The Night Watchman Adventures

The Night Watchman Adventures is now available as a pocket size book.

From 2005 to 2009 I worked Security overnight. While there are a lot of misconceptions about what security can “actually” do compared to Law Enforcement I am here to tell you, I will not be clearing up ANY of those misconceptions.

While laws vary from state to state all of these stories take place in Houston, Texas and everything I did was perfectly legal, as some people who have heard these stories before called into question.

All these misadventures are 100% true. So sit back, relax, and prepare to have your funny bone tickled with the lighter side of Law Enforcement.

Do Grade School kids really "Graduate?"

Enough is enough people.  These “Graduations” that everyone is having is ridicules.  Have you lost your sense of reality?  What ever happened to encouraging a child to complete school so they could EARN a Diploma and Graduate?  Now we just hand them out like participation trophies and we HURT our kids, not help them.

Your child did NOT just graduate Kindergarten, First Grade, Second Grade, or the Fifth Grade, just like I did not, you did not, nor MY child did not.  We were promoted to the next grade.  We completed the task ahead of us for the year and are moving toward the next task.  See, THAT is how school works.

A person should “Graduate” at least once in their life, high school.  If they are lucky perhaps they can graduate from college or military training.

When I graduated high school it was a bigger deal for my parents than it was for me.  Yes I worked hard and earned my diploma but not getting it was no an option for them.  I was to be the first of their children to walk that stage.  It was something my father pushed me to do, reminding me that if I did not cross that stage it was no one fault but my own.  When I finally did, after five long years, yes I said five, I was proud of myself.  I never experienced that feeling before because I had not earned it until then.

Every year I was promoted to the next grade until I reached the ninth grade and failed it. I was crushed, devastated, but no one gave me a pat on the head and said, “Oh well kid.  Here’s a trophy for trying.”  That is not how the real world works and if we do not prepare our kids for the real world it will devour them when they enter it.

Webster defines “Graduation” as the award or acceptance of an academic degree or diploma and a “Diploma” is a document which shows that a person has finished a course of study or has graduated from a school.  Tell me what degree has a grade school child earned?

Please stop robbing the full experience of what it actually means to graduate.  Once you “Graduate” you are ready to face the world and concur it.

Lover's Lane - Based on Actual Events


“You’re not suppose to be here.”
The whispered plea was drowned out by the soft crashing of the surf.  The predawn breeze blowing cool and gently in rhythm with the Texas waters making their way onto shore, pulling away anything caught in its undertow.
“You’re not suppose to be here,” the harsh tear filled whisper kept repeating over and over.
The man made his way to the surf, clutching the bundle in his arms close to his chest.  As the water splashed over his feet, he fell to his knees and laid the bundle down in the water, silently begging the ocean to take this child.
The waters receded but the baby remained, crying out for help, pleading for its life.  The man muffled the screams with his hand, waiting for the next wave to come and wash over them.
But the waves refused to come, refusing to be a part of this evil deed.
“You’re not suppose to be here,” the man whispered one last time as his knife found its way to the baby’s throat, cutting clean through in one fluid motion.
A dark calmness washes over the man as he stands up slowly and fades away into the predawn shadows.

