Welcome to Daytona, 3022. Much has changed.
After mankind had made peace between the nations, there still followed the Robotic Wars, the Insect Wars and the Climate Wars. Many of the world’s formally hidden creatures have risen to the surface.
The rivers and oceans have dried up and a conscious fog covers the planet.
Sorry has a plan to restore the world, but to do so, must cooperate with mutants, ocean sprites, Seafog, Freemonkeys and Mutmuts.
They’ve arrived from the future to show us how to save the present.
Targeted Age Group:: 16 – 80
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Imagining how the city I live in would look in a thousand years. I knew mankind would not be the dominant species, so get ready to meet wizards, werewolves, Mutmuts, Sea sprites, Freemonkeys and giant cockroaches.
https://youtu.be/dohNFZWit0A
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I imagined creatures that were formally hidden but rose to the surface in a world that replaced its water with a conscious fog…creatures that lived deep in the ocean, lived in caves or remote areas, mutations, some from outer space and insects, also.
Book Sample
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When they returned to the castle, Sorry said he wanted to go straight to bed.
“I’ve got a ramming headache.”
“Just one t-thing,” Morticum stuttered as he searched for an excuse. “I want to give you my anniversary gift. I left it in the ballroom.”
“Just bring it to the bedroom. You know I don’t go in there.”
“No, it’s too large,” Morticum lied. “Just humor me this once.”
Sorry frowned and started in the opposite direction.
Morticum grabbed his partner’s hand and pulled him toward the ballroom. When he released him to open the door, Sorry made a run for it, but a werewolf can easily outrun a wizard, and he dragged him back by his ear.
“Let’s get this over fast, then. I’ve got a piece of toast lodged in my throat. Why do they always go so cheap on the butter?”
When the door opened, Sorry looked in horror at all the friends he knew in various stages of disorientation. Malis came over to see his older brother and Morticum took the opportunity to pull Seafog aside.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“I may have sprinkled spores on the hors deuvres,” Seafog said sheepishly. “You know, to get the party started.”
Morticum shook his head, keeping his eyes on the two brothers. He had always liked Sorry’s younger brother, a less competent wizard but eighty years younger and looking a lot like his lover when they first met.
Sorry, on the other hand, still held resentment from an event in their youth when his brother was just learning magic. Malis had an argument with their father and he attempted to turn the old man into a frog. But it was a frog with no head, giving their dad a premature funeral.
Morticum walked over and shook Malis’ hand. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you.”
Malis did not respond immediately. He stared at his brother and saw the layers of bags beneath Sorry’s eyes, eyes that were now just little black pinpoints, sunken deep within his head. He looked at the u-shaped ring of shoulder length frizz of gray hair. He gasped slightly as he glared at the liver spots that now covered his brother’s face and the skinny arms and chicken legs that sprung from his t-shirt and shorts.
“Oh, I guess it was your fiftieth,” Malis said at some length.
Sorry noticed the pause and knew what his brother was looking at. He tightened his lips until they disappeared from his face.
Morticum also noticed the awkward moment. “Who is this lovely young lady with you?” he asked Malis.
Sorry and Morticum stared at the mutant with Malis, with no arms but breasts so long and skinny, she wore them like scarves about her neck. Only her yellow eyes and spiky blue hair were visible. She wore a single stretchy around her waist. Most females at the party wore three to seven stretchies, in different widths and colors, to express their individual fashion sense. The males wore nothing if they were furry or the same pants and shirts that had not changed significantly in thousands of years.
“This is Busy,” Malis said. “We’re getting married. I already got the license, a five year with option for renewal.” He was proud that he had not gotten the one year with no option, as most did these days.
In this new life after the weather change, human lifespan had decreased to thirty-two years. Even mutants lived only about thirty-seven, having partially adapted. Marriage was required to perpetuate the species. Even gays and those non-compliant with marriage were required to donate sperm or eggs.
“Congratulations,” said Sorry.
“I hope she makes you very happy,” said Morticum. They assumed she was smiling beneath her breasts. They assumed she had a mouth. She made no noise at all, but one breast unraveled and waved in the air.
“She says ‘thank you’,” Malis said. “Oh, and Sorry, there’s something very important I must discuss with you.”
Sorry cringed. But before he could disclose his concern, a young thin wizard with manic blue eyes flew into the room on a flying seat and set down next to Sorry.
