Bad Bucket and the Church of the Dung God
Welcome to the page devoted to my newest adventure and work-in-progress Bad Bucket and the Church of the Dung God. I’m in the earliest stages of this work, still feeling my way through the plot and the characters and the direction the story is taking as it wends its way to the end.
If you’ve ever seen Who is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe? or read Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe – the two being just different enough that both are enjoyable in their own right – then you’ll have a rough idea what this story is about. In this case, someone is killing the Gurus of California. Al Kozlowski, a former San Francisco homicide detective turned part-time private eye and full time head of security for Syd Strayhound’s New Age empire and known jokingly as New Age Al, is hired by the Reverend Bad Bucket, head of the Church of the Dung God and Guru of tea and elixirs, to discover who is killing off the Gurus of California.
Sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek, Bad Bucket and the Church of the Dung God is, so far at least, a hell of a lot of fun to write. I hope, one day, you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I’m enjoying writing it.
Here is a sample:
Popa Dupac prowled the open catwalk of his body products factory like a lion searching for something to pounce on.
“I’m telling you the chain is broken,” he snarled into the phone. “It’s wide open and the overhead light is out as well. What the hell do I pay you people for? If one of these asswipe employees fell, I could be sued for millions. I want it fixed and I want it fixed yesterday and if you can’t do that, I’d suggest you fold up that asswipe maintenance company of yours and hit the road because I will destroy you! Is that understood!”
Dupac snapped the cell phone closed before the person on the other end could answer. He cared nothing for lame answers. He wanted solutions and by the gods he would get them.
Strolling to the end of the catwalk, he looked down at the broken chain. Though he couldn’t tell for sure, the overhead light being out, it looked as if the chain had been cut. “Asswipes,” he mumbled to himself.
Looking past the chain and the end of the catwalk, he stared down at the bubbling vat of his newest creation. The chemists he had hired had finally done it, created a viable body product at the lowest possible cost. Soon, besides the hand and body lotion bubbling below him, all his products; the soap, the shampoo and face cream, everything imaginable one could use on one’s body, would all be made as cheaply.
A 16 oz bottle of the stuff below cost pennies, less, in fact, than the bottle itself, and would retail out at $15.00. He’d make a fortune on top of the fortune he already had from those gullible, New Age dupes who believe the word Organic was the word of the gods.
Staring down at the vat, seeing money where others might see a pearly white, roiling luminescence, he thought he heard a sound. Before he could turn, there came a sharp blow to the middle of his back. In an instant he was falling. In the next instant he was submerged in 360 degree coconut oil. In the final, painfully drawn out instant, he was dead.
A figure watched from the catwalk, smiling as the body of Popa Dupac twisted and turned in the roiling liquid below. A piece of paper slipped from its fingers, fell to the grating, slip through and fluttered like a moth with shredded wings to the floor below. The figure smiled, turned and made its way down the catwalk, down the stairs, slipping out through a rear door and into the night.
It had begun.