44 pages completed for this novel and here's the opening:

Raw Ride

A Good Old Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up

‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian, or maybe not.'

 

Vargas sat on the rickety old bunk, his back to the wall, staring down at the blood soaking the front of his shirt, thankful it wasn’t his, not that it bettered his current circumstances. He’d never thought he would draw comfort from being behind bars, but he now assessed his jail cell differently.  Many would probably blame him for this, if they knew the whole story. No denying it, he had most likely contributed to the current set of affairs. Greed had never been one of his best attributes. This time though, it had cost him everything.  He wasn’t even sure if what had been done could be undone. One thing for sure, there would be no three square meals in his future, nor any opportunity for parole or pardon. His future lay squarely in his hands, and seemed bleak at the best.

The calendar hanging on the wall opposite his barred cell indicated winter was knocking at the door. Winters could be harsh in these parts, but harsh seemed a relevant term now.  Vargas had survived many brutal winters but none seemed as deadly as the one ahead. He glanced over at the only other cell in the tiny jail, where the young man still hunkered down behind his upturned mattress and bed. The boy, maybe in his late teens, had not spoken a word. Vargas hadn’t attempted to strike up a conversation with him, not really willing to share what he knew just yet, not that the kid knew that he could enlighten him about their little dilemma. Funny, the kid was there because he had broken some law and Vargas was here by choice. He twirled the key ring on his finger, a reminder that he could leave at anytime, of his own free will.  He was comfy, not so cozy for the time being, and wasn’t that eager to venture back outside.

Vargas thought he heard something; cocked his head for a better listen, but was overpowered by his own nasally heavy breathing and pounding heart beat.  This damn waiting was taken its toll. At least in here it was a safe haven.  Out there…out there, it was anyone’s bet. One thing for sure, he couldn’t stay behind bars forever, as much as it did seem to be a smart move. Name your poison, a death sentence is a death sentence, or maybe not, given his new understanding of dead and not dead. He inspected his fingers, his hands and then his arms, reassuring himself that the bloody spots were not wounds, just blood, and not his. How the mighty Vargas had taken a plunge, fallen from his self imposed pedestal, infamous and in high demand once upon a time, but now his fairy tale had reached a not so happy ending, nightmarish beyond even his wildest dreams.

 The deathly silence was abruptly interrupted, the voice causing Vargas to flinch, a man fearful of his own shadow now days. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head to see the kid standing there, clinching the bars in a death grip. He was pale and wild eyed. Vargas didn’t fault him for that. He had a right to be.  The kid’s breathing was heavy and irregular, almost as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He had the look of a fish out of water, only lacking the flopping motion on the bank after being hooked and landed. Vargas twisted his head one way, and then the other, his neck snapping and cracking like breaking tree limbs, bones old and worn, too much tension adding to the discomfort.

“Mister, you were out there, what’s going on in those streets?”

Vargas rubbed his hands through his gray streaked oily hair, and then rubbed his eyes and face, before standing. Both knees popped loudly, arthritis questioning his maneuver. He hobbled towards the kid, his legs still protesting his first steps.  Rubbing his gnarly almost all gray beard, and then his neck, he stopped one step shy of the bars that separated him from the frightened young lad.  Eyes locked, he thought carefully before he spoke, measuring his words, as had become the art of being a showman, a snake oil peddler and seasoned con man. He wasn’t sure the kid could handle the truth, the whole truth, so help him God. Unbelievers couldn’t always be convinced, but these were unbelievable times, even by his standards. Smoke and mirrors, deceitfulness, illusions and lies, had been his forte, at least until it was no longer required, not after his most magnificent discovery, the game changer, and his ticket to the Holy Grail. Wealth and riches, watch for what you wish, he reminded himself.

“Hey kid, what you in for?”

“They said I stole a horse. I didn’t. I found it.”

“Hang’um high just the same, no tolerance in these parts for horse thieves, guilty unless you can prove otherwise, so goes it.”

“Why did you lock yourself in? You have the keys, are you a deputy or something?”

“Or something about covers it.”

“Mister, I heard a whole lot of shooting, yelling and screaming earlier. It sounded like a war had started.”

“Yep, indeed it did. Wars can be won by one side or the other and it’s wise to pick the winning side, but in this case, that isn’t necessarily the best choice.  The good guys are at a disadvantage and the bad guys, the ones like me and you, are not a sure thing either. The table is running against us, odds not in our favor, and even cheating doesn’t ensure a winning hand.”

“Then who are they fighting?”

“Who are they fighting? The key to the war being waged is not necessarily one you could peg on a who.  This fight is not like any a young pup like you has ever seen. Hell, this is new for an old dog’s eyes.   I’m not sure you would even call this an even fight. It’s like they say, never bring a knife to a gun fight, only worse. No rules, no holds barred, knockdown, drag out, last man standing, and the one that gets knocked down don’t amount to much; they just keep coming, unless you know the secret how to stop them.”

“Mister, I have no idea what you’re saying. You’re not making much sense. You’re not touched in the head, are you? “

“I’m crazy all right. I’ve seen things that would put most men in one of those straitjackets, locked away, never to see the light of day again; and being crazy might be better than being a sane man living in an insane world.”

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

“You instigated this little conversation, kid, not me. It makes no mind to me if we chat or not. Anything I have to say doesn’t change a single solitary thing. You want out; here’s the key. You’re free to leave. I don’t have a dog in the hunt and it doesn’t much matter to me what the hell you do. ”

“Why don’t you leave then?”

“You some sort of moron, boy; you said it yourself, I came here and locked the door. I had good call to be locking my ass in a jail cell. Bars are not for just keeping people inside; it keeps the outside from getting in.  Here, you want the keys or not? All I ask is just hand it back over to me once you unlock your door.”

“Please, just tell what’s going on out there, Mister.”

“Call me Vargas. Everything has a starting point, a beginning before the ending. This is no different, except the ending might be the real end in this case. Do you have religion, boy? Don’t answer that. It’s not much good for what I’m about to tell you. God is not going to save you from hell on earth. There are powers that maybe even he can’t control or destroy. I’m not a God fearing man, never have been and believe me when I say it; you can’t pray your way out of this mess.”

“I’m Henry McCarty.  I don’t think the deputy who locked me up in here knows who I really am and I’m sure as hell not going to be confessing my identity.”

“Ah yes, I’ve heard of you, kid. Not to worry, it’ll be mine and your little secret. Horse thieving isn’t the worse of your offenses or worries, but like I said, hanging is hanging, and if you’re lucky enough, just maybe you’ll meet that hangman some day.  So, tell me, Henry, do you want to hear this from the beginning? We got plenty of time, so long as we keep these cell doors locked.”

“I reckon I might be persuaded to stay a spell, at least until I know what’s going on out there is done. Like you said, we can leave anytime we want.  We got us the keys.”

“Hold on to them and hold on to the seat of your breaches. You might even want to sit down. I’m long winded and got plenty to say.”

 

Happy New Year

 

Politically INCORRECT

 

Okay it's rant time. Reader warning, I'm about to type my mind, one fed up with one sided bull crap. Our freedom is dissolving as surely as AlkaSeltzer tablets in a glass of water and it tastes just about as bad. Attacks by those who have nothing better to do than ruin the lives of those who don't agree with them. That's why were re different, PEOPLE!!! We have likes and dislikes, those things we believe in and those things we don't. Why should we like the same food, same movies, same sports, have the same religious beliefs, have the same political beliefs. Here I go with just  a few examples:

 

A Massachusetts family says they have received a letter from an anonymous scrooge blasting their Christmas decorations because “not everybody in the neighborhood is Christian." It's Christmas and it has been Christmas forever. Get over it. Neighbors gathered around her home on Saturday night to sing Christmas carols and show their support. Way to go, like that.

 

 

A TV station in Raleigh was in hot water after an anchor of their early afternoon news shows mistakenly said that Santa was made up, according to sources. Okay, is there anything reall worth saying here?

