WHAT’S IT ABOUT?

Rebels of the 512 is the best novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read. Now, some will argue this is because it’s the ONLY novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read, but that’s beside the point.

The point is: I wrote this novel in just three days, it’s got a gang of surly, blood-thirsty ninjas against a grog-drunken crew of pirates and a Texas governor with really good hair. And it’s FREE, by god. So why not take a chance?

A PROMISE

If all else fails, I can promise you this: If you hate Rick Perry, you will love this novel.

Snag your copy today by using coupon code AS49Y. (Valid through Sunday, Feb. 12, only on Smashwords.)

And don’t forget to leave a review!

The group’s February book is Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot, which I added to my “to read” list back in 2011, but only added to my library hold list recently, leaving me in 193rd place to borrow a copy of the book. For some reason there are no e-copies available at the Austin Public Library (despite my urging them, on Twitter, to acquire a couple), so I’m stuck with the “real” queue, which is horribly long.

I may just have to break down and buy an e-copy for $12.99. At least I can write it off on my taxes next year, right?

Speaking of taxes, I filed mine early again this year, despite my tax software attempting to cut my return in half after accidentally clicking a button that I could not, for the life of me, undo. Damn you, tax software! (Anyone else find these claims that e-filing is “free” to be more than a little bit of flagrantly false advertising?)

But back to my original point, which was READING BOOKS. I highly encourage you to join the WBN book club and follow along for February’s pick. If you’re not feeling up to it, however, here are my Top 5 Books You Should Read This Week or Die Trying:

1. We the Animals by Justin Torres — Short and sweet for those who can’t concentrate on reading, and action-packed enough to keep you turning the pages. I look forward to reading lots more from this first-time author.
2. Rum Socialism by Kris Romaniuk — It’s only 99 effin’ cents, and if you can’t handle the typos, then get the hell outta the ebook kitchen, you lazy foodie wannabes. In case you missed it, we featured an excerpt for free on our site a few weeks back. Click here to read it. You’re welcome.
3. Naked Montreal – Part I by Laura Roberts — Yes, that’s me. Yes, this excerpt is 100% free. Yes, it’s part of my forthcoming novel, and yes you will have to wait for it to be finished to read the rest. Deal with it. Download it. Review it. It’s FREE, you cheap mofos! (And if you join my Twitter Give-Away Contest, you can read MORE of my ebooks for free!)
4. Memories of a Mombasa Gigolo by Krishna Washburn — Normally, I’m not all that jazzed about POD books, for the obvious (typo-laden, rushed-to-print) reasons. This one is a definite exception. Read my review of it over at the U.S. Review of Books if you don’t believe me. I dig it, and I recommend it to anyone who likes sex, love, dirty stories and historical tales of pre-WWI gigolos.
5. The Big Over Easy: A Nursery Crime by Jasper Fforde — Best known for his Thursday Next books, Jasper Fforde’s nursery crimes division is far more dark, bizarre, and unpredictable than his previous books, plus it incorporates some good old-fashioned mystery and suspense for good measure. Not quite noir, but certainly a unique take on the cozy mystery and the little old ladies who love (and write) them.

Got a suggestion for the book lovers amongst us? Give us a shout, and tell us what YOU’RE reading this week!

It took some trial and error, but I eventually realized that what works at a bar does not work at la revolution. Take, for example, a typical conversation with a revolutionary lady when I first started:

William Burns: Hi.

Revolutionary Lady: Hello.

WB: Corporations suck.

RL: Totally.

[I move closer, try to establish bodily contact.]

WB: It’s getting pretty crowded here. Want to go to my place?

RL: No, I don’t want to go to your place. I want to occupy Wall Street.

WB: Come on. It’s a twenty-minute train ride to Queens.

[For a minute, she looks like she’s on the fence. I smile, showing a little too much tooth, knowing that it’s really a thirty-five minute train ride.]

RL: I think you might need some help…

Where did I go wrong?

