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In this surreal road novel, Anthony searches for the father he’s never met: Andy Kaufman, the legendary song-and-dance man from the ’70s. There’s a few problems here, of course. A) Andy Kaufman died in 1984, and B) Thanks to a recent cancer diagnosis, Anthony doesn’t have much longer to live, either. However, new evidence has come to light that questions whether or not Kaufman is actually dead. Could he be in hiding, after all these years? Anthony is determined to discover the truth before his own clock runs out. During his travels, he will encounter shameless medicine men, grifters, Walmart shoppers, the ghosts of Elvis and Warhol, and the Devil himself.



Thursday, September 26, 2013

Sreet Martyr East Coast Release Party


28th September 2013 – Saturday from 3PM - ??


The East Coast Release Party of The Street Martyr by T. Fox Dunham

In book stores and online October 1st

Meeting VIncent and Louie at Molly's:


These last few weeks, I’ve grown so ill. My doctors are using scary terms like malignancy and platelets, and I lay on the couch with my head pushed deep away, and I consider what I’ve given to the world—what would be my gift, my legacy if I am overcome. I grant you Vincent and Louie—the two old unforgettable morons that represent the best in the human species. 

They’re sitting here with me now at Molly’s. Vincent is hung over the bar, pushing back his greasy dark hair. He’s wearing an old blazer that reeks of pot smoke and mildew. The fall air still warms, and he’d sweat in his leather jacket; however, winter is coming with a promise of a Nor’easter that will sweep away predatory priests and mob kings. His old companion and bane Louie sits next to him on the barstool, except he has to lean up on his elbows to keep eye level with Misty, the blond chemistry student that slings whiskey sours to the lads as they drink and try to figure out how they’re going to stay alive for another week. Vincent’s mom dies of cancer, and Louie’s mom took off years ago, leaving him to fend for himself.

I’m sitting in the corner of the bar, eating chicken gumbo and sipping on a screwdriver. I can’t take too much liquor. My body would never suffer it; and I keep spying on the guys. Misty brings them another shot. Louie grins like a fucking idiot.

“Thanks Baby,” Louie says. Most of his hair has fallen out. 

“You call me baby one more time, I’m going to drive that shotglass up your ass and catch it when it falls out of your pug nose.”

Louie grins. “That’s sexy.”

Vincent roles his eyes. If Louie keeps it up, they’ll be thrown out of another bar. They’ve run out of dives on South Street, so today they drove down to Lansdale to scout out a Rite Aid that’s said to have a shitload of pills. I can’t help but watch, catching glances while sipping from my screwdriver. Finally, Louie spots me. He looks self-conscious, pulling back the few strands of hair he has left down over his bald spot.

“You some kind of queer?” he yells over Vincent at me.

“Take it easy,” Vincent says.

“Don’t you two wankers let me down,” I say back.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Louie asks Vincent.

“I put my life into you,” I tell them. “If I’m dying—and it will come sooner than later, then you are what I leave the world. You two dumb asses."

“Hey,” Vincent says, breaking his usually calm demeanor, which surprises me. “I make do with what God gave me. He sent my soul to the gutter, and now my mother is sick. This is what I’ve got. Don’t feed me any of that shit about the American dream, about making myself a better person. I don’t take care of my mom, she dies.”

“But you’re a drug dealer,” I say.

“I’m a noble hero. I live in the real world, not your Greek Tragedy shit.”

“Hey,” Louie says. “Lay off of him. He does the best we can. We all do. Fucker.”
             
Louie fists the metal bars he’s known for. They’ll pack his punch to make up for his small size. He looks like a smurf, but Louie’s a killer. That’s how I wrote him.

Vincent eyes me good, like he’s checking out my ass. I flush a bit, then he cracks a grin. He scratches at the chains hanging from the piercings in his face. “Nah Louie. Lay off the guy. Don’t you get it?”

“I get that I’m going to pulp his damn skull,” Louie says, rolling his shit in his fist.

Vincent’s face burns red, and he laughs until he’s gasping. He even knocks over his empty glass, dumping ice on Misty’s feet. She growls at him, ready to smack his head. “Don’t you get this shit?” Vincent asks.

Louie drops his weight in his pocket, and I’m spared a good thrashing. “You’re fucking drunk, dude.” Vincent cracks up. 