 

 

The Pennsylvania middle school that suspended a 10-year-old for pretending to shoot a fellow classmate with a bow and arrow has until Friday to remove the suspension from the student's record, or face potential legal actions from the boy's parents. I kissed a girl on the monkey bars when I was six. I've a sixty year old fugitive of justice. Folks this is getting out of hand, I'm just saying.

 

 

 A five year old was issued a suspension from school for making a gun gesture with his hand. He was playing army on the playground. Busted, I grew up playing army, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, killing and being killed with play guns. Guess what, I didn't turn out to be a serial killer or on the Most Wanted List. Parents start treating your kids like kids. Allow them to be kids, not adults. Stop acting more like children than real children and earn their respect, try to be role models, share family time with them and quit blaming others for the way they act or disrespect kids, teachers and other adults. By the way, teachers are not supposed to be the parents and stop blaming them for your short comings. And bullying on any level is not to be tolerated.

 

 

Camels back has been broken. What is this world coming to now? The famous quote from Planet of the Apes when our protagonist sees the Statue of Liberty in shambles 'It's a mad house!" 

Phil Robertson referenced the Bible when talking to GQ about his thoughts about homosexuality and sinning and he mentioned many more sins than just the one everyone keyed in on. Without getting into all the rhetoric and debate, he said comments, news media and special interest groups weighing in and demanding Phil's head on a platter, the demise of Ducky Dynasty, I say just one thing, Watch where this thing goes A&E. Jumping the gun like you have done, Pandora's Box has been flung open and the real majority will speak loudly and clearly. Papa always said God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason; he wanted us to listen twice as much as we talked. Listen to what your viewing audience is saying and weigh carefully what you say moving forward. If I were a Robinson, giving the circumstances, I'd bid you a fond farewell and take my following with me...ouch! Like Phil, I always say what I believe, one man's opinion, you don't have to agree with me, that's your right just as it is mine to be me and speak my mind, do what I feel I need to do and not be someone I'm not, just for the sake of being popular or politically incorrect. If I don't care for a movie or tv show I don't watch them. I listen to music I like and don't if it doesn't appeal to me. I like some actors, don't like others. I don't demand that everyone and every circumstance changes to suit little on me because others out there feel differently and like other stuff that don't appeal to me. Relax, enjoy life the way you feel you need to live it and stop trying to change the lives of those they see things differently. Trust me, it will be a lot less stressful when you do. Phil, I raise my class to you, not for saying what you said but for being whom you are, true to yourself. Lessons can be learned I people can put away the stirring pot and enjoy what life has o offer them. We're all unique and that's all right with me.

 

 

I do have a plot for a novel entitled ironically 'Politically Incorrect'. One day it might see the light of day and when it does, you have the right to read it or not, agree with it or not, and I have no issue with your thinking, good, bad or ugly. We have the right to disagree but let's be seasonable and reasonable and not go off half coked always demanding for people to be fired or punished for doing and thinking differently.  Look in the mirror, it's not that becoming to be like that. One man's opinion is just that. 

Okay, 22 hours of fun at he Dickens Show is now behind my alter egos, Little Tommy Dickens and Scrooge. Some thought I was a statue; ole stone face still lives. Book buyers didn't exactly over run booth 127 but we experienced wonderful fellowship among the attending Beach Author Network authors. We certainly had plenty of time to reflect, assess and brain storm the next greatest event. For those of you who failed to drop by and pay the price for admission, you missed the greatest show in town because booth 127 was filled with punchy authors, making merry and surviving as best we could. I fear you have forever missed your opportunity to purchase those deals at this event; a one and out for most of us. The Myrtle Beach Convention Center will never be the same. If there are any hard book cover readers out there, let us hear an amen. Visit Beach Author Network on Face Book and offer hungry writers a tad of encouragement to continue spinning our tales. Our hobby is an expensive one and the only way we continue is with your loyal support. Begging for more is appreciated. Support local and hope to see you at the next greatest bookarama.  

Sorry, been away for awhile, new Dell laptop has crashed and burned, limping long barely, writing has come to a screeching halt. Did jot down an opening for a new novel, possibly a novella, my first, titled The Widow Magnet. Got you interested? Still contemplating launching a kid's book too, Bobby Saves Scoot, about a sea turtle. Book is actually finished, needs to be illustrated though. My issue is I just have too many completed novels and it's too expensive to release them in hard copy. E-book might be where I should head. TBD after I fix the Dell issue. Short and sweet this time...

Okay, I've got to get those promotional juices flowing again. This is my version of one of those 'But Wait" commercials; so tune me in or turn me off, the choice is a your finger tips.

For a limited time offer (forever if you're interested), I am offering jump off the shelves deals.

For those Detective Trudy Wagner lovers, adventures along the grand strand, you have a two-for at your finger tips.

Trudy arrived on the Carolina coast from Ohio to take care of her ailing mother in Road Rage. As the serial killer unleashed the fury in Horry and Georgetown counties, readers were blessed to be introduced to another predator, Newsman Lance Rocker. Lust and perversion hit a new low with the self proclaimed 'Rock your Worlder.' Let's not forget Woody, the detective bulldog and Trudy's new partner. Then there as Sheriff Hank Singleton, a big on grizzly bear, southerner to the core. Valuable lesson learned in Road Rage, drive like you know how or pay the price.

With the road rage serial killings behind them, Horry County's finest again take on forces feeding on new prey .In North of the Border, the detectives meet another formable foe. Yes, all your favorites are back.

Email talenwinn@mail.com to see how you can get your copies of Road Rage and North of the Border, each for the low, low price of $15.95.

BUT WAIT!!! Contact ole T. Allen now and receive both for $25.

Then there is Dark Thirty,  sixteen year old Dale Thomas Jackson, his new pals, Debra and Ted take on the bullies. It's tough to pretty up bulling so this one is not for the weak at heart. Meet Mack, the worst of the worst.

Available for $15.95 by contacting T. Allen...

OR, Order contact T. Allen right now @ tallenwinn@mail.com and arrange to receive your very own signed copy to $10.

Then there is T. Allen's favorite, The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In, a personal memoir that will have you crying and laughing, not all a once of course.

You know the drill, contact ole T. Allen for your $14.95 copy for $12.

BUT WAIT...you didn't really think I was finished, did you?

For the first zillion emailers, you can received signed copies of all four for the basement, first time offer of $40.00, excluding shipping cost. Be the first in your house to own all four novels, from a groveling hungry southern spinner of fiction tales; all except the Caregivers which is mostly true, as best T. Allen can remember.

Getting your copies is just as easy as banging on those computer keys. tallenwinn@mail.com, letting our staff (me) know which deal of the century meets your fancy; perfect for Christmas, birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving or just any weekday celebration that comes to mind. Heck buy yours and sending them people you don't even like.

That's tallenwinn@mail.co, that's tallenwinn@mail.com, lines are open to take your request. Sorry, I'm out of knife sets or I would include them too.

Eating bacon can significantly lower a man’s sperm quality, Medical Daily reported.
In a study presented at the American Society for Reproductive Medicine’s 2013 Annual Meeting in Boston, researchers from Harvard University gathered data from 156 men who were undergoing in vitro fertilization (IVR) with a partner. Each couple was asked questions about their diet, including how often they consumed processed meat, red meat, white meat, poultry, and fish.

So has the term 'making bacon' lost its meaning? One has to wonder. I'm a carnivore, a pig eater, so such senseless studies mean nothing to me. That's all I'm saying.

