus on the primary protagonist or on the characters as a pair (or group) in this section is a delicate choice; whichever you choose, make the same choice for the counterforce and for the stakes. Sometimes you can leave the stakes implicit, but more often the consequences of failure make your strongest hook. Ending your blurb with a yes-or-no question risks insulting and alienating the potential reader. If the answer is obvious, strike the question.






EDIT


Highlight your keywords. No more than twelve words should separate any keyword from the next. If you count more, you need to reword, rearrange, or trim out the excess wordage. Echoing a keyword more than once is good, but if you repeat a keyword, make sure the second appearance of the word adds or clarifies a connotation not apparent in the first usage. Do the mood, tone, and vocabulary reflect the essence of the story? If not, reword. Now, count your words. If you’re over your limit but love the blurb as it is, save a copy for use elsewhere (like a loop chat) and cut ruthlessly until you reach your limit. If you’re under your word limit but within 20% of it, such as when you have 164 words and a 200-word limit, you're fine--don’t puff the blurb just to come closer to the size limit.

Sleep on it. Come back to your blurb on a different day, if at all possible. Shorten the sentences where you can. A sentence with multiple commas probably needs trimming or breaking up. Read the blurb out loud. Is the focus where you want it? Does the tone strongly echo your story’s tone? Does the last line entice the potential reader to head for the checkout? Trim and reword and rearrange until the answers are all yes. Then call it good.

Visit Amber: http://www.shapeshiftersinlust.com/

Turncoat (Turner & Turner) - Amber Green

Nine months ago, Ken Turner and his lover, FBI agent Turner "Turn" Scott, handed in enough evidence to bring federal charges against KT's stepfather, but Father escaped to Mexico.

When Mexicans kidnap Turn, KT desperately smuggles himself across the country to seek help from a man out of Turn's past. A man whose photo Turn still cherishes. A man who, KT finds, has crossed the border and now contends with KT's stepfather and other drug lords for leadership of their cartel.

To survive, the drug lords must know which parts of their networks have been compromised. Turner Scott has that information. One of the drug lords has Turn. Another has KT. The third knows KT might be Turner Scott's only weakness.

But Turn himself doesn't know whether his hunger for justice is stronger than his taboo love for KT.

Buy this book at: http://www.amazon.com/Turncoat-Turner-ebook/dp/B004V1H9A8/ref=sr_1_12?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1301941287&sr=1-12

Visit Amber at: http://www.shapeshiftersinlust.com/

Grand Opening of the It's Raining Men blog

Today is the official opening of the blog It's Raining Men. Stop by, say hello, and learn about what's coming with this site dedicated to gay men.
"Our Mission: To offer the gay male community and those that identify with it, quality, entertaining, gay content. To break down barriers and create new opportunities through our words and work."


Over the next few weeks they will be giving away copies of many works of gay fiction.
This is also a site with daily posts by many gifted and talented writers.


Check it out at:
http://rainingmenamen.blogspot.com/

"The Lincoln Assassination" - Dr. Michael J. Deeb

 Who Helped Booth Kill Lincoln?

Michael Drieborg and his team of marshals look into the various conspiracy theories which surrounded the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Their investigation takes place while the struggle between President Andrew Johnson and the congressional Radicals was raging for control of post-Civil War Reconstruction.

Joined by their wives in the nation's capital, Drieborg and his marshals vigorously pursue the investigation despite the often violent opposition of influential Washingtonians who feared what might be discovered.

---

"In this novel, Dr. Deeb has examined the Lincoln assassination conspiracy theories as never before"
- Robert Lockwood Mills, Author: It Didn't Happen The Way You Think: The Lincoln Assassination: What The Experts Missed

To learn more about Dr. Deeb's amazing work and purchase any of his Civil War tales: http://www.civilwarnovels.com/lincoln-assassination.html

Read my interview with Dr. Deeb: http://dakentner.blogspot.com/2010/09/interview-with-author-dr-michael-j-deeb.html

Random Musings

Rose petals on the floor.  His scent in her nostrils.  His heart in her hands.  Now, if she could only find a bag to put it in.

Grumbling All The Way

The dominatrix who claims to be my wife says the hair and scruff have to go.
So, it's off to the barbershop, cursing and mumbling (so she can't hear of course) every inch of the way.

Random Musings

After a night of sex that would make Eros blush, the first words breaking the stillness of the new dawn probably shouldn't be, "I have to pee."

Passing Time - Ash Penn

When world-weary Louis Duncan returns to the English town where he grew up, the last thing on his mind is finding love. He's come home to be at his estranged mother's side as she lies comatose in a hospital bed.
The always-sunny barman Jake Harvey yearns to offer Louis much more than a willing ear. After an evening of too much wine, too much Indian take-out, and too much of Jake's soft lips, Louis succumbs to the young man's charms. Jake proves to be a passionate lover as well as a loyal friend.
When his mother’s condition deteriorates, Louis leans on Jake to help him through the difficulty of another loss. The love of his life died two years before, but to Louis he remains every bit alive as Jake. He and Carter continue to chat, smoke together, even argue over whether Louis is living or merely existing. They do everything as they always did, except have sex. Now, despite Carter urging him to take the risk, can Louis give up his first real love and take his chances with the living?

