Against the wishes of my family and my attorney, my priest and my neighbor Tony and his kids, Wanda and Monique, and some of their friends at school, I’ve decided it was time to come clean about the so-called “steroid” scandal that has been circulating in the media about me this week.
When I started writing Kick, the competition was quite fierce in the rankings on Amazon. Every day, someone on top came hurtling down, only to be clawed to pieces by up-and-coming indie authors like Carol Ervin and Lindy Moone. Fortunes were eradicated over night, families broken up, economies toppled, and empires reduced to rubble. These young authors were like the Huns against the helpless farmers in Medieval Europe. Who wants to read tame stuff like “Kick” ($2.99 on Amazon while supplies last) when they can fry their brains on Hyperlink from Hell or lose their hearts to The Girl On The Mountain? I’m only human, ok? I’m just as vulnerable to temptation as anyone. But I’ll be damned if my reputation is raked through the coals any more than I deserve.
Here’s what really happened:
So I was walking along one day, minding my own business, when I turned a corner and bumped into someone standing there.
“Excuse me,” I said, and started to pass.
“Where you going, bub?” the figure said.
“To the soup kitchen,” I said, “where I volunteer every day for the homeless.”
“And where you coming from, bub?” he said.
“I just finished a 12 hour stretch at the orphanage,” I said.
After first determining that the man wasn’t someone in need, I blessed him and wished him a jolly day, then continued on my way to the soup kitchen.
“Hold up, bub, com’eer,” he said.
I held up.
“Yes?”
“I heards you’s a writer,” he said. “I heards you’s got a lot of competition.”
“Wheres did you heards that?” I saids.
“Never mind that. There’s uh, things…you know, that can help you with your, uh…shall we say….performance problem.”
My back straightened fractionally and I felt my face begin to redden.
“I perform perfectly well, thank you,” I said, and started to turn away.
“Not that kinda problem, wiseguy,” he said, laughing quietly. “How’s your hands today Mr. Monk?”
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John L. Monk 