First let me clarify, I'm an ole tomahawker from way back, even before the Braves adopted the chant. I remember those days with Chief Knock-a-homer when I was one of less than 5000 loyal fans at the stadium cheering the Braves to another 100 game-plus losing season. You could sit where you wanted basically. But I remained a fan, better or worse. When they had that run if winning pennant after pennant, I held onto my dreams of seeing them win it all. They did only once. Most times they fizzled to a halt. Still, I hung in there until the next season, and the next. I still have quite the collection of Brave's tee-shirts; just can't seem to let them go.
I even have an actual Dale Murphy autographed ball. It was Dale Murphy day at the stadium and everyone got a pre-autographed ball. What makes my special is that after the game as we were climbing the stairs to our room at what then was the Stadium Hotel next door to the stadium, I tall gent sprinted by us on the stairs. At a glance, he looked like Dale so I sprinted up the stairs behind him. He vanished through a door on one of the floors and dashed inside behind him. I found my self slap dab in the middle of some sort of gala. They were about to run me off when I caught Dale's attention and asked for his autograph. He smiled, and said sure. Boy I was living large.
I've been at the stadium for those wild Dodger-Brave rivalry games when they were in the same division. I was there when he Padres had a series of knock down-drag out fights all during the game. I even saw Hank Aaron hit a home run to dead away center in the Houston Astrodome.
It hurt to watch the Braves implode playing the Dodgers over the last few days. That's what the Braves do, take you to edge and then push you off the cliff. Been there, done it too many times but I still hang in there hoping for the next World Series. I reckon I'll wait one more year. It seems I'm always saying that. Hold year heads up boys. You did the best you could but I must confess after watching this opportunity slip through your fingers. In the ply-offs you just didn't look like a contender. I never saw the burn, the passion to win. I saw that look on the Dodgers' faces. That's why you got your butts kicked. Once you learn how to win down the September home stretch, then you'll kick ass in the playoffs and just maybe a series ring. I'm still with you but you don't make it easy on an old man. See you come spring and we'll do this again.

October, the month with my favorite holiday. Halloween, fond memories...

This is the second consecutive year I have missed my opportunity to publish my fiction novel, The Perfect Spook House. It is depicted in my hometown, Abbeville, S.C. elven eleventh graders reunite many years later to decipher just what happened that night, their junior year, at that old house on the Cedar Springs Road. They're ready, sort of, to face their fears; but many of town folk haven't forgotten and will do anything to prevent them from digging up old bones. It's a blend of long term friendship, corruption, the supernatural, a developing love story, murder and mayhem, told in a good ole southern tone. What more could you ask, except to have it in your hands to read.

Here's my personal dilemma. I have too many completed novels and self publishing isn't cheap. No one pays me to spin my tales and publish my scribbling. It is an expensive hobby. I've published four books in the past couple of years, all out of pocket but I have so much more to share. I'm thinking pushing a few through electronically, forgoing the expense of hard copies; any thoughts?

Here's a sampling of my completed novels. Which ones would you buy for you Kindle?

My Sasquatch series:
Foot
Another foot
Final Foot (not finished)

Follow-up to Dark Thirty:
Mack

No Mulligan (A golf themed suspense thriller)

The Perfect Spook House (as mentioned)

Outside the Clique (25 year high school reunion with Calhoun Falls as a backdrop)

Lou Who (Alzheimer's patient tangles with a witch; Greenwood, SC. as backdrop)

Absent on Arrival (supernatural mystery in the Great Smokey Mountains)

The Tenth Elemental (Deities, Gnomes, a family in peril in Maggie Valley, N.C.)

Last Stand on the Grand Strand (sea creatures have invaded the beach community)

The Lord's Last Acres (end of the world as we know it thriller)

Digging Sea Turtles (kids book)

Novels in progress:

Hometown Tragedy (True Story)

More Detective Trudy Wagner thrillers
Tithe and Offerings
The Low County Hunt Club

Bully on Board (series of short stories with lessons learned)

Just Who are the Joneses (suspense thriller)

Raw Ride (cowboys and zombies)

The Longest Hello (love story)

Cornbread and Butter Milk, Gold Ole Fashion Southern Nostalgic Nonsense (short stories from the good ole days, memoir)

Whomping the Golf Ball (short stories about golfing)

Politically Incorrect (America, fed up, fight back in this fiction novel)

The Single Guys Roadmap to Marriage (humorous twist on relationships, seeking that perfect gal)

Pickers (two pickers, an old Charleston plantation, a trunk, secrets and lies with a twist of the supernatural)


 Chicken Lovers Inc. (kids book)


As you can see, my twisted brain forever stays in gear. Again, if you read this, post on face book, just which T. Allen Winn novels are you itching to read? And help find me an agent, a publisher, someone who would pay for this stuff!!! After all, I have an endless supply...

The summer of free golf comes to an end September 22nd; well maybe not free but it was certainly cheap. Legends Resort offered up summer deals back in June for its ‘Loyal Member’s’, those card carrying ones eligible to receive two beers, breakfast and lunch with every round played.  The deal almost looked too good to be real. We dissected the summer deal for any hidden clauses or secret disclaimers but could find none. Back in June, all we had to do was pay up front, $139 per person and be granted the privilege of playing unlimited golf, any day of the week, including weekends and holidays, providing we secured our tee times at 2 PM or later.  Right we figured, just how difficult was it going to be to reserve a descent tee time. We agonized over paying up front, thinking we’d be placed at the back of the line when it came getting the ‘preferred tee times.’ Oh well, four of us decided to take the gamble, roll the dice and see what happened. How could we pass over an opportunity to play three Legends’ golf courses in Myrtle Beach, Heritage Plantation in Pawley’s Island and Oyster Bay just across the N.C. border for one entry fee? Unlimited golf at our finger tips all summer long; sounded like a sham but we took the bait. 

To our surprise, all of the courses were extremely accommodating. We’d call and almost every time be granted the tee time we asked. Show up a the designated course and present our summer pass card and we were done; no additional money passed hands except for the one dollar tip for the gents loading our bags on the carts. Long summer days ensured we could easily play after 4 PM weekdays, Legends Resort just minutes from our workplace, eastbound Myrtle Beach on 501. Good fortune would have negative results on my play. After months of our house being for sale, wouldn’t you know it; we had an offer and accepted. While happy with the sale of our house, the pending move/packing and actual move, all but took me out of the two to three days of planned golfing for the next six weeks or so.  I slipped in about one time a week when I could. I only got back in the weekly rotation after we moved in and unpacked, got our house in some semblance of livable condition. Two of my playing partners managed to play about thirty times to my less than half that many rounds.

Still, I should manage to get in between twenty and twenty five rounds by the 22^nd of September. That should equate to approximately $650 in savings for the summer, so I’d say without a doubt, the $139 investment paid off. It will be tough over the fall and winter months pulling out the old credit card to supplement my rounds. Flashing that summer special card at the pro shop will be sadly missed. We sort of received VIP treatment, celebrities for the summer. An average round of golf for me for the past three months was $5.56 if one wants to look at it that way. Two of my cohorts averaged less than $4. Heck, you can’t play a round of miniature golf here at the beach for that. For me, it averages out to about 30 cents per hole to play with cart included. Living large on the grand strand, at least for the summer, while those poor tourists were caring the load, many of them paying almost a much for one round as we paid for our entire summer, ain’t life grand on the strand.  

I'm backkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Actually I've had a sick 'puter' lately. It wouldn't connect to the net but we all better now.

