Lots of classes and web-posts and agent interviews and whatnot talk about how a story needs a hook, something snappy at the start to suck readers in. Try this one on, and then give me a cookie for prying myself away from the fifth chapter just to take the few minutes to type this up for you. Because I'm sucked and not getting unsucked any time soon, I'd say.
Actually, the story starts with an epilogue (yes, an epilogue) and then a character chart just like old-time gaming -- back when it was a bunch of folks making notes and little one-inch metallic figurines moved around on graph paper -- and then you get the first chapter. And then you get to the second chapter and meet the other Coyote King, and eventually they're walking home from work, and you get Hamza (excerpted above) and his take on Yehat's July idiosyncrasy: a cape.
Already I've figured out that I can't figure the two main (switching POV) protagonists out, because they won't be. They're throwing curveballs, sliders, and a few oddballs, but me, I'm along for the ride. I'd explain more, but I've gotta get back to the story, find out what happens next. Don't want to get left behind, and this is one story with voices that sound like they'll leave me behind if I can't keep up. Get your own copy!
Cue theme music: "Fe Fe Naa Efe" by Fela Anikulapo Kuti. Badass Nigerian horns and Afrobeat drumming funk--James Brown's Jurassic DNA blasted balls first into the future. That's my song, damnit, and I pity the fool who forgets it.
It's Wednesday night again, which it always is after Wednesday afternoon, which it always is after Wednesday morning.
Wenzzday.
This is what my life has become as I stand in front of this stinking sink in the colostomy zone of the Brightest-Lil-Preppy-Joint-in-TownTM, called ShabbadabbaDoo's. Can you believe that name? Temple of freaking jerks. Here's a haiku for you:
ShabbadabbaDoo's
Frolicking fashion fascists
Wealthy swines dining
Yes, while mentally composing happy poems just to keep my soul from falling into the deep fryer, I get to both scrape AND wash the crud off the shingles they slide in front of a bunch of rich kids' maws night after succulent night in this Tex-Mex-Cali-cocktail cesspit, before, during, and after they drain pitcher after pitcher of Can't Believe it's Not Urine!
Actually, the story starts with an epilogue (yes, an epilogue) and then a character chart just like old-time gaming -- back when it was a bunch of folks making notes and little one-inch metallic figurines moved around on graph paper -- and then you get the first chapter. And then you get to the second chapter and meet the other Coyote King, and eventually they're walking home from work, and you get Hamza (excerpted above) and his take on Yehat's July idiosyncrasy: a cape.
I hate to admit it, but the cape is smoking: black on the outside, emerald, I think, on the inside (it's hard to tell under the fluorescents), with two Kirbyesque star medallions at the shoulders, gold braid ringing the collar, and fancy gold vine trim down the edges.
I'm jealous.
"The cape is dope, Ye."
"You like? You're not just saying that?"
"Naw, it's dope."
"Well"--he shrugs--"it was either this or a red leather diaper and a hat with moose antlers."
"Well, far be it from you to fly in the face of convention. Maybe next month."
Already I've figured out that I can't figure the two main (switching POV) protagonists out, because they won't be. They're throwing curveballs, sliders, and a few oddballs, but me, I'm along for the ride. I'd explain more, but I've gotta get back to the story, find out what happens next. Don't want to get left behind, and this is one story with voices that sound like they'll leave me behind if I can't keep up. Get your own copy!