Twenty-four days and counting until BEAR’s official release. The pre-order page is up on Amazon.com, which is very cool. In the works is a book launch at the Community Library of Lake and Salem townships — AKA, the library in Hamlin. Because a big part of my story is about the new life of an abused circus bear, I thought it appropriate to involve the awesome people of the Dessin Animal Shelter. All proceeds raised during the book launch will go to the shelter: “Buy a BEAR and feed a homeless cat.” Why not?
Here’s my attempt at erotica from Regan’s Musical Chairs BlogFest…yeah, okay, I know…points for trying, right?
The Bunker
Another thump from somewhere overhead and a thin line of cement dust trickled from the ceiling onto the couple. The man shook his head, dislodging flecks of gray paint that landed on the head of his limp penis like dirty snowflakes. His new bride, also distracted by the approaching violence, didn’t seem to notice when she put his cock back in her mouth. He thought she was humming quietly, but realized she was whimpering.
The man looked longingly at her bobbing head. It was surely a crime for such lovely hair to wind up so greasy and unkempt. No water to spare since the brief civil ceremony, then the rush back to safety. The god-forsaken thumping never stopped. A giant walked over them day and night in an angry search for the two lovers.
“Let me shift.” The man touched the kinky locks that surrounded her ears, the crown of his penis paused between her chapped lips. It was the sadness of her eyes that caused blood to pump back toward where he desperately needed it to go. He glanced at the locked door, then back into those beautiful eyes. “Good,” he said, and she continued looking at him while using her pink tongue on his stubby shaft.
It was cold and damp, and the lights flickered in response to the booming footfalls. If only the phonograph had been spared from a loosened chunk of ceiling, this would be the proper time for Handel or Mendelssohn, maybe Wagner.
Their consummation was supposed to happen beneath a Mediterranean sun, snuggled in a goose down matt a lieutenant would have arranged on the yacht’s foredeck. He could almost see the tiny rainbows cast from crystal goblets still half-filled with French wine.
The French, thought the groom with disgust. How this current horror reminded him of the filthy Parisian backpackers who fucked like animals in the top bunk of the Vienna hostel a lifetime ago. Their sour sex smell even more revolting than how the woman moaned to Jesus Christ. The long legs of the bed thumping on the wood plank floor, pausing only for a moment before resuming more frantic than ever. The animals went at it for his entire stay in the city and he couldn’t afford to move.
“I’m not making you happy.”
The groom blinked, looked back down at his pathetic member. It had become a disobedient worm, a disappointing weapon that had once been a fine saber.
“Don’t stop,” he ordered softly. “It’s almost time. I’ll help.”
With his good arm, the man reached for his penis and pinched the shaft with two fingers and a thumb. His bride left her lips parted as if blowing on hot stew, a single strand of spit connecting their bodies. As he began the short rhythmic strokes he’d perfected over the last half century, the giant over their heads walked closer.
“You’re getting warmer,” the man said breathlessly, and his bride smiled, probably thinking he meant her instead of the bombs. His erection nearly full, she offered her tongue and he arched his hips to accept her wet mouth. “Good,” he repeated, then closed his eyes and used his bad arm to reach into his breast pocket for the two hidden capsules.
The giant was nearly upon them, shaking the bunker floor and rattling the heaviest paintings, as his orgasm approached. His good arm became a piston, short up and down strokes in a maddening blur. The groom clenched his eyes tightly, reaching up to slip one capsule under his tongue, then prodding for her hot mouth with the other.
“Swallow,” he said, meaning the small oval capsule, as well as the semen that approached the hole of his manhood’s angry purple head. When the orgasm began to pull away and the blood began to recede from his penis, the groom also swallowed hard, rubbing his throat with his slimy hand to work the object down the dry passageway.
When the cyanide’s warmth spread out his limbs with a comforting tingle, he glanced down at his dead wife and told her he loved her one final time.
