For
those who know me, I am a writer.
For
those who don’t know me, I am a writer.
I
write speculative fiction – mainly Steamfunk,
Dieselfunk,
Rococoa
and Sword
& Soul.
Recently,
I have expanded my writing into the
Fight Fiction – aka Action / Adventure, aka Pulp – genre,
which was pretty much inevitable because my novels contain lots of
exciting action and fight scenes.
What,
exactly, is Fight Fiction. You ask?
Fight
Fiction is comprised of tales in which the fighting – whether it
happens in a temple in Thailand, a boxing ring in Las Vegas, a cage
in Atlanta, or in a bar in New York City – is not merely in the
story to make it more exciting; or to add a different spin to it. The
fighting must be an integral part of both the story and its
resolution. Take the fighting out and you no longer have a story.
Think Fight Club; Rocky; Blood and
Bone; Kung-Fu Hustle; Million Dollar Baby;
and Tai Chi Zero.
Writing
fight scenes has always been something I enjoy and that I believe I
do fairly well. This is probably due to the fact that I have been a
student of indigenous African martial arts for over forty years and I
have been an instructor of those same martial arts for nearly thirty
years. I am also a lifelong fan of martial arts, boxing and Luchador
films.
Recently,
I joined a team of stellar authors, who all write under the pen name
Jack Tunney (for e-book versions only; paperback versions are in the
authors’ names), as part of the Fight
Card Project.
The
books in the Fight
Card series
are monthly 25,000 word novelettes, designed to be read in one or two
sittings, and are inspired by the fight pulps of the 1930s and 1940s,
such as Fight
Stories Magazine and
Robert E. Howard’s two-fisted boxing tales featuring Sailor Steve
Costigan.
In
2013, the Fight Card series published twenty-four
incredible tales of pugilistic pandemonium from some of the best New
Pulp authors in the business. I am writing under the Fight
Card MMA brand with my book, Fist of Africa.
Here’s
a brief synopsis:
Nigeria
2004 … Nicholas ‘New Breed’ Steed, a tough teen from the mean
streets of Chicago, is sent to his mother’s homeland – a tiny
village in Nigeria – to avoid trouble with the law. Unknown to
Nick, the tiny village is actually a compound where some of the best
fighters in the world are trained. Nick is teased, bullied and
subjected to torturous training in a culture so very different from
the world where he grew up.
Atlanta
2014 … After a decade of training in Nigeria, a tragedy brings Nick
back to America. Believing the disaffected youth in his home town
sorely need the same self-discipline and strength of character
training in the African martial arts gave him, Nick opens an Academy.
While the kids are disinterested in the fighting style of the
cultural heritage Nick offers, they are enamored with mixed martial
arts. Nick decides to enter the world of mixed martial arts to make
the world aware of the effectiveness and efficiency of the martial
arts of Africa.
Pursuing
a professional career in MMA, Nick moves to Atlanta, Georgia, where
he runs into his old nemesis – Rico Stokes, the organized crime
boss who once employed Nick’s father, wants Nick to replace his
father in the Stokes’ protection racket. Will New Breed Steed claim
the Light Heavyweight title … Or will the streets of Atlanta claim
him?
I
really enjoyed writing this book because I have always wanted to
share with the world the fierceness, efficiency and effectiveness of
the indigenous African martial arts for self-defense, as well as
their transformative powers in the building of men and women with
self-discipline, courage and good character. Fist of
Africa is a perfect outlet for my unique brand of Fight
Fiction, which I am sure you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed
writing it.
In Fist
of Africa, readers will experience jaw-dropping action on the
mean streets of Chicago, in the sand pits of Nigeria and in cages in
the “Dirty South” (Atlanta), as well as a bit of romance.
Please,
enjoy this excerpt, then hop on over to my website,
or to Amazon
and purchase the book. You’ll thank me later.
ROUND
SIX
Vee-Vee’s
was packed. The line of men and women spilled out of the Nigerian
restaurant and onto the hot sidewalk as the lunch crowd eagerly
awaited the mouth-watering, sweet fried plantains, egusi soup with
pounded yam and coconut rice.
Standing
in the line, Nick and Baba Yemi still had two customers ahead of them
before they were in the door. Nick rubbed his hands in excitement.
Baba
Yemi raised an eyebrow. “Is the food really that good, Nicholas?
You look … eager.”
“You
just don’t know, grandfather,” Nick replied. “I haven’t had
Vee-Vee’s in over ten years.