Saturday night, I walked around Washington Square Park and noticed all the beautiful people holding hands, kissing, fighting the system. Something dawned on me: I was part of a very small percentage of lonely men lookin’ for a little lovin’ at the protest.

I got there around 9:30, and apparently they had already passed out the free pizza, which I just missed by a hair (missing out on pie on so many levels), so I decided to make a sign with an empty pizza box, a sign that would capture the essence of my frustration. (See Figures 1 and 2.)

Figure 1: Two people share moment of silence

I thought a few misspellings might be appropriate. I figured I needed to mimic the inarticulate tone of the movement if I was to have any chance at all of scoring, so I held my sign up high and tried not to look too educated.

Most people were noncommittal about my sign. I thought that was pretty hypocritical. They want the world to listen to their message, but God forbid someone start a movement within their own. I guess it was just too revolutionary for them.

Lots of people with serious facial expressions took pictures with me and the sign. If you want to expose someone, take pictures of the food trucks that conveniently follow the protest. They’re actually turning a profit on the ninety-nine percent. I’m just a dude holding some cardboard.

Plus, I’m technically helping the cause. I’m occupying, and without me and my adorable sign, the movement would be minus one person. That’s not a lot; but I guarantee you, if you took every guy out of the protest who wants to get laid, you would have half your numbers. I’m just the one speaking up about it, the one percent of the ninety-nine. So put that in your pipe and smoke it and get arrested for it, like me.

Figure 2: Relatively important citizen holds sign in Lower Manhattan

Around eleven o’clock, when the assembly decided on a ten minute social break, I thought this was my ticket; but it turned out to be a series of forced handshakes, like that time in church when you greet your neighbor. I often harbored unpeaceful sexual thoughts when I shook those ladies’ hands at church, and Washington Square was no different, except here, I had a bitchin’ sign.

People were mostly trying to talk about where to continue the march, or whether they’d go home at midnight, so I tried to blend in. I infiltrated a group, half guys, half girls, introduced myself and said, “I am neither a fan of police brutality, nor foreclosure.”

The group mumbled their approval. I was in. I took this as an invitation to hold up my sign and appeal to the feminists. “Why Manhattan? Why not Womanhattan?” For some reason, the group didn’t appreciate this.

A guy with skinny jeans and a revolutionary scarf said, “It is our right to occupy public spaces. Check the Constitution.”

The girls liked this. I took a mental note. I then tried to make eye contact with each woman in the group. They read my sign and dispersed, one by one, leaving me alone with the guy.

“What am I missing?” I asked.

“Dude, what are you here for?” he asked.

“La revolution!” I said, nudging him with my elbow, unaware of my half-mast erection, which may or may not have brushed his arm.

He walked away in a revolutionary huff, and I thought, well this guy’s definitely getting laid tonight. Le sigh.

NYPD announced at 11:52 that the park would close at midnight. If people chose to stay, they would be arrested. I decided that I was not going to leave. Well, I was not going to leave without a partner. (See figure three.)

Figure 3: Man arrested for possession of love

There were hardly any revolutionaries in my jail cell. It was filled with mostly mean and unfamiliar faces, but it didn’t take long for me to remember my loneliness and for a certain prison-style cabin-fever mentality to kick in. I soon met a nice man named Ulysses.

They didn’t let me bring my sign into jail, so I described it to him. He appreciated it, and it turned out that he was also part of my one percent. I asked what he was going to do when he got out, but he didn’t answer. He just started touching me, so I was like, “Ulysses, you dog, you’re just like me—one track mind.”

“I’m just a squirrel, tryin’ to get a nut,” Ulysses said, unzipping his fly.

“I’m a revolutionary squirrel,” I said, spitting into my palm.

At least someone appreciated my zest.

I never called Ulysses when I got out. I felt like a dick, but c’est la vie pour un mec qui essaye baisser des belles revolutionairres.

