Linz just finished writing his novel, Necropoly (spy a hint of the book cover’s art & read samples below!) Next up, some final edits then off to an agent and eventually a publisher.
While the contents of Necropoly are top secret at this time, here are some of the fascinating characters you will meet: Loud Golfer Dude, Bam-O, Thumby, Party Girl, Hunch, The Kid, and leading them all with child-like, but questionable abandon, The Man. You will be catapulted into the future where ill-health and deformities are en vogue, dead bodies are left around, and the average day is a cool 105 degrees. And Sh, don’t tell anyone, but the mystery disappearance of James Dean’s death car may be solved…
The synopsis that will grace the back dust cover:
A megacity, planet Earth, the future.
The human ape has surpassed its zenith and ridden its technologies and itself to the edge of oblivion. Cities crumble at the behest of squalor, riots, selfishness, rotten choices and a creepy brand of law enforcement. One city, though, harbors one special resident: The Man. Imbued with extraordinary resources, talents, and heart, The Man could be just what humanity needs--but he has his own problems to deal with first.
Filled with humor, horror, absuridty and great characters, Necropoly is a unique and wildly entertaining tale of a man with everything suddenly struck with mental illness. Join The Man in navigating the dark, deadly path he takes to fix his head and save a world that does not care to be saved.
A special note of admonition from the author: Dear reader, if you are easily offended and fear humor or perspectives other than your own, this book is doubly for you. You may need a bath and want for psychiatric intervention upon reading; but remember, what does not kill you, makes you stronger. Flex those muscles, baby!
SAMPLE 1
Howwwl! Great Gods of Gorgon, what a hideous noise. The forest echoes the outburst three times then shoves it deep into the earth. The burial is misleading. Just because you can’t hear something anymore doesn’t mean it’s not there.
The car is closer but not close enough. The Man finds a gear he never knew he had. His legs pump pure power, pure purpose yet his breathing is no more labored than a leisurely stroll through a Wellesian rose garden.
Another Howl and no echo. It is close. So is the car.
The Man cuts hard left and barrels through the dense foliage. Another sharp cut and those lately-quiet invisi-piggles scream their phantom pain. Nothing to plant hard on, he falls, a bullet splitting the air where his head was. Until now, The Man deemed the wayward toes a detriment. Here they save life. Heroic nonexistent piggles. He sniggers and finds his feet.
There it is.
“Open, Driver door.”
It frees and swings up. Just a few yards…
The Man lunges in.
“Shut, Driver Door. Drive fast. Really fast.” This ancient electric Toyota is no Porsche Spyder but it listens well enough. The tires spin and catch.
Clank.
Oh, boy. The door did not seal and …the dog thrusts its head into the gap. The Man holds the door down with his left hand, clamping the dog’s chest to the jam. The hound wriggles mightily. It takes all of The Man’s strength. Thank Neptune this was not the Spyder. This making quite a dent and tearing up the paint. If it were Spyder, have fun finding a shop that knew how to work on—Fo-cus.
Keeping the car on the road is proving difficult. If he could just slow down, stop, he could use two hands on the beast. But Night Hunter would gain and have a much better shot. Must create more distance. He pushes the car to maximum speed.
The dog issues a beep. The eyes flutter then lock open. The Man jerks his head to avert its gaze.
“I see your ass, muther fucker.” Night Hunter has tapped into the dog’s eyes.
“What is it with all the mommy sex?”
“Rest assured, me and my dawg will be enjoyin’ yer mommy within the hour. Rip and chew, boy, rip and chew.”
There is a buzz of machinery. The dog’s jaw slides out and chomps at the seat. The covering shreds and chunks of foam fly. Holding down the door with one arm is not ideal. The Man regrets missing triceps and latissimus dorsi at the gym this week. This game does have it time and body management challenges. The dog senses The Man weakening and surges forward. It bites down and catches hold of his pants. The Man clinches and stays a hair’s breadth away. Thank Charon he didn’t miss butt day. Still, the seat of his pants are gone. Not one to be confined by underwear, his bare skin dimples with the puffs of air from the thrashing jaws. OneEye would find this quite amusing. If he could see it. The Man smiles.
But Night Hunter finds it amusing too. He rolls with laughter until he coughs.
“Yer ass is mine. Saw, boy, saw.”
Beep. The dog’s teeth are a saw mill. The plastic whirs and whines to a painful pitch. Problem is, The Man cannot look down to do battle. Those lifeless eyes will see him, record him, give his and his asses’ identity away. To the Hunter, and everyone else in the world. And Necropoly will be over for keeps. The teeth present another problem. If one drop of blood is shed and collected, his genetics will be had. The sawing intensifies. His muscles quiver, the door edges up, the Hunter gloats and the dog Howls.
SAMLE 2
Chapter l5
“Something is lost only when you give up looking for it.” - The Trooper
A topless sports car slinks sexy and dangerous down the old Pacific Coast Highway. The sexy: curvy and beckoning. The dangerous: mocking modern safety features and built for vintage speed. Built for challenging death. This is no front wheel drive electric Toyota—and no ArtieDog is going to catch or ruin it.
Caring little but for the weak will of the wind, a handful of emaciated seagulls coast hot, tenuous air currents. If they were well-nourished or the breezes were to cease there would be one more extinction. Fat birds eventually have to land and this land is bad for them. No living thing is safe here. All-terrain Artie Rens see to that.
