Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat
-
Andrez
- Posts: 192
- Joined: 02 Jan 2011, 04:01
- Bookshelf Size: 0
Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat
One hefty element of happiness is... getting the printed, bound and published version of your novel for the very first time in your mitts!!!
Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat has been a work in progress for the better part of 20 years and has ended up a cut-up fusion of genres. My editor at Another Sky Press (Kristopher Young, who penned Click), when pressed, put it thus:
"The book itself is indescribable, really - noirish, subtly sci-fi, hard-boiled, futuristic; Blade Runner with a touch of Sam Spade, a smattering of Orson Welles circa Touch of Evil, or The Third Man. And a shot of bourbon."
Anyway, if anyone here is interested in finding out more about the novel (better info, where/how to get a copy, etc) feel free to PM me. Below is the cover - and a sneak preview excerpt from the book. Hope you enjoy!
EXCERPT:
I’ve parked myself on the uneven concrete doorstep of a
dilapidated shop front with boarded up windows, and I haven’t got
the faintest idea where I am. My guess is I’ve lost myself somewhere
in inner city, which is definitely not the smartest idea I’ve ever had.
The storefront has the number 7244 printed on a faded tin sign.
I notice that it isn’t raining, for the first time in weeks. The street
here is one of those narrow alleyways that a car would have difficulty
squeezing through. High-rise apartment blocks loom above me,
their walls tangled in cables like vines. I’m not wearing my watch,
but I’m guessing it’s late night and curfew’s kicked into gear as there’s
nobody around.
The concrete footpath is flooded in places. There’s a row of
rusting bikes nearby and one pathetic ghost gum without leaves or
branches. I can hear the sounds of a crowd roaring on a TV in one
of the nearer apartments, but the announcer is speaking gibberish,
possibly in Cantonese. Further along is a street sign that’s seen far
better days but I squint and can just make out that I’m on Sutter
Street, wherever that is.
I take a step and note that I’m missing my left shoe. My sock is
caked in mud. Not to mention, the knuckles on my left hand are
aching and there’s dried blood where the skin is torn in a few places.
My clothes are wet through, I’m cold, and I have a case of the shakes.
Facing defeat, I check my pockets and discover that despite
everything I’m still one very lucky sod. My wallet is still there, and,
just as importantly, there’s a crumpled up deck with a couple of semi-
intact smokes inside. I even have my Zippo. Hallelujah. I hear a dog
yapping somewhere nearby, then catch the sound of a motorcycle in
the distance.
Where the f*ck was I, how’d I get here, and what happened to my
shoe?
I continue, favouring my left foot, along a row of dilapidated
houses, their windows patched up with corrugated steel. I eventually
reach an intersection with a larger arterial that’s well lit despite being devoid of traffic.
I breathe a fraction easier as another signpost indicates
where I’ve marooned myself: this is Fawkner District, in
the northern part of town, far from home. Great. No taxi would
come anywhere near this place regardless of whether curfew was in
effect or not, and there wasn’t any public transport.
There’s a phone box on the corner, but it’s been vandalized and
stripped down—only the plastic shell remains. But it does remind
me that I have my Mitt-Mate with me, though I have no idea who
the hell I’m going to call. It’s looking a bit dinged up—and wet—
and when I switch it on nothing happens. I give the contraption a
good shake. Something rattles inside, but it stays dark. Switching it
on and off doesn’t help.
I heave it out onto the road and it bounces a few times across the
asphalt, and then whirs into life. Bingo. Just as I’m slap-bang in the
middle of that empty highway to pick up the little beast, a spotlight
ensnares me. The light’s so sudden, so full on and so dazzling that
I’m startled and pinioned to the spot. And perhaps because I’m
somewhat stunned, I stupidly peer up—thereby almost blinding
myself.
“Stand still!” a voice booms through a speaker system. I shelter my
eyes with my hands. “Do not move a muscle! You are under arrest.”
I decide it must be one of those new hoverchoppers they were
talking about on the news earlier. It’s impossible to discern any details
due to the floodlights, but the craft manages to give the impression
of being bigger and blacker than anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s
as quiet as a butterfly as it descends, though it does disrupt the water
and mud and garbage around me.
I’m reaching for my wallet (and enclosed ID), when three figures
clad in black body armour—with helmets that obscure their faces—
jump down from the airborne vehicle and rush headlong towards
me flaunting massive guns. Bold white letters on their chests
read ‘CONTROLLER’, and beneath this, smaller and somewhat
redundantly ‘DEVIANT CONTROL’, followed by what looks
strangely similar to an H-in-a-circle Hylax logo. They look like no
police unit I’ve come in contact with and the whole package strikes
me as downright wacky.
“Relax, I’m a Seeker,” I start to warble, but one of them bludgeons
me in the gut with the butt of his weapon and my wallet goes flying,
and then I’m down for the count, on my knees, wheezing with pain
as I wonder where the hell my wallet—with my all-important Seeker
ID—has disappeared to. A bunch of hands grab me and shove me
down hard, smacking my jaw on the ground. They’re twisting my
limbs until they’ve got me spread-eagled, screaming obscenities at
me the whole while. They snap plasti-cuffs onto my wrists, quickly
followed by another set on my ankles.
As I lie there with my face pressed firmly against the asphalt,
smelling the stagnant stench of the street all I can think is, f*ck,
they’ve finally come for me, I’m going to be Relocated to a Hospital
for drinking too much.
