term of the week

dummerer - somebody who pretends to be (deaf and?) dumb in order to

appear a more deserving beggar

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

sorry for the layout on these posts the copy and past function seens to not work very well between my typing program and blogger

sorry for the layout on these posts the copy and past function seens to not work very well between my typing program and blogger

excerpt from my book The screw that refused to tighten by Jason L. Brown , part 2 , part 3 coming next month

There was a sudden crash and with a jolt I woke , almost  falling from my chair . It was nearly an hour after nightfall and it was still over 90  , and quiet , eerily quiet. The only sounds were the rattle of the small fan on my desk and the buzz of a moth trying to escape out of the window.       Feeling something damp on my leg I looked down ."I must've knocked over my whiskey ." I said out loud , mostly just to break the silence . I had sent my secretary home almost three hours ago. A decision I now regretted , I could have used the company.                                     Looking out the window I had never seen the city so empty . "Apparently the rest of the city has had the good sense to find somewhere with air conditioning  , well I might as well join them ." I said , Again out loud. Standing up I retrieved my gun off the desk and holstered it . then instinctively I reached for my coat,catching myself I grabbed my hat instead. I was closing the door behind me and digging my keys from my pocket when I heard a noise to my left. " Oh its just you Mr. Grambo, Getting a late start to the day I see." Mr. Grambo was the accountant that worked across the hall from me. I had known him for years , He was a nice enough guy if not a little dull. "I was hoping to wait out the heat ." he said . "But I have to much to get done to wait any longer. Are you off for the day?"he asked. "Yes I think so . Sweating in my office doesn't seem to be bringing me any work , so I thought I'd find some place cool to have a bite and a drink before I called it a day ." I replied . Formalities completed I left him to his work and headed out to find a cab. Seeing that the street was still deserted I decided that the only thing worse than walking in this heat was waiting for a hack that may never come . So I started off in the direction of my favorite speakeasy . Knowing that there was a fine line between getting to my destination as quick as possible and over exerting myself,I kept a slow but steady pace. Stopping only twice , once to give an old drummerer some change and once to gawk at a teenage boy taking advantage of the dark and empty streets to get fresh with his girl. "I remember those days ."I thought enviously. "Only things that mattered were fun and dames." Before I knew it  I was stepping through the door of the seedy little hole known as Mac Kenny's. All the usual punks and yaps where there and a thick blue haze permeated every corner of the dimly lit establishment . Overhead two massive rattan fans did their part to make sure the smoke was properly circulated. I seated myself at the far end of the bar under a white square patch of wall outlining where the owner's picture used to hang. Last week there was a drunken brawl in which the picture was broken exposing what was probably the only patch of wall not permanently stained by cigar smoke. "Good day to ya Jonzey ." said the man behind the bar. "Seen ya in here an awful lot lately, misses kick ya out again?" Now Mr. Mac Kenny and I had that kind of friendship that was held together by insults and trying to outdo each other. He wasn't the best looking bird . He almost always was seen wearing a grease stained under shirt that didn't fully cover his more than adequate belly . He had curly red hair that was cut short on the sides but to long on top and in an effort to keep that hair under control he slicked it back with what looked to be old bacon fat. His sparsely grown side burns where only made to look more pitiful by his enormous mustache. So as you can imagine getting the upper hand on him wasn't difficult. "Now Byron you know I don't have no moll , none will have me due to the smell of stale smoke I have from hanging out here." I retorted. "Business bad then?" he asked. "Virtually nonexistent , all this heats keeping the criminals off the street and in this hash house of yours ." With a bellow of a laugh he said ." I've  always wondered what keeps a mutt like you come'n back to a place like this and you a shamus ta boot." "Well you Mick's might smell like cabbage and onions but everyone knows you have the best beer." "Eh that be true enough ye-sir that be true ."                                                                                                           He snickered then asked " So what'll be tonight then ? Beer and a steak ?" " How's the corned beef hash tonight ?" I asked . " the best in weeks." came the answer. " Ok I'll take that and the beer of course."

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

what are the coolest men to ever play in a pre 1960'S film noir movie - My votes are humphrey bogart, marlon brando , vincent price and jack palance . What are yours?

thank you for the suggestions for my book

thanks to some good suggestions from some friends  some corrections have been made to the part of my book I've previously posted . so again thank you and please , please pipe in with more if you have them and another excerpt will be coming soon.