I read this article posted on Fox news today and had fond memories of those spook houses we used to built in Halloween. Innovation thought, never envisioned this twist. I might just have to dust off the ole spook house building skills and open myself up one these puppies for the trick and the treaters. Read this and let me know if you agree. Here's my plug for Shocktoberfest.com

The phrase, “that scared my pants off,” will take on a new meaning this Friday in Sinking Spring, Pennsylvania.
An attraction at Pennsylvania's "premier haunted scream park," Shocktoberfest, will be offering nude tours of its haunted house.
Labeled the “Naked and Scared Challenge,” the unique brand of Halloween experience asks visitors to strip down to nothing and enter one of their haunted houses completely nude.
According to Patrick Konopelski, president and owner of Shocktoberfest, the inspiration came from Discovery Channel’s show “Naked and Afraid,” in which two castaways must survive in the wild without any outer wear.
Konopelski came up with idea after watching an episode of the show at home with his four teenage children.
“I’m watching these two people running around naked in the woods and they were genuinely scared,” Konopelski told FoxNews.com. “If you know you have no protection, you become very vulnerable and I thought ‘Wow! That would be amazing in a haunted house.’”
Now Shocktoberfest will invite its guest to experience the same kind of fear. Participants will walk through the haunted house called “The Unknown,” themed to a former industrial park filled with zombies.
The patrons are offered two options: nude or prude. They can go through the haunted house completely nude or wearing only their underwear. 
For those who do decide to go with the Full Monty, they won’t have to worry about many onlookers, as the Naked and Scared Challenge takes place at midnight after all other customers have left. The attraction will also only be offered to guests 18 years of age or older.
For guests afraid of being caught in the nude, a fully clothed option is available during normal business hours as well.
According to the Shocktoberfest website, the attraction will have plenty of security on staff during the naked hours to ensure there is no inappropriate behavior.
A disclaimer on the site reads:
Shocktoberfest has created this experience so their customers can explore a new level of fear. This is about fear and pushing oneself out of their comfort zone. This is not about sex. No sexual misconduct, inappropriate or disrespectful behavior will be tolerated.
*Please note there is an additional cleaning charge if we scare the p*ss out of you!
Konopelski admits that there has been some criticism of the new clothing-free addition to Shocktoberfest, citing some very heated debates that have occurred on the event’s Facebook page.

“I have been involved in the haunted house business for 27 years,” writes one user. “This is the worst idea I have ever heard of. I wonder if they have informed their city officials of this idea? If not, the first complaint to the mayor and this will be shut down.”
“Its [sic] mostly going to be a bunch of fat old creepy men in there lol,” writes another.
Konopelski says he did initially have trouble convincing everyone -- from city officials to his wife -- that the idea was a good one, but now he says the response has mostly been positive.
“A lot of people have preconceived notions about what it may become,” Konopelski told FoxNews.com. “It’s just consenting adults given the opportunity to be as vulnerable as possible in a haunted house…The beautiful part about living in America is that if you’re a consenting adult and you want to experience something you should have the right to do it.”
The Naked and Scared Challenge begins at midnight on Sept. 27, 2013. Tickets can be bought online for $20. The attraction will be closed on Sundays. Tickets and more information can be found at Shocktoberfest.com.

Chant Rant

 

 

We attended the Coastal Carolina Chanticleer football home opener this afternoon verses Furman. I still suffer from Coach David Bennett withdrawals after they fired him at the end of 2011 and allowed the millionaire, Joe Moglia to buy them off and pay for a coaching job. I watched him on the sidelines during the 2012 season, very detached displaying un-coach like antics. The millionaire bought the team three new buses, need I say more. I despise someone who buys his way rather than earn it.

 

That brings me to tonight's Chant Rant. We seat ourselves on the home team side of the field, 50 yard line in the teal seats. The two teams, Coastal and Furman storm onto the field but something is bass-akwards. Furman in their purple set up shop on our sideline. The Furman band spill into our stands and the Furman cheerleaders begin leading cheers on our side of the field. What is this, a Twilight Zone episode or Candid Camera?

I'm then informed that Joe, the millionaire has decided to change side of the field, because he doesn't like the sun to be in his eyes. Never in the history of football at any level has this ever happened. Because the sun is in his eyes...the sun is in our eyes, as it is for the entire bleacher full of Chant fans. Are we supposed to march over to the other side and demand seats with the sun to our backs?

Recap, we the fans come to the stadium expecting to see the CCU football team on the home side of stadium. That's what fans do. Instead we're looking at the backs of players wearing purple uniforms, cheer leaders in purple and flag waving band members in purple, not to mention a large fan base of Furman folks.

Foot ball tradition tossed out the window because Joe doesn't like looking into the sun. Now the Chants will play all away games, whether they are home or not. The football team is across the field during the game instead of on the side lines in front of us. I was confused. Just who was I supposed to be pulling for, the ones in purple or those on the opposite sidelines wearing teal. I am beyond flustered and fed up with Joe the millionaire and it being all about him and he what he wants, bought and paid for. Does the university have not an ounce of pride left? Joe has the funds to buy anything he wants, sad, sad, sad.

In two weeks is the next home game. I'll have to research my new team colors for that game and purchase a new wardrobe. I'll have to do that every home game now because the opposing team will be on our side of the field. This is so terribly wrong; say it ain't so, Joe that you think you are more important than tradition, the fans, football. It makes me want to puke.

Joe you have ruined it for all of us. Some of us can't be bought. You are disgusting and those running CCU are just a bad for allowing you to buy them off.  It's a sad day for college football. ESPN should run a story on this, the end of football as we know it at CCU.

Sometimes one is just blogged out. Breaking but will be back with more whomping the ball tales, bullying short stories or those trips down memory lane in the day before video games - stay tuned.

Visit http://www.mkhorror.com/category/books/ while I have the pause button pressed and catch up with my book reviews, those I've read, not written.

Okay, I do apologize to anyone following my blog. I have neglected you over the past few weeks but I did have an excuse. Moving to hopefully the final house ever!!! Next, kicking and screaming, I'll only be pried from here to head to the assisted living facility. Circumstances explained, hope you accept.
Now for a good ole southern rant...school is back in. It happens every year. Here on the grand strand I have issues with the big yellow kid transporters. Why in heavens name do they allow school bus drivers to make stops on four lane highways? Let me expand on this.
Back in the ancient times when I participated the annual ritual known as school, a bus made one stop in the neighborhood. The pickup and drop off location was centrally located, requiring kids to walk blocks from most any direction to experience the right to ride. Hey, kids actually got a little exercise.
Grand Strand bus routes, here I go. Anyone who has visited Myrtle Beach knows that there are basically tow main roadways to use, 501 and 544. 501 can be a virtual parking lot most any given day, especially Friday and weekends, traffic bumper to bumper traveling at the speed of a snail. 544 is typically better but again, it is a major route.
Picture the big yellow kid transporter traveling the four lane portal to and from the beach. Why would the driver be allowed to make stops on a four lane major highway? I mean a lot of stops, every block in many cases, backing up two lanes of traffic behind it. And guess what, it's the four o'clock rush hour to boot. REALLY? Why can't you pull into the side street and pick up and let out the kids? Does this stop and go crap on a major four lane tourist roadway make sense? And why every stinking block?
I'm feeling Road Rage II coming on...and bus drivers be very, very afraid. Possibly this will be a subplot in the next Detective Trudy Wagner novel. Joy, Joy, Joy, this is only the first day of a school year yet to come. Puts a new spin on retirement pondering, doesn't it?

Writing on the back burner, but many new plots are simmering in my little mind. I'm currently finishing up another novel, Lou Who, a little ditty about a lady with Alzheimer's who crosses paths with a long dead vengeful death who decides to take a ride in her body.


Here's my original thoughts on the plot:

A patient (woman) has been diagnosed and is going downhill fast.  An evil entity, spirit, time traveler or some unknown thing, possesses, reincarnates or takes over the body of the inflicted person, becomes trapped and struggles for control. The spouse, family, friends and doctors claim miracle, but then it begins to become unraveled when the creature within displays traits never displayed by the cured person. The doctors can’t explain the personality transformation, new ground being broken. The cured person (late forties to fifty-ish, in excellent shape until this happens) has an insatiable appetite for sex and murder. A vicious struggle for control of the person is a major part of the plot. Sadly, if the one battling the evil thing within wins, the ultimate cost will be a return to the clutches of the disease. The female body owner struggles with this decision, aware of the consequences, remaining healthy or dying. Does she allow this thing to share control or find some way to force it from her?

It has evolved greatly from my original thoughts from above and I've completed over 300 pages. The setting is Greenwood, S.C.

