Somethin' for Nothin'
by M.T. Bass
Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Release Date: February 2, 2016
An Action Misadventure Thriller from The Last Frontier: In Alaska, you can see yourself scream...
"Bass' tale...exudes freshness, courtesy of a memorable snowy backdrop and indelible characters." — Kirkus Reviews
"...an exciting, fast-paced novel...Featuring well drawn characters..." — The BookLife Prize in FictionAnchorage, 1976 — Albert and Waxy flunk their Intro to Philosophy midterm and drunkenly decide to drop out of The Ohio State University and go to Alaska to "strike it rich" working on the Trans Alaska Pipeline. After Albert's father cuts off his credit card, they get bartending & dishwashing jobs at an Anchorage bar, where Albert becomes involved with the bar owner's girlfriend, CiCi, who is also the lead singer in the house band. Albert "acquires" a union card to get a pipeline job for himself, but then learns that Waxy has become part of a crazy scheme with Jimmi the Pilot, Beantown Bob and Moe the Eskimo to find and recover a long lost government payroll from an Air Force cargo plane that crashed in the Alaska Mountain Range decades ago.
Email: mtb@owl-works.com
Thank you for featuring Somethin' for Nothin'!
ReplyDeleteIt's great to have Rising Indies on board for the Somethin' for Nothin' blog tour. Thanks. ~M.T. Bass
ReplyDeleteThey sat a long while, parked on the side of Highway 1 coming out of the Chugach Mountains, staring through the windshield at the lights of Anchorage, a glittering pool of civilization spilt like milk beside Cook’s Inlet in the foggy dusk, an oasis to slake their thirst of loneliness after two thousand miles of travel through desolate Canadian wilderness.
Albert reached between the seats for the last, nearly empty bottle of Yukon Jack. He held it up in toast, “It is the call of the wild, my friend. The call of the fucking wild.”
Albert took a pull and passed the bottle to Waxy. “No man of reason can dispute this.”
When they had finished off the bottle, Waxy put the blue Ford panel van into gear and Albert tossed the empty Yukon Jack bottle out the window to shatter on the shoulder of the road.
They drove around downtown Anchorage, gulping down the uniquely municipal manifestation of humanity’s presence which seemed so foreign to them now after a near terminally long absence since leaving Seattle. After circling back past the Lucky Wishbone Diner for what seemed to be at least the ninth or tenth time, they pulled in and grabbed a booth across from the counter.
“Tomorrow, man, tomorrow we strike it rich,” said Albert.