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Richard Hoyt

Richard Hoyt

Richard Hoyt is the critically acclaimed author of 27 mysteries and thrillers with three titles on the New York Times list of notable books and widely published internationally.

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Success! Pussy Bomb sold 25 pre-orders by Oct. 21, 2018, was pitched to 1 publisher, and is in discussions with publishers.

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$10 It's the modern world

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One copy of the digital edition of Pussy Bomb, The Rude Truth of President Ronald Strangedick.

The more readers who support me, the greater the chances that I can find a publisher capable of selling books in number. This is what Publishizer calls “pre-ordering,” a demonstration of reader interest.

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$20 Hot Damn, Ma, Hell Yes!

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One copy of a bookstore quality paperback edition of Pussy Bomb. This is a limited edition, printed privately for this fund raiser and will not be for sale on the open market. The printing will be limited to my crowd-funding supporters.

Buy a copy now, sell it to collectors on e-Bay next year. And remember: Christmas is coming up in December.

Henry Adams once likened Congressmen to swine. To get one’s attention “you have to whack him on the snout with a stick.” I’m dealing with editors. Can I prove there’s a market for Pussy Bomb?

The commercial edition of Pussy Bomb will take months to be published. You can buy a fancy hardcover edition for your coffee table when it hits the market. For now, I’m asking you to be part of my crowd-funding stick. Make an editor squeal.

I will keep you updated on the progress.

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$25 A Deal to Make You Wet Your Pants

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One copy of an autographed limited, quality paperback edition of Pussy Bomb.

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I will keep you updated on my progress in scoring the right publisher.

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We’re talking literary napalm here, frying Strangedick’s wee wee.

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$50 Narcissistic Asshole Resistance Brigade

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One limited edition Pussy Bomb paperback autographed to you personally, plus I’ll list your name, city and state of residence at the end of the story as a member of the Narcissistic Asshole Resistance Brigade. You get up to 10 words to express your outrage at dangerous clowns like Strangedick.

Think about ordering a copy for a friend so he or she can be added to the brigade.

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One limited edition Pussy Bomb paperback autographed to you personally plus your name, city and state of residence listed as a member of The Authoritarian Raspberry Brigade listed at the end of the novel. Strangedick.

A raspberry is where you stick your tongue out and make a farting sound as a expression of contempt.

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In the novel, the Russian code name for the Kremlin mole in the White House is Kakashka, meaning "a piece of shit." One limited edition Pussy Bomb paperback autographed to personally plus your name, city and state of residence listed as a member of the Kakashka Resistance Brigade at the end of the novel. You get up to 50 words to express anything you want about pieces of shit like Strangedick.

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Pussy Bomb

The Rude Truth of President Ronald Strangelove

A satirical roman à clef with President Ronald Strangedick urinating on his countrymen from the Ovary Orifice--a tale of popular delusions, nuclear craziness, national security pratfalls, and bizarre truths.

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Literary Fiction black humor
Vancouver, Washington
100,000 words
100% complete
1 publisher interested

Synopsis

At the end, we learn that what we thought was the dream-story of  novelist Kat Dancer—Pussy Bomb, The Rude Truth of President Ronald Strangedick—was actually dreamed by the woman he defeated, a former First Lady, Senator and Secretary of State. Kat is our author's alter ego.

Pussy Bomb is an expanded, rewritten and updated version of Richard Hoyt's 1984 novel, Cool Runnings that dealt with the awkward reality that a battlefield or “suitcase” nuke weighing from 10 to 20 pounds large enough to evaporate Manhattan can be smuggled in the hold of a cargo ship, in a sailboat or in the bed of a Ford pickup. A New York Times critic said Cool Runnings “is a book that defies any category, but it is brilliant, sensitive and altogether unusual. It does for espionage what Catch-22 did for war.”

Amid Strangedick's attempts to “negotiate” with North Koreans dating back decades, we’re told that North Korea is stockpiling nuclear fuel. The truth? It's impossible to find secret stashes of plutonium239 in North Korea or anywhere else.

