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The Bison Agenda

Here is the unedited chapter 1 of the Bison Agenda. There is still time to sign up for a exclusive edition by supporting me on Patreon.

The world would soon weep at the name Barry Bison. The bullies who photoshopped his face onto various bovine would know that Barry was destined for greatness. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more, that people his whole life never saw his potential or that the images used to taunt him in school were not always the same species of animal. They put his face on a cow once. A cow!

Now, all the fools in college who ignored him and the teacher who told him that he might want to consider another degree pathway would sweat when they encountered his influence upon the world. Tears would roll down their face, and Barry would cackle with glee at his creation. They would sob and truly understand they had misjudged him their whole life for Barry had made the perfect Buffalo wing.

It was the perfect combination of spice, tang, crisp crust, and tender, mouthwatering chicken. Blue cheese or ranch dressing had nothing on his wing. He envisioned a restaurant packed full of sweating people, devouring his wings, and plates returning with untouched celery and dipping sauce because they were so good, people wouldn’t even consider eating anything else but the meat.

The single wing on his plate with one bite taken out brought a tear to his eye. It wasn’t the spice, but the fact that he had done it. He looked up at his crappy studio apartment on Montgomery. The engine backfires of the late-night cruisers could be heard outside his paper-thin walls. He wouldn’t be here much longer. The Village Inn uniform that hung from the hook on his front door would soon be a relic of his past and not his primary source of income.

The half-sized two-burner cooktop with accompanying miniaturized oven will be nothing but a story he tells to the Albuquerque Journal reporter who sits down with him years later to hear the origin stories of how he went from small family restaurant to a national brand. The trash that smelled day in and day out with all his failed attempts to make a better chicken wing would no longer be a part of his life. He would have employees who would do that for him.

He picked up his culinary certificate from Central New Mexico Community College off the wall and threw it away. The teacher who had suggested another career pathway didn’t deserve any credit for all of his hard work. Barry was the one who persevered through it all, and his name would be on the sign: Barry Bison Wings.

Barry collapsed on his futon. It was a tangle of sheets and always smelled of grease because he was too tired to shower after work. A tear welled up in his eye. It was almost perfect. The dream was near complete. Through an inconvenient fact of his birth, he was named Bison and not the more popular word Buffalo. However, he couldn’t call his creation Barry Buffalo Wings even if it happened to be more accurate. He would be dishonoring all the Bison’s who came before him.

His late father and mother were already etched in stone in a little graveyard near Yale by the university. His parents had even bought him a plot years ago as part of a package deal. He would not be buried with the name Buffalo, and there had to be a solution to his dilemma. Perhaps he could move to Buffalo, New York, and start a campaign to rename the town Bison. It would be fitting to release his innovation of an American favorite in the same city where they were invented.

He knew the idea wasn’t a viable solution. The chicken wing treat was already named Buffalo, and like it or not, the name stuck. The only path forward would be to somehow convince the world that bison was a better word than buffalo. Barry smiled. He was on to something. Bison was indeed the official name of the animal of his namesake. Maybe he could start a society dedicated to championing the word bison. There might even already be a bison enthusiast society he could leverage. Perhaps he could use them to squash the word buffalo from the English language.

He pulled out an iPad so ancient the software wouldn’t even update anymore, and half apps wouldn’t work because they were out of date. He pounded in his code and pulled up the University of New Mexico’s website. If there was a group with esoteric interests, they probably would operate out of UNM.

Before finding the Biology Department’s home page, he saw a little box that said, “UNM LIVE!” There were links to several streaming videos, including one of the duck pond. Barry almost dismissed them as a frivolous waste of time when he saw one labeled, Time Travel with the Professor.

Time travel would do the trick. He could go back to when people first started using the word buffalo and convince them to use bison. Then Buffalo, New York would be Bison, New York. His problem was solved. It was an intriguing thought, but changing the past was firmly in the realm of science fiction. Still, if there was even a remote possibility, it would undoubtedly be more straightforward than getting some bison nerds to lobby congress on his behalf.

He clicked on the live stream, and there was a man with greying hair and crow’s feet wearing a lab coat. He had a petite assistant with brown hair and glasses. She spoke with a mild English accent, “Honestly, professor, I don’t see why you are live streaming this. Nobody watches it.”
The man’s eyes darted downward and said, “We have one viewer. If that’s you, Theo, this will not count for extra credit. You still need to turn in your assignment.”

