Michel Robertson Jr--5 Question InQusition

Michael Robertson Jr, author of Transit, broke into my home and is holding me hostage. 

Dangerous Psychopath

While we’re hanging out (little does he know that cocktail I just gave him contains a powerful sedative—I don’t use poison, because it taints the meat), I asked him 5 Questions ... let's see if either of us survive. 

All 4 Episodes, just $2.99

Sadie: First of all, psycho, how did you break in here? 

Michael: Hi Sadie! Thanks for leaving the window in your bedroom unlocked, it slid open with no problem. I climbed right in. Sometimes they stick…

Sadie: Stop yelling, and drink your cocktail. I see you have a killer deal going (the only reason you're still living). You’ve just packaged all four episodes of Transit together, so readers can find them in one place. 

Michael: Yes, it’s very cool that Transit is now available as a stand-alone novel. I hope readers will enjoy it and have some fun! More fun than the characters, hopefully! I still feel bad for what I did to some of them.

Sadie: Michael, you're still yelling. Do you have a hearing problem? I'm going to ask you 5 Questions, and your survival depends on how you answer.

Q1: When did you first realize that you weren’t normal? Preschool? Kindergarten? Elementary School? Or have you not figured that out yet? In other words … when were you first drawn to horror?

Michael: When did I realize I wasn’t normal? Wait, is it not normal to smile while the on-screen bad guy slices up the pretty blond girl and wears her ears on a necklace? Hmmm… Interesting. In all honesty I’ve had a fascination with horror and the macabre ever since I was a kid. Even when I couldn’t handle it (sleepless nights with sweat-soaked sheets, where the nightlight was never bright enough and mornings could never come fast enough) I still loved horror films. I don’t know why… It’s just part of me I guess. The same way Nicholas Sparks likes to make at least one of the happy people die and cause all the ladies to cry. Isn’t that abnormal too?

Sadie: Q2: Sounds like you're a masochist. My kind of guy. 

Transit begins with the end of a dream vacation and a nightmare ride from the airport. Just wondering how you got the idea for this story … did you get this idea while you were traveling, did you work as a van driver, or are you just deranged?

Michael: You calling me deranged? Pot. Kettle. Black. By the way, whatever’s in the oven smells great.

Sadie: Thanks, a neighbor stopped by earlier.

Michael: Huh ... To answer your question, yes. I did actually get the idea for this book while traveling. In fact, the whole opening scene of Transit is based almost exactly off a trip my wife and I took to the Dominican Republic last fall. The flight got in very late, and it was drizzling and cold. The shuttle stops were mostly deserted, and when ours finally arrived and we climbed in (the only ones in the van), I couldn’t help but think what a vulnerable position we were in, and that we were basically trusting our lives with the stranger up front. Then my gears started turning.

Sadie: So you're married. That's too bad. But, come to think of it, that's never stopped me.

Q3: You are one HELL of a fine writer, and unless a computer chip in English literature has been implanted (at great cost) into your brain, I suspect you’ve been writing for some time. How long have you been writing? What else have you written? And what are you working on now?

Michael: Actually, I do have the chip. I’m a beta tester, so the price was FREE! There are some side-effects though. Last night my wife asked me to call the girls in for dinner and I went outside and accidentally screamed 12 lines from Romeo and Juliet through the neighborhood. My neighbor’s name is Romeo. It was embarrassing.

Sadie: I'm impressed. Can you also recite lines from MacBeth?

(Michael's nodding, but his eyes look a bit bleary.)

Michael: What? Sorry. I feel kind of weird.

Sadie: You are.

I asked, how long have you been writing?

Michael: I’ve been writing semi-seriously to seriously for about the last five or six years. The beginning of that time was working on a novel that will never see the light of day, and after that I’ve released three novels (Including Transit) and a handful of short stories and a collection. Most everything is in the horror and suspense genre. I’m about to start a brand new book, actually. I’m still piecing it together in my head, but it’s going to be more of a mystery, I think, which is something I haven’t tried yet, and am looking forward to.