Kim Jong Un does not need a missile to deliver a Pussy Bomb. All missiles can reliably deliver are billion-dollar payloads to defense contractors.

 Strangedick decides to help Israel catch a jihadist by setting up an Uncle Remus tar baby trap. Greens tour Europe with the tar baby, an educational Pussy Bomb. Load Pussy Bomb with plutonium239 and it will pop. Thus Strangedick, who keeps a glass of ice water on his desk that he rattles to mask his farts, hopes to divert media attention from his many legal and political problems. 

A Muslim zips his dick upon seeing the nether parts of an Amsterdam window prostitute. Blood squirts. A female Dutch surgeon repairs it. The prostitute has the zipped dick action on video with blood squirting and posts it online. Humiliated, he becomes a jihadist. He wants revenge, plenty of motive there. He covets the Pussy Bomb.

Somebody steals the bomb. Kat works with Strangedick’s personally assigned CIA agent, Casey Gottschalk, who is trying to keep Strangedick, a paranoid narcissist, from going totally off the rails. They track the zipped-dick jihadist in action going from Amsterdam to London, Jamaica, Washington and Manhattan. 

Along the way, we are treated to Strangedick’s obsessions with fresh raspberries and his inspired replacement of waterboarding with weird gambits including having CIA agents play golf with human testicles. 

The jihadist smuggles the bomb into the United States in pig shit at the bottom of a truck carrying swine from Canada. Breathless journalists reported the countdown of Manhattan ready to blow in a tick, tick, tick send-up of clichéd thriller finales.

At the end we learn that Kat’s nightmare is not just about a bomb that explodes, tearing cities apart. Her dreams conflated the Pussy Bomb with the President, a human implosive that devious Russians planted in the Ovary Orifice to collapse Democratic traditions and institutions. Remember, clitorises are vestigial penises.

Pussy Bomb is a stand-alone story, inspired by but outside of the current political upheaval.  It will stand if it is published now, six months for now or a year from now.

Outline

                                    Dreams of Kat Dancer      

Author Kat Dancers dreams about an Asian and rockets that look like flying penises. Laughing vaginas dance over a beach.  President Strangedick tries to grab a laughing vagina in the Oval Office. It explodes in a nuclear mushroom.

                              Part 1, When a Dingy sill suffice.

Needing a media distraction, Strangedick tries to help the Israelis capture a jihadist by using suitcase atomic bomb minus plutonium as bait He gets his own private CIA agent, Casey Gottschalk. Kat Dancer and the travels with European greens displaying the bomb. A Muslim zips his dick. It’s posted online. He wants revenge. A British nuclear inspector defects to the Greens. The Bomb is stolen.

                               Part 2, The Faith of Falling Cats

If a jihadist with Plutonium239 snags the bomb, Strangedick is in deep doo. The Americans snatch a Mullah from high in the mountains of Afghanistan. Kat, recruited by French intelligence and working with Casey, pursues a lead to Jamaica. The jihadist smuggles the bomb from Canada in pig shit in a truck hauling hogs to market. Two CIA agents, Strangedick's special creation,  force a suspect who is a gourmand to eat a baloney sandwich on white bread. He croaks. They play golf with human testicles to frighten another suspect.  Is Manhattan going to blow. The suspect, nursing his wounded dick, watches the spectacle with amusement.

                                       Part 3, Excrement

We learn that Strangedick is a Russian agent. The Russian President’s name for him translates as “a piece of shit.” Strangedick’s plan is to blame the detonation on the conservative Liberty Caucus. Forty of them will simultaneously tap their phone, but only one will detonate the bomb. It doesn’t go off. Is it fouled with pig shit? Strangedick flattens them with a bunker buster. Kat understands he long nightmare. Bombs explode. The Russians planted Strangedick, a biological bomb, in the Ovary Orifice to implode American democracy. Clitorises, remember, are vestigial penises. 

