Fission Factor
Fission Factor
Perfect Bound Softcover
Print Type:

Private Detective Leon Strong sits in his office, nursing a hangover from the night previous. Top of the desk and under his boots lies a copy of the Diamond City Forum, the prima fascia type ink all about said previous night's explosion over at Pillar Electric, Diamond City's megadont power plant. There's a body...blown to ID as of yet... The Forum screams terrorism. Along with a plea for old west justice.


The phone rings. It's a guy by the name of Purly Breed, a longtime employee of Pillar. Purly's at police headquarters, downtown, locked in a holding cell, and about half an inch away from a boat ride to Guantanamo. But in the middle of the call, Purly's attacked. Amidst a scuffle comes the boom of a police model .38... And the phone goes dead...


Brace yorself for a wild ride, as what at first appears to be terrorism may actually be a plot to mask a murder. When the smoke clears, Strong uncovers an unexpected dynasty wrapped up in a dirt scam - a real-estate swindle - that's got every mugwump in town tipping like dominoes, then pushing up daisies. But what's poised and ready to drop is something that'll shake your faith in all things holy. The final domino, the Fission Factor....

...a little action scene, with Strong behind the wheel of the Impala, the car racing over a narrow train road plunked alongside the rails, an oncoming train in the distance, barreling in fast, and a government whip - a tail car, the feds, probably - directly behind him, the gats in the whip shooting at him... Strong's intention? to cut in front of the train fine enough to lose the tail car...

  About a mile up, the signal lights at my target crossing began to flash orange and green, the orb the far side of em, closing in, spitting its gaunt, yellow haze into the night. I strained to see if the gates were still intact but it was like trying to spot a hand, the end of an arm three thousand yards long. Way passed pissed off now, madder than an Aztec chief without a virgin sacrifice. To hell with it, the Impala could turn the gates into balsa if the bullets didn't turn her into scrap, first. But now the wheel was fighting with me. The power steering was gonzoed. Must've been my illustrious, Joe Foss, dead-stick landing. I held my breath, squinted at the zombie orb, its quanta shifting, the night going silent, transdimensional, the sky red, tufts of yellow smoke forming over the shamanic bluffs in the distance. I hadn't a clue in the world as to where I was, when the voice of an Elder said...

  "...Yes, my son, hold fast to your truth, for it will not decieve you. Breathe deep now, the smoke of the ohapitu mua. Then make haste, Strong Heart, for see, comes the speeding orb..."

  ...The train's horn blasted me back to reality as if I were that crazy Indian kid again, my skin gone flash flood, one hand gripping the wheel, the other trying to block the orb's yellow madness, every nail in my tree screaming that to die righteously was better than to bow to the dictates of a couple of multiple deferment, AWOL pretenders to the throne.


  I hard righted, the tires screaming like a bunch of barrows, the twin diesels' fulmination so intense the ground was shaking. The Impala lost her head roaring up the embank, thrumbled sideways, crosscut the yellow, aiming to kiss one of the two black-and-white stretches of flashing lights and clanging bells blocking up the road. Sure, pine for the stiff from the wrong side of the tracks. Jesus. Chicks. Have to bad girls. Make a statement. We'd taken long, moonlight drives, whereupon I'd lecture her on the dangers of dead-end streets, impromptu infatuations with go nowhere rides on reality TV, and nitro fuelies that wad after a quarter of a mile. But since when does a star struck lover ever listen to a fucking word you say?

"Lonesome" is a multi-genre artist currently residing in Los Angeles, California. A thirty-five year veteran of the music bizz, "Lonesome" is a singer/songwriter/guitarist whose pinups are rhythm'n blues artists the likes of which once graced the halls of Chess, Sun, and Motown Records. He's also a big fan of the immortals Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sara Vaughn, Dinah Washington, and kin. The list goes on. From Blues to Jazz to electric to eclectic and back. I suppose he's a bit of a history buff. But if you ask him, he'll just smile and say he's more of a stick in the mud. Since he was knee-high to a toadstool, "Lonesome" has dabbled in writing. He'll tell you that he likes words, but at the same time, he'll tell you that he likes a good story even better. I can attest, right here, he's always got a ball of yarn ready to unravel. He might string you along, but trust me, you'll enjoy the ride. Just don't ask him about Raymond Chandler or Dash Hammet. He'll go on forever about them. Or Erle Stanley Garder, either. Erle Stanley, an ex courtroom judge, was the guy that came up with Perry Mason. "Lonesome' can talk up a storm about ol' Stanley. As we speak, "Lonesome" is working on two new projects. One is entitled, Celestial Meanderings (the ultimate coffeetable book, with or without the coffee or the table) It's a frank and often humorous testimonial to the strange and wonderful goings on, as it were, in between all the ordinary, day to day affairs. There are lines in there that will make your eyes pop. I know, he's let me have a peek. He's also working on another Leon Strong novel. If you thought Fission Factor was wild... Well, I'd like to spill more, as "Lonesome" would say, but I've been asked to keep a lid on it. The true mystery man, you see, is truly a man of mystery. But stay tuned, something tells me the fun is just getting started. Warmest wishes, Ed Black, editor, Rebel Cool Productions
Fred Dickinson has a point, but I am glad to have this free bit of encouragement. I remmbeer when Self Publishing was called (derisively) Vanity Press. Now it is all the rage and those of us who have something to say have a fighting chance to get noticed. Unfortunately there is a lot of chaff among the wheat.Bruce Kimmel has given me hope. Now that we are almost ready to get my picture book, Randal the Flannel Camel, out for all the world to see I am wondering what to do next. I don't have a web site because I haven't a clue how to set one up. I think a blog might be the way to go, but I really don't know what is the difference. I am hoping Bruce's free advice will open my eyes to the obvious. So far he has encourage me. Thanks Bruce.

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