Buy your copy: http://www.loose-id.com/Passing-Time.aspx
Visit Ash at: http://www.ashpenn.net/

Excerpt:

Toward the end of yet another tedious day, Louis Duncan found himself wandering streets he’d not trekked in twenty years. Since his unexpected return to his hometown, he’d tried a variety of the pubs and bars that had sprung up along the High Street in his absence, but only one managed to draw his attention night after night.

The Prince of Wales public house had undergone a total transformation since the dark and dingy days of his youth. It was now a classy-looking modern bar called Harvey’s. Wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows had taken the place of the traditional beer-and-nicotine-stained walls Louis recalled as being off-limits to a teenager looking younger than his years.

The usual hum of voices permeated the low-level music as he entered the bar and approached the array of bottles. He took a moment to scan the various spirits, although he never ordered anything other than a large bourbon.

“Hey, Lou.” The barman, Jake, greeted him as though Louis had been a regular for years. “How’s your mum?”

Louis had spent most of the day at her side, the rhythmic chug and beep of the complicated machinery keeping him company. Occasionally a nurse would rustle up a coffee, and a doctor might pop in to update him on her progress, but apart from that the only conversation he’d shared these past couple of weeks was with a fresh-faced, eternally cheerful barman.

“No change,” he said, catching the faint nasal vowels of his own adopted New York accent.

Already the longed-for bourbon, a drink he had yet to order, sat before him. For all his youth, this guy knew how to keep his customers happy. Louis lifted the glass and swallowed the contents, savoring the thin heat flaming down into his belly.

“Another?” Jake asked, already reaching for the drained glass.

Louis smiled. For reasons unknown to himself, he always tried to arrange his features into an expression that might pass for pleasant with this particular guy. “Thanks, Jake.”

Jake returned the smile and then turned away to fetch the bourbon, affording Louis a prime view of plump ass. He wasn’t totally desensitized to the allure of a well-presented body.

“Cute,” Carter said softly, taking a perch on the stool next to Louis’s.

“I’m a little long in the tooth for cute.” Louis glanced at his lover, a handsome, smartly dressed man with a shock of sandy hair. Carter grinned, his gray eyes bright and mischievous, exactly like the man he was before the illness had yellowed his skin and ravaged his body to a wispy husk.

“You’re a little long in the tooth for spending yet another evening alone in a bar, but that doesn’t seem to bother you so much.”

Louis hunched forward on his stool. “Every day I get to sit by and watch the mother I haven’t spoken to in twenty years slip closer to death. I think I’ve earned myself a few lousy drinks, don’t you?”

“You don’t think you might have earned yourself more? A shot of that, perhaps?”

Carter gestured to the barman on his return.

“Only you, my love,” Louis muttered as Jake set a fresh bourbon in front of him.

“Sorry?”

Louis glanced up to meet Jake’s curious gaze. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Is that something you do a lot?”

“More than I should.” Louis was long past caring whether he looked like a fool or a loon.

“Do you answer yourself too?”

Louis shook his head. “Now that would make me insane.” He tried another of his smiles, but his lips refused to tilt.

“Well, I’m here,” Jake leaned his arms on the bar, all traces of humor gone. “If you feel like talking to someone.”

Louis laughed. “Haven’t I bent your ear enough these past couple of weeks?”

“With that accent you can bend my ear any time you like.” Jake gazed at him, although to Louis it felt more like a stare. Did he expect an answer? A few more bourbons, and perhaps Louis might have one for him, but not tonight.

He downed his drink and reached for the wallet in his jacket pocket. “How much do I owe?” he asked in his best business voice.

Jake waved a hand. “On the house.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Louis took out a note anyway. “I wouldn’t want you getting yourself fired because of me.”

“That’s not likely to happen. I have a very understanding boss.”

Louis set the note on the bar. “No boss is that understanding.”

“Mine is.” Jake slid the note right back. “Did I never tell you my last name?” He grinned. “It’s Harvey. My dad owns the place.”

He’d not mentioned it, but then Louis had no cause to ask. “Still, I’d rather pay what I owe.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Jake took the ten pounds, folded it neatly, and leaned over to slot it into Louis’s shirt pocket. “Why don’t you repay my hospitality by taking me out sometime?”

He stroked a thumb across Louis’s nipple through the cotton. Louis pulled back as a jolt of pleasure tingled down his body.

What was this? Flirting? No. No, it was part of the job to amuse the sad fucks who visited bars alone in order to drink themselves senseless before bedtime.

“I don’t think that’s… Uh, actually, I’ve been thinking about heading back to New York in a week or so.” It was the best—the only—excuse he could come up with on such short notice. “That’s if nothing improves with my mom.”

“A week’s a long time.” Jake leaned closer, a flirty sparkle lighting the depths of his eyes. “Besides, I’ll be heading back to uni myself soon.”

What was he after? A quick fumble with an older man? Something to joke about in the lecture halls to entertain the crowds on a wet Wednesday afternoon?

