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June: Jimmy Chang’s
“So, listen, it’s like this. When I die… No… It has nothing to do with when I die. Okay, when the people in my life who have screwed me over die? They will have to pay for what they did to me,” Bobby Weston said.
“Oh. Oh, okay. I got it. The eventual retribution deal. In other words, okay, screw me over right now, but when I die you are so done,” John said.
“Okay. Yes, but not totally. I won’t get them back, God will do it for me.”
Johnny chuckled. “So God, the God, will personally pay these low rent bastards back for you… Sweet. Very sweet.”
Bobby nodded. “And it’s all biblical too. I mean completely. God says he’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it. I got you.”
“I would like to hear God say I got you somewhere, because to be honest I have never heard him say it here. It seems kind of like a scam though that you got to wait until you’re dead to hear it. I mean what the hell is that? Who can say if that’s the deal, whether it’s real or not? I mean that is kind of a perfect con job. That’s like… That’s like those bank account scams. You know, the guy approaches you and says: “Hey! I got a million dollars in this account, but those bastards won’t let me have it. Talking about some sort of transfer fee. That’s messed up too because I don’t have no transfer fee. I mean, that’s messed up isn’t it? I can’t get the money… My own goddamned money, it’s my money, without paying this transfer fee.”
“Jesus Christ, you make me wanna give you the money, Johnny.”
“Exactly, and that is the scam. You give me my money for the transfer fee. We set it all up legal too, and bam. I got you. I’m gone. Your money’s gone. It’s a wrap, and you never see that money back or whatever I promised extra to you to get you to do it. So… So this thing is the same. You’re dead, how do you know?”
The crowd in the bar was quiet. It was early yet, the noisy younger crowd wasn’t in yet.
Jimmy Chang’s was a neighborhood bar. You wouldn’t think so in East Glennville which seemed predominantly white, but the Asians had been here far longer than some of the prominent white families. Jimmy Chang’s grandfather had come for the railroad work out west back in the 1800’s. When the work died out he had brought his family north and settled in Glennville. There were three branches of the family now: Jimmy, who ran the bar the old man had built first and saw through the dry years of prohibition. His sister Alice who ran Chang’s which was about the closest thing that Glennville had to a Coat and Tie restaurant. And Jimmy’s uncle Billy who owned a truck stop just outside of the city. The truck stop was known across the U.S. by truckers who had spread the word. Bobby had eaten there more than once. It was better food than any of the other nearby diners, and more of it too.
Bobby smiled, ignoring the pain in his side. It had been there a few days now. Maybe a little too much jogging, that stitch in your side that didn’t want to go away. Maybe he had pulled or sprained something: Who could tell. He’d had it before, or something like it, and it had passed. This would too. “Listen, Johnny… It won’t be like that for me because I’ll be right there… I’ll know… I’ll see it.”
“No… No… I mean, like… You are alive now… I’m alive now. Two seconds from now I drop dead, how do you know what I see or don’t see? How can you know even? I mean you have to die to collect, that’s pretty suspect to me, man. No die. No know,” Johnny shrugged his shoulders.
Bobby nodded. “I know. I see. But I…”
“… Been dead before… I know…” He shook his head. “It’s about the only thing that makes me believe.”
“Yep. I mean, I believe you. I don’t think you made it up. I’ve known you all of your life. I believe it.”
“Me too,” Bobby agreed. They both laughed.
Johnny hadn’t moved to Glennville and become friends with Bobby until his early teens, but he had heard the story. Back in the fourth grade Bobby had gone fishing alone. He had crossed the Black while the dam wasn’t running, and crossed over to Saints Island to fish. He had been to that island before as a younger kid with his dad. It was an easy cross, but Bobby hadn’t known anything about the dam and the levels of water in the Black. How they could change in a matter of a minute or two. When he had started back across the top of the dam to cross the Black to get back to the main road he had slipped and gone under. A fisherman had just happened to see his head as he went under. He had managed to snag Bobby and get him to shore, but he had stopped breathing, his lungs full of water.
Bobby had been in the hospital for a month in a coma. Then one day he had awakened. The same old Bobby: Like nothing had ever happened. Except he swore that he had not been dead that whole time, or gone away from his body even when he had been dead on the river bank. He claimed to remember every part of it; all of it, right down to the fisherman’s thoughts as he had hauled Bobby out. “This kids a goner,” he had thought. “Ain’t no hope for him at all.”
