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From the Blurb
Littlethumb Brooks is an internationally renowned artist suffering a life of great tragedy. While the world knows Littlethumb as a famous painter, he secretly moonlights as the operational force behind his uncle’s globetrotting team of soldiers of fortune, the Electric Medicine Men.

When Littlethumb’s most famous collection of paintings, The Marias, is stolen, it’s up to the Electric Medicine Men to recover them. Along the way the team discovers a world-changing invention, a villainous syndicate marches toward global upheaval, and a disturbed journalist unleashes his misguided wrath on our hero.

Navigating all of this madness, Littlethumb’s greatest challenge is conquering the fear he’ll never be able to safely raise his daughter.

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Excerpt

5

Delivering the stolen children to the United States Consulate in Morocco is a reasonably simple task. The trick, of course, is making sure the Electric Medicine Men remain anonymous. In spite of Daring Bird’s enjoyment of theatrics, his organization has successfully maintained an urban legend status for several decades. Much of this can be attributed to supporters of the E2M cause. The Electric Medicine Men have a ridiculously loyal fan base. Like, professional wrestling fans loyal. Fútbol fans loyal. Pearl Jam fans loyal.

The Electric Medicine Men’s supporters are the common folk, the oppressed. The ragtag masses, deemed expendable by the universe, their fellow humans and at the end of the day, one way or another, collar-tugging compassionate rhetoric aside, their own governments. I digress.

Dropping the kids off at the Consulate happens without issue. Handling the strange device is more complicated. Littlethumb wants to analyze the device, but shipping is off the table until it is tested for radiation, traceable chemical signatures, energy output, or anything at all that might get the package flagged by a freight company or customs. This means someone will most likely have to smuggle the device to Littlethumb. A course of action that comes with its own set of issues, but those are issues that can wait. Daring Bird’s number one concern right now is the safety of his team, who will be on lockdown protocol with the device in their possession for at least a month.

The Electric Medicine Men operate under a few simple organizational rules instituted by Littlethumb and Daring Bird. Rule number one is no killing. The E2M are thieves and troublemakers in the name of cosmic decency, not glorified murderous antiheroes. To be a force of righteousness in this world, they must remain righteous. Killing is off the table, period. There is no more slippery a slope into moral hypocrisy than a hero justifying homicide.

On down the short list of organizational rules are post-operational procedures, which starts with the entire team bedding down together for safety. According to Daring Bird’s personal theory, on average, life will always provide some new calamity, heartbreak, or wonderful distraction within a calendar month, even for the forces of evil. Thus, the Electric Medicine Men always hide together for at least one full month. Protecting everyone and maintaining the group’s anonymity post-operation is much easier if they’re all together. If something happens and they’re found, they might all die together, but at least no one on the team will have to live in fear while being hunted alone, or suffer from survivor syndrome.

After leaving Morocco, the Electric Medicine Men travel to an underground facility in Barcelona, where they contact a scientist and inventor in their network. Parthos the Drunk and Horny Monk is his codename. His real name is whatever the Spanish version of Doug might be. I’m kidding, but I do have to keep Parthos’ identity a secret.

Once Parthos determines that the device is free of any standard tracking mechanisms and appears safe from imminent explosion, Daring Bird and the team head for a safe house in Marseille, France. If you’re ever looking to set up a safe house for hiding out, plotting, or generally remaining “underground,” coastal cities that have public and private airports and commuter trains are the way to go. You have escape routes accessible by land, air, and water, with multiple modes of transportation for each route.

In this instance, the mode of transportation is a dilapidated houseboat, as our band of hero crusaders piddles through the Mediterranean Sea, achingly making their way toward the coast of Marseille. From what I understand, Marseille is an extremely beautiful city. I’ve never been, though I have taken a virtual tour.

“I know you said nothing flashy,” says Silas the Entertainer, “but this tub is a bit ridiculous.”

“Almost there, Sal,” replies Daring Bird.

“I hear you, boss, but you know how I feel about the sea.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So imagine how I feel about the sea with an unusually large jack-in-the-box that could be a bomb on our boat.”

