Fight to the Pain

I only just recently noticed how much I've been beating the crap out of my heroes lately. Funny enough, it's because I submitted Set to Kill and noticed how few named characters I put into the hospital.

Okay, granted, I've put an awful lot of people into the morgue, but that's another conversation about my tendencies for mass murder of armed stupid people.

But at the end of It Was Only on Stun! ... I put Ryan in the hospital

At the end of A Pius Man ... one dead, one in the hospital, and two carted off in an ambulance.

A Pius Stand?  Two in the hospital. Sorry, three in the hospital. One impaled on a machete.

We won't even go into what happens to Sean in A Pius Legacy.

And of course, Marco Catalano gets the crap beaten out of him repeatedly.

Guess what? Pain is necessary. Why? Well, in some cases, it's simply because you don't get into a fight without getting a least a little hurt. Hell, you don't get into fist fights and gun battles with a few dozen people without getting at least a little beat up.

I've found that I have been beating up my characters a lot, ever since I started my Krav Maga training a few years ago. Getting the tar beaten out of you for three hours a day, four days a week, will inspire you to rewrite your characters into being winded after every fight. Or at least experience adrenaline fatigue.

It's one of the reason why schwarma in Avengers works so well. Because after fighting an alien army from the other end of the universe and nearly being nuked, you're not that much fun for a few hours. Probably not until you take a nap.

Jim Butcher has a special appreciation of pain, because he has suffered from migraines for many, many years. He's gotten to the point where he must lift weights every day or two, otherwise he gets them with a vengeance. This is one of the reasons why Harry Dresden is always getting his ass kicked, and probably why he had three books of constant headaches that threatened to literally make his brain explode out of his skull.

Robert Howard, the creator of Conan, was another one who appreciated pain and fights. The man actually got into fights a lot. As opposed to someone like Edgar Rice Burroughs, who never got into a fight in his life, and made John Carter of Mars look like Legolas after every fight scene. Legolas at least had a good reason, being an elf and all. In fact, I think they deliberately made it a running gag on the Lord of the Rings film.

Obviously, you can have a problem describing pain all the time, blow by blow. For one thing, that just clutters up the page. And second, it's not realistic. It often may not hurt when you get hit.  In my experience, pain usually comes later, after the impact happens -- maybe even after the inciting incident (fight, accident) happens. I even remember breaking my leg. It didn't hurt that much, but it did when I tried to walk on it. That was fun (read: KILL ME NOW).

But there's a reason my characters slow down by the end of the novel. Being beaten black and blue will do that. There's a reason that the TV show Arrow has our hero needing dire, emergency room level medical attention at least once a season. It hurts.

And frankly, it's going to hurt to be my characters. Bwahaha.

Set To Kill, Meet the Puppies

As my regular readers know I'm writing this new book called Set to Kill: a murder mystery that takes place at "WyvernCon" in Atlanta.

Yes, WyvernCon. Because I'm subtle. 

I have two groups at WyvernCon, the Tearful Puppies (the Hydrophobic Puppies didn't show up), and their Puppy Punters ("Dog Catchers" didn't convey my meaning).

Puppy Punters include

Patty and Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits, publishers at Rot books (Name of Publisher to change ... I hear "Midden" is a good idea).

Their minion Fred Moshevsky, a drooling hunchback.

Kendall Adler, who draws on company walls with the

Author S Typhoon Teacup

Johnny Noah Prada

Nicole K.Victoria Daalman.

And Charles RR Martinez. ... who is so white it's pronounced Martin-es.

Yama "Crabs" Marshman, Internet stalker, from the back end of Boston.

And, of course, Jerry Friedman, an aging author still claiming cred for a popular creation over 50 years ago, the Hairballs.

Tearful Puppies include ....

Gary Castelo, intergalactic lord of rage / dark lord of the fisk.

Rachel Hartley, Vile yet Glamorous Fairy Princess

Jesse James, and his daughters Faith and Sophia. Do not mention the old west outlaw to him.

