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The Brent Bolster Mysteries are a heady mixture of science fiction, humor, and noir.
So if you loved Galaxy Quest, The Hitch Hikers' Guide to the Galaxy, Red Dwarf, and the tough-talking characters of noir fiction, you've come to the right place.
This is a snippet from the second Brent Bolster Mystery. We proudly present:
Dead Men Don't Disco
Brent pushed the joystick to the right and pulled back hard sending his skimmer into an elegant banking turn, the trim craft dodging neatly between two heavily armed delivery drones. “Damned things cluttering up the sky,” he muttered, “I blame Jeff Bezos the Third.”
In the passenger seat, Maisie Richmond sighed happily. “Oh, Brent, I do love the historical references in your quips.” She turned her smile on him, her eyes glistening. “But you needn’t worry about a few drones and their silly heat-seeking missiles, you’re such a good driver.”
“If you say so,” Brent replied, “I don’t like to boast.” He managed a nonchalant shrug despite the constraints of his safety harness, and on the skimmer’s entertainment system, the gentle strains of a piano gave way to the voice of the classical composer Sir Elton John.
“Volume up,” Maisie called out. “I love Your Song.”
Brent glanced at her, bathing in the warmth of her smile as the gentle melody filled the cockpit. “Me too. Ain’t that the darnedest thing? It’s my favorite.”
“Brent,” Maisie began, laying her hand gently on his arm. “There’s…there’s something I want to tell you.”
“Really?” Brent’s voice caught in his throat as the piano music swelled to a soaring crescendo. “Because, there’s something I want to say to you too.” He grinned. “But please—ladies first.”
“Always the gentleman,” Maisie purred. “Very well. It’s just this.” She took a breath, a coy smile quivering at the corners of her silky lips. Then she threw back her head and bawled, “You’re late for work!”
Brent stared at her, his hands frozen on the joystick. This couldn’t be happening, but Maisie was changing before his eyes, her skin growing green, her delicate bone structure morphing into broad curves, her lips receding into thin lines as she opened her mouth to reveal a row of pointed teeth.
“No,” Brent whispered, but there was nothing he could do. As Sir Elton crashed out a melodramatic chord, Maisie’s dark eyes hardened and the transformation was complete. She had become a Gloabon.
“Wake up, Brent!” she shouted, and Brent’s eyes snapped open, his horrified howl still ringing in his ears.
“Oh my God,” he moaned, wiping the sweat from his brow with back of his hand. “Not again.” He fumbled on the nightstand, grabbing his handset and bringing the screen close to his bleary eyes. Damned dream gets weirder every night, he thought. Elton John? Seriously? He checked the time without really taking it in. One of these days, I might figure out the alarm clock function on this contraption, he told himself. Maybe his assistant at the agency, Vince, could help him out; he was good with anything technical. The agency. Brent glared at his handset. Was it really past noon?
Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, then he stood, stretching his back. And someone tapped on the window.
Brent spun around. Who could be outside? His apartment was on the third floor.
But his wall was gone, replaced by a huge window, and beyond the gleaming glass, a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. They peered in at him, their expressions ranging from mild interest to outraged horror. “Young man!” an elderly woman shouted. “Put some clothes on! This is a decent part of town!” read more…