Hey, is the room starting to spin?

Sadie: Nope.

Q4: Who is this guy Dan Dawkins who claims to be writing as you under his name? Are you schizophrenic? Do you suffer from multiple personality disorder. Why do you find it necessary to write under different names and confuse your readers?

Michael: Dan is a bad man who did some very bad things. He confided in me, hoping I would tell his tale, and I did to the best of my abilities.

I’ve actually been asked this question very frequently – Readers wanting to know “Why Dan Dawkins” and “Is Dan a real person?” – So I ended up writing a blog post of my own about why I used the name Dan Dawkins for some of my work. You can read it here

Sadie: So you made up a phony identity to gain sympathy from unsuspecting readers? (You really are a psycho.) Have another cocktail.

Q5: I’m pretty sure you read a lot, because you can write. If you had a chance to torture one of your favorite authors, who would you choose? And what would be the method of torture? (Please describe in detail.)

Michael: I’d bring in Dean Koontz and ask him repeatedly why all his new books can’t be as good as the Odd Thomas series. I’d tie him to a chair in a pitch-black room and make him listen to the audiobook of 50 Shades of Gray over and over… only I’d cut out all the sex scenes.

Sadie: I'm revising what I said before. You are definitely a sadist.

How are you feeling? You look like you're going to pot, which is, of course, legal here in Colorado. Not that I have any, but you're about ready for this pot on my stove.

Michael: I’m starting to feel a little tired, do you mind if I lay do—

Sadie: Not at all. Are you into power tools ... I think he's out. 

DO NOT ACCEPT A RIDE FROM HIM

If you're still reading this, you're obviously sick, so you'll want to check out more from Michael. Contact him:

Website

Twitter 

Facebook

Michael Robertson JR Amazon Author Page

Advice from Sadie: 10 Signs Someone is a Lowlife Liar

I'm working on a new book:

Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers

(A Sadie Novella)

Prequel to Sadie the Sadist

The story will explore how Sadie becomes the girl we know and love. And it will include helpful advice like:

10 Signs Someone is a Low-Life Liar

They say it takes one to know one. Guess that’s why I’ve become good at detecting when someone is a lying slime bag. Here are a few tips I’ve picked up over the years. (Too bad I didn’t know this stuff when I was a kid. Might have saved me a lot of trouble.)

Note: You may also find this information useful if, like me, you’re working to improve your dissimulation skills.

     1. You ask a question, and the liar repeats your question using your exact words, giving himself more time to concoct his story. For example, I ask my father: Did you kill my mother? He says: Did I kill your mother? (Thinking, thinking, thinking.) No, Sadie. I did not kill your mother. (Zero points for creativity, Dad.)

  2. Notice the use of did not instead of didn’t, giving the denial extra emphasis. That’s called non-contracted denial, another clue that my father is a lying scumbag. My rule of thumb: No Contractions=Contradictions=BS.

  3. If you confront the dirty dog with what you believe may be a lie and he starts panting heavily or his breathing gets shallow, don’t trust him as far as you can throw a stick. (Sweating doesn’t prove he’s lying. He may just be nervous or forgot his antiperspirant.)

  4. Liars frequently use euphemisms, filtering harsh reality through a soft focus lens. I would never hurt your mother (a gentler word than kill); I borrowed (embezzled) the money; I think you may belong in a correctional facility, Daddy Dearest (MAY YOU ROT IN HELL, SCUM BUCKET).

  5. Constant eye contact can be a sign of lying, especially if it’s unblinking. A person speaking the truth looks away about 60% of the time. Do snakes blink? Absolutely not. I recall only one instance when an honest person didn’t blink at me. His eyelids had been removed.

  6. A liar repeat words or phrases, not because he doesn’t remember what he said—because he's trying to convince you that he's telling the truth. Or maybe, trying to convince himself. My advice: err on the side of caution—if someone repeats himself, chances are it’s not due to Alzheimer’s.  