Omar Gunderson

Colonel George Bradley

Tom Knighton

Cryomancer, an Australian artist

Calvin Y, "Crazy Cal" Jefferson.

I won't even go into Agnes O'Day, leader of the Hydrophobic Puppies

Yes, because I'm subtle.

The best of March, 2016

Ever wonder how many hits some of these things get?

Well, I copied this on Friday, after the month was over. This will give you an idea.

Yes, I was tempted to go back and try the Jessica Jones again, even though it would be several days later, but having dealt with embedded images in blogger, I'm not even going to fight it. 

Not surprisingly, the Sad Puppies carry it in half the posts. The "who's rabid" post was linked to by Glyer of 770, John C. Wright, and even Vox Day, which explains why it's head and shoulders above everyone in general, even though it was only posted a 8 days before I copies this graph...

Though I am amused that my Hollywood Nazi post sparked so much interest. But I suppose people were still pissed off over the Oscars at the time. Who knew I could release halfway timely content?

#SadPuppies ask -- who's rabid? Mar 22, 2016, 18 comments	690
The Amazing Idiocy of Stephen Davidson Mar 7, 2016, 8 comments	394
Awesome #SadPuppies News Mar 17, 2016, 7 comments	297
Hollywood Nazis Mar 3, 2016, 4 comments	276
The Evil of the Puppy Kickers Mar 22, 2016, 12 comments	258
Hollywood Racists Mar 9, 2016, 3 comments	253
K List writers, Vox Day, and a few #SadPuppies Mar 29, 2016, 2 comments	209
#SadPuppies Voting in 48 hours (and counting) Mar 30, 2016	185
Set to Kill, Chapter 9 excerpt Mar 7, 2016	158
Review: Jessica Jones Mar 27, 2016, 6 commen

Set To Kill excerpt: Chapter 16, Fine Dining

The Hugo nominations are due today, but I'm sure that none of my readers need that reminder, right? Heh heh heh. Anyway, I presume that you've made the right nominations -- ie: you nominated the things you liked.

As for me?  66,472 words into the sequel to It was only on Stun!  I'm in the home stretch on the first draft.

This is the point in which Sean Ryan meets a fan artist from online. She is of course based on no one in particular.

Heh heh heh.

* * * *

Sean surveyed the room, and was happy to see that someone took his advice, creating a dais at each end of the room. On one end of the room were all of the Puppies – though he had to correct himself as far as Jesse James was concerned, especially if he didn't care about the Hubbles. James was not on the dais, but nearby, dining with his family. The two teenagers looked more like adults, both girls dressed like young women, and his wife, Barbara, Queen of all things Goth, was dressed in solid black.

On the dais, it was Rachel Hartley, Gary Castelo, Colonel Bradley, and Omar Gunderson. Hmm. Where's Kovach?

Sean spotted Kovach off to the right of the dais, as far into the corner as possible. There was his wife, all red hair and martial artist's body.

Sean fingered his wedding ring, and knew he should call Inna before the night was over.

He looked to the other end of the dais, and the anti-Puppies. In the center sat the publishers of Rot – Patty and Terri Smith-Smythe-Smits – and they both actually looked like a man and a woman instead of two gender-neutral mannequins. S. Tempest Teacup and NKVD sat side by side, on the left of the Rot publishers, and Johnny Prada had the seat to their right.

Sean frowned, noting two empty chairs next to Prada. I can see one being empty, but two? No, there shouldn't even be one. Friedman's chair – if he ever had one – would have been removed. I wonder if Moshevsky had problems getting here. And where's Adler? Sean glanced at his watch. They're both an hour late.

Sean tapped his ear buds. “Someone go to the Hilton, I think that's where I stashed the Puppy-kicker regiment. If we have any Stormtroopers there, I need two to go to the room of Kendall Adler, of Rot publishing, and check on Fred Moshevsky. They're on the top floor with the rest of the guests, and that requires a special key to get to the floor, so talk to the front desk before you go up. Just make sure they're are still alive.”

“Yes sir,” came the answer. “You have a good time at the banquet.”

