“Sergeant Zero is a genre-busting hybrid that rewires classic WWII comic books with a very contemporary neo-noir sensibility. Whip-sharp dialogue, a vivid sense of story and relentless pace make for one hell of a ride.”

— Roger Smith, Author of
MIXED BLOOD, WAKE UP DEAD, and DUST DEVILS 

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If you’re not reading his books you should be.
Roger makes our American characters look like they’re living the good life.

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My original tweet:

Hot ceiling lamps mark Gabriel’s source: MORGUE. Filled with smoke and bourbon, under a rain-soaked fedora, the old-world reporter walks in.

It’s also available in Anthology  - Guns, Gams, Drinks and Diapers. My free ePub of short stories that are featured here on Pulp Tone.

Here’s an excerpt from the interview:

Byte-sized tales: A story all of 140 characters
The art of story telling is being continuously reinvented. Tales on Tweet offers yet another platform for unbridled creativity and expression

“It depends on how it’s handled and what the project is. Tales on Tweet not only tweets solid stories but it’s also a promotional tool for other authors that people would have never known of otherwise. Somebody following me may not follow Roger and vice versa but if we, or Tales on Tweet, retweets something then the number of eyes on our work increases exponentially,” says Anthony Schiavino, an Italian graphic novelist.

Read the full interview on Tehelka.

But it wasn’t able to be edited in time.

So that part about dusting myself off. Well, I had this idea of taking all of the stories I’ve run on this site up until now and putting them together in an ePub.

My Halloween treat to you is Anthology – Guns, Gams, Drinks and Diapers and it does include that fantasy tale titled Of Moon and Stars or Other Matters of the Night.

You can download the ePub file on Google Docs.
UPDATED: Download the PDF file on Google Docs.

And please. If you see any typos, or bad coding because this is my first foray into ePub…blame nobody else but me. It’s a work in progress and all I can say it looks very nice on an iPad. I plan on adding to it at some point but I’m not getting ahead of myself.

And have a very Happy Halloween.

I’m also trying out a new color treatment here for the book going forward. I’m sure the blood will still be red. True story, way back when years ago, this was the original art style I thought of for the book and some of the early color treatments. It’s come full circle and we can’t wait to show you much more.

Let us know what you think in the comments below or find us both on Twitter and Google+.

Illustrated by Marco Roblin

Illustrated by Marco Roblin. Color by Anthony Schiavino.

Just wanted to post something fun.
I listen to a lot of old swing music but that’s another post entirely.

If you’re just joining me from The Write Cafe, welcome. Leave a comment or follow me on the various social networks linked in the sidebar.

You can read some of my writing, which includes various pieces of flash fiction and free comic books.

Marry "Cherry Bomb" Redding

CHERRY BOMB

By Anthony Schiavino

The lead pipe fell to the concrete floor, covered in blood mixed with oil and antifreeze. Damien lay there writhing in pain, his jaw shattered. Mac and Jeff left him for dead. That much was at least certain.

Mary was a 6-foot peroxide blonde in waves, with two sleeves of ink and a cigarette that sat between moist crimson lips. A warm sunset tan kissed her skin through a white tank. She had a don’t fuck with me look about her, but it’s just what these three fuckers did.

She stumbled through the back door, into a small office she used for negotiations, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey she always kept within arm’s reach. The sweet burn reminded her of Daddy. That and the motor oil memories which haunt her every single day.

“FUCK!” Panic-stricken, she slammed the bottle down onto the desk, after taking a long swig.  Alcohol spilled across her calendar. Mary’s  hands shook. She was a wreck. It was only then that she saw how much blood made it onto her top. She took a seat, pausing only for a moment to catch her breath, and picked up the phone.

“Michael. It’s me. We’re gonna have to cancel dinner….”

Mary hung up and lit the cigarette she all but forgot. The adrenaline took care of her nic-fit, but now that she came down from the  high, she was feigning for  a smoke. The moaning from the garage quieted down. Maybe she’d be charged on a misdemeanor or second degree if it came down to it. The whiskey soaked through both the desk calendar and Mary’s body. She let it take its course, as she  stared down through the days of the weeks, watching the puddles seep through into months.

