Introducing Michael Allan Scott, author of Grey Daze
a Lance Underphal paranormal mystery.
I'll let him do the talking.
Take it away Michael!
I’m Michael Allan Scott, author of the Lance Underphal paranormal mystery/thriller series, and the new kid on the block. (Move over Stephen King.) While I’ve been writing in one form or another most of my life, I didn’t turn pro until 2010. Other endeavors over the years include: musician, salesman, miner, draftsman, construction laborer, SCUBA instructor, and commercial real estate developer, to name but a few.
I have three Lance Underphal Mystery novels available in both paperback and eBook formats, with the first draft of the fourth book in the series nearing completion. Just getting started at age 65, I’m likely to run out of time before I run out of stories to tell.
Responsible for writing, editing, publishing, and marketing (with the help of a great team of indie pros) self-publishing is at least a couple fulltime jobs. I’m like a kid in candy shop—a sweet adventure. Don’t expect to do anything else I’ll enjoy more.
Born and raised at the edge of the high desert in Kingman, Arizona, I currently reside in Scottsdale with my wife, Cynthia and our rescue Doberman, Roxie. In addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, my interests include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing.
What is your current W. I. P. about?
The next book in the series, Cut-Throat Syndrome is a mystery/thriller with a paranormal twist. It delves into the Deep Web, exposing the hacking subculture, its criminal influences, and its ties to government intelligence agencies. At its core, the unintended consequences of rapid advances in technology outstripping our progress in the humanities. (For entertainment purposes, only.) Did I mention it’s a murder mystery?
Do you have any advice for novice writers?
If you can do anything else, do that. If you can’t, learn the craft of writing, and learn the business of publishing and marketing. Then write and keep writing, no matter what.
What is your most successful marketing tool?
My 30+ years of business experience.
Have you ever read the last page of a novel first, why, and did you finish the book?
Not only no, but Hell No! I cringe when someone tells me they do this. Yikes! All that work we mystery writers do, down the drain.
If zombies attacked, what would you do, and why?
As close as I can tell the attack is well underway. Take a good look around—OMG! My job as I see it, wake them up with a red hot mystery/thriller, a good cup of joe, and a pat on the back.
If you could be any horror character, or superhero, which would it be and why?
Daracula was always my Halloween fave as a kid. Anymore the vampire thing is done to death. (Okay, not that funny.) In essence, I’ve moved on to ethereal realms beyond the plane of material existence. “Don’t see me.” (Ignore that man behind the curtain and his obscure reference to Bram Stoker’s Daracula, the movie.)
If you could visit any time period, would you go back or visit the future and why?
Future is the only option. Wide open to creative imagination. The perfect playground for us artist-types.
*****
GREY DAZE descends. A fresh murder spins out of control, twisting into new realms of paranormal mystery.
Not for the faint of heart, the third in the Lance Underphal Mystery series, is an interplay of corrupt characters immersed in today’s world. Paranormal twists and fast action in movie-like scenes set the story’s mystery/thriller elements apart from the typical whodunit/serial-killer thriller.
Guided by his dead wife, a reluctant psychic finds himself on a wild ride through a criminal underworld, slamming face first into corrupt police, gunrunning bikers, and a drug addicted killer–not to mention confrontations with the dead.
Layers of plots within plots twist this new thriller into a startling climax.
For More Information
Please Note: this book “R” rated and is intended for adult readers.
Excerpt from Grey Daze
Nerves jangling like downed power lines on a storm-soaked street, she turns off the cracked pavement into the rain-slick drive. As she chews her bottom lip, the new Ford Edge glides under the ancient leafless elm at the curb, its gnarled trunk overgrown with ivy fluttering in a gusty wind. Her mind races, fearful of all the things that could go wrong, trying to anticipate every move, grasping at the big score and how it will all be worth it.
Tires roll up the narrow drive, gently thumping on fractured concrete. They’ve never gone this far before. And that asshole Denny crapped out at the last minute, forcing her to take care of business. As she parks on the side of the dumpy little house, a sneer twists her full lips. She’s not sure why this time would be any different, he always makes her do the dirty work—always there to grab the lion’s share of the score. Him and Moon. Worthless assholes.
