Almost three years ago, as Crazy 8’s second (one could even say “sophomoric”) release, we put out a zany little book about a duck-headed man and his bizarre, disjointed, hilarious quest to save the universe. That book, of course, was No Small Bills, which became a NOOK bestseller right out of the gate. Apparently people like to read funny stuff–who knew?
A year later, our avian-altered friend was back for more wacky hijinks in a second novel, Too Small for Tall.
Now, two years later, it’s time to saddle up and ride out yet again, because DuckBob Spinowitz is coming back! The third DuckBob novel, Three Small Coinkydinks, will be out later this month—but you can ooh and aah over the cover starting now!
There, isn’t it pretty?
Not enough for you? How about a small sample to whet your appetite? Read, enjoy, gaze longingly at the cover some more, and watch for the book’s debut coming soon!
* * *
Meanwhile, I’m outside my old office. Should I go in? Should I tell my old boss, Phil, that I want my old job back? Should I grovel? Should I just stroll in like I own the place, say, “Yo, Phil, how’s it hanging? I was busy saving the universe and all but that gig got old so I figured I’d swing on back, you don’t mind, do you? And hey, can you grab me an espresso? I’ll be at my desk,” and see how long it takes anyone to wonder what I’m doing back or to point out that I may not actually work there again? I’m pretty sure I saw this movie years ago and it worked pretty well, especially for Teen Wolf and Supergirl.
Thing is—thing is, now that I stop and think about it, I hated my old job. Really hated it. All I did all day was scroll through screens on my computer, click a bunch of boxes on and other ones off, submit the form, and then repeat the process. It really didn’t seem to make much difference which boxes I checked, either. I know because I got bored after a while and started doing patterns, just like I used to do on the old standardized tests back in school. Which might explain why I almost got held back a grade twice but the NSA wanted to recruit me right out of middle school. So I used to check boxes in squares and rectangles, triangles and rhombuses, fleur-de-lis and stars, spirals and ankhs and infinities and subway maps. Nobody ever complained, at least to me, but I’m pretty sure we destabilized a small third-world company and brought a busload of tourist gamblers back to life. That’s bound to balance out whatever else happened, right?
Even if it does, though, can I really stand to go back to that? I mean, I saved the universe, man! I fought off an alien invasion! I stopped a galactic menace with nothing but taffeta and taffy! I fried a killer shrimp! After all that, how’m I gonna be able to survive working in that tiny little cube again, hunched over that tiny little screen, clicking buttons?
Wow, I had no idea just how much my old life sucked. Good thing I haven’t bumped into anybody I know yet—that’s the thing about being this distinctive, it’s not like my old friends and former co-workers could walk past and think, “Huh, weird, another guy who was modified by aliens and given the head of a duck just like DuckBob, what’re the odds?”
Which is, of course, right when a hand lands on my shoulder. A big, meaty hand, caught up in the cuff of a dark suit. And there’s the rest of the suit behind it, along with a white shirt, a dark tie, a dark hat—
—and a pair of dark sunglasses.
“Mr. Spinowitz?” It’s a surprisingly high voice for such a big guy, and it quavers a bit at the end. “I need you to come with me.”