“You’ve
had Nigerian food in Nigeria,” Baba Yemi said. “What’s
so special about Vee-Vee’s?”
“It’s
Vee-Vee’s,” Nick responded with a shrug.
Baba
Yemi shook his head.
“Excuse
me, you just jumped ahead of me,” a woman’s voice said.
Nick
peered over his shoulder. A rotund woman addressed three young men
who stood in front of her in the line.
“Look,
lady, we just want to get some plantains up out of here,” one of
the young men – a lanky teen with jeans hanging halfway off his
butt – said. “You look like you’re about to order the whole
damned menu.”
The
young men laughed heartily and exchanged high fives.
“Teens
today have no respect,” the woman said. “If you are the future,
we’re in big trouble.”
“Shut
up, pendeja!” Another young man spat. “That’s moron,
in case you don’t know … pendeja!”
More
laughter from the young men.
“Hold
my place in the queue,” Baba Yemi whispered.
“Grandfather,
don’t …” Nick muttered.
Baba
Yemi approached the young men, stopping a few inches behind them.
“You are being very rude. This young woman deserves an apology.”
The
teens turned to face Baba Yemi. The largest of the trio, a tall,
athletically built young man, who had not yet spoken, looked Baba
Yemi up and down.
“Push
on, old man, before you get yourself hurt,” he said.
Baba
Yemi smiled and tapped the young man on his muscular chest. “Hurt?
How?”
The
lanky young man with the sagging pants placed a firm hand on Baba
Yemi’s shoulder. “Get gone, old dude, before we kick your …”
The
young man hit the pavement with a dull thump.
“My
hand!” He screamed, clutching at his wrist and writhing in agony.
The
Spanish-speaking young man launched an awkward-looking kick toward
Baba Yemi’s belly.
The
old wrestler side-stepped to his left, bringing his right arm up to
scoop the young man’s leg. Baba Yemi shifted toward the trapped
leg, grabbing it with both arms in a tight grip. He ducked under the
leg, lifting his arms over his head at the same time.
The
young man’s knee twisted at a sickening angle. He landed next to
his friend with the dislocated wrist, who joined him in a chorus of
cries, whimpers and yelps.
Baba
Yemi exploded toward the remaining member of the trio.
The
young man stumbled backward, then whirled on his heels and sprinted
off.
The
teen with the sagging pants and damaged wrist helped the young man
with the dislocated knee to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am,” they said
in unison.
Baba
Yemi laid a hand on the shoulder of the young man with the sagging
pants. The young man jerked in fear.
“Relax,”
Baba Yemi said. “Let me fix it.”
The
young man cautiously gave Baba Yemi his damaged hand. The old man
grabbed the teen’s fingers and yanked hard. The teen winced at the
pain of his wrist sliding back into its correct position.
“Thank
you,” the young man said. “And I … I’m sorry.”
“What
about my knee, sir?” The Spanish-speaking young man inquired, still
gasping in pain.
“That
is going to require more treatment than I can do here,” Baba Yemi
answered. “Do either of you have a car?”
“Yes,
sir, I do,” the Spanish-speaking youth said.
“What’s
your name, boy?” Baba Yemi asked.
“Hector,
sir,” the young man said.
“And
yours?” Baba Yemi asked the young man with the sagging trousers.
“Miles,”
he answered.
“Miles,
take Hector to the hospital,” Baba Yemi said. “They’ll put the
joint back in proper position, then you bring him to me and I’ll
really heal him. Talk to my grandson over there. He’ll give you the
address.”
“Yes,
sir,” Miles said, approaching Nick.
“Thank
you, sir,” Hector said.
Vee-Vee’s
waitress, who had come outside to see what the commotion was all
about, handed Nick an ink pen and an order slip. Nick wrote the
address to his parent’s house on the slip.
The
two young men shambled off, Hector’s arm wrapped around Miles’
shoulder for support.
“Thank
you!” The pudgy woman shouted. She wrapped her arms around Baba
Yemi’s torso and held him in a warm hug.
The
people in line applauded as Baba Yemi returned to his place in line.
“We’re
running a compound for young thugs out of my parents’ house now?”
Nick said, shaking his head.
“You
weren’t so different when you first came to me, Nicholas,” Baba
Yemi said.
“True,”
Nick said.
“So,
I ask again,” Baba Yemi said. “What now?”
Available as paperback or ebook: Amazon
