Brook Cottage Books: Author in the Spotlight

Hello! Meet Thomas Duder, Author of the Things.

A citizen of Bellingham, WA by way of Southern California, Thomas Duder is a firm believer that a writer should write. "Forget the drama of writing, forget the politics of writing, forget even the rest of the industry. Writers should write, period."

An independent publisher and author, working in close collaboration with a fierce team assembled and hand-picked by he himself, Thomas Duder is a seasoned general of various projects beforehand, bringing those skills to the fore as The Crew plunges directly into the world of action-adventure literature!

His vanguard series, "The Generalist," is an action-adventure extravaganza, a veritable rollercoaster ride through a Neo-Los Angeles of the near future. Loaded with witty dialogue, fast-paced action and sequences of brilliant violence, you're sure to find plenty to keep you entertained for hours on end!

Download The Generalist - Taboo 0: Cliché of Memories for free!

And if you'd rather your violence short and poignant, then do be on the lookout for the upcoming short-story saga, "Killer XIII." Follow the brutal misadventures of the malevolent, marauding murderer in a desert wasteland filled with killers, cannibals, and Daemonkinder and the general malcontent of all sorts and types. Revel in the absolute loss of logic and sanity, of a world gone inexplicably and completely wrong, and the harsh wanderers of the hungry wastes teeming with madness, death, and the strange quest known only to 13, the man named after the brand and his ever present Meat Cleaver, the blade named after itself.

Outside of writing, he is also a man of other artistic endeavors - a lyricist and blogger as well as a fierce orator and vocalist, using these skills to deliver the thirty to forty-five minute program "Haymakers and Hellhounds."

Enjoy this excerpt from The Generalist - Taboo 1: Where's the Beef?

Frank screamed as his gloved hands scrabbled for purchase, attempting to drag himself away from the booted feet that stomped on him for a moment before one particularly strong one kicked at his ribs, nearly busting one if not for his tough jacket.

Grunting, one of the Monster-gened, this one a wereape, hauled on his leg and slightly lifted him in the air, his fingers once again scrabbling for the street before his body slammed back down to the ground on it's own in a power lift. As the pinstripe-suited wereape and his two equally snazzily-dressed hyena-headed henchmen continued to put the boots to Frank, behind him several of the bigger goons worked Dash over, two more of the hyena-heads on each arm and another wereape holding him with both hands on the back of his head, the ape's arms looped under his, a business-suited werewolf worked his face over with powerful right and left hooks before tenderizing the troll's tough trunk with underhanded blows.

Growling, the wereape stomped, signaling that the hyenas should let go before tentspiking Dash into the street with a powerful, full-moon strengthened belly-to-back suplex, his back bridging with unnatural (for either human or ape) flexibility as he slammed Dash's skull into the pavement.

Getting up and laughing, the werewolf walked over to Frank and kicked him once in the face, forcing him to his back before leaning over and spitting on him.

"You tell Vitto we're comin' for him, tonight. He's dead. His family's dead. His goons are dead. We're going to kick his f*****g dogs. We're going to eat his f*****g children's hearts in front of him. Everyone he loves is f****** dead," the werewolf opened up his semi-muzzle, hawking up phlegm before spitting it at Frank's face again, causing the smaller man to groan and try and curl up, "And you Shop freaks are next."

Laughing, the group walked back into the Bantam Club, bringing the guards in for a round of drinks in celebration of the ass-whooping they had just dished out.

Waiting a moment Frank coughed, reaching up to wipe away at his face with a grunt before groaning out, "Hey Dash?"

Dash's body finally came down, catching itself on his knees as his skull and neck reformed again. Shaking his head with a shotgun-sound of crackling, he groaned aloud, slipping to his chest for a moment before answering, "Frank?"

"You okay, chief?"

"Yeah boss," Dash shook his head again, coming up to his knees and beginning to dust his torn and bruised clothes off, "Just gimme a few. Maybe an hour."

Frank slowly got to his feet, his own energies turned inward beginning to limber his stiff and bruised muscles, groaning as he felt every abused inch of him beginning to heal a little, "Hey. Dash?"

Dash blinked, craning his neck this way and that, about to bemoan the destruction of his good clothes until Frank got his attention, "Yeah, Frank?"

"I hope you realize...," Frank glowered darkly as Dash's face lit up with an inhuman grin, finishing their most favorite declaration, "This means war!!!!"