Technophobia

Available on the Author's Super-Awesome Site

This stupendous, amazing, spectacular, not-at-all-overhyped comedy/science-fiction series can be found in the following parts:

Book 1: Serial Fiction Sideshow

Book 2: Home Sweet Home Invasion

Book 3: Technophobia

Book 4: Armageddon Trigger Finger

Book 5: The Genetic Equation

Book 6: Power Tool

Book 7: The Lesser of Two Egos

Book 8: Untitled of Attitude Adjustments

Book 9: Those We Left Behind

Book 10: Metaphor for Life

Book 11: Oh, Crock, Here Comes a Meteor!

Book 12: His Kingdom Come

Book 13: A Wolf in Sheep's Armor

Book 14: Man Versus Machine Part 1 of 1

Book 15: Our New Hiring Policy

Book 16: Life like Broken Glass

Book 17: The Church of Steeple

Book 18: Blood Bunny

Book 19: Disease of Behavior

Book 20: The Paper Tiger's Yardstick

Book 21: This One Has a Dancing Gibbon

Book 22: My Brother's Captor

Book 23: Marching Orders

Book 24: To Wake the Deactivated

The Story So Far Vol. 1

Please visit the In a Galaxy Far, Far AwRy site for all these free e-books and more information.

Other Word Bricks

Maybe check out these other things 'cause they're superfine too!

Not So Superpowered, available at tiny.cc/nssuperpowered

Three Flash Fictions, available upon request from the author

Horrible things about your family, available on public record

Dedicated to...

…my unbiological brother, Andrew. Whatever you're doing in the forest when nobody can reach you is a mystery, but make sure all bodies remain buried. You never know what a wolf might dig up.

Acknowledgements

Here we are on round three of the series, and things are going strong. This series is like a cake: I might have written the recipe, but others helped ice and bake it. A lot of work has been poured into this cake and there are people I'd like to spotlight who have contributed with the baking: a dash of editing, a sprinkle of advertising, a cup of helping me free up time to get this book finished, and a dollop over the head for overusing a cake metaphor.

Bake for 50 minutes or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Let cool for 1 hour and serve.

And away we go with a high-five to...

...Matt Levesque. Once again, dude, thanks for going through this, dissecting every word arrangement and idea, and helping assemble my disjointed thoughts into something legible. Or as legible as can be, given the writer.

...Steve Baptistia. The man/robot with the eidetic memory. When AI technology catches up with you, I'll still be convinced computer memory won't work as competently as yours does.

...Mark Nadon. The military man with the military experience to militarily tell me what I'm militarily messing up. If it weren't for you, this series would be filled with 40 or 50 percent more inaccuracies than it is now.

...LeAnh Gibbs, my wife and cohort. Thanks for taking the kids every time I'm booked at an event or need to get work done. You get the Tireless Mother of the Year Award every month. Yes, an annual award every month. That's dedication and a manipulation of the laws of time.

...Andrew MacLellan. You're probably responsible for most of the sense of humor I crammed into my brain that Seinfeld didn't already have crammed in there. I seriously miss our Ottawa adventures. We can't talk much these days, but when we do, it's like you never left.

...Bernie Pallek. Every time—every time—I need help at an expo or with any legwork, you're there, no questions asked. You'll regret that policy if I ever start robbing banks.

...Marie Ouelette and Colin Atterbury. For the advice, for the get-up-and-go support, for the enthusiasm, for the LOLs.

...my grandfather, William Gibbs. You know what you helped unleash upon this world. The world probably deserved it, but still, you made me the writer I am.

...God. Without you, a lot of stuff wouldn't exist.

...planet Earth. Thanks for letting me steal your trees. They make fine printing material.

Should I have spelled LOLs with a z? I should have spelled LOLs with a z.

Prologue

At this stage of the game, you readers who've been with me before know how this works: the series is a reboot, this narrative is much better, and the stories will keep coming and coming as long as you guys keep loving and loving them and as long as I keep writing and writing them. Which, from the looks of things, isn't going to end very soon. Thank you. You're amazing. Especially you in the back with the nice smile.

This time around, let's talk about the business part of this whole soiree. The business part is both the best and worst parts of the writing process. Everyone says, Love what you do. There are few truer statements. (Breathe through the pain is truer, I've come to realize after a few gym mishaps.)

But there's a caveat to that love-what-you-do statement: There will come parts you dread. There are two such parts. One is the money management.

You see, during my twenty-five year preparatory period (we'll call it that), I wrote with no purpose other than to have fun and to accomplish things I've never before accomplished, which are fine purposes. But when I decided to bring this series public, I soon realized the toil that came with managing the business side of writing. Because, when you get into the publishing gig, the finances of your writing are now overseen by the government. They want to know what you're doing, how you're managing money, how you abide by laws, et cetera. And so you have to treat your endeavor no longer as a hobby but as a business venture. Gasp. There are rules to follow and gasps to gasp. Extra skills to practice, extra aspects to learn, extra hours to keep track of receipts and expenditures. Spreadsheets help. So do financial advisors. But, really, the onus is on the business owner.

