Not Pounded By My Book “Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of The Shockingly Massive Importance Of Pre-orders When Supporting Authors You Enjoy In The Traditional Publishing Industry” Because It’s So Important I Had To Write Another Book About It That Wasn’t Explicit To Reach An Even Wider Audience

AUTHOR'S NOTE: dang seems like we were just here yesterday reading a free tingler. sounds like pre-ordering books is pretty important if you gotta sit down and write two whole heckin books about it. anyway enjoy this preorderception and if you havent already done so you can PRE-ORDER CAMP DAMASCUS HERE 

all jokerman ways aside THANK YOU for proving love to me so much with recent support. whole response to chucks new journey has been so moving and powerful. i have so much gratitude for my buckaroos and i cant wait to keep trotting onward waving the flag of love with you buds by my side

LOVE IS REAL

Actor Chris Line is world-renowned as a leading man of stage and screen, but few know his true artistic calling — writing erotica under the pen name Chuck Tingle. When a strange floating orb appears in Chris’s backyard, he’s suddenly forced to confront that realization that Chris Line might not be the only Chuck Tingle out there in a myriad of parallel universes.

With a mysterious letter in tow, Chris is now adventuring even deeper into The Tingleverse, unraveling a mystery that’s all connected to an upcoming book titled Camp Damascus. When the physical manifestation of how important it is to pre-order books from authors you care about arrives, Chris suddenly realizes this journey between timelines could be even more critical to The Tingleverse than he initially thought.

This important tale is 4,900 words of sexless timeline-hopping adventure between several Chuck Tingle’s who prove love is real no matter what layer of reality you’re on.

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NOT POUNDED BY MY BOOK “POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF THE SHOCKINGLY MASSIVE IMPORTANCE OF PRE-ORDERS WHEN SUPPORTING AUTHORS YOU ENJOY IN THE TRADITIONAL PUBLISHING INDUSTRY” BECAUSE IT’S SO IMPORTANT I HAD TO WRITE ANOTHER BOOK ABOUT IT THAT WASN’T EXPLICIT TO REACH AN EVEN WIDER AUDIENCE

By Chuck Tingle

I’m pulled from my slumber with an abrupt start, my mind immediately scrambling for answers and finding none.

“What the hell was that?” I stammer, tossing the blankets off and lurching to my feet in the darkness.

At first, I’m not even sure where I am, but when my face collides with a solid wall I’m swiftly yanked into the present, recognizing the vague dimensions of my own bedroom.

“Ow!” I yelp, grabbing my nose and staggering back.

The edge of my bed waits behind me, and soon enough I’m toppling backwards onto the mattress from which I was so abruptly roused.

I lay flat on my back for a moment, gazing upward as my eyes adjust and my breathing slows. A dull, aching pain radiates outward from the center of my face.

Eventually, a faint wave of laughter bubbles up within me and spills through my lips, an expression of just how ridiculous this moment of alarm was. Whatever just woke me up must’ve been a real doozy — maybe a car backfiring out on the street or a shelf finally giving in to its own weight — because my reaction was extreme.

I just wish I could remember what caused it.

I finally sit back up, turning on the bedside lamp and casting my bedroom with its warm glow. I check the clock, finding it’s a little after two in the morning.

There goes any chance of getting some decent work in tomorrow.

People think that, as a professional actor, I’m free to take up any schedule I want during my time off and throw caution to the wind, but this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Maybe that works for some artists, but I only manage to get things done if I keep a regulated schedule and get plenty of sleep.

My time off is never really time off, whether that’s practicing my craft or reading through piles of scripts. It’s also the time when I get to focus on my real passion: writing erotica.

All of that is shot now, which is particularly unfortunate timing giving the book release that looms large on the horizon of my life. I don’t need to crank out the word counts that I usually do, but promoting a book still takes plenty of focus. Interviews, guest columns, and signings are not the walk in the park one might think.

The anxiety that comes along with them is no joke either.

I consider reaching out and turning off the light once again, immediately returning to my slumber, but I hesitate. I’m not sure what woke me up, but it would be a mistake to dismiss it completely.

Keeping my face covered with a bright pink bag has provided much more privacy than one might expect from an author in my position, but the possibility of an angry conservative stalker finding me out and coming to my home is not entirely out of the question. I don’t talk much about politics in my acting career, but when it comes to my writing all bets are off.

