Today on the GSP Fireflies Promo we welcome Teel James Glenn.
A native of Brooklyn, he’s traveled the world for thirty years as a Stuntman/ Fight choreographer/ Swordmaster, Jouster, Book Illustrator, Storyteller, Author, Bodyguard and Actor. He’s over two dozen books contracted and in print and sold poetry to T-Zero, Athena Sidhe, Blazing Adventures, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and others.
He has choreographed action for over 300 plays, 50 Renaissance Faires and 60 films.
His greatest achievement however, is his awesome daughter Aislin Rose.
Learn more about Teel here: http://theurbanswashbuckler.com/
Teel’s Blog: theurbanswashbuckler.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/teeljamesglenn
Twitter: Teel James Glenn
Congratulations, Teel, for your Short Story collection Of Swords and Sorcery, in the top ten finalists of the 2010 Preditors and Editors Readers Poll!
His book that we are highlighting today is Secret of Wolf Island.
Jonathon Shadows is a private investigator who specializes in undercover assignments. He learns his friend and former Marine Corps colleague Danni Shaw is dead in a mysterious accident on the island of the video game mogul Barret K Wolf.
Danni worked for Wolf, portraying the Amazon warrior Suprema in highly successful video games shot at the island’s castle and jousting fields. Emily, Danni’s widow is sure there is more to it than a simple tragedy and comes to Shadows to ask him to find out what really happened.
What follows is a twisted trip into a deadly medieval realm with the detective, like Alice, sliding down the rabbit hole, only with live ammunition and sharp broadswords!
Can Shadows find out what the Secret of Wolf Island is before it claims him as another victim?
Excerpt:
“Stupid Chink Bastard,” Morgan, the tallest of the Aryan brothers said as he and his buddy Deek advanced on me. The third one, the fat one, stayed at the doorway looking out into the hall to watch for guards. “You had to know we’d find a way to get you to ourselves before you were sprung.” He grinned showing two missing front teeth.
I’m a white supremist’s worst nightmare; an uppity breed Asian who won’t take their crap and who can pass. In that respect, I take after my dad at six foot four, just a bit shy of his height, but with his broad shoulders. He was of Scots and Norman French background, so I had his hand-me-down Viking features and premature silver hair with my mom’s dark eyes.
A kid in grammar school once called me Race Bannon after the old cartoon character and I almost punched him out until I found out it was a compliment.
I’m a sort of all purpose ethnic––most people aren’t sure what mix I am––Mexican, Asian, Israeli, Eastern European . . . or something else.
In fact, Mom was Korean-Japanese, though the Japanese community pretty much shunned her as a half-breed as well. I got a lot of my uppity from Mom. The rest was from Dad and The Corps, in that order.
So when the three white brothers cornered me in the Rikers Island prison laundry room I was compelled to do a major uppity on them.
Morgan’s sidekick added his two cents with, “It was worth paying the guard to look the other way for ten minutes.”
I grinned back at the two of them, and I could see this puzzled the Rover Boys considerably.
“First off, “I said, “I’m not a whit Chinese, Morgan. Secondly, Mom and Dad were married five years before I came along; and thirdly, the only really smart guy in all this is the guard you paid. I paid him to give us a little privacy as well; double dipping bastard.”
The dim-witted son of Arrays didn’t get the implications of my statement, even as he drew his shank and brandished it.
The prison knife was made from a sliver of Plexiglas-glass sharpened to a needlepoint and wrapped with cloth and tape for a grip. It was purely a stabbing weapon and as such he had to extend it to do me any damage.
Normally a shank is a backstabber’s choice, not a knife fighter’s; so I knew he was counting on his buddy Deek to occupy me so Morgan could stick me in the kidney.
Not on my agenda, however.
Deek circled left while Morgan waved his plastic poker in what he imagined a menacing way.
Before Deek could get into position for the piñata party I did the one thing their race-clouded brains were sure an inferior would never do––I attacked.
I went straight at Morgan who reacted by trying to stab me in the left side of the neck.
