Sipp of Whiskey Ch.1

(An website exclusive chapter for a co-authored work between @edwardvanwinkle and myself. If you want to see the other part it’s located here:


Mississippi Bones, or Sipp as he’s known to his friends, sits in a dark bar staring at a broken. He’s nursing a whiskey and Coke, his favorite drink. His hands fumble around with a deck of cards. Black and worn. He shuffles through them absently.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person in the entire world.” A hand grabs ahold of Sipp’s shoulder before he can stand up.

“What do you want, Doc?” Sipp’s words slur together. It sounds like this isn’t his first drink.

“Just the money you owe. Toll comes due, even for you.”

“I don’t have it.” Sipp places the cards back into the tattered box.

The hand moves up Sipps back, onto his neck, and slams him face first into the bar. The bartender is nowhere to be seen. He took his leave when Doc walked in.

“Wanna try that again?” Doc pushed Sipp’s head further into the counter until he can taste the tears of divorcees.

“I mean I don’t have it… yet. I’m working on a big score.”

“Elaborate.” Doc pulls his hands away, so he can look Sipp in the face.

“Ever hear the legend of Snake Eyes Temple? Two diamonds as big as a toddler’s head.” Sipp slips his card back in his pocket, careful to palm one in his hand. It looks like it isn’t a normal card. It looks like it has a serrated edge.

“Nah. I’d love to hear about it.” Doc leans in close enough for Sipp to see his wide array of cavities.

“It’s real that’s for sure.” Sipp swings his arm around with his card in hand. Doc grabs him by the wrist and twists it until it pops. Sipp yelps, but pulls back.

“So, it’s going to be like this again?”

“Always will be. Can’t play the game if you won’t accept a lose.” Sipp runs forward swinging his other hand around, but Doc kicks him back into the bar. Sipp hra s his drink, downs it, and throws the glass. Doc backhands the glass away, and goes to strike Sipp again. He’s gone.

Sipp shoulders his way through the back doors and produces and set of keys. He scans the lot and presses the unlock button. Beep. Behind him, sits a purple Prius with a stethoscope hanging from the rearview mirror.

“It’ll have to do.” Sipp runs over to the car, unlocks, the door, and puts the car into drive. Good ole slow electric cars. He floors it through the parking lot and turn onto the road.

A bullet passes through the back window, but misses Sipp. Another shot but Sipp is already gone. The car is filled with trash, slim jims and banana taffy wrappers.

“Crap.” He was screwed. The second Doc found him in another seedy bar, he’d be toast. The road is open in all direction, and Sipp feels free for a moment.

A bit a movement catches his eye in the rearview mirror. Two black SUVs are trailing him. He twists the wheel and drifts into a back alley. The SUVs can’t follow thanks to the size of Prius.

Sipp slams on his breaks before emerging from the alley, a red pickup zooms by. Luckily, Sipp didn’t crash the car. He didn’t need that extra twenty grand on his tab. Sipp finds the closest parking garage and ditches the car. There’s no need for it, not anymore. He put the keys on the antenna and scribbles a note onto a playing card. Sorry. I’ll get the stones. You know that I don’t like confrontation. And he places the card under the windshield wiper.

After exiting the parking garage, he ducks into a storefront. His last few crumpled dollars goes to a tattered hoodie. Sipp pulls his hood up and checks his phone. The screen is webbed with cracks edging from the center.

After walking a bit more, Sipp slips into another alley. He finds a dumpster and places his lips wrist between the sticky lid and cool metal. His phone goes into his mouth. The phone flickers black and white, and he twists his wrist until it cracks back together. A tear springs to his eye, and he wipes it away with his hoodie.

“Sipp!” Doc is on the other side of the alley, standing with the light against his back. Sipl stares down a pistol barrel. They were maybe thirty feet apart.

“Can you give me a break?” Sipp spat his phone into his hand and produced the same strange card.

“I broke your wrist,” Doc said.

“That isn’t what I meant. Just back off. I’ll get your stupid money.”

“It’s too late. Far far too late.”

Sipp ducks behind the dumpster and a few scattered bullets smack into the metal. Ping. Ping. Ping.

The magazine pops and Sipp stands up, unfurls his arm and launches the card. It slices across Docs face. Tearing his face open with an audible pop.

“Jesus Christ!”

Sipp could put an end to his running with just a few more steps. He lurches forward, rears back for a kick, but Doc pushed him back into the brick wall.

“You forgot about the one in the chamber.” Bang!


Sipp opens his eyes. Everything is white. His shoulder is encased in pain. His hands are tied behind his back. But he is alive as far as he can tell.

“Mississippi Bones. Kind of a stupid name, don’t you think?” A man with a pinstripe suit and a thin mustache walks into the light. Viktor, the head of the Killer Card Sharks. They were the ones Sipp owed money to.