Her father was a born and bred gearhead. The man dreamt about going out in a fiery blaze of glory around the last turn in the 500. Real man bravado kind of shit. No such luck. A heart attack in the middle of a routine oil change was what took him out. One moment, he asked Mary about a carburetor, while she worked out a dirty air filter. The next, she looked up and he was gone, just like that.

It was the day she inherited the garage: George Redding’s Brakes and Tune-Up. That, and the gold cross she pulled off his body. Two pieces of metal welded together, just like Mary and her father. It was as basic as they come and the only jewelry she wore, besides her ink. People started calling her “Cherry Bomb” shortly thereafter, when she got her chest done; a burning heart framed by angel wings and roses.

Brakes squealed and she snapped back. Mary took another deep drag, and the world came into focus.

“CHERRY! JEZZUS CHRIST. Mary? Where are you?!”

“In here! And don’t shout….” Mary winced. She had a raging headache coming on fast.

Officer Michael Mendoza walked through the door, gun drawn, and looking too sharp for a country cop. He was a little rough around the edges, but he had a razor sharp jawline, and the uniform to match. And those steel blue eyes could cut through anything.

“Put the gun away,” Mary said.

“Thank God…. What the hell happened?”

“God had nothing to do with it, Michael. Please sit down. And have a drink.”

She painted a picture for him. Mary’s head pounded, but her hands stopped shaking. It was all flashes in her mind.

She was about to close up shop when they approached. Three boys, sure as hell weren’t men. Hoods cloaked their faces and baggy clothes draped their skeletal frames.

Michael took a swig from the bottle.

“Those belts I ordered came in and I was going to work on the ’49 for a few before we went out,” she said blowing smoke.

They were after Aaron Miller, one of her mechanics. Mary recognized them right away. After all, she went to high school with the son-of-a-bitch lying on the floor. He called her an Amazon, once, and at 14 years old, it’s definitely not a fantasy. They might as well have called her parents “kissing cousins.” Mary  was a big freak in a small hick town.

Aaron owed them big and hadn’t paid up when promised. They came to collect, but he skipped out early. So Mary grabbed the pipe and cracked Damien in the jaw.

Michael took another swig and winced.

“So wait … you hit him first?”

“Mac reached for something in his hoodie. I grabbed the closest piece of metal I could find and fuckin’ popped him,” Mary said. “He fell back into Jeff. They got scared and ran screaming and tripping over themselves like the bunch of little tits they are.”

“Do you realize those meth heads could have killed you?”

“What was I supposed to do? Wait to see his piece? Let ’em rape me?”

Mary was pissed.

“I called you as soon as I could. It still took you five minutes to get down here and it’s a one block town, cowboy.”

She had an answer for everything.

“Cherry … It’s all right. You’re all right.”

Mary let him in closer this time.

“No. It’s not. I was scared out of my fucking mind.”

“A shy thing like you?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile.

“Shut the fuck up,” she said.

Mary took a deep drag of her cigarette and went for the bottle again.

“I gotta get him patched up before he goes into a coma from the shock or something. I’ll put the word out on the other jerkoffs. In the meantime…”

“Wait ’till Aaron…”

“No, you’re done. Give me the bottle … that’s it.” Michael placed it on top of a filing cabinet. “I’ll pick him up too and we’ll bring ’em all down to the station. They can sit in lock-up for the night. Let them sweat. Just go home and try to calm down. I’ll check in as soon as I’m done.”

Mary watched the cruiser drive away from the bay. She took solace in the fact Damien would be in ample amounts of pain and suffering for the foreseeable future. Karma’s a bitch.

Aaron was the best mechanic in town. What did she care what he did with his life just as long as he showed up  sober and ready to work? Bigger problems knocked on her door tonight. He knew about them.

Mary unlocked the welding cabinet and slipped the acetylene torch, flint lighter, and a pair of gloves into her bag.

“Fucking townies.”

Edited by Shari Puterman Samuelson
Original illustration by Anthony Schiavino

That’s all your getting for now.

Click to enlarge the full image.

Thanks to Wendy Shepherd for having me on OPI and all her hard work.

First I’m mentioned with the likes of Gaiman and Moffat this week on Twitter and now I’m listed with the Boondock Saints and Frederic Doss (you’ve seen him around here as Sergeant Zero through covers and promo pieces). It’s been a good week and I’m truly humbled.

Don’t forget to pick up your FREE Sergeant Zero comics.