These are my wares.

PR

 

 
Kyle Brightman—late of the advertising industry and soon-to-be-late of the 5th floor psych ward—has a job offer he can’t refuse. A new resort in the Caribbean is looking for an art director. Kyle soon finds himself on the Isle of St. Agrippina working alongside a beautiful copywriter with an icy handshake. Questions arise: Why does the resort management team sport spray-on tans in the Bahamas? How can the resort offer such cheap vacation packages? What does one do with vats of Astroglide? To get the answers, Kyle must first navigate a series of wildly unpredictable events with a cast of even more wildly unpredictable characters, including a seductress jungle assassin, her partially paralyzed talking Chihuahua, an Ivy League Rastafarian seaplane captain, Kyle’s ex-psych ward roommate, a former Haliburton mercenary, and a French tavern owner with a fondness for goats, all set to the greatest hits of the 70’s. Pablo Cruise never felt so right

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OA

“We’re getting the band back together!”

For Kyle Brightman, bipolar advertising-industry burnout, this is good news and bad news. Good, because he’ll get to see his zombie-killing friends again, and be reunited with Cate, the zombie he loves (yeah, yeah, I know, read PARADISE ROT and you’ll get it). Bad, because having to blast his way through battalions of bloodless corpses took a brutal toll on Kyle’s already fragile psyche. But duty, and booty, calls. And soon Kyle finds himself on another tropical island, duped again into creating an ad campaign to lure unsuspecting Middle Americans into the greedy mouth of ancient madness. This time, it’s vampires. But with the help of a) his comrades-in-ass-kicking; b) the love of a good (cold) woman; c) the enduring power of Herb Alpert; and d) the awesomeness that is Charo, Kyle just might find a way to save thousands of lives. And what little’s left of his sanity. Splattered with folklore, dripping with history, ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD, Larry Weiner’s sequel to the uproarious comic romp PARADISE ROT, is what you get if Jimmy Buffett, Carl Hiaasen, Sarah Silverman and Hunter S. Thompson took turns pummeling Anne Rice with a cricket bat.

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HSA

“Hmmm … let’s see. Beautiful islands. Check. Friendly undead. Check. Reminders of bloodshed and death everywhere we look … I dunno, hon. It’s a mixed bag.”

The band’s getting back together once more. But this time, nobody’s feeling it. The bicker gang of PARADISE ROT and ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD is rapidly losing its taste for luring clueless Middle Americans to obscure tropical-island resorts. Not to mention unwittingly luring them into the clutches of the local ancient undead. Or having to rescue said morons from said bloodslurpers and fleshsnackers.

But here they are — Cate Hendricks and fellow ad creative/nutjob/horndog Kyle Brightman chief among them — on the Indian Ocean island of Soma Indra. Putting together another fi rst-rate ad campaign. Pulling together another train-wreck assortment of guests: Burned-out suburban housewives who are semi-sick of men and seeking sisterhood through yoga sessions. Socially inept software engineers who may or may not be aliens looking to screw their way to species perpetuation. Oh, and did we mention the thousands of Hindu deities looking to rewrite the Kama Sutra during their annual R&R retreat?

Yeeeeaaaaaah. This should go well.

Especially when the gang runs into its most insidious and powerful nemesis yet: Larry Weiner. How does this therapy-addled, midlife-crisis dingus know who they are? Where they’re from? How they think? And what evil plans
does he have for them? And why do they want to be thoughtful, responsible grownup-type adults all of a sudden?

Part meta-fiction, part Metamucil, HINDU SEX ALIENS is the cerebrally comic conclusion to Larry Weiner’s uproarious trouble-in-paradise trilogy.
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