“As I live and breathe,” Morticum exclaimed. “Strugglejay!”
Sorry regarded his long lost son with distrust and a modicum of envy. When Strugglejay was twelve, he had snuck into his father’s private office and copied a love spell from his book of conjures. Sorry considered this an unfair advantage and would never use spells for personal gain, but Stugglejay used it constantly and would ram anything that moved. But, Sorry sometimes wondered what his life would be like if he had simply moved from flower to flower. He wouldn’t be as concerned with Morticum’s fidelity, that’s for sure.
These days, ramming was considered a necessary objective and encouraged. In a world where most lived in glass globes, ramming was frequently quite visible. But Sorry still believed in moderation of all things and wanted none of it at his party. He knew that since the arts had been outlawed for being contrary to survival, ramming was the only enjoyable diversion that was still allowed. But it had led to a variety of new social diseases: Hep Q, R and S, Aids Plus and genirot. Strugglejay had gotten them all, which is why they were so surprised not only that he was here but that he was still alive.
Strugglejay got off his flying seat, but when he stood, he immediately had to lean on his father. “I’m afraid the genirot has weakened my legs,” he said, “But they still haven’t invented the disease that can take me out.” He smiled. His father frowned.
“I wouldn’t be so proud of that,” Sorry said sternly.
“We weren’t even expecting you,” Morticum said. “Pigeon returned your invite, said he didn’t know your location.”
“I’m here. I’m there. A breeder needs to move about,” he gave as way of explanation. “If we still had cell phones, life would be easier, but that ramming Seafog removed all chance of radio transmission.”
“I wouldn’t say that aloud,” Morticum warned. “He’s at this party and can be quite vengeful.”
“Why would anyone in his right mind invite him to a party?”
“”Yes, why would one?” Sorry whispered to his partner and jabbed him in the ribs.
A dense layer of cloud formed about Strugglejay’s head, making him cough and gag. Busy attempted to disperse the fog with a wave of her breast to no avail. Strugglejay fell to the floor, flailing like a fish out of water.
“Say Uncle,” Seafog commanded.
“Uncle, uncle,” gasped the young man.
“I like that. You will call me ‘Uncle Seafog’ from now on, to show some respect,” he said and left him to regain his breath.
Sorry lifted his son to a standing position, knowing his legs were weak. “Now why don’t you just save us both some time and tell me what you want?”
Strugglejay looked as if he’d been slapped. “What makes you think I want anything? Can’t a son just come over to wish his father well on his ramming hundredth anniversary?”
Sorry and Morticum smiled deviously at each other. They knew Strugglejay always had a hidden agenda.
“So what is it?” Morticum took the lead. “Spores, your father’s stash, money, someone to ram?”
“I’d no idea you two had such a low opinion of me,” Strugglejay said.
“Then you want nothing at all,” Sorry concluded.
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Spill it, boy,” his father commanded.
“It turns out I slept with my landlord’s wife. I can’t even figure out why that would be offensive to anyone in this day and age, but he kicked me out on my ass. I should have reported it to the enforcers as a traitorous act, but you know I don’t like dealing with them. Anyway, I was hoping you would let me crash here for awhile.”
He searched his father’s eyes for a response but they remained distant, sinking further into his head. Sorry was thinking of the four previous times he had to evict his own son for wild parties within the sanctity of his castle walls.
Busy’s breasts unwound and began to flail wildly in all directions, knocking over a passing Freemonkey. Malis stepped forward. “Busy is trying to tell you we have a similar request. Our globe has developed a leak and there is a two year waiting list for a new one.”
“Thanks for the party,” Sorry mumbled to Morticum. His tiny eyes began to spin within his head. He valued his privacy above all else. That’s why he favored the castle over a globe in the first place.
“Or you can give me some money-and spores-and stash,” Strugglejay suggested. “That way, I can live independently.”
“You call that independence?” Sorry harrumphed. He thought about how he loved to wander aimlessly through these castle walls, hearing nothing and seeing no one, free from the horrors that existed outside. He had lived through a world where technology used to record your every move which made him value his privacy all the more now. He sometimes thought the castle was too small for the two of them. There were times he liked to banish Morticum to the east wing, or the north wing or the tower. He liked to be in control, and that is exactly what he’d be losing.
“Let me think about it,” Sorry said and walked away, straight into a group of well wishers.