“Unlikely,” Sean answered. “Who is this, by the way?”

“Moses Lambert, 501^st Stormtrooper regiment, Petty Officer first class, retired, sir.”

Sean gave an amused scoff. “Don't sir me, I work for a living. Let me know if something comes up. I –”

Sean stopped. Limping into the room was Fred Moshevsky, looking something like a dressed-up lab assistant for Doctor Frankenstein. The hump over his right shoulder seemed to be bothering him even more now.

“Cancel the lookout for Moshevsky,” Sean told Lambert. “He just dragged his sorry ass in here.”

“Confirmed,” Lambert said. “Signing off.”

Sean frowned, studying the rest of the room. Moshevsky limped over to his correct area, then hopped onto the dais before taking his seat.

Sean raised a brow. I'm trying to figure out if he's got new orthopedics in his shoes, or has better mobility in some areas than others.

He looked over the rest of the hall. It was relatively calm. He was almost surprised. But then, the room seemed entirely divided into political ideologies. The fun wouldn't start until there was interaction between the two groups.

Then I have to break out my taser.

“Excuse me sir?” came a gentle, lilting voice next to him.

Sean turned. At his shoulder, there was a tiny slip of a woman. She was Asian, with a broad, smiling face. Her deep brown hair was combed back on her right side, and covered her left, going diagonally past her eye. Her glasses were wire-framed, and she had cute, dangly earrings. She wore an outfit too long to be considered a little black dress. Sean was grateful he didn't turn around too fast. She looked like if he had collided with her, he would have broken her. She wasn't even five-feet tall, and a size two, at best.

“May I ask if you are Mister Ryan?” she continued.

Sean turned on his smile, and tried hard to maintain it. He didn't want to be distracted, but playing nice was required. “Yes I am. And you are?”

“I am Cryomancer,” she said, the lyrical nature of her voice made the last vowel turn up, almost as though she was asking a question. “Part of the Puppies?”

“Ah.” Sean gave a slight bow at the waste. “Yes, I had heard of you. I hope you are enjoying your stay at WyvernCon?”

Cryomancer beamed. “Oh, yes, I am. Greatly. I also appreciate your security arrangements for me. The Stormtroopers who have been with me all day have been most helpful.”

Sean nodded, spotting the two guards standing back a ways. It was odd seeing the two guards with a woman who was dressed in a costume that was either Japanese school girl, or Donald Duck's sailor outfit, he couldn't tell. “Good. I didn't want anything should happen to you. Especially since you're the only person here who has a potential direct threat against them.”

Cryomancer nodded a little. “I know. But I cannot imagine Crabs showing up, can you?”

He blinked. “Wait, who?”

“Crabs? John Weir?”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is that his actual nickname?”

“He has many internet handles, most of which have been banned from commenting at most websights,” Cryomancer explained. “But most of us believe that Crabs suits him best.”

“Can't imagine,” Sean said wryly. “How damaged do you think he is?”

“Very,” she said simply.

“He the only one you have anything to worry about?”

“Only if we have terrorists here,” she said. “Islamofascists do no like me.”

Sean cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

She smiled brightly. “Read my SWATting. It did not quite happen like that, but I live on a military base.”

Sean blinked. This should be interesting. “I'll read it right away.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a quick hug, and darted away.

Sean frowned, confused, then pulled out his phone, and called up Matt Kovach's A Pius Geek blog, and looked for Tearful Puppies Bite Back.

Set to Kill, Chapter 12 Excerpt

Yup, another excerpt for Set to Kill. Sorry about that. I guess you'll just have to lived with it a little. Yes. I would have done another article, but these took the wind out of my this week.  I just broke 46,000 words on the book in the last two days, as well as wrote the large blogs.

So I'm moving as fast as I can. 

With any luck, you can probably finish It Was Only On Stun!, perhaps the Pius Trilogy, before I'm done with this. 

Enjoy.

