Sturgis, Mike Baron, Writer



Fifteen years ago I rode to Sturgis with Tom Delaney. We began in Yankton where Tom loaned me a Road King. As we headed west we joined a great river of bikers, a recreation on mechanical steeds of the Western migration of the 1840s and 50s. Most of the pilgrims were professionals on vacation although as always, there were many outlaw bikers as well.

Outside Sturgis traffic was backed up fifteen miles. But Tom had lived in Sturgis and knew a back way in, which we used, saving hours. We camped out at the notorious Buffalo Chip east of town. In Sturgis itself, bikes were everywhere. You’ve seen the pictures. You could walk from one side of the town to the other stepping only on motorcycle seats. Of course if you did that, you would be beaten to death.

The Chip’s restrooms were beyond primitive. Saturday morning I entered one and found an unconscious biker slumped on the concrete apron amid the stench and toilet paper. Since then they have renovated the toilets. As Tom and I walked toward the Hells Angels’ nitrous franchise, we passed a springer Harley and a man with a dog.

Tom said, “That’s a nice springer.”

I said, “That’s not a springer, it’s some kind of lab.”

Tom looked at me incredulous. “What?”

I turned toward the dog’s owner and said, “What kind of dog is that?”

The man, flying high, looked at me belligerently. “It’s a good dog. Why?”

Tom took my arm and steered me away.

I bought a balloon of nitrous from the Angels. The first one blew. The second one blew. The third one blew. The fourth one blew. The fifth one blew. I believe the sixth held.

The headliner that night was Jonny Lang, but before he came on, Cher came out to give away a free Harley. Cher was a regular at these things because of the movie Mask. All went well until Cher said, “I want to tell you about my good friend Bill Clinton.”

Fifty thousand bikers: “BOOOOOOOOOO!”

Cher: “Wait a minute! He’s a really good guy! Let me tell you…”


The booing and jeers were intense and prolonged, driving Cher from the stage.

She never returned.

Ann: “What does this have to do with writing?”

Read Biker. I am adapting Biker for Comicmix. Chris-Cross is the artist.

Martial Arts Novels by Mike Baron



As a wee tad enamored of Bruce Lee and Five Fingers of Death, I sought martial arts fiction. There was damn little. The first decent kung fu novels I encountered were by Piers Anthony and Roberto Fuentes. The mixture of Fuentes’ knowledge and Anthony’s literary craft delivered fast entertainment in the Jason Striker series, including Mistress of Death, The Bamboo Bloodbath, and Ninja’s Revenge. Fuentes was a Cuban judo specialist, but like all masters had some understanding of all the arts.

In the seventies I discovered Marc Olden, a writer who had emigrated to Japan and immersed himself in the martial arts experience. The first Olden book I read was the magical Poe Must Die that found Poe fighting the unholy powers of darkness under the sinister Jonathan. Poe’s quest to stop the forces of hell led him through the slop factories, boweries and bars of lower Manhattan accompanied by broken-down bare-knuckled English fighter Pierce James Figg. Olden’s villains were memorable, no moreso than a huge black female fighter named Black Turtle.

“During those prolific early years Olden also produced BLACK SAMURAI. The book follows the exploits of Robert Sand, a martial arts expert and the only non-Japanese trained by a Japanese samurai master. It became a successful novel series and was later made into a film, starring actor/karate-stylist Jim Kelly. Many of Olden’s books, such as the eastern-influenced GIRI, DAI-SHO, GAIJIN, ONI, TE, KISAENG and KRAIT, reflect his twin passions for eastern culture and philosophy.”

Giri was about NYC cop Manny Decker, the first of many novels incorporating Olden’s deep understanding of Eastern culture. Oni is so cruel it is almost unreadable, but for thriller fans it is essential.

I once spoke to Trevanian by phone. A friend of a friend knew him and he said it was okay to call. I was just a snot-nosed punk thinking about writing and he was very generous with his time. “I knew a little bit about mountain climbing, I knew a little bit about cave exploration.” The latter was in reference to his masterpiece Shibumi, about mysterious assassin Nicholai Hel, master of the esoteric martial art, naked/kill. Trevanian knew a little bit about martial arts – just enough to convince the reader that Hel was indeed bad news. But that is the gift of the writer—the gift of imagination. Trevanian didn’t really have to know martial arts to write about them convincingly. His narrative voice was convincing. The story was convincing. He needn’t supply the type of technical detail Olden did.