Chapter 1

“Detective Dasan?”
Devon Dasan didn’t hear the person calling his name.  He was in a haze, looking at the wall in front of him full of photos of people he never got to give peace to.  Every time he was unable to solve a case their picture went up on his wall.  There were not many pictures but for Devon just one picture was one too many.
“Detective Dasan,” the soft voice repeated.  “Detective?”
This time she touched his shoulder, breaking the haze.
“What,” he asked, startled as he turned around to see a young lady standing before him with a notebook clutched tightly against her chest.
“I didn’t mean to startle you Detective,” the teenager with the deep green eyes said.  “I’m Amy.  Amy Neal from LaPorte High.  You agreed to let me interview you for the school paper.”
“Yes,” Devon answered.  “I thought our appointment was for 12:30?”
“It was,” Amy answered.  “It’s 2 o’clock now.”
Devon looked down at his watch.  He lost time again.
“I’m so sorry Miss Neal.  Please forgive me.”
“I understand,” Amy smiled.  “You must be very busy getting ready for retirement.”
“Sadly no,” he answered, swinging from side to side in his chair, his open hands displaying an empty desk.  “They’ve already taken all my cases away from me.  I just have to sit here and look pretty for the next seven days.”
“What about those,” she asked, pointing toward the few pictures on his wall.
“Those,” he said, drawing the word out slowly, trying to think how best to answer the question.  “Those, to put it bluntly, are my failures.”  Seeing the blank look on her face he continued, “have a seat Miss Neal.  You don’t want to hear about those.”
“You can call me Amy,” she responded as she sat down.  “And I don’t mind if you don’t.  As Mrs. Gonzales always says, ‘A good reporter doesn’t just write a story, she follows it where ever it goes.’  There seems like there’s a story on that wall somewhere.”
“You’re a smart girl.”
“Top five in my class,” she blurted out proudly.
“And modest,” Devon said sarcastically.  “A noble trait.”
“Excuse me,” Amy said, sounding a bit offended.
“Nothing,” Devon answered.  “Shall we get started?”
Amy put her notebook down on top of the empty desk and started digging to her purse.
“Where did I put that damn thing,” she mumbled to herself.  “I swear every time I need it it hides from me.  I know it’s here some… Ah here it is.”
Amy pulled out her cell phone and started swiping the screen to the right as she looked for the app she wanted.
“Okay I’m ready,” Amy said as she laid her phone face down on the desk between Devon and herself.  “This is Amy Neal, interviewing Detective Devon Dasan of the LaPorte Police Department, Homicide.  Detective if you would, please speak clearly so the recorder can pick up your voice.  It’s not the best recorder but it’s the best I have.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you.  I see you have this wall with four pictures on it.  You just told me they are your failures.  Could you elaborate on that?”
“Weellllll, they are cases I could never solve.  Even though I never promised the families directly that I would catch the killer I always made that promise to myself.  Every case I got I worked hard to give peace the grieving families.  These were the ones that never got it.”
“That’s impressive though, only four out of hundreds of cases that must have come across your desk in your long career.”
“There’s nothing impressive about not finding a killer Miss Neal,” he snapped, not realizing the venom he spat out with those words.  “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
“No I’m sorry,” she said.  “That wasn’t what I mean to say.”
“Next question,” Devon said, trying to save them both.
“What made you want to become a Detective in the first place?”
“He did,” Devon answered, pointing at the picture of a baby on the wall.
“Who is he?”
“My greatest nightmare,” Devon answered, his eyes hazing over like they were when Amy first walked in.  “Daryl and I were just kids when he died.”
“Yes,” Devon said as he drew in a deep breath, blinking away the tears in his eyes and trying to regain his composure.  “Daryl was my best friend.  We did everything together.”
“What happened to Daryl?”
“He died in Vietnam,” Devon answered coldly.  “He could never get that image, that face,” he pulled the picture off the wall gently and brought it closer to himself, “out of his mind.  It haunted his dreams as it did mine.  One night he woke up, screaming from his nightmare and the enemy heard the screams and opened fire on his platoon in the jungle.  He died and I survived.”
“I don’t get it.  If you were a kid when this boy died then how did he affect you so much?”
“Cause we were the ones that found him,” he answered, tears filling his eyes again.
“We can stop if you want,” Amy said, not sure how to react to where the story just turned.
“No,” Devon took out a handkerchief and whipped his eyes.  “We can keep going.”
“It was Friday, April 21, 1950. The sun had just come up and we wanted to catch some fish before school. Daryl and I went to the beach at the end of Lover’s Lane.  We never caught anything but it was fun for us.  Mostly we would walk around the beach and look for washed up treasure.  It’s what boys did.”
“We would poke dead things with our fishing poles to see what would happen.  As we were walking up to the water we saw something rocking back and forth in the surf.  It was as if the water was rejecting it, not willing to carry it out off of the beach.”
“As we got closer we saw it was a bath towel wrapped around something.  There was blood on the outside of the towel so he figured it was something a fisherman left behind from the night before.”
“‘What do you think it is,’ Daryl asked.”
“‘Fish guts most likely,’ I answered because we saw a lot of that around the beach.  Excited we ran up to the towel and I kicked it toward Daryl.  That was the moment that changed both our lives.  The baby’s head had been completely severed from its body and flew into Daryl’s hands.”
“We both screamed, getting the attention of a couple on a morning stroll.  They came running over to see why we stood there motionless, screaming.  Daryl dropped the head in the sand and as soon as it hit the ground the surf pulled away.  It was like the water didn’t want to touch the baby now that it had been uncovered.”
“The police were called, as well as our parents, and we were taken home and questioned about how we found the baby.  We told them it was just lying there.  Nothing was ever done about it.  There was no DNA testing back then, no way of identifying the baby.  There was no case and it has haunted me everyday since.”
“If there was no case how did you get the picture?”
“My father was friends with the mortician and he gave my father the picture.”
“Do you mind if I take a picture of it for the paper?”
“Sure,” he answered, handing the picture over to Amy.
She picked up her phone and stopped the recording.  Opening the camera app she took a picture of the baby.  It looked peaceful, like it was sleeping.  The mortician had done a good job of sewing the head back on and covering up the wound.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Amy said as she picked up her notebook, dropping her phone back into her purse.  “If you don’t mind, I would like to make turn this into a multi piece article.  Can I come back tomorrow to ask more questions?”
“I don’t see why not,” Devon answered with a sigh.  “I’ve got seven more days of doing absolutely nothing.”