Characters

Emma ‘Lou’ Stetson (Alzheimer's patient)

Wade Stetson (husband)

Wyatt Stetson (brother of Wade)

Anna Stetson (wife of Wyatt)

Leanne Stetson (daughter of Lou/Wade)

Heath Stetson (son of Lou/Wade)

Liz Donley (female caregiver)

Doctor Kelly Garner

Doctor Manfred Peavy

Nurse Monica Sanchez

Detective Jack Yates

Fabian Pressley (student)

Spencer Misenheimer (parapsychologist)

R.W. Saunders (Ghost Hunter from TV series)

Elijah Blaine (Stetson family’s Preacher)

Raul Torres (rabbi-exorcist)

This is just one more of over ten completed novels waiting in the wings for their opportunity to see the light of day in published world. I'm thinking going strictly eBook on a few of them. It would be quicker and much cheaper. What do you think about that idea, instead of hard copies?


 

Rainy morning from the 10th floor overlooking the great Atlantic, ain't life grand, grand strand that is. One lone fisherman straddles the waves patiently casting and longing for that big one. Walkers are sparse and speckled along the beach front, most wetting their feet as they stroll. The ocean, flatter than I have seen in days goes forever in the distance.
Move day for us has been canceled because present owners didn't meet the obligations of the agreement, were still being moving at 1:30 when we were supposed to do our walk through and they had canceled the professional cleaners, opting to have their daughter clean the house solo. Unacceptable!!! It was a tense encounter, us, the owners, two realtors and a pathetic bunch of snail moving packers and loaders. They were supposed to be done and gone by 10. They missed that estimate by about six hours. We used them our last move and they took twice as long as quoted. There is a method to their madness, getting paid by the hour, dragging ass and stalling, taking too many smoke breaks makes for a great paycheck. Yarboroughs, remember that name if you ever need a mover and then what ever you do, don't contact them.
We're beading back to house at 10, one more attempt at a walk through. Move day has been delayed until Friday. In a twisted way things have worked out with rain in the mix today. Tomorrow is supposed to be a sunny one.
Take a deep breath and it will be over before I know it....right? Life is too short to stress; keep repeating that over and over. Above dirt, so I am blessed.

Business first: both closings, house selling and buying went well. Dinner at Bubba's on the beach and back to condo for well deserved R&R. Day started not so good. Maid house cleaning service was supposed to meet us @ Pawley's house at 6:30. We were there. They weren't. They showed up an hour and ten minutes late after three phone calls questioning their where-abouts.
Behind us now. Garden City, 10th floor, perched above the activities below and there was no shortage of cheap entertainment even from this elevation.
Mom attempted to write her daughter's name in the sand, position the tiny tot in the sand and make a Kodak moment but each time the incoming wave did an Etcha-Sketch on the sandy scribbling. Undaunted she repeated it three more times. The ocean won, no contest.
Crevices and canyons even from 10 stories above are quite prevalent. Gender neutral, a butt crack is a butt crack, and saying no to crack is pointless. These folks are oblivious to flaunting that dark cavity between their right and left cheeks.
Women must have an imbedded memory chip in their brains. Wave hits, each and every one cop a feel on their breasts, repositioning them and then they tug at their bottoms. Ageless, this is a ritual. I wish I had a penny for every breast that I've seen this afternoon being groped by their owners. Apparently there is no beach rules prohibiting fondling. Let me or one of my male buddies clutch a crotch for the sake of oceanic wave repositioning and I bet we would not be viewed the same.
Grampa Cowboy sits poolside smoking a cig, wearing his straw hat, long sleeve blue denim shirt, denim jeans and boots, not exactly beachy attire. Out of place but what can I say, it's his vacation, right?
Ironically a chunky man holds a confederate flag beach board to his breast in the pool and less than five feet away, a mountain of a black man swims undaunted. White man and back man, neither impacted by the rebel markings, enjoy life. That's the way it should be. Enter Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton and it's skewed ugly. These men make their living off of stirring the pot. Let the people decide and stay out of it please.
Mom, bless her heart, covers up the deep hole dug by her kids before departing the beach. She scoops, she kicks and even does it doggy style but eventually the hole is no more. Safety oriented she does it right.
Dog walkers, the canines always eye candy and chick magnets. You learn a lot by watching the owners and their chosen breeds. Dogs are indeed the ultimate chick magnets, no matter what the breed; well that huge Great Dane might deter a few gals but the little fuzzy types are crowd pleasers.
Just too funny, two couples huddled around their beach umbrella, long gone is the sun. It's time to fold the umbrella, there is no protection required from the shadows.
The ocean is sort of angry, laying an ambush, just ten feet out, the bottom drops out, churning and grasping folks. People stumble attempting to exit the watery foe and fall aimlessly into the pit as they enter. Most compensate. Others fumble and stumble, cheap entertainment.
Life guard has called it a day. Those in the water tempt fate and venture deep. Thank goodness there is no riptide.
Surfer girl looks for the perfect wave. Apparently perfection is in the eye of the beholder. I miss the concept, no hang ten waves capture my attention,
Aunt Lillian said the ocean sounds so angry. To us it is pure liquid tranquility. To each his or her own. Soothing and watery therapy, it relaxes those stressed. There is just something about those crashing waves that impact the soul.
With the house sell and move this is just what the doctor ordered. While the beach is packed like a can of sardines, from ten floors up, we are free as a butterfly, claustrophobic free from the zillions of ants below in the July frenzy.
We are debt free with our beach front condo and now we'll be mortgage free with our new home. Life is certainly good at an age when it is time for us to enjoy life to the fullest. It's our right of passage, given the journey we've traveled to get here. We wish only the best and love to those we care for the most; good health and a long lives, neither are promised, but both are to be cherished.
From the Grand Strand we clutch life's utters and milk it, filling our pale the best we can. That's the way it should be, no regrets, no looking back, stumbling forward, keeping it in perspective, grounded and loving it.

Full day today, 12 hours to be exact. Movers have us loaded and ready to unload at new location Thursday. My butt is bouncing off the low ground and I was just doing stuff on the outer edges, not actually packing and loading like the young limber backs. House is empty just the same. Still have a couple of fun packed days before unload and move in day. Vacation week has taken on  a new meaning for these old bones. Creaking and hurting as only ole folks can, such a whiner I am. I've earned that right...right? Can I have an amen? Sun rises early here on the beach front tomorrow as we have to meet the maids doing their professional cleaning bright and early at 6:30, about twenty minutes from here. Closing on both houses, old and new between 2 and 3 PM. Fun, fun, fun...on the Grand Strand, lacking the seam the sand and the sun...necessary evil kicking in to do what is necessary. Did enjoy an adult beverage on the balcony about 8, unwinding to the sounds of the crashing waves from ten floors above.
Oh yeah, just for the record, the Atlanta Braves just scored coming from one run down to one run ahead...chopping my little tomahawk  I am...a Braves fan from the sixties...
Okay, rambling ways almost behind me and I've tortured you enough with this tonight's blogging madness. By the way, check out the book review I did on MK Horror. I'm the featured reviewer there. Just goggle and go, then look up book reviews for all mine. Maggie dearest would appreciate the hit on her site so say something nice. Heck comment any ole way, any PR is good PR, right?
Road hard and put up wet, I'm spent for this Monday. Happy trails until we meet again. Don't let the bedbugs bite and snore if you feel froggy.