Don Winslow, an excellent writer, tried to resurrect Hel in the lamentable Satori. But Satori never came alive like Shibumi.

The next writer to tell convincing martial arts stories was Richard La Plante, an accomplished martial artist. La Plante’s first novel Mantis starred his recurring hero medical examiner Josef Tanaka, and the freak known as Mantis. Leopard raised the freak factor higher with an opening scene in which an impossibly muscled samurai bursts a man’s head with his hands. The next Tanaka story, Steroid Blues, is some kind of weird psycho-sexual masterpiece with one of the greatest twist endings I’ve ever read. I’m in contact with La Plante who says he has no plans to return to writing novels. A great loss.

My protagonists know how to fight but they don’t dwell on martial arts. I have taken the liberty of incorporating my old friend the Zhong Yi kung fu master Nelson Ferreira into several of my novels. This will come as a surprise to Nelson, whom I recently saw on a trip to Madison. (

The Badger gives me an opportunity to show martial arts in action and there is no better example than Bill Reinhold’s work on Badger #9, “Hot August Night.” If there is a more kinetic and realistic depiction of martial arts in comics, I haven’t seen it. Except for maybe the Bruce Lee series Val Mayerik and I did for Malibu. Val is an accomplished martial artist. Sadly, the Lee Family no longer sanctions his fictional exploits.

How I Write by Mike Baron

How I Write

When I write a novel I begin with an outline. Sometimes I write it longhand on a spiral pad. When I have enough notes to constitute a story, I write a more formal outline. Nothing crazy, like Ken Follett’s 120 page outlines for his big fat novels, but not sketchy either. The outlines usually run about ten pages, tell the story, give some sense of life to the protagonists and intrigue the reader. Even though I’m the only one who sees that outline, I write it as if were writing ad copy for a huge audience. I make those words get up and walk.

Everything I write in preparation for a novel is an advertisement for the novel as well. After the outline comes the slug line, something memorable and intriguing. When people ask me what it’s about, I’m ready: Wagon Train in space. Nazi biker zombies. That tells you little about the characters but resonates with all that pop culture junk in the attic to provoke the desired reaction. “I’m interested!”

Next they will say, “Tell me more.”

Helmet Head. He was just a rumor to the “one-percenters”—a monstrous motorcyclist dressed all in black who rode the back roads of Little Egypt cutting off the heads of other bikers with a samurai sword. But on one terrible stormy night, Deputy Pete Fagan discovers that Helmet Head is all too real—and consumed with a fury that won’t be satisfied until his demonic sword drinks its fill.

I buy a big spiral pad and write the novel’s name on the cover. I keep this pad with me and make notes as I think of them, which is often not at home or in the middle of the night. Sometimes these are technical details, like some piece of hardware I want to use. Sometimes they’re just phrases.

I make each chapter between 1000 and 2000 words, and try to end them with a hook. I’m shooting for about 80,000 because that’s the length of the novels I like to read. I constantly revise as I go along, hopscotching all over the manuscript. When I finish, I go on to the next one.

My Gifts To The World by Mike Baron, Writer



I give and I give. I am a river to my people. I offer three inventions that I’m too lazy to build or copyright. People tell me my hearing is going and this may be true. I tried to watch an episode of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Morell and could hardly understand a word. Perhaps it was the thick English accents. Perhaps it is my hearing, destroyed by years of hanging out at clubs listening to rock and roll. I find that when I cup my ears with my hands, to expand the sound gathering surface, I increase my hearing by 25%. The science is settled! But I look foolish always cupping my ears, and sometimes I need to use my hands for something other than hearing. Thus, Ear Wigs. Simply fashion two curving rhomboid ear wings from curving Red Solo Cups, affix them to a band that goes over the top of the head and holds them in place behind the ears, bending them forward. Voila! An organic and natural hearing enhancer that requires no batteries! So long as you are not concerned with looking foolish, or like one of those Squeeze-It Aliens.