“Maybe not so much different than me, or the rest of the team.”

“You know, my father used to say, “Always walk straight lines, son. Always walks straight lines. You can’t walk a straight line at sea, D.B.”

“Almost there.”

That’s all of their conversation that I’m showing you because I like stopping at Daring Bird repeating himself. In real life, they go on to discuss the implications of the jack-in-the-box more thoroughly, what in the hell Silas’s father meant by his vaguely sage advice, Silas’s affinity for French cuisine, and his voracious appetite after an extended period of fear. Which is what being at sea always is for him, an extended period of fear. Silas does most of the talking.

Oh, yeah. The mysterious device has an outer shell designed to look like an oversized jack-in-the-box. Sort of slipped the jack-in-the-box in on you back there in the dialogue. So what we’re dealing with is a slightly oversized jack-in-the-box with a friendly and not at all frightening clown painted on the sides. We don’t know if the physical design has a functional role in the operation of the device or if it’s purely a disguise, which means we also don’t know what happens if you turn the jack-in-the-box’s crank. Daring Bird cautioned against doing so and no one has had the nerve to argue with him. Not even Parthos, who was desperately curious.

The houseboat docks south of Marseille’s Old Port, on the coast of the Endoume quarter. Silas is the first ashore, kissing the planks of the dock as if he’s survived a tornado inside a hurricane inside a tsunami on a trip through the Bermuda Triangle, rather than a leisurely, uneventful cruise across the Mediterranean.

“I love the land,” he says, followed by, “muah, muah, muah,” as he kisses the dock thrice more. “And I love France!” Silas turns to his compatriots, who’re still unloading from the boat. “Have I ever told you how much I love France?” he offers to anyone who will respond.

Garo Kasabian, the Armenian Butcher, happily takes the bait. “It’s not France you love, my friend,” he says with a smirk, patting Silas on the shoulder. “It’s French women.”

“Tomato, potato, Butch. And yes. I. do.”

“Your promiscuity is a sin,” offers Titus the Nazarene. “Joyful to your flesh but not to your soul.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, T. Unless she’s lying to me, my soul thoroughly enjoys a nice romp in the sheets with an enthusiastic lass.”

“I will pray for you,” replies Titus.

“You do not have a female soul,” says Bebi. “I promise you.”

“You don’t miss a beat, Bebi,” says Silas. “That’s what I’m talking about. I bet none of the rest of you dopes picked up on that.”

“Sal,” offers Jimmy the Tweaker. “I don’t think anyone on this team doubts there’s a powerful anima in you craving the opportunity to belt out a few show tunes. That’s why your little warrior, and I mean tiny, tiny pecker, is constantly running around overcompensating.”

“I’ll take the powerful animal comment and walk away,” says Silas.

“Not animal, knucklehead. Anima.”

“What’s that?”

“Look it up.”

“Let’s go,” Daring Bird interrupts. “Off the streets, asap. You can talk more shit once we’re in the dark. I’ll happily roast all you sons-of-bitches around a fire tonight after we’re locked down.”

“Alright everybody, you heard the old man,” says Jimmy.

“You’re older than me, jagoff,” replies Daring Bird.

If you’re picking up what I’m laying down regarding group dynamics, you might guess this is a common refrain between these two friends, along with the group’s jabs at Silas the Entertainer’s frequently comical dalliances. There’s more hilarious banter on the way, but I encourage you to fill in your own punchlines when you feel I haven’t massaged a joke to its full release. Send me an email or a letter with suggestions, if you like.

The team makes its way through the city to the Bompard quarter, not too far inland from the coast. The safe house is a historic home on a small estate surrounded by trees, in an area filled by similar, semi-secluded properties. Supposedly, the house was once owned by poet and playwright Edmond Rostand, a native of Marseille.

This safe house isn’t exclusively for the E2M’s usage. Divided into sections for privacy, consider the house a multi-unit “underground” timeshare, owned and operated by an extremely wealthy benefactor to the secretive forces of good. Not even Daring Bird knows who this person is. He or she is way, way up the food chain. Hell, I don’t know who this person is, though I’m determined to find them out.