“If you’re not busy later tonight,” Jake said, casting a lazy gaze down Louis’s chest, “I know of an incredible Indian takeaway up the road.”

“To take away where?” As soon as the words were out, Louis winced. He’d lumbered straight into that one.

A faint blush rose to Jake’s cheeks. “Well, I’m staying with my parents for the summer, but, I mean, you’ve got your apartment and…” He obviously hoped Louis would fill in the blanks.

Louis forced a laugh. “And with that, I think I’ll be going.” He gripped the bar top as he made to slip off the stool. A hand closed over his own. It surprised him, the only body contact he’d had lately, not counting his holding mother’s withered hand, or Carter’s feathery yet imagined caresses. Jake’s hand sat on his, warm and weighty.

Louis studied the fine blond hairs, the short, trimmed nails. He raised his head to find Jake staring back with something like lust smoldering behind those blue eyes.
“Red or white?” Jake flicked out the tip of his tongue to wet his bottom lip.

“Huh?” What would that silky scrap of tongue feel like lapping at his balls?

“Wine. Which do you prefer?”

“Neither.” Louis pulled his hand away and took a step back. “I don’t touch the stuff.”

“You only drink bourbon?”

“Pretty much.”

“Your liver must love you,” Jake said, collecting up the empty glass.

“My liver and I get along great. Catch you later.”

“Here’s hoping.” Jake grinned.

Louis hurried for the exit.

Camille's Capture - Evanne Lorraine

Genetically engineered for a single function, to breed, Camille has followed the rules and accepted the Goddess’s will as explained by the elders all her life.

 After artificial insemination fails, she gathers her courage, traveling to distant New Eden to try in-person breeding. When her matches fail to appear, the meek little breeder rebels, determined to leave the Goddess-forsaken world behind her as fast as the next ship home can make the jump to subspace.

Aegis exists only to fulfill his vow to avenge the death of his parents by a Baldorean blood mage. Not even the forbidden desire for Jaxon interferes with his quest. But contact with a breeder threatens everything he holds sacred.

For four years, Jaxon dreamed of tri-bond with Aegis. Isolated by hostilities in the endless war with Baldor, he’s trapped in the close quarters of their fighter with Aegis and Cami, his most secret dream come true. But instead of bliss, he finds himself plunged into a battle with prejudice, doubts, and jealousy.

Cami travels halfway across the universe, survives brutal rejection, humiliation and a firefight. Stranded with two fierce warriors, not even a broken heart will make her quit until she has the sperm she needs.

Visit Evanne at http://evannelorraine.com/
Purchase Camill'es Capture here: http://www.loose-id.com/Camilles-Capture.aspx

Excerpt:

Jaxon snapped on the control harness, dropped the forward shields, and pulled the trigger before the system even registered his control. “Come on. Come on, baby. We ain’t got all day,” he muttered under his breath, coaxing the fighter’s system to respond.

A weapon indicator blinked green. He had a lock. The forward blaster spit death at the Baldorean ship angling for a kill shot. In the instant after firing, he thumbed the forward shields up. Just in time to repel the blast the enemy fighter discharged.

He silently whooped as his shot rammed through in the tiny fraction of time before the other pilot raised his defenses. The enemy craft was annihilated.

“Nice one,” Aegis, his copilot, called from the tail chair.

Two more enemy ships dove into range. Jaxon engaged top thrusters to drop below the incoming fighters. Aiming straight up, he fired belly shots. The first enemy fighter flamed out, but the second ship angled to ninety degrees, evading his blast. The enemy fired two quick shots. Then he dropped out of range.

“Damn! I missed. Got him?” Jaxon yanked his duranium-powered blaster back to level, already sighting in on the next enemy craft.

“The enemy flies within my reach,” Aegis snarled. His copilot’s harsh words were punctuated by muffled plops as the tail blaster fired.

From the edge of his vision, Jaxon saw the Baldorean craft’s hull ripple before the ship exploded in a flare of light. Three more fighters, one of theirs and two of the enemy’s, met the same fate before the Baldoreans retreated. The squad leader issued the order for them to fall back, which meant they were out of the fighting for the next hour.

Jaxon took his time unsnapping his harness and levering out of the weapon chair. The loss of one of their fighters soured the sweet taste of victory. When he stepped into the main cabin, the ship was on autopilot and Aegis was in the sanitizer. Good. Jaxon didn’t need to spend more time eyeballing his best bud’s tight ass and mooning about a hopeless fantasy of sharing a mate with the warrior.

The stubborn dream had sprung to life the first time he’d heard of a tri-bond, and it refused to die. After that he’d sought out all the information he could find on the sole instance of an officially sanctioned mating between two men and one woman. Each new account had given him more hope. Surely something that had happened once could happen again. If the gods favored him with a miracle, then the impossible—his forbidden craving for Aegis—would become possible. Or it would as long as he ignored the small problem of the big guy’s alien status. But his Hakanese ancestry hadn’t kept him out of the Space Corps, so maybe it wouldn’t be an issue.

Since the tri-bond was his personal fantasy, he got to make the rules, and Aegis’s Hakanese citizenship definitely wasn’t a problem for him.

