As promised, the second Bags Morton ebook hit the interwebs this week. To my dismay there have been no protest marches, threats of boycotts nor rending of garments nor gnashing of teeth.
Except by my wife of course, who I exasperate on a near daily basis:
Me: "I don't know."
Her: "Whadaya mean you don't know?"
Me: "I will TRY to remember, but we won't know if I actually did remember until you get home."
Her: "Grumble, grumble, something, something, jerk."
Back to Bags Morton, or the Summer with Bags as its become known worldwide.
Following on the stripper heels of Bags of Bodies comes Bags of Rock. It's a little shorter and a little cheaper, as I finally figured out the Amazon set-your-price tool. So it's only a buck ninety-nine. I mean seriously, for $1.99, even if you don't read or can't read, you should download it just so you can brag to people: "Hey, I downloaded a book today."
And your friends can look at you and say: "Wow, didn't realize you were such an educated person." Now put your shoes on the right feet and do it.
If you are a reader who likes a quick detective tale with biker gangs, strip joints and a rock band, and who appreciates a good chuckle, then this is just the book for you. If you don't like that stuff, why the heck are you even reading my blog/Twitter/Facebook feeds?
No friend of mine objects to a foot festering in a pickle jar on the bar counter, as this book begins. Soon there-after Bags is hot on the trail of somebody who is blackmailing his friend, the governor, with naked pictures of the gov's daughter, who is lead singer of the up-and-coming rock band, The Itch.
Trust me it's even better than it sounds. This is a little tamer language and sexual innuendo-wise (sorry) than the previous Bags of Bodies, because the clientele is a little more hoity-toitie and less prison meaty.
The third still-to-be named Bags offering during this Summer with Bags is due out in August, though it's currently experiencing some technical difficulties. The hamsters in my old home computer, that still runs Windows 97, went on strike demanding more carrots. But I'm holding firm because once you give an inch to those little Lech Walesa wannabes, they will run rough-shod on you.
All three Bags books are quick reads. They aren't 700-page Moby Dick things you need to devote a year of your life to. They're two-night wham-bam-thank-you-Bags-ers that'll leave a smile on your face and your toes tingling.