Chronicles of the Huntress - Rewrite

I have had a three different stories floating around in my head and this morning it hit me that they are all connected. This is why I was having so such trouble writing anything about these stories, until now. I have combined the stories so they all flow as one story.  Below is the opening scene.  Tell me what you think.

“It’s been said that when you die your life flashes before your eyes.  If that’s true then I die every night in my sleep.  Every time I close my eyes the nightmare begins again.  All the lives I’ve taken, all the faces, all the pleas for mercy, everything, it all comes flooding back.”
“I have often wondered if it’s true for those I’ve killed.  For those that died instantly without warning, was there a flash?  For those that died slow and very painful, was there a flash for them as well or was the pain to great, overshadowing the sins they were atoning for?”
“It’s a shame I will never find out.”
“Why do you say that,” a nervous voice answered, her hands chained to the stone wall behind her, she was unable to look away from the soft golden eyes staring deep into her soul.
“Because in seven thousand years I have yet to figure out how to truly die.”
“Is that what you’re going to do to me?  Kill me?”
“Why,” she asked with an evil grin, “have you done something that deserves me destroying your soul?”
“No,” the other woman snapped quickly.
“Yes you have,” she answered coldly.  “You have a stain on your soul so black that you want to die.  Otherwise you would not be here.”
The other woman looked away from those golden eyes, ashamed of herself as a memory flashed before her.
“You broke into this place to kill me,” she said as she lifted the other woman’s chin so she could look into her eyes once more.  “That was your first mistake, I can not die.  Your second mistake was thinking I am one of my children, who, unlike me, can be killed.”
She paused to let that statement sink in.
“Which one of my children were you trying to kill?”
“I wasn’t trying…”
“Come, come,” she snapped, cutting the other woman off.  “Lies will not be tolerated.  If you wish to become a Huntress, that is the first lesson you must learn.”
“Who… who are you?”
“I am Rosil,” the golden eyes woman answered.  “And I am the mother of all vampires.”
Horror flooded the other woman’s face at the word vampire.
“Relax my dear,” Rosil cooed.  “I am the mother of all vampires, I am not a vampire myself.”
“You lie,” the woman shouted, pulling against her chains, a renewed anger filling her. “I was right to come here and kill you.”
“And what a fine job you’ve done so far,” Rosil mocked.  “But I am not lying.  Have you forgotten the first rule of being a Huntress?  Lies will not be tolerated.”
Rosil looked down at the table next to her prisoner, drawing her eyes to the table as well.  There, spread out, were all weapons the woman had brought with her to the house.  A wooden stake, a plastic bottle filled with what Rosil assumed was Holy Water, and a machete.
“You do realize that none of this stuff will kill a vampire,” Rosil said, picking each item up, looking at it with disgust before setting it back down.  “Except this,” she picked up the machete.  “This will take a head off but it’s very messy and not very quick.”
“Why do I want to give a blood sucker a quick death,” the woman snapped.  “They all deserve to die slowly.”
“That they do,” Rosil answered softly, taking one last look at the machete before setting it back down slowly.  “But attempting to do so will only get you killed.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am looking for a new apprentice and I see a fire burning deep inside you.  You have a desire to become a Huntress.”
Rosil drew her dragon katana and raised the blade to the woman’s neck.  The woman looked deep into Rosil’s golden eyes, the fear she displayed earlier gone.  She accepted her fate, she longed for death.
“That’s what I thought,” Rosil said with a smile.  She lifted the sword and tapped the chains, freeing the woman from the wall.  “What is your name?”
“Kara,” the woman answered.
“Kara,” Rosil repeated, “The Huntress.”