A former First Lady, Senator and Secretary of State, having breakfast with her husband, finishes her dream of Kat Dancer dreaming the story of Ronald Strangedick. The whole story has been her dream, not Kat's.

Audience

Some of the most memorable, popular and lasting novels have reflected the spirit of the times. 

We're enduring a kind of a national political and cultural pratfall. Timely satire that cuts to the truths we all know or suspect. There is a demographic of rebellious readers out there who are sick of the embarrassing spectacle of Donald Trump in the White House and are increasingly callous to the endless revelations of this or that lying, money laundering, collusion with Russians or whatever malfeasance.  

Then along comes Pussy Bomb, The Rude Truth of President Ronald Strangedick. Hillary Clinton's dream is clever, well-written satire that goes to the unadorned truth. 

Think about these books:

Sinclair Lewis's Elmer Gantry, published in 1926, was a satirical novel about the mindless fundamentalist Christians of the day.

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, published in 1932, was black comedy about the romance of rural life.

Joseph Heller wrote Catch-22 in 1953. In writing it, he had in mind Joseph R. McCarthy and the madness of the Cold War. 

Stanley Kubrick's movie (the inspiration Pussy Bomb) about the -insanity of the doctrine of mutually assured nuclear destruction was released in 1964.

The Democratic House will take office in January. Only then will the excrement of the Mueller investigation truly hit the fan.  If we are to ride the cultural banzai pipeline, we need to position our board now, not when the wave is upon us. 

Will Pussy Bomb be somehow dated by the unfolding events of the Trump debacle?  Most assuredly not. No, no, no!  Nein, nyet, nay.  The story  stands on its own whether Donald Trump is fighting lawyers, being impeached or has been removed from office. This is a kind of horror story.

The potential market for Pussy Bomb is international, covering the globe, not just the 60 percent of Americans who cannot abide Donald Trump. The foreign market should be strong in both western and eastern European languages, Scandinavian languages and Japanese, Korean and Chinese languages. And don't forget the Russians and Arabic editions. As a footnote, the Germans have always been my special fans. 

My goal is that the sun will never set on people laughing at the posturing, narcissistic buffoon pretending to lead the country they were once  proud of or admired.

Author

Richard Hoyt served as a counterintelligence agent for the U.S. Army. He has bachelor and master's degrees in journalism from the University of Oregon and a PhD in American studies from the University of Hawaii.  

He is a former fellow at the Washington Journalism Center in Washington D. C. where he served as an accredited Washington correspondent serving the Portland Oregonian and other Pacific Northwest newspapers.  He later wrote for Honolulu daily newspapers and  was Hawaii stringer  for Newsweek magazine,

Hoyt was a professor of journalism and communications at the University of Maryland and at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. 

 He is the author of 27 mysteries, thrillers and other acclaimed novels of suspense published by William Morrow, The Viking Press, Doubleday, Tor Books and Forge Books. These books include the John Denson private novels and the offbeat James Burlane thrillers. The New York Times named three of his novels as notable books of the year. 

His novels have been published in British Commonwealth, German, Dutch, French and Japanese editions. He has lived for short periods and written in Torquay, England, Amsterdam, Seville, Sao Paulo, San Ignacio, Belize, Hong Kong and the Philippines. 


Promotion

I plan to send a written hook and sample provocative, amusing and thought-provoking chapters to each of the literally hundreds of liberal blogs and websites on the web, plus the book editors of alternative newspapers around the country. 

I also plan to tweet and post provocative sentences and short paragraphs in the social media. I have a past as a skilled author that I can promote.

Pussy Bomb is based on my 1984 novel published by Viking that the New York Times said, "Does for espionage what Joseph Heller's Catch-22 did for war." 

Washington Post Book World, critic Jonathan Yardley said Cool Runnings was  “…skillful, intelligent light reading. It’s a clever, sophisticated, and witty send-up of just about everything worth sending up these days…"

The New York Times said of Trotsky's Run. “Trotsky’s Run is stunner–superbly written, brilliantly plotted… A potent package. Put this book at the top of your list.”  