As soon as I put on a motorcycle helmet my scalp itches. My new motorcycle Helmet Scratcher has a liner composed of stiff bristle brush, like an old-fashioned hair brush. This massages the scalp when you move the helmet back and forth. I’m an itchy kind of guy. I use a hair brush to scrub my back because nothing compares for satisfaction.

Martial Arts Suspenders. When’s the last time Steven Seagal saw his belt? There are thousands of aging martial artists who can’t see their belts. Martial arts suspenders showing rank and affiliation could revolutionize martial arts as we know them. They will have heavy metal clasps and be made of highly elastic material so you can take them off and use them as a weapon. Like a bungee cord.

America, you’re welcome.

Bat Fan V. Fat Ban by Mike Baron, Writer


By Mike Baron

This was it. Ragnarok, Armageddon, and Doomsday rolled into one. This was the premier of Batman: The Killer Croc’s Revenge, the latest installment in the greatest movie franchise of all time. Christian Bale as Batman. Gary Oldman as Chief Gordon. Lindsay Lohan as Rachel Dawes. And Sean Penn as Killer Croc.

Wayne Callard stood in line with 1500 other Bat Fans waiting for the Cinegrande Cineplex to open its doors. Wayne had been waiting in line for nineteen hours. He’d camped out on the sidewalk the previous night, swathing his bulk in two double-sized down-filled sleeping bags on a foam mattress. Wayne was five feet seven and weighed 350 lbs. He’d been born Cicero Wayne Callard.

“Man,” said Manny Ramirez standing next to Wayne and blowing on his hands, “I hope they open the doors soon! I could use a tube steak!” Manny wore Bat sneakers and a Batpack.

“Haven’t you heard?” Wayne said. “They pulled all the hot dogs. The fat content was too high.”

Manny regarded Wayne dubiously. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“No sir. The mayor signed the executive order yesterday. He doubled the food tax on all fast food items and mandated the removal of such items as hot dogs, French fries, jalapeno poppers, and deep fried cheese curds.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me!” Manny wailed. “What kind of dumb fuck would do that?”

“An overreaching municipal, state, and federal government that seeks to control all aspects of our lives and treat us like children.”

“I been thinkin’ about that hot dog all night! It’s the only thing that kept me going!”

“Hang, bro,” Wayne said. “I got you covered.”

A shout. A huzzah rose up the line. They had opened the doors. It was ten-thirty in the morning. Excitement was palpable among the faithful, overwhelmingly comprised of adolescent boys with a few sullen adults shepherding their cubs and hapless girlfriends in tow.

Two security guards met them at the door. “Please deposit all liquids, foods, and recording devices here. Sir, would you mind opening your coat?”

Wayne dutifully spread wide his bulky pea coat revealing a round mound covered with a nicely pilled argyle sweater that had belonged to his grandfather. The guard looked away and waved him through.

“Sir, would you mind opening your backpack?” the guard said to Manny.

Manny slipped it off and flipped open the lid. “It’s a Batpack.”

Tickets were nine dollars for the eleven o’clock matinee, twelve dollars for shows after noon. Wayne got his ticket and waited for Manny in the lobby where the snack counter was doing a brisk business in popcorn made with sunflower oil and available with virgin olive oil, tofu on a stick, and fruit smoothies.

Manny entered the lobby. “Ahmina get a Coke and some buttered popcorn, okay?”

“There is no buttered popcorn. It’s available with sunflower oil and olive oil.”

Manny’s jaw crushed a toe. He looked toward the refreshment counters which resembled festival seating at a Who concert. He resigned himself to water. Wayne took off at flank speed. It was imperative to GET YOUR SEATS FIRST and fish for food second. By the time Wayne and Manny gained the theater, the plum rows eight through twelve were taken with sniveling, squirming, texting, snarfing boys and men in a state of perpetual shiftiness emitting a low rumble of conversation punctuated by invective.

Wayne took the third seat in the 13th row except it was labeled the 14th to avoid the onus of superstition. Manny sat on the aisle. The big screen showed a ruddy, cheerful Santa Claus in coitus with a reindeer, guzzling Coke and shouting, “Shake, it Prancer, you hot bitch!” It was a Very Special Christmas.