  7. A liar provides too much information. Instead of getting to the point, he tells the cops all about the hoagie he got from Monty’s Deli—roast beef, cheddar, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, hold the pickles, heavy on mayo and mustard. This is an attempt to appear open and honest, when anyone with half a brain can tell he's full of it. (Not just the hoagie.)

  8. Feet offer telltale signs of lying. A liar may shuffle his feet, exposing a desire to escape. Or his feet may point toward the door, another indication that he would like to make an exit. If you want to sniff out liars, a shoe fetish can be helpful. Personally, I prefer high performance sneakers for accelerated lying and fast getaways.

  9. When a person puts his hand over his mouth, yeah he could be yawning, but chances are there’s something he doesn’t want to tell you. Instinctively covering vulnerable body parts like the neck, stomach, or my personal fave, the penis, is a sure sign of lying (or possibly a need to use the men's room), so if you want to appear truthful expose yourself.

  10. My number one way to determine if a person is lying is to pay attention to gut feelings. You could say I'm hungry for the truth, and liars really rev my appetite. Lie to me, and you could show up on my menu. I find that to be a good deterrent.

   

   Okay, Sadie, you may be saying, I've determined so-and-so is a liar ... how do I secure a confession?

  

   Good question.

I recommend torture. (For preferred methods, please check out my book, Sadie the Sadist.)

Daddy's Favorite Chair

Sadie Says: Torture is the spice of life! (and death)

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Sadie Says: 7 inches of HOT FUN could be yours

Jayne Just Watches--an excerpt

Today is my favorite kind of day ... I don't have to be anywhere, so I can write. Later, I'll probably ride my bike around. 

Not my bike, but I like it

Here's a short excerpt from the novel I'm working on, Jayne Just Watches: 

Chapter One: Just Jayne

I’m dead.

Trapped inside this body—walking, talking, eating, sleeping—so you might assume I’m alive, but I’m not. My heart stopped beating several years ago.

Even though I’m dead, there are two things I like to do: oil painting and visiting the cemetery. Also, I love sleeping … guess that’s three.

You ever have the feeling that you’re dreaming when you’re awake? Like you’re moving through water, the air feels heavy, sounds seem distant. Maybe you’re shopping, or walking along a sidewalk, or working, when you notice you’re not really there.

That’s how it feels to be dead.

At night, when I lie down, you may think I’m sleeping, but I’m really traveling through other realms. It’s almost like dreaming, but more intense. That’s when I feel almost alive.

See that maple tree out in the courtyard?

What color are the leaves? 

You’ll probably say green, but I see gray. Most things in my world are gray, mixtures of black and white, some lighter, some darker. Gray is neutral, achromatic, so it refracts light without dispersing. It’s not really a color. The only color I perceive is red. No blue. No yellow. Just shades of red. It’s a rare condition called Tritanopia, brought on by trauma to the head and exacerbated by anxiety.

But when I’m traveling (you would call it dreaming) I see spectrums of color you’ve never imagined. If I were dreaming now, the leaves on that maple tree would be a thousand variations of green. The underlying leaves gloomy and bluish, others dappled yellow by the sun, some tender green as baby shoots, and others as ghostly as the moon. If I were dreaming, chocolate shadows would play along the tree's trunk, and sunlight would break through the branches, painting the bark silver.

But now, sitting on my balcony and painting (as I often do), all I see is gray.

My condominium is like a treehouse. My apartment is on the second story and the balcony parallels the branches of the maple tree. Beyond the maple, there’s a stand of aspen, a blue spruce, two pinion pines, and a crabapple tree on the edge of the play area--swings, a sandbox, slide and jungle gym. My balcony shares a common wall and railing with the neighboring condo. That apartment has been vacant for a while, ever since the Navajo family (who never said hello) departed last March. 

I spend a lot of time out here, watching my neighbors as they come and go down in the courtyard. The complex houses college students, several artists and writers, a few retirees, and a number of young families. That strange woman, Sadie, lives directly across from me—one of the few residents I know by name, only because she introduced herself. Through the maple leaves, I see her dragging a heavy bag of garbage down the stairway of her condo. She glances in my direction, and I duck behind the canvas I’ve set on my easel.