* * * *

Mercenary and part-time assassin Michael DeValera looked through his telescopic site at the body of Sean A.P. Ryan. The target was down, one solid impact in the chest. Cracked sternum? Check. The bullet should have punched a hole in him big enough to see from there, with enough blood spatter to look like a mosaic, but the traffic swarmed around Ryan, blocking DeValera's view.

Everything was according to plan.

Obviously, it was far earlier than he had expected. He had spent hours last night putting up the arrangements, killing the right guards, cutting the hole in the window. Ryan had to come to the Weston sooner or later, and the decided lack of traffic comparative to the other hotels, together with its one good main entrance, made it inevitable that the target would wander into his sites sooner or later. Though he had expected it later, in the evening.

A door smashed in behind DeValera, and he smiled.

“Release your weapon, fiend, or die.”

DeValera looked over his shoulder. It was the elf, swathed in black silk, almost ninja-ish. That would at least explain how he got there so fast. The blond freak seemed to appear and disappear at will.

DeValera dropped his rifle in the extended window sill flower planter at his feet, then stood, turning to face the thing calling itself an elf.

DeValera looked the blond up and down. “What are you?” he asked in his perfect diction. “Dressed for Halloween?”

The elf's eyes narrowed. “You shall pay for what you have done, villain.”

DeValera smiled. “Come and get me, little man.”

The elf took one step forward, and stopped when he heard the click of a land mine under the carpet.

DeValera raised a perfectly black eyebrow. “Really? You caught that? Oh well, better luck next time.”

The elf's mouth tightened. He reached behind his back and flicked a knife right at DeValera's head. It bounced off of the sheet of bulletproof glass cutting them off from each other.

“I did my homework on you people,” DeValera gloated. “I don't get caught.” He pulled a Zippo from his pocket, light it, and dropped it in the ledge flower pot with the sniper rifle. The thermite in the pot burned bright and hot in an instant. “Ciao.”

DeValera started for the wall, tapped a button in his pocket, and the breacher explosives he put on the wall blew up, creating an easy opening for him to step through, leaving the elf to die.

After all, his mines came with a 30-second timer delay. The elf would either step off and die, or stand there and die.

He was three floors away when the mine finally exploded.

At least Ryan stayed in one piece when I killed him. This one won't be so lucky.

Set to Kill, Chapter 11 Excerpt

Yes, this is yet another excerpt from Set to Kill, my sequel to It was only on Stun!

Sean has killed yet two more people. I've decided to get rid of the fight scene here because, well, it has a nice punchline, and I can't give you the ENTIRE book.

Right now, I have 41,000 words written. I think I'm not doing too badly for a book I announced two months ago. Though I need to have fewer distractions. Now that I don't have to worry about monitoring Sad Puppies for right now, I'm good. Yay. Maybe this will go faster.

Enjoy.

* * * *

Sean lowered the gun, and swept the area once more with his eyes. He expected screams, some yelling, maybe some stampeding.

Instead, he found everyone on the floor staring at him.

Without any preamble, a tall CosPlayer, wearing SWAT gear and a Cookie Monster mask, started clapping. Others were merely taking footage on their phones and uploading it to YouTube, live.

The door burst open behind him, and Sean started, and was about to bring his gun up when he saw that Gary Castelo had charged through the door, tetsubo held high. The author, stopped, looked at the bodies, and said, “Sorry I'm late. I was caught up in a discussion about midichlorians. Jesse was particularly loud.”

Matthew Kovach was right behind him, peeking his head out the door. “Show's over already? Nuts.” He took two steps out the door, and looked around. “They only sent two guys? What? They're figuring that their odds would have improved after the first four waves of douchebags?”

“No idea.” Sean slid his gun away. “I'm just hoping they didn't follow me here, but I can't see any other way to have known where I was. I didn't really know until I checked the schedule.”

Kovach rolled his eyes. “At this moment, we're the greatest concentration of Tearful Puppies in any one place, in public, at the entire convention. Where else would you have been?”

Sean frowned. “Point.”

“I'm just wondering why you didn't shoot them in the first place,” Castelo said.