What Super Being Are You?

What Super Being are you?  There are certainly plenty to choose from, be it Hero or Villain.  These Super Beings that we choose are a part of us, a part of who we are and how we live our lives.  As a writer I know what it is like to create a character, bring it to life, and have them live in a world where we only dream of.  No matter whom you are, how famous or rich you are, you have a Super Being that you look up to.

While I was growing up there were three Universes that I read from.  There were always more than one Being that I could relate to, which is why I spent most of my allowance on comic books and graphic novels.  Despite all the Super Beings there was only one from each Universe that I felt fit me.

Superman – For those who know me know without a doubt that Superman is my top pick.  First and foremost, above all else, simply put, I want to fly.  While Kal-El is suppose to be a ultimate Superhero he has his faults.

He can be hurt, even killed, yet he stands up for what is right.  He is willing to help others, no matter the cost to himself.  He is willing to do whatever it takes to stop a threat, even killing someone, even though it’s a last resort, contrary to popular belief that he would never do so.

He knows he can turn bad, has done so in the past, but tries not to let it happen. He fights the bad guys, not joins them.  It’s a burden he must bury deep inside.  Same as me.  By remembering all that is good he is able to battle any evil that may come his way.

Hulk – “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”  I recite that quote to myself when I feel anger bubbling up.  Knowing you have a problem is the first step to dealing with it.  I have anger issues.  I joke all the time that they are a family trait and I have no control over it but that’s not true.  I can control it instead of letting it control me.  It’s a struggle at times and sometimes I lose but I always try keep it contained.

Like Dr. Banner, I felt I was doomed to wonder this world alone.  It is the only way to be sure that your love ones are safe from your own destruction.  But despite being an angry Super Being the Hulk is still a Superhero so why can’t I be too?

Darth Vader – “I would like to think I live my life as a Jedi but truth be told, I’m a Sith.”  Like Anakin, I too struggle between the light and dark side of life. I acknowledge the dark, know it, live it, embrace it, however I do not let it consume me completely.  There is still good in me, the Emperor has not driven it from me fully.

In the world of make believe this is where I stand.  Those are my Super Beings.  What are yours?

My Own App

SWEET!!! I have my own app in the app store on Google Play
Totally free to download. Tell me what you think.

The Farm Print Edition

The Farm is now available in paperback.

After destroying the mafia in New York, Jonathan and Johnson are wanted men. The CIA has offered them safe passage but not everyone agrees they belong, including them.
Going through the motions at The Farm, the training location for all CIA agents, Jonathan and Johnson find themselves outcast by all the instructors as well as some of the top students.
When the lead instructor decides to take matters into his own hands the only result is death. Jonathan and Johnson find themselves on the run once again but can they really out run the CIA?