ALL THE NEWS
There’s a lot of news to tell you, so let’s just start at the top and work our way down.
First off, there’s a huge excerpt from Molotov Hearts in the new issue (#62) of Broken Pencil! Four pages! Almost an entire chapter! On newsstands now! No kissing, but a buttload of dumpstering and running from the cops! Plus an amazing illustration from Kat Verhoeven (who took the picture above for her Instagram)!
Second, you can finally buy digital copies of Molotov Hearts online! It’s available in physical copies and for the Kindle through Amazon, and you can get copies of the PDF through Gumroad. If you want to try before you buy (or can’t/don’t want to pay—whatever, I’m not judging you), you can also download the MOBI and PDF for free. No EPUBs yet, but they’re coming. Click here for a comprehensive list of places you can grab a copy.
Also coming? PDFs/MOBIs/EPUBs of my HoodieRipper short fiction collection, Singles. The PDF should be arriving soon. Like, in-the-next-couple-of-days soon. The MOBI and EPUB will be trailing behind.
Third, if you haven’t checked out the HoodieRipper twitter feed lately (or ever), you might want to. I handed responsibility for it over to Becky (from my books) and she’s updating it with scene reports and gossip, as well as other news.
That’s it for now. There’s more stuff in the works and I’m excited about it, but it’s not at the stage where I can spill beans yet. More news soon!
Feel Good Factor
Hey, did you all know the there’s a HoodieRipper Christmas story? There totally is! Happy seasonal crust punk holiday tidings, everyone!
by Chris Eng, illustration by Cristy C. Road
Swango recounted the change in his hand. A buck eighty-seven. He was positive he had more money than that. Oh right, the beers he bought yesterday. And the chickpeas they made hummous out of. Cramming the change in his pocket, he grudgingly accepted two bucks was about right. Accepting it didn’t make him less fucked, though: it was Christmas tomorrow and he didn’t have a present for Tank.
Really, it wasn’t like Christmas was the biggest deal. They were crusties, so spending huge amounts of cash to celebrate a corporate greed-fest sponsored by the religious patriarchy wasn’t something they were particularly into, but they liked to give each other something small, both as a token that they cared and as a way of not being completely left out. Because as much as Swango wanted to tell Christmas to go fuck itself, it sucked if you didn’t have friends to hang out with and at least one present to open. Friends were the easy part—there were probably fifteen people coming over for the Krust Haus’s vegan potluck—but the present, well, that was going to take some ingenuity.
Tank was out panhandling and he knew he had at least a couple of hours before she got back. Good. He frantically sifted through his stuff looking for anything he could sell. There wasn’t much. He owned a lot of things that meant something to him, but not a lot that “normal” people would be willing to pay money for. His zine collection? Uh-uh. His vegan cookbooks, stained with the residue of a thousand Food Not Bombs gatherings? Not a chance.
The only thing of his worth anything to anybody was his Discman and he was under no illusions as to how much that was going to net. Still, it was a top-of-the-line model (when it was new) and he was under the gun. He grabbed it, apologized to his stack of scratched-but-still-playable CDs and bolted out the door.
The grossly overweight man behind the counter of the pawn shop wore an open Hawaiian shirt over a wifebeater and had jowls that literally stretched to his chest. He gestured at the Discman and belched. “Five bucks,” he said in a voice that resembled nothing so much as a groan.
“It’s worth more than five bucks,” Swango countered.
“’S a fuggin’ Dissman. Who wan’sa Dissman these days?”
“I could make three or four times that in an afternoon by panning.”
“Then do it or take thuh five bucks. ‘S yer choice.”