Pulsing yellow eyes always to the sea or the skies, a pack of renegade artificial coyote run the lonely beaches and rocks below. They are storied to pluck seal from the water and bash them to death on those rocks. Some contend this is what led to the seals’ permanent disappearance. With no real research conducted now no one will ever know what happened to them. But the handful of scrawny gulls know. They know all about it. So they keep their distance. So do the humans in this region. At least those clanking together more than five point one brain cells. Whether on the rocks or up here on the naked plain, nothing alive stays alive venturing unprotected or not moving at a high rate of speed in these parts.
SAMPLE 3
Triangular and bright as the sun, it approaches with new-time speed. Just in case that is the law, The Man eases off to the speed limit. 80 miles per hour out here in the middle of nowhere.
But this pusuer does not want to pass. It rides this Spyder’s tail.
Pull over says the speaker in the grille.
The Man and pursuer slow and stop off the shoulder.
The Man kills the engine.
Whoever is back there, they are taking their time.
The Man stays cool in the middle of what used to be called winter. January and 95 degrees tonight. The same ‘ol hot but not a bead of sweat on The Man. Pulse level, no matter a brain-mottled murder weapon and a Trooper bearing down on him.
Gravel grinds under the lawman’s boots. In the side mirror he’s a headless, footless, blacked-out figure in an encroaching cloud. A smile passes over The Man’s face. The cloud reminds of that Star Trek episode. Will this cloud bring the end with it? The Man looks down to make sure he is not wearing a red shirt. Not all red shirts died on the show though. Scotty is incontrovertible proof. He—
The Trooper is nearly here and
Two inches. Two inches can be incredibly important. The difference between freedom and zapped into oblivion by a fake Mr. Sam. The Man realizes he should have dropped the pipe and towel two inches further back. He intended them to nestle in the narrow space just below the edge of the seat, behind the floor support rail running from driver’s side to passenger’s. They would have been secure and invisible in the dark. Now the murder weapon and its cuddly blanket rest on the front side of the support. No time to correct. No time to make those two inches count. No time to—
“Good evening, Sir. I would ask that you roll down your window, but that would be a moot point, now wouldn’t it?” The Trooper’s smart eyes twinkle.
“Hello. What can I do for you.”
“Well, I am certain we would agree that most transportation modes are now automated and follow strict ambulation laws. So seeing you out here all independent like and in this vehicle is quite, well Sir, unusual. We might also agree that you were, most likely, most likely, traveling at a rate of speed out of synchronicity with this area’s posted number. Would you say that is the truth, or, my creative imagination?”
“I would say there is high veracity in both claims.”
“I appreciate beyond words a man that holds truth in the highest regard. Such a man is worthy of leniency, I would say.”
“What can I do for you.”
“A man that gets to the point is also to be respected. What was that Kafka line? When the plain truth is…”
“…is in question, great minds do away with the niceties of refinement.”
“Word for word. No one has ever finished that line for me. But you are no ‘no one,’ are you now? No Sir.” He taps the tiny oval mirror and smiles. “Now, due to your honesty, I will be letting you go about your business. No infraction, no citation. But there is, well—one favor you might consider granting an insignificant, but hard working man. One who would be ever so grateful.”
He strokes the graceful curve of the door top and moves back onto the rear fender. The steel is cool and sensuously smooth. The Trooper is wistful.
“While it is highly irregular to make such a request—there were only ninety produced. Is this one of those or a replica?”
“The most historically meaningful of the lot.”
SAMPLE 4
l38 miles per hour.
“Mom went for the dog, Pop for me. He and I made it outside but they were missing. Pop ran back into the fire storm and found Mom. She had the dog, fur still smoking, cradled in her melted arms. Bobo the Dog was okay.
“As far as Mom, she was alive—but left her face, and everything else back in that fire. You can live but that does not guarantee you have a life.”
The pain on Trooper’s face saddens The Man. He wants to say something, but know this is not the time. When pain finally pours, never halt its flow.
“It took every bit of gut and gumption to look her in the eye after that. I thought of all those old monster movies and, to a boy, Mom was the scariest of the bunch. She made Karloff in the Mummy look like a supermodel.” The Trooper rubs his eyes.
“She could see, talk, but any movement was excruciating. Tormented by constant itches she could not scratch. Burns and sores that never healed. Only festered. The countless skin grafts, those that held, were sickening. Her body was a cheap quilt of oozing multi-colored patches and haphazard stitching. Her mouth was like a hole shoddily cut into splotchy cow hide. There wasn’t enough flesh on her for proper, one could say, repair. The doctors—if you want to call them that—pumped her full of pain killers and super antibiotics. They said she was one tiny infection away from death and would be for life.
“Dead while living.” He forces a chuckle. “Some oxymoron, huh? The days were filled with painful grunts and gasps and profanities. But the night screams, they were the worst.”
l45 (so much for manufacturer’s specifications)
Letting someone else drive. And fast. The Man reaches out and rubs the chrome suicide handle jutting from the dash.
The Trooper fights on.
“She ran amok the last time I saw her. Alive. Threw paint all over or smashed all reflective surfaces. The mirrors and windows fought back. Pop caught up to her as she was using one of the chards on her face.” The pipe flails and the Spyder swerves. “Her hands were in shreds. Blood was—everywhere. I still see it.” He overturns and relaxes the hand with the pipe to look at his palm. Same with the hand driving. The Spyder veers wildly…