In a front page review of the Los Angeles Book Review, Richard Eder, said of Darwin's Secret, “You need prodigious energy, a wild streak and a madcap sense of the zany to write a comic adventure story that transcends such funereal publicizing words as prodigious, wild, madcap, and zany.” 

The New York Times said of Japanese game, "Cultural shock measuring 9.5 on the Richter scale. A searing, fast-moving sophisticated book full of action and social comment.

 Washington Post Book World reviewer George Pelacanos said Marimba "is a wild ride into Carl Hiassen territory, dark and nasty, with a dose of…casual evil added to the mix… Expert storytelling.”

The Chicago Tribune critic said Marimba was a “Street-smart realism with a Thomas Pynchon-like view of an off-kilter universe…A hip primer on cocaine economics.

Publisher's Weekly said  of The Dragon Portfolio, "This stratospheric tale is ribald entertainment on the grand scale.” P

The New York Daily News said the same novel is “A wildly wicked yarn about Asian politics, power and high finance. It’s worth ten routine cloak-and-swagger drama.

Competition

Pussy Bomb satirizes the thriller genre, the national security apparatus and Donald Trump. 

Thrillers are actually reassurers. They reassure readers that the heroic protagonist will defeat the asshole and get the pretty girl. The thrills are bogus. They're horseshit, and we all know it, but they're profitable horseshit. 

Pussy Bomb has the trappings and pacing of a conventional thriller: in a loopy parade of national security fuck-ups and things gone wrong in a plot hatched by a confident moron, Ronald Strangedick, we track an atomic bomb on the loose CIA agents scramble.  We follow the tick, tick, tick countdown of the bomb ready to pop.  

Readers recognize the truth. They know that it is preposterous to believe that Tom Cruise always saves the world in the nick of time, no problem, and walks off hand in hand with Halle Berry. They get it that unexpected shit does happen. When it does, it can be wildly funny.

Pussy Bomb is most similar to a movie, not a novel, Terry Southern's screenplay for Dr. Strangelove. It also has some of Wag the Dog in that it skewers contemporary politics.  

In the end of Dr Strangelove, Slim Pickens, playing Major Kong, rides an atom bomb out of a B-52, and we know world is about to go up in a series of mushroom clouds. Pussy Bomb is of the digital age only total assholes like Kim Jong Un and Donald Trump have their fingers on the launch buttons.  

Here are some other satirical novels that sold well. None can be directly compared to Pussy Bomb:

Less, Andrew Sean Greer, Lee Bordeau Books, Little, Brown & Co., 2017

Going Postal, Terry Pratchett, Doubleday, 2004

Primary Colors, Joe Klein, Random House, 1996

Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk,
W. W. Norton, 1996

American Hero, Larry Beinhart, Nation Books, 1993 (Reissued as Wag the Dog: a Novel in 2004

A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy O’Tool, Louisiana State University Press, 1980

The House of God, Samuel Shem, Dell, 1978

Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1963,

Catch-22, Joseph Heller, Simon and Shuster, 1961

The Magic Christian, Terry Southern, Random House, 1959

Sample

Here is the opener, an excerpt, and the closer of Pussy Bomb:

Dreams of Kat Dancer

 For Kat Dancer, the drill of writing off-beat thrillers was the always the same. She awoke at four to five each morning, and in this hazy twilight between sleep and being fully awake, she wrote and rewrote sentences in her head, polishing them, moving them forward and backward in the queue of description, dialogue and action that pushed a story forward. After an hour or two of writing in her head, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she remembered everything she had written almost word for word. This phenomenon amazed her. How was it possible for her to remember almost exactly what she had written in her head when she was half asleep? Did this happen to other authors?

