Peace on Earth - Goodwill to All Beings

12 Indies of Christmas Blog Hop

Sadie Busts Holiday Myths

As you may know, Sadie (known to many as Sadie the Sadist), is BIG on truth. Just in time for the horrordaze, our favorite psycho is here to dispel a few popular myths.

(Scroll to the end of this blog and enter to win killer prizes from 12 terrific indie authors including: a signed paperback copy of Sadie the Sadist,  three ebooks of Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers, and a Bloody Cleaver Handbag.)

1) Who the hell is Santa Claus?

should you trust this man?

Sadie Says:  From my experience, SANTA IS A PEDOPHILE. Why else would an old man put up with sniveling kids sitting on his lap? As usual, the Catholic Church ignored that fact. They spun a story about this guy, Nicholas, a Bishop who lived in the fourth century (we all know what went on in those monasteries) and made him a saint.

2) What do the colors red and green have to do with Christmas?

authentic photo of a gladiator

Sadie Says: GREEN has been part of winter celebrations FOREVER. Ancient Romans exchanged branches of evergreen in January as a reminder of spring and life, because in the dead of winter everyone was ready to commit suicide or hop into an arena with a gladiator. Back then they had no internet, no TV, not even electricity. Conversely, RED symbolizes blood and death, duh. BTW, in ancient Rome a favorite method of suicide was to slit your wrists in the bath tub … just like my mommy did.

3) What's up with those dreidel things and Hanukkah?

what else can you do in the dark?

Sadie Says: Most people associate menorahs and nine candles with Hanukkah, but in case you don’t know, a dreidel is a four sided spinning top with Hebrew letters inscribed on each side. Rabbis have tried to come up with explanations for the dreidel’s association with the holiday and many say the letters (nun, gimmel, hey, shin) stand for nes gadol haya sham, "a great miracle happened there." But the true story is: after the Jews drove the Greeks out of Jerusalem, they threw an orgy that lasted for eight nights and used dreidels like dice for gambling and playing spin the bottle. 

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Including: A signed paperback copy of Sadie the Sadist, 3 ebook copies of Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers, and a Bloody Cleaver Handbag

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December 12th - Zane Sachs

December 13th - Kira Adams

December 14th - Chess Desalls

December 15th - Kai Strand

December 16th - Zoe Dawson

December 17th - A.G. Porter

December 18th - Joy Penny

December 19th - Mary Waibel

December 20th - Cynthia Witherspoon

December 21st - K.K. Allen

December 22nd - Ann Everett

December 23rd - Erin Rhew & Deek Rhew

(To win the cleaver purse and signed book, like my Facebook Author Page and Subscribe to my blog through the box on the right. )

10 Reasons the Holidays Suck, and 10 Ways to Make Them Better: 

FREE Advice from Sadie the Sadist

Falalalalalah and all that crap may cheer up some people, but if you’re like me, you dread the holiday season. IMO, after Halloween it’s all downhill until we hit mid-January and everyone forgets their stupid resolutions.

I’m not a professional shrink (although I’ve seen plenty), but I’ve devised the following list of common triggers for Holiday blues—if five or more resonate with you, be sure to check my helpful antidotes.

Insane Santa

10 reasons the Holiday Season Sucks:

1.    They start advertising Christmas crap before Halloween.

2.    You’re forced to see relatives that you can’t stand.

3.    You’re expected to buy the relatives that you can’t stand expensive presents … and they never like them.

4.    Because you’re stressed, you stuff yourself and gain ten pounds.

5.    You’d like to work-off all that holiday blubber, but the gym is constantly closed.

6.    If you hear “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus” one more time, you will commit suicide.

7.    You need a refill on your Xanax, but the pharmacy is isn't open.

8.    All those colored, blinking lights give you a headache.

9.    Criminal Minds is pre-empted by A Charlie Brown Christmas.

10. You suspect Santa is a pedophile.

10 Ways to Kill Holiday Depression:

1. Make a statement about crass holiday advertising by vandalizing holiday shoppers' cars in the Walmart parking lot. (First, be sure to check for cameras.)