Still he had gone to work, picking up his arms, flushing out his lungs, pounding his back, compressing his chest to empty the lungs. If you lived near the river things happened more often than people thought that they did. A truck had stopped on the road above the river and a power company employee had scrambled down the bank to the river. He had taken over and begun CPR; the training was required. He had never used it until then.
He had even turned Bobby upside down and wailed his back hard enough to leave bruises. He had been as surprised as anyone else had been later when Bobby had coughed, sputtered, and then began to breathe once more. Between the two of them they had laid him out on the seat of the power company truck and the man had driven him the three miles to the Glennville Community hospital.
Johnny had never forgotten Bobby relating that experience to him. He had tried to tell his parents but they had dismissed it. Johnny hadn’t. Over the years the story had never changed and Johnny had come to believe it.
He sighed and looked around the bar. The day was growing old, already a few of the younger crowd had wandered in. Looking to nail down a stool or a booth for the evening.
“Coming in earlier and earlier every day, huh?” Bobby said.
“Exactly what I was thinking… Pretty soon it won’t be our place anymore at all.” Johnny sighed again.
“Hey, let’s go to Billy’s. They got those tables right outside. The night is nice. Shit, summer will be gone before we know it. I’ll buy steaks, what do you say?” Bobby asked.
“I say that sounds goddamn good to me, that’s what I say,” Johnny agreed. He threw a ten on the bar and then followed Bobby out of the bar.
July: Jimmy Chang’s
The bar was beginning to fill up. A young guy with a shaved head and a couple pounds of metal in his face slid in next to Bobby and eyeballed him hard. Bobby turned away. He looked over at Johnny and Johnny raised his eyebrows in a What the hell gesture.
Bobby had swung by Johnny’s work place at the Ford dealership and picked him up after work. Johnny’s car was in the shop. He could have gotten a rental right through the dealership, cheaply too, but that went against Johnny’s principle of paying for something he could get for free. A ride from Bobby was free. Always had been since they had been in high school driving clunkers that would have been better off in the junkyard. Johnny had always joked that somehow Bobby always seemed to get the better junker. It broke down less, ran better, was more reliable. He didn’t know how that could be, but it had always worked out that way.
“Time moves on. It all becomes relative,” Bobby said picking up a conversation on politics that Bobby himself had started. The kid’s cologne drifted across to him. Something from back in high school. Patchouli maybe, heavy and cloying. He picked up his beer and took a deep drink. His usual smile was not in evidence.
“Yeah…” Johnny cleared his throat and took a sip of his own drink. “I just hate those bastards. Relative or not, and I ain’t saying it isn’t relative to the way we vote, live, whatever, but the politicians seem to stay the same. No good, broke down lying bastards that would gladly swipe a lollipop from a little kid and then sell it back to them in the guise of some public work project. And!” He smiled widely. “Make the kid think he had gotten something in the deal.”
That bought a ghost of a smile to Bobby’s lips. “Hey, let’s take this out back,” Bobby suddenly suggested.
“Uh… Sure,“ Johnny agreed. “You gonna pound my ass or what? Sorry I called the politicians all broke down bastards, I know Ruth’s brother Don is one.” Ruth was Bobby’s wife of twenty five years.
Bobby laughed. “No ass pounding, just need a little fresh air.” He shot a hard look at the young guy who looked away and nursed his flavored vodka. “Besides, Donnie is the worst of the worst.” He laughed and Johnny joined in. He caught Jimmy’s eye and motioned toward the back door; Jimmy nodded. He didn’t like his bottles walking out. He owed the deposit on them. And he was one tight bastard, but he knew that Bobby would be bringing his bottle back.
They stepped out into the bright moonlight of early evening. The air was cooler. For the last several days it had been super hot. Global warming they said, global holy shit it’s hot, he thought.
“So what’s up with you? … You putting your garage addition on this year,” Johnny asked, fishing for the subject that had bought them outside.
“Oh yeah. Yeah it’s going up. Got the loan. It’s in the bank account. Hired Jeremy Jefferson. Starts in two weeks.”
“Shit. I’m hanging out over there every night after it’s done.”
“Me too,” Bobby agreed. They both laughed again. Bobby sighed heavily. “Cancer, man, the big C.” He sipped at his beer. “All through me… Nothing to do for it.”
Johnny was struck silent. “I don’t even know what to say,” he said at last.