One night she dreamed of pale yellow rain lashing down on the Columbia River by Portland, Oregon, where she lived. In the nights thereafter, the dreams of yellow rain continued, hammering the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Seattle’s Space Needle, the Statue of Liberty, Mt. Rushmore, and on small towns and sprawling cities, on lakes and deserts and mountains, on fields of wheat and corn and on forests of pine and oak. In one dream yellow rain pelted groundskeepers at a baseball game in Fenway Park as they pulled a tarpaulin over the infield. In the stands, fans holding jackets over their heads scrambled for shelter. Yellow rain? Kat woke up every morning thinking about the dreams. What did they mean? Was she about to start another story?

Bob Dylan was singing in the background. What was he singing?

One night the dreams of yellow rain ceased, replaced by an Asian fat boy in an odd blue outfit and with a loopy haircut, scalped on the sides. The fat boy watched a parade of trucks carrying gigantic missiles made to look like erect human penises with large wings folded at their sides. The turgid penises pointed upward at a 30-degree angle, ready for action. The military officers surrounding the fat boy wore uniforms festooned with colorful medals and ribbons. The fat boy grinned, they grinned. He smiled broadly, they smiled broadly. He clapped politely, they clapped politely.  The penis-missiles unfolded their wings and left the trucks, flying up and out of sight. The fat boy and the officers applauded lustily, cheering. The vision faded.

The winged penises appeared, soaring, gliding, dipping and diving over a beach, their huge wings flapping lazily. Below them, looking up, dozens of female vaginas, their labia painted gaudily with scarlet lipstick, laughed raucously.

Then the Asian fat boy and President Ronald Strangedick, grinning broadly, arm in arm, danced awkwardly, kicking their legs high like inebriated Rockettes show girls, their bellies bouncing.

Kat woke up with a dry mouth and a full bladder. Penis missiles? Laughing vaginas? President Strangedick. The fat boy was clearly the North Korean supreme leader Fuk Yu Tu. What was Bob Dylan singing? What song?  What, if anything, did the dreams of yellow rain have to do with the fat boy, missiles and laughing vaginas?

Two days later Kat dreamed of Strangedick sitting behind his handsome, polished desk in the Oval Office, the walls of which were covered with a tangle of thorny underbrush. Strangedick, his brow furrowed in concentration, mouth pursed, listened to what appeared to be a complaining, frightened rabbit sitting in a chair. In another chair, a grinning fox eyed the rabbit.

A pussy with deep red lipstick on its labia appeared above Strangedick’s desk, hovering, laughing at him. Agitated, Strangedick lunged, trying to grab the pussy, but she dodged him with a nimble move. Strangedick’s face colored, he grabbed again, but missed and tumbled over the desk, his hair askew. The pussy blew him a petulant air kiss. He sucked in his paunch and lunged a third time, grabbing, missing. The pussy exploded in a mushroom cloud that rivaled the famous image of the hydrogen bomb evaporating Eniwetok Atoll in 1952.

Kat woke up! A pussy bomb in the Oval Office? A President named Strangedick. Strangedick grabbing at a pussy? What?

The dreams continued in the nights that followed. Each morning Kat booted up her computer and turned the fleeting, surreal characters and incidents into episodes and chapters that were detailed, grounded in reality and accessible to readers other than assistant professors of English, psychoanalysts or people tripping on LSD. Writing Humper Staab thrillers was the art of what comes next. In this story, Kat had no idea what was coming up.

Chapter 6

An excerpt:

“You want to watch me pee? On you? You want me to pee on you?”

Akbar looked horrified, and held his hands up. “No, no, no. The germs! No, no! Not that. Just pee in something while I watch. That’s all I want. Can you do that?”

“I can, but craziness costs extra. Your President claims to know all about bargaining, but I don't bargain.”

“I’ll pay your rate. No problem. Just pee, please.”

“Golden shower.  Five hundred Euros.”

Akbar fumbled for his wallet and gave her another fistful of Euros.

Blaze retreated to an adjoining room, returning with a lid-less yellow plastic container. “I keep cheese in this, but I can buy another one.” She put the container on the floor. “I drank six glasses of water. I feel like a tanker.  What would you like me to do while we wait for my bladder to fill? On the house.”

 Akbar leaned forward. “I…I like butts.” He could hardly breathe. 

