OPEN CARRY IDIOTS

Dear open carry rally supporters. I will preface this writing by stating my liberal loving, tree humping, America hating (your words) ass, happens to be a proud gun owner who has a valid concealed carry permit. I am not going to get into my opinion of the "right" to bear arms. That has been decided by the Supreme Court, who, in a sober moment of clarity, has decided, among other things: "like most rights, the second amendment is not unlimited." Sort of makes sense if you think about it. But I digress. You see, while the law of your state may very well state you have the right to openly carry arms in order to protect yourself. I highly doubt they meant for you to carry assault weapons around during a time when it’s a common occurrence for some nut jobs (not given the right to bear arms) to walk into schools, shopping centers, University Campuses, military bases, movie theaters, day care buildings, post offices, and various places, both public and private, and murder hundreds of unarmed and innocent people. You must understand that while you may interpret the law to mean you can freely run around sporting AR-15's and AK-47's, the general public does not agree. In fact, I would argue that in times such as these, that these people have the same rights as you, including the right to protect themselves. And, in my not so humble opinion, if I am out playing baseball on my sidewalk with my 6 year old son, and I see you strolling down the street whistling Proud to Be an American, it is not my job to judge your intent. You see Mr. Penis envy, my job is to protect my son, my family, and myself. I have not had the training nor the experience to tell the difference from a gun toting psycho, and your average white man, expressing his freedom. My freedom tells me I have the right to go anywhere I want without the fear and intimidation that comes with strangers holding assault weapons. I see a man with a rifle running around in public, I feel threatened. The way I see it, it goes like this: dude with big gun. I got two options. 1. Wave to him and I either get a wave back, or he points the gun in my direction. 2. I pull out my gun, tell him to drop his, he expresses his right, I shoot the dumb fuck. Because the law states that I have the right to protect myself if I feel my life is threatened. Consider yourself warned. As far as the law goes, if you idiots keep it up, the public will force the laws to be changed, and in the event of natural disasters, riots, zombie apocalypse, etc. we will not be able to openly carry our weapons, because of dumb asses who must carry a big gun to make them feel manly. That thing on your shoulders is not there to hold your gun strap in place. Use it.

The Black

The Black is a post apocalyptic tale of a group of strangers trying to make their way home after the world loses all power. Set in Kentucky and Ohio this gruesome story shows what can happen when mankind reverts to its barbaric nature. http://www.amazon.com/Black-Justin-Curtis-ebook/dp/B00KKCNJAG/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401112544&sr=1-3&keywords=justin+curtis