During the trailer for Punisher IV, Marvel 0, a flat top and his date, who look4ed like Betty from Betty & Veronica, entered the aisle causing Manny to swing his legs to the side. Wayne had to stand and even then it was like squeezing by a mattress stuck in the doorway.

“Do you smell McDonald’s” Betty whispered to her date.

“Shhh!” Wayne shushed. Dude gave him the stink eye but Wayne ignored him. The troublesome couple sat three seats away. They watched a trailer for Zits, the new Will Ferrell comedy in which he plays a child/man forced to grow up when he takes over the family summer camp. They watched a trailer for Grits, the new Adam Sandler comedy in which he plays a child/man forced to grow up when he takes over the family plantation. They watched a trailer for Pits, the new Ben Stiller comedy about black holes.

Finally, after ads for plastic surgery and whole grain crust chicken and sun-dried tomato pizza, the lights lowered and the feature began. Manny stared at the screen in fascination until the smell of a Big Mac got his attention. Wayne nudged him and passed over a Big Mac.

“What? How?” Manny said, pleased and delighted.

Wayne reached down and pulled a portion of his belly away from himself like a lid. “Prosthetic belly,” he whispered. “Costume store. Got the Big Macs last night in Jersey. Kept ‘em warm with body heat.”

“Shhhh!” Betty shushed harshly.

I know what you’re thinkin’, Wayne thought to himself. In all the confusion, did he pull out two burgers, or three? The question you’ve got to ask yourself, lady, is do you feel lucky?

Batman had a utility belt. Wayne had a prosthetic belly.

Wayne and Manny ate their burgers. Dude immediately in front of Wayne turned in his seat. He had a buzz cut and a ring in one ear and through his nose. “Dude, like that burger you’re eating is totally horrendous. Take it outside, why don’tcha?”

Other young men swiveled to see the object of wrath. Wayne deftly tucked the rest of the Big Mac into his cavernous maw, chewed and swallowed. Reaching into an inside pocket of his pea coat he withdrew a canned Coke, popped the lid and drank copiously. He belched like the Mother of All Bullfrogs. He rolled it out like a black furry carpet. It just kept on rolling. The belch caromed off the ceiling frieze and tumbled ‘round the room.

Onscreen, Batman foiled an attempt by the Punisher to crash his movie.

Buzz Cut jabbed a finger at Wayne. “Why don’t you get up off your fat ass and go sit somewhere else?”

“Yeah!” said his sidekick, Li’l BC.

With a sigh Wayne heaved himself to his feet and motioned for Manny to do likewise. He had not come to rumble with Nazis. He had come to see the movie. He and Manny moved further upslope until they found two seats in the narrow aisle next to the wall.

Onscreen, terrorists had taken over Gotham Tower and were jamming all radio, internet, and short wave transmissions. In the theater, a gang of twenty-something boys sitting behind Wayne and Manny had seized control of the 18th row and jammed transmissions from the screen by hooting, making noises, and throwing Junior Mints.

A Junior Mint bounced off the back of Wayne’s basketball-sized head. Wayne slowly swiveled with a steely glare. The obstreperous ones studiously watched the screen on which Bruce Wayne was fending off Poison Ivy’s attentions.

Another Junior Mint sailed past. Giggles emanated from the 18th row. Wayne didn’t bother to turn and look. With a sigh of resignation, he gripped his arm rests and heaved himself from his seat. My city bleeds, he thought. He ponderously made his way up the aisle toward the 18th row.

“Oh oh,” they joked. “Look out now, here he comes!”

“Beware the Fat Fury!”

Wayne wondered if the benighted ones were even familiar with Herbie Popnecker. Without looking at them Wayne reached the 19th row and turned in. He sat behind what he took to be the ringleader, a dude in an Oakland hoodie, pants down his ass and BKs on the back of the seats in front of him as if he weren’t the issue of wealthy white mandarins on the Upper West Side.

“You smell something?” the White Negro said.

“Yeah,” said one of his minions. “Something stinks.”