“You like my butt.” Blaze hooked her thumbs over the string bottoms and started inching them down. She stopped, looking back, smiling. “All the way off?”

“Please.”

She dropped her panties to the floor. “You like this?”  She bent over, parting her legs.

 “I…”

“How about this?” She ran her hand between her legs then turned and clapped her palm over his nose. “Inhale.”

“Ahhhhhh.”

“Nice?”

He held her hand over his nose, closing his eyes. “Yes! Very nice.”

She retreated to her chair. “Bladder spikes. Time to take that thing out.”

Akbar did.

“Whoa! You’re carrying some real action aren’t you?”

He gripped his cock tightly.

Blaze squatted over the plastic container and began peeing, her urine hitting the plastic with a soft pow!

She was Iblis, the bitch! Watching her pee, his mouth open, Akbar spurted.

Blaze laughed. “Pussy bomb pops another dick!”

Akbar stood quickly, fumbling with the zipper with his cock still poking out. The zipper stopped. He yanked on the tab. The zipper held fast. He yanked harder then fell to his knees. “Awwwwww!”

Blaze looked alarmed. “My heavens!”

Still on his knees, Akbar stared at his crotch. Wincing, clutching himself, he stood and carefully extricated his bloody member from the zipper. His cock, squirting blood, deflated quickly. “It's nothing, nothing,” he said quickly.  The zipper had cut a large vein on the underside of his penis. His dick squirted blood. 

Akbar's cock throbbed with pain. So much blood! How was it that so much blood came from merely getting his dick stuck in a zipper?

Alarmed, Blaze said, “You're really bleeding! Do you need a tourniquet or something?”

“It will be okay.” He looked down at a widening patch of blood at his crotch. 

“I can tie a bra strap around it. Cinch it tightly. That might stop the bleeding.”

Akbar felt the blood soaking his trousers.  Clamping the vein with thumb and forefinger,  he threw the door open and lurched down the alley.

Window workers stared at him, wondering what SM game had gone wrong.

Akbar, feeling dizzy, cried out, “Help, help, mercy! I need a doctor! I need a doctor! Please, please.”

Asad Al-Boulos, watching an ambulance arrive,  spoke in Arabic into a smart phone.  “Praise Allah, you should see his bloody crotch! They’re taking him to a hospital.”  He paused, listening. “Yes, yes, I’ll check to see if he’s okay.  If we had any doubt before, I think we can relax now. He’ll be good for it. Motive is everything.”

                                                    #

Ali Akbar lay on his back with his crotch exposed.  A nurse wearing a surgical mask lifted his dick with one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other. What? In English with a Dutch accent, she said, “This will sting a little.”

Akbar winced.  She withdrew the needle, saying, “We’ll have to wait a few minutes until it’s numb.”

The surgeon appeared. Another woman! She pinched his dick. “You feel that?”

He shook his head. Did she enjoy pinching him?

The surgeon said, “You’re lucky, Mr. Akbar.  I have small hands, good for microsurgery.” She pulled a surgical mask over her mouth and special glasses over her eyes. Microsurgery? Was she saying he had a little dick? She bent over, working on his dick. Women. What were they thinking?

Upon finishing, the surgeon said, “I repaired a flaccid penis, Mr. Akbar However if the skin expands and stretches…” She frowned. “You need to avoid a stiff penis until the stitches heal. No internet porn. No loping your goat. No orifices.”

Waking Up

Kat Dancer woke up, listening to the traffic beneath her apartment window. It was raining as usual. It seemed to rain every day from October to the end of June in Portland. She made herself a cup of coffee and booted up her file, Pussy 

 LaTrobe Blue had urged Kat to remember the difference between explosion and implosion. Bombs exploded buildings and cities. The Trade Towers did not explode on 9-11. They imploded, collapsed from within. Ignorance and cowardice imploded democracies. What about the winged penis rockets and the explosive, laughing pussy in the Oval Office.

