Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

Typically, Bitefighter (my loyal, hyper-intelligent 10 lb. terrier mix) and I can be found carrying on a campaign of righteous vengeance against the not-dogs known as chihuahuas.  But when we see a prone chihuahua in the park, we rush up to it, intent on aiding it; it is now no longer the enemy, but a Distressed Critter.  It waves off our attempts at help with a tiny paw.  “No,” it gasps.  “It’s too late for me.  But take heed, Kent—there is a new menace that threatens these lands.  Its…name…is…”  the chihuahua’s voice fades and its eyes droop.  I exchange an uneasy glance with Bitefighter, and then with a massive burst of willpower, the chihuahua forces its eyes open wide.  I can see its pupils quivering with death-grip concentration.  “Its…name…is…”  The little fella pauses, gathers its will, and harshly exhales one word:  “Pomeranian,” then passes on.  I close his eyes with a hand and mutter, “Sleep well, little fella.”  Then I turn to Bitefighter.  “Pomeranian…what is that?  What kind of uber-evil could vanquish the chihuahua forces?”  He searches my eyes with a small, mustachioed gaze and replies:  “Ruff!”  I nod in response.  “You’re right little buddy.  We’d better clear out of here before—” And then a streak of coiffed hate comes streaking at my face.  I duck and scream, “HOLY JEBUS!!!”  The ball of fur shoots past me and lands 50 yards away, and charges me without missing a beat.  Pomeranian.  Another not-dog, but a purer form of it.  Me and Bitefighter begin tear-assing it out of there, running through a stretch of twilit forest.  Up above us, we see demonic balls of fur leaping through the trees, herding us along, and I realize these sick bastard not-dogs are toying with us.  Out of sheer desperation I scream, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!”  Everyone freezes in place, including our pursuers.  Giant footsteps echo through the forest, causing the ground to quiver and the trees to rustle.  The pomeranians skitter down from the trees and form a defensive circle, their bright, hateful little eyes looking in all directions.  Suddenly a massive, blocky head parts the trees to our left.  It’s Slobberfuss—the super-strong, 20-foot-tall, patron saint of all dogs…and Great Dane Extraordinaire.  He wags his enormous tail, swishing through chunks of shrubbery, then gallops towards the poms, coating them with giant strands of dog-goo as he slurps them with his tongue.  He doesn’t eat them—he just grosses the living F out of ’em.  In the midst of his goofy charge he turns to us and jerks his head toward his back, indicating we should climb on.  Bitefighter and I clamber up his sides and we whoop and holler as we chase a legion of evil not-dogs through the forest, laying them low with huge, big-dog kisses.  Because THAT’S what a real dog does.

Pomeranians.  The new breed of evil not-dog.  Make sure that when they come for you, Slobberfuss has your back.  Palamedes Publishing.  Check out their poetry here:  Machu Picchu Me  They will soon offer Echo Volume 1 in paperback.  For now, get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle

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