Only once has the team been turned away from a network safe house due to full occupancy. Honestly, there just aren’t a ton of underground do-gooders running around looking for secret places to hide. Many people are trying to make this world a better place, for sure, but most of them are doing their work right out in the open for the rest of us to see, if we’re willing to look. I bet they’re easier to find than the secret entrance to a safe house.

The safe house’s secret entrance is hidden inside a yard shed under a lawnmower facade. A digital keypad disguised as a family crest unlocks the door to the shed. Once inside, you push down on the lawnmower handle, lifting the mower body to reveal a ladder. Down the ladder you go, into a tunnel leading to the house’s basement and the official front desk check-in of hotel Don’t Let the Bad Guys Get Me.

An extremely thick iron door waits at the end of the tunnel. No ultra-modern technology here. An old-fashioned, coded knock on the door by Jimmy the Tweaker initiates check-in.

“Vacancy.” A modulated voice spews from a rusty speaker on the tunnel wall.

“Six pilgrims, indefinitely,” responds Daring Bird.

Without another word, the team hears sliding bolts and creaking hinges as the door is unlocked and opened. Standing inside the door, to Daring Bird’s surprise, is a beautiful woman. The woman bows hello, arms firmly pressed to her sides.

“Hello. I am your host, Kumiko.”

“Where’s Laurent?” asks Daring Bird.

“Sir, Laurent has retired.”

“Peacefully?”

“That is my understanding.”

“How long ago?”

“I’ve served as host for eight months.”

“You the first replacement?”

“Yes.”

“Permanent residency?”

“I hope so, if my work is approved of.”

“We’ll need five rooms.”

At this, Kumiko scans the team, finishing with a non-judgmental glance at Bebiana, who, if I haven’t previously mentioned, has a slightly lopsided, Picasso-esque face graciously mounted atop the neck of a gloriously curvy and powerful physique. Five rooms for six people? Which one of these men is the eye of the beholder, laying with this confusingly sexy creature? Kumiko places odds on the leader, internally referencing alpha male nonsense. Then again, maybe two of the men find comfort in one another. This is a humanist network, after all.

“Please input your key,” says Kumiko, holding up a computer tablet. Daring Bird types in a security key, anonymously verifying network membership.

If your security key doesn’t work, the host is quietly alerted. Check-in moves forward normally without any indication you’ve been excommunicated or given yourself away as an imposter. You get a room, perhaps a meal, fair treatment, etcetera, and the next time you fall asleep, you wake up in chains.

“Please, follow me,” says Kumiko.

No other guests occupy the safe house, giving our smart-ass heroes their run of the facility. Everyone drops gear in their rooms and reports for a team meeting. The device is not to be discussed in front of their host. No slips. Daring Bird isn’t overly suspicious of her yet, but they must be careful. Play it normal and cool, but be cautious.

I say physician heal thyself, because I know Daring Bird, and I can tell you without a doubt that Kumiko’s presence stokes a long-dormant, smoldering flame in his blah blah blah…Daring Bird is horny. Horny is an opposite state of being to cautious.

Let’s move on to dinner and introductions. The team is in a spacious kitchen, cooking and making merry. Garo Kasabian mans the stove, working several sauté pans. Jimmy stands at a wet bar mixing drinks. Everyone else sits around a large harvest table in the center of the room. The gang falls conspicuously silent when Kumiko enters.

“I apologize for the interruption,” she says, on her way to the refrigerator. “I will only be a moment.” 

With his feet on the table and a heavily chewed cigar in his mouth, Daring Bird says, “Please, don’t rush. Join us for dinner.”

Kumiko looks hesitantly at him, then the rest of the team.

“We’re going to be here a while,” Daring Bird continues. “Might as well get comfortable with one another.” (I told you he was horny.)

“Thank you. I sincerely appreciate the invitation. Regretfully, I must decline. I have work.” Kumiko holds up a container of food and bows her head, turning to exit the room.