2. When relatives show up, instead of stressing, take the opportunity to try some of Sadie the Sadist’s innovative recipes … a tough relative can provide a tender cut of meat.

3. Dumpster diving is a great way to save on gifts. If that fails, check out the Dollar Store. Chances are, your relatives are too dumb to know the difference.

4. Reframe your reality. For example: weight gain can be an advantage when you’re tackling victims. Also, your victims have probably put on a few pounds too, which makes them easier to catch and juicier.

5. Pursuing victims provides a great work-out. You’ll burn a lot of calories butchering bodies, dragging them around, and digging graves. (Better yet, use them when you make my recipes.)

6. Mount a loudspeaker on your car, and drive around town blasting Marilyn Manson.

7. The holidays are a great time to self-medicate. Crash a party and drink all the punch and eggnog. If you’re in my hometown, those cookies may give you a buzz, if not, visit the local dispensary.

8. Blinking lights aren’t annoying when you’re high on weed. If your state doesn’t offer legal marijuana, plan a trip to Washington or my state, Colorado.

9. Instead of spending mindless hours watching the boob-tube, make your own old-fashioned fun: bake a batch of marijuana cookies and pass them out at work; set fire to the church during candlelight service; turn that pesky boss into a hearty stew for the office potluck. Be inventive!

10. The best antidote for a pedophile Santa can be found in my book, Sadie the Sadist. I won’t describe it here, but the procedure requires a large cob of corn.

Sadie Says: Happy HorrorDaze!

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10 Reasons Long Nights Rock

Advice from Sadie--Embrace Darkness:

If you're a psycho like me, you welcome the longer nights we're drifting into on the northern half of this planet. People often worship light, but I prefer darkness. In the blinding light of day we see what we want to see, but as daylight fades, night reveals what light keeps hidden.

10 Reasons Long Nights Rock

1. Dim light makes everyone look better ... fancy restaurants always have lousy lighting, so your food (and your company) appear more edible.

2. It's fun to sneak up on people and surprise them in places like parking lots, the bike trail, alleyways ... duh.

3. Instead of doing yard work and other chores, you have an excuse to binge watch your favorite shows like Criminal Minds, Deadly Women, and The Walking Dead.

4. If you do decide to do yard work, for example: digging that six foot hole out in the garden, your neighbors won't notice.

5. Your boss will never see what hit him.

6. If you happen to be driving, it's a blast to blind annoying pedestrians.

7. Don't need to worry about sunburn when you're fucking around outside.

8. It's easier to tell if people are at home, especially if they don't use blinds or curtains.

9. You'll blend in when you wear your black ski mask.

10. Bottom Line: night makes everything scarier.

Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers is Live: Twisted and More Twisted

TA-DAH: 

Sadie is back with a vengeance!

Now, for the first time, the secrets of L'il Sadie's demented childhood are revealed

Available in 2 Versions:

Twisted

Uncut: More Twisted

Description:

Sadie may seem like the girl next door—except she isn’t. At age eight, when Sadie finds Mommy in the bathtub floating in a pool of blood, she becomes obsessed with murder. Sadie’s Guide to Catching Killers is the prekill to Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror, delving into Sadie’s twisted childhood to unravel what makes her the psycho we know and love. The uncut version—the story you’ve got in your hot little hands (X-cept for those of you who happen to be whacking off) is almost as violent and psycho-sexual as Sadie the Sadist, but remember (sick puppies) Sadie is a child and a teenager here, not yet a full blown psychopath like us. (If you’re not fully blown, put down this book and pick up the R rated version.) 

Plus, Advice from L’il Sadie, Self-Help BONUS: 10 Signs Someone is a Low-Life Liar; 10 Ways to Your Dream Confession; 10 Useful Household Poisons, and more! 

Buy it Now:

Amazon     Twisted      UNCUT: More Twisted

B&N           Twisted      UNCUT: More Twisted

(Also available on Smashwords, and soon on iTunes, Kobo, etc.)