The assistant laughed and said, “He’s still there, at least Theo’s watching. Shall we get on with it?”

The professor stood up and said, “Right, Clara, go ahead and program the machine for thirty seconds into the future. Don’t want to inadvertently alter our timeline.”

“That’s exactly what I want to do,” Barry muttered.

Clara tapped the keys on a laptop. The professor pulled out a sealed test tube with a clear liquid. “Inside is a radioactive material that we will be able to measure down to the Becquerel.”

“In English, professor, you may chase off your one viewer,” Clara laughed.

“Theo should know this, don’t you, Theo? The point is if this did travel thirty seconds into the future, we will know by measuring how much the material inside has decayed. Clara, if you’d be so kind as to flip the switch.”

She pressed a button, and a blue vortex with crackling white energy appeared on a long black table. The professor tied a string to the test tube. He tossed it into the portal, and it crackled grew brighter. He waited for a few seconds and then pulled the line back. The severed string fell limp.
Clara shut the machine down and said, “Shame, maybe it will appear in thirty seconds.”

“It might not be in the same reference frame as us anymore. Remember, the Earth is spinning and revolving around the sun as we speak. We don’t know if time travel accounts for that.”
“Suppose it is still bound by gravity. Won’t the portal just open and plop the tube on the other side of it?”

“Sure, but we don’t know what it’s going to do. It could be 900 kilometers out in space for all we know!”

“So, we wait.”

“Maybe I need something stronger than string… a chain perhaps?”

They waited for the test tube to reappear. Clara closed down the controls of the machine while the professor fiddled with equations on a smartboard. Thirty seconds came and went. There was still no test tube. Barry wasn’t quite sure why he continued watching. Maybe it was the small hope that for once in his life, a solution would just present itself.

Barry had to struggle for everything he owned. The perfect Buffalo—no, bison wing was years in the making. He didn’t even know the difference between an oven and a stove when he first started. His parents microwaved everything they ate. It wasn’t until he was eighteen out of the oppressive small town of Crownpoint, New Mexico, and thrown into the deep end of the big city when he first discovered the power of food.

He had walked to the Frontier when a person from Math 0970 course at CNM had suggested it as a place to eat. He expected a small little greasy spoon and got a jaw-dropping display of the power of food. Room after room, stuffed with southwest décor and John Wayne paintings, were people of every ethnic background eating their lunch. It wasn’t like his school at all, which was mostly natives and a few white people.

The place was a well-oiled machine with people flooding toward the counter and red numbers displaying the ready orders. He was too overwhelmed to order at first, and people had pushed passed him. The polite ones would ask him if he was in line to which he could only mutter, and they would step ahead of him, avoiding eye contact.

The reason he had freaked out was that the closest thing to a restaurant he ever saw was Wendy’s in Gallup, and that was a rare treat only when his family would make their monthly trip to Walmart. It wasn’t that his family was poor, it was just that they were so remote. His dad was a white doctor who decided to practice in Crownpoint to help pay off his student loans. His mom was a native woman he had met during his tenure, and they had decided to stay near his mom’s family.

It wasn’t till Barry had decided to go as far away as he could for school when they decided to skip town as well. His dad had retired, they bought a townhouse in the neighborhood where all the professors lived and even got an extra room for Barry. His dad was so damned thrifty that they made Barry live in it. They even decided that Barry would attend CNM and transfer the credits to UNM after a major was selected.

Barry had figured out a profound truth about himself that day at the Frontier. There was something about the cluster of people. The sizzling of the meat in the back. The tortilla machine that resembled a Rube Goldberg device pumping out perfectly round and delicious tortillas. He had found where he was meant to be.

Barry had filled out his application and was rejected the very next day when the interviewer told him to “get more experience” and come back and see them. Much to his dad’s dismay, Barry had decided that a culinary certificate from CNM would suit him just fine. He had no idea how quickly he’d need that degree.

The Bisons had died in an aquatic accident a few months after his introduction to the Frontier. His father and mom wanted to see the world in their retirement and got more than they had bargained for when the shark diving cage malfunctioned. His mom ended up in the digestive tract of a great white. His dad’s wealth was sucked away by the expensive emergency room care treatment, and the days his dad stayed in a foreign hospital before passing on. Even the cost to get what was left of their bodies back to the United States wiped out their life savings.