“What?”

“We’re all he’s got! Shit! He doesn’t know how much time he’s got left, and we’re going to represent his soul when we’re gone. Oh shit. This is too fucking funny.”

I finish my screwdriver, drinking the last of the bitter liquor off the ice. It’s all my stomach can handle, and I’m letting down my legendary title—Long Island Fox. That was me and Max in New Orleans. He was Hurricane Max, and I was Long Island Fox. Those memories comfort me so.

I start to laugh with my boys. I’ve given them life, and they’ve returned it; perhaps, it’ll be enough to carry me through. “Buy this asshole a drink!” Vincent yells. “He needs it.”

Misty sets me up with another screwdriver. It’s on the house. “The House always wins,” I say, quoting from the book I’d just finished for Bitten Press—a romance-literary-erotica fox specialty.

“So what the fuck are you worried about?”

I laugh with them and drink down my vodka-and-orange juice. I’m a lightweight drunk, so I’m already pretty buzzed. Before leaving, Vincent kisses my check, and his silver chains strike my skin. Louie comes up to give me a hug, but then he switches his arms then punches my head—light. It’s a love tap. I know, because he hasn’t used his weights. I toppled over on the floor, and Vincent drops some narcotics in a white envelope on me.

“Oh the . . . House,” he says. “You’re going to need them.”

“Shit,” I say, thinking of what’s coming, what I’m facing. “Thanks, you couple of beautiful fuckups.”



(I don’t use profanity in my speech. I’m just talking to my lads.)

 * * *




The Street Martyr
East Coast Release Party –
 

Tabora Café – Lansdale Store
209 West Main Street, Lansdale, Pennsylvania 19446

http://www.taborafarmandorchard.com/store/






The party officially starts at 3PM, where I’ll be opening ceremonies with a bit of poetry and some fox-thoughts. Tabora Café is a wonderful coffeehouse and bakery. Also, it sports some of the best local wines and even lavender ice cream! It’s quite tasty, like eating a sweet bar of soap.

**I’ll be reading from The Street Martyr periodically through the event, along with some of my other work, short stories.


**Local and upcoming artist, Amy Rims will be live painting work from our new project together with Hazardous Press.

**Local young musician Becca will be playing her guitar and singing for us for a few sets. I discovered her on the streets of Lansdale, playing her heart out.

**And Zack M comes with some stories and masks. He’s a talented storyteller.

It’s going to be quite a day. The Street Martyr will be on sale for 13.95. I do have a square, so I can accept cards. We come prepared! I’ve already sold a ton of pre-orders and early reader copies. Several five star reviews have been posted on Amazon, and I’d love it if you posted a review for me—as long as it’s honest.

PRE-ORDER THE STREET MARTYR, JUST CLICK BELOW:  
THE STREET MARTYR

At the end of July, Gutter Books flew me out to San Francisco for the West Coast Release party for the Street Martyr and Will Viharo’s Love Stories Are Too Violent For Me. I hit that city like a comet, seeing everything I could. The party was amazing, and Will and I blew the roof off the place with our readings.

Artist depiction of T. Fox Dunham reading from The Street Martyr while on stage.
On the day after the party, Tom Pitts picked me up and took me into his family. Tom will always be a brother, now. He showed me the heart of the city, and I am grateful to him. We’ve become close friends.

                                     * * *

Cellar Door released through James Kirk Ward Publishing.
Editor Sydney Leigh
 


Late in the summer, I had the good fortune to be included in an anthology edited by Sydney Leigh—Cellar Door. What attracted me to this anthology was the involvement and enthusiasm of Rose Blackthorn. She and I have moved in similar circles for some time. Sydney had a mission to try to include many new authors, even giving them their first publication in this book, and I admired how she worked with them, helping to get their stories edited. This is why I choose to support the project. This is a fine and spirited collection of short stories, flash fiction, photographs and artwork, including my short story that finishes the collection. I am pleased to be a part of this collection and to support so many new authors. They’re the lifeblood of the industry. I am happy to announce that my story was picked for one of two editor's choice awards, and I am donating my to the Children's Cancer Fund.

BUY THIS COLLECTION AT AMAZON!


So I hope to see many of you at the party!!!