Overview: Why I did it!

Why did I threaten to kill my literary agent? How did it happen? Where am I now?

Last question first.

I am in a tent, in a campground in North Carolina's Outer Banks. This is an older tent, my wife, children and I used here ten years ago.

I don't know if I have a wife, or children, or a home, anymore at this minute. It's raining off and on and the park police have told me there is a tropical storm well out in the Atlantic but it could be coming this way.

Authorities in three states are looking for me, soon to be four. Let me say right out, I didn't kill my writing partner: that's bullshit that my agent is putting out there on YouTube, Twitter et al! Total bullshit! You can kiss my ass, Lyzanne! Fuck you!

State and local authorities are watching my home in Florida. I can't call my wife to let her know, I am okay! Please let my wife of twenty years know, that I am going to be fine! Someone please help me, despite the fact I have run out of seroquel and cymbalta. Let her know, Gary O'Brien, is going to be just fine, even without 100mgs, daily dose, of cymbalta and 100mgs, day dose of seroquel for sleep!

The battery is running low on my laptop and if AT&T cuts us off, the laptop connect will go as well, and then I am really fucked.

Hey, I did not kill my writing partner. I want people to know what really happened.

I started this book as a joke and now it has gotten waaaay out of hand. I can send out chapters in this blog in the hope you can read what happened and judge for yourself.

Other details, the fucking racoons in this damned park have opposable thumbs and they know how to use them; so while I mull over my fate beneathe the whirling glare of Cape Hatteras Light and the accusing stars of the Milkyway Galaxy, I am mocked in my attempt to survive by a tribe of hairy theives who can operate a pop top, as well as a jelly jar lid.

The smell here in the park is lovely. The toilet to the south is backed up. I am one of only a few campers in the park today and so, the mosquitoes and deer fly are having their way with me.

Park police and federal officials keep telling me to get off the beach. I don't know what is going on this year, but this place is crawling with feds. It is fortunate they are more interested in what is happening with whatever the hell it is they are dealing with on the beach, than me.

One of my fishing rods has been stolen. I hope the racoons are not responsible for this, then I really will go out of my mind.

Please tell my wife, if you see her, that I did not kill my writing partner in that Orlando hotel room. Chris died, I think, of a heart attack, complicated by overmedication.

The sun is getting lower in the horizon. I know my computer clock is behind the times, so, I have to go on clock on this damned cell phone THAT I STOLE which reads, 6:39 p.m.

At this time of day, the blood suckers come screaming out of the grasses and woods.

Click here for chapter 1
Copyright Gary O'Brien