Barry inherited enough to finish his degree, a plot of land in a graveyard, and a mortgage on a townhouse that went quickly into foreclosure. Unable to secure a job at the hallowed halls of the Frontier, he got one working at the Village Inn near the airport and been stuck there ever since. Until tonight, he finally created something of value in this world, and his late mom and dad would forever be a buffalo if he couldn’t do something about it.

Then it happened. The professor, who seemed to be unaware the live feed was still rolling, asked his assistant for a nightcap. She declined and packed it in for the night. The man turned back to the table, and maybe five minutes after she had left the room, the vortex appeared. A test tube attached to a string came out and fell to the ground, shattering. The radioactive liquid inside spilled to the floor.

The man shouted in triumph and ran into the hall. Clara must have been gone because a few seconds later, he trotted to his equations and inspected the numbers. He yelled, “Of course, the quantum tunnel would experience a time dilation effect.”

He jiggled around the numbers on the smartboard and said, “Yes, yes. That would make the time equivalency more accurate.”

The man typed in a new configuration into the laptop and fired up the time machine. He tossed a penny inside and powered it down. He looked at his watch and counted. The vortex appeared thirty seconds later, and the penny landed on the table.

“Oh my god! It works. Clara, it works!” He glanced at her empty desk. A frown crept onto his face.
He turned toward the computer that had been streaming the event. Barry jumped out of the window and closed down his iPad. He dropped onto his bed and said. “Bison. Barry Bison Wings.”

Clara has it all, a swanky new job, a hot robot babe, and even a time machine. Paradise all comes crashing down when she realizes her ticket to the future was stolen.

She wakes up in a world that has been reshaped by the whim of a time traveler with a strange obsession with Bison and chicken wings. Now she has to fix the timeline, or everyone she knows and loves will be wiped from existence.

There’s also a lot of flightless birds.

Find out how it all fits together in The Bison Agenda, the not anticipated sequel of Time Burrito.

Get an exclusive Patreon only edition by pledging now.

Time Burrito 3: The Boy King of Carradine

While writing Time Burrito 2, I had an idea for a story. A lot of the time, those ideas get written down in a text file and stored on my hard drive and maybe never go beyond that. This one was different. I kept thinking about it, talking to my wife about it, even sometimes having dreams about it. This story had to be written.

I literally stopped writing Time Burrito 2 because I was so obsessed with the idea. It all came from a comment I made to my wife over breakfast, “wouldn’t it be funny if people fought holy wars over whether or not the messiah was named David or Dave?”

Surprisingly, she didn’t roll her eyes and change the subject, as she often does when I talk about stuff that I think is hilarious but the rest of the world may raise their eyes at best. We came up with this scenario where there was a nuclear war, and some stuff from various Davids survived like a David Bowie record, or David Duchovny’s autobiography. Then what if thousands of years in the future, the people created a world religion out of our David stuff.

Then what if they find DNA on the Statue of David that just happens to be a random tourist named David, and decided to clone it? We pictured this rush of clergy, mobbing their messiah fresh from the cloning vat, and asked him the question that has plagued their society for years, “It’s it Dave or David?”

That’s when it hit me, what if that person was not David but Pete? That’s when I knew this story had to be a Time Burrito story, which is good news for you. Not only are you going to get the Bison Agenda very soon here because I finished it after pounding out Time Burrito 3. But you’re also going to get The Boy King of Carradine! That’s two Time Burrito novels! Coming out very soon.

You can get yourself a collector’s edition of all three with your support on Patreon, but don’t wait! You need to pledge by 10/25/2020!

Take a look at the cover art for Book 3:

The Boy King of Carradine, A Time Burrito Interlude

A Terror Dictator’s Guide to Mindfulness

I’m experimenting with doing something new. I’ve always wanted to write a comedy self-help book. Here’s is the introduction and the first chapter. If you want to see this project happen, consider supporting me on patreon.

Introduction

As totalitarianism and authoritarian leadership have become increasingly mainstream, more and more people are actively seeking resources for total domination of segments of the population under their thumb. Managers, CEOs, and even Presidents can use these practices to terrorize their subjects into compliance. Whether you are seeking to put your kid brother in his rightful place or require swaths of people to quake at your very presence, this guide is intended for anyone who needs a little more terror in their life.

