#I pick the pacifist and then play her like a war criminal

[hoiist]

Its 2021 and im back playing my favourtie game and taking all my allies down with mE

[tometalk]

Read 4/17-4/18

Five Stars

I have been so bad at writing reviews this year. Partly because when I have free time I want to spend it reading and partly because sitting down to write reviews just takes a little more energy and time than I've wanted to extend. However, this book demands I review it! I was completely blown away by this story! I finished this a few days ago now and my brain is still mush trying to talk about it. I just want to gush about so much.

I'll break it down as best I can so let's start with characters. There are three main characters though the third probably doesn't come into play until the first quarter or so of the book has passed. Our first main character and narrator throughout this wild adventure is Ettian Nassun. Ettian's world imploded seven years ago when the Umber Empire invaded the Archon Empire and made him a war orphan. He's spent the last two years on his home planet training at an Umber military academy and trying to leave his past in the past. When his best friend and roommate, Gal, is revealed to be the heir to the empire that caused all of Ettian's suffering he still does everything he can to protect him. I loved Ettian so much! I loved his constant struggle between his loyalty to Gal, the boy he loves and his old loyalty to the empire he grew up in. Gal was such an interesting character for me. We see early on at the academy Gal has always been a pacifist. When his parentage is revealed it's clear he has a much different plan for the empire than his mother, the empress. This pacifism is what makes it so easy for someone with Ettian's background to follow Gal. He believes in the future Gal is intent on creating. Without going too far into spoiler territory I did love some peeks we got into Gal's true character. Though he may have different ideas from his ruthless parents, growing up knowing you're the heir to a massive empire does create some character flaws. I loved seeing Gal's perfect veneer crack occasionally. Also the straight up dramatic mutual pining between Gal and Ettian had me screaming and on the edge of my seat throughout this book. Finally we meet Wen Iffan, an orphan living in the Corinthian Empire. The daughter of a a crime boss Wen has spent her childhood surviving on the streets and forced to work for those that killed her mother and took over her criminal empire. She's run into a bit of trouble when she meets up with Ettian and Gal. I loved her snark and quick mind. Whenever she was on the page it was clear that something exciting was going to happen. I also loved the bond that quickly grew between Wen and Ettian because of their shared experiences. This character bit is already too long but the side characters are just as fantastic.

The world building in this book was epic. There are three empires, Umber, Archon, and Corinth. Umber and Archon seemed fairly similar. Both ruled by a dynasty of Emperors and Empress'. Corinth however is ruled by an Emprex that is elected instead of ruling through a bloodright. There was this little detail I loved that each empire had a specific metal and gemstone that represented it. It's little things like that that really helped flesh out the world and make it easier for me to fall into.

I am completely in love with this book and have no idea how to wait for the sequel beyond the obvious of keep rereading Bonds of Brass until there's new content. Some of my main highlights from Emily Skruskie's impressive trope graphic include: forbidden romance, there's only one bed, mutual pining, fake dating, weaponized umbrellas, and the best non-human character imaginable--the minivan of starships. Seriously stop reading this review and go pick up a copy of this book, you won't regret it.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (6/?)

In which Asajj is subjected to yet another unpleasant conversation.

Zombie Savage AU | 2.1k | canon divergent after Son of Dathomir | also on AO3

Death Watch must be utterly indifferent by now to their leader’s antics, or resigned to them a least. Maul’s breakdown is effortlessly ignored. Everybody must have overheard the conversation. They must have witnessed their apparent commander choke a visitor and then huddle on the floor, mindless and gibbering and terrified of a Sith Lord who isn’t here, but it looks like the Mandos are adept at pretending they haven’t, and the helmets definitely help. There are no accident gawkers, or at least none to be noticed. Instead, quickly, the busy pace inside the cargo hold picks up again.

The Mandos return to their tasks, ignoring Asajj’s presence and occasionally veering off their straight paths to keep a wide circle around Maul clear and empty. At least most of them do: there’s a protective honor guard next to him, still.

The purple-armored soldier is one of them, of course. The other—as short as Maul, but easily twice as wide—wears beskar painted yellow and adorned with spikes.

“Update all rescue teams. Comm Gar. You heard Lord Maul: our brother is not dead. He is in the hands of the enemy. Command meeting, sixteen hours sharp,” the purple Mando shouts, and immediately, the hold empties.