I'm one of those rambling moods so bear with me. We're beaching it for a few days at our ocean front condo, practically homeless having sold ours and moving to another one next week. Moving is not fun, especially at my age, even when we have movers do much of the packing and so forth. My brain is functioning just fine and can identify and relay those messages loud and clear. I made an attempt to save my aquarium fish by relocating them to a ten gallon aquarium at the beach, thinking the vacation would do them good. Sadly my plan went south, losing five of nine when the cheap filter didn't do its trick. I tried valiantly to rescue them and it is not a good feeling watching them go belly up and not have the resources to save them. I have my filtration system from my fifty gallon aquarium on my ten, overkill, no pun intended, but it seems to be clearing up the water and the sluggish survivors are moving about. Time will tell if they can make it about five more days before relocating them to their new home. Nope we're not leaving the beach, just shifting our surroundings a tad further north. We'll actually be less than ten minutes drive from the sands and sea in Myrtle Beach. Moving is moving and whether you're going near or far, it is painful to endure.
Writing and promoting my books has taken possession of the back burner but that doesn't mean YOU need to sit idle like me. Support a hungry wantobe and Google ole T. Allen Winn and purchase a copy of both Detective Trudy Wagner Grand Strand classics (1) Road Rage and (2) North of the Border. Or help sixteen year old Dale Thomas Jackson take on the bullies in Dark Thirty. If you hanker for a good cry and a few good laughs take on my story, The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In.
I'll be one of about a dozen local authors manning a booth this November at The Dickens' Christmas festival in Myrtle Beach. Come visit me and the others dressed in funny clothing and buy a few books, knock down that Christmas list.
Ocean is screaming my name, waves crashing, shifting the sand and chasing the summer tourist. Not much sun toady, overcast, perfect beach weather for those not wanting to be shake and bake burned. Once the tide heads back to where it came from, and the July army of ants swarm to the local eating places, we might just take that leisurely late afternoon walk. Yep, it is a tough life, at least for more day when the movers arrive and we have to temporarily bid the ocean front a fond farewell. Today we enjoy.
By the way, I didn't proof this so make this sort of game with your family and friends. See how many errors you can find. Win a spot to be my permanent editor.

From the pages of Whomping the Golf Ball

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Do Strategy

 

Let me state for the record that I totally understand the concept, golf is a game of strategy. It’s just not in my game plan. Whompers don’t do strategy or at least, don’t do strategy well. Calculating yardage, verifying the pin placement, selecting the appropriate club or using the best brand ball for your play is serious business to most golfers. Guess I don’t fit into that “most” category and don’t take the game that seriously.

            My assessment, strategy contributes to a stressful round as does having higher expectations than what you know to be reasonable. I know my limitations plus I’m too laid back to let any game ruin my day or life. Those who play with me typically have a full appreciation of what they’ve signed up for within the first two or three holes.

            Seriously strategic golfers should never invite me into their foursome. That’s why I don’t perform well in those captain’s choice, best ball type tournaments. I have no best ball and I certainly wouldn’t be a captain’s choice for partner; too much strategy for me. I receive a best ball invite because I can putt fairly well. Heck I’ll putt from thirty yards off the green when possible; Texas wedging it to the hole.

            I find it comical when my playing partners agonize over their club selections determining if this shot requires their one hundred yard club or their one hundred twenty yard club. I don’t have clubs for ten or twenty yard increments.

            I play old man golf using about four different clubs from my bag, more if you count my assortment of three wedges. Par fours and fives; driver off the tee, seven wood or number five hybrid from the fairway, then my bronze headed wedge one hundred thirty yards to ninety yards, 52° wedge between ninety yards and sixty yards, then 60° wedge for all others unless I’m using the putter aka Texas wedge. Par threes, choices are wedge, a nine wood or my five hybrid, unless driver is required. Stating my game plan already sounds too much like strategy for me.

            Yardage, I check it only to determine if this is a wedge or wood shot. One of my buddies has one of those Sky Caddies glued to his hip so he can determine the exact distance to the pin. Knowing the distance doesn’t play into my game as much as direction does. My aim and direction doesn’t always agree. Knowing how far to hit it and actually hitting toward that yardage is what makes my game so challenging.  A hundred fifty yard second shot to the green might be a two hundred twenty five yard third shot for me from an adjacent fairway.

            Ball selection is so over rated. Use a white one or yellow if you prefer. For the past three years living parallel to the green on a one hundred seventy yard Par three, I have become accustomed to collecting balls. I no longer buy balls. I just wait for them to fall from the sky then sort and egg crate them for later use. So far I’ve accumulated over three hundred with only one broken window. I dump a dozen in the bag when I get low. My buddies often ask when helping me look for my ball, “what were you hitting, how’d you have it marked?” My response, “I’m not sure what brand but it would have had somebody else’s initials on it.” I don’t lose as many balls now because what ever we find must be mine.

            Reading the breaks on a green, bet that Sky Caddie doesn’t do that for you? I’ve tried to be a little more patient and at least squat down behind the ball to look for a slope or something. For somebody who doesn’t stalk the hole from every angle for five minutes, I putt pretty well. My toughest vice is waiting my turn as I’m a quick draw both on the green and in the fairway. Slow play is the kiss of death for my game. If I have to wait, the mind wanders all over the place. If I did do strategy then I could probably occupy those long intervals.

            It’s fun to watch someone plan their shot. “Should I draw the ball? Is this the place to use a fade? Hook it or slice it? Flop it or bump and run? Sometimes I picture a third base coach out in the fairway giving them the signs. I’d be taking off the bunt sign and having them swing for the fences.

            Here’s my game in nut shell. I grab one of the clubs a mentioned earlier to match the scenario. I hit it. It goes somewhere. If it’s my tee shot, I’m ecstatic if he goes far. It doesn’t have to go straight. I address the ball and hit it again, and it goes somewhere else. If I’m lucky that somewhere else is toward the general direction of the green. If not, I’ll whomp it again from where landed. I keep whomping it until I finish the hole or reach double par.

            At the end of a hole I mark down my tally. At the end of the round I tally up the damages. If I’m around 100 or just below, I’m happy. If I ended the round with the same two balls I originally pocketed then I’m bragging about the round. If I finish with more balls than I started, I had a remarkable round, and probably had an opportunity to do some nature trails. So goes strategy.

 

 

 

Sopping a Possum

My mama’s classic saying, ‘I’ll eat anything that won’t eat me first’ has been sort of a part of family tradition, at least on her side of the family. We probably owe it all to Papa, the matriarch and critter killer extraordinaire. Papa, born in the year 1900 lived through the hard times, those days when you were lucky to have a decent meal on the table. He didn’t hunt or fish for sport. Anything bagged or hooked provided food for those not too proud to partake of what bounty had been prepared in the stew pot, skillet or roasting oven. There was no waste from any fresh kill, that’s for sure.

It’s funny how some people will turn their noses up to wild game but will not blink an eye when it comes to store bought meat. Did they forget their ancestry? Man has lived off the land since the beginning of time. Domesticated animals are just ones that used to be wild once upon a time; they just don’t know it now, having gotten used to the good life on the farms. Eat, drink, poop and eat and drink and poop some more, life is good, until that appointment with the slaughter house. At least wild critters have a fighting chance, some dignity to their dying. It’s part of the natural food chain and law of survival of the fittest. Grocery stores have not always existed as a cultural theater for eats. Think about those pioneers, those settlers, folks who took pride in foraging for their meat, whether on land or in streams and lakes.

I grew up seeing nothing odd about the various critters that graced our plates. And contrary to old wives tales most didn’t taste like chicken. And for the record, if you’ll eat chicken, you should be willing to eat anything. Spend a little time around a hen house or chicken yard and you’ll understand what I’m saying. Ole narrow head will eat just about anything that he can shove down his pecker. Pigs are no better. I’ve heard it said that deer are too pretty to eat. Does that mean cows are ugly and it’s okay to eat ugly? A possum is far from pretty but most folks don’t stand in line waiting their favorite possum part. And yes, possum has graced Papa’s table, roasted with taters and onions. Toss in some cathead biscuits for sopping and man you’ve arrived. What about some BBQ coon? Davey Crockett wore a coon skin hat. You don’t think he just tossed away the raccoon carcass do you? I forgot, raccoons are pretty, aren’t’ they? I must confess; partaking in coon was tougher than most for me because I’ve had friends who tamed raccoons for pets. They are very intelligent and quite entertaining.