I double blocked with a left knife hand to a nerve cluster near the elbow of the hand holding the knife, my right striking and breaking his collarbone.
There was an audible snap and Morgan groaned.
I wrapped my right hand behind his neck and pulled his face down at the same time I brought my right knee up to meet his nose. I heard a second, wetter sounding snap.
From the chamber of my knee near my chest I shot back my right leg to ram my heel into Deek’s breadbasket. The blow was right on the money and knocked him out cold.
Morgan was on his knees moaning, half out of it. I bitch slapped him twice to wake him up to full alertness, and then leaned in close to stare eye-to-eye with him. He had pretty blue eyes and if hate could kill, his gaze would have incinerated me.
“Listen good, you anachronistic piece of crap,” I said, “I could kill you and you know it, but I’m not going to; not now, not ever. You know why?
He stared at me and said nothing so I slapped him again, this time hard enough to leave a hand print on his face.
“I asked you a question, you pecker-wood loser. Do you know why I won’t kill you?”
“No,” he hissed. Blood was cascading from his shattered nose. “Why won’t you kill me?”
“Because, like my old Hwa Rang Do instructor used to say, if I kill you, you won’t suffer anymore. So here’s the deal instead; if you or any of your White bread monkeys ever bother me again inside or out of this can, I––or one of my mother’s family who specialize in this sort of thing––will find you and with a carefully aimed blow to your seventh cervical vertebrae, leave you paralyzed for life.” I smiled that evil smile my ex-wife used to hate when I was playing pool with her.
“Think about it, Morgan, A nice long life lying in your own waste with a catheter up your ever limp dick. Nothing to do but think about what a total wash-up you are as a human being, and what a waste of flesh your useless body is.”
I stepped away from him and let my words sink in. I watched the virulent hate in the depth of his eyes slowly transform into realization and then fear. He knew my reputation, but like most who had not encountered me one-on-one, he’d thought it was exaggeration and brag until that epiphany moment.
“And I swear on my father’s grave,” I continued, “I will piss on your limp-ass body and laugh till I cry if you even try to contract out a hit on me. This ends here, capish?”
His race hate flared up and I saw his eyes widen with hope as Fatso from the door––who thought he was being slick––tried to bushwhack me.
I snapped back a right fist and punched butterball in the throat just hard enough to take the starch out of him. My eyes stayed locked with Morgan’s.
The Aryan genius registered his friend dropping to the floor and gasping for air. I saw the last vestige of defiance melt away from him and his worldview reorient
“Capish?” I repeated.
“Capish,” Morgan whispered and I could hear in his voice the thought that his surrendering to me was like barbed wire in his guts.
Good!
I turned my back on him dismissively and stepped around Fatso, who was still making choking noises on the ground.
I grabbed a bottle of liquid laundry detergent and poured it on the linoleum floor of the room near the door.
“Gentlemen,” I said cheerfully and stepped out into the corridor.
The guard, a shaved-headed Puerto Rican name Lan, was standing about five yards down the hall trying to look disinterested in the laundry room proceedings. His face lit up when he saw me but not with surprise; it was joy.
“Some of the Aryan brothers had a little accident in the laundry room. Slipped on some soap, I think.”
He nodded. “I kind of expected that to happen to them putas.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Only reason I took those pricks’ money,” he said.
“Don’t suppose I get a refund from you then, huh?”
He shrugged. “Business is business,” he said philosophically.
“Thought as much,” I didn’t look back as I walked back toward my cell, even when I heard Lan exclaim,” My-my, guys; a little clumsy, weren’t we?”
I resisted the urge to laugh maniacally, because Mama-san had always said to be humble.
Right.
I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself.
Links:
http://www.gypsyshadow.com/Teel.html#WolfEsc
Amazon:
Anne H Petzer 
Reblogged this on Chalaedra's Weblog and commented:
The Secret of Wolf Island . . . Video games, corruption . . . murder? Discover the secrets of Wolf Island!
Sounds great!