Skip navigation.
Home
Write - Share - Read - Respond

i didn't know it was a novel when I started it

warning: Parameter 2 to views_rss_views_feed_argument() expected to be a reference, value given in /home/thecroupier/www.oort-cloud.org/includes/module.inc on line 406.

An Habitual Offender, Epilogue

The hangar doors were open and the late evening sky threw its’ deep reds, hot and humid, into the interior of Building Seven. A Gulf Coast summer turns the outside world into a near-perfect replica of a dog’s mouth. Barney apparently had decided it was time to run all of the very loudest machines at once, raising the noise level to something quite inconvenient. Not the kind of atmosphere he’d hoped for.

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 8

Travis Morales Is Dead… And Other Intellectual Bullshit

20:17 Mission Elapsed Time

He sat on the edge of the cliff, enjoying the cool night air on his face and the still warm stone under his backside. He gazed down into a great valley, miles wide and many more miles long. He saw many lights. Enough for a modestly sized city. But some of them moved. What where they a part of?

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 7

Voyage Of The Tired

10:48 hours, Mission Elapsed Time.

Fiona had made no pretense of a proper approach. Serenity had aligned herself with the runway about eighty kilometers out. With only engine two running to conserve what little fuel was left, they were coming in steep and fast.

Barney leaned forward. “I’ll be ready to start up number one if you need to go around.”

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 6

Shockwave Repercussions

He stuck his head under the waterfall again, then threw it back, droplets slinging off his hair. Delicious. He settled himself down in the pool of water at the base, the black volcanic stones warm from the sunlight. The beach and breakers were just a few yards away. He’d built the lanai as close to the waterfall as he could. Pure, sweet water in abundance. All worth it.

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 5

Day By Day

Monday morning, eleven-ish ante meridian. Barney banked the jet to port, looking down on the bayou and the boulevard. A short distance to the south along the wide way was the Manse. The world headquarters, former home of the Big O and the Offenders. He could see the roof of the detached garage cum hangar on the grounds now. The trees were still properly trimmed back, leaving plenty of room for landing.

“John, open the doors, would you?”

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 4

What A Difference A Day Makes

Fiona spent the night aboard Lady S. with Pandora by her side. She knew it would take a long time to defrag and optimize one hundred and twenty eight terabytes of storage, but she hadn’t counted on dozing off. She didn’t usually do that during an all nighter. She was reclined in the engineer’s seat with her feet propped up on a tool box. She lay there with her her eyes closed, listening to Pandora’s hard drive clicking away. I wonder what she’s doing. Fiona was still very sleepy. It must be time to reboot...

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 3

Enter The Barbarian

Of course he didn’t tell Barney where he was going. That way he didn’t have to lie and Barney didn’t have to think that Kevin had done so. He decided to enter the usual way, through his rooftop entrance. The Manse would announce his return to its’ occupant. He couldn’t see Hanna shutting the security systems down. Just wouldn’t be like her.

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 2

An Untitled Story

The nav computer showed an ETA of 10:15 AM local time. He adjusted one of the radio receivers to pick up the BBC World Service. He realized that he’d been listening to the Beeb for years... must have left a shortwave radio behind in the duplex. Or maybe some toy Barney cooked up.

Somewhere near the Azores he remembered that an important question had been overlooked. He activated the satellite phone. A computer answered. “Please hold. Mr. Engelhart will be with you as soon as possible.”

After about a minute Barney came on the line. “This couldn’t wait?”

An Habitual Offender, Chapter 1

Rage

He sits at the second story window of a rundown duplex, overlooking the main drag of the city’s bohemian neighborhood. Night after night he sits. Year after year. He never sleeps. Ever.

It is another hot summer night in this city near America’s Gulf Coast. At 3 AM it’s eighty degrees fahrenheit, relative humidity ninety-two percent. Typical.