After the last dogfight, he ought to be thanking the gods they’d been spared, but what he wanted was another dogfight. Fighting the stinking Baldoreans was the only time he felt like a real warrior. The only time he felt alive. The downside came when the fighting ended. Still high on the adrenaline rush, he was hornier than a spiny Anluvian in heat.

The sanitizer opened. Jaxon got busy, pretending to check his comlink for messages.

“I asked whatever gods may be to grant safe passage to Buck and Hex,” Aegis said as he finished zipping up his jumpsuit.

Jaxon kept his peepers glued to the comlink, though he couldn’t remember a single message he’d scanned. “Their fighter added to the cosmic dust?”

“Correct. This was their first rotation.”

“Damn, we only met them at last week’s briefing. They were babes, barely out of the academy.” He turned away, suddenly too aware of Aegis and too aware of how thin the line between life and death was.

“Such is too often the way.” Aegis adjusted the energy distribution between the fore and aft shields. “Your accuracy was outstanding. How many of the enemy’s Eagles did you down, three or four?”

“Yeah, something like that. You laid down some serious firepower yourself, bud. Doesn’t help the poor space jocks that lost it, though.”

Aegis didn’t reply. He raked strong fingers through his still-damp curls. The gesture was his typical mark of frustration. Suddenly Jaxon wished his hands were combing the warrior’s hair, cradling his head, forcing the big guy to accept some comfort. His fingers twitched, imagining the texture of Aegis’s curls—wet silk coating the strong bones of the man’s head.

The tops of Jaxon’s ears burned, and he jerked back from the surge of forbidden desire. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and still sounded too damn raw. “Yeah, still sucks. If you’re done with your primpin’—”

The other warrior didn’t rise to the bait. He just stood there, a picture of rugged male beauty and stoicism as he crossed his arms in front of an impressive chest and stared into the middle distance. Not for the first time, Jaxon wished he could read the big guy’s thoughts the way he could anyone else’s—a secret he’d never told anyone.

Differences weren’t prized in the corps. Perfect compliance with an impossible ideal was the standard goal for each pilot. This was why his ability to read another’s thoughts with the slightest physical contact wasn’t something he was in a big hurry to share. Besides, keeping it secret made the occasional poker night a sure thing.

It figured his special talent made absolutely no difference when it came to Aegis. His best bud was the one person he couldn’t read. Sometimes he thought that was a good thing. Most of the time, the blank wall of Aegis’s mind drove him crazy. Maybe the thought-shield thing was standard equipment for Hakanese. Aegis was the only native of that distant planet Jaxon had ever known. “I’m going to hit the san-can. Give me a shout if anything comes up, ’kay?”

“Certainly.”

Minutes later, Jaxon stared at the big jerk scowling back at him from the san unit’s mirror and mimicked himself. Give me a shout if anything comes up, ’kay? Like what? His dick?

What in the seven hells was wrong with him? They’d been together for two service periods, almost four years. They’d logged countless hours fighting, flying, qualifying, testing, and occasionally knocking back a few Cafrimal brews.

The one thing they’d never done was fuck.

There was a damn good reason for that. A couple of great reasons, actually. Number one, Jaxon didn’t swing that way. In the couple of hundred holo-sex sessions he’d experienced, he’d always picked a lady of the light; he’d never felt the urge to try a lad of light. This made his craving for Aegis harder to understand and harder to forgive.

Number two, he was pretty sure Aegis didn’t swing that direction either. In fact, the big warrior was such a hard-ass that Jaxon wasn’t sure he indulged in anything as human as sex. Number three, and the real clincher, was same-sex humping meant instant ejection from the Space Corps and pretty much the end of everything he’d ever wanted in this life, including hangin’ out with Aegis.

Whatever his sick obsession with his best friend was about, Jaxon didn’t care. The dream of a tri-bond was just that—a pure fantasy. He wanted it gone. But that was easier wished than done, especially since he spent most of his time living with the big guy in the fighter’s cramped quarters. The craft was built for speed and killing, not room or comfort.

He stripped off his one-piece, tossed it in the cleaner, and then banged his elbow getting into the torture chamber that passed for a fighter’s shower. Sensors took care of the rest, spraying him with lukewarm water, a thin layer of sanitizing gel, followed by the final rinse, and then a slow blast of hot air. While he calmed down under the influence of the impersonal squirts and blasts, his jumpsuit underwent a similar procedure.

A clean body and clean clothes actually improved his mood. He inspected his mug without any smart-ass commentary and decided shaving was a waste of time. Tugging his mouth into a lopsided grin, he left the sanitizer.

Aegis raised an eyebrow. “You had best sit, Jaxon.”

“Why, what’s up?” Damn, he had to quit saying this kind of stuff.

“Sit first.”

Jaxon parked his ass on the edge of the console. “I’m braced. Lay it on me.” He really needed to quit saying this kind of stuff.

“We have been matched.”

Jaxon stared at him, wondering what the punch line was. Wait a nanosec. Aegis didn’t make jokes. “We’ve been matched?”

“We, as in you and I, have been matched by GAIS with an Earthling breeder.”