Then, the helmet’s visor turns in Asajj’s direction, and back to Maul. Squatting down next to him, though far enough that his arms can’t reach—that won’t help at all when he loses it again, Asajj thinks—the purple Mando says something in a language Asajj doesn’t understand, and Maul replies in kind, incredibly slowly, stumbling over a syllable or two and with a pronunciation completely unlike the practiced tones of his counterpart, but obviously determined. Asajj’s name comes up, once or twice.

Maul never before seemed the type to openly, intentionally display his shortcomings, not to enemies and especially not to his allies. The breakdown was unavoidable, perhaps—Asajj would rage at the deaths of her family too, if she had a little less self-control—but he’s regained use of his faculties now. This is a deliberate choice.

Only one reason why he’d be speaking, or trying to speak, Mando’a now: this is something they don’t want me to know. It puts up Asajj’s hackles, a kind of vulnerability in ignorance that might well be another motivation, if, after meeting him today, she still was to credit him with the intelligence needed to play these kinds of mind-games. Maybe this is a shade of what he used to be like. It’s easy to forget, seeing him, but he was raised a Sith. He is like her; not like Savage Opress plucked from the fields and magicked, but trained, like Asajj herself and like her former Master Darth Tyranus. She should not keep underestimating this nightbrother.

Regardless: they’ve reached a truce. An alliance, if not in so many words. Maul hasn’t even questioned her properly yet, but at least he knows he knows nothing. He cannot get what he wants without her aid. Whatever these machinations… for the moment, she is as safe as anyone could be, in his company.

Maul heaves himself up onto his knees. His feet, just as unsteadily. He doesn’t favor her with another glance when he leaves, and then Asajj is alone with his guard.

“Follow me, Asajj Ventress,” the purple Mando says. “To your room.”

“You have me at a disadvantage. Your name?”

A beat. Then, the soldier removes her helmet and joggles her chin-length dark hair, not completely unlike a wet finkwolf. “Rook Kast. This is Jagrub.” Pointing over her shoulder with her thumb, Rook Kast, life-long fanatic criminal and the Face of the Terror of Mandalore according to at least five people Asajj has met, indicates the massive gamorrean sow behind her. Jagrub’s also taken off her spiked helmet.

“You brought your bodyguard?” Asajj smirks, which then occurs to her was a tad unwise, perhaps, even if it makes her feel better, but: truce. Maul needs her. A guard detail is as befitting the woman’s obvious status anyway, really. Terror of Mandalore indeed, and in the short time since her arrival, Asajj has seen Kast’s closeness to Maul. Second in command, maybe, or even more. Caretaker. The power behind the throne. It’s not like a feral nightbrother has much experience in leading an army.

Still. A bodyguard. It would be flattering, if it wasn’t so insulting. Another forceblind won’t make even the ghost of a difference to her chances of survival, should Asajj choose to leave.

Kast’s face is effortlessly still. “She’s not here to protect me.”

Whatever.

Politeness is a scarce resource on Mandalore, evidently: Kast and Jagrub take off without another word, straight through a crowd of Mandos that respectfully divides at their approach, expecting Asajj to follow them. It’s left to the guest to attempt small talk. “I wouldn’t have expected anyone to order you to show a visitor around, Rook Kast.” Forward, again, but it’s not like she even attempts to hide her authority, and Asajj is curious. “It’s usually less of a general’s duty. I’m sure you have a busy schedule.”

“I volunteered,” Kast says, and then she smiles at Asajj so widely the light glints off her teeth. It does not reach her eyes.

It shuts off conversation until they reach Asajj’s designated quarters, visually indistinguishable from any of the other rooms she’s glanced at through oddly luxurious stained-glass windows or open doors. A quartet of bunk-beds, and a table. Asajj inspects the door-handle—there is a code-lock, too, but neither of her companions offer to set it and Asajj doesn’t ask—and then she strides in. Kast and Jagrub follow. The door slides shut.

“What did you want to talk to me about in private?” Asajj asks eventually, after a few seconds, when she has tired of being stared at. No response. Apparently, Maul’s found the one cache of people in the galaxy who share his awful habits.

Time for a gambit. Testing the fault line. The limits of Maul’s authority. Surreptitiously, Asajj touches her ‘sabers. It’s not like there is any real risk here—Asajj might piss off Kast, but general or not, the woman’s still only a forceblind soldier. If Asajj is wrong about Kast’s purposes, then this conversation will definitely find its way to Maul’s ears, but even that is only a minor concern. Maul hates her, anyway. He’s tried to wring her neck for long enough to prove it. He won’t breach their truce, though, not if he wants to see his brother again. The brother who is in Sidious’ hands now, apparently. He’ll need all the help he can get, and he’ll prioritize Savage’s recovery. Here goes nothing.