She waves, calls out, “Hi, Jayne. How’s it hangin’?”

When I peek around the canvas, she grins.

Her lipstick is as red as blood, so is her hair.

She yells across the courtyard, “Killer day!”

Using a pallet knife (dull edges so it can't do any damage), I mix black paint into the gray and pretend I don’t hear her.

Today’s stark sun and barren sky depress me. I prefer the soft focus of overcast, clouds brooding over the mountains, thunder rumbling through the valley. Give me the ozone scent of rain, a downpour pelleting the roof, mist rising from the pavement and engulfing the courtyard.

Shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare, I watch Sadie maneuver a trash bag along the walkway that encircles the courtyard. The bag oozes something reddish, deposits wet markings on the cement. She lugs it to the parking lot and disappears from view behind the building, no doubt headed to the dumpster.

She goes there a lot.

I pull my explorer telescope out of the pocket of my skirt, point the lens at her picture window. Can't see a thing, except drawn curtains. Last night I watched Sadie and this college kid going at it, but I never saw him leave. 

This complex is fairly small and a bit old-fashioned, which I like. Sixteen two-story buildings surround the courtyard, four condominiums in each building. The structures are made of wood (rather than cement like the new ones they built down the road), paint flaking on the sides exposed to the sun. The lights, set at corners of the courtyard, are Victorian in style—globes reminiscent of gaslight. Wisteria overhangs the common area which houses mail boxes, a picnic table, and several plastic chairs. Victorian houses abound in this town, built in the late 1800's when people rushed to Colorado hoping to make fortunes mining gold and silver. The Denver & Rio Grande Railway lay narrow gauge tracks that climb through treacherous mountain passes from here to the old mining town of Silverton. The steam engine still runs, but these days it carries tourists. 

I’m into steampunk, so the town suits me.

I design book covers (steampunk, horror, vampire, zombie apocalypse) for indie authors I meet on Facebook and Twitter. The covers provide me with enough income to scrape by—along with the meager trust my parents left me.

They died in the accident fourteen years ago, so did Lexi. Me too, but they brought me back to life … anyway, that’s what the doctors said.

On my next birthday, ten days from now when I turn twenty-six, I’ll come into my full inheritance. Growing up, Aunt Elizabeth always told me it’s substantial. She says I’m a lucky girl.

Lucky stiff.

LOL.

I’d rather have my family.

What am I working on?

When you look at this canvas, what do you see? Wisps of gray, some flickering with light, others shadowy, some mysteriously black. If you stare at the painting long enough, images appear ….

See that shimmer rippling through the painting?

Nothing in this world is solid, even if it appears concrete. Our bodies contain more space than matter. According to scientific findings, five sixths of matter is dark and invisible. Particles of dark matter pass through our bodies all the time, colliding with our atoms. Who can say what else passes through the collection of molecules you call you and I call me?   

How do we know dark matter exists, if it can’t be detected? 

Gravitational pull.

Dark matter may be invisible, but it affects things surrounding it, sucking them in with its dark energy. Ghosts are like that too, so are demons. You may call them by another name, but all kinds of entities exist in space and on other planes.

I feel them passing through my body, playing in my mind.

Sometimes I see them.

Red eyes shining in the dark.

I paint them, so they’re apparent.

A parent, that’s funny.

More than my parents, I miss Lexi. She was seven. We were in the back seat of my dad’s new Lincoln … black leather seats, snowflakes hitting the windshield, the slosh of icy water beneath the tires as the car hit Park Avenue. It was my job to make sure my little sister buckled up, but Lexi hated seatbelts, said they made her feel trapped.

Her death was my fault.

Did you catch that movement, at the edge of the canvas?

The flash of red eyes.

Demons are sneaky, appear at the periphery of your vision, vanish when you glance directly at them. Sometimes they slip behind the painting and poke the canvas with their fingernails.  