It's at this point when you realize the horror of how quickly your business expenditures climb. Dealing with that reality is tough. When you're forced to quantify your money, you realize how tight that business belt has to squeeze.

That's one of the worst parts. And, you know what? It really ain't that bad.

Now, the best part? Here's the good news. Literally everything else. Literally. The writing, the fun part of editing, the expos, the bonds you form at those expos. Everything else. And the good news is that the best part erases the worst parts. The worst parts becomes overshadowed. You develop an emotional callus against them. You're immune.

In any labor of love—business, childrearing, love itself—you don't even notice the worst parts. You don't even realize they are the worst parts.

Despite the worst parts, I do what I love. It's not my day job, but it's a job, and it's a good job. (If you must know, in my day job, I'm an office worker at the aforementioned government, which ain't half bad, really.)

To top it off, the expos—which are really just times when I haul books, advertising signs, tablecloths, tables, posters, T-shirts, and all that jazz off to convention centers, sometimes in different cities, to scrape out a tiny profit if I'm lucky—are a blast. I get to meet my audience. I get to shake hands, take pictures with people, hear what the masses like and don't like, see familiar faces, and check out downright amazing costumes. Where else can you do that? Not in a cubicle.

You also get to meet some of these expo regulars, form bonds, get to know your competition, which turns out to be support, not competition. I've met amazing people. Expo regulars, really. And I couldn't have done it—read that cliché again—couldn't have done it without my cohort, Bernie.

Seriously, there's a community at these things. And you get to know the expo regulars, both exhibitors and buyers, most by name. All these people make the whole endeavor worthwhile. This is the Community, capital c.

Earlier, I mentioned there are two worst parts about this, and the astute among you have noticed I only covered one. The other worst part? The marketing. It's all on you. There's no big publishing house backing you (unless you're lucky enough to get in with one). Expos, book signings, appearances...they're all part of marketing. The other worst part is actually part of the best part. I have nothing but awesome things to say about those parts. The marketing is one of the best parts too. It's a double agent.

You get in to this thing not expecting the incredible, almost insurmountable overload of work, detail, and sweat that goes into the business end of a hobby. But...meh. It's nothing. You do what you love. And you love the worst parts because they're really the best parts, too. Trust me.

I said in the first book that the first million words don't count. That sounds discouraging. But look what's waiting for you at word number 1,000,001.

So why am I still blabbering? 'Cause I love chatting with you. Hit me up online. But for now...get to the story!

Liam, out.

Standard booth at an expo. I'm one of the little brothers at these events, so I typically don't take up much space. This booth may not seem like a huge deal now, but I'll be a big boy soon. Once I get a few more books out, I'll need more space.

In a Galaxy Far, Far AwRy book 3

Technophobia

Chapter One: Squeezing Water from a Stone

November 3, 9109, 7:13 a.m. (Galactic Standard Time).

You're dead, Legion heard Schizophrenic's left head, Lefty, say. All of you. I'm not afraid of you slobber punks. Heh. My idiot 'friends' are going to slaughter every one of you.

Legion's antennae twisted to the staticky sound of the prisoner, the two-headed Schizophrenic, rapping on the transparent shield screen that divided him from the three Good Guys. The screen made his voice echo in the cell. Pertinent data on him scrawled across the screen, consistently switching through a variety of subjects: vital signs, rap sheet, kinesics, body composition, sleep schedule, and favorite breed of mule.

I don't cares, just gimme the skinny! Power Plant vaulted from his stool and slammed an open palm into the shield screen. He stumbled cheek-first with uncontrolled momentum, and blue spiders of electricity crackled around the screen where he made contact. And what had Lefty said? Everything had gotten mixed in with idiot friends.

Power Plant staggered back, the scent of burned fabric wafting from his sleeve and the bandage around his healing shoulder blade. Ow. That thing taste like an ogre's squeegee. However an ogre's squeegee tasted, Legion wanted never to know.

Oh, for— Franchise, the other half of the two-man interrogation crew that produced the same results as a mako shark delivering a sermon, grabbed Power Plant's shoulder and peeled him back. Smashing into a shield screen is not how you question a prisoner. Every prisoner has an in, and you have to figure out what that in is. Crock, why am I telling you? You still have trouble with the microwave.

Hey, I can figures out the microwave plenny fine. Cook, kitchen timer, power level. It ain't hard to makes cereal, ya know.

At the Good Guys' space station, Station One, these three Good Guys and their prisoner occupied the small cellblock. Steel walls divided the holding cells from one another. Humming shield screens separated those cells from the main area, prisoners from their captors. Yes, only three holding cells. Evidently, the Good Guys' parent organization, Intergalactic Protection, followed the creed Shoot first and ask questions later. That still sounded better than Kamikaze's creed: Shoot ourselves first and what was the rest?