“Well there’s nothing to say,” Bobby agreed.
“But you’re still gonna build that addition?”
“Yeah… Hell yeah… I’ve waited for that forever. Besides. I’ve known men that had a few months left to live that far outlived that.”
“That what they said? A few months.”
“At the outside,” Bobby said quietly.”
The silence spun out. A small group of bats left the tall chimney which was all that remained of an old plant across the tracks and flew across the moon.
“Damn Indiana Brown Bats,” Johnny said.
“Yep. Had to tear the factory down, but they couldn’t touch the stack. Had to fix it up instead… Preserve it… Christ they’ll be sticking money into that stack for the next several centuries to keep it up. Can’t let it fall it’s their natural home now.”
“Yeah… I was shocked when the EPA decided to do that.” The bats flew off and the silence returned.
“So… What you gonna do… I mean really… What are you going to do? What can I do?” Johnny turned to Bobby.
“Really nothing… Come on over and hang out. Watch the garage go up. I’m positive I’ll beat this shit. I don’t really even feel bad… Sick.”
“Sounds like you don’t believe it,” Johnny said.
“You know what? That’s right. This ain’t like being dead… I don’t feel it. I feel like it isn’t real. Just a phase in my life someone got wrong is all…” He made eye contact and winked. “Did you know that once Donnie tried to talk me into some land deal? Swamp land!”
“Yeah… I remember you telling me. Real swamp land too,” Johnny laughed.
“Bastard sold it all and him and his partners made a few million on the down low. Who would think you could sell swampland? Not me.”
Their laughter rose up into the moonlit summer sky. Bobby tipped his beer bottle, drained it, looked at Johnny, “Another?”
“Yeah… One more,” Johnny agreed and laughed.
October: Bobby’s House
Johnny Miller stood at the edge of the sidewalk and stared at the half finished garage. His German Shepherd Tank beside him. Ruth, Bobby’s wife, had stopped the construction as soon as he had died. The garage had sat there unfinished all through the balance of the summer and into early fall. He had heard the new owners intended to finish it before winter. He thought about that. Bobby Johnson was barely cold in his grave and some other guy was going to finish his garage and sit down and have himself a beer. A beer Johnny and Bobby had planned to have once it was done and never had. Never had, had the time for. Two weeks after their night at Jimmy Chang’s when Bobby had told him about his cancer; he had dropped dead of a massive heart attack. Forty three. Healthy. Worked out twice a week. Jogged. Bang: Out of the blue. And Ruth had already sold the house and been gone for three weeks. Gone for three weeks. Back to her people in Minnesota. Jesus please us.
Tank’s nails clicked on the pavement and Johnny looked back at the sidewalk from the garage. The German Shepherd wagged his bushy tail and cocked his head. Johnny smiled. So the big C hadn’t taken him. How was that for ironic? He wondered briefly about the life after death conversation they had, had. Well, he decided now, if there was some kind of life after death Bobby was right there. He lifted his head and looked around. Maybe even watching him right now. He wondered about that for a few moments and then the big dog whined, breaking into his thoughts.
“Yeah… Let’s go, Tank. Let’s finish this walk, buddy.”
Tank needed no further urging, eagerly examining both sides of the walk as he began padding down the sidewalk once more, tugging lightly at his leash. Tank crossed the short expanse of leaf strewn berm, stopped suddenly causing Johnny to plow into him, and then took off into the street dragging Johnny with him. The end of the nylon leash burned his palm as it Tank yanked it from him and broke into a gallop. Johnny lunged off the berm and into the roadway trying to catch it, but he was too late. Tank was already across the street as he straightened, chasing after whatever had caught his attention.
He began to straighten from the crouch he had found himself in when the entire world suddenly burst into bright light.
Sisters of Mercy Hospital: Room 357
Becky Miller smoothed the sheets that covered Johnny, careful not to disturb all the wires and tubes that were a part of who Johnny was now. Her brother spoke from the doorway behind her and she turned and gave him a strained smile.
“Sorry,” Dell Anders said. “I thought I would offer to sit for a while… Let you get a break… Some sleep.” He moved from the doorway and hugged her to his chest. He felt her chest hitch, once, twice and then she began to sob. He eased her over to the chairs and sat her down, pulled another close and held her as she cried…
…Johnny was walking the tracks that split the neighborhood behind Fig Street: It was night… Silent and he was not alone, a young boy walked beside him. Talking quietly as Johnny listened: leading him forward; guiding him through the darkness…
“…It’s me, Bobby,” the dream boy told Johnny Miller.