The wipers stop as she shuts off the ignition. She stares through the drizzle streaking the windshield, screwing up her courage, telling herself there’s no way she’ll get caught, the plan is perfect. They’ve been working at it for months, getting everything set up. Now it’s time. Only one thing left to do and they’ll be home free. If only she could get her hands to stop shaking.
Elbowing the door, she squirms thick hips out of the seat, the new-car smell fading as she climbs out into the cold. She scurries across the drive and up the crumbling concrete steps, thumbing the remote to lock the Edge with a flash and a chirp. Twisting the key, she opens the weather-beaten back door, stepping in out of the swirling rain and into Hell for the last time.
Dark and close, it hits her like a blast of sewer gas, though she should be used to it by now. Dim in the grey light, the foul reek of decay and excrement is stifling, crinkling her nose. She fumbles with her keys, finally managing to twist the backdoor key off her key ring as she heads for the kitchen sink. Grabbing a dishrag, she wipes down the key. Careful to hold it with the dishrag, she drops it into the disposer. She digs a pair of latex gloves out of her purse, working them on over sweaty fingers, then hits the switch. The disposer jumps, coughing and clattering as she adds water, mangling the key. She knows, one way or another, she’ll never be back.
She cringes as all the disgusting things she’s had to do twist up in her head. Dirty little thoughts that won’t leave her alone, like the vicious sting from one of her grandfather’s beatings. She’d show that old asshole, if only he could see her now. Stupid little man. But first she has to get through this.
She turns off the disposer and stumps into the dingy little living room as roaches scuttle for cover. Crossing to the old sofa, she sits gingerly as the ancient vinyl crackles beneath her broad rump. She contemplates the next few minutes, fanning the flames, feeding the beast. The puto has it coming. Fixing his meals, cleaning up his messes, listening to his constant babbling, going on about how smart he is and how she needs to listen, insinuating she’s stupid. Treating her like his slave. The things she did—unspeakable. Her stomach clenches as flickerings fire her mind. Bathing his vile flesh by hand, hairy and wrinkled—disgusting. The horrid stench of excrement on desiccated haunches. The pasty feel of his flaccid penis, even through the gloves . . . watching him writhe as he came, oozing sticky yellowed sperm. She shudders as shivers run down her spine. She’ll show him how stupid she is. She smiles wickedly as her eyes narrow. He still has no idea. Never saw it coming. And now, it’s too late. Muy estupido.
Fury firing her blood, she pushes off the couch and tromps out of the room, the ancient crusted carpet crunching under her biker boots. Clumping through the short hall and into the back bedroom, she slows, walking quietly as if she’d wake him. What am I doin’? She shakes her head. He’s not waking up any time soon, she made sure of that—he fainted dead away when she tripled his heart meds. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours. Blood levels should be back to near normal, well within limits for any toxicology reports.
Her broad nose crinkles with disgust, her lips curling into a snarl at the mere sight of him. She’s always hated old men. And with good reason—look at him. Lying there under that ratty old bedspread, too cheap to buy a decent blanket. All that money rat-holed away, rotting like his ancient carcass. His limbs like sticks, tacked onto a distended belly. His eyes pinched shut at the bottoms of deep hollows. His sunken mouth a ragged hole, white spittle crusting thin cracked lips. His head a shrunken skull, wrapped in papery skin stretched tight, dotted with patches of wispy white hair. If it wasn’t for his phlegmy breaths, he could already pass for a corpse.
She crosses quickly to the bed, gritting her teeth, holding her breath. Jerking the stained pillow out from under his head, she flips it up into both hands, leans over and presses down hard, mashing it on his face. A slight tremor runs through his withered limbs. Cadaverous claws scrabble at her hands, her wrists, her arms. She gasps, horrified, turning her head, pressing down harder. A muffled wail seeps out from behind the pillow—inhuman. She moans as tears leak from her squinted eyes. She can’t take anymore. And just when she starts to lift, he goes limp, his heaving chest stills. She feels what little life he had left rush past her—a final huff of foul breath and he’s dead.
*****
Thanks, Michael!
What an intriguing excerpt. Wow!
Thanks for the interview, both of them!
Well readers what did you think of the excerpt?
Would your books help defeat a zombie apocalypse?
*****