’Kay, but not to each other. Of course not. Keep breathing, idiot. “What’s the catch?” Skepticism was automatic, but he couldn’t keep new hope from flooding into his head. A fucking tri-bond.

He shrugged. “I do not understand the communication. Since I am not eligible, the message must be an error.”

“Exactly where’d you get this hot scoop?” Jaxon narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion, trying to contain his wild rise of excitement.

“Standard galactic is not my first language, but I am competent to translate it and seven other languages, including Baldorean.”

“Sorry, bud.”

“You meant no offense.” The warrior accepted his apology with a brief nod. “The message arrived in a properly encoded hologram from headquarters. The delivery was in the same form as any other official communication. You are welcome to check the incoming queue.”

“Both of us matched to the same breeder? Beyond weird.” Right into dream-come-true territory. “You ever heard of anything like that happening?”

“There have been no GAIS double matches to the best of my knowledge, though a tri-bond is on record.”

A thing that happened once can happen again. Jaxon’s heart beat faster just thinking about the possibility. “Yeah, I know.” He’d damn near memorized the special sanction text. “It took what? An act from the council of elders to get that tri-bond recognized. Now all of sudden, you and I get matched to the same woman? Please.” Jaxon added a manly snort, keeping his crazy hopes for an officially sanctioned three-way mating right where they belonged—in his fucked-up head.

Aegis winced. “I agree. The notification has to be in error. Aliens, whether naturalized or not, have never been included in the genetic database.”

“Damn, you know that’s not what I was talkin’ about.”

“I know,” Aegis said flatly. “She is beautiful.”

An awkward change of subject, but Jaxon jumped on it with an eager grin. “Fire up the damn display. I gotta see this woman.”

With a few commands, Aegis played the message.

The big guy hadn’t exaggerated. On a scale of one to ten, a ten being the best holo-ho Jaxon had ever dreamed up, she was a fifteen. The earthling was some kind of serious beautiful. Almost white blonde hair, hazel eyes, and creamy skin decorated a body built for breeding.

Even better, she was the official filling for an Aegis-and-him sandwich. His cock jerked hopefully against his one-piece. He ignored his hard-on and stared at the lifelike image as the woman rotated a full three sixty. She didn’t have a bad side.

The cool, faintly mechanical voice of the medi-scan computer provided catchy play-by-plays. “Hold your breath please.” Followed by, “Please breathe normally.” Topped off with, “Please hold still.”

“When can I get dressed?” The little beauty’s tone was definitely frosty. Even pissed off, her voice was sheer erotic magic. And her mouth was made for sin.

Jaxon grinned. “Never, sweetheart, never.”

“She was speaking to the medi-scan unit,” Aegis said dryly.

“I know.” Jaxon didn’t take his eyes off her naked perfection, and he didn’t even try to wipe the ass-eating grin off his mug.

Bright green letters flashed every ten seconds, announcing Jaxon Farquhar, Aegis Trykol, and Camille d’Rondeur—match approved.

If he’d been alone, he would have replayed the message until he wore out the holo-unit or until more Baldoreans showed up, whichever came first. Since Aegis had on his stone face, Jaxon killed the display. “Even her name is beautiful—Camille. Did we get lucky or what?”

“The message is in error. I am not eligible.”

“You were naturalized, what, five years ago?”

“Seven,” Aegis corrected him flatly.

“There you go. GAIS expanded its parameters to include naturalized citizens. You just didn’t get the memo.” Jaxon kept babbling like a nervous cadet. “Hey, if they opened it up to male dominant sperm producers, they’ve got no standards. Why not Hakanese?”

The big guy didn’t laugh at his lame attempt at lightening the sitch. Instead he pushed up his sleeve and flexed an awe-inspiring bicep. “My tattoo still reads F-class, and there’s been no message informing me of change in status. Under the circumstances, it is illogical to assume the match communication is anything other than a system error.”

“I don’t care about logic. Until someone tells me different, I’m the luckiest space jock flying,” Jaxon grumbled.

His bud almost smiled. “For your sake, I hope the message is semiaccurate.”
Jaxon nodded, keeping his grin wide. “I’m going see if I can do something to boost the forward shields.”

“Nothing lost in the attempt,” Aegis said without any real conviction.

As soon as Jaxon cleared the cabin, he let go of the grin. Semiaccurate wouldn’t cut it for him. He wanted the breeder, but this was a new want. A hunger that did nothing to lessen his feelings for Aegis. Getting it on with both of them at the same time was his ultimate fantasy.

A fantasy he damn well planned to make come true.

I Don't Know What I'm Talking About Anymore!

I suppose you think you do?

Take a look at these definitions found on www.urbandictionary.com/

WOOT - An interjection similar to "YAYE!" or "Woohoo!" used to express joy or excitement, usually about some kind of accomplishment.

BUT, did you know:

As an acronym, can mean Waste of Our Time or Way Out of Topic

Woot originated as a hacker term for root (or administrative) access to a computer.

"w00t" was originally a truncated expression common among players of Dungeons and Dragons tabletop role-playing game for "Wow, loot!"