Johnny stared at the kid as they walked the tracks. He had noticed something was familiar but he hadn’t been able to place what that was. He looked down at himself. He was the same. An old man following along as a little kid walked the tracks, balancing on the rails. He stopped, lost for a second.
“You okay?” Bobby asked as he stopped and turned back to face him.
“Yeah… I think, but why are you in my dream? I didn’t know you then… This place… Did I?” Johnny asked.
“Yes and no. We share certain things.” He walked back and looked up at Johnny; his face serious.
“Will you come with me?” Bobby asked urgently.
This is the strangest dream I’ve ever had, Johnny thought. He stared around at the dark trees; the cold moonlight glinting off the steel rails. The young boy faced Johnny where he stood in the road.
“It’s no dream, Johnny, no dream at all, honestly. You can’t think of it as a dream either. If you do it’ll kill you, man. For real, I swear… Will you come?” Bobby asked again. His bright blue eyes seemed to glow as they locked on Johnny’s own.
“Where?” Johnny asked. The sound of his own voice startled him. It had changed. Become a child’s voice. A voice locked on the edge of change. A voice in between man and boy. He glanced down at his body and was not surprised to see that it had also changed. What he saw was a child’s body. And not just any child, but the same child he himself had been so many years before. The same wash faded jeans, with the same patched knees. He clearly remembered those jeans. Clearly remembered his mother carefully mending the knees. The same scuffed high top sneakers, with the same knotted laces. He raised his eyes and stared back at the small boy.
Bobby moved closer, seeming to float above the surface of the road. “Now. We need to go now. There isn’t much time,” Bobby told him.
The darkness split apart, and gray rock walls sprung up where the trees had been. In the distance Johnny could hear the laughter of children echoing against the cold stone walls. The laughter turned to screams. Shrill, panicked and growing closer, the low bass growl of a wolf mixed in with the screaming. Johnny started to move towards the sound.
“No! Bobby told him. “You’ll die. Not yet. We have to be first, see? We ain’t yet. It’s too early, man. Too early. you’ll die if you try to stop it now.”
“But?” Johnny asked aloud in his child’s voice.
“Home, man,” Bobby told him. “Home first, then here, after.”
The rock walls suddenly faded, replaced by a night darkened and quiet street. Houses lined one side of the street, a huge gravel lot filled the other side. Beyond the edge of the gravel lot long rows of leaning, crumbled buildings stood outlined in pale moonlight. The remnants of a chain-link fence ran partway down the street, still enclosing the buildings in places, overgrown and fallen in others. Johnny turned toward the houses and began to walk
“Here. Right here,” Bobby told him as they walked towards one particular house.
Johnny skirted the dirt front yard of the run-down old house behind Bobby. Peeling gray paint clung to the weathered clapboard, glass from the shattered windows lay glittering in the darkness. The few that remained were filthy yellowed panes set in crumbling frames, impossible to see through. Flecks of gray littered the hard-packed dirt yard. He rounded the side of the house and stopped. A long rope dangled from a broken second floor window. “Here?” Johnny asked.
“Here,” Bobby agreed. He began to climb the rope to the window that stood open above it. He paused part way up and stared back at Johnny where he stood watching. “Climb it, man. That’s my room up there.”
The rope was not nearly as hard to climb as Johnny had thought it would be. He made his way quickly to the top, and eased over the sill into the small room. The room was dark and quiet. He made his way to a narrow cot in one corner and sat down next to Bobby. “And?” he whispered.
“Morning. We gotta wait for morning. Then we can start. Then we can do something, see?”
“No,” Johnny whispered, “I don’t see… Start what? Do What?”
“We all gotta meet,” Bobby told him. “It’s hard to explain. You see, I was here. I lived here, and there are two other kids here. They live close by. We gotta do something important, see? And we need you. We need your help, man, get it?
“No,” Johnny replied honestly, “I don’t.”
“You will. Go to sleep, man. In the morning we’ll start. In the morning. It’ll be different this time. It will.”
Johnny laid down on the narrow cot and closed his eyes.
Sleeping in a dream, he thought. A dream about sleeping. Weird.