I learned in jail that it’s not what you say to people. It’s how you say it. Ulysses taught me a little bit after all, and I feel more confident in my game than ever before. Plus, I’ve technically been to jail for the cause, so that’s a big bonus for my revolutionary resume. I just need to find a pair of broken glasses, an American Apparel scarf, and skinny jeans.

I don’t mean to beat a dead horse off, but since we’re comparing Occupy to the French Revolution, I think it’s about time for an inner city Marie Antoinette to step up and say (in a beautiful Bronx accent) what’s on everyone’s minds:

Let them eat pussy.

We’re all part of the same movement, and we need to stop treating it like a high school dance. So, in the immortal words of The Notorious B.I.G., rub your titties if you love your right to free speech. Rub your titties if you love equality. Rub your titties, my lonely one-percenters, because you now have a voice. And if, by chance you want to spread some of that lovin’, I’ll be on the corner with my sign held high.

–

William Burns was born on September 9, 1786—a mouth breather and environmentalist. At the tender age of 225, he decided to relinquish his seat as Central Park Prophylactic Recycling Program Wizard and devote his days to pizza box art and the sexily unrestrained personal narrative. He currently lives in a mansion made of black ice. He briefly moonlit as the Zodiac Killer, but now his vocational mistress is social work. He mainly caters to children who suffer from Multiple Elvis Personality Disorder (MEPD). He really knows how to turn a phrase down. He has written 1,002.3 novels, none of which have been published. He can
wink with both eyes.

The road dead-ended at someone’s home, and we asked a frail looking old man if we could cross the property to get up the hill. His skin hung from him like loose leather, and he was missing his front teeth, but his canines were frighteningly long and looked like they’d been filed into sharp points. He guided us around the back of the house, under a barbed wire fence, and took us up to the top. On the way down we stopped at the house, and a woman who was too young to be his wife or sister served us coffee. There must’ve been half a dozen kids living there, and the old man refused Andre’s request to peek inside.

The coffee was sweet and strong, and we drank it in what I guess passed for the backyard. A half-feral dog barked at us from a tree it was chained to, and when Andre tried to pet it, it cowered from his hand and seemed as terrified as it did ferocious.

We gave them man two CUCs (Cuban currency) for his hospitality and he gave it to the woman. She was embarrassed, gestured for us to wait, and returned with an armload of tiny mangos. We felt awkward about taking their food, but accepted one each to not be rude. She also gave the old man a shopping list, a voucher booklet, and some plastic shopping bags. Andre was interested in the voucher booklet and excited that it reminded him of the Ukraine growing up. He tried explaining this to the old man and the woman, and they seemed to understand.

After many awkward thanks and good-byes, we began to wander back down the road with the old man. Andre stopped to bum a light from a man dressed all in white, but the man wouldn’t hand him the lighter directly. He was Latino but explained that his religion was Afro-Cubano, and that he wasn’t allowed to give anything to or accept anything from someone else. He placed the lighter on the porch of a house for Andre to pick up, and that’s how Andre had to return it. I passed on Andre’s offer of a smoke because I was light-headed and my stomach was in knots. I wondered if the coffee or the water had anything to do with how I felt, or if it was just my hangover and the heat.

The old man led us deeper into the slum. I thought we were following him to the store to see how Communists did groceries, but then he led us to another apartment. It was a dingy space with concrete floors that seemed better suited for a storage space or workshop. He showed us several small shrines in different rooms and told us that he was an Afro-Cubano priest. There was one shrine in the corner by the door with a bowl of dirty razor blades in front of it, and the old man used the scars on his forearms to explain what they for. Then he insisted that we each take a hand-carved idol before we leave. Dima asked to take a picture, and panic filled the room. Andre said “No!” as quickly and urgently as the old man. Getting trigger-happy in voodoo country with a device believed to steal souls was something that we figured could kill us a lot more slowly and painfully than an angry mob that just wanted our shoes.