“I didn't want to get into a gun battle in the middle of a convention, duh.” Sean rolled his eyes. “I might have gotten the critic fan over here, but these guys are professionals. I prefer to close on the guys with the guns, and shoot the ones with the knives. Better than having a swordfight, that's for darn sure.”

“Sean,”Wilhelmina Goldberg said in his ear, “Overwatch. We've just got abomb threat at the Weston hotel.”

Set to Kill, Chapter 9 excerpt

This is just a small fragment of chapter 9. Otherwise, there would be too many spoilers.

I'm now on 33,566 words. Enjoy.

*****

Faith and Sophia James burst into the hotel, charging through the Hyatt with all the exuberance of children.

They knew exactly where their group was going, they knew exactly where they were going to be, so the two teens darted straight for it, knowing full well that their parents, and the entourage they came with, would be swamped with fans for a while now.

So when they were attacked by a Ninja Turtle with a four-foot staff, they were all alone.

The first swing came from relatively nowhere. First they were dashing down the stairs, and then, the staff came at them, shoulder-high.

Sophia dropped and rolled under the swing, and Faith burst back, narrowly missing the attack.

But this left the attacker with Sophia behind, Faith in front, and the turtle in the middle.

Faith burst in, slamming her shoulder into the turtle's chest padding, checking his arm with hers, so he couldn't swing back.

Sophia grabbed a chair and smashed it over the turtle's head. Faith took the staff away, then thrust it into the attack's face. Blood and teeth went flying. Faith swung the other end of the staff into the turtle's leg, just missing the knee.

“Kids! Stop attacking that man!”

Faith and Sophia stopped, and looked up the stairs as the turtle wandered away. Barbara James stood at the top of the stairs, hands on black, leather-clad hips, looking like Blue Sonja.

“But mom!” they cried. “He started it!”

Barbara's eyes narrowed. “Oh did he?”

She charged down the stairs, looking like nothing so much as a Valkyrie in full swing.

They looked around, and he was already gone.

Stormtroopers came down the stairs, “blasters” at the ready. “Is there a problem, ma'am?”

Barbara looked at them. “Yes. A man in a turtle costume went after my children.”

The Stormtroopers looked at the staff, then each other, nodded, and sent out a BOLO order for Donatello.

Set to Kill, Chapter 8: Leveling Tokyo

Here we go again.

FYI: Sorry about disappearing for a few days, But I've been seriously freaking tired lately, and there are more than a few people who want my time, so it's good to take a few days every so often.

Coming soon: Stupid Puppy Kicking tricks, and Tor.

And sometimes, they're the same thing.

Be well.

****

Set to Kill, Chapter 7: Minions of the Puppy-Kickers

I'm 25,000 words into Set to Kill.  I have copied and pasted a large chunk of Chapter 7 here.

Enjoy.



For the record, yes, everyone who read It Was Only On Stun!, there is holdover from that book -- you might recognize the character of author Matthew Kovach.

In this scene, Sean Ryan has just finished reading a section of a parody written by Kovach on his blog.

The parody title is Tearful Puppies Bite Back.

Yes, I'm subtle.

Anyway, Sean has just finished something called "Minions of the Puppy Kickers," which starred Fred Moshevsky, and his bossses, Terry and Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits, editors of Rot books.

Other characters include...

Jesse James, nicknamed "Shiva, destroyer of worlds."
Gary Castelo, the Intergalactic Lord of Hate.
Rachel Hartley, Vile and Glamorous Space Princess
Orion Matthews, professional editor
Kendall Adler, creative director for Rot Books
And Rot authors Johnny Prada and Jerry David

Because subtle.

Set To Kill, Chapter 5

Welcome to more pieces and parts of my upcoming novel Set To Kill.  I'm already on page 56, but the is was a slow week.  Sorry about that.

If you don't remember what Set To Kill is, it's the sequel to my novel It Was Only On Stun.

Thursday, the day before WyvernCon

Sean Ryan finished the SWATting of Colonel Bradley, then looked at Matthew Kovach like the man had grown three heads. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, handing the author back his iPad.