“Something you don’t want Maul to hear, perhaps?”

“Of a sort.”

“It is fairly obvious that he’s not particularly stable—”

“I am curious,” Kast interrupts. “I am Mandalorian, Asajj Ventress. My old enemies, too, are Mandalorian, and they possess honor. I have never before met someone who so utterly devalues family.”

Asajj snarls. She doesn’t care what this this smug soldier thinks of her, this Death Watch terrorist fighting for the restoration of barbaric total and constant war—many of Asajj’s sources in the attempt to track Opress were recent refugees from Sundari’s old regime—and moreover: Kast allied herself with Maul. With the man who drew Mother Talzin into his conflict with Sidious. With the man that got her killed. The man who destroyed the entirety of her clan and the only people Asajj hadn’t yet lost. The man who took her Sisters.

And now she dares lecture Asajj about family?

“Fuck off. You know nothing about me. You know nothing of what I have lost.”

“Interesting.” Kast’s face blanks, and then, obviously deliberately, she grins. By the second, it’s more obvious why she didn’t hesitate for a second to take off her helmet: with her studied off-kilter body language, it’s like she’s wearing another mask below. “True, perhaps. I don’t particularly care either way.”

“Then what—”

“However—I do know of you, Asajj Ventress. As soon as I heard your name, I remembered you.” Kast shrugs, settling her shoulders, and then without warning she changes tack: “Has anybody ever… begged you to kill them?”

Asajj shifts, moving her back surreptitiously closer to the wall and her arms akimbo: her hands, once more, above her lightsabers. She won’t be caught unawares again. For all the tone of that question is closer to idle conversation than Kast’s previous terse statements, for all her face is still wearing a smile, for all the turn in conversation that’s brought them here is opaque, since anyone this readily turning a simple objection into a standoff should not survive to become a general… this is a death threat.

The bodyguard takes in Asajj’s readiness for battle, even if Kast doesn’t. Takes in their meagre chances of survival against a trained force user, too. She puts a placatory hand on her superior’s shoulder.

Kast doesn’t shrug it off. She leans into the touch eagerly, fingering Jagrub’s massive shoulder-spikes with a trembling hand and intense concentration, and then she adds, “It’s an interesting experience. Not particularly pleasant. I have killed scores of enemies, and yet… I would not even have made the Duchess or her pacifists beg, I think. Now that I know, anyway. Didn’t really know what I was getting into. I don’t know what I expected, when I decided to find out what kind of person my new Mand’alor was after we retook Sundari.”

“Maul wouldn’t beg for death.” He’s miserable, and Asajj has watched him howl vengeance at Kenobi deep in the throes of madness, but he wouldn’t ask to die. That’s not like him. She doesn’t know him that well—and does not particularly want to learn more—but this, she knows.

“Lord Maul wouldn’t,” Kast readily agrees. “But then he’s the last person I’d pick for plying with alcohol until he’s too drunk to stay tight-lipped, too. A lost cause from the start. No chance of getting anything out of the poor paranoid bastard. He doesn’t even drink. He says he likes water.”

The worms inside Asajj’s ribcage writhe again. She kind of knows where this is going.

“Fortunately, he had a brother. As you know. Has, and we’ll find him. Much more approachable, and so I invited him along to our victory party. Well, Gar and Kaat did. He was terrified of me. Very flattering, until I figured out why anyway. Nothing like the rest of you arrogant force-users, so I was already predisposed to liking him, and when he asked us for a favor, I foolishly said yes.”

So: Savage Opress wants to die. That’s not even news. He’s been shouting it in her mind for weeks now, and if the sleepwalking cuts on her arm are anything to go by, he’s got in a respectable try already.

His conversation with Kast must have been weeks before he was abducted by Sidious, though. It must be about more than the torture, then.

It…

“I’d have said yes anyway, even with hindsight. He was easy to pity. He wouldn’t stop crying after a few beers, when he told me—you already know what he told me, Asajj Ventress. You forced him, after all.”

“I—” Asajj starts, but whatever she might have replied is simply steamrollered. This is not a conversation, after all. This is a death threat.

“He gave me options. Weaknesses in his fighting style he’d noticed or learned from Maul. General weaknesses of force-users, too. He gave me a long list of body parts to blast and tried to give me his lightsaber, too, so I would have an easy time of killing him, if—when, he said, when he was used again to hurt his little brother.”

Jagrub runs a claw through Kast’s hair in a slow swirl, messily sticking it up, and she calms again.