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

term of the week

BADGER GAME .- blackmail practised on a man who is lured by a woman into a compromising situation and then threatened by her male accomplice

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

pulp art of the day

excerpt from some of my favorite pulps i didn't write

Doc Savage Magazine #001- "The Man of Bronze" by Lester Dent March/1933
(republished as a paperback in October/1964 by Bantam Books as #001)
{Bantam Cover by James Bama}
High                                                                                                                                                               Savage: #001- "The Man of Bronze"
II -- A Message from the Dead
Falling rain strewed the outer side of the windowpane with water. Far below -- very pallid in the soaking murk -- were streetlights. Over on the Hudson River, a steamer was tooting a foghorn. The frightened, mooing horn was hardly audible inside the room.
Some blocks away, the skyscraper under construction loomed a darksome pile, crowned with a spidery labyrinth of steel girders. Only the vaguest outlines of it were discernible.
Impossible, of course, to glimpse the strange crimson-fingered servant of death in that wilderness of metal!
Doc Savage said slowly, "I was far away when my father died."
He did not explain where he had been -- did not mention his "Fortress of Solitude", his rendezvous built on a rocky island deep in the Arctic regions. He had been there.
It was to this spot that Doc retired periodically to brush up on the newest developments in Science, Psychology, Medicine, Engineering. This was the secret of his universal knowledge, for his periods of concentration there were long and intense.
The "Fortress of Solitude" had been his father's recommendation. And no one on Earth knew the location of the retreat. Once there, nothing could interrupt Doc's studies and experiments.
Without taking his golden eyes from the wet window, Doc asked, "Was there anything strange about my father's death?"
"We're not certain," Renny muttered and set his thin lips in an expression of ominousness.
"I, for one, am certain!" snapped Littlejohn. He settled more firmly on his nose the glasses which had the extremely thick left lens.
"What do you mean, Johnny?" Doc Savage asked.
"I am positive your father was murdered!" Johnny's gauntness and his studious scientist look gave him a profoundly serious expression.
Doc Savage swung slowly from the window. His bronze face had not changed expression. But under his brown business coat, tensing muscles had made his arms inches farther around!
"Why do you say that, Johnny?"
Johnny hesitated. His right eye narrowed, the left remained wide and a little blank behind the thick spectacle lens. He shrugged.
"Only a hunch," he admitted … then added, almost shouting: "But I'm right about it! I know I am!"
That was Johnny's way. He had absolute faith in what he called his "hunches". And nearly always he was right. But on occasions when he was wrong, though, he was very wrong indeed.                                                           

pulp art of the day

excerpt from my book The screw that refused to tighten by Jason L. Brown part 1

How I'd gotten there I couldn't figure , but there I was back in that warehouse where it all happened .  See when you become a cop they try to prepare you for sending someone to the big sleep . The fact is, that's the reason most people become cops, the chance to kill a bad guy or two and become a hero . Not me though I wanted the companionship ,the feeling of trust in your fellow officers ,a brotherhood, that's what I craved. It was all stolen from me though and it is that night that has haunted my every thought. So there I was in that dark abandoned warehouse wind screaming out side. One lonely light swinging from the breeze coming through the broken window, making it hard to see. My partner standing there with a bean-shooter to a kids head. The whole scene was playing out just as it did before but this time I was powerless to do anything but watch. I was stuck like an invisible witness, just watching the whole thing unravel. ` I felt sweat form on my head as I raised my gun and leveled it at Franky .Panic forming a knot in my gut. I heard myself say " Put down the gun Franky , I have to take you in." "It doesn't have to be this way George." He said " Don't you see those people had to die. They were bad people, all of them . They had to be punished." He'd gone nuts. Over the last three months he'd murdered thirteen people. All bad ,or so he thought . Two of them though had been kids . This kid he had now couldn't have been older than ten . Christ his balls probably haven't even dropped yet. I couldn't let him continue ,  he was killing people and that was wrong. No matter how much I wanted it be different I knew what was coming next and I couldn't change a thing. Instead I felt my thumb pull down the hammer and my grip tighten on my gun ."Don't make me do this ." I said. By this time my panic had hit with full force and I could hardly breath. "Sorry Jonzey the boy has to die there's no other way."As he said this I could see his finger slowly close over the trigger. From somewhere there was a man screaming in sorrow .That somewhere was deep in my soul. I was desperate to change what was about to happen ,but I couldn't . My head pounded with the force of a steam engine gone out of control . I looked down and saw that my finger was also on the trigger and like his my finger was also closing, only mine was faster..... There was a sudden crash and with a jolt I woke ,........

term of the week

to be on  the nut - to be broke