Sample Chapter

Part 1 “Enlighten the people generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body and mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day.” Thomas Jefferson We are all a bunch of cowards- Fucking pitiful, useless, fat, lazy fucking Americans. Too concerned with our football, beer, new cars, celebrities, and who’s my baby’s daddy to give a flying fuck about anything of importance. There is no way your average American is going to get off their ass to demand any kind of change. All of us are brainwashed- fooled into believing in the false pretense of the American Dream. Well I’m here to tell you the American Dream is dead. The Dream died with Martin Luther King Jr., the dream died with JFK, and Malcolm X, the dream died with Watergate, two World Wars, Vietnam and Desert Storm. The dream was murdered with 911, the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan. The dream died with the belief that our once great country had somehow, by some miraculous transformation, reached a new era; an era where we would break down the ignorant barriers of our racist past and make a change. It died with the gathering cloud of inbred ignorance, enveloped in for spacious skies of a land once teaming with opportunities. The dream crushed beneath the weight of the deregulation of Wall Street venture capitalist tycoons, the deforestation of our lands, and the violent pacification of our once great nation. The dream smothered by the advent of the Federal Reserve banking system, corporate greed, and the wants of the few over the needs of the masses. Where once the dream consisted of a desire for unity, it was divided amongst clashing social issues. Issues that are of little relevance to the overall picture and help camouflage the hidden truths of the social elite. The dream was tread upon beneath the boots of the upper class, the chosen ones, and the rulers of all things economic. The dream that has been built on the backs of slaves, the working class, and the downtrodden. Shot to death in a steaming stream of bullets in our schools, the innocent killing the innocent- the savage youth raised by the children of Reagan. The Dream… slaughtered with credit, debt, and the never ending flow of SUV’s down our nation’s highways. It died with debit cards, black Friday, newspapers and the massive corporate coup d’état of the mainstream media-all of it dead. Drones are killing children- monitoring the skies- first in foreign lands- now in our own. The Dream, gang raped in the privatized prison cells of America – creating a never ending demand for more prisoners. The American Dream was slain with the Patriot Act, and the rape of our constitutional rights - the historical profits of our gas and oil companies. Burnt at the stake with the scorched earth policy of stealing social security, and pensions, and gambling away the average person’s life savings: it died alongside the Unions, brotherhood, and caring about your fellow man. The genocide of the American Dream was nobody’s fault-but yet the fault of us all. -The Journal of JT Blackburn Chapter 1 “Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret--it leads only to evil” Psalm 37:8 I sit at a small corner table at the trendy Irish Pub in downtown Dayton, I observe the celebration in silence. I have been drinking for the past couple of hours. The much welcomed inebriation threatens to cloud my judgment. I get up from my seat to use the bathroom, and overhear the boisterous party gathered at the end of the bar. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Miiiiles, happy birthday to you….and many mooooore!!!!” The celebration is led by a blonde in her mid to late twenties. She has the look of a washed up stripper who found her sugar daddy after years of searching. She wears a long black sequin dress that exposes an expensive pair of fake tits, accented by a tacky gold necklace in the shape of a heart. Her shoulder length hair hangs straight down and her enlarged lips are too big for her cute, but leathered face. “Happy birthday baby!” she squeals as she kisses the rotund, bald man with his white dress shirt and sissy light blue tie. Bile collects in the back of my throat as I walk past the group on my way to the John. According to the plastic sign hanging above the bar, the man is turning 60. He has a group of eight suck asses gathered around him, patting him on the back and giving him hugs. I stare straight ahead and walk into the men’s room to relieve my bladder, afraid of my reaction if anyone from the party so much as looks at me. I stand at the urinal taking a leak, when the bathroom door screeches open, followed by a soft thud as it shuts. The birthday boy with his business attire stands in the stall beside me. He is hammered, the foul stench of booze, cigars, cheap cologne and whore perfume, drifts into my stuffy nostrils. “foorr, heesh a jolly good fellow.. for heeesh jolly goo…,” mumbles the drunken filth that resides beside me. I resist the urge to grab the back of his slimy head and smash his fat face into the wall in front of him, the situation tests my reserve. It would be such an easy task. Even though we look to be the same weight, I am taller, standing six feet, he is lucky if he is five foot nine. For a split second, I pity the foolish man-child standing beneath my presence; but for a fraction of a second. I refuse to show mercy to those who refuse to care about others. Don’t hate the player, hate the game motherfucker. “You enjoying your party?” I ask. “Oh yesh… thanks you. Happy day to youuu tooo,” he slurs. Fucking idiot is too drunk to notice the hate that immerses my sarcasm. I finish and exit out the bathroom door, returning to my corner of the bar. He didn’t recognize me, not that he would anyway; my looks have changed a lot in the past eighteen months. Hell who am I fooling, he never knew I existed, me or anyone else affected by his greed filled and reckless decisions. Too much has changed for me and my family, and the others ruined by these bullshit times that we live in. I have gained twenty pounds of muscle, grown a full beard, and have both arms covered by tattoos. Not for a fashion statement like most, but in remembrance. Remembrance of a life that used to be and shall never be again. A dark and forbidding hatred now courses through my once proud veins. I wait in solemn silence, as the waitress approaches. “Another drink, hun?” She is cute with her small but tasteful nose ring, shoulder length ginger hair, and emerald green eyes. I’m not sure if she is flirting for a tip, or if it’s genuine. She stands next to me twirling her hair and making eye contact as I undress her in my mind. “Yeah sure, if you’re gonna twist my arm you can bring me another.” I say with a wink and a fake smile. I stare at her small, inverted heart shaped ass as she walks away. She turns, looks at me for an instant, and smiles. I take a sip of my Crown and Coke as I watch the MMA fights on TV. I glance out the window to my left, it is raining. The sound of the downpour forces me to strain in order to hear the fighter's song as he emerges into the cage entrance. The fighter enters the ring to some half rap, half metal hybrid, commercialized bullshit, I have never heard before. This is a heavyweight fight, each fighter’s stats scroll across the screen, the first one is Hispanic, six foot three, 260lbs, and he is covered in tattoos. The word Warrior is displayed across his oversized and ripped chest. Some of these guys rise from nothing. They come from poor neighborhoods, fighting became their only avenue of escape, the only path to redemption. A warrior must have a cause and causes have no rules. Rebels do not need a cause, but warriors do. A true fighter must battle for something greater than his self. He must battle for his beliefs, his survival, his people, and his family. Not for money, fame, or glory, and not for the business of mass consumer capitalism being broadcast