Not to mention any potential burglars who don’t give a damn who I am, they just like the look of my darkened house on this particular evening.

I better check things out.

Listening intently, I carefully slip out of bed and make my way over to the bedroom window, a vantage point that offers ample view of my darkened backyard. It’s here that my breath catches in my throat, a startled gasp escaping my lips.

A strange silver orb floats oddly in the backyard, egg shaped and at least five feet tall. The grass around this bizarre object is singed and black, as though it arrived here via a burst of lightning, and the general area glows with a faint blue aura.

I leap back against the bedroom wall, disappearing from view as my eyes go wide.

I’m not entirely sure what this object is, but one particular thought immediately bubbles up within me.

“Aliens,” I say to myself, the word falling from my lips in a whisper.

It seems ridiculous, but then again what other answer could there be? The object is floating a few feet off the ground, hovering in a way that’s unlike any Earthly technology I’ve witnessed.

Of course, there’s also the potential option that I might be dreaming, and at this point I should probably take that into consideration too.

I carefully lean around the edge of my window, gazing out to make sure the silver egg is still there and discovering it remains exactly where I left it.

In a surge of fear and adrenaline I briefly consider calling the police, but this moment quickly passes when I play it out in my head. I have no idea whether or not this visitor of mine — whoever or whatever they may be — is aggressive, and I’d rather not instantly start escalating things with a shouting, armed cop and threats of violence.

If this really is an alien I’d like to introduce myself, not call someone to come over here and shoot it.

With this in mind, I begin to slink through the darkness of my home, making my way downstairs and through a long hallway the leads to the living room. From here, I can see out into the backyard, the floating orb filling my gaze with its strange illumination.

I push onward, creeping over to the back door and then pushing out into the cool night air.

Now that I’m closer, I can sense a low, constant hum rumbling from within this silver orb, an unexpectedly pleasant tone that washes over me in a faint tickle.

“Wow,” is all I can think to say, stepping closer and closer to the floating egg.

Suddenly, however, a loud click stops me in my tracks. The hum disappears and a large panel upon the front of this floating egg lifts upward in a hiss of steam. Smoke pours out as the door rises, gradually revealing the figure that sits within.

I see legs at first, clad in a stark white suit, then gradually watch as the whole body appears. This is a person I’m so familiar with that I instantly feel the air dissipate from my lungs.

The occupant of the vehicle is clad in a white karate gi and pink mask, dressed in the exact same uniform I wear while making appearances. Dark glasses cover their eyes, and upon this bag the words “love is real” are written in dark, felt-tipped marker.

They climb from the egg, stepping down to the charred lawn and extending their hand.

“Oh,” I stammer, not sure how to react.

I’ve been writing under the pen name Chuck Tingle for years, wearing this exact outfit for every public appearance. I’ve seen fans dressed up in a similar way at conventions, but the detail of this costume is truly astonishing. It looks as though they’ve pulled it from the back of my closet, every thread a perfect match.

“Greetings buckaroo,” the visitor offers, their voice notably different than mine, but following a similar cadence.

The visitor’s hand stays held out towards me, an offering of peace.

“Hi,” I finally reply, giving them a firm shake. “I’m Chris Line.”

“Sometimes you are, buckaroo,” the visitor replies, nodding profusely. “You’re also dang Chuck Tingle!”

I laugh. “It looks like that might make two of us.”

The visitor releases their grip and reaches up, taking the bottom of their mask and gradually pulling it off to reveal a smiling face underneath. Incredibly, this visage just as familiar as the one that came before it.

I don’t know this actress personally, but I’m certainly a fan of her work.

“Oh my god, I loved you in Recreational Parks,” I blurt.

She smirks knowingly, amused by this interaction. “I loved you in Star Tracks. I’m Audrey.”

“I know,” I offer. “Huge fan.”

We stand awkwardly for a moment.

“So… why are you in my backyard?” I finally continue.

Audrey laughs. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. I’m kinda just figuring out where to start.”

I nod with understanding, then motion towards the door behind me. “You wanna come inside?”

Soon enough, the unexpected visitor and me are leaving this surreal scene, heading back into the house and making our way to my dining room. There’s a breakfast nook here that gazes out upon the Hollywood Hills, a beautiful view of my street that quickly disappears into a lush canyon below. In the early evening you can see houselights dotting this glorious vista, but it’s too late for that now.