There are a lot of books out there that claim to have all the answers for all the up incoming terror dictators of the world, but they lack depth and the experience of a ruler of his own regime. I’m Kim Jong-Hannity, (no relation to the dictator or American TV personality), and I’ve been lord of my own country for eight years. Back in 2012, I played one of my compatriots, Kim Jong-un, in a game of high stakes poker. I won complete control over one of the provinces of North Korea. It’s been my own country ever since.

When I took control of the province and renamed it Hannityville, it was in poor shape. People were whispering rebellious thoughts, black markets extoling capitalist pigdog virtues were everywhere, and worst of all, they were watching South Korean media. I couldn’t walk anywhere without hearing Gangnam Style, so I had anyone caught watching the video dragged out to the street and shot, along with people listening to Friday, the Hampster Dance, Yatta, What Does the Fox Say, and other viral sensations.

Needless to say, citizens got in line pretty quickly, and now I want to share all my secrets to a successful totalitarian dictatorship that you can incorporate into your lives. I was recently giving a FRED talk (Firearms, Radical Extermination, Design) about the power of positive thinking while torturing political prisoners, and a big American CEO came up to me and said. “That’s a great speech Kim, but we can no longer water board in the US anymore.”

And I said, “Who has to know about it?”

He then responded about his board of directors, to which I chided him for not firebombing at least one board of director’s house per year, so they know who is really in charge. Americans have gotten really weak. Stupid American President sits down at this desk all day tweeting threatening messages. Whereas, I don’t make threats. I take swift, decisive action and teach my citizens the value of strong rule. He talks a big game, but they still listen to Baby Shark in America.

The idea for this book started years ago when I went to Osama bin Laden Summer Camp as a teenager. My mom was one of the few Asian Islamic extremists, and my dad was the only surviving member of the Jim Jones cult (he bought a Hawaiian Punch in town and didn’t realize it was a suicide party until too late). I grew up in Equatorial Guinea where I learned a hard day’s work and human rights abuses was all you needed to keep the population in control. Because of my diverse background studying totalitarianism with dictators throughout the world, I realize that crushing your enemies and drinking their blood isn’t just for Vikings, it’s for everyone.

Now for the first time, I’ve collected different terror dictator tactics in one handy to use guidebook that anyone can understand. It helps if you have tanks, missiles, biological and nuclear weaponry, and a playlist of earworms. Trust me when I said that I am the only one in Hannityville who can play Baby Shark, usually through a loudspeaker, during a siege of political dissidents.

Even if you don’t have your own secret police, you can get something out of this book. My deepest intention is to make these practices accessible to anyone even people in a wheelchair. They can run over someone’s foot, and do it again until they shape behavior of the person into who they want them to be. People are too busy finding themselves, when you can make them who you want them to be.

All the terror dictators, fascist leaders, cult head priests, presidents for life, terrorists organizations, and even boy band managers have given me their secrets to success over the years. After that ill-fated poker day, North Korea’s loss became my gain, and I got to put all those practices into use. My hope is you can use this book as your own blueprint, and you can take total-control over your life, as well as all the people around you.

With a little direction, we all have the potential to become a totalitarian dictator. Even if you never get to play Kim Jong-un for a chance at another one of his provinces, I hope you can incorporate this into your daily practices to live a richer, fuller life. Though if you do get a chance to play Kim Jong-un at poker, he is not as good at bluffing as you think he’d be.

Totalitarianism 101

When I was fourteen years-old, my father gave me a used playboy with the pages stuck together. He told me that it should occupy me until I could go to college because there wasn’t much dating opportunity in Equatorial Guinea. At the time I was struggling with depression and realized that I felt better when I pulled the wings off of flies or swung rodents around in sacks. I even used the rolled up magazine on the family dog.

I had realized that words were powerful but didn’t really understand the full power of them until I had witness my first North Korean march. My parents were globe trotters when I was young. We went to Iran, North Korea, Columbia, Libya and all sorts of wonderful places with great food. All of them had one thing in common, their propaganda machines were in full production.

It was evident in that trip to North Korea. All the marching armies, gigantic missiles, and color coordinated dancers were all praising their great leader. The movies in theaters and even songs they sang to their children were in service of the great regime. There were even Kim Jong-il approved ice cream flavors.

I took it one step further. All Happy Meals served in Hannityville have action figures in likeness of me. I star in every film. You guessed it, I even sing in my own rock-country band that appeals to the working class man and still regales me as the supreme leader. I didn’t just approve the ice creams. I am the ice cream flavors. My favorite is triple-choco-Hannity explosion, but don’t worry other flavors still exist too, you must give the people some sense of choice in life even if it is a sham.

