All Nolte ever really wanted out of life, was to commit a nice mass murder and perhaps get his name in a few history books. But an abusive, overbearing mother and a timid; self-preservationist version of Jiminy Cricket had robbed him of every opportunity, at every turn. As far as Nolte was concerned, he had wasted his life, until, a visit from the Reaper put all the cards back on the table. The only good Nolte is a dead Nolte. A lifetime of bad choices and debauchery had put Nolte on the highway to Hell. With an eternity afloat on the Lake of Fire, an absolute certainty in his future, Nolte was obliged to either stay alive or face the music. Of course, Nolte knew no one could live forever. Then, during a drunken brothel visit in New Orleans, he stumbles across a witch, who changed his mind. She sells him a spell, which will link Heaven and Hell to the dimension of Time, allowing him to rise from the dead. After that, things start looking up. On the third day he will be risen. But now that he's finally dead, everyone wants him to stay that way. However, Nolte has other plans and all he has to do, to make the spell work, is cheat a Canaanite god, rip off Satan, elude a Special Ops team of Archangels, get his key to eternity back from his thieving sons and stave off the End of Days. The good news is; he has three whole days to get it done. Although the rest of the characters in the book are fictional, Nolte is based on a real person, who was unable to rise from the dead. After allowing a few people to peek at my rough draft, having written Nolte as he really was, I was told, "No novel has ever contained that much profanity." It took me two days to edit Nolte's F-bomb dominated potty-mouth and insanely abhorrent ways, to the flowery verbosity of a Drill sergeant and basic, deviant debauchery.
About the Author: I'm a few peas short of a casserole, but I have a steel trap memory when it comes to retaining useless information. It's perfect for telling lies and writing fiction. I've been around the world twice and shook everybody's hand once, the second time they must've seen me coming. I was groomed, ( Groomed = Boy, should write that stuff down on paper.) and urged to be a writer, by the other writers in my family, ( Letters and such.) but it never stuck, until recently. Now, I carefully construct turds from words, roll them in powdered sugar and polish them with the silk of a sow's ear, until they shine like a politician's lie. I am a writer, my tax forms say so. I try to draw from reality and put it convincingly into the unreal. From a screenwriter tree frog with writer's block, to drunken rattlesnakes with Cockney accents, I try to make the reader believe it and laugh. I'm finishing up 'The Extraordinary Autobiography of Golbert Honeysuckle Swaggart', and hope to have it out in two months. I'm thinking about shortening the title to 'Watching It Rain' or 'El Niño', which means: "Tiny cup of tea with lemon." in Spanish....I think. Anyway, I've been busier than a one headed man in an ass squeezing contest. I grew up, the odd kid in a very small Midwestern town, where the village elders felt, that allowing us youths to run around stoned, stupid and tripping on acid was cheaper than paying for a skating rink, or any other form of municipal recreation. As long as they didn't have to foot the bill for the drugs, they were happy. Today, the self-medicating, pharmaceutical soaked children I grew up with are now the village elders. Why mention drugs, you ask? Try teaching proper punctuation to a chemical addled seventeen year old. I'm way ahead of you. I come with a built-in excuse. I've been writing poetry and music for thirty years and short stories for over twenty, I have just never sent any of my work off, (besides the music) to let anyone read it. Therefore, I used the space where I should be spewing my many achievements and accolades, and patting myself on the back, to tell you about me. I will tell you that I'm not entirely undecorated, I was once awarded the '$100 First Prize' for a 500 word essay about farm implements, by a farm implement manufacturer. They were beside themselves with my colorful words and fancy plow descriptions. There's more Borne Wilder coming.