Writers AMuse Me Publishing

  Imagine Life Unlimited


Mad Cop's Diary - New Release!!

Posted on February 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM Comments comments (1)

In Dave Smith's Torture in the Garden of Eden, we met Dillinger  Flakewaiter. Now, his story continues, in Mad Cop's Diary!



Chapter 1 – Calamine and Cod Liver Oil

“Get back! Stand up straight… no, I mean down on your hands and knees! You always slouch like this?” Damn, that was a stupid question. I am a cop; I have been trained to respond in a certain fashion. “Look, kid, if you have to do this, well son, I gotta tell you, gang, no gang, tough or not, if you do not stand up straight, I am going to blow your head off.”

The kid stared; his eyes looked through me, you know, what the fuck looks? He slouched; what else can I tell you, other than it really pissed me off so I blew his fucking brains out. They spattered on the wall behind him. The look was still there as he slouched to the ground. The bastard, even in death, refused to stand up straight. Now, you may well ask me why would I do this – shoot the bastardo, right? I must admit a valid question that I later asked myself while pumping a few at the policeman’s bar called Sunset Haven Bar and Grill. What can I tell you? It was across the street from the station. It could have any name, I suppose, but its proximity to our reality was good enough for most cops and that was that.

“Make mine the same, George, but double up on the short stuff.” Mike Candiotti sat down on the stool next to me.

“What the hell is up, Mikey?” I was glad to have Mikey sit next to me; it forced other cops to avoid the area.

“Why do you always have to call me fucking Mikey, Dillinger? What? You think I am still that same little guy you beat the crap out of, just for fun, when we were kids? You never bullied anybody but me, Dillinger. What the fuck is with that, huh?” Mikey laughed while asking. He always did – kind of a thing we had. I suppose I should let you in on why Mikey and I were buddies, right?


“This ain’t right, Dillinger. We should get away from this place pronto. We are gonna end up slabs of fucking meat, dead, rotten fucking meat if we do this.” Mikey and I stood outside the Marine recruitment office. It was July, and as that month is in these parts, it was hot, sweaty, miserable. You had to have a twelve gauge to kill the mosquitoes. Damn insects loved my blood more than anything else in the world, they did. My old mother would always tell me the Flakewaiter blood was the richest blood on the planet and that mosquitoes were smart critters around Valparaiso, Indiana. 

“We only have the best skeeters here, Dillinger; only the very best. Now, be still. I have to put this Calamine lotion on correctly or you will be itchin’ yer skin off. Dillinger, sit still, child!”

“Yes, Mother.” I also suffered from boils on occasion and boil treatment was why I had a nasty temperament, my old mother told me. I never responded much to her commands. Kind of a useless toil it was, responding to her with anything but ‘yes, Mother’. She also had a penchant for cod liver oil, which did not help my disposition, either.

“Calamine and fucking cod liver oil, Mikey; those are the reasons we are gonna join up.”

“What! We are joining the Marine Corp because of Calamine and fucking cod liver oil, Dillinger?” Mikey repeated most everything I said.

“Never mind, Mikey. Let’s go!” I grabbed my friend under the arm and marched his big ass into the office. I hear your mind working; how could I bully a guy as big as Mikey? He was huge. Even as an eight-year-old, he towered over every other kid in the neighborhood. Fact is, I really was not a very good bully but, as the way of the world was and as sick as I was, what from Calamine and cod liver oil, well, he was the biggest prick in the block as I said and it just seemed natural for me to walk up to him one day and beat the crap out of him.

Mikey and his family had just moved in and it was the first day of school. I saw him coming. The calamine had been slapped on and damn if I had not gotten a double dose of the cod that very morning. You can see how this would have put me in a damned foul mood, right? Yes, this eight-year-old was one foul, nasty bastard on the first day, so I beat the shit out of Mikey and we became friends.

I picked him up, loaned him my snot rag to wipe the blood from his nose and he asked me. “Why’d you do that? What you got against me?” That was all Mikey could think of at the time. Nobody had ever dared to confront him. Why would they? He was a natural born killer… if not for his blatant cowardice.

“Ever had damn cod liver oil, kid?” We sat together on the school lunch table, outside in the yard, Mikey on the bench, me sitting above him on the table, all over-Lording as it should be.

“When I get this nose fixed up, I am gonna beat the crap out of you, kid.” Mikey sniffed hard and his nose started to bleed again.

“Shut up. We are gonna be buddies and that is that. Now, shut up or your nose’ll never stop bleedin’, kid. What’s your name?”

“Mike Candiotti. Yours?”

“You can call me Dillinger. Wop, huh?” I had a way with words even back then.

“What the hell’s a wop, Dillinger?”

I must admit that for an eight-year-old, I was rather worldly. My old father collected garbage; good job back then, I suppose. He was a garbage intellectual and when given the chance, he would always instruct me on the ways of the world.

“God damned wops never did much to help us, Son. Anzio, wops, dead comrades. Fucking wops!” My old father also had a way with words, you see.


Mikey and I were sworn in, our futures sealed, Semper Fi and all that.

“What the hell we gonna do if we get out of this shit hole, Dillinger?” Mikey sat with me – hot jungle sweat. The skeeters? We would need more’n a damn twelve gauge.

“Look at you, you dumb shit; you are covered in filth, mud up your ass, we are stuck here, you ever been hotter, ever been more shit scared, ever so fucking dirty, wet, fucked up in your life, Mikey? We are gonna be cops; hear me, Mikey?” I punched him just above the elbow, on the bone where it really hurts and wants to make you scream ‘oh fuck, that really hurts’. Mikey wanted to scream. He wanted to rip my head off and stuff it up my ass but that would have been suicide and he knew it, so he did not and I punched him again. Funny, but Mikey really could have ripped off my head and stuck it up my ass but he never did. Nope, throughout our childhood he never did.

“So what the fuck, Dillinger? Fucking cops?” Funny, well, maybe strange would be more apt, I suppose, but in situations of terror, it seems to me that we, at least Mikey and me, always reverted to things of our childhood. Maybe that is because we just had to hold onto something valid, something that made us sit down for a second or two inside ourselves, something to keep us from shitting in our pants? You may have had similar things happen to you and maybe you handled it differently, but really it was the same. I think you did probably, right?

“We are gonna be fucking cops because we can be clean. If we sweat, get dirty, we got uniforms to clean, not like these stinkin’ things we are wearing now. We ever gonna get these fucking uniforms clean again, Mikey? Ever? That is why we are gonna be cops. Make sense to you now?” I knew it did not yet it would eventually. Mikey was not a great thinker but I knew he would be a great cop, as I knew I would. Makes sense, right?

“I am proud of this uniform, Dillinger. You should be, as well!” Mikey continued to rub his elbow. He smiled because he knew that I had become disenchanted with our situation and that, even if I respected the uniform, I hated it with a heartfelt passion not known to most mortal men.

There were dead or dismembered on either side of us. We were alone and were not going to come out of this alive so I had decided we would both be cops. You see, I really loved my friend, Mikey and knew of his fear; I had already shit my pants.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Mikey. Let’s just get the hell up and run.”

“Which way we gonna run, Dillinger? We are fucking dead, aren’t we?” Mikey also had a way with words. The thought crossed my mind that a way with words was what got us into this muddy shit-holed jungle crap.

“God-damn it, Mikey, one, two, three!” We stood and ran. True enough, we had no idea which direction to run but damn, we were running and running hard. Language is strange in certain situations such as this. We had no idea what was being yelled at us but we understood well enough. Funny how quickly you learn what is being screamed around you as mortars fall and the ground blows up as you run with shit in your pants. Strange, but true.

“I call you Mikey because I love you, brother. Never told you that before but I do. I was thinking about us, about war, about running. You remember running, don’t you, Mikey?” I could not help myself; I had to tell him. Never thought I would, you know, macho bullshit, never love a man; you might be a faggot if you do? Anyway, I loved Mikey; past tense I know, but I did.

“Dillinger, you need a rest. Ever thought about a fucking vacation, friend? You never have done – take a vacation I mean; might just be the right time.”

“You want another one? Course you do. Hey George, bring my lover here a double and a couple more beers, will ya?” George did a double take and brought the drinks.

“Say, Dillinger, why do you think, when I walk in this dump, that other cops steer clear of me?”

“Because you are not a real cop, Mikey. You are not one of them and you never will be.” I thought since it seemed to be truth-telling time and I was on a short leash, I might as well be honest. The ‘might as well be honest’ is interesting, don’t you think? I mean, it is like ‘to tell you the truth’ which implies that you have been, until this special moment, well, bullshitting. Know what I mean? Of course you do. At any rate, it was just the time and that was all there was to it.

“Jesus Christ, Dillinger, I walk in here to have a couple with you because I know you are here, kinda second home and all that crap. Suddenly you are getting all philosophical on me. I fucking told you that you needed a break and now I am sure of it. Why the hell don’t you take a vacation, Dillinger, and what the hell do you mean I am not a real cop?”

“Beats the hell out of me, friend, but you are not, and neither am I. If I can get enough hooch in me, maybe I can explain it. Right now, I am too fucking sober.” An odd statement to make as I had decided it was honest time, yet I still needed to get hammered; yes, very strange indeed but, hell, I am just about there, so why not, right?

Mad Cop's Diary will be released on February 22nd, 2013, in print, digital and kindle formats. You won't want to miss this one!




8 With An Author -- David Smith

Posted on December 10, 2012 at 11:50 AM Comments comments (0)

We're starting off today with small, perhaps scary, look inside the thinking of the one, and definitely the only... 

David Smith


1. References to music seem to make their way into your writing. Do you have music on when you write, or do you prefer quiet?

No music. Pretty much quiet but normal quite, not screaming at the top of my lungs ‘if I do not have some quiet around here How do you expect me to create’ quiet.

2. What are your favorite characters to write? Do you draw from people you have met?

Crazy folks coupled with crazy folks – yes, I do; mostly the negative

3. Shakespeare fan – yes or no, and why?

No. I have enough trouble reading so-called modern English. I am a huge fan of the operas that follow his writing.

4. You’re stuck on a deserted island with only three books and one other author. Name the books and the author then tell us why.

East of Eden. It is one of the great books. Slaughterhouse Five, same reason. I do not have a third book that I would with to have on a desert island.

5. If your writing career was a novel, what would the title be?

Beats The Hell Out Of Me (BTHOOM!)

6. Have you ever judged a book by its cover?

Sure, Lots of times, however I soon realized that a book, or a person, with a great cover is only the beginning. Where’s the meat?

7. Books can be like comfort food. Which one book is the one you go back to the most?

East of Eden

8. If you could co-write a book with any author, who would you choose and what genre would it be?

Vonnegut, Bukowski – the genre would be Man Men At Work Here! Is that a genre? If it is not, it should be. Come to think of it, it might be!!

Dave Smith, as well as being an editor, is the author of Torture In The Garden of Eden, Saskatchewan, They Ate Peaches, Outskirts of Insanity, and two collections of poetry: Cocktails with Burty and As I Wander Through The Book Of Life. He has a new novella coming out in February 2013, Mad Cop's Diary, picking up on Dillinger Flakewaiter's story from where it left off in Torture. His books are available in print, digital and Kindle formats on most online bookstores as well as right here on the Writers AMuse Me Site.




Posted on August 17, 2012 at 10:25 AM Comments comments (0)



David Smith

Dave Smith does nothing in an ordinary way. Writing a psychological thriller is no exception. Outskirts of Insanity is a crazy, memorable ride with characters who will stay with you forever, including a 'bad guy' with whom you will empathize, and a 'good guy' who will cause you to grit your teeth. The absolute brilliance of this book cannot be overstated. Prepare for a genius, insane ride! Thanks, Dave, for sharing this amazing story with us.

Chapter 1

Jonas Quint grinned at Harry and told him that he knew. Harry hit Jonas Quint, loosened dentures; remnant social graces. Blood-crowned obscenity struck the pavement. Quint’s face left blood scratched into the alley pavement as Harry’s insanity pushed him closer to discovery.

Looking for a way out, not knowing his duality followed him only a few short steps behind, the quick and the dead lurking in haphazard destruction, Harry lunged around the corner. What to do? He had not planned to hit the man so hard, had not planned to hit him at all. If Harry had still been in control, the policeman on the beat would not have heard Jonas Quint’s scream, would not have ordered Harry to halt, would not have been chasing Harry down a crowded, spring afternoon-shoppers’ street. Harry was indefinitely middle-aged and particularly unnoticeable. This invisibility, combined with formidable powers of logic and intractability in the face of danger, were his principal professional assets. His soul was grey, as lifeless and cold as hot lead two seconds after being poured into a mold.

For the first time in Harry’s life, panic struck him, threw him bodily into Jordan’s Sport, Angle, and Hunting Establishment, an unlikely place to be for a man who, on the surface, would never have been suspected of having any idea about weapons, fish bait, jogging, or what tennis racket is right for whom. He heard the policeman yell at him once more to halt, a foreign sound heard for the very first time in the alley ten minutes before. As he turned to face the caller, people near him sensed what was coming and peeled away, ball bearings in a child’s hand puzzle, scattering in all directions, vainly seeking to reach holes too small and too far apart.


Peter Guzzman was a rookie on the Monmouth Police Force. He and his wife, April, had been married only eight months. She spent her hours glued to the television, watching police programs, learning how to worry about the dangers of her husband’s new job. Peter and April -- her nickname was Pookie -- had met in high school at a see-if-you-can-get-served party held in the back room of Harold’s Western Bar and Grill. Peter, wearing his father’s ‘good luck’ fishing hat covered with rusty, worn-out flies, and Pookie, a Mary Tyler Moore clone wrapped in her mother’s leftover cheer-leader persona, were a couple destined for an early try at the marriage-go-round. After the party, they had fallen in pristine debauchery into the back of Peter’s step-side Dodge pick-up and had decided to live happily ever after.

Chapter 2

The bullet hit Harry in the middle of the sternum, spun him around, and sent him careening into a life-sized, cardboard display of a father and son casting their fishing lines.

Peter leaned over Harry and asked, “Hey Mister, you alright? Why’d you move on me? Don’t worry; I radioed for an ambulance -- it’s on the way!”

“Is that all he can think of?” Harry asked himself. As he was being rolled over by Peter Guzzman, he slipped his blackjack out of the special pocket in his sleeve. Although he had been dazed by the shot, the bullet-proof vest he always wore had saved his life.

Now Harry did what had to be done. “Hey, Fuck, I’m doing just fine!” He back-hand whipped the blackjack at the unsuspecting officer, crushing his nose instantly. Dragged through his face, the metal weapon collapsed the entire right side of his skull. As crushed ear and mastoid split into a bloody rage, Peter’s eyes, no longer able to see, shut for the last time.

Later Harry would ask himself why he had spoken to the policeman; it was not his nature to play tough guy or speak to a victim. He never felt that his behavior was personal.

“Alright, Harry, stand up!” he screamed at himself. With mind-over-matter determination, he managed to gain his feet and walk out the front door of Jordan’s into the five o’clock pedestrian pandemonium.


On his way to the Guzzman residence, Officer Chip Bradley asked himself why he always had to do the dirty work. “It’s true,” he thought. He, outside of Peter Guzzman, was the least-experienced cop on the force, but there had to be more to it than that.

He had heard that the person picked to be the harbinger of bad tidings was usually a good friend, a relative, or the nicely-plump Santa figure every police station seemed to have sitting at the front desk. Nevertheless, Captain Ferguson had picked Chip Bradley for such jobs right from the beginning; the first time had been when old Joe Nussbaum had committed suicide by walking into the teeth of his best friend, his rebuilt Sopwith Camel.

Chip Bradley did not realize that he was always chosen for the task simply because he was one of those people everyone naturally trusted. He had a gentle, almost poetic nature; his mellow, bass-baritone voice swept over the unfortunate, providing the soothing vibrations the situation required.

Chapter 3

Harry had made few serious professional mistakes in his career. This one, however, had nearly cost him everything, and there was still a chance it might. Like all of his ‘adventures’, the term he used to describe his work, this one had been planned with more than one way to handle the situation in the event of trouble.

Harry knew that time and oppositional mayhem were on his side. The one error he had made by losing his temper would be analyzed and corrected. The small tactical mistake would be annulled by the fact that he had meticulously covered his tracks before taking care of business at the Jay Barr Real Estate Company.

Harry boarded the Greyhound bus bound for Miami and all stops in between. He felt, for the first time since the confrontation, that he could repose into an innocuous aura of mediocrity he had created for himself as a method of securing his invisibility. The pasty, undemanding spirits of Greyhound travelers had always given him the feeling of secure banality, into which he had gladly disappeared after each job well done.

He settled back into his upholstered oblivion, and, as a small chocolate-covered hand slipped over his arm, depositing half-melted goop in his lap, instead of reaching across the aisle to engage the retreating alien and snap off its greedily-dripping tentacles, he reassured the boy’s mother that it really was not a problem; his firm’s insurance would take care of the cleaning bill, and she should just relax and enjoy the trip.

“Fat chance,” he thought, “with that little rat!”

The bus made its first stop at Patsy’s Roadside Rondayvoo. Here, wearing the facade of a reluctant troublemaker, Harry would explain to the driver that, in his rush to catch the bus, he had forgotten his sample-case. Could the driver possibly radio back to the terminal?

It would take too much time for the case to be sent on to Miami, so he would catch the return bus due along in a few hours. This, Harry explained, would be a whole lot better than having to wait around for his samples. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, feigned embarrassment gripping the muscles around his mouth as he grimaced and chagrined himself in front of the driver.

“Serves me right. I’ll have to catch a god-damn plane down to Miami. Yes, surely serves me right! No time left, you know, no time for business!”

The driver, his droll face lined with years of patience, assured Harry there would be no problem. He knew he would radio back; the staff at the terminal would look for the valise, not find it, and prepare themselves for the whining ‘Gosh, it must be here somewhere, you didn’t look hard enough’ that was sure to follow. In the men’s room at Patsy’s, Harry removed his Greyhound identity. He ditched his battered Chandler chapeau along with the faded-brown pinstriped suit he had been wearing. From his lone cardboard suitcase, he removed a traditional one-piece Air Force mechanic’s overall, a leather flight jacket, and a pair of spit-polished, patent leather boots.

After he had finished changing, he placed the two-pointed cap, slightly cocked, from the right side of his forehead to the back left side of his head, then stood at attention in front of the restroom mirror. He raised a stiff-fingered salute. Sergeant Ben Tapper, Flight Maintenance Crew Chief, U.S. Air Force, Retired. The discarded clothing and collapsed suitcase were disposed of in the trash container at the back of the restaurant.

Harry had timed the operation so that the garbage truck, which made its pick-up along the highway every Tuesday and Friday, would be pulling in for the weekend collection in approximately fifty minutes.


One Year and Counting

Posted on April 27, 2012 at 4:40 AM Comments comments (1)

A Few Words from our Crusty Leader

“It will never work!” “You are just a bunch of writers who started this publishing house to get your own junk published!” These, dear friends, are just a few of the statements made to my partners in crime regarding WAMM.

Here we are a year old; sales going well. We have authors who believe in the house, that yes indeed, were having trouble getting really fine work out to the reading public; they tell us that life is good for them, that they have not been lied to, that nobody has asked them for anything other than working to help us publicize their books, that they have great books, great covers, and great friends here. I suppose the question is ‘are we authors who could not get our work published for whatever reason and are we just playing?’ Here is the answer----HELL NO!

The reason for the WAMM publishing house is indeed to offer our fellow writers an opportunity. Those that know me know when I say something, there is no bullshit. Nothing has changed.

As ever there are no fees, as our writers know. The money flows to them. There is not a soul involved in the creation of this endeavor who has made a single penny from the house -- yet. That will change. You can bet on it.

We make some cash, our authors make some cash. We did not start this place to do anything but be successful. We are; you are. Make sense? Damn right it makes sense.