to millions of viewers. Common people, who are able to forget their mundane existence and live through the senseless brutal violence of others. For that is not the way of a warrior. A true warrior will sacrifice his own self for the greater good of his tribe, his people, and all of mankind. Then again, causes can be like assholes; everybody and their brother has one. Miles Ullery and what’s left of his company are still at the end of the bar. The party has dwindled down to just him, his suck ass sidekick, and his gold digging slut of a girlfriend. Suck ass gets up off his stool and says his goodbyes. As he staggers past my table on the way out the door, I know nothing but hate for him. I will never understand how people can suck so much dick to get ahead in life… pathetic. It’s safe to assume the cock sucker is some sort of underling of the great Mr. Ullery. I wonder how many toes he had to tread upon to get into his current position. How many assholes did he lick? How many coworkers did he stab in the back as he smiled to their face and called them friend? How many palms did he grease for his corporate masters? People like him would sell out their own mother to get a chance to climb the corporate ladder. I wonder how much money it took for him to sell out. How much does it cost to drive a stake into the heart of your fellow man? Ullery and his lackeys what a bunch of worthless pricks. What are the chances of me running into him down here? Is fate fucking with me? The last year and a half has nearly killed me. To keep my sanity intact, I work out obsessively, and three nights a week I attend a self- defense class. Krav Maga and mixed martial arts all combined into one. The instructor calls it Urban Street Survival. After tonight’s class I didn’t drive back up the highway home, but came here instead, to The Hound and the Hangman. Now I sit and glare at the waste of air down from me. As I watch the prostitute kissing him on his neck, she slips, and almost falls out of her chair, drunken laughter ejaculates from her fat lips when she spills her drink onto the bar top. The overbearing screech of her obnoxious voice pierces my eardrums. I so want to fucking strangle this bitch. The bartender shakes her pretty head, annoyed, as she gets a rag and starts to clean up the mess. Inconsiderate pricks don’t even thank her. Oh, how I would enjoy taking my glass and smashing her big ass lips with it. That would shut her the fuck up. The place is dead, except for me, the cute girl behind the bar, and Mr. and Mrs. Scumbag. I am greeted by her smiling face as I walk up to pay my tab. “You cashing out babe?” she asks. “Yeah, I’m all done.” I give her another smile and wink. She leaves the rag lying on the bar across from me as she turns around to the cash register and cashes me out. I Grab the rag and place it in my pocket; it feels damp and cool as it wets the inside of my shorts. That swine Ullery and his cheap whore. The rage is growing inside me, searching for any avenue of escape. I take two deep breaths to calm myself. I must be patient, for soon it will be time to unleash the fury. The rain pours down in steady sheets, the wind blowing it sideways, as I leave the bar and walk into the warm August night. It’s about a half hour until closing time. I had to leave before the insects decide to exit, so I do not arouse any suspicions. My head swivels in both directions, searching for a good spot with plenty of shadows and no light. A storefront with glass display windows covered in metal guarding to protect it from intruders, stands to my right, the perfect place. An awning hangs over the sidewalk, and a few feet inward are the doors to the store, the area is engulfed in darkness. Lightning flashes and the rain slows to a drizzle. I cross the street and sneak into the entrance. My camouflage shorts and black T shirt are proving useful tonight as I crouch down, perched in the shadows, waiting. The perverted sugar daddy and his tramp share an umbrella as they walk into the night. I can see the red head inside the bar as she locks the door behind them, she flips them the bird behind their back, and turns back around and walks towards the bar. This girl is rather amusing. I think I could learn to like her. Shadows disguise my silhouette and I wait for the two love birds to stagger down the block. I cross the street as they turn the corner; my shoes are soaked from the puddles, chilling my toes. I reach into my pocket and wrap the bar rag around the knuckles of my hand. I unclip the pepper spray from my key chain, too bad I don’t have a rape whistle, I could shove it the tramps ear hole. I tread down the street and onto the sidewalk, stalking the two lovers. As I turn the corner, streetlights shimmer off the blacktop. The rumble of thunder hides the sounds of my footsteps as I run up behind the scum. They are stopped in front of a new black Cadillac Escalade; the whore is taking off her heels as Ullery is fumbling for his keys. It doesn’t surprise me that this bastard would be trying to drive. He doesn’t give a fuck if he is drunk, he will just pay his high priced attorney to get him out of jail. Hell, he could mow over some pedestrians on the way to his mansion and not spend one day behind bars. His rich ass would get off on some technicality, maybe even a hung jury. Corrupt ass judicial system. Money is the new god. Worshipped by the masses and obtainable by a select few. I snap back to the current situation, the dumb bitch lets out a yelp, like a wounded puppy, as I grab her hair, turn her around, and spray the pepper spray into her eyes and mouth. I push the filthy whore onto the ground, splashing her into the stream that runs along the curb, the overflow of the night’s rain flowing towards its reservoir. Ullery turns around; his eyes grow to the size of golf balls. I place the canister back into my pocket as he holds up his wallet. “I’ll give you wha…wha….whatever you want, here ju..ju..just take it,” he says, sounding sober and afraid. His hand trembles when I take his wallet and place it in my back pocket. I say nothing and grab him by his half buttoned shirt; I unleash a right cross that finds its way to his bulbous nose. My knuckles welcome the cartilage as it crunches beneath the blow. Another blast descends onto his face, this time right in the mouth, as I continue to use him for a punching bag. I can’t stop now. Blood covers his lips, and pours from his nose, and gets absorbed into the rag. I shatter his teeth with another raging burst from my fist. He slumps down, unable to hold up his own weight. I push him against his SUV, peppering him with blow after blow, face, head, ribs, and gut. “Why?” he manages to whimper. I pound him, and pound him, the wrath of my fists contain his answer. He falls to the ground as I let go. I kick him in his face. Stomp his head, stomp, stomp, stomp, blood puddles around his head, as the fury is released from my soul. “Because I can motherfucker!” “Miles… baby?” gasps the blond, whining, and unable to scream. She is grabbing for her cell phone. I kick it out of her hand as I pass her and rush around the corner towards the parking lot where my car is parked. I stop and kneel down next to a street gutter to deposit the blood soaked bar towel. I walk to my car and notice a homeless man, seeking shelter from the rain under the small roof of a service door. A brown bag rests next to him as he snores, passed out, and oblivious to his surroundings, he is covered in newspapers and an old tattered blanket. My hand is steady. I remove the wallet from my back pocket, open it and examine the contents. Six, crisp, one hundred dollar bills are tucked inside. I walk over to the man and place the money under his blanket, being careful not to disturb him. As the rain continues, lightning strikes, and the wind picks up; blowing me into tranquility. The events that led to tonight are still fresh in my memory, calling me back.