“Not a dream,” Bobby reminded him as he spiraled away into darkness. “Not a dream.” …
FIG STREET: He was even with the thing, and it was not a dog, or even a tame bear, unless tame bears looked exactly like a persons body. Because that is what it was, a body, the hair was what he had mistook for fur, but it was not fur. It was blood matted hair. Long hair… A woman? Clumps of it. A man? You couldn’t tell these days, the boys looked like the girls most of the time. He unconsciously shifted the car in park, left it running in the middle of the road, and then stumbled from the car and up the cracked asphalt drive to look.
Fig Street (Glennville Book 1) 5.0 out of 5 stars. Glennville has its share of run-aways, bar fights but in the summer of 1969 a young woman is found dead in a weed choked field, and Sheriff Kyle’s Steven’s world changes forever… #Crime #Mystery
#Apocalypse: The sun is down here. That time of evening when the sun is down and the moon has yet to rise: I heard some noise out near where I… Never mind what I did there, I’ll get to that soon enough, but I know damn well it’s one of them…
Have you wanted to be a published author, but you just can’t seem to get the words flowing?
You could take classes, learn what some writers might be convinced is the proper way to get your brain working and the writing flowing. It may work, but the chances are not absolute that it will. And, it takes a lot of time.
Maybe you have the ability to work on a writing project, add your own ideas to it and make it yours. Why not take that a step further, purchase a written manuscript, make those changes and call it your own. It isn’t cheating, not really, many authors, maybe some you read, and some very successful ones use this method to develop their brand name. You have, more than likely read some of these works without even knowing it.
What am I offering: I am offering either live or ready made manuscripts, blog posts, short stories that you can use as your own. I sell only my own work.
Live writing, what does it mean?
By live writing I mean projects you pay me to write from scratch. A blog post, a short story, an instructional manual or a full blown novel. This way you get exactly what you want. I write the piece you need, you approve it, pay off the balance (There is a fee for the hours I put into producing it for you, and a percentage of that is up front, non refundable, unless I fail to produce the product you ask for. That percentage also is deducted from the final fee.)
What kind of a finished manuscript are you getting: You are getting a completely written story, start to finish. You are not getting an edited manuscript when I am live writing. Yes, I will do a light edit to remove spelling and grammar issues of a very low priority. So there will still be light errors in the manuscript. I leave it that way because getting into editing is very time consuming. First: Editing substantially changes the style and even the story line. If that is going to happen it should be you doing that editing so that your imprint/style is on the written material, not my own style superimposed on the manuscript. If you write, you understand that. Doing those edits yourself makes the manuscript your own, imposes your style upon it.
Ready-made Manuscripts: These are anything from Blog-Posts to Short Stories to written manuscripts, to stock series, written, published, but UN-advertised. I publish my work because we are in an age where it can easily be stolen. It’s that simple. Anything I offer with an actual name (Book name or series name) has been published at some time to retain my copyright. Some has been published online, some in traditional manner yet unpublished as far as advertising it or circulating it. And some handwritten within a dateline. In any case, I can absolutely prove ownership of anything you purchase from me.
Prices: Time really is money, but I am semi retired and so my time is not as expensive as you might think. I can give you 5 days a week, 8 to 12 hours of writing a day. So, between 40 – 60 hours at $18.00 per hour. I’ll give you a total for what you want, if it is stock, as I know already what I have in it, or I can bill you for hours, after a deposit has been made.
Blogs: I have written hundreds of blog posts. Some I have used, others I have sold and adjusted to the buyers needs. I also have many mainstream/published and selling books that I have and can split into blog posts. Typically I like to remain between 1200 to 4000 words on books split into blog posts. It leaves you many, many posts from one book. Available: Space Scifi, Horror, apocalyptic, Zombies, How to write, How to build a guitar, self help, addiction, prison life, fiction articles and non fiction, fantasy, more.
Short Stories: I have a few dozen short stories I can offer you. Western, Space Scifi, Horror, Fantasy ghost, many, many more, ask or give me an idea of what you need.
Manuscripts: Crime, Zombie, Survival after a catastrophe, Guitar builds, Addiction (Based on true life; the names will be altered.), Ask for others. Approximately 60 manuscripts ready.
Series: I have written and published several series under pen names. I have also protected myself with these series by originally publishing them as I wrote them in my own name, and then simply UN-publishing that result.