“You should stay.” Daring Bird’s tone is a perfect blend of subversively threatening and subversively flirtatious.

Kumiko stops. If she felt threatened, she would retreat to her quarters, file a report, and arm herself. Instead, she turns around and stares intently at Daring Bird. The scarred-up medicine man’s feet are still on the table and the cigar still proudly jutting from his mouth, which happens to be wearing a devil’s pointy-tailed grin. Kumiko tilts her head and damn near knocks him over with an expression that clearly states if he doesn’t watch his step, he might get what he doesn’t even realize he’s asking for. Between you and me, the options are sex or a knife in the chest.

Garo breaks the ice. “You will bring great shame to my family if you don’t try my chicken cutlet.” 

Turning around, Kumiko sees the Armenian Butcher wearing a broad smile, gently rocking a sauté pan back and forth in each hand. An off-kilter chef’s hat decorates his head.

“Madame Kumiko,” says Jimmy, as he crosses back to the table, handing Bebi her drink and placing his on the table next to her. “May I call you Madame Kumiko?”

Kumiko gives an affirmative nod and Jimmy continues speaking as he takes a seat.

“The gentleman handling the pots and pans is Garo Kasabian, the Armenian Butcher. Soldier, chef de cuisine de magnifique, and uniquely qualified explosives expert.” Garo sets a pan back on its burner and waves innocently.

“That knucklehead over there is Silas the Entertainer,” Jimmy continues. “We’re not sure what he does.”

Polishing off a cocktail, Silas stands and holds his left hand out to receive Kumiko’s, who politely obliges. The kiss he smacks on the back of her hand might have been skeezy, save for the fact Silas is actually a surprisingly smooth operator, born with an undeserved amount of charm. They don’t call him Mick the Dick for nothing.

“My lady,” he says. “Please, call me Sal.”

“Whatever you prefer.”

In response, Silas promptly jumps the shark from charming to cheesy, wielding a lazy technique, rarely effective on anyone but ignoramuses or the inebriated. Raising Kumiko’s hand to his nose, he smells it lasciviously and says, “Are you an Aries?”

To which Kumiko beautifully feigns confusion and replies, “No, Okinawan.”

The entire team howls laughter, including Silas. Extremely pleased with himself as always, he takes the container of leftovers from Kumiko and ushers her into a seat at the table. Jimmy continues introductions as the chuckles die off.

“This here is Bebiana Belo, the…”

Before Jimmy can finish, Bebiana jumps in to add, “The Brazilian Bitch,” with a snarl. Kumiko isn’t certain if the snarl was playful or aggressive. Neither is Jimmy, and for that matter neither is Bebi, yet.

“I was going to say love of my life,” says Jimmy, pleasantly.

Bebiana lays a hand over one of his and says, “But you may call me Bebi.”

“Brazil is a beautiful country,” says Kumiko. “What city are you from?”

“I’m from Portugal.”

“Oh. Then why…”

“Because if I was from Brazil,” explains Bebiana, “I would be a bitch.” Another round of laughter from everyone except the author of the joke, who mutters under her breath, “Country full of bitches.”

“Okay. Next up, me, Jimmy the Tweaker. American. Boring. Feel free to call me J.T. if it suits you.” Kumiko gives a seated bow, tilting her shoulders and head. “Last but not least, the handsome, surprisingly quiet bugger over there is Titus the Nazarene. Pilot, kitten enthusiast, and harbinger of spiritual litigation.”

“I am Desposyni,” Titus exclaims. “Child of Mary!”

“You’re drunk,” says Silas.

“Yes, I am!” Titus is a frequent, lightweight drunk, and a curiosity to his compatriots, who can’t understand why he’s never developed a tolerance. Silas is convinced Titus is an alien. No one else has ascribed to that theory, though Daring Bird is on the fence. Luckily, despite his drunkenness, Titus is as tight-lipped as they come. Neither alcohol nor sodium pentothal has ever pried an E2M secret from his judgmental mouth.

“I don’t understand,” says Kumiko. “What is Desposyni?”

