Agnew on Mt. Rushmore

Satan slid the microphone into the stand and made his way to the stool where he regularly caroused between sets. Crozier, the beefy ex-sailor tending bar, had a tray of drinks already waiting. Satan raised a shot to eye level and turned it lovingly, watching shards of ice dance in the dimly lit room.

The recipe was an incendiary concoction of his own invention, dramatically dubbed a Freezer Burn during a particularly rowdy evening with several Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. It was equal parts Stoli pepper vodka and cinnamon schnapps, both right out of the deep freeze, spiked with Tabasco. He had, after numerous failed attempts, finally succeeded in teaching Crozier to make them just right.

He glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Satan had a narrow, pinched face, a pencil-thin mustache, and jet-black hair combed straight back. Devilishly handsome in a sleazy, bad boy sort of way, he was pretty much a regular guy, except he tended to make love with his socks on, having figured out several centuries back women found the whole cloven-hoof-thing a real turn off.

So begins the sidesplitting sequel to Mr Mojo Risin.

Satan, a deranged Senator, and a thermonuclear weapons designer with a couple of suitcase nukes walk into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of an off-color joke, right? The whole thing would be funnier if the punch line wasn’t a sizable chunk of southern Nevada and a million hapless souls reduced to radioactive rubble in a hot millisecond.

In a scheme to extort billions from Uncle Sam, the Dark Lord and his friends are threatening to nuke Las Vegas and turn some very expensive casino real estate into ground zero. Time is short. Local law enforcement and the FBI are playing catch-up. The fat lady might not be singing yet, but she’s backstage warming her pipes with a nuclear blowtorch. Only Morrison, Elvis, Hendrix and their oddball collection of allies stand between Sin City and Armageddon.

Hitler and the Clone Reich

JFK’s assassination did not involve the Cubans, the Kremlin, the Mafia or the CIA. There was no sinister conspiracy carried out by a secret cabal determined to expand America’s role in Vietnam. In fact, his death had nothing to do with politics. Kennedy got caught up in a good, old fashioned love triangle, cuckolding a sociopath with a silly mustache.

The shadowy figure on the grassy knoll, spotting for the second shooter, was Adolph Hitler. Not that they needed proof, but the Langley lab matched his fingerprints to partials from a cigarette butt left at the scene. Marilyn Monroe was his girl and the Führer had strong feelings about her dalliances with the President.

Jealousy’s the oldest motive in the book. You can look it up. Cain murdered Abel and ran off with his brother’s wife. Whose kid do you think Aclima was carrying anyway?

In book three, Morrison, Elvis, and Jimi match wits with Adolf and Marilyn’s bouncing, baby boy. He’s all grown up and ready to fulfill his father’s dreams of world domination. He’s smuggled hundreds of vials of frozen Fuhrer sperm out of a super-secret CIA vault — the first step in his master plan to breed an army of baby Hitler clones and create the Fourth Reich.