Audrey takes a seat and I head over to my fridge. “You want something to drink?” I question. “Chocolate milk?”
 The actress laughs. “Wait, you actually drink that stuff here?” she questions.

I nod, slightly confused. “As opposed to where? I’m not sober if that’s what you’re asking. I drink sometimes.”

“Sober?” she questions. “You just asked if I wanted chocolate milk.”

I nod.

Again, there’s an awkward pause between us.

“Uh… sure. I’ll have some,” Audrey replies with a shrug.

I pull out the chocolate milk and pour us two large glasses of the cool, refreshing beverage. Putting the carton back, I place one before my visitor and one before myself, settling into the chair across from her.

Audrey eyes her glass, lifting it up and inspecting the brown liquid for a moment. She slowly brings the beverage to her lips and takes a long sip of the sugary drink. She hesitates a moment, furrowing her brow as she takes in the flavor and then returning to a state of confusion.

“That’s just regular chocolate milk,” she states, setting her glass down. “I thought it might be different here, but apparently not.”

“Where?” I question.

“This reality,” Audrey continues. “The reality where you are me.”

I laugh. “Are you trying to pitch me on a script or something?” I question. “Like, is this some kind of science fiction project you’re working on? I’d love to work with you, I don’t need this big show.”
 Audrey shakes her head. “I wish,” she replies. “The reason I’m here is a little more pressing. I guess I should start at the beginning and clarify a few things. I’m not the Audrey from this reality, I’m the Audrey from another reality.”

After starring in multiple Star Track films, I’m oddly equipped to play along with this train of thought. “Okay then,” I reply, momentarily pushing my skepticism away and nodding in acceptance.

Of course, this isn’t real acceptance of her unusual diatribe, but it’s enough to keep things rolling. I’m still trying to figure out what exactly is going on here, but I have trouble believing it’s anything like one of my movie plots.

“Anyway, I’m not you as in Chris,”Audrey continues, then motions to her peculiar outfit. “On my reality, I’m youas in Chuck.”

My heart skips a beat as my visitor says this, suddenly understanding the implication of what she’s saying.

Expressing myself as Chuck Tingle is very important to me. In fact, I’d say I get more out of my work as Chuck than I do my acting career. Most people assume when I put on the pink mask I’m just playing another character, but in reality that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Chuck is an important expression of myself, a place where I can speak in a way that sets me at ease and alleviates the chronic pain within my body. Without Chuck, I don’t get a chance to talk about this pain very much, nor my bisexuality, nor my place on the autism spectrum, but Chuck allows me to do this in a healthy way.

Chuck Tingle is a more authentic representation of my true self than Chris Line is.

But none of this is what stops me in my tracks. The reason I’m so amazed and alarmed comes down to a singular fact, something that instantly makes me think Audrey could be telling the truth.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows I’m the real Chuck Tingle.

“How did you…?” I stammer, struggling to find the words.

“That’s not important,” Audrey replies. “What’s important is the mission. I’m here because another Chuck contacted me, and now I’m contacting you. We’re working our way through timelines in order to reach someone with a very important message.”

“Who?” I question.

“Tingle Prime,” she replies.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“We’re getting close,” Audrey continues. “Soon enough, you’ll be doing this exact same thing for someone else, and I think it could be the real Chuck.”

“But I’m the real Chuck,” I blurt.

“We all are,” Audrey retorts, then hesitates a moment. She takes a long sip from her chocolate milk, organizing her thoughts. “This mission isn’t just about our timelines, though.”

“I don’t understand,” I admit.

“Every reality is a valid one,” Audrey continues. “However, there’s one particular timeline that needs our help. I’m not entirely sure why, but the way it was explained to me sounded very dire, like there was some kind of domino effect through several realities. I got the felling my world — and your world — are stories within a larger universe. Like, if one goes down… they all go down.”

“Who told you this?” I question. “Who was your visiting Chuck?”

Audrey hesitates, not sure if she should answer and then finally barreling onward.

“It was Chris Evers,” she explains. “You know, Captain United States? I mean, he’s not really a superhero, but-”

“Did you ask which Chuck came to him?” I question.

My guest nods. “Just some woman he didn’t know. She worked at a corner store.”

“Not an actor?” I clarify.