SQUEE – To squeal with glee; from a combination of the two words; the sound of an excited fangirl.

BUT, did you know:

SQUEE is a comic made by Jhonen Vasquez. It's all about a boy name Todd (nicknamed Squee for the sound he makes when he's scared) and the horrible things that happen to him, like alien abductions or having the Devil's son as a friend.

YAY - Used as an exclamation of pleasure, approval, elation, or victory.

BUT, did you know:

Yay is slang for Cocaine, popular in California's Bay Area.

LOL - It's original definition was "Laughing out loud" (also written occasionally as "Lots of Laughs"), used as a brief acronym to denote great amusement in chat conversations.

BUT, did you know:

Depending on the chatter, its definition may vary. The list of its meanings includes, but is not limited to:
1) "I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to this conversation."
2) "I'm too lazy to read what you just wrote so I'm typing something useless in hopes that you'll think I'm still paying attention."
3) "Your statement lacks even the vaguest trace of humor but I'll pretend I'm amused."
4) "This is a pointless acronym I'm sticking in my sentence just because it's become so engraved into my mind that when chatting, I MUST use the meaningless sentence-filler 'lol.'"

Noob vs Newb - Contrary to the belief of many, a noob/n00b and a newbie/newb are not the same thing. Newbs are those who are new to some task* and are very beginner at it, possibly a little overconfident about it, but they are willing to learn and fix their errors to move out of that stage. n00bs, on the other hand, know little and have no will to learn any more. They expect people to do the work for them and then expect to get praised about it, and make up a unique species of their own.

A noob or n00b is someone that lacks intelligence or common sense, most people think that noob is a word used only in the online gaming world, but in reality it is becoming an ever-popular word with teenage society.

TWAT

1) A great word to shout out.
2) A woman's vagina.
3) A blow to the face or genitalia.
4) Used by Tweety.
5) An offensive term for a person.
6) Acronym for The War Against Terrorism.

7) A derogatory term for a person whose behavior is considered to be extremely or intolerably ignorant, obnoxious, offensive or moronic.

8) To strike someone (this definition is almost certainly of Northern English origin).

WOOHOO - Extreme satisfaction. There is really no other way to say it. Famous from use on The Simpsons.

BUT, did you know:

Woohoo is a term for "sex" in the Sims 2 simulation game. In order to keep it rated "T" for teen, Maxis needed to use "woohoo" instead of "sex".

ROFL is an Internet acronym for Rolling On Floor Laughing, and like all things Internet it has adapted to nerd culture and has taken on new real-life use, though usually in a satirical way.

While Internet definitions of words continue to evolve, or devolve depending on your viewpoint, I offer my latest personal favorite:

ROFLAARP: Rolling On Floor Looking At Assorted Rodent Pornography.

So, am I the only one who doesn't know what he's talking about anymore?

The 19th Element - John L Betcher

PROLOGUE

Western perceptions notwithstanding, the Afghan War did not put Al Qaeda out of business. And despite American bragging to the contrary, Al Qaeda has even conducted successful operations inside the U.S. after 9/11.

It is true that western forces have succeeded in thwarting a number of attempted attacks. But from Al Qaeda's perspective, even worse than failed operations are the West's unbelievably effective cover-ups. Westerners blame nearly all of Al Qaeda's successful offensives on internal malcontents. Gang wars. Freedom Fighters. Drug cartels. Anarchists. Radical extremists. These are the "criminals" who receive the credit for attacks that, in reality, are Al Qaeda's victories.

Although the premier international terrorist organization is very much alive - and deadly - the name of Al Qaeda no longer strikes fear into the hearts of the western world. Of what efficacy is a terrorist group lacking the ability to terrorize? Al Qaeda faces a serious public relations problem. World fear of Al Qaeda is at an all-time low.

There is only one solution. To regain global prominence, Al Qaeda needs an operation so high-profile, and so public, that the world cannot be duped by cover-ups.

It needs something nuclear.

Buy this book: http://www.amazon.com/19th-Element-Becker-Nuclear-Thriller/dp/1451521014/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277491835&sr=8-7

"The 19th Element" is also available for Kindle

Visit John's web site: http://www.johnbetcher.com/index.html#

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday, May 6th at Red Wing, Minnesota.

Tuesday's discovery of a dead body washed up on the Mississippi River shore just north of Red Wing had turned the small town into a press Mecca. Television and print media crews from the Twin Cities and Rochester converged on the murder scene, each vying for the most gruesome, and attention-grabbing, visuals possible.

News helicopters swooped up and down the river valley, past the grassy riverbank where the swollen spring currents at the confluence of the Prairie River with its larger counterpart had deposited the corpse.

The body was that of an older man - in his sixties, the Ottawa County Medical Examiner had estimated. Police hadn't released the probable identity of the victim. And despite photographers' best efforts, the only crime photos that made the nightly news programs were of boaters in small craft, gawking in the river channel, and of four Ottawa County Sheriff's Deputies hoisting a vinyl body-bag from the weedy beach into their covered flatboat. The remainder of the news footage showcased well-dressed reporters, looking serious, and speaking with concerned voices about the tragic discovery near the small Minnesota town.