“A deftly written story driven by raw and vivid characters and rich with evocative language and colorful descriptions. With every page another layer is peeled back as this fascinating, magical tale unfolds—sad or humorous, but always thoughtful. Alpaugh’s writing does not rely on cheap tricks or predictable plot points, but slowly pulls you in and compels you to stick around for a while. Rest assured, in The Bear in a Muddy Tutu, you will constantly be surprised by what happens next.” — Rhiannon Ellis, author of Bonded In Brazil
February 20, 2011
The Bear in a Muddy Tutu, by Cole Alpaugh
Lennon Bagg’s daughter has been stolen away by his ex-wife, and he’s just learned the newspaper he reports for is bankrupt. While on his final assignment, Bagg knocks a policeman unconscious to save the life of a runaway circus bear, and suddenly finds himself responsible for a band of stranded roustabouts who’ve pitched their tents on a small island along the New Jersey shore. Eight hundred miles away, a young girl searches for her dead father on the beaches of Bermuda. Dead people, after all, become birds—a theory she derived from her mother’s explanation that when you die, you grow wings and fly away. A hapless cult leader and the sulking newspaper reporter hatch a plan to save the circus, which includes a plane ride into the Bermuda Triangle accompanied by a man who holds the record for being struck by lightning. And it’s starting to cloud up …
In The Bear in a Muddy Tutu, hope is something vigorously avoided because it usually means someone is about to be run over by a speeding car.
“Pick up The Bear in a Muddy Tutu if you enjoy taking a literary journey that is twisted, peopled by characters who are social misfits, caught up in events that range from bizarrely tragic to merely sad. Reminded me in a way of A Confederacy of Dunces.” — Molly Rodgers, Library Director, Wayne County Public Library
“From the first page to the last Cole Alpaugh had my attention. His zany and
colorful characters and style of writing puts me in mind of one of my favorite authors, John Irving. I suspect that I have now found my next new favorite author.” — Michelle Hessling, Publisher, The Wayne Independent
I recently had the opportunity to sit down with Reverend Jabneel Crouch, fictional author of the book HOW TO BECOME A CULT LEADER IN 50 EASY STEPS. Reading the instructional guide was a life-altering event for one of my main characters in BEAR, and I thought it would be interesting to delve into the mind of the author of such a powerful and trans-formative piece of literature.
Reverend Crouch agreed to meet for a few minutes in the Interfaith Meditation Room of the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport terminal, in Northeast Pennsylvania.
CA: Do you have a cult following?
RJC: I’ve sold over thirty copies of my book.
CA: Where are you originally from?
RJC: Why is that important? Is this going to be a fluff piece?
CA: Okay, well, have you ever been arrested?
RJC: I was born in Kalispell, Montana.
CA: Oh, really, I have friends near Kalispell.
RJC: Fascinating. Perhaps I should be interviewing you about your life on Facebook.
CA: Okay, so what inspired you to write 50 EASY STEPS?
RJC: Do you have any cigarettes?
CA: I’m sorry, no, and this is a non-smoking building.
RJC: I got the idea while eating pudding. Vanilla pudding.
CA: Right, you wrote that Step Forty-one was to always have plenty of vanilla pudding.
RJC: Much of life is about comfort foods. Vanilla pudding is easy to make and a joy to share with people dealing with difficult times.
CA: Is that why you’ve been holding a grilled cheese sandwich?
RJC: What are you talking about?
CA: Okay, well, is there any particular step more important than the others?
RJC: Besides vanilla pudding?
CA: Yes.
RJC: If I had to choose, I’d say number eighteen and number forty-seven. To always act as if you know exactly what you’re doing is incredibly important.
CA: You mean to show confidence?
RJC: Yes, exactly. And when things go wrong, be swift in assigning blame.
CA: With all due respect, that seems a bit of a cop out.
RJC: I don’t appreciate your hostile tone.
CA: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.
RJC: How many copies has your book sold? Let’s move on to some real questions, if you have them.
CA: Your book jacket mentions a guarantee that anyone following each step will become a cult leader. Of the thirty people who’ve purchased your book, isn’t it true that none have gained any sort of cult following? Isn’t it also true that you’ve just made a few bucks off people already down on their luck?
RJC: Billy Wayne Hooduk has over a hundred followers! He leads a flock from a traveling circus that’s holed up down near the Jersey shore. I guess you missed that in all your research, Geraldo.
CA: Billy Wayne is a character in my book, Reverend.
RJC: It sounds like a terrible story. No wonder it hasn’t sold any copies.
The interview ended at this point. Reverend Crouch produced a previously stubbed out cigarette butt from his coat pocket and lit it with a wooden match he struck along the back of the meditation pew. I last saw him strolling out toward the tarmac blowing smoke rings and eating the grilled cheese sandwich.