Self Publishing Rip Off

As new authors many of us have no choice but to self- publish. Although I received much positive feedback from several independent publishers, I decided to have a go at it and do it myself. After all, even if you land a deal, being new and unheard of, the marketing is still left up to the author and the royalties much less. I have come to believe that self-publishing can be very rewarding, and yet if you are not careful, you will get eaten by the wolves. I decided to publish only on Amazon, (yeah I know, I hear moans from the indie faithful) so I can focus on my writing. So I have done some math. For those who constant pound the need for the ever needed Professional Edit. Create space is rather affordable. So let’s look at the math. Basic copy edit (just grammar and glaring mistakes). Book size=50,000 words. Cost $160 for first 10,000 and .016 for every word after for a total of. $800. Average first time novelist book sales= somewhere around 100 copies. My book retail cost for paperback. 10.99 My royalty. $2.48 per book. 800/2.48= 322.58 rounded to 323 copies sold to break even for paper back. Ebook retails for $2.99 and royalty is $1.87. 800/1.87=427.8 or 428 copies. See the problem? This does not count the cost of designing a cover=$399, if you need them to do your interior $149.00, write a press release=$249 and create a nice little 30 second book trailer=$1,199 (biggest of the rip offs IMHO) All of these things I did myself for free. So in my opinion unless you can throw away money, in which case you don’t need to sell books to begin with. FUCK THE RIP OFF SHIT. Yes if you plan to send your manuscript to a traditional publisher you need a professional edit, and good luck getting your unsolicited work read by someone. Fuck them. So far my book has a few mistakes in it and it is being read by a few friends. I had two issues where I used bye instead of by, one missed I in a sentence, and steak instead of stake, and probably a million comma screw ups. Fuck a comma and fuck anybody who would judge an entire work by them. I am a poor, first time writer so fuck you and your professional edit unless you are paying for it. Thanks.