“More or less what happened,” Kovach said.

“Come on, this is so unbelievable, no one has land mines—”

Bradley cleared his throat. “I do.”

Sean's head whipped around so fast, whiplash was not out of the question. “Really? How much of this was real?”

“I don't have any bloodstained crosses,” he said casually. “And I didn't force the SWAT team to undergo training. And I certainly don't act like that around my wife.”

Bradley's phone rang and he immediately answered it. He hopped up and marched off to the side, the last words he heard from him were “Hey, honey. How are you, pumpkin?” in a voice so sweet, he sounded like someone else.

Sean blinked as though he'd been slapped. “Huh. Well, I guess there can be a lot more truth in fiction than I thought.”

“Just wait until you see my books,” Kovach said.

Sean frowned, “I'm almost afraid to ask.” He looked back to the authors. “Now, all of you people have been SWATted?”

Everybody nodded, even the two on laptops.

“Now, did anyone actually die during any of these? Obviously, none of you did, but were there casualties?”

The author on the laptop, in the kilt, laughed. “I only had a few of them bruised. My kids play rough.”

Sean blinked, opened his mouth, and he saw Declan Finn already scrolling through his iPad to find that writeup. “I don't think I want to know just now. Though I must ask, your name, sir?”

“Jessie James.”

Of course you are. “Your parents sure they wanted Jessie? Not William or Henry?”

“Like I haven't heard that one –” James stopped and looked up from his computer for a moment, still typing without looking at the screen. “Okay, I haven't actually heard that one before. They usually ask where my brother Frank is.”

“Glad I can oblige.” He looked over the others. “Anyone other casualties?”

One of the others, who looked like Freddy Mercury (only straight), with mustache and slicked-back black hair, chuckled. “Only scrapes and bruises.”

“Even I survived mine,” Kovach joked. His smile faded. “But, seriously, Sean, the SMURFs have pulled out all of the stops trying to sabotage the livelihoods of everyone here. Check out Amazon sometime, and see how many one-star reviews out and out state that it's because the author is a Puppy backer, and you'll see that this has been a concerted effort. It's a little annoying at this point.” The author smiled. “Let's just say I'm happy that I've kept my temper in check.”

Sean nodded. He'd seen a few of the bodies Kovach had left behind. “Gotcha.” He looked back to the others. “I have to ask, then – why didn't a single one of you ask WyvernCon for more security? Let's say this is all true, that none of you, and none of your fans, made even the slightest threat against the smuts –”

“SMURFs,” a chorus corrected him.

“—then why did only one side ask for help?”

Gary Castelo laughed, once more seeming like the ghost of Christmas Present. “I own a gun range. Figure it out.” He nodded to Kovach. “You read his write up of Bradley's SWATting experience. Do the math.”

The one Sean labeled as “Freddie Mercury” said, “I'm Werner Y. Jefferson. In addition to being an author, I'm a gunsmith, and I make my own swords. As Gary says, do the math.”

Jessie James didn't even look up from the laptop. “Yeah, don't even start with me. Someone else can go.”

Rachel Hartley reached under her chair and brought out a tactical umbrella, with a solid iron core. “I'm good with this.”

“But in all honesty,” Omar Gunderson said, “We don't need it. These guys are, at best, keyboard commados. Sure, sic a SWAT team on us via 9-1-1? Not a problem. But you've met the leaderships of some of our … antagonists?”

Gary chuckled. “Mild annoyances?”

Omar shrugged. “Sure. Like it or not, we're not in a place where they can come and get us. Even if they call a SWAT team on us again here, in Atlanta, there's no way that they would get past the front desk. It's hard to SWT someone in a hotel, you know?”

“And let's face it, there's no way in Hell they'd take us on one-on-one,” Kovach said. “Unless they have some psycho foot soldiers around, of course. Heh. But let's face it, what are the odds of that?”

That's when someone coming up the Hyatt's back stairs and wheeled on the patio with a gun.