The White Negro turned to confront Wayne, whose knees were up against the back of the seat. “Whassup, you fat faggot? Why don’tcha move your bulk somewhere else, know what I’m sayin’?”

Wayne reached into his belly prosthetic and brought forth a halogen flashlight and a water pistol filled with dog urine. “Please turn around and enjoy the movie for which you paid nine dollars.”

Onscreen, Batman confronted a crazed Killer Croc in the act of planting a bomb.

Offscreen, the White Negro said, “Or what? You gonna make me?”

Wayne turned the flashlight on the White Negro’s face. He squirted dog urine on the White Negro’s shirt.

“There,” Wayne said. “Now you have a smell to complain about.”

The White Negro heaved himself over the back of his seat and attacked Wayne with both hands, delivering blow after blow to Wayne’s prosthetic belly. The White Negro’s fist penetrated several of the twelve thumbtacks Wayne and pushed through the front of his sweater. Stinking of dog urine, the White Negro stared in horror at his bleeding fists.

The manager, a pale young man with a ponytail, came up the stairs with his own flashlight which he shined on the whole sorry scene. He sniffed. “Okay, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to leave. Your ticket money will be refunded out front in the lobby. Let’s go.”

The White Negro turned on him in wounded innocence. “But we didn’t do anything! This fat fuck started messing with us!”

Wayne remained seated. “They threw Junior Mints at the back of my head. I’m sure a police search will reveal the Mints.”

“What’s that smell?” the manager said.

“Smells like dog piss,” one of the minions said. He had the makings of a fine detective.

“All right, that’s it,” said the manager with newly found authority. “Out of here right now or I’ll stop the film, turn up the lights and call the cops.”

There was some grumbling but when two more ushers appeared with flashlights on the landing below the White Negro resignedly got to his feet and led his minions out the door. “It sucks anyway.”

The manager turned his flashlight on Wayne. Wayne turned his flashlight on the manager. “You too,” the manager said.

“Moi?” Wayne said. “I have troubled no one. I have thrown Junior Mints at no one. I merely seek to watch the movie which is ruined for me now, ruined I say because of incessant interruptions and the obstreperous and contumacious nature of your clientele.”

“Let’s go,” the manager said. “You can get a refund in the lobby.”

Wayne rose with dignity. “Fine,” he said and waddled down the stairs, pausing only to glance at Manny, who dutifully joined him. The two lads soon found themselves nine dollars richer individually and out on the street.

“Now what do we do?” Manny said.

Gazing at a poster for The Bourne Natural Killers, Wayne deduced their next move. “Come on. We’ll make our own movie. We’ll shoot it on my phone.”

Banshees Novel by Mike Baron


Wordfire Press will publish my novel Banshees, about a satanic rock band that returns from the dead. Banshees began life as a comic book proposal. Each time I revised the proposal it got thicker and deeper until I realized I had a novel on my hands. I struggled for thirty years to write novels and all I produced were big piles of shit. Something happened during my dark period when I moved to Colorado to keep my late wife alive and took such jobs as unloading automobile bumpers and packaging mouse pads. It flushed me clean of all the extraneous impediments to writing, including word cleverness, wrong turns and faulty digressions. As I was writing Banshees it hit me. Holy shit. I’ve got it.

I don’t talk much about writing on Facebook. I don’t think writers should talk about their work unless they’re giving interviews or talking to readers. I talk about Banshees because I want people to know about it. I’ve never been good at self-promotion. Thank God I have friends like my wife Ann, my publisher Kevin J. Anderson, and my agent Denise Dorman who are good at that sort of thing. Every would-be writer has a million words of bullshit clogging up his system and he has to get it out before he gets to the good stuff. I have written more than a million bullshit words, but not in a long time.

Once you absorb what it takes to write a novel it never leaves you. I surprised myself by writing horror. It’s not what I thought I’d write, but it crept up on me like an unseen presence in the dark. Film and novels are the two best mediums for horror, the former because it controls mood, sound and lighting, the latter because words can conjure that feeling of dread more successfully than any other medium.

Comics are the worst medium for horror because no matter how ghastly the story, you can always close the book and set it down. David Lapham’s Stray Bullets may be the exception to this rule because he writes about real horror in everyday life, and none of it is supernatural.