While possum and coon were not mainstays on Papa’s menu, if picking s were slim, they’d have to do. There is no shortage of either in the wilds. Neither fare too well crossing roadways. The chicken has nothing on them when it comes to road kill opportunities. Armadillo, possum on the half shell mark the roadways in Florida and Georgia. Don’t worry; I’m not going to promote eating road kill. That being said, fresh road kill like deer is hard to pass on. Squirrels, ole Peter cotton tail, quail and doves found their way to the table more often than not. Squirrels made good dumplings and were also excellent fried, as was rabbit. Everyone in the family loved both. Doves nor quail really ever did much for me; not because I didn’t like the taste, but more so because there wasn’t enough meat on their bones. Skinning and cleaning the little fury critters were an art form. Papa had it down pat, two nails strategically placed on an old fence post; he’d be finished in record time. I’ll skip the details for those squeamish about this sort of thing.

Grappling under the river bank with his fishing pal, Papa seldom came up empty. No rod, no reel, no hook, no net; real men just reached under the bank, felt around until they located their prey. Papa could tell the difference between a snake, a fish and turtle just by touch and feel. Asked once what he would do if he latched onto a snake; he just said, ‘Hon, I’d throw it on the bank and keep looking.’ I’ve seen some of those snapping turtles; mean temperamental buggers. Still, I can say I never met a turtle I didn’t like, in a stew or fried. Boy that is some good eating and you pay a hefty price if you order turtle at a restaurant.

Papa was a fisherman, not a sports fisherman; he was a man’s fisherman. He didn’t believe in catching something and then setting it free. If it was caught it was ate as he would put it. Forget trolling for bass. Nothing beat fishing for brim, crappie or mouth watering catfish. You didn’t stop unless they quit biting or you ran out of bait. Mama and I fought over the catfish tails, battered and crunchy. If either of us was within striking distance of the black skillet, we’d break off those tails before they ever reached the table. It wasn’t uncommon for a platter of catfish to arrive tailless. Good eating size was about five to six inches long. The big ones were filleted. Half the fun was eating around those pointy little bones. Only the skeletal remains were left if done right.

Papa never was a deer hunter but as an adult I was a fair shot. Parents and grandparents alike couldn’t get their fill of battered cube steak or a venison roast. Papa could whip up some mean deer hash. Heck he could convert most any form of meat into hash. My wife was always fearful of eating his hash, never knowing whether a goat, deer or some other wild thing might have been used. For the record, is a goat pretty? All kidding aside, he could make the best traditional hash using chicken, pork and beef, all ground with a hand grinder attached to a table specifically designed to affix the grinder. I inherited the grinder, the table and the recipe but not the gift to make hash. A friend and coworker from Pittsburg just couldn’t grasp the concept of hash. He said ‘why would someone take a perfectly good piece of meat and grind it and mush it up and then flop a gob of it with a spoon on a slice of bread on a plate?’ Kirk changed his mind after I took him to my grandparent’s house to taste it firsthand. I think he even had a second helping.

Papa John could have had the perfect hunting-fishing-cooking show; preparing his vittles to challenge ones’ taste buds and knowledge of the menu’s origin. Scrambled brains and eggs was a breakfast special. We’re talking real cow brains. Those same people, who turned their nose up at eating a pretty deer, now snub eating cow parts. Brains to the tail, all is consumed, even mountain oysters; testicles that is. Leave nothing but the moo. Yep, growing up poor and during hard times makes one appreciate what nature has to offer to feed the hungry. Papa and Granny knew this all too well. Mama grew up on these tasty vittles and it didn’t skip a generation with me.

Foods that my folks used as a mainstay can be quite expensive on menus if you have to pay for them. I for one would give nothing for the experience and lip smacking opportunities provided by a heavy set, balding old man in Red Camel overalls. His life was simple, values true, what you saw was what you got, no put-ons and forever making a lasting impression on an only grandson. “Hon, let’s take these red wigglers and go catch us a mess of catfish at the Fork Shoals dollar a day fish ponds. ’ Now that’s an adventure that deserves its own chapter.

T. Allen Winn's North of the Border

Join Deputy Trudy Wagner in the next grand strand adventure, North of the Border. By it now where books are sold on line. Google T. Allen Winn at your favorite site. Here's a sampling of what you're missing.

Jorge Cruz, deep in thought, almost didn’t notice the white Mustang convertible with its hood up, pulled on the shoulder of highway 90. The young lady never waved him down, just sat there in the driver’s seat with her head buried in the steering wheel. He glanced at his dash clock and it was a quarter past midnight. This stretch of the highway, dark and desolate, was no place for a woman alone.

       He spotted an old pulpwood road in his high beams and eased in and turned around to see if he could assist. Pulling off the shoulder directly in front of the white convertible, the raised hood blocked his view of the lady sitting behind the wheel.

       Leaving his old Buick running, headlights down on low beam, he opened the creaking door and headed toward the woman in distress. The lady stepped out of the driver’s side and smiled, looking relieved to have someone stop to help her. Jorge noticed she wore a white polka dotted mini skirt, sheer black blouse, and knee high black leather boots. Her huge breasts pressed braless against the fabric, exposing more of her than he felt comfortable seeing. His first impression was that she had to either be a local stripper or a prostitute. That was not his concern. She required assistance. He would not judge her.

       “What’s the problem?”

       “If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here now would I?” She smiled, answering him in an almost angelic yet sarcastic tone.

       “That was a stupid question on my part,” Jorge apologized in his broken English accent.

       “You are Hispanic?”

       “Does that concern you if I am?”

       “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I have this thing for languages. It’s almost a curse. I have to guess the origin when I hear an accent.”

       “No offense taken. I’m originally from Mexico. I hope that is not a problem?”

       “On the contrary...I had you pegged for Mexican. I simply love your culture. Do you think you can help me?”

       “I’m no mechanic, but let’s see what I can do. What did your automobile do to bring you to a stop?”

       “It just sort of chug-a-lugged, and then the engine died. The gas gage indicates I have at least a half tank of gas so I’m not sure what happened. My baby has never stranded me before.”

       “Let me take a peek under there,” said Jorge, peering under the hood.

       Leaning forward, he checked the battery cables, jiggled the spark plug wires, opened several caps, checking fluid levels, and pretended that he knew more than he really did about the mechanics of an automobile engine. If he couldn’t fix it, which he had no reason to believe he could, he would offer her a ride; probably not the safest thing for a woman alone to accept a ride from a stranger. It just struck him. He had not introduced himself to her and didn’t know her name, either. How rude he had been. 

Jorge never saw her making her move. The syringe penetrated his neck like a bee sting. He instinctively grabbed his neck and clutched the female hand holding the needle. How had he been so stupid? The Good Samaritan made eye contact with the lady in distress questioning her intentions then collapsed on the ground.

       She closed the hood on her White Mustang and made a quick phone call on her cell phone. She needed to dispose of the Buick as quickly as possible. She tugged on the limp and lifeless body of Jorge Cruz, maneuvering him into the passenger side of her vehicle.

       She checked the ID from his wallet. “Yep, this was him, and right on schedule.” It paid to do one’s homework she thought.

 

 

Horry County Police Department

Near the South Carolina Grand Strand

 

Constable Woody Anderson had been summoned to Sheriff Hank Singleton’s office. This always made Woody nervous when the big guy formally requested his presence. Woody had just received troubling information and wasn’t in the best of moods, and he felt things were only about to become much worse.

Hank stood and shook Woody’s hand then said, “Woodrow, you look a tad down. What seems be the problem, tough case?”

“Janice’s cousin Marian Bond is coming to town this weekend from Gatlinburg, Tennessee, extending her honeymoon to the grand strand.  I say, Bond, but she just recently got married again. I can’t remember her new name this time. It begins with an S, something like Salmon or Samson, Simian or something like that.  I’ve never met the groom. She will be living in Butler, Tennessee with him after they wrap up this honeymoon stop, so she says. Marian was originally from Abbeville, South Carolina, a little town nestled in the Piedmont, near the upstate area, about four and half hours from here. You might remember it.  It was the place they filmed parts of the movie, Sleeping with the Enemy, with Julia Roberts. Anyway, she’ll want me to play tourist with her. You know how I hate that crap.”