“Generally speaking, the blood relatives of Jesus Christ,” says Daring Bird. “Our friend believes he is a direct descendent of the children Jesus had with Mary Magdalene.”

“I did not know Jesus had children.”

“Neither does anyone else,” says Jimmy. “But Titus is determined to sue the Catholic Church for misappropriation of the family name.”

“Why the Catholic Church?” asks Kumiko.

“I don’t know,” says Jimmy. “They’re the biggest, or the worst, or something.”

“I am Desposyni,” Titus mumbles. “Without age. Without name. Impossible to kill.”

Kumiko tries to fight back a laugh but can’t resist, so she hides it with the back of her hand.

“To be fair,” says Daring Bird. “He is very hard to kill.”

“And we don’t know if Titus is his real name, or how old he is,” says Jimmy.

“He’s a goddamn alien,” says Silas, at which point Garo Kasabian loudly tings a fork against a glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

Later in the evening, everyone relaxes around the harvest table, dirty plates shoved away from themselves as they continue to drink and chatter. The entire group is intoxicated save for Daring Bird, though he is suspicious of Kumiko. She seems to be faking drunkenness. Easy enough to discard as an effort to be a jovial host, I suppose…

“Though I have not been in my position for long, I must admit you are the most unusual guests I’ve hosted,” says Kumiko.

“We’ll take that as a compliment,” says Daring Bird.

“Oh, yes.” Kumiko hoots. “My apologies. I meant this in a good way.”

“Madame,” says Jimmy. “I promise you that’s the only way anyone on this team would take it. Unusual is our game.”

“So, you admit it is intentional. Is this why you introduce yourself with your funny names?”

“Oh, I like this one,” says Silas, smacking the table and surveying his teammates for agreement. “She’s quick! Yes, she is.” Silas turns to Kumiko. “They are fun! Right? Besides, what’s the point in having them if we don’t use them?”

“Ha. Very true. I believe I understand why they call you the entertainer.”

“Bear witness, momma.”

“But why are you the Butcher? That is a killer’s name. This seems out of place, or maybe, violent for your team’s…” she pauses, searching for the correct word before settling on, “…I don’t know. Mystique. Yes. The name seems more violent than your presence.”

“I own a deli.”

“You own a deli?”

“Yes, I own a deli and butcher shop. When I am home, I am a butcher. And, in our mission, the scary name is useful.”

“He owns a deli.” Kumiko laughs, consorting with the smiling faces around the table before landing on Daring Bird, who’s watching her intently. Her laughter ends, punctuated by flushed cheeks, and she turns to Jimmy. “And what about you, mister tweaker? How did you get your nickname?”

“I am a hypnotist. I tweak people’s minds. Hence the name, Jimmy the Tweaker.”

Kumiko leans forward and playfully says to Bebi, “Has he ever hypnotized you?”

“How do you think I got her to fall in love with me?” He’s joking, but Jimmy is extremely aware of the fact that he’s no physical specimen. Obviously, physical attraction isn’t a singular necessary component for successful coupling, but it certainly helps get things going. I teased about Bebi’s odd sexiness earlier, but she’s well above Jimmy’s paygrade. Jimmy’s few remaining assets in the attracting a lover department are a decent head of middle-aged hair, middle-aged emotional calm, and a cool job. Jimmy’s no Harry Hamblin, and he knows damn well how blessed he is to have won Bebi’s heart.

Kumiko turns her playful expression to Jimmy, then back to Bebiana, who winks and blows a kiss in Kumiko’s direction. During the exchange, a stumbly drunken Titus wobbles over to the kitchen counter and turns on a small television, cranking the volume up so loud he interrupts the conversation.

“Hey, Titus, come on man, shut that damn thing off,” says Silas.

“No,” says Daring Bird. “Leave it.”

On the television, a dashingly handsome anchorwoman discusses a familiar portrait displayed in the corner of the screen. I don’t know French, but I do know all Daring Bird needs to hear is, “…toute nouvelle information sur l’extraordinaire vol de la collection The Marias à Lyon, il y a plusieurs jours.” The Marias have been stolen.