Decades of heavy metal, Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Twisted Sister and lurid tales of rock stars doing strange things inspired me to write Banshees, about a notorious heavy metal band who all died in a plane crash in 1974. Or did they?

Notorious for their satanic lyrics, drunken excess and rumors of blood sacrifice, the Banshees shocked the world with their only album Beat the Manshees. Death stalked their concerts–lightning, stabbings, overdoses. The world heaved a sigh of relief when the Banshees all died in a plane crash. Or did they? Forty years later, with no fanfare, they appear in a seedy Prague nightclub. Ian St. James, son of original Banshees drummer Oaian St. James, can’t believe his eyes. Ian’s attempts to get backstage nearly kill him.   

            In Crowd sends hot young reporter Connie Cosgrove to cover the Banshees along with that old burn-out Ian. Ian falls hard for the stunning Connie who regards him with a mixture of disgust and amusement. As if!

             The Banshees phenomenon goes viral–are they real or is it all a brilliant publicity stunt? Every time Banshees play someone dies. Is it bad luck or part of some diabolical plan? As Connie and Ian dig into the Banshees’ past they find disturbing links to black magic, the Russian mob and an ancient Druidic sect. 

            Death only adds to their mystique as the Banshees steamroll across North America toward a triumphant appearance at LA’s Pacific Auditorium. Ian finally grasps the real reason they’ve returned–to tear a rift between our world and a monstrous evil– a rift created by an infernal machine built into Pacific Stadium and powered by human flesh.



Banshees cover

Static Acting written by Mike Baron



I dig Jason Statham. I’ve seen most of his movies and consider him to be one of the foremost action actors working today. But Statham has a speech impediment. Or maybe it’s an acting impediment. No matter who he plays he makes no attempt to alter his accent. In Boaz Yakin’s Safe, one of his best movies, he plays an American cop with a Brit accent. The less said about the execrable Parker, based on Richard Stark’s novel, the better. Except he plays this thoroughly American character with a Brit accent. In Sylvester Stallone’s adaptation of Chuck Logan’s Home Front, he plays an American agent with a Brit accent.

Now I see the trailers for his new movie Spy in which he plays an American agent. With a British accent.

We watched Nashville for two seasons before learning that Sam Palladio, who plays Gunnar, and Clare Bowen who plays Scarlett are both English. You would swear they’re from Tennessee. I watched The Americans for three seasons before learning that Matthew Rhys, who plays a Russian agent with a perfect American accent is English. If you did not know who Daniel Day-Lewis was you’d swear that was Lincoln himself up on the screen.

Not Jason Statham. Like John Wayne, he only plays himself. But with less range.

Mike Baron on Writing, Historical Fiction



I picked up Wolves of the Plains, Conn Iggulden’s first installment in his epic Genghis Kahn series, at a coffee shop in town. I spent the next year reading all six books and those who saw me at cons found my nose in Iggulden. I’d read historical fiction before, notably Bernard Cornwell, George MacDonald Fraser, and James Michener. I enjoyed them all but Iggulden was something new—he writes with an immediacy and ferocity that leaves you breathless. His fiction is mostly about war—the combatants, tactics and strategies—and he writes with a close point of view that puts you in the scene. He effortlessly achieves the goal of all fiction writers, to erase the line between the reader and the story.

I have long been a fan of Robert Harris who has written four novels about Imperial Rome including Pompeii, Imperium, and Conspirata, the last two told from Cicero’s point of view, an excellent counterpoint to Iggulden’s massive Caesar series which I am also reading. The last Harris I read was An Officer and a Spy, perhaps the most complete and entertaining exegesis of the Dreyfus Affair. Harris’ books are not nearly as action-oriented as Iggulden’s, but they are just as gripping due to his skill as a storyteller. The book sent me to the encyclopedias, as they always do, and I found that Harris got every fact about the Dreyfus affair right down to the minor characters. He gets inside their heads and elucidates history from the inside — the sign of a master.

