Forfatter: J.P. Moynahan
Genre: Adult, crime, thriller
Forlag: Curiosity Quills Press
Udgivelsesdato: 31. Juli 2014
Cover layout: Michelle Johnson / Blue Sky Design
Wesley Rourke is a mouthy, Irish-lucky millionaire, trotting the globe in search of the perfect place to kill his most hated enemy, himself. Blowing his money on charity, and booze as he zooms from city to city, he lays his course towards Lima, Peru. Once he arrives, he sets about his grisly task only to be inconvenienced by the lure of a pretty young tourist, the daughter of a prominent British lawmaker.
A few days after their first date, he awakens in a hospital to find her missing and he himself embroiled in a media blitz and massive manhunt. With time running out, and wracked with horrifying night-terrors, Wesley is forced to face his past cowardice and wade into the bowels of a pitiless underworld in search of his one ray of hope.
The city of Lima awaits him.
I’m a wilderness guide and mountaineer, musician and poet. I’ve climbed all over North and South America, and played my music throughout. From mission’s work in Mexico, to clinking beers with toothless Canadians, and onto climbing an Andean glacier, I enjoy whatever comes my way.
I’m a mouthy sort with a quick tongue and an even quicker grin. Most folks hate me for the first seven minutes, then fall right in love with my winning personality and straight-toothed smile.
Though I harbor a strong sense of independence, I believe in the strength of a supportive community and tight knit family. I enjoy working with youth and young adults and showing them that staying out of jail isn’t so hard and can even be fun. But I’m not a goody-two-shoes, my head isn’t anywhere near my ass, much less in it.
Gæsteindlæg fra J.P. Moynahan
In my new novel, The Travelers Wake, a very particular theme trickles throughout its pages, practically soaking the print version of the book through and through. The theme is drinking. So the subject of this post is one very near and dear to my heart: Liquor, or as I like to call it, Likker. I’m not an alcoholic, at least that’s what a fella from the AA told me. “You’re an irresponsible ass and you’re looking for an excuse to keep up your bad habits.” He died a few years later of a drug overdose though, so as sad as that is, it proves that perhaps his ability to diagnose me may have been faulty. But so far it hasn’t affected anything other than my youth, as far as I can vaguely recall. Now that I’m in my dirty-thirties, I practice a type of sobriety technique called “You Have Bills and Toys to Pay For and Your Young and Hot Wife Will Run Off With That Rich River Boat Gambler From Toledo if You Drink Too Much.” It’s far more effective than the previously used system, “You’ll Go to Hell Dumbass”. Not that I don’t believe in Hell, I do; I saw Detroit once. What is so great is that this new-found sobriety is a boon to my writing and adventuring. No more do I run out of ammo while blasting away at trees deep in the forest. My new truck has zero bullet holes. I can remember events and conversations and how I got shot that particular time.
There is only one drink that can ruin this near utopic sense of cognition.
The Pisco Sour.
Let me explain this weakness: When I was traveling in Peru I discovered this drink. A sweet, creamy and lemony mixture of…well how the hell would I know? Usually by the time I was wondering what made it so good, I’d had far too many to ask the bartender. I’m just going to lie and say it was derived from an ancient royal Andian ceremonial drink where they’d send one thousand men on a trek to the far reaches of Tierra Del Fuego, on the southern-most tip of South America, to retrieve the purest ice possible. Why so many men? Because nearly every single one of them perished in this journey to the ends of the earth. Once the massive block of ice was brought to the high priest, is was ground into a slushy pulp with lemons and sweetened by the cotton candy-like flesh of a sprouting coconut. The priest would then throw a huge party and invite his priest-school buddies and the emperor over for a helluva time.
That’s the history of this drink as far as I have decided.
Beer has long been my lusty-lady of choice, wine being a half crazy ex-girlfriend who makes you black out and wake up in ditches wondering who drove your car into the tree. But when I gulped the pisco, beer was shelved and wine happily forgotten, at least for as long as I could get this foreign masterpiece in my belly.
This drink plays a prominent role in my new book, The Travelers Wake. It, Irish whiskey, and moonshine are the lifeline of my character for nearly the entire book. The moonshine that my character drinks was also something I had experienced while thrashing about that wild continent. I was enjoying a pleasant evening with a medical student when I sat down next to a massive jar containing a brown, cloudy liquid. On closer inspection, I spied large, black scorpions floating in its depths.
This I had to have.
“I’ll take two shots.” I had told the bartender. I and this young lady both clinked and shot. The taste was non-existent, yet the feeling was explosive. Like a white hot piston sinking into my stomach and suddenly jumping up my throat and into my mouth, a burn surged through my very soul. The poor young lady wretched and coughed and fell from the bar. I sat completely still, like Clint Eastwood cooly staring down the barrel of a gun. It’s not that I have nerves of steel, its more that fear of an explosive puke session had cause me to grip the bar with white knuckles and pray to God I could hold my empanada’s in my stomach. After a time she pulled herself back onto the bar stool and I had begun to relax. The Bartenders(There had now gathered a group of them) clapped and shouted their surprise. One even handed the other money, probably a wager on how I’d react. I looked them all with bleary eyes and raised a sweaty finger and said raggedly. “Uno mas.” Needless to say, the second shot was free.
So in conclusion…um…I have no conclusion. I suppose all this to say; make memories, and try to stay sober for most of your life so you can remember them. Perhaps someday you’ll write a stellar novel and be able to incorporate your memories into it. Or maybe you’ll just drink some red wine and watch Netflix until you die. But seriously, don’t drink red wine.