“It was my dad’s idea. He thought it would be funny,” Sipp spits. His bullet wound is bound tight with bandages, and he feels stitches in his flesh. Of course, they didn’t want I’m dead.

“It is. I’ll give your dad that. I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m all ears,” Sipp says.

“You’re gonna go get the Snake Eyes. You’ll bring it back to us, and I’ll graciously absolve your debt. I might even give you credit. It’s up to you.”

“And if I say no?”

Viktor smiles. He rolls a small cart into view. There’s jumped cables hanging from a car battery on the cart.

“You’d be shocked what I might do.”

“I get it.”

“Then you leave in the morning.”

How To Be a Writer

“It’s not as hard as you think.”

Recently, I was interviewed for a podcast by a friend of mine. she’s the kind of person, who thinks I’m funny, but in a little brother way. Although I might be selling myself short.

Point is, she really only needed me because she didn’t have a guess for this month. Link here ( That isn’t too say that she didn’t want my opinions or thoughts on my craft. Before the interview started she expressed that she wanted a real interview.

I went into it wanting to make jokes, and I did. It couldn’t be helped. My humor masks my pain, even if that sounds silly. To be interesting I must be quipped.

But she asked me what kind of advice I would give young authors, so they could get to a level reminiscent of my own, and I said something that I didn’t know was inside of me. I told her first that I was unmedicated and bipolar, and that I could never guarantee anything I said would work for others.

From there, I said that for me to be good, I had to hate myself the most. I had to know what I couldn’t do. I had to know what my limitations were. At the same moment, I had to love myself the most. Art couldn’t pour from me unless I could reach that balance.

The important part was about knowing my weaknesses. If  knew them, I could break them. I could fight them. It was important to know I had them. From there I would never set an easy to obtain goal. Instead I’d set goals that I could never make, so that I would always be striving to reach the goal. There wouldn’t be a way to stop.

Why am I telling you? (Whoever you are). Because I want you to remember that writing isn’t always sunshine and rainbows. Some days, you’ll have to imagine the sunshine. Art is a duality. Shading and light. Without one or the other how can there be depth and perspective. Think about it. Write about it.

Fight me.

POST #2: Writer’s Block or Whatever


“You’ll Never Amount to Anything!” – Dylan

Dylan, my archnemsis from long ago told me this. I think he wanted it to be a slight at me, but it didn’t work. That conversation I had with him was part of why I continued writing for so long. Because this represented a goal for me. Every time I stalled out with what many people call Writer’s Block, I’d always come back to this.

Not because I wanted to prove him wrong, not really. It was more that as long as I kept writing I would amount to at least a word count. A word count will take me somewhere. That’s when I started writing my trademark novel, Running out of Time. It’s when I grasped a hold of the absurd and stopped caring about format and editing. It wasn’t out of laziness, but rather I wanted to create something that was me.

That’s how I create writer’s block too, because I know that many people strive for some idea of perfection, but that isn’t what I’m about. Perfection is great, but firs you have to create a test model and a rough draft. IT ISN’T GOING TO WORK THE FIRST TIME!

Writer’s are always so concerned about getting it right first that they lose sight of doing something into of nothing. Sure this rough draft when complete may not amount to anything, but that isn’t the point. If you write a thousand words of crap, you may not have achieved much in terms of literary perfection, but you have definitely came across an idea. An idea that can be elaborated on.

“If you have 100 ideas, then 10 of them might okay, and 1 of them will be great.” – MATH MAN

So, I’m of the mind set that even if I write nothing or crap, something positive will come out of it, even if it’s just one good joke. So to beat writer’s block, I just write more, even though that doesn’t seem like it would work.

Hello And Welcome

This is a beautiful blog and website for me AM Hounchell, the only recipient of the Hounchell award of amazingness. Of course, I was the only one who applied or knew of its existence, but it’s an award I won.


This is the COOLEST guy I’ve ever met. – Real Person.

So why are you here? This is a hub! A Book Hub for a writer like me. Perhaps exactly me.

As of writing this, I have somewhere between 5 and a trillion projects. Some of them are finished like.

Contractual Obligations

Running out of Time

Running out of Time 2: Running Towards the Lime

Running out of Time: For the Score and Seven Beards Ago

Arrow to the Heart

Descent to Darkness


The Cosmic Cube

Lightning Bolt and Blazer

Lightning Bolt and Blazer 2: The Viral Rift

Quintessential Reality

That’s 10 WHOLE books. TEN Beautiful Books that I’ve written and you could read them with your eyes. I’ll do my absolute best to make that even more books in even more genres.

 I read all of this guy’s books and it cured my blindness. – True Person

Look out world, because I’m going to bury everything with pages with the AM Hounchell brand of crazy dribbled all over them.

A.M. Hounchell


My name is AM. I hate mornings and I'm not a broom. Commas are weird and bacon is good. I write books you can find on Amazon. And I'll win #BadBookIdeas one day

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