John Mollard

As an author, his credits include THE DAY LUFBERRY WON IT ALL SCREENPLAY BOOK, four drabbles in SPOOKY HALLOWEEN DRABBLES 2014, and the forthcoming thriller novel MACGUFFIN (co-authored by Roy C. Booth).

In his spare time, Mollard is a hardcore movie geek, collecting movies and TV series on DVD/BluRay. He even appeared as a featured extra in the movies NORTH COUNTRY, THE DAY LUFBERRY WON IT ALL, and GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. He has been employeed since 2000 as a Certified Registered Central Sterile Reprocessing Technician at the Virginia Regional Medical Center/Essentia Health.

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Uncaged welcomes Jon Mollard

Welcome to Uncaged! In June of 2020, you released MacGuffin, a crime thriller noir. Is this your first published full length novel?

It’s my first published anything. Drabbles don’t count.

What have you found the hardest to cope with during the pandemic? What are you looking forward to when a lot of restrictions are lifted?

The hardest thing to deal with was being unable to visit my 78-year-old father in the nursing home/ hospice as he battled terminal thyroid cancer and dementia. He also tested positive for COVID during his stay but had only mild symptoms. Last time I saw him was March 2020. He passed away January 29, 2021. Fortunately, my mom was able to see him a couple times a week. She was the only family Writing-wise, I missed out on promoting my book with signing appearances at Convergence and local. Promoting the book has been rough. Nobody’s buying anybody’s books.

You have written a lot of screenplays and been a part of a few anthologies. What do you have coming up next that you can tell us about?

Working on a hockey comedy called HAT TRICK AVENUE. Novel or novella.

Do you edit out anything substantial in your novels in the editing process? Do you make that extra content available in any way to readers if you do?

On MACGUFFIN, we chainsawed 40,000 words. Roughly 160 pages. Rough draft was 118k. Final draft was 78k. Some great stuff went bye-bye, some bad stuff. Didn’t need it. I don’t miss it. The novel is about Hollywood. While researching the popular locales and celebrity deaths, mysteries, and scandals, we found a ton of great stuff for inspiration. Being my first novel, I tried to use it all. Took years to edit the book down to size.

What was the first book that made you laugh and/or cry?

Jeff Dunham’s audiobook autobiography was pretty darn funny. He narrates it himself which is an added bonus. John Waters’ books are pretty amusing too. Can’t say I’ve ever cried reading a book.

What are some things you like to do to relax when you aren’t writing or working?

I’m a huge collector of movies and tv shows on VHS, Laserdisc, digital, DVD, and BluRay. Mostly for nostalgia reasons. I love anything 1980s. I’m also big into music. Not so much the

| FEATURE AUTHOR |

last 25 years though. That music is painful. I also enjoy listening to podcasts, my cat, and lounging on the couch.

How many hours a day do you write? On average, how long does it take to write a full novel?

I spend most of my waking hours brainstorming. Not so much writing. Very slow for me. MACGUFFIN took 18 1/2 years.

Do you prefer ebooks, audiobooks or physical books? Are you reading anything now?

Any format or platform is fine with me. Whatever’s cheapest. I’m reading GHOSTBUSTER’S DAUGHTER: LIFE WITH MY DAD, HAROLD RAMIS by Violet Ramis Stiel. Biography. I enjoy reading biographies.

What would you like to say to fans, and where can they follow you?

Please pick up a copy of MACGUFFIN from Amazon. I know they’ll enjoy it cause I wrote it. I enjoy it. Co-author Roy C. Booth would appreciate it too.

Enjoy an excerpt from Deep Secrets of the Bayou

MacGuffin John Mollard & Roy C. Booth Crime Noir/Suspense

HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA, AUGUST 2005.

Rich MacGuffin, an aspiring actor with a talent for acting but a distinct lack of tinsel town looks, struggles to find work that When a series of murders takes place by an elusive serial killer nicknamed THE HOLLYWOOD SPECTRE, and one of those victims is the star in a movie in the process of being shot, MacGuffin comes up with a unique idea that will land him the starring role.

Finally, MacGuffin gets his chance to show his acting ability, and he shines. But the killer is still on the prowl and seeking revenge against those from his past. MacGuffin unwittingly becomes involved with the LAPD and FBI as they hunt the killer and the bodies stack up.

Excerpt

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA WEDNESDAY, AUGUST THE TENTH SEVEN THIRTY-SIX AM

IN 1939, NOTORIOUS MOVIE executive Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, reportedly told actors William Holden and Glenn Ford, “If you must get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.”

The Chateau Marmont, opened on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood on February 1929, is a legendary castle-like hotel modeled after the Chateau d’Amboise in France’s Loire Valley. The hotel features rooms, pool, hillside bungalows, and garden cottages. It has served as the setting for many notable events in the lives of its large celebrity clientele.

At approximately 7:36 AM, a black stretch limousine drove east down Monteel Road at the north end of the hotel and came to a stop in front of the private back gate entrance to bungalow #3.