Audrey shakes her head. “I get the feeling that’s just where we happen to land on the chain. I think there are all kinds of Chucks.”

“Reverse twins,” I offer under my breath, then refocus. “How long do you think the chain goes on for?”

Audrey considers this. I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing, our minds wandering to a distinct, almost incomprehensible possibility: what if everyone is Chuck Tingle on some timeline or another?

“It doesn’t matter how far back it goes,” Audrey finally replies. “What matters is that it’s about to end.”

There’s something about the way she says this that strikes a chord deep within me, a metaphorical spear slipping just between my ribs and stabbing deep into the soft fleshy muscle of my heart.

As unbelievable as all of this sounds, I suddenly have no doubts.

Audrey means every word that she’s said, and she’s traveled a long way to deliver this message.

“What do I need to do?” I question. “Do I just get into that giant floating egg of yours a head to the next timeline?”

Audrey shakes her head. “There’s gonna be one on this timeline waiting, it’s always in the same place.”

“Where’s that?” I question.

“A place that proves love is real to you,”she explains. “You’ll kinda just know it. When Chris Evers said that to me I knew exactly where to go, but it’s different for everyone.”

I nod, a specific location immediately manifesting from within the depths of my mind.

Audrey finishes her chocolate milk, then reaches down below the table and pulls out a large, sealed envelope. The words ‘Tingle Prime’ are written across the front.

She hands it over.

“Now I’ve gotta get back to my timeline,” Audrey announces. “Good luck out there. Give this to Chuck Tingle on whatever reality you land in. Hopefully, they’ll be the last one in the line.”

“How will I know?” I question.

Audrey shrugs, then stands up. “You’ll figure it out,” she offers.

The two of us head back through my dimly lit home. We push though the back doors and emerge into the night air once again. The floating vessel still hovers where we left it, waiting for Audrey’s return.

“Remember, go to a place that proves love is real to you,” she repeats, then climbs back into her floating vessel.

With that, the door emits another sizzling hiss as the panel lowers and latches into place. The blue aura that surrounds this pod begins to pulse and grow, elevating in time with the potent auditory hum. The chaos looms larger and larger until, suddenly, there’s a powerful crackle of energy, a mighty bang that causes me to jump in alarm and immediately explains what so viciously yanked me from my slumber earlier this evening.

The floating egg is gone.

As curious as I am about what lies ahead, I’m forced to pick up this adventure in the morning.

I know exactly where I’m headed, the place that proves love to me in a visceral and important way, and I also happen to know their business hours.

I can’t just show up in the middle of the night.

Instead, I head out early, driving down from my place in the hills and finding a spot out front. I’ve arrived at Skybright Books, my absolute favorite bookstore in all of Los Angeles.

I’m sure other “Chucks” on this mission have found their floating orb at the home of their family or their closest friends, traditional reminders of all the love this timeline has to offer.

It’s totally understandable. I love all these people in my own life, too.

For some reason, though, when Audrey described my mission I knew exactly where to go, a place of imagination and drama and fantasy.

I’ve always enjoyed telling stories, which is why I became an actor in the first place. The movie theater was a big inspiration, and it’s no coincidence that a small three-screen theater sits next door to Skybright Books. The bookstore itself, however, is a place that truly resonates within the depths of my soul.

Once my path as an actor kicked into high gear, there wasn’t much time to explore my original creative passion. It wasn’t until I returned to college that I rediscovered this artistic outlet in an erotica writing class.

This is my happy place now, and if a strange floating egg is going to be hidden anywhere, it’s here.

I climb out of my car and head inside, waving to the folks behind the counter. They all know me, offering familiar nods in return.

Simply asking if they’ve seen a timeline transportation vessel floating around seems like an odd approach, so instead I wander back through the tall shelves, disappearing into the depths of this bookstore. I creep slowly, casually looking over various tomes while my eyes dart about these quiet surroundings, hunting for clues.

It’s hard to keep myself from getting distracted, my gaze lingering on a few of the new offerings from Nightfire publishing. These horror novels look amazing, and when this mission is over I should probably get back here and pick up a few.

Suddenly, a familiar blue glow catches the corner of my eye, this faint illumination drifting inconspicuously from below a door marked “employees only.”