L'il Sadie says: 

Great self-help for wanna be psychos 

(Makes a lovely gift for family you want to kill)

Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mystery

6 Hilarious Mysteries--6 Hilarious Authors: Boxed Set 

.99 cents!

(includes more insanity from Sadie)

Buy it Now!

KINDLE

NOOK

KOBO

iTUNES

* * LIMITED TIME OFFER * *

Six Award Winning Bestselling Authors bring you a Six Pack of Sleuths 

for .99 cents

DEATH BY SARCASM

Dani Amore

Mary Cooper, a Los Angeles area private detective who masks her true, caring nature with a razor-sharp, sarcastic sense of humor, learns that her uncle, a former stand-up comedian has been murdered. She is asked to assist in finding the killer by both the police and family members. Mary quickly discovers that her uncle's death was just the opening act for a bloody rampage. As Mary investigates, she exposes a dark and deadly legacy with mysterious links to her own past.

"DEATH BY SARCASM cuts like a knife." ~ Savannah Morning News

MIAMI MUMMIES (Wendy Darlin series)

Barbara Silkstone

The legendary mastermind criminal and mummy thief, Kyzer Saucy, strikes again. Part-time tomb raider and full-time real estate broker, Wendy Darlin joins her lover, archaeologist Roger Jolley as they struggle to save a rare Miami mummy from the clutches of this evil genius. Can Saucy be stopped before he kills again? Meanwhile can Wendy keep her promise to Alfred Hiccup as he attempts to transmigrate from the afterlife? Or has Wendy finally made one promise too many?

This book is an homage to the great Alfred Hitchcock…

who is probably turning over in his grave.

“WENDY DARLIN: A leading lady you love to bits!” ~ Alisha Bookseller

MY PERFECT WEDDING

Sibel Hodge

Helen Grey is finally getting everything she wants. She’s about to have the perfect dream wedding and begin an exciting new life abroad on the sunny Mediterranean island of Cyprus. But living the dream isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. With the big day rapidly approaching, a roller-coaster of mishaps, misunderstandings, and disasters threatens to turn the newlyweds into nearlyweds. Can Helen prevent an assassination, and have the perfect wedding?

“If you are a fan of Sophie Kinsella I am positive you will love MY PERFECT WEDDING by Sibel Hodge"

~ Geeky Girl Books

SADIE’S GUIDE TO CATCHING KILLERS

Zané Sachs (the demented alter-ego of author, Suzanne Tyrpak)

Sadie may seem like the girl next door—except she isn’t. At age eight, when she finds Mommy in the bathtub in a pool of blood, Sadie becomes obsessed with bringing down murderers. SADIE’S GUIDE TO CATCHING KILLERS is the prekill to SADIE THE SADIST: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror, delving into Sadie’s twisted childhood to unravel what makes her the psycho we know and love.

Plus, Advice from L’il Sadie, Self-Help BONUS : 10 Signs Someone is a Low-Life Liar; 10 Ways to Your Dream Confession; 10 Useful Household Poisons, and more!

NEW RELEASE! A twisted coming-of-age story, Black Humor/Horror.

BEING LIGHT

Helen Smith

When her husband doesn’t come home, Sheila Travers hires a private detective to find him. Being Light is no ordinary detective story. The sharp observations on the lives of modern women will have you laughing out loud as you follow the surreal adventures of the ensemble cast. Take in circus performers, animal rights activists, philosophers, dreamers and a new kind of dating agency in this joyfully funny book. And find out what happened to Roy.

"Very funny!" ~ Times Literary Supplement

FOOD OF LOVE

Anne R. Allen

After Princess Regina, a former supermodel, is ridiculed in the tabloids for gaining weight, someone tries to kill her. She suspects her royal husband wants to be rid of her, now she’s no longer model-thin. As she flees the mysterious assassin, she discovers the world thinks she is dead, and seeks refuge with the only person she can trust, Rev. Cady Stanton,a right-wing talk show host who has romantic and weight issues of her own.

“A mix as bubbly as a double chocolate milk shake. Pack this one to add punch to your holiday reading.” ~ South Yorkshire Times

All yours in a Six Pack of Sleuths!