Here are the Nine Aspects of Successful Terror Dictators you can start using now if an employee has the audacity to ask you for a raise. Remember party loyalty is the reward in itself. They should be happy you don’t handcuff them to a pipe in the company basement for the weekend because of the insubordination.

  1. BE FULLY PRESENT. This takes a lifetime to master, but you can take control and be mindful of your surroundings in small subtle ways. For example, if you are about to eat a Snickers bar, make your top general take a bite instead because someone could be trying to poison you. You will fall right into the trap if you willy-nilly stuff chocolate into your gullet. You are smarter that your would-be usurper. If the general says that he is allergic to peanuts, you force the candy bar into his mouth with a gun to his head. While he tearfully begs for mercy for his family, you remind him that there are camps for people like that. You watch the life drain from his eyes only confirming your suspicion about the chocolate bar. Only later you realize that it may have just been anaphylactic shock because of the time the general got sick from a Reese’s and ask Alexa to put more Snickers bars on your shopping list.
  • RECOGNIZE YOUR EMOTIONS. Stupid American President doesn’t understand this one and gets butt sore every time someone calls him a bad name. One day my hairdresser was making fun of me, and I put her head on a pike in front of the capitol building (I learned that from boy genius Joffrey). She had the audacity to say that pompadours weren’t very dignified haircuts. I said, “Are you kidding me! Elvis had all these screaming girls under his sway.” Then I had my new general do her in. Get it? I spun on words. Do her in. Like hairdo.
  • Don’t Be Judgmental. This one is pretty hard to learn. I am part of #BACHELORNATION (remember rule #3 and my bioweapons research program). Sometimes I would see the Bachelorette falling for the wrong guy, and I would scream at the TV, “No, he is only there for his music career! You should cut a finger off for each time he lied to you!” But, then they see through the lies and turn out to be a strong women worthy of a terror dictator partner in life. I have not heard back about the assassins I have sent after Clare Crawley’s suitors.

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  • CHANGE IT UP. This one is hard, especially for a good friend of mine cartel hitman Juan Pablo “Dedos” Fring. Dedos got his name because he would take a finger as a trophy from all of his victims, but that’s boring to do the same thing every day. You think American CIA would have more tricks than waterboarding. Come on guys, you are the most powerful country in the world. I am proud to say that Hannityville’s gulag, not only has the classics like sleep deprivation, waterboarding, and music torture, but I also get all my generals together for these idea sessions where we have had several novel breakthroughs. We put into action all sorts of exciting new ideas including electric eels, psychotic clowns, reenactments of every single way a Game of Thrones character has died, several bond villain contraptions that the stupid British MI6 agent escapes every time, and a kitten room (mostly for members of the minority party allergic to cats).
  • Make Sure You Have You Time. Godlike leaders of the world don’t carve out enough time for themselves. Whether you are punishing people for their thought crimes or singing with the adoring public who are sentenced with death if they don’t sing the bah, bah, bah part of Sweet Caroline with you at the ball game, being an important figure takes a lot out of you and that doesn’t even include the time we found real unicorn bones, unlike ahem, North Korea, who made it all up. I had to spend all day at a press conference. Sometimes, I have to tell myself. It’s okay to have a glass of wine and watch the Great British Baking show on Netflix.
  • View the World Through the Eyes of a Child. Children view the world like everything is new. They haven’t had the great disappointments in life like finding out Hannibal Lecter isn’t real or that Noriega was setup by the CIA. Or even when their father leaves them to join that stupid Heaven’s Gate cult. He also survived that one too because he bought a pudding cup at the gas station before they committed mass suicide to ascend to the UFO spaceship overhead. He didn’t even return my calls after that. On second thought, don’t see the world through the eyes of a child. Being a child sucks.
  • Propaganda, Propaganda, Propaganda. Every supreme leader for life needs a robust media engine. I personally use TikTok, but I know stupid American President uses Twitter. That’s a big mistake, who even had time to read anymore (except my book because you’ll make yourself better)? Make sure you choose a good theme song for your event. I personally use Bon Jovi’s Living on Prayer for state functions. Unless it’s a Death to AmericaTM event then I used The Final Countdown by Europe. Most of my TikTok videos are Shakira.
  • Find beauty in simplicity. Sometimes after burning a small village to the ground, you go through a crisis of faith. You wonder, am I really a supreme being on Earth meant to lead a glorious empire? What if there are no more small farming communities that are obviously plotting rebellion? This can’t be all there is to life. But then you find the sweet round faces of the village children staring up at you from under the floor boards of the elder’s house, and you realize that their delicate little fingers can polish the inside of ammo casings in your munitions factory. Life is beautiful. You just have to look in the places you’d least expect. Like the floor boards.
  • Your Mind is Your Friend. You ever hear the phrase, “you’re your own worst enemy.” That’s completely flat out wrong, let me assure you. Your worst enemy is the crooked media outlets that depict Hannityville as anything but the paradise on Earth that it is. I even invited stupid New York Times reporter to my country, and she didn’t want to go on the official tour. I had paid good money to hire the country’s most talented actors to pretend like they are mothers out with their babies and a group of teenagers playing football (the one you play with your foot stupid American). But no, she wanted to see the internment camps. I was like, “Dude, you are totally going to miss this part coming up where a bus full of nuns crashes, teetering on the edge of a cliff, and I save them.”