But writers of historic fiction are not always ept. Take the brilliant historian and essayist Victor Davis Hanson who has been chronicling the decline of our republic from his farm in California for decades. Hanson’s essays are brilliant. I ordered his novel The End of Sparta as soon as it was announced. I found it unreadable. Every page jammed with thousand-word paragraphs punctuated with one unpronounceable Greek name after another. He wrote like a pedant lectures, with a sort of numbing rhythm and repetitiveness that proved the antithesis of reader involvement. Professor Hansen does not understand the importance of the narrative voice. I recommend his non-fiction books whole-heartedly.

We have all read some Michener. He’s inescapable. Michener had a squad of young researchers who helped him with his massive tomes. Michener is among the least painless methods of learning history because he is fun. Or rather, his stories are involving. While all his characters may not ring true, enough do to draw you in. No fiction can succeed without the reader’s emotional involvement in some of the characters and Michener understood that. But the sheer length and breadth of his work resulted in many characters getting short shrift. How could it be otherwise when he covered periods spanning millennia? Of all the Micheners I’ve read Mexico is my fave. It is the only Michener with a sense of humor.

I’m planning a historical novel.

Mike Baron, New Story, Sons of Jackals



The title Muhammad burst from the cover in three-dimensional letters like a Cecil B. DeMille production. A lean, mean fighting machine in a white suit, wrap-around shades, beard and turban with a scantily-clad houri clinging to one leg, cigarette dangling from his lip, side-kicking a Hassidic Jew with skullcap and prophylactics two feet off the ground.

“It’s meant to be satiric,” Polly Furst said. “I’m Jewish myself.”

“Do you go to temple?” Josh Pratt asked. They sat outside at a round metal table adjacent to the sidewalk at the Laurel Tavern, a family-friendly pub on Monroe Street in Madison, WI. It was early May and the temperature was in the mid-sixties. Josh’s dog Fig sat at his feet. He flipped through the comic book.

“No. I come from a long line of secular Jews.”

“Man, I love comics. Used to read them in prison. This is good art.”

“Thank you.”

“Where do people pick this up?”

“From my website or at conventions. Capital City and Westfield have it. I asked Diamond and never heard back. I think it was too hot for them.”

“Have you received any death threats?”

“Too many to count. I told the police and they said there was nothing they could do. FBI, same thing. It’s like they have no interest in protecting me. I had to shut down my Twitter account and block about a hundred people on Facebook.”

“Did you report them to the administrator?”

“No. I guess I should have, huh.”

“Cops don’t protect people,” Josh said. “They come along after you’ve been stabbed and try to figure out who did it.”

“I have a bunch of shows coming up. I’m not going to be intimidated into hiding! I contacted Executive Security and they suggested you.”

“Huh,” Josh said. He’d finished their seminar last December and hadn’t taken any security jobs, although he’d been involved in the Cretaceous murders. “Anything local?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, has anyone phoned you or approached you in person?”

“No. I keep my phone number private but now I’m beginning to worry.”

“Where do you live?”

“I rent an apartment at Alhambra on the South Beltline.”

“I get two-fifty a day plus expenses.”

Polly goggled. She was a skinny thing with pale skin, a poof of curly red hair and a Roman nose. She wore a Tank Girl T-shirt over her flat chest and wire-rimmed glasses. She looked like a goonie bird. She snuffled, pulled a used tissue from her backpack and ran it under her nose.

“Allergies. My cash flow isn’t so great as you can imagine, but I have a terrific collection of original art I’ve collected over the years. My grandfather bunked with Charles Addams and Bill Mauldin in World War II. I suppose I could put some of my pieces up for auction.”

“I’m sympathetic to your case, Polly, but I don’t work for free.”

“I know that. People think that because I’m a starving comic book artist that I should do jobs for the publicity.”

“You make a living at this?” Josh said.

“Sort of. I got lucky last year when Vertigo tapped me to do a three issue run of Fables. Then I did a fill-in issue of Wonder Woman so I have a little money in the bank. I may have to sell my Mauldins and Addams drawings.”

The waitress came with three hamburgers. Josh set one on the ground for Fig. By the time Josh straightened up it was gone. Polly wolfed hers down looking around furtively as if some green was about to make a citizen’s arrest. She brought out two amber plastic bottles from her backpack, opened them and downed two pills.