America the Dead:
So, there are ten series books, and then five collections, so 15 manuscripts total. There are covers pre-made and two pen names involved. Although I did not intend to actually sell copies, I have. The name, the story line does that without trying hard. The Pen names Are W. G. Sweet and Dell Sweet. You can keep them or change to your own.
I also own the domain name www.americathedead.com (There is no SSL certificate as the domain is unused.), and it can come with the purchase if you want it, or you can purchase the series without the domain name.
Three books published, and ready. There are other books in this series, all UN-published that will also be included.
That makes 8 series books total, 5 collections plus a box set 14 manuscripts total, and a few collections of scenes that were edited out, or pieces I worked on but did not finish.
There is also written material, enough to turn into several more digital books. It is hand written, and can be included or not. I also do own the domain www.theearthssurvivors.com you can have that included with your purchase, or not. 1 Pen name that can be purchased with it, or left out.
As well there is a podcast based on the series that is in its second season (52 podcasts published as of this writing, and raw material to publish for several more seasons.) The Nation Chronicles. Check it out at: https://anchor.fm/wendell-sweet and a domain www.thenationchronicles.com There are also three Nation Chronicles books written.
The Pen Name Wendell Sweet is available, and the domain name www.wendellsweet.com is available. Unfortunately this material can not be split up as it is based on the same story line. So a sale would include all the Earth’s Survivors series, the Special editions, The Life Stories additions, The Nation Chronicles, Graphics, Covers, The Nation Chronicles Podcast and the three domains.
The Zombie Plagues:
7 Manuscripts in DOC or ODT. PDF, ePub, Mobi; all graphics, book covers.
I own the domain www.thezombieplagues.com which can be purchased with the series or not. The pen name is associated with another couple of series. If it is purchased with another series will no longer be available; and of course you can delete the covers, or pen name, and use your own material.
This series has manuscripts, images (Lo quality, and some hi quality) it was published to retain ownership/copyright, and unfortunately did sell some copies without advertising. This resulted in bad reviews because the editing was not done and the PDF format was not set well.
There is a backup directory with some hi quality original images and some projects that were not turned into books that could be. There are 11 manuscripts. None have been edited. All have covers. The Pen name is the Geo Dell Pen name that could be retained. I own the domain name www.geodell.com (Comes up with a security risk as there is no SSL certificate) which can be purchased with it.
I have various names/covers formatted. There are two books, many cover designs. The Dell Sweet pen name was used for this series. I do own the dell sweet domain, www.dellsweet.com you can purchase with it or not. I have used that Pen Name for other series, so first come first served, I will simply reformat the remaining series in another pen name.
2 books and a 3rd book written and not edited. Covers, graphics, manuscripts for all three books, PDF and ePub, Mobi if you need it. The James Whyte pen name is available. No domain.
There are three short novels; Short Stories, Dello Green and Sanger Road. The manuscripts have been lightly edited. The are also ePub, Mobie, ODT and DOC versions. The covers, graphics and manuscripts are included. The Pen name is W W Watson and is included. There are no associated domains.
There are seven manuscripts written, short to long. All are unedited, story-lines are complete. The individual books are loosely connected and feature the fictitious town of Glennville. They range from horror, fantasy, to apocalyptic fiction, two short manuscripts are young teen based. The Dell Sweet pen name is used, and the www.DellSweet.com domain as well as the www.theGlennvillebooks.com .
Dreamers has been published in different formats, as two novels, or as a single novel under different titles. All manuscripts, ePub, PDF, MOBI, ODT, DOC and all covers, names are included. No domain included, but the Pen Name W. G. Sweet can be included, although it is also attached to other series and may not be available for purchase if it was purchased by another buyer: If it is sold I will provide covers with a different pen name.
And there is more:
My current directory with dozens and dozens of projects, some finished, some not, and series, etc.
Blogs, very many blogs. Some edited, some not.
Videos for nearly every book or series, including YouTube published material for series: Guitar builds, short stories, more.
If you need phone or messenger conversations, I will comply with interested purchasers. Whatever you buy will be zipped up on my hard drive and sent to your eMail you provide to me. I won’t do Drop Box, I have been used with that process more than once. After payment I will zip the folder or folders, destroy the remains on my drive and UN-publish any of the individual books and or series you buy. In the case of live writing I will require a 10% deposit of an agreed upon price. If you fail to pay the balance the work I created becomes solely mine. Deposits are not refundable. Multiple purchases are welcomed, individual series books can not be broken down and offered separately.