But all that was yesterday.

Today was Wednesday and I was at my office. Becker Law Office. James L. Becker, Attorney-at-Law. Nearly everyone who knows me calls me 'Beck.'

I arrived at this lawyering gig via an unusual route. Following my retirement from more than twenty years of sub rosa military intelligence operations, my wife, Elizabeth, and I decided to move our family to my childhood home of Red Wing. Beth and I had agreed at the time that the relatively crime-free life in rural Minnesota would be a plus for our girls. Having me working near home more of the time would reduce my family's justified worries for my safety. And I could blend in seamlessly in my old home town.

Lawyering would be a fairly easy professional transition for me. I already held a largely-unused law degree from my pre-Agency days. The segue into small town private practice would not be difficult.

So five years ago, Beth and I, and our two children, Sara and Elise, had picked up our lives and come here to live in Red Wing, a Mississippi River town of about twenty thousand. In this setting, we were able to use our real names. And we hoped to regain for our family a sense of normalcy.

Although being an attorney is not difficult, it can be less than exciting. For the sake of appearances, I maintain the cover - but we really don't need the money.

Our family financial situation is a bit more favorable than most, owing entirely to an invention I had patented during my tenure on 'the Team' - a radically new aerodynamic design for sniper bullets.

A change in the shape of a bullet might not seem like much. But after extensive testing, a government defense contractor had happily purchased my patent for quite a lot of money.

Later, I was pleased to learn that incorporation of the bullet design into new sniper rifles allowed a reliable 'kill shot' at up to a mile and a half - a significant improvement over the traditional .50 caliber long-range projectiles. A win-win for both me and the military.

Of course, the defense contractor got the glory. But that wasn't important. Glory is fleeting and fickle. Neither to be sought nor trusted.

Given our financial independence, my new 'job' is really just my new cover. My true vocation really has no proper name. I guess you could say I am professionally wayward. At least, I like that description. It implies a Huck Finn sort of freedom, combined with a Tiger Woods drive for excellence - minus some of Tiger's extra-curricular pursuits, of course.

My professionally wayward approach allows me complete freedom to select causes and goals; but once chosen, it also requires me to pursue all such matters with utter commitment and maximum preparedness. This combination of dedication and preparation has, thus far, assured my success in numerous challenging undertakings.

I am most certainly not a jack of all trades. I am, however, a master of many. Professionally wayward. I definitely like that.

At 9:30 a.m. it had already seemed a long morning at the law office. And I wanted to get the inside info on the floater murder. It was time for an informational visit to my friend in local law enforcement.

When I arrived at the Ottawa County Law Enforcement Center, a five minute drive from my office, the atmosphere was still electric in the wake of the previous day's gruesome discovery. So much so, that I had managed to slip through the usual administrative roadblocks and right into Gunner's inner office.

'Gunner' is Ottawa County's Chief Deputy Sheriff, Doug Gunderson. He's in his mid-forties, six foot, 180 pounds and in pretty good shape. Though he displays a hint of a belly, his body is mostly muscle. Gunner's round face, light complexion and short, reddish-brown hair are not atypical of many fourth-generation Scandinavian immigrants to this area of Minnesota.

Gunner is also one of the very few people in town who has any idea of my true life experiences as a covert intelligence operative during my twenty-year absence from Red Wing.

We had known each other in our youth, and had been casual friends in high school, but hadn't kept in contact until my return to Minnesota five years ago. On one occasion, a few years back, he had pressed me for details concerning my life after leaving Red Wing.

As a professional investigator, he can be irritatingly tenacious.

At the time, it hadn't been my first choice to let Gunner in on my secrets. But he was persistent. My gut told me I could trust him. And a friend in local law enforcement is not a bad thing. So I had elected to come clean about my government past - minus many details, of course. In return, he'd vowed to keep my secrets to himself - a promise he had faithfully fulfilled.

Since then, Gunner and I had 'cooperated' on a few cases. He operated by the book. I, by my own rules. The differing approaches created some conflict. But we shared common goals, and we understood each other well enough to make it work. As a side benefit, being involved with law enforcement activities satisfied my desire for more action than mere lawyering alone could provide.

Gunderson was seated at his desk, deeply absorbed in review of glossy crime scene photographs. He looked up when he heard my voice.

"So what's going on today, Gunner?" I inquired. "Things are hopping around here. Is Oprah planning a visit?" Gunner looked up from his work.

"Becker. Who let you in here?" He was trying to sound irritated.

"Always nice to be welcome," I said.

Following the exchange of further niceties, Gunner answered my question.

"You know damn well what's going on, Beck. Everybody from the Sheriff, to the Mayor, to the frickin' Press is all over our asses to solve this murder case. Deadline is yesterday.

"And of course, the big wigs've gotta fight over the jurisdictional issues. The State guys want in on the investigation. The FBI claims that it oughtta be in charge because the body was found in interstate waters. Actually, our own department has the best claim to the case, since it appears that the murder occurred on our dirt.

"So in short, it's a madhouse right now. No one is in charge. And despite all the activity around here," - Gunner made an arm motion circling his head - "not much investigating is really getting done."