“Congratulations,” said the group of three Freemonkeys and two humans, slightly out of sync.
The two humans looked pale and gaunt, having chosen to live in the lower levels of the ancient skyscrapers, where rent was cheap but profuse with fog. The Freemonkeys lived on the upper levels where the fog was not so thick. They were bright red from face to butt. Dense black hair covered their legs and rose in front to a point at their navels, covering their genitals. Freemonkeys were a breed of half human, half werewolf but no longer had to feed as Morticum did. They were able to withstand sunlight and even craved it. They were quite servile in nature and tended to Sorry’s remaining marijuana fields on their higher level porches and roofs.
“So how are my babies doing?” Sorry asked, referring to his plants.
“I think you’ll be pleased,” the first Freemonkey said. He pulled a large resi-bag filled with bud from his satchel and handed it to Sorry, who passed it to Morticum. “Put this away and roll us some jibbies. This is just the attitude adjustment I need right now.” Morticum dashed away on all fours, which he rarely did, except when in a rush.
“There’s something wrong with the holoband,” one of the humans complained.
It was the first chance Sorry had to look about the ballroom. He noticed the balloons on the wall that now spelled out: Sorry and Morticum, One Hundred Tears. But he was impressed with the sheer elegance that his partner had created and let it go. Indeed, the holographic image that was the band was flickering and the music constantly changing speed.
“Well, no wonder,” said a dancing human. “That’s a really ancient projection. Mid twentieth century Elvis Presley, I’m guessing. Though I can’t place the song, the way it’s warbling.”
“Oh, I can,” said Sorry, his eyes filled with stars. “That’s ‘Love Me Tender,’ our wedding song. I wish that little devil was next to me right now.” He pulled out his wand and Morticum appeared beside him. He aimed it at the band and the music self-corrected. He laid his head upon Morticum’s mane and whispered dreamily into his small, pointy ear, “This time I really mean it. Thank you so much for this very lovely party.” He began to pull away, then added, “And Wolfie, please inform those bastards that they cannot move in here.” He gave a wink, touched his wand and disappeared to the bedroom.
Morticum was confused. Sorry was much too serious for nicknames. He could only remember two other times he had called him Wolfie, when they first met and on their fiftieth, the rare moments when Sorry made a real effort to show his love.
The noise level in the ballroom suddenly increased significantly. Half the guests were dancing wildly and half formed a long line for slug, a mix of condensate water, spores and synthehol. The spores had taken an hour to kick in fully, but now the effect was obvious. The humans danced spasmodically, long out of practice. The mutants were only slightly more graceful, as some of their natural movements resembled dance. Busy taught the rats to dance, but they mostly just giggled and tripped the humans, who continued to dance while lying on the floor, laughing hysterically.
The bartender called Morticum over urgently, a worried look on his face. The guests on line were growing fidgety from the long wait.
“Morticum,” the bartender said, pointing with two of his six arms at a large silver machine. “The condensater is on the fritz. No more water, no more slug. This crowd could turn ugly.”
Morticum knew the effect of suddenly turning off anything that had spores as an ingredient. It had to be done gradually. The sudden intrusion of reality to their euphoric state could induce hysteria.
“I’ll get one of the rats to run through the lines,” Morticum said.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Seafog appeared in a swirl. “Your condensaters are eating me alive.”
“Seafog, you know well the agreement of twenty seven, twenty-seven, between the inhabitants of earth and yourself, allowing us to condense a percentage of you to water for our survival.”
“Of course, but you have far exceeded that percentage this evening.”
“I thought that since I invited you to the party, you would give us some leeway.”
“Leeway for what, to kill me?” Seafog said. “Your machine is making me feel ill.”
Morticum was always surprised when the weather showed its feelings. He stood there, scratching his head. A human who had heard the conversation shrieked, “The condensator’s out. Run!”
Hysteria immediately filled the ballroom. All mistook this temporary setback for an actual emergency. In a hallucinogenic frenzy, the guests trampled each other to be the first out the door. The rats lay in a heap on the dance floor. Morticum continued to scratch his head, stunned. He surveyed the mess left behind and grumbled.
“Rats, if you clean up this mess, there will be a large chunk of cheese for you tomorrow.”
Not a single one moved. Not a single blue helmet glowed. He turned off the holoband and the lights and headed upstairs.
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