An evil, stubborn bank of black clouds hung low over the city. Kat watched the dark, wet street below. A downpour slammed onto the pavement, flooding the gutters, sending streams racing along the curbs, spilling over the sidewalks, pooling in low spots where the storm drains couldn’t handle the rush.

 Kat remembered the zipped-dick dream of Akbar watching Caroline pee. What was the meaning there? Was not a clitoris something on the order of a tiny dick? Evolutionary biologists called them vestigial penises—dicks that had lost their function over time. Sex reassignment surgeons enlarged clitorises with hormones, forming dicks that were maybe not porn star fearsome but were nevertheless serviceable.

 Ronald Strangedick! Not a real dick at all

That was it! That crazy name was a clue. The nightmare was telling her everything. The insecurity. The bragging. The bullying. The posturing.  The Russians had cleverly placed a mirror-loving pussy bomb in the Ovary Orifice of the White House to implode American democracy. The mass media chronicled the implosion in slow motion.

Kat fell back asleep and dreamed of Strangedick in the Ovary Orifice, licking his lips, grinning as he relieved himself.  Yellow rain fell on every city and town in America, all over the land, soaking fields, filling streets, clogging gutters. 

                                              #

She had been First Lady, a United States Senator, and a Secretary of State. She had a rich palette of memories from which to imagine.  Now, with pale blue eyes, sitting across the breakfast table at her famous husband, himself a former President, she glanced outside the window at the steady rain. “So that’s it. Finished.”

He spread some orange marmalade on a slice of toast. In a voice grown thin and hoarse with age, he said, “You dreamed Kat Dancer dreaming Ronald Strangedick. Strangedick pissing on us all from the Ovary Orifice! I like it!”

She laughed that rich, deep, full-throated laugh for which she was famous. “A dream like those Russian dolls. One doll fits inside the other. What’re they called?

He munched on his toast. “Matryoshka dolls, I think. Who wouldn’t have crazy dreams if they lived through a nightmare like yours. The title’s pretty crazy, all things considered.”

“Crazy?”

He leaned forward, blinking. “Pussy Bomb?”

She cocked her head. “Oh, come on. You think ‘pussy’ is off-putting? Grow up.  You men talk about dicks all the time.”

“Mmm. Point taken. Kat Dancer sure sounds like a hottie.”

“Please!”

He frowned. “Okay, okay. Strangedick rattles glasses of ice water to mask his farts. Where did you get that idea?”

“From a biography of Joseph Stalin.”

“Stalin did that?”

“Allegedly.”

 “The raspberry obsession clearly comes from the movie ‘The Caine Mutiny.’”

She smiled. “I think so. We’re talking a mine sweeper in the South Pacific in World War II. Captain Queeg…”

 “Humphrey Bogart.”

 “Right. Queeg becomes obsessed with strawberries he claims were stolen from the galley. He acts crazier and crazier. It’s soon clear that he’s not fit for command. Only when the minesweeper is about to go under in a horrific storm and do his subordinates, fearful of the consequences of mutiny on the high seas, act replace him. There is tradition and naval regulations to consider.”

“The junior officers in this case being Strangedick’s subordinates running the country from the West Wing. Only there the parallel breaks down. No risks for the greater good. Party loyalty above all.” He bunched is face in frustration.

Looking out of the window, she took a sip of coffee. “Unlikely the clouds will ever completely clear. It’ll take decades for the soil to dry out, if ever.”

“You know the song that Kat heard singing, but she couldn’t hear the lyrics. Seems clear enough to me.” He sang in his thin, raspy voice, doing his best to imitate Bob Dylan singing  “It’s a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.”

I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken

I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

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  • Alf Mayer on Oct. 1, 2018, 8:07 p.m.

    Hi Richard, greetings from Germany -- I will post the infos about your crowdfunding in our next CrimeMag - goes online Oct 15th.
    Best whishes - Alf

  • Marla Miller on Oct. 14, 2018, 5:25 p.m.

    Well written as usual, Richard. I look forward to the ending chapters. Great job. I'll anxiously await my copy! Marla

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