The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

 It wasn't how he expected to end up. Lost and alone, high up in the Rhodopes. The sun had gone down hours before, and he was sure he'd heard wolves, or maybe jackals. Three days earlier, he hadn't even known jackals were indigenous to Bulgaria! Had they picked up his scent? Of course they had. But would they seek him out? A midnight snack for the whole pack? Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn't sure how he smelled to such creatures. This could be a rare instance when his blood pressure medication and lifelong diet of chemically treated faux food might be advantageous. This whole mess had started a few weeks earlier.  He needed some time off. He needed to be away from everyone he knew, and more importantly, everyone who knew who he was.  The press had not been kind.  His public relations role for a well-known pharmaceutical company had put him front and center when the news broke.  So many kids had died due to tainted medication. It wasn't his fault, but he was the guy o...

 It was time to get her started. The old Ford coughed twice before turning over. The dashboard rattled like it always did, and the heater made that faint ticking noise that meant it might work eventually, or it might not. Either way, he didn't much care. He lit a Viceroy and watched the smoke curl toward the cracked windshield. Then he reached over and pulled the pint of Crown Royal from the passenger seat. The bag it came in had long since been lost. He took a short pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Six hundred miles. That’s what the note had said. He shifted into gear and pulled onto the road. Black Velvet was for sissies. That’s what his old man used to say. Unless you were Mexican. Or Elvis. He smiled faintly at the memory. His old man had been full of sayings like that. Half of them didn’t make much sense, but they stuck with you anyway. The bench seat was cracked Naugahyde, split down the middle like an old scar. The foam pushed out in yellow lumps. He shift...

  "Why is everyone so afraid of going up there?" The city girl had been pestering the locals for a few days now. Said she was a reporter or something. The honest truth was there was never really any news to report from around these parts. Every year, the seasons changed, but not much else. The deer hunters came and went, like they always did. The hikers and campers came and went, like they always did. The holidays came and went. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Rinse and repeat. Just the way things were up here in the hills. Walt Henley was renting out his old hunting cabin to her - dirt cheap, too. He figured she'd be gone after a day or two. The place had well water, which was usually enough to run off most city folks. But this gal was determined to find a story - even if she had to make one up out of whole cloth. Walt's mother, Abigail, was the one who invited the city girl to lunch. "It's the polite thing to do," she admonished him. "It's the C...

With God as my witness, I thought it was a joke. A prank. It began with a couple of messages left on my voicemail. "This is Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) from the FBI. I need to speak with you. I can be reached at (TELEPHONE NUMBER REDACTED)." After the first message, I figured it was either a prank or a wrong number. To my knowledge, I hadn't done anything (lately) that would put me in the view of the FBI. So, I dismissed it. Also, the agent's name sounded - for lack of a better word - fake. I thought to myself, Self, whose parents would name their child that ? Then I received another voicemail. Same agent. Same request. Same callback number. Now I was sure this was someone pranking me. Who could it be? Which of my friends could pull off a stunt like this? I didn't recognize the voice, but voices can be faked. I'm admittedly a slob. Housework… tidying up… is not my forte. If left on my own, I tend to adhere to Quentin Crisp's philosophy on the s...

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...

It's been a rough week. I don’t often show my emotions, but lately they’ve been harder to hide. I’ve lost two close friends in the past week: Georgia Thompson and Yanka Rupkina. It was through music that I came to know them both. Music really does bring the world together. Georgia was married to my rockabilly buddy, Hayden Thompson. We lost him at the end of 2025, and Georgia joined him recently. They were wonderful people, both of them. They shared a sense of humor I always admired - as odd as my own - and being around them was always a joy. Yanka - скъпи, скъпи мой приятелю - was truly a gift in my life. I had been listening to her for decades without even realizing it. We were friends for months before I finally figured it out. We can blame my less-than-adequate language skills for that. Yanka thought it was hilarious when I finally made the connection. From the moment she told our mutual friend - the conduit of our friendship - “Tell that BOY to contact me!” a true friendship w...