I looked at him, feigning shock.

I'm pretty sure Gunner could sense my lack of sympathy for his bureaucratic hiccups. Gunner frowned at me for a few moments, then lightened up.

"Oh geez. You might as well have a seat," he said at last. "I need a break anyway."

Gunner motioned me to one of his side chairs.

It was stacked full with manila files.

I raised my eyebrows at him.

He returned the look. But the files didn't move.

So I cleared the chair myself, stacking the manila obstacles alongside a similar pile of files already reclining against the wall. Then I sat down.

Commotion continued in the hall outside his office.

With hands crossed comfortably over his torso, Gunner leaned back in the 1960s-vintage vinyl office chair, looking at me as if waiting for something to happen.

"So ...," I began. "Do you know who the unlucky fellow is . . . was?"

I could see that Gunner was trying to project cool and calm - but the butterflies were definitely fluttering in his gut. A murder in Ottawa County was a very big deal. But Gunner wasn't about to let his excitement overtake his professional persona.

"We're pretty sure it was a prof from the U of M Ag Lab at the Ottawa Facility," he said, locking his fingers behind his head.

I noted the obvious perspiration under his arms.

"His wife reported him missing to the Cottage Grove Police early yesterday morning. And he hasn't shown up for work the past two days. Car's missing, too.

"Oh yeah." He paused for dramatic effect. Gunner likes drama. I think he watches too many cop shows on TV.

"There's a large amount of dried blood in the Lab parking lot. We're assuming it will match our victim."

I paused for a moment. Then . . .

"Seems a logical assumption," I said, bypassing the drama. "Have you got a name?"

Gunner looked a little wounded that I hadn't been more impressed with the big blood puddle.

Overcoming his mild disappointment, he leaned forward, referencing the notepad on his desk. "Donald G. Westerman, PhD. Home address is in Cottage Grove. We'll be inviting the wife to the morgue to identify the body as soon as we can make it . . . ah . . . presentable."

The killer had nearly severed Dr. Westerman's head from his body. Some tidying up was prudent before exposing the wife to her husband's corpse.

"Don't s'pose you found a weapon?"

"No such luck. The M.E. is trying to get us a description of the blade. But since it's a slash, that'll probably come back 'inconclusive.' In a stabbing, you can maybe get a cast or something. With a cut, usually its just whether the knife is serrated, and how thick."

Based on my experience with knives, Gunner was probably right about the forensics.

"And at present, no motive either?"

I had all the smart questions.

"Not really," Gunner continued. "Though it is interesting to note that the fellow's lab assistant has also failed to report for work since the murder."

He consulted his notes again.

"One Farris Ahmed. British exchange student in the graduate program at the U of M. Sent a couple deputies by his apartment. No one home. We're working on a search warrant."

In my former military career, I had once encountered a radical Muslim Jihadist who went by the name of Farris Ahmed. It was a common enough name in Arab countries - but given my past experiences, one might understand why this name did not sit quietly in my gut.

"What ethnic derivation is Mr. Ahmed?" I asked. "Muslim Brit?"

"Not strictly relevant, Beck. You know there's no racial profiling in this department." Ah. The company line.

Gunner gave me a steely stare. I waited.

"Officially, we have no word on Mr. Ahmed's ethnicity. We're a small department. We can't do everything at once, for god's sake. Anyway, we try to save the bigotry assignments for the BCA."

The BCA was the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the branch of the State Police charged with criminal investigations. They would likely take a lead role in the investigation, regardless of any Sheriff's Department protests to the contrary.

The mention of the name 'Farris Ahmed,' and the international background of the lab assistant, had further piqued my interest.

"Gunner. You would probably ask the BCA to do this anyway . . . but would you mind checking for any international telephone calls made from the vicinity of the Lab around the time of the murder? I mean, not just the assistant's phone, or the land lines, but anonymous, throw-away cell phones, too?"

"Why?" Gunner replied, leaning forward in his chair. "Do you suspect a connection beyond Minnesota?"

I didn't want to get Gunner off track just because my gut had a twinge - especially with no evidence at all of global foul play. But I wasn't going to ignore my instincts either.

"Well . . . the assistant was from overseas - just thought you'd want to be thorough."

Gunner looked me in the eye before continuing.

Gunner leaned back again in his chair. I surmised I was about to receive some wise advice from the seasoned law man.

"You realize, Beck, that the assistant may be another victim, and not at all culpable in this mess?"

"I suppose that's true," I conceded. "Still, I would appreciate your checking the phone call situation."

"All right, Beck. I'll ask the BCA to do it . . . as a favor to you."

Gunner pretended to think it was a dumb idea. But he has always been a bad actor. My concern wasn't so far-fetched that he was going to ignore it.

"'Course I can't guarantee that the BCA'll do anything about it. They don't work for me, you know."

Gunner aimed a forefinger across the desk at me.

"And if I catch any crap for making this request, you will owe me one."

I had gotten what I wanted. No point picking a fight.

"You have a deal. Thanks. And good luck with the investigation."

"Right. Thanks, Beck. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."

"Oh, I think you can count on it."

And I left.