“I know what you did, Nightsister. I promised Savage I would protect Maul, and I will. I gave my word. Mandalore gave hers, too, when she embraced her new-found sons, and we keep our promises. You said you’d let Feral live and you betrayed him, but when you break your next oath—” Kast cocks her fingers as a blaster and aims. Fires. She blows smoke off it— “when you touch him again or anyone at all, I swear on my home: one single twitch, and it will be my pleasure to deal the consequences.”

“We all look forward to the dissolution of this alliance,” Jagrub rumbles. “For now, you are useful. Do not attempt to escape.”

They leave the door open.

[the-desolated-quill]

A Town Called Mercy - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Toby Whithouse writing a Western episode? Now this should be exciting!

...

Pity it isn’t.

Okay, that’s not entirely fair. It’s not a bad premise and the first half of A Town Called Mercy is actually pretty good for the most part. A cyborg gunslinger is threatening the nearby town of Mercy, refusing to let anyone out unless they hand over an alien doctor called Kahler-Jex. It’s a great setup and there’s a lot to love. Mercy itself looks incredible. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for Westerns, and this captures the best of the genre. The mysterious stranger that walks into town, the dark antihero out for revenge, but has a kind heart underneath, the morbid undertaker, the noble sheriff trying to keep the peace, it’s all there. Not even Matt Smith’s childish goofiness could ruin it for me. I also love the Gunslinger. He’s a sympathetic character and the makeup design is brilliant. One of the best ‘monster’ designs I’ve ever seen in this show. Ben Browder was good as the sheriff Isaac and I did initially like the character of Jex, played by Adrian Scarborough (Look @furrychimp, it’s Mr. Jolly from Psychoville! XD).

Then comes the moral dilemma, which starts off so promisingly. Turns out Jex, the nice, cuddly alien doctor who gave Mercy electricity and heating and a cure for cholera, is actually a war criminal. The man responsible for performing brutal experiments on his own people in order to win a war, and the Gunslinger is in fact one of his victims out for revenge. Awkward.

There’s a lot of potential there, isn’t there? Much more interesting and complex than the Daleks wanting to take over the Earth for the ten billionth time. Unfortunately this is all undermined by Whithouse apparently not trusting the audience to understand this dilemma for themselves. A lot of this episode seems to consist of Jex blatantly spelling out for us in black and white either things we already know or things we could have worked out for ourselves.

“It would be so much simpler if I was just one thing, wouldn't it? The mad scientist who made that killing machine, or the physician who's dedicated his life to serving this town. The fact that I'm both bewilders you."

Yeah. Thanks for that. Perhaps you should go on Mastermind. Name: Kahler-Jex. Specialist Subject: The Fucking Obvious.

Sitting the audience down like we’re fucking idiots and explaining all the moral quandaries to us just lessens the impact of it. It’s annoying. For instance, it’s possible to draw comparisons between Jex’s actions and the Doctor’s in the Time War. It’s a nice subtle thing that makes the Doctor’s behaviour that much more impactful and the conflict much more interesting. Or at least it could have been if Jex didn’t draw attention to it with his clunky and cliched ‘looking at you is like looking into a mirror’ line. How about crediting the audience with some intelligence?

So the Doctor gets pissed off and chucks Jex over the line before pointing a gun at him. And like with Solomon’s death in Dinosaurs On A Spaceship, people for some reason have a problem with this. Okay, time out for a minute. Have any of you lot ever actually watched Doctor Who before? I don’t know where you’ve got this idea that the Doctor is a gun fearing pacifist from, but it’s grade A bollocks. The Doctor has done violent things before. The Doctor has even used a gun before. Okay, he only resorts to those actions if there’s no other choice and will always try to find a peaceful solution if he can, but he’s never been above getting his hands dirty. For some strange reason, over time people have taken this from a man who only resorts to violence when he has no other choice to a man who NEVER resorts to violence EVER.

The thing is it’s one thing for the fans to hold this blatantly incorrect opinion that the Doctor is a pacifist, but it’s another thing entirely when the writers start buying into that bullshit too. First there’s Amy who asks “since when did killing someone become an option?”, which is just a profoundly odd thing to ask. What, did the millions of Cybermen that the Doctor killed in A Good Man Goes To War in order to find her not count? What about all the Silence who died in Day Of The Moon? What about Solomon in the previous episode? That’s quite a selective memory you’ve got there Amy. And then later on during the mandatory lynch mob scene, we get the Doctor dropping the clunker that ‘violence doesn’t end violence’, which is just beyond moronic. Look, no sane minded person wants to resort to violence. Nobody wants to go to war or fight people deep down. Of course we should always try to find a peaceful solution and diplomacy is great when it works, but sometimes that’s just not an option. We sometimes have to resort to violence in order to defend ourselves or for the greater good. It’s not ideal, but that’s the reality of life. I’m not saying the Doctor needs to be a violent antihero or anything. What I am saying is that both the writers and the fans need to stop over simplifying the Doctor’s character and the conflicts he encounters to such an idiotic degree.

