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Bad Valentines 2

Bad Valentines 2

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Bad Valentines 2

75 pages
1 hour
Jan 28, 2017


Love is one of those four letter words that some people like to throw around – but sometimes love can be one of the meanest and nastiest games in town.

Here are six of the strangest love stories you have ever read.

Find love and memories in the bag of a mysterious eighteen wheeler in "Do-Overs and Detours - Somewhere North of Bigfoot".

Find out just how bitter love can truly taste in "Hard Soup".

Find out why the sea is so darned salty in "The Woman Who Lost Her Tooth While Laughing At The Sea".

Other stories include "Forget About Torture", "Voodoo Chicken Trucker Run-around", "St. Valentine's Day Massacre in Ale", "Moving Lines" and the mind-blowing weirdness that is "Olivia Newton John Love Doll".

"This genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion." –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL

Those who have read Vernon's fiction previously know to expect the unexpected, and to grab onto something firm and weighty as they begin the first few words of one of his stories. – Fearzone

Steve Vernon is a hard writer to pin down. And that’s a good thing. – Dark Scribe Magazine

Jan 28, 2017

About the author

Steve Vernon is a storyteller. The man was born with a campfire burning at his feet. The word "boring" does not exist in this man's vocabulary - unless he's maybe talking about termites or ice augers. That’s all that Steve Vernon will say about himself – on account of Steve Vernon abso-freaking HATES talking about himself in the third person. But I’ll tell you what. If you LIKED the book that you just read drop me a Tweet on Twitter – @StephenVernon - and yes, old farts like me know how to twitter – and throw in a link to the Kobo version – and I’d be truly grateful. Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated – but I know that not all of you folks are into writing big long funky old reviews – so shout the book out just any way that you can – because I can use ALL the help I can get.

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Bad Valentines 2 - Steve Vernon




(Six Twisted Love Stories)


Steve Vernon


Smashwords Edition


By Steve Vernon

First Printing – February 2, 2014

The most terrible thing of all is happy love, for then there is fear in everything. – Cosima Wagner

Sex is not only a divine and beautiful activity; it’s a murderous activity. People kill each other in bed. Some of the greatest crimes ever committed were committed in bed – and no weapons were ever used. – Norman Mailer

Don’t threaten me with love, baby. – Billy Holiday

Do-Overs and Detours – Somewhere North of Bigfoot

Seeing that big black semi rolling along the side of a Texas goat path no wider than a tire tread, was like finding a great white shark wallowing in a mule’s water trough.

Well Judas, I swore.

I got that curse from my grandfather. Old granddad never liked taking the Lord’s name in vain, but the way that he saw it nearly anybody else in the good book was up for grabs. I can still hear him rolling it out as smooth as diesel, Judas-holy-priest-by-the-gods-of-war-hoary-eyed-baldheaded-Moses-oh-crap, all shoved together like there wasn’t a beginning or end.

The rig rolled closer.

I stood there, thumb hooked into the wind, watching this coal black eighteen wheeler looming towards me like the second coming.

It had to be a mirage.

I’d been out in the sun too long.

Well mirage or not, I was going to get myself a lift. The last tractor I’d hitched a ride with had been a big green John Deere, driven by a drunken Texas plowboy with the humor of a crucified leper, the patience of a boiling tea kettle, and one hell of a misguided sense of direction. We argued for about a half a minute before he got ticked off and I got kicked off, smack-dab in the middle of nothing in particular with nowhere else to go but stop.

The rig got closer.

It was a beast, the biggest that I’d ever seen. It was painted midnight black and looked to be twice as large as the national debt of Columbia. All slick and curved like something built by the god of crop circles.

It sure didn’t look like anything crawled out of Detroit - but it looked like salvation to me as it geared down and pulled on over.

Give me some credit.

I had a half of a half second’s worth of second thoughts about how good an idea this might be. Hell, who wouldn’t have? The truck was painted so black you could stick your hand into the paint job and lose it. In the coal cellar of my memory I heard my mother’s words of sagebrush wisdom on getting into cars with strangers.

Don’t climb into nothing what ain’t got a back door out.

Well, the truck did have a back door, even though I couldn’t get to it. Just the same I climbed on in. My feet were sore, and up until now the only hope I had was that maybe that drunken Texas plowboy might stick his tractor in reverse.


The driver was a big fellow, even sitting down, with a big red beard, tight and curly as a fistful of copper wool.

Where you heading? he asked.


Tennessee, Texas, or Egypt?

I laughed, thinking it was a joke.

Can’t get to Egypt on a truck.

The big man grinned like a burning neon sign.

You’d be surprised how far a fellow can get, if he really wishes.

Holy Moses. The guy was a freaking Oprah slinger. Worse than bible thumpers, Oprah slingers spread good cheer and hope in the form of meaningless proverbs and all knowing grins. If they aren’t working as truckers they’re often found in bus terminals and airports pressing grimy tracts of unfathomable wisdom into hands that would rather hang onto their luggage.

To hell with it.

A ride was a ride, and I needed one.

Texas, I said. I’m going to Memphis, Texas.

That’s a long way from here.

Not nearly as far as Egypt.

He nodded like he was listening to Solomon.

Do you have a name? he asked.

Everybody does, I said, letting it lie right there.

He laughed at that, a long steady huh-huh-huh, like the sound of empty boxcars rolling over a rusty switch.

His laughter got to irritating me, and I wished he’d shut the hell up.

Just as slick as a turnpike he let the laughter ticker out and we drove the next hour through a desert of silence. Nothing but the wind whiskering past the windshield. I got to regretting my last wish. The whole world seemed lonesome with no words to hear.

Only thing to look at besides the road was a big old pocket watch swinging from the sun visor like a gallows medal. The watch wasn’t ticking. I don’t know if it was broke, or just not wound.

As near as I could figure we were rolling just north of Bigfoot, about a hundred miles west of Corpus Christi. That was fine with me. I was headed for Memphis, about as

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