Friday, December 14, 2018

📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Three Godfathers by Peter B Kyne

The story is already beloved by film buffs thanks to the many adaptations for the big screen, including the 1948 John Ford/John Wayne collaboration and the 2003 Japanese anime Tokyo Godfathers. But here is the original 1913 novelette in all its warm humanity and humor. Three bank robbers on the run in the frontier American West happen upon a birthing mother who begs the men to watch over her baby as the delivery takes her life just as another is brought into the world. Naturally, they do, and find that their new charge brings them a new outlook on their wicked ways. American novelist PETER B. KYNE (1880-1957) was born in San Francisco, California. From early on it was clear that he had a gift for writing, and his time in the army during the Spanish-American War and World War I gave him plenty to write about. Kyne's novels include The Go-Getter (1921) and Cappy Ricks (1916).

Is the story of The Three Bad Men—-not The Three Wise Men "What's a godfather, Bill?" The Youngest Bad Man inquired. "What job does he hold down?"

"You're an awful ignorant young man, Bob," replied The Wounded Bad Man reproachfully. "A godfather is a sort of reserve parent who promises to renounce the devil with all his works an' pomps."

The Youngest Bad Man smiled wanly. "Well, Bill, all I got to say is that us three're a lovely bunch o' godfathers."

The daylight raid on the Wickenburg National Bank had not been a success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success. The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank, mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of Wickenburg in rather a sus- picious hurry. The assistant cashier had an inspiration.

"Thieves! Robbers 1 Stop 'em!" he yelled.

His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel a soultrapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of "Keno!" one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a "biled" shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.

The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of "Robbers!" aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a ro rata of the said elderly citi- zen's three-seventeen.

Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunnysack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wickenburg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, re- plenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line which happens to be the Colorado River.

They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.

Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover, The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to "take a chance." They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off into the current.

An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert. They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.

"Well, boys, I guess we're safe," re- marked The Worst Bad Man, who was the leader of the trio. "It's cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How's your shoulder, Bill?"

The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.

"High up. Missed the bone and don't amount to much, Tom. But I've bled like a stuck pig and it's weakened me a little." "I'll heat some water and wash it up, Bill," said The Youngest Bad Man, much concerned.

They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much re- freshed, ate an early supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there in the sands they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new mining camp at Old Woman Mountain a camp which, following the whimsical and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward such names as Mecca, Cadiz, Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.

For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night. Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one may encounter tor- rid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold and The Three Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not meet other wanderers and there would be no embarrassing questions to answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder.

Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder was in a bad way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were desertbred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.

So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood. Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, bloodred blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of the damned.

In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next waterhole a little-known and consequently unfrequented spot where they could rest for a few days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the railroad.

"Don't stint yourself on the water, Bill," The Worst Bad Man advised as they departed from Malapai Springs. "There's always water at Terrapin Tanks."

Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves, although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The latter's shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him if the bandages were kept wet.

The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks al- most to the hour. The sun was just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo and paused.

Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob a sound that bespoke pain and fear and misery.

The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger, en- joining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.

lt's a human voice," announced The Worst Bad Man, "an' there's death in it. Wait here. I'm goin' in to see what's up."

When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the arroyo.

"I see the top of a covered wagon," he announced.

"Then," said The Wounded Bad Man, "It's a tenderfoot outfit, an' that's a woman cryin'. No desert rat'd come here with a wagon. Fools drive in where burros fear to tread, Bob. They're tenderfeet."

"That's right," agreed The Youngest Bad Man. "Some nester come in over the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I'll bet a new hat."

"Whoever's doin' that whimperin' is sure bound for New Jerusalem," The Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. "An' if I don't let a doctor look at this shoulder o' mine before long I'll head that way myself."

The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others saw him re- turning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black lava and fanned himself with his hat.

"There's a fine old state of affairs at the Tanks," he said huskily.

"They ain't dry, are they?" Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped. The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.

"Worse'n that."

The Wounded Bad Man sighed. "It can't be," he said.

"There's a wagon at the Tanks," con- tinued The Worst Bad Man, "but no horses. It's a tenderfoot outfit a man an' his woman an' they come in from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem. Some o' their kin has started a boardin' tent in the new camp an' these two misfortunates were aimin' to go in with the rush an' clean up a stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water's a little low an' the man ain't got sense enough to dig out the sand an' let the water run in. He's one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just naturally hurts him to set down an' wait till that sump-hole fills up. Besides, he don't take kindly to usin' a shovel, so he sticks in a shot o' dynamite to clean out th' tanks an' start the water runnin' - The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.

'The damned, crazy fool!" he raved. "I'll kill him, I will. I'll kill him just as sure as I'm thirsty."

Three outlaws on the run risk their freedom and their lives to return a newborn to civilization.