So back to what I was saying, the Doctor points a gun at Jex, which I have no problem with by the way and neither should you (besides the Doctor reels it back in when he says he genuinely doesn’t know if he could pull the trigger, so it’s still very much in character thank you very much), and Amy starts to scold him for his behaviour. On the surface this seems to be a powerful character moment for Amy, but if you look closely it actually doesn’t work at all. See the Doctor raises a very good point, saying he wants to honour the victims first and that he agonises over the people who have died because of his mercy. This is something the show rarely touches on. The Doctor often moralises over whether it’s right to kill villains like the Daleks or the Master and usually shows mercy, which is all very well, but he never takes into account the number of people who die as a result of his merciful actions. I think this is the first time in the show’s history that the Doctor has ever acknowledged this. That his mercy toward enemies like the Daleks have led to some truly horrific consequences. At a glance it looks like Amy’s talk about how they need to be better than Jex addresses this, but it actually doesn’t because that’s not an answer to the point the Doctor has raised. She basically just reiterates the Doctor’s usual position. That doing good now lets you off of any negative consequences later on. This isn’t an answer to the dilemma, but the problem is the Doctor treats it as though it is. What’s the point of raising big questions if you’re just going to gloss over them?

It’s at this point the entire episode starts to fall apart. The minute Jex is revealed to be a war criminal, he suddenly morphs into this pantomime villain constantly trying to goad the Doctor only to then revert back to his nice, cuddly self at the end when it’s time for him to make his honourable sacrifice. This isn’t a morally grey character. This is more like dissociative identity disorder. Even the Gunslinger’s character starts to become a shambles. The rules surrounding his morality don’t make the slightest bit of sense. He creates a line around the town and orders them to hand Jex over to him so no innocent lives will be lost, but there’s a moment where Jex is is standing right in front of the Gunslinger inside the line. Why doesn’t the Gunslinger just shoot him? The only thing stopping him is a line of his own making. Then later he makes a mockery of the whole ‘no innocent lives’ rule by marching right into town and threatening to kill everyone unless they hand Jex over, which begs the question why he didn’t just do that in the first place.

And what’s the Doctor’s plan? Get everyone to put on face paint and run around to distract the Gunslinger while Jex escapes. Fuck me, it’s just as well the Gunslinger did show mercy in the end with the townsfolk, otherwise the Doctor would have been responsible for more deaths thanks to his own mercy (oh the irony). Also, face paint? I thought the Gunslinger was tracking Jex via his clothes. Now it’s facial markings? In fact, doesn’t the Gunslinger already know what Jex looks like? Why not just search for him specifically? He had no problem picking the Doctor out using his advanced targeting, facial recognition software thing. Why not do the same with Jex? It’s all just daft.

I’m really annoyed by this. Everything started off so well. All the ingredients were there for an intelligent, morally complex episode as well as a great tribute to the Western genre, but it’s all ultimately ruined by some truly sloppy writing on Whithouse’s part. Damn it!

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - Last Puffs

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Pump Up Your Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

LAST PUFFS by Harley Mazuk, Mystery/Crime, 293 pp., $14.95 (Paperback) $4.99 (Kindle edition)

  Title: LAST PUFFS Author: Harley Mazuk Publisher: New Pulp Press Pages: 293 Genre: Mystery/Crime/Private Eye

Frank Swiver and his college pal, Max Rabinowitz, both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro, courageous Republican guerilla, in the Spanish civil war. But the local fascists murder her and her father.Eleven years later in San Francisco in 1949, Frank, traumatized by the violence in Spain, has become a pacifist and makes a marginal living as a private eye. Max who lost an eye in Spain but owes his life to Frank, has pledged Frank eternal loyalty. He’s a loyal communist party member and successful criminal attorney.

Frank takes on a case for Joan Spring, half-Chinese wife of a wealthy banker. Joan seduces Frank to ensure his loyalty. But Frank busts up a prostitution/white slavery ring at the Lotus House a brothel in Chinatown, where Joan was keeping refugees from Nanking prisoners.