I feel a little guilty about breaking the rules in my favorite book store, but since the fate of several universes seems to depend on me pushing onward, I do what needs to be done.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, I quietly slip through the doorway and find myself in a large closet stuffed full of overstocked books. It’s a glorious place, and in any other situation I’d find myself drawn to this endless sea of freshly printed pages, but right now there’s something much more pressing that floats in the relative darkness.

There, hovering quietly, is another silver egg, it’s blue aura washing the room with a peaceful hue.

I step towards the vehicle, hesitating only slightly when the door pops open and emits a loud hiss. The cockpit is empty, and I waste no time climbing inside.

“Alright,” I state aloud, glancing around and finding the egg is completely void of controls.

I don’t have time to search, however, because the second I position myself within this strange orb, the door begins to close.

“Oh, okay,” I stammer, sitting back and allowing the pod to do its thing.

When the hatch is sealed a mighty, rising hum begins drifting through the air. I can feel this strange aural emission as it vibrates through my body, completely overwhelming my senses.

“Here we go,” I stammer, my voice barely coherent through the powerful wobbling quake of this strange machine.

A deafening crack suddenly rings out, the vehicle around me offering an abrupt shudder as it dips to one side and then struggles to recover. The hum immediately calms to a faint simmer.

I’ve arrived.

A minute or so later the hatch begins to open, rising in a plume of smoke and revealing an unfamiliar bedroom. As the mist clears a figure emerges, Chuck Tingle — or a different Chuck Tingle — standing before me in full uniform. He’s got the same white karate gi and the same pink bag over his head, but only time will tell if this is the author I’m looking for.

The letter gripped tight in my hands is for one man, and one man only: Tingle Prime.

I climb from the pod, offering a friendly smile to the anonymous figure who stands before me.

“Dang!” the man offers in a familiar cadence. “What the heck?”

“Hi, Chuck,” I offer. “I’m Chris.”

“Aw, heck, I know that! You’re handsome Chris Line from Star Track,” Chuck replies. “You have a kind way, I appreciate you very much!”

“I appreciate you, too,” I reply, not entirely sure how to explain this mission and then deciding the best course of action is to dive right in. “Listen, this is gonna sound a little nuts, but I’m Chuck Tingle on another timeline, and I was sent here by Audrey Plasma, who is also you — I mean also us — on another timeline, and she was sent by Chris Evars — also all of us — and, honestly, I don’t really know how far back it goes but we’ve all been passing along this letter. We’re trying to reach Tingle Prime. Does that make any sense to you?”

The masked figure just stares at me for a moment, gazing silently from behind his dark sunglasses. He’s impossible to read, any expression completely covered up by his pink disguise.

“Okay bud,” Chuck finally offers.

“Wait,” I stammer. “You’re not gonna question any of that?”

Chuck shakes his head. “Sounds pretty clear to me, buckaroo. Thanks for bringing me a letter. Wonder what it says.”

Still feeling skeptical, I pull out the envelope but pause as a surge of caution washes over me.

“I’m sorry, but how do I know you’re Tingle Prime?” I question. “Who are you under that mask?”

“I’m Chuck,” the man offers in return. “That’s it.”

I furrow my brow. “But, what about when the mask is off?” I continue.

“Oh, dang! Still Chuck,” the figure replies.

My hand stays retracted, still not convinced I should be handing over this letter. “Can you take your mask off and show me?”

“Well, I can take it off, but I can’t show you,” Chuck Tingle replies. “Not allowed to do that. I guess that’s how you’ll know I’m Tingle Prime. Gotta keep my privacy as a doctor.”

Chuck reaches up and grips his pink mask. He starts lifting it over his head, but as the fabric reaches his chin the bedroom lights suddenly flicker out and plunge us into darkness. There’s a bit of blue illumination from the hovering egg, but not nearly enough to make out Chuck’s features in the darkness.

“What just happened?” I question.

“Looks like a dang power outage,” Chuck replies. “This story is not gonna let you see my dang face. Gotta hide Tingle Prime.”

A voice calls out from another room of the house, likely echoing up from somewhere downstairs. “Sorry dad!” the voice offers. “We blew a fuse. Gonna go flip the circuit breaker!”

I can hear loud footsteps stomping down to what I’d assume is a basement.

Chuck clears his throat. “When the power comes back on, I’ll still be hidden, just you wait, buckaroo.”