“Do you have a concealed carry permit?” Josh said.

Polly stared at him like he was a bug. “Don’t be absurd! No one should have a gun except the police.”

“I’d like to take a look at your place and if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your original art.”

“Do you know anything about comics?” Polly said.

“I like The Badger. I think I have a few floating around.”

“Everybody loves The Badger,” Polly said. “I never wanted to do superheroes.”

Josh hefted Muhammad. “What’s this?”

“It’s a satire.”

“I don’t think Muslims do satire. Tell me something. With everything that’s happening in the world, with terrorists flowing over the southern border like a land rush, what made you think this was a good idea?”

“I’m an artist. I can’t think about what’s politically correct and I can’t let prejudice affect what I consider art or it’s the death of art. Every day we hear another ukase from some idiot that this or that should be off-limits.” Polly spoke in a faux low voice. “’There are many proper subjects for humor. Islam is not among them.’ Fuck that! Even Schindler’s List has a few laughs.”

Josh liked her. He’d always hated bullies.

“Now they say you can’t write Luke Cage unless you’re a black man. And you can’t play a movie Indian unless you’re Indian. There’s a reason they’re called actors. Edgar Rice Burroughs would have been forbidden to write Tarzan because he never went to Africa. Alexander Dumas could not have written The Three Musketeers because he was a black man. They’re calling for the death of the imagination.”

“I hear you.”

“Did you ever see The Year of Living Dangerously? Linda Hunt, this little midget woman won an Oscar for portraying a Vietnamese man. What do we do now? Take away her Oscar ‘cause she’s not Vietnamese?”

“Never saw it.” Josh hadn’t seen many movies and most of those that he had seen he saw in prison. Inmates voted on what they wanted to see so Josh had intimate knowledge of Hell Up In Harlem, Superfly, Buck Town, Easy Rider, Hell’s Angels On Wheels, and Wild Angels. The tiny gay contingent never could summon the votes for The Bird Cage.

“Sorry for the rant. Seems like I gotta justify everything I do these days.”

“Not to me.”

“So what do you think?” she said, fixing her green eyes on him.

“About what?”

“About protecting me!”

“Let’s take a look at that original art. I might do it for the art.”

“Great!” Polly said. When the check came she snatched it. “I’ve got this.”

Minutes later the waitress returned perplexed. “Ma’am, your credit card didn’t go through.”


“We got notice from your bank that it’s been canceled.”

“That’s impossible,” Polly said.

It’s started Josh thought as he reached for his walletrecent photo of mike

At the Dog Park by Mike Baron

By Mike Baron, Writer of Nexus and Badger. Cali on Mike's Chair




The dog park is three acres of enclosed wood chips on which dogs like to dine, from which we can see Long’s Peak gleaming in the sunlight. Long’s Peak is over fourteen thousand feet and sixty miles away. People die every year on Long’s Peak because they think it’s an easy climb. I don’t know why they think that.

The more dogs, the more activity. A half dozen or less encourages sloth and introspection but when the mutts mount up, so do the dogs! They circle like a large Hadron Collider attracting other dogs as small planets snagged by gravity, usually in a counter-clockwise direction. Archimedes observed how a whirlpool of dogs sucks in all other dogs.

I am down to two dogs following the passing of the immortal Bob. Freddie and Mack LOVE big balls. You wouldn’t think a twenty-pound dog could get a soccer ball in her mouth. WRONGGGGG! This dude brings a giant knot to the playground and the dogs go berserk, especially Freddie and Mack who are obsessed with BIG BALLS. The giant knot is just that—an inch thick hauser twisted into a five pound sphere with two ropes running out the poles. Dude tossed the giant knot and Mack got there first. Gripping the hauser in her steel trap jaws, she led a dozen dogs on a deranged dervish in the dirt to the detriment of none.

This morning at the park I met a guy named Rod. I told him I wrote comics and he told me that his grandfather, Milton Wohl, was one of the original Fleischer Brothers animators in Florida, and had worked on the early Popeye and Woody Woodpecker cartoons. In the Army during World War II, Wohl’s bunkmates were Charles Addams and Bill Mauldin.

You meet interesting people at the dog park.