Then Max sees a woman working in a Fresno cigar factory, who is a dead ringer for Amanda, and brings in Frank, who learns it is Amanda. She has tracked the fascists who killed her father and left her for dead from her village in Spain to California. Amanda wants Frank to help her take revenge. And by the way, she says the ten-year-old boy with her is Frank’s son.

Joan Spring turns out to be a Red Chinese secret agent, and she’s drawn a line through Max’s name with a pencil. Can Frank save Max again? Can he help Amanda avenge her father when he’s sworn off violence? Can he protect her from her target’s daughter, the sadistic Veronica Rios-Ortega? Join Frank Swiver in the swift-moving story, Last Puffs.

Praise:

.5 out of 5 stars Wonderful Read – Easy and Fun February 10, 2018 Format: Kindle Edition| Verified Purchase Frank Swiver is a detective. Murder investigations are his specialty. He likes wine, loose women and fast cars. Not necessarily in that order. Swiver inhabits an earlier world that is archaic and, without doubt, politically incorrect by today’s standards. Harley Mazuk recreates in Swiver a character from another era whose story is fun and entertaining. Mazuk has an impressive knowledge of wines and cars which permeate his narrative. As to his knowledge of women, I am not competent to judge. I do know that the geography and time period portrayed is well researched. There are many twists and turns to the plot as well as an injection of espionage that keeps the reader guessing. Fans of old fashion detective novels will enjoy this book. I know, I did. — Amazon Reviewer

Order Your Copy!

  Aragón, Spain, March 1938

There’d been a dusting of fresh snow in the high ground during the night, and the captain wanted our squad, which was nine men, to relieve an outpost on the crest of a hill, just up above the tree line. Max Rabinowitz took point, and I followed, climbing steadily. It was a cold, quiet morning, and we talked between ourselves about the ’38 baseball season, and whether we’d be back in the States to see any games.

“I would like to see Hank Greenberg and the Tigers play DiMaggio and the Yanks,” said Max. Max was dark-haired and rangy, and I always thought he looked a bit like Cary Grant, though now after a year in the field, there was nothing suave nor dapper in his appearance.

“How about Ted Williams?” I said. “We’ve already seen DiMaggio play in San Francisco with the Seals.”

“We saw Williams play with the Padres. Besides, he isn’t in the big leagues yet,” said Max.

“Yeah, but the Red Sox signed him.” I walked along just off Max’s shoulder. I was about the same height as Max, six feet, six-one, a little thinner, and looked at least as scruffy that morning. I wore a burgundy scarf around my head and ears, under a dirty and battered grey fedora. I scanned the virgin snow ahead of us with heavy-lidded eyes. The wind was faint, just enough to pick up a feathery wisp of snow in spots and spin it around. 

“He’s only about 19. I think they’ll keep him down on the farm for ’38.”

“I would like to see Bob Feller pitch to your boy Greenberg,” I told Max.

Smitty came up between us. “Feller throws 100 miles an hour, and he strikes out more than one per inning.”

“They say,” said Max, “he walks almost one an inning,”

“Keeps ‘em loose up there,” said Smitty, who was from Cleveland. “Hundred mile an hour heat and nobody knows where it’s going.”

As the three of us stepped out of the cover of the tree line, Smitty kind of hopped up on one leg and threw his arms out. I wondered what sort of a weird little dance that was; then I heard the automatic weapons fire coming down at us off the hill. It was a mechanical chatter, rather than gunpowder explosions, and the wind had blown the sound around the hills so that the bullets cut Smitty down before it had reached us. Branches near us started to snap off and tumble earthwards. Max hit the snow on his belly and rolled downhill to his right to get to cover behind a rock. I motioned for the others to get back into the trees, and dove into a low spot in the ground.

When we could look up, we saw that the fascists had overrun the outpost we’d been climbing up to the ridge to relieve, and the firing was coming from there. We returned fire. I heard cries in Spanish from behind me, a curse in a low voice, then a high-pitched prayer.

A potato-masher grenade came flipping end-over-end down the hill toward me. It seemed like slow motion. It hit a rock and bounced up. I could say a Hail Mary in about four seconds flat in those days, and I said one then. The grenade sailed over my head; I heard it explode, and felt a shower of dirt on my back. In front of me, Max was popping up and firing one round with his Springfield, then dropping behind the rock. I popped up and fired when he dropped down. I thought we were doing pretty well taking turns, but grenades kept arcing over our heads and bullets pinged into Max’s rock and raked the dirt beside me. Max tried lobbing one of his grenades towards the machine gun, but his throw was uphill, and he didn’t have an arm like DiMaggio.