“F**kin’ loser,” one grunts, as he lays in the boot.
Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat has been a work in progress for the better part of 20 years and has ended up a cut-up fusion of genres. My editor at Another Sky Press (Kristopher Young, who penned Click), when pressed, put it thus:
"The book itself is indescribable, really - noirish, subtly sci-fi, hard-boiled, futuristic; Blade Runner with a touch of Sam Spade, a smattering of Orson Welles circa Touch of Evil, or The Third Man. And a shot of bourbon."
Anyway, if anyone here is interested in finding out more about the novel (better info, where/how to get a copy, etc) feel free to PM me. Below is the cover - and a sneak preview excerpt from the book. Hope you enjoy!
EXCERPT:
I’ve parked myself on the uneven concrete doorstep of a
dilapidated shop front with boarded up windows, and I haven’t got
the faintest idea where I am. My guess is I’ve lost myself somewhere
in inner city, which is definitely not the smartest idea I’ve ever had.
The storefront has the number 7244 printed on a faded tin sign.
I notice that it isn’t raining, for the first time in weeks. The street
here is one of those narrow alleyways that a car would have difficulty
squeezing through. High-rise apartment blocks loom above me,
their walls tangled in cables like vines. I’m not wearing my watch,
but I’m guessing it’s late night and curfew’s kicked into gear as there’s
nobody around.
The concrete footpath is flooded in places. There’s a row of
rusting bikes nearby and one pathetic ghost gum without leaves or
branches. I can hear the sounds of a crowd roaring on a TV in one
of the nearer apartments, but the announcer is speaking gibberish,
possibly in Cantonese. Further along is a street sign that’s seen far
better days but I squint and can just make out that I’m on Sutter
Street, wherever that is.
I take a step and note that I’m missing my left shoe. My sock is
caked in mud. Not to mention, the knuckles on my left hand are
aching and there’s dried blood where the skin is torn in a few places.
My clothes are wet through, I’m cold, and I have a case of the shakes.
Facing defeat, I check my pockets and discover that despite
everything I’m still one very lucky sod. My wallet is still there, and,
just as importantly, there’s a crumpled up deck with a couple of semi-
intact smokes inside. I even have my Zippo. Hallelujah. I hear a dog
yapping somewhere nearby, then catch the sound of a motorcycle in
the distance.
Where the f*ck was I, how’d I get here, and what happened to my
shoe?
I continue, favouring my left foot, along a row of dilapidated
houses, their windows patched up with corrugated steel. I eventually
reach an intersection with a larger arterial that’s well lit despite being devoid of traffic.
I breathe a fraction easier as another signpost indicates
where I’ve marooned myself: this is Fawkner District, in
the northern part of town, far from home. Great. No taxi would
come anywhere near this place regardless of whether curfew was in
effect or not, and there wasn’t any public transport.
There’s a phone box on the corner, but it’s been vandalized and
stripped down—only the plastic shell remains. But it does remind
me that I have my Mitt-Mate with me, though I have no idea who
the hell I’m going to call. It’s looking a bit dinged up—and wet—
and when I switch it on nothing happens. I give the contraption a
good shake. Something rattles inside, but it stays dark. Switching it
on and off doesn’t help.
I heave it out onto the road and it bounces a few times across the
asphalt, and then whirs into life. Bingo. Just as I’m slap-bang in the
middle of that empty highway to pick up the little beast, a spotlight
ensnares me. The light’s so sudden, so full on and so dazzling that
I’m startled and pinioned to the spot. And perhaps because I’m
somewhat stunned, I stupidly peer up—thereby almost blinding
myself.
“Stand still!” a voice booms through a speaker system. I shelter my
eyes with my hands. “Do not move a muscle! You are under arrest.”
I decide it must be one of those new hoverchoppers they were
talking about on the news earlier. It’s impossible to discern any details
due to the floodlights, but the craft manages to give the impression
of being bigger and blacker than anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s
as quiet as a butterfly as it descends, though it does disrupt the water
and mud and garbage around me.
I’m reaching for my wallet (and enclosed ID), when three figures
clad in black body armour—with helmets that obscure their faces—
jump down from the airborne vehicle and rush headlong towards
me flaunting massive guns. Bold white letters on their chests
read ‘CONTROLLER’, and beneath this, smaller and somewhat
redundantly ‘DEVIANT CONTROL’, followed by what looks
strangely similar to an H-in-a-circle Hylax logo. They look like no
police unit I’ve come in contact with and the whole package strikes
me as downright wacky.
“Relax, I’m a Seeker,” I start to warble, but one of them bludgeons
me in the gut with the butt of his weapon and my wallet goes flying,
and then I’m down for the count, on my knees, wheezing with pain
as I wonder where the hell my wallet—with my all-important Seeker
ID—has disappeared to. A bunch of hands grab me and shove me
down hard, smacking my jaw on the ground. They’re twisting my
limbs until they’ve got me spread-eagled, screaming obscenities at
me the whole while. They snap plasti-cuffs onto my wrists, quickly
followed by another set on my ankles.
As I lie there with my face pressed firmly against the asphalt,
smelling the stagnant stench of the street all I can think is, f*ck,
they’ve finally come for me, I’m going to be Relocated to a Hospital
for drinking too much.
“F**kin’ loser,” one grunts, as he lays in the boot.