Sadie the Sadist .99 cents, Labor Day Weekend

Insanity with Sadie!

Celebrating everyone who works a shit job like Sadie's 
Labor Day Weekend

Sadie the Sadist is on a Kindle Countdown

for just .99 cents

(the perfect Labor Day escape for psychos)

Buy it HERE

Price goes back to $2.99 on Tuesday

Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers: Covers Unveiled

Jeroen ten Berge has done it again!

Murderously Brilliant Covers ...

for my new Sadie novella: Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers

The book will be released in two versions: 

twisted and a bit more twisted

Twisted

More Twisted

Win an electronic copy at LibraryThing

Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers: Advice from L'il Sadie

What makes Sadie the psycho we know and love?

Find out in my new book 

Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers

to be released later this month

Possible L'il Sadies in Your Neighborhood

Once upon a time, Sadie was a little girl ... a very strange little girl. Now, for the first time, her story is revealed in Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers.

Part mystery, part horror, part self-help (for those who'd like to murder someone) this twisted coming-of-age story is told in Sadie's own words.

It will be released as a stand alone (novella) in two versions: R-rated=Rad and X-rated=X-tras, uncut. 

For those of you with weak stomachs, this story is not as graphic as Sadie the Sadist. For those of you who adore gore, I apologize for the general lack of it, but in this story Sadie is just getting started.

The story will also be released as part of a boxed set, Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries. With five of my fave funny women authors: Barbara Silkstone, Sibel Hodge, Dani Amore, Helen Smith, and Anne. R. Allen.

Here's a sneak peek, the opening of Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers:

Murder One

(1991)

My study of murder began in third grade, three days after Thanksgiving, when my father offed my mother.

You might think committing the perfect murder requires practice, technique, thought. Daddy’s one skill is dumb luck. He’s a lousy criminal. Sloppy. Lazy. But, because Mommy took lots of pills (diagnosed bipolar), the cops called her death suicide.

I found her in the bathtub floating in a pool of blood.

I don’t think it affected me.

Not really.

I closed the bathroom door, went into the kitchen to make a turkey sandwich, then I turned on the TV. Not a flat screen. Back in 1991, when I was eight years old, we had a console full of toxic tubes spewing radiation into our living room.

Sometimes I feel like I’m back there, even though I’m all grown up and live far, far away. I’m from New York. Not the city, Long Island. A long strip of land in the Atlantic—takes three hours to drive from one end to the other, changing from urban to rural until you reach the points, Montauk and Orient. Then you fall into the ocean.

Too bad I couldn’t drive when I was eight.

Our town is too far from the city to be called a suburb and not fancy like the Hamptons. This town is blue collar, hard-working people who provide services to the rich and famous, and a few stray farmers holding out against developers. Our house looks pretty much like every other on Maple Street. The lawn is tidy, the front porch neat, windows so polished birds fly into the glass then drop dead.

I bury them in the backyard with the other bodies.

Most Sundays Mommy and I get up early and go to church, while Daddy and my little brother stay at home. After church Mommy makes a giganto lunch, and I help.

Not today.

Today we didn’t eat, because Mommy and Daddy had a fight. (They yell a lot.) Then Mommy had a headache, and she told me to get her pills.

Now the house is quiet, like it should be.

My teacher at church says Sunday is a day of rest, but most Sunday afternoons Mommy gives me chores: cleaning toilets, using a toothbrush to scrub between tiles, vacuuming dead flies that get caught between the windows and the screens.

Today I don’t have to do anything, because Mommy’s in the bathtub.

I climb onto the plush beige couch (our house is beige; the furniture, the walls, the carpet), rest my head on a beige cushion, and kick off my sneakers (hot pink Revs with zebra inserts—rad). Usually, I’d untie the laces, carefully remove my shoes and arrange them side-by-side on the mat by the front door, the way Mommy taught me, but now I let them tumble from my feet and land where they will.  

I take a bite of sandwich, set it on my stomach.

Mommy would tell me to use a plate, call me a slob like Daddy.