After a few minutes of this, I tried to aim and squeeze the trigger instead of popping off quick shots. Then I didn’t hear anyone behind us firing anymore. I looked around and saw Rocco and Pete sprawled in the grass. I called to a couple of the others.

“Comrades…anyone…sound off.” Nada.

“Frank, this is bad,” Max yelled to me.

“I’d rather be facing Feller’s fastballs,” I told him. “Maybe it’s time for us to dust.” Then we heard an airplane motor. It grew louder, and the first plane, a Heinkel, zoomed over the ridge seconds later. Max had risen to his feet and was scrambling down the slope. He looked back over his shoulder at the plane just as a cannon shot from the aircraft hit the rock he’d been behind. The explosion flipped Max in mid-air and tossed him towards me. The ground under him ripped up and clods of dirt flew towards us.

The scene faded to black, but for how long, I don’t know. When I opened my eyes, I was facing the sky but I smelled the forest floor, earth and leaves. Truffles, perhaps? Max was on top of me, limp, and it was quiet. No planes, no shooting. “Max,” I said, “we gotta get up. Get off me.” I felt my voice in my head, but couldn’t hear it in my ears. Max didn’t get up. I rolled him over next to me, and saw that his hat was gone.  The top of his head and the right side of his face were a collage of blood and dirt. I shook him, and he gasped for breath, earth falling out of his nostrils. He was still alive.

“Frank, Frank. I can’t see. I can’t see.” It didn’t sound like Max, but there was no one else there.

“Easy, Max.” I tried to rinse some of the dirt, debris and blood off Max’s head with my canteen, then I ripped open a compress from my pack and put it over his forehead and eyes. I wrapped more dressing around his head to keep the bandage in place “Hold this on your face, man. Don’t try to open your eyes.” I was afraid his right eyeball was going to fall out. “Hold it tight.” Using the slope, I maneuvered him across my shoulder, head down in front of me, and struggled to my feet. I took off at a trot along the tree line.

Our lines were behind us to the east but it looked like the whole damned fascist army was charging down from the outpost, headed that way, so I ran south. It was downhill and my momentum carried us. The going was easy, but I felt panic building in my gut so I tried to slow down. I slid on the snow, fell on my butt, and slammed into a tree and dropped Max.

“Frank, where are you? Am I dyin’?”

“I got you, Max. You caught some shrapnel in the head from that plane. Say an act of contrition or something.”

“I’m a Jew, you idiot.”

“Say it anyway.” I lifted the gauze off his forehead and looked under it. His wound didn’t appear to be deep, but the right eye was very bad, all blood and pulp, and the bone around it may have been shattered. “Press on this, Max.” I pressed the bandage back against his face and put his hand on it. 

I hoisted him over my shoulder again, and stepped off, forcing myself to keep my pace steady and not too fast. We went on till the sun was high in the sky. I didn’t fall again, but my ankles were burning, and my toes were pinched in my boots from going downhill. I stopped twice, and opened our bota. I washed my mouth out with the wine, a rustic red from Calatayud, then I cradled Max’s head and opened his mouth. I squirted the wine in, squeezing the leather skin, the way I’d squeezed the trigger of my rifle. Max coughed. He seemed only half-conscious.

I carried Max down the hill and to the south, parallel to our lines, until we were deep in some woods. I was scared and it wasn’t easy, but I would have done anything for Max. We had been roommates and run around together at Berkeley. We fell out of touch when he went to law school, and I started drinking, trying to forget Cicilia. When Max re-connected with me in ’36, he tried to help me sober up and get back on my feet. I’d come around for a while, but always, I’d slip back into the abyss.

Max was a red, even back in our student days. I hadn’t been serious about my politics then. One evening to keep me from drowning my demons, Max took me to a meeting about the Spanish Civil War and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Before the night was over, we’d signed up to fight in Spain. Max didn’t have to. I think he did it to save me. Now I was going to save him.

When the sun dropped behind the hills, the woods quickly grew dark. There was a smell of pines, and the footing was better—no snow or ice on the ground, which was hard and covered with dry pine needles. Under the background din of war, the roar of artillery and airplanes, I heard water down to my left. I turned towards it and a few minutes later, came to a stream, probably flowing south to the Ebro. It wasn’t night yet, but it was so dark under the tall trees, I would have walked into the stream without seeing it if not for the sound of the water rushing over the rocks. I put Max down on his back, head and shoulders downhill toward the stream. The blood had dried; the gauze was stuck to his head. I scooped up water with my hat and poured it on his face. The icy cold shocked him into consciousness—and panic and pain.