As the limo idled at the curb, the rear passenger doors opened, and two men in black suits stepped out: Earl and Harve Gittes–the Italian American owners of the Burbank-based For Stars Security, offering protective services to movie and rock stars alike.

Earl, 62, was a quiet, reserved, black-haired, pockfaced tough guy, while his cousin, Harve, 61-yearold, was a balding loudmouth.

Upon closing the car doors, they moved briskly through the gated entryway and walked up the palm tree-lined sidewalk to the front door of the bungalow. As they neared, they could hear The Grateful Dead’s “West L.A. Fadeaway” emanating loudly from within.

Harve glanced up at his older cousin and shrugged. “Sounds like somebody’s home,” he said in his thick Jersey-Italian accent.

Earl only grinned and bobbed his head in response.

Harve knocked on the door. “Hey, wakey, wakey!” After a moment with no answer, he pounded on the door again. “Answer the damn door, you Hollywood prick! I hate waiting on your spoiled, sorry rich ass!” Still no answer. Growing more and more impatient, he pounded his fists on the door again and again. “Come on! Come on! Come on!”

Before Harve could knock again, Earl stopped him with a stern glare and a wave of his right index finger.

Bungalow #3 was one of two identical, adjacent, 1,500-square-foot hillside bungalows, with two bedrooms and baths, a spacious living room, a kitchen and dining area, a private street entrance and carport, and a private garden with direct access to the hotel pool.

Inside the front door, a small entryway led into the dining area and the adjoining living room. The place appeared trashed. A pair of Gucci suitcases lay upturned on the floor by two shredded and stained corner couches. Torn designer clothing hung from a broken flat-screen television beside a shattered porcelain lamp. A set of bongo drums stood by the entryway. Crushed beer cans and broken wine bottles littered the carpet by a coffee table. Atop the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of Cristal champagne chilled in a bucket of melted ice. A script with TEENAGE CONFIDENTIAL, PROPERTY OF PARADISE PICTURES, INC. on the front cover rested nearby. Also of note were a small stash of marijuana in a plastic bag, a rolled-up hundreddollar bill, and a razor blade beside three neatly cut lines of cocaine. The August 10th morning edition of the Los Angeles Times lay opened to the front page with the top headline, “MURDER IN BEL-AIR: PROMINENT PLASTIC SURGEON AND FIANCEE BRUTALLY SLAIN IN BENEDICT CANYON.”

At the end of the main hall, past the kitchen, guest bedroom, and bathroom, was the spacious master suite, where a Jewish male, resembling a young Sal Mineo, slept in the middle of a king-size bed, semi-exposed, beneath gray silk sheets. He stirred from the sound of The Grateful Dead blaring from behind the closed door of the adjoining master bathroom and covered his head with a pillow to drown out the noise.

Inside the bathroom, “West L.A. Fadeaway” played over a radio sitting on the right edge of the sink, as strapping film star Christian Rivers primped himself before the mirror while talking angrily on his cell phone. “Look, Ari, as my agent, your job is to find me acting roles, not to run my personal life!” He paused and sighed. “Yeah, I saw the newspaper headline! I don’t understand what the goddamn fuss is! So, every celebrity’s living in a state of fear? Big deal! Tell ’em to put in a security system and buy a guard dog!”

Hailing from Dallas, Texas, Rivers was 35 years old, had shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, a goatee, and an uneven smile, and was one of the biggest names in the movie business. He wore only snakeskin cowboy boots and a gun belt over a white bath towel around his waist.

There was another knock at the front door, which, of course, nobody heard due to the loud music. Rivers continued his heated phone conversation with his agent, “What do I need a bodyguard for, let alone two? A man, a real man, can take care of himself, goddammit!” He paused and punched the wall, denting the sheetrock. He scowled as he spoke to his phone. “What...huh? Well... same to you, you...” He hurled the phone into the toilet.

Splash! He composed himself and scoffed, “Screw me?”

He took a drag from a smoldering joint in an ashtray beside the radio, pulled on a tan cowboy hat, quick-drew a prop Colt .44 pistol from the holster on his belt, and admired himself in the mirror. “Hello, handsome!”

He winked and blew himself a kiss. He flipped off the radio and walked into the master bedroom.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Harve pounded on the front door, followed by his aggravated voice, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Uh, Mr. Rivers, sir?”

A minute later, Rivers startled Earl and Harve as he answered the front door stark naked, except for his cowboy boots, gun belt and holster, and cowboy hat over his genitals.

“Jeez!” bellowed Harve, aghast.

Rivers greeted the two cousins with a shit-faced grin. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Earl and Harve, bodyguards to the stars! How’s it hanging, boys?” With a cocky smile, he took Harve off guard and clobbered him in the nuts with an open right fist.

Harve howled in pain, his eyes rolling back. “Ow... uh...unh...!”

As Harve keeled over, Earl smiled and shook his head, amused. He said nothing.

Harve spoke through his pain to Rivers, “Mr. Rivers, uh, sir, um, we’re here to escort you to the studio.”