Release Date: December 1, 1948
Release Time: 106 minutes

John Wayne as Robert Marmaduke Hightower
Harry Carey Jr. as William Kearney "The Abilene Kid"
Pedro Armendáriz as Pedro "Pete" Rocafuerte
Mildred Natwick as Dying Mother
Ward Bond as Sheriff Buck Sweet
Mae Marsh as Mrs. Sweet
Jane Darwell as Miss Florie
Guy Kibbee as Judge
Hank Worden as Deputy Curley
Dorothy Ford as Ruby Latham
Ben Johnson as Posse Man
Charles Halton as Oliver Latham
Jack Pennick as Luke
Fred Libby as Deputy
Michael Dugan as Posse Man #2
Francis Ford as Drunken Old-Timer at Bar
Richard Hageman as Saloon Pianist
Gertrude Astor as Townswoman
Ruth Clifford as Woman in Bar
Jack Curtis as Bartender
Harry Tenbrook as Bartender #2
Eva Novak as Townswoman
Amelia Yelda as Robert William Pedro Hightower

Author Bio:
Peter Bernard Kyne was an American novelist who wrote between 1904 and 1940. Many of his works were adapted into screenplays starting in the silent era, particularly his first novel, The Three Godfathers, which was published in 1913 and proved to be a huge success. He is credited in 110 films between 1914 and 1952.

When still under 18, he lied about his age and enlisted in Company L, 14th U.S. Infantry, which served in the Philippines from 1898-1899. The Spanish-American War and the following insurrection of General Emilio Aguinaldo provided background for many of Kyne's later stories. During World War I, he served as a captain in Battery A of the 144th field Artillery, known as the California Grizzlies.



Release Blitz: Meik & Sebastian - Obsessed #4 by Quin Perin

Title: Meik & Sebastian
Author: Quin Perin
Series: Obsessed #4
Genre: Gay Erotica, M/M Erotica
Release Date: December 13, 2018
Cover Design: Garrett Leigh at Black Jazz Design
After ruining his chances with Sebastian, Meik is plagued by the past and haunted by the present. His escape: booze and sex. But the memories of Gabe continuously well up and never ebb. They become an ever-present companion he cannot escape.

Will he hoist himself out of depression to seal the past and face the present or will he lose himself in the bottom of the bottle?

This is the fourth and FINAL book of the Gay Erotic Romance “Obsessed”. It features explicit adult m/m content as well as romantic elements. Warning: mentions of illness and death.

Sex shouldn’t be so hard. People did it all the time. Hell, he and Gabe were proof that people fucked. By now though, he’d looked up too much information. That was the problem. He’d researched and researched. Looked up articles. Instructional videos. Diagrams. He wanted to be prepared, but he’d ended up scaring himself.

The doorbell rang, several times in quick succession. Gabe’s familiar pattern. Anxiety served as a cold shower to his erection, the bulge dying down. He shut the drawer, bouncing up like a jack-in-the-box.

He galloped down the stairs, grinning when he saw Gabe walk towards him, having let himself in. His backpack dangled from his shoulder, and he smiled widely. “Ready to work on homework?” he teased.

“Yeah. Sure.” Meik chuckled. He approached Gabe, meeting him at the bottom stairs. He took the backpack from his shoulder, letting it thud to the ground next to them. “We can work on our anatomy homework.”

Meik moved in to catch Gabe’s lips, but his kiss ended up skidding across those dark curls when Gabe tilted his head forward into Meik’s chest, sighing loudly. “You’re talking like we’re in a cheap porno. I don’t like it.” His whining was muffled. “I don’t even take anatomy.”

A snigger and Meik buried his nose in Gabe’s hair. “You kinda like it. Admit it.”

“Never gonna happen.” Gabe kept his giggles quiet, but his body shook against Meik’s.

Trickling his fingers along Gabe’s side, he snuck them under his shirt, touch light on the warm skin. “Admit it,” Meik lilted, tickling him.

Gabe squirmed, shaking his head. “No.” His laughter, still silent, made his entire body tremble.

“Not gonna stop until you admit you like my porn talk.” Meik enjoyed the way Gabe wiggled against him, hips pressing together. The erection that had died down started regaining strength until the weight of what he’d planned settled on him again. Would things change? Would they be the same? Would Gabe even want to sleep with him? Those same doubts had plagued him for the last couple of weeks.

“Meik! Stop!” Gabe shrieked in laughter, palming his chest and pushing him away. He was breathless, blotches of pink on his cheeks, tears clinging to his lashes.

“Fine, fine. Only ‘cause I like you though.” Meik held his hands up in surrender.

“You are the biggest dork. I don’t know why everyone at school thinks you’re cool.”

“I cultivate my image very carefully.”

“Oh, so I am the only one who knows the real you?” Gabe’s head quirked, hands fisting in Meik’s shirt.

It was an interesting question. A probing one. Meik didn’t know the answer himself. His brows drew together, and he shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.”

“You’re supposed to say yes. It’s flattering and romantic.”

Meik leaned in, nipping at Gabe’s pout. “I mean...yes.”