Slow

Sales are seeming a little slow on Amazon. I have read that there may be some questions on how accurately they report sales. I don't know. It may just be that us independent authors just don't sell many books....at all. Besides friends and family we have no market. How to build one is the question. My book is controversial, I think I just need the right/wrong person to read it and get pissed off. This should not be hard.

Apr 19, 2014

Apr 19, 2014

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Date: 04/21/2014 Contact: Justin Curtis: justincurtisauthor@gmail.com Local author releases novel Troy,Ohio – Author Justin Curtis has released his first novel Plight of the Downtrodden. This controversial look at modern society from a unique prospective, is available on Amazon.com. The main character, JT Blackburn, is a citizen of Troy, and much of the action takes place in and around the Miami Valley including both the Troy and Dayton areas, as well as various other locations across the United States. “I feel the voiceless need to be heard. Too much of the political debate is one sided, that side being the corporate side.” Said Curtis, a Troy native and graduate. JT Blackburn is a working class man who is living the American Dream. That is until he loses it all. Hell bent and unforgiving, Blackburn embarks on a vengeful quest to right the wrongs of modern society and murder those whom he holds responsible. A lone wolf, this simple man from Ohio exacts revenge on those who have ruined the lives of so many. The one percent will pay. Crusader for the poor or soulless serial murderer? You decide. People wishing to find out more about Plight of the Downtrodden or Justin Curtis can find the author on justincurtisauthor.blogspot.com, Facebook and Twitter. - ### -

Done

Well it is finally complete and on Amazon. Sales are slow, I have quite a base of 750 people or so on Facebook, must all be broke or just assholes, this is most likely normal but I hope they don't have anything to sell. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JS2707W

Createspace Experience so far

So far my experience with using createspace to publish my book has been mixed. Although they do as advertised and review your work within 24 hours and have great customer service. The rest of the process seems steered towards wanting users to purchase services so you don't have to deal with the hassle. My first review said my PDF file for my cover was corrupt. This was true. After I fixed the file, reviewed the interior and ordered the proof I went back and made changes. After proofing the site would not let me continue, my ISBN number was locked. They had assigned me the wrong ISBN. This was fixed and my in changes to the interior were uploaded, I used the same cover file. They reviewed it. They said the ISBN number on the copyright page was wrong, which it was, problem is the proof had no copyright page at all, therefore no ISBN inside, so how can this halt the process when it is not a requirement? Second, they said changes they had to make changes to the cover file. The same cover file that was fine a week ago? WTF? The templates that you download are also filled with errors.

Ping

Still searching for pings. Now they will take a submarine down into the ocean to look for the lost plane. Still think this should not be a headlining story. Makes me wonder what kind of bill they are passing through congress that is not being reported. Gotta find those pings...ping....ping....ping.....

NEWS FLASH!

Breaking news, they found a possible, faint chance, almost sound of a near ping, this possible sound is possibly different than all the other possible sounds from the past three fucking weeks! It is possible this story will never end because its a big giant water thing that covers 2 thirds of the Earths surface and has tides and has been known to possibly move things to another possible location. Update to follow.....possibly.

So all thats on the news is the story about this missing airplane. It's in the fucking ocean! There, mystery solved. If this is all they can report on they really must be trying to hide something big.

Fuck yeah I got two page views....oh wait those where both from me. I will continue to scream into an emtpy room.

Since I have started this adventure I have learned that many so called publishers that you find on the internet offer you publication for a fee. My question is, why the hell would I pay for something I can do for free? Unless you are not computer savy at all, or just lazy and dont want to screw with marketing whatsoever, there is no benefit in paying somebody else. Zero, zip, zilch. These people are not getting one cent from me.

Now that spring is here the question becomes a matter of finding the time to write. When its raining, easy, but when its sunny and 70, not so easy. Maybe I will take my laptop outside to write.

Soon

Almost there in the final editing stages. Shall be done in the very near future.

?

Wish me luck

Stop

I find the hardest part of writing is knowing when to stop

Editing

I have learned much about the editing process. When to stop, that is the question. The best advice I have read so far is here . Its hard to stop writing once you have obsessed over a story. I will be done soon, hopefully....

I liked my score on the Hemingway app. But I could not find a useful way to edit.

Book

My book is in the editing stages. Check back soon for release date.