“Come on Woodrow, it won’t be that bad. Look at it this way; you’ll be doing it for Janice, rest her soul.”

“Oh it will be that bad. She’s already sent me a partial list of places she wants to go. I can just see them sitting on that motorcycle at Hard Rock Café up at Broadway at the Beach, the perfect tourist photo op. I’ll have to drag the rug rats along too; they eat this stuff up, and especially any chance to go to the Pavilion, unless I can corral Lullabelle or the mother-in-law into babysitting.”

“It could be worse; you could be the one mounting the motorcycle, smiling for the camera. Besides, your chaps deserve a little downtime with their daddy, now and then.”

“I draw the line on being in any of those gosh awful touristy pictures. Maybe you could have me pull a double shift this weekend. I could tell them you were short handed or something. ” 

“Woodrow, I’m not going to that, and you know it. This is Janice’s family. You just need to man up and do what’s right.”

“Maybe I should locate that bastard, Lance Rocker and let him be their tour guide.  He’d probably enjoy ruining another marriage.”

“You know you don’t mean that.  Okay, humor me, son. Where do the newlyweds want you to take them?”

“It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll survive. I didn’t come here to air my grievances. You asked me here. What’s up, boss?”

“It’s time for me to take it easy and pass the baton,” stated the mountain of a man, Sheriff Hank Singleton. “Woodrow, I’m a dinosaur and too set in my ways. Besides, the old ticker isn’t what it used to be. It would be unjust for me to stay out my term.”

       “Just like that, you’re rolling over. You’re just going to hand it over to someone else and walk away?”

       “Woodrow, look at me. I’m an old fat fart with a diagnosed heart condition, and it’s time for me to call in the dogs. I’m damned fortunate I survived that serial killer ordeal a few years ago. Lance Rocker lobbied for my resignation back then. Lucky for me he moved on to the big time, got the hell out of town with that big TV show deal, and things finally died down.”

       “Come on Hank, you still have some good years left in you.”

       “Woodrow, to be honest, I’m tired of doing this. I’m just plain burned out on law enforcement. I’m ready to kick back and do a little fishing, a little hunting, and maybe just plant me a row or two of okra and a few tomato plants. I’m glad you’ve been promoted to Constable. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

       “I guess I can sort of understand. We’ve all come a long way. I really had to work to overcome Janice’s death. I, for one, am glad Rocker has moved on to greener pastures too. I hate that bastard for screwing my wife, and I still hold him partly responsible for her death. Not having to deal with him probably saved his life and me a term in prison. Good riddance, I say.”

       “I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes. You and Wagner did a fine job. You brought down Joseph Preston, putting to bed all those road rage murders, and you even nailed Tim Ford. Ford is still locked away and should never see the light of day.”

“That was indeed a defining moment for Horry County law enforcement, and kudos to you for allowing Wagner to form that CSI unit.”

“She just confirmed why I hired her. I still have a tough time swallowing Preston’s rampage, though. That troubled soul killed a hell of lot of motorists, just to avenge his folk’s deaths.”

“I just wish we could have brought him to justice. The damn coward had to put a bullet through his brain.”

“It saved the taxpayer, Woodrow.”

“So when does your retirement go into effect?”

“End of the month, just three short weeks,” replied the grinning mountain of a man with a slick shaved head, now standing up from behind his desk. “It’ll be just enough time for me to teach new arrival, Sheriff Burton, the ropes.”

“So tell me about this fellow Burton.”

“She’s not a feller.”

“Not again...don’t you believe in hiring men anymore, Hank?”

“Dag-nabbit, Woodrow, she’s qualified and was available.”

“It’s not going to be the same reporting to a skirt.”

“Now don’t prejudge, Woodrow. Samantha Burton had quite an impressive career down in Charleston.”

“Samantha Burton, I’m sorry chief, she just doesn’t sound like sheriff material to me. For some reason I have this vivid picture of Bewitched!” Woody tried to twitch his nose like the television witch. 

“Give her a chance, Woodrow. You felt the same way toward Wagner, if memory serves me right. On paper she looks like she can hold her own in this position.”

He shrugged. “I suppose I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope, that’s a fact. How do you think Wagner will deal with reporting to a woman?”

“Why don’t you ask her, sir?” She responded, standing in the doorway. “And my last name is now Pierce, remember.”

“I reckon I just did,” answered a scrambling Hank Singleton. “Good morning, Detective Pierce.”

“So you’re really going to do it, sir, just up and retire?”

“That’s my plan and I’m recommending this Burton to replace me, at least until the next election. The Mayor has bought in on it, so I reckon I still carry a little weight around here.”

“We need more women in this department. I’d say we’re on the right track,” stated an exuberant Trudy Wagner Pierce. “No offense Sheriff!”

“Watch what you wish for, Detective Wagner. I mean Pierce. She’s a tough piece of work, and she has a reputation for kicking female butts.”

“I have a big one to kick, sir, and always welcome a challenge.”

“This is going to be just great. This department is going to hell in a handbasket.”

“Come on Woodrow,” advised Hank. “That’s an inappropriate comment even for you.”

“Sorry Hank, I sort of liked things before the female invasion.”

“Not to worry, Sheriff, she’ll wear him down like I did. He’s not as tough as he acts.”

“See what I mean, Hank.”

“Enough, do I have to remind you that you’re supposed to be professionals? Can we just change the subject? Y’all really ought to get out there and fight some criminals and make Horry County a safer place.”

“We can do that, Hank,” answered Woody, winking at Trudy.

“Pierce, we have a missing person,” advised Hank. “Go by the Pentecostal Church in North Myrtle Beach, and talk to Raeford McCrery. He’s the preacher there. It seems that his associate pastor is missing. He hasn’t shown up for several days. The good preacher said he hasn’t been seen in a couple of days.”

       “Will do, sir,” replied the blue eyed detective, still fit. Her six foot one frame remained lean and hard at one hundred forty pounds. Now twenty nine, she no longer wore her blonde hair cropped short. Brady Pierce, her husband, had convinced her to let it grow out shoulder length. “What do you have on your agenda, Constable Anderson?”

       “Homicide, domestic dispute down in Surf Side, and I’m doing the follow-up.”

       “Who bit the big one, a man or woman?”

       “Neither,” Woody replied, shaking his head in disgust. “ A nine month old girl; the father just got tired of her crying and smothered her with a pillow, best we can tell while the mom stood by and did nothing to prevent it.”

       “Pathetic,” chimed in Hank. “I hate it when innocent chaps are victims. It’s just a crying shame.”

       “What’s really pathetic is the mother. She’s not fingering the father. They’re claiming they just found the baby dead in its crib. Coroner says different. Worse still, they were manufacturing methamphetamine in their home.”

       “Keep me posted, officers. Now go do your duty,” said Hank, his nearly three hundred pounds supported by a mountainous frame would have made him look like Big Foot, except his hairless head would not support the Sasquatch theory.

       Woody in contrast was eight inches shorter. He no longer sported a mustache and side burns. He was now clean shaven and twenty pounds lighter, and he still remained a pit bull. His hair once jet black, was now peppered with gray, compliments of the road rage murders and the loss of his wife, Janice. She had died at the hands of the serial killer after having had a one night stand with newsman, Lance Rocker. Preston, the road rage killer, had attempted to pen the murder on Rocker.

       The road rage serial killer case had shaken the beach community but had no long term effects on tourism; rather the opposite. Lance Rocker had penned a book on the case. It had landed number one on the best seller list for almost sixteen weeks. The book launched his lucrative television career, and he now hosted a weekly investigative reporter show on the Crime Channel. No longer a thorn in the Horry County Police department’s side, he had relocated to Atlanta.

       The beach community had eventually returned to normal. Sure, it still had its fair share of crimes, but nothing to the magnitude of the Road Rage Murders. Transients, especially during the peak tourist season, brought with them numerous home break-ins, assaults and shoplifting. There were still the occasional murders but most were domestic or gang related, and not the work of a deranged serial killer