“Morphine, Frank,” he moaned. “Gimme the morphine.” But I had used our morphine one night weeks ago on guard duty on a cold hillside. We did have a flask of Cardenal Mendoza Spanish Brandy, and I gave him some, then I drank. I rinsed his wound good and put a new bandage on it using Max’s kit this time. My legs felt weak and started to shake with cold or exhaustion. I don’t know if I could have stood up then if the Generalissimo had come down the hill waving his pistoles. We were down low, and there were some bare shrubs and young trees sheltering us on the uphill slope. I fought my exhaustion and tried to keep watch as long as I could. I had another swallow of brandy and pulled close to Max. My eyes closed, and I fell asleep.

Interview with the Author

What initially got you interested in writing?

One of the earliest tugs in the direction of writing that I can remember was from Mad Magazine. I liked their parodies and thought perhaps I could write good humor. I put together my own Mad-like newsletters for my grade school friends. Some years later, as an adult, I saw Walter Mosley at a book signing. There was a line out the door and around the front of the store, and a most of the folks in that line were young women. Mosley didn’t look like he was working too hard, and there were all these cute young gals lining up to see him. If that’s what writing was, that appealed to me.

What genres do you write in?

I have written primarily detective fiction—private eye sub-genre. Both my novels have been noir. Last Puffs is pulp fiction Sometimes I’m hard-boiled but mostly, I’m medium-boiled.

What drew you to writing these specific genres?

Reading. I loved Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain. I wanted to write stories that they might feel were familiar in some way.

How did you break into the field?

I had been working for some time on my first novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, and I needed a change, something fresh. Around that same time, I was going on a beach vacation with my family, and I thought I’d try to do a short story about Frank Swiver, the same p.i. who stars in my novel. It was my first serious short story attempt, “The Tall Blonde with the Hot Boiler,” and I sold it to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where it appeared in the “Black Mask” section (just where I wanted to see it). I was thrilled, and it was very encouraging for a new writer. I’m sure the experience helped me finish the novels and see them through publishing.

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

Well, I intend them to be entertaining, fun reads, so I hope readers derive some pleasure from my stories. I introduce as themes a number of ideas that I think are relevant to life today and look at them through the lens of 1948-’49. Violence, non-violence; violence against women; fascism, socialism; the voice of the working class, America as a nation of immigrants.

What do you find most rewarding about writing?

Hearing from people who like my stories. Especially if they go on to specify some detail they particularly enjoyed, or some detail I got right for them. I do put things in my books and stories that I think might be meaningful only to me, and sometimes I learn that some of them resonate with others, too.

What do you find most challenging about writing?

Finding a good market for your work. Ellery Queen declined one of my stories last week, and that can be tough to cope with sometimes. I’m a big boy and I can take rejection, but it’s challenging as to, what do I do next? There are not too many outlets for private eye stories. Do I send it somewhere else? Do I change it? Or do I put it aside and start something new?

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

Write what you like, as opposed to trying to write what you think the market wants. As I just said above, finding a home for your work can be the most challenging thing about writing, but it’s good to believe in what you wrote.

What type of books do you enjoy reading?

I like early-to-mid-20th-century fiction. Not just Hammett, Chandler, and Cain, but also people like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Ian Fleming, Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, Somerset Maugham, John O’Hara, Eric Ambler. Among contemporary authors, I enjoy Michael Connelly. I just read Walter Mosley’s Rose Gold, and I thought it was his best since Devil in a Blue Dress, so he’s still got it.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

Oh, sure—I could swap travel stories with some people, wine stories with others. I think what happens when you’re a writer is that many of the most interesting things about you find their way into your work—thinly disguised.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Leave a review if you read something of mine that you like. Comment on a blog post and I’ll get back to you. Or send me an e-mail if you have a question. Harley.c.mazuk@gmail.com. I love to discuss my work. And you can always find out about me at my website, http://www.harleymazuk.com/.

  Harley Mazuk was born in Cleveland, the last year that the Indians won the World Series. He majored in English literature at Hiram College in Ohio, and Elphinstone College, Bombay, India. Harley worked as a record salesman (vinyl) and later served the U.S. Government in Information Technology and in communications, where he honed his writing style as an editor and content provider for official web sites.Retired now, he likes to write pulp fiction, mostly private eye stories, several of which have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. His first full length novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, was released in 2017, and his newest, Last Puffs, just came out in January 2018.

Harley’s other passions are his wife Anastasia, their two children, reading, running, Italian cars, California wine and peace.

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      BLOG TOUR – Last Puffs was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir