Ice Cream Man from Hell : You're Next - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Angelina Desolate is a freelance journalist, her work has been featured in several motorcycle publications in the United States and Europe.

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Governments Ruined * Brains Washed * Ice Cream Served * Oceans Drained * Dogs Walked * Shoes Shined * Souls Saved * Clocks Cleaned * Toes Curled * Panties Hosed * Volcanos Capped * Cigars Smoked * Memories Made * Ankles Grabbed * Linens Soiled * Teeth Pulled * Cookies Crumbled * Legs Spread * Graves Dug * Holes Plugged * Money Spent * Gods Worshipped * Virgins Converted

Aus dem Klappentext

The Following story is true. For over fifty years, I've fought to keep my demons locked away until now...

Due to the nature of this content, all of the town names referenced in the State of New Jersey and several character names have been fictionalized to...keep the guilty-guilty, the innocent-innocent, and the dead-from walking.

This is an uncensored and shocking tale, but is also one of hope and success at this game we call life.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

"Shut the f*ck up and call Anna!" I reached across her to lock the passenger side door so she couldn't bail out on me. The only thing I could do to shut the psycho b*tch up sitting next to me was blurt out my phone number. My left hand was gripping the steering wheel while my right was pressed against her chest until she finally got through to my wife. Mel was screaming bloody murder into the phone, while I was knocking down road dividers, climbing over curbs and speeding down one-way streets, the wrong way. "Is this mother f*cker crazy?!"

We were in New York City and Mel was the kind of girl who held her own. I don't know what she's up to now, but we'd been hanging since the Psycho days, and we'd seen it all together but even this was too crazy for her. Mel felt like she was fifteen again, homeless and panicked by the fact she had nowhere else to go but my truck, but Anna reassured her that everything would be okay once we reached the Jersey side.

Those NYC tubes felt like a gateway of time travel and I was barreling through the Lincoln Tunnel with my foot to the floor, while the clunky red pick-up hemmed and groaned to keep up with me. Mel was stiff and silent. There were no more phone calls, questions, of f*cking around. We were far from Queens and slipping down the coast towards Maryland on just another wake and bake morning. I stopped at a familiar gas station in Jersey, unaware that God was going to rattle my chain that day.

In Homestead, everyone gases up and grabs their morning cup of mud at the same filling hole, so in no way did it seem strange for me to see Duke's daughter when I stepped out of my truck-but there was something unfamiliar about her approach. I had to rub my eyes and make sure it wasn't the usual buzzing of my brain. Her facial features were drawn and weary. Her fridgid hug startled me even more than her appearance and it made me concerned.

"Duke is in the hospital, he's been diagnosed with cancer."