Those of you who have jumped over your shadows to publish with us, ignored the crap spewed by others who cannot imagine past their noses, join us in a happy celebration of light, life, and literature. We deserve a clap on the shoulder as you all do.

From all of us here at WAMM thank you.

David Smith
Editor in Chief


Posted on February 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM Comments comments (0)


by David Smith

Wandering through the book of life

I wander through the book of life

sweet different roads each traveled on

Those ones that took my crooked way

such passion in each foot step walked

While children look to me with hope

waiting for that softened stroke

to ease their horror, tomorrow’s wake

such passion in each foot step walked

For what am I but aged oak

with knot holes blackened opaque sight

Can beauty be as roughened edge

or must it slide as perfect hide?

If either or an answer is

then answers are but different strokes

Of those that paint with callow heart

or numbers be as perfect art I wander through the book of life

sweet different roads each traveled on

Those ones that took my crooked way

such passion in each foot step walked

While children look to me with hope

waiting for that softened stroke

to ease their horror, tomorrow’s wake

such passion in each foot step walked

For what am I but aged oak

with knot holes blackened opaque sight

Can beauty be as roughened edge

or must it slide as perfect hide?

If either or an answer is

then answers are but different strokes

Of those that paint with callow heart

or numbers be as perfect art

>>>> ~*~ <<<<

Unlock the Doors

The scribe that sits, veritable splendor

nothing to do but candor’s pique

inevitable time will tell the word

faith unheard is a trial of first

Faith so slight in light

words that fill the trollop’s heart

in splendor sitting scribe’s vain fight

for moral pluralistic tripe

Dawn a new day stops the scribe

of lust he does no more describe

such folk that sit within himself

yet fail to fight yet softened bell

So ring that copper dullard’s chime

let him crack the first wave’s time

standing to the frock of life

that whimsicaled, trident, spear of death

>>>> ~*~ <<<<

The Grapes of Wrath

The grapes of wrath

Like raisins in the sun

Or a young pompadour set stiff

Atop the head of a short sleeved punk

Barstool proclivities

The snot of alcohol

Makes a man a man

And women retort

Stand and be counted

Booze will do the trick

Svengali’s eyes a prize

For those that have no time to please

Themselves they stand

As man proclaims

Write’s the fetid wrong

And women retort

Mazzeyelltough the Jew proclaimed

Through haloed eyes of truth and write

What chance does he who sits not atop

That barstool high in god’s sweet eye?

The Bible told me so!

>>>> ~*~ <<<

Life taxes the death of boys

Life taxes the death of boys.

Which boys one often asks?

They the ones who sit and starve

and wonder where and when

Now gettin’ me wrong may be some claim

to fame as known in circular squares

Truth of matter

I cannot tatter

or totter to war with aplomb

Those boys I referred to,

the one’s so few know?

They be sittin’, waitin’,

where the hell is our stew?

Still they sit, starve and wait

for history’s cumulative crew,

to serve up that stew

of patriot cream

albeit in hell

where we don’t hear their screams.

Where mamma don’t sit

No crib for a bed.

>>>> ~*~ <<<

A simple paid for whore

I have broken the chain

of earthly gain.

Have flung myself

on highways lost

Flat I lay

without a care,

please ride your car

upon my back.

For Heaven’s flack

I have no suit

of armor shinning bright

to flick away the naughty nights,

amusement dims my thoughts.

Tightened thighs around my back

girding swift black flow.

Spurious, evil, lovely thoughts

keep my heart aglow.

Sit with me, gentle dame,

my money on your back.

Cigarettes, neon lights

to stub out on your back.

As I am, I’ll lick them clean,

wounds caress my tongue.

To mend your thoughts,

cease such woes

whores may have to cry.

For what is life without the whores,

who sweet delight my loins

in simple, cherished, love for gain.

So it is I must remain

a simple, paid for, whore.

>>>> ~*~ <<<

Dave's poetry anthology, As I Wander Through The Book Of Life, will be released on Tuesday, February 22nd, 2012. This is his second anthology of 'prose-etry'. Congratulations, Dave! This is a great collection.