Moments later, the lights do return and Chuck’s prediction is correct. He’s sitting behind a desk now, with a large lamp resting between us to obscure his face.

I start moving to the side but Chuck calls out to stop me.

“Probably not a good idea bud,” the mysterious author states. “Could cause a tree branch to bust through the wall or the power to cut out again, who the heck knows?”

I hesitate, then nod.

Chuck Tingle pulls his mask back on and stands up from the desk. He strolls back over to me, and I hand him the letter.

“Wonder what the heck this is,” Chuck states. “Just kidding, I know what the heck it is. I wrote this story.”

With that, Chuck tears open the letter and a rectangular object comes flying out, soaring and spinning through the air in a sudden burst of movement that prompts me to step back in alarm.

Eventually, the object slows to reveal its true nature, a short story titled Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of The Shockingly Massive Importance Of Pre-Orders When Supporting Authors You Enjoy In The Traditional Publishing Industry. The cover is notably handsome, featuring a smiling human man standing shirtless next to a sentient orange pre-order button.

“I’m here!” the sentient book announces proudly. “We did it!”

“Did what?” I stammer.

Chuck clears his throat and steps forward. “We got to the part where the dang living book shows up, that way he can appear on the cover and it will all make sense! Tinglers gotta have a good cover with a handsome living object!”
 I shake my head. “I don’t know if I’d say any of this makes sense.”

“Well, you’ve come a long way to get here, bud, so I’ll do my best to explain,” Chuck offers. “Wanted to write a story about how important pre-orders are for writers starting out in traditional publishing. World’s greatest author Chuck wrote the dang story, then I realized it was so heckin’ important I needed to write another tingler without all the pounding to reach an even broader audience. Gotta cover those bases, you know? Anyway, buckaroo, in erotica the climax is the end of the pound, but for tinglers with no pounding sometimes you gotta think of a different angle, like a science fiction mystery about a letter getting passed from timeline to timeline.”

It suddenly occurs to me what he’s implying. “Wait a minute, is this your no pound story about pre-orders?”

Chuck nods. “Yes bud. Wanted to let buckaroos know how important pre-orders are, and also to remind them to pre-order Camp Damascus.”

As Chuck says this, another living book slips from the envelope and begins fluttering around. A screaming woman is on the cover, flies pouring from her mouth. The words Camp Damascus are scrawled across the front in frightening white letters.

“What the hell is that?” I retort.

“My new dang horror book,” Chuck replies. “I mean, our new horror book. Wanted to help promote this important story that proves love is real in a frightening way, but didn’t want to give anything away. No spoilers! So I figured I could write a different story and talk on important themes.”

“Which are?” I continue, struggling to comprehend all these bizarre revelations as they wash over me.

“Lesson one is that working together as a team is very important and a great way to prove love,” Chuck explains. “That’s true whether you’re passing a letter between timelines or you’re battling against a conversion therapy camp with an even darker secret than, you know, being an evil conversion therapy camp. That’s already pretty horrific.”

“And the next lesson?” I ask.

“That love is real no matter what timeline you’re on,” Chuck explains. “That’s why I had you trotting to a place that proves love to you. It’s different for everyone because we all have our own unique way of proving love, but each of these ways is valid and important.”

I consider all this, connecting the dots as a peculiar realization washes over me.

“Wait, so I’m not real?” I suddenly question. “I’m just a character in a book?”

Chuck nods in confirmation, but I’m not done yet. Now there’s an even weirder subject to contend with.

“That means you’re also a character,” I continue. “You’re not really Tingle Prime, because Tingle Prime is the one writing this.”

Chuck nods. “We’re all Tingle Prime in our own way, but if you wanna trot specific about things then yes, buckaroo. You’re correct.”

“Who is he then?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Chuck smiles. “I can’t tell you, bud. Remember that dang power outage hiding my face? If I try saying anything about the real Chuck, this story will end before I can even get the heckin’ words out.”

He’s right, and with this realization a sudden urge overwhelms me. “Just tell me quick!” I shout.

Chuck freezes, then cocks his head to the side when he realizes what I’m doing. He doesn’t waste any more time, keeping his voice unusually neutral to avoid any unnecessary description or flowery language.

“The real Ch

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CLICK HERE TO PRE-ORDER CHUCK TINGLE'S UPCOMING TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED HORROR NOVEL CAMP DAMASCUS