Donnie, my little brother, comes into the living room, carrying his kitten and practically strangling it. He grins at me, displaying the gap in his front teeth. He’s still wearing pajamas, and a smudge of grape jelly stains the bright green brontosaurus on his chest.

“Is Mommy taking a nap?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s not in her bed.”

“In the bathroom. Don’t go in there.”

The kitten squirms in Donnie’s arms, revealing its tiny balls. I guess I should call it a him.

“What you want Santa to bring you, Sadie?”

A chainsaw, like Daddy’s.

“I don’t know.”

“I want a Cabbage Patch Birthday Kid with brown hair,” Donnie says.

“Boys don’t get dolls.”

“Why not?”

“They just don’t, dummy.”

Donnie sticks his thumb between his lips and sucks. If Mommy were around she’d tell him to take that thing out of his mouth, tell him she was gonna smear his thumb with mustard and eat it like a hotdog.

“I want a red BMX bike,” I say.

Donnie stops sucking his thumb long enough to say, “That’s really dumb.”

“Not as dumb as you.”

I grab the remote and amp up the TV’s volume, so I can hear the evil king, Zarkon, ruler of the planet Doom, vowing to destroy Voltron’s lion robots.

The kitten escapes Donnie’s stranglehold, hops onto the couch, and sniffs my turkey sandwich. I run my fingers down its back, think about snipping off its little balls. Mommy said they have to be removed, so the cat won’t spray. She said big cats squirt this stinky stuff to mark their territory. I’d like to mark my territory and make this couch off limits to Donnie. (He just wiped a glob of snot on the seat cushion.) How long does it takes to drown a cat? Less time, I bet, than it would take to drown my baby brother.

“What show is this?” he asks.

“Voltron: Defender of the Universe.”

“Could we watch Sesame Street?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Chill.”

“I’m hungry.”

I hand him half of my sandwich, my eyes glued to Princess Allura.

Donnie bites into the bread, spits out the meat.

“I don’t want dead bird. I want PBJ.”

Even at age five, my brother is sensitive.

“We’re out of jelly.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“In the basement.”

“What’s he doing?”

“How should I know?”

Daddy spends hours in the basement working on stuff he calls projects. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. The basement door is next to the kitchen, and I can see it from the couch. Closed and locked. One time Muffy followed Daddy downstairs and never came back. Muffy was our Yorkshire Terrier. Donnie and I are forbidden to enter the basement, except when Daddy makes us go down there for punishment, and we have to sit in the chair. In our house, the basement is the only door that locks.

“I’m gonna wake up Mommy,” Donnie announces.

Before I can stop him, he scrambles down the hall past the kitchen, past the door leading to the basement, the feet of his footed pajamas catching on the carpet. He stops at the bathroom door.

“Don’t go in there, Donnie.”

“Why?”

His small hand reaches for the knob.

“Cause I said so.”

Muffin (named after Muffy) meows.

(Note: for the sake of clarity, henceforward, I’ll refer to them as Kitty Muffin and Doggie Muffy.)

I click off the TV, watch the picture fade.

“I want Mommy,” Donnie whines.

Plump tears roll down his chubby cheeks. Pretty soon, he’ll wet his pants.

I hop off the couch, crumbs from my sandwich falling on the carpet, and get to the bathroom door as Donnie shoves it open.

The woman in the bathtub doesn’t look like Mommy. She’s sort of floating and her face is bloated, greenish like the mask that big kid across the street (I think his name is Jason) wore for Halloween. Mommy’s hair is a tangled mess and her makeup is blotchy. She stinks. Bloody water overspills the tub, leaving a pinkish puddle on the tile. The bathmat is stained brownish red. I wonder when the maggots will show up. I wonder if they’re inside Mommy now, writhing, twisting, turning, as they eat their way out.

Donnie wails, his small fists digging into his eyes.

I lead him away from the tub, and we back out of the bathroom staring at what used to be Mommy, pull the door shut till the catch clicks.

Then I go to the kitchen, climb onto a stool so I can reach the wall phone’s receiver, and call 911.