“Better,” Gabe hummed.

Meik pressed their lips together. “Why don’t we...head up to my room?” The words came out with a hitch, surprisingly.

“Sure.” Gabe pulled away, snatching up his bag. “I brought those movies for us to watch.”

Gabe didn’t seem to have a clue what Meik planned. After all, they spent most weekends watching movies together. 

Author Bio:
This is Quin&Perin. We are a team of Sultry Gay Romance writers who focus on detailed, toe-curling, and realistic smut scenes with a fair share of dirty talking (Oh, boy). Unlike other authors in the genre, we write without the goal of publishing anything. Publishing is just the cherry on top of a cream-covered bubble butt.


Obsessed #4


Brought to you by:  GAY BOOK PROMOS

Release Blitz: A Hometown Holiday by K Evan Coles

Title: A Hometown Holiday
Author: K Evan Coles
Genre: M/M Romance, Holiday
Release Date: December 12, 2018
Life in a college town suits Josh Cassidy. He has good friends and neighbors, and the bookshop café he runs with his family is thriving. As the winter holidays begin, Josh finds himself enamored with police officer, Alex Curiel, an old friend who has recently moved back to town. The trouble is, Alex isn’t ready for the world to know he’s attracted to men.

At Alex’s request, Josh agrees to closet their relationship, but the secrecy quickly becomes a burden. When Josh realizes he is falling for Alex, he has more and more trouble denying his feelings. Soon, both men are forced to decide if hiding behind closed doors is the kind of future they’re looking for.

After work, Josh walked four blocks down Pleasant Street to Jamison’s Pub. He smiled as he imagined his sister’s knowing look, especially after he found Alex at the bar talking with Matt, who was pouring drinks for the after-work and -school crowd. Alex glanced up at Josh’s approach and his smile seemed to light the room.

“Hey, Josh.” Matt set his hands on the bar top. “Alex was just telling me that you’ve been making him listen to your old man music.”

Alex grimaced. “I never called it old man music.”

“No, I did,” Matt countered.

“And I said that I didn’t mind listening to it,” Alex said. “A roommate of mine in college liked jazz.”

“Then your roommate had crap taste in music, too.” Matt moved to pour a pint of Josh’s favorite ale. “Listen, man. Josh and I met on the first day of kindergarten. He’s always been a scrawny, ginger-headed fuckface who listens to oldies and worships the Rat Pack.”

Josh shrugged out of his coat and pulled up a stool. “Now you’re just making shit up. I didn’t start listening to jazz until middle school and I’ve never worshipped the Rat Pack. I’m not even scrawny anymore. It’s not my fault you can’t see past Coldplay and Radiohead. Both bands I like, by the way,” he said to Alex.

Matt made an exasperated sound. “And you wonder why you’re still single.”

“Some people like a little variety.” Josh accepted the pint Matt handed him with a smile. “And one of these days, the right man is going to figure out that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to the old man music. Now shut up and give me a menu, please, because I feel the urge to eat myself into a food coma.”

Matt slapped some menus down before he moved away to take another order, and Alex eyed Josh with a grin.

“The right man, huh?”

Josh smiled. “It could happen. Sorry I was late.”

“I should hope so. Matt started harassing me the minute I set foot in the door, and I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.”

“Oh, shit.” Josh laughed. “Well, that’s easy enough to fix. How about we split an order of poutine? Would that make you happy?”

“Yes, it would.” Alex’s eyes gleamed. He loved the decadent combination of French fried potatoes, brown gravy, and cheese curds. “But I thought you weren’t a fan?”

“It’s growing on me. Besides, the look on your face every time you eat it makes up for the weird, funky cheese.”

“Okay then, poutine to start.” Alex laughed and ran a hand over his chin. “I sort of dig your music, you know, no matter what Matt says. It’s wild and beautiful.” He dropped the hand to his beer glass and brushed his knuckles against Josh’s. “Like you. You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

For a moment, Josh forgot where they were. He forgot that he and Alex were keeping a secret, and were far more than friends behind closed doors. His cheeks flushed, his heart beat a little faster, and he simply admired Alex’s handsome face.

“You’re the beautiful one,” he said, voice quiet.

They continued like that while they ate—flirting while pretending they were not, almost touching but never quite daring—and Josh’s desire burned hotter with every minute. After dinner, the short drive from the pub to Josh’s house seemed to take forever, and the front door had hardly closed behind them before they pounced on each other.

Author Bio:
K. Evan Coles is a mother and tech pirate by day and a writer by night. She is a dreamer who, with a little hard work and a lot of good coffee, coaxes words out of her head and onto paper.

K. lives in the northeast United States, where she complains bitterly about the winters, but truly loves the region and its diverse, tenacious and deceptively compassionate people. You’ll usually find K. nerding out over books, movies and television with friends and family. She’s especially proud to be raising her son as part of a new generation of unabashed geeks.

K.’s books explore LGBTQ+ romance in contemporary settings.