Now that we’ve laid the ground work for a successful dictatorship. Further chapters will explain secrets that will change your life. Mine is certainly better now that I’ve incorporated the practices in this book. A lot of my fellow despots have trouble sleeping at night because they are afraid of assassins, the CIA overthrowing their government, and even people talking bad about them on Twitter. I sleep soundly, especially after I started taking these chewy melatonin from Costco. They put me out.

The point is that my country is running smoothly, and I don’t even have to complain about the liberal media because I control all the media in my country. Stupid American media is a different story. I hate those guys. The point is that it doesn’t keep me up at night because I practice the steps in this book.

The keyword there is practice. Populations aren’t going to terrorize themselves. You only get the rewards if you put in the effort, and perhaps take them from people with less power than you. Keep in mind that it’s a work in progress. I am still learning, even today. I was going to execute this man because he spilled mustard on his shirt that has a likeness of me on it (I’m silhouetted like Che Guevara. It’s very cool). But then I realized, he was wearing a t-shirt with my face on it. He was honoring me, so I told him to take it off before I shot him.

If you want to be like me, and have total control over your life (and all the people around you), then you’re going to need to really practice all the lessons in the book. Maybe consider setting up a studio where you can buckle down and really dive into it. Or better yet, maybe seize a yoga studio. Be careful that they don’t have swords rolled up in those mats. I heard that yogi masters are pretty much like Warrior Nun on Netflix. That’s such an amazing series. I’m going to have to start my own religion, so I can have my own warrior nuns.

The Robin Hood of Couches is on Audible

The Robin Hood of Couches on Audible

If you are like me, you love audio books. I listen to them in the car, when I work out, wash dishes, clean the house, and just about everywhere I can pack in an audiobook. I have good news for you audiobookphiles. The Robin Hood of Couches is now on audible! And better yet, the narrator agreed to do the entire Tuners Trilogy, so stayed tuned for that (haha, tuned, get it?).

Reese investigates corporate fraud and discovers some joker has been giving away free couches to the needy, because when a person can no longer afford the subscription service fees, all their furniture disappears. The bearer of sofas ends up in a ditch when blunt force trauma snuffs out the poor’s best chance of not living in an empty room their whole life. Reese rolls up his sleeves. Time to get to work.

Dark by Paul Arvidson

In other news, check out a buddy of mine, Paul Arvidson, his book, Dark, is on audible too and just came out! Give it a listen and write a review about what you think. Here’s the description: In the strange labyrinth of pipes on the planet called Dark, things are falling apart. Dun doesn’t want to be a hero, he just wants to find an answer to the terrifying dreams he’s been having. But the answers, the real answers, are going to take him places he’s never imagined and tear him from the only home he’s ever known.

Time Burrito 2: The Bison Agenda

While Time Burrito 2 is far from complete, I couldn’t wait to share the cover art with you. It is just as ridiculous as the first book. Take a look:

Aaron_Frale_ebook

One word: Amazing.

Get an exclusive Patreon only edition by pledging now. Don’t wait for the book to come out, by then it will be too late!

BTW, the Tuners Trilogy is only $2 for a limited time only. The first book is free!

Also, grab Othello and Zombies for free while you can!