Rivers checked his watch. “A little early, aren’t you? It’s only...7:39 in the AM. Pick-up ain’t till 8:00 AM.”

Harve groaned, holding his groin. “Sorry, boss, but, uh...” He coughed. “...traffic is a real bitch this morning.” “Well then...” said Rivers, moving his cowboy hat from his genitals to his head, giving Earl and Harve an eyeful of male nudity, “...I better move my sorry ass and get dressed, then.”

He winked, clicked his tongue, fired a fake shot from a finger pistol, and tipped his hat to the two beleaguered bodyguards. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and walked back inside, while Earl and Harve returned to the limo.

Minutes later, a fully dressed Christian Rivers, sporting his cowboy boots and cowboy hat, opened the front door of the bungalow and exited, slamming the door closed behind him. He made his way down the sidewalk and out the gate to the limo where Earl and Harve stood waiting.

As Rivers neared the limo, Earl opened the right rear passenger door for him and ushered him inside.

Rivers tipped his hat. “Much obliged there, Earl. At least one of you is earning his keep this morning.” He gestured at Harve. “Can’t say as much for the other fella whose name escapes me for the time being.”

Harve grinned crossly.

“Thank you, Mr. Rivers,” said Earl in a New York accent. “Please, watch your head.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Earl. Don’t mind if I do.”

As Rivers climbed inside the rear of the limo, Earl and Harve followed and took seats across from him. As Harve pulled the door shut, Earl pounded on the black divider between them and the front cabin to signal the driver.

The driver shifted the gear into “DRIVE” and muttered to himself, “Enjoy the ride. Heh, heh.”

The limousine crawled east down Monteel Road, gradually picked up speed, and disappeared around the curve.

shortstory Pt. 2

| SHORT STORy |

This story will continue in consecutive months. Ignition Point

by Jami Gray

I started to grimace at the blatant lack of creativity but caught my expression before it could show. Don’t antagonizethe client, Rory. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Jones?”

“Consider me part of the delivery.”

My internal warning system blared. Having a powerful magic user do a ride along for a delivery? This did not bode well! “Precautionary or containment?”

Something unsettling flashed in his eyes. “Both.” With that disturbing answer, he tilted his head in an arrogant dismissal, turned, and disappeared behind the heavily tinted window of the back seat.

My sense of unease sauntered out of the corner I’d shoved it in earlier and came forward with an evil grin. Right, so my mysterious package was volatile enough to warrant a mage playing guardian. And here I was flying without a safety net if things went wrong.

This had to be why the Guild strongly dissuaded its members from taking private jobs. At least when you did a Guild-sanctioned job, the parameters were clearly defined, and no deviations were allowed. That reassuring leash of a rule provided a shield that discouraged potential problems that might hamper a successful delivery and allowed the Guild member protective options should things take a nasty turn. Of course, that didn’t help me now.

You took the job, so see it through.

Gripping the envelope, I mentally tugged my professionalism into place and moved to the driver’s side door. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I tossed the empty envelope onto the passenger seat. The soothing scent of newly cleaned leather filled my nose. Despite the car’s luxurious interior, there was no way to miss the thick after-market privacy screen locked into place and hiding Mr. Jones and his package from view. I did my best to ignore the threat hiding behind the opaque window and took a few moments to familiarize myself with the car’s dash. It also gave me a chance to reclaim my equilibrium. Not that ignoring Mr. Jones was easy. It was beyond unsettling to have an unknown mage at my back. I much preferred facing my threats head on, thank you very much. That made it easier to run away.

I secured my seat belt. Because I couldn’t shake my uneasiness crawling over my skin, I nudged my magic until it blinked sleepy eyes and stretched awake. I hit the ignition switch and took visceral pleasure in the smooth rumble as it purred to life. Ready to ride, I shifted my gaze to the rearview mirror by habit. The privacy screen reflected my image and left a disquieting tension zipping down my spine, but years of discipline came to my rescue, masking my visceral reaction.

Keep it professional. I was getting paid to ensure the package made it from Point A to Point B intact. It was not my business who, or what, the package was, or why it was being delivered. The reminder didn’t do much to quiet my persistent conscience. Holding my emotions in a choke hold, I forced my attention forward and assumed the car was equipment with an interior speaker system. “Address?”

Sure enough, Mr. Jones rattled off an address.

It didn’t ring any bells. Not a surprise, considering metro Phoenix served as a central hub to a cluster of smaller cities. Those bedroom communities added to a sprawling network of streets that stretched over roughly five hundred and eighteen square miles. Street names tended to repeat or change depending on where you were, so to ensure we got to the right spot, I programed the address into the car’s GPS. Someone had given the navigation system an Australian accent, which cheerily informed me that this particular address was on the west end, about forty minutes out from current location if traffic cooperated and more if it didn’t.

I backed out and wound my way out of the parking garageto the soundtrack of the GPS’s jaunty directions. The next few minutes were spent navigating the grid of one-way streets that served downtown Phoenix. Luckily, the mid-week crowds weren’t the night-