I survived the crash, sort of—died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, but they managed to revive me. TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, due to sudden impact. Doctors claim my recovery was a miracle. No matter what they claim, I’m really dead. My psychiatrist says I’m suffering from Cotard’s Delusion (also known as the Walking Dead Syndrome), but how can a corpse be diagnosed?

I’m done with shrinks. I need a Coroner.

What use are doctors who want to analyze me and prescribe pills to make me normal? Normal is a syndrome not worth suffering. I enjoy being dead, enjoy the unique perspective. Being dead allows me to detach from anger, pain, sadness … all those messy emotions.

I lost my heart four years ago—it stopped beating, gave up when Jonathan left me. I met him in college. Things may have ended differently if I had let him touch me, but dead people don’t have sex. The idea is repulsive. Isn't it?

When he went back to Denver, my heart collapsed, left this cavity inside my chest.

Now my brain is rotting.

Ever smell a rotting brain? Think chicken guts left in the trunk of a car for a week, dead rats decomposing in the walls of your house, putrefying poopy diapers forgotten in the garbage. The stink lingers, gets inside your nostrils, your clothing, your hair, your mind. When your brain’s decaying in your skull, it’s impossible to ignore the stench. I've tried everything: dog shampoo designed to eliminate odors, essential oils, breathing through my mouth. I can taste the stink. Vic’s Vapor Rub on my upper lip works best. (That’s what cops use.)

I get these headaches, throbbing pain inside the black hole of my skull.

Speaking of black holes, they’re not really empty space. Quite the opposite. According to NASA, black holes are extremely condensed matter. NASA says, “Think of a star ten times more massive than the Sun squeezed into a sphere approximately the diameter of New York City.” This creates a gravitational pull so intense that nothing can escape, not even light. Black holes are the vampires of the universe, sucking energy out of nearby stars and destroying them. The problem is, black holes are invisible and you won’t know you’re near one, until it’s devoured you.

That’s what happened to me. A black hole sucked the energy right out of me, and now I’m stuck with this body.

You may be saying, “If you’re dead, why don’t you commit suicide?”

There’s no point in committing suicide if you’re already dead. I’m an illusion, a specter. I don’t really exist. Experience is subjective, perceived through the muddy filters of our psyches. Reality is a consensus of opinion, a group delusion. Trust only mathematics, the laws of physics and chemistry. Above all else, don’t trust yourself or other people.

That's what Aunt Elizabeth taught me.

Especially, never trust a man.

Killer Robots

Robots on the Rise!

These days, whether you realize it or not, most people work with robots. Make no mistake about it, your boss is comparing your performance to your potential robot replacement ... and, chances are, you lose!

Baxter the Trainable Robot

(He looks cute, but he wants your job)

In fact, you may be expected to train your replacement. Rethink Robotics has recently unleashed Baxter a trainable robot. Baxter is affordable (just $25,000 plus warranty) and he can perform tasks at twice the speed of you or me. 

(Personally, I can't wait to get a Baxter Robot Butler.)

My Baxter Robot Butler

As wages rise, you can bet employers are thinking about how fast they can replace you with Baxter or Baxterette. According to a recent study at Oxford University, here's a list of jobs you can kiss good-bye:

Read more in the article, The Shift from Low-Wage Worker to Robot Worker.

Have you heard about the restaurant in China that's operated by robots? Watch this video (oh, yeah, it's in Chinese):

Even if you manage to keep your job, don't imagine you're home free. The New York Times just ran an article about killer robots in the workplace. Read As Robotics Advances, Worries of Killer Robots Rise. Over the past 30 years, robots have been responsible for 33 human deaths. That is bound to increase as we bring more robots into the workplace and give those robots more freedom to roam. 

I just wonder, with so many people's jobs being replaced by robots, who's going to have money to buy the stuff these robots make? 

Here's Baxter's buddy playing your swan song.






Sadie Says: Don't delay, download your brain into Baxter NOW!