I was still dizzy and my limbs were beginning to tingle, and learning that that I’d been enjoying the hospitality of a witch doctor brought all kinds of weird and unsettling questions to mind: Had there been something in the coffee? Had we been poisoned or drugged, and had he brought us here to perform some dark ritual? Or was I just feeling that way because of the heat and liver damage I’d caused myself after several days? And what about that idol I’d just accepted? Did it have bad mojo? Would it only turn on me if I ever tried to get rid of it? Or was it really just an innocent gift that spooked me because, deep down, I’m a paranoid and superstitious gringo who’s lived a sheltered life?

My instincts were telling me to run, but I didn’t like the odds of offending someone with a possible direct line to mysterious powers. They say that stuff like voodoo doesn’t work unless you believe in it, but even to admit that much is to profess a kind of suppressed belief in the nefarious unknown.

In any case, we got out of there just fine, but my symptoms had plunged me into a fit of superstitious paranoia. I kept having to tell myself that we’d never been in any danger and that this was just a nice old man who wanted to show us what we came to see: a different side of the Cuban people. Who knows? Maybe he’d read it in our thoughts or it’d come to him in a dream.

Our next stop was at some “cathedral” in a large cinderblock shanty about a block away. The priest there was an awkward, chubby man, and he seemed to like the witch doctor enough to let him show up unannounced with a few strangers. Somehow, he managed to explain that he led his congregation in the worship of some saint I’d never heard of, and there was an altar with a three-foot high doll of that saint in a glass box. There were also two tall bongos carved out of tree trunks on each side of the altar, and the priest told us that they’d been made in 1852, the year the church had been founded. He also didn’t have any problem with Dima snapping as many photos as he liked, which made me feel a little more at ease, but crummy for having stereotyped the old man. For all I knew, he’d brought us here to show us he was tolerant and accepting of other faiths, too.

–

Kris Romaniuk is a writer of truth and lies, and has little use for the facts in between. He is the author of the satirical travel memoir, Rum Socialism: A Travel Diary of Communist Cuba (published in October 2011), and is currently working on his first novel, The Family Carr. Kris lives in Montreal with his demons and delusions of grandeur. He enjoys drunk walks on the beach, smoking in the boys room, and the smile of a beautiful woman. Read more of his work at krisromaniuk.com.

The poll is an annual tradition, and boasts a variety of categories on everything from books to short fiction and poetry to digital publications—including online magazines and e-books.

So I turn to you, dear readers, for support. If you like our little magazine, please give these projects some love by voting in the following categories:

• Best Anthology: The NOIR Anthology
• Book/eBook Cover Artwork: The NOIR Anthology
• Magazine/eZine Cover Artwork: The NOIR Anthology
• Fiction eZine: Black Heart Magazine
• Poetry eZine: Black Heart Magazine
• Magazine/eZine Editor: Laura Roberts

Be sure to scroll down on most of these pages to find our name, as we’re often listed beneath a rather unfortunately-placed banner ad, which appears to signify the end of the list. Don’t be fooled by this little ploy to enable those with alphabetically higher-placed names to snag the top spots!

Vote for me, get a free e-book

I also have a piece nominated in the Nonfiction Article category, “Top 5 Reasons You Can’t Get Laid in Montreal,” which I published as part of my “quickies” series at Amazon and Smashwords. If you’d like to vote for this piece, I would also be eternally grateful for your support.

To facilitate voting for something you’ve actually read and enjoyed, you can currently download a free copy of “Top 5 Reasons You Can’t Get Laid in Montreal” from Smashwords by clicking here and using the code JL28B (only until January 11). It’s available in all formats, including PDF, so you can read it on your computer or with your favorite e-reader.

And then, remember to vote by January 10!

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Lobster Telephone is a weekly missive from editor Laura Roberts‘ desk, chronicling the literary, the rebellious, and the random from around the world—complete with writing tips for the savvy submitter. The title is, indeed, inspired by the surrealist sculpture of the same name by Salvador Dalí, circa 1936. Tips are always appreciated.