“Hello, Finn.”
“Hello, Estelle. Where’s the lucky groom to be?”
“His room. He’s superstitious and doesn’t believe the bride and groom should sleep together the night before the wedding.”
“His loss.”
“And your gain?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You better be.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake—I really can’t deal with this right now,” I said.
“You can’t deal with it? What do you mean? You’re not the one about to get married.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one about to lose you.”
She went over to the minibar and poured herself a glass of straight vodka then downed it in one gulp.
“I want you to make love to me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid I’m making a mistake.”
“Again? Seriously? What is it with you and your whole runaway bride thing?”
“You—you’re the problem. Every time I think I’ve moved on, you come back into my life, and I start to question what I’m doing.”
“That’s something only you can deal with.”
“No, that’s something we can deal with,” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a kiss.
Her tongue shot into my mouth, and my heart started to pound in my chest as sorrow transformed instantly to lust. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands over my chest before reaching down and unzipping my pants and freeing my member. It was already hard and sprang to attention as she began stroking it, and I saw this as a precedent to run my hands over her breasts. Her nipples sprang up through the fabric of her dress, and I felt my desire become a burning fire in my loins. We were now fully engaged in the penultimate make out session, and I slid my hand down over her essence, and it inspired Estelle to pull me backwards to the dining table in my room, where she sat down, hiked up her dress, and steered my member towards her hot, wet essence. Just as the tip of my manhood was about to penetrate, I stopped, and, regardless how much I wanted to make sweet love to her right then and there, I knew I couldn’t. She grabbed hold of my hips and tried to pull me inside, but I still didn’t budge.
“What’s the problem,” she asked, sounding frustrated.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
“Yes, you can. Now, stop being a pussy—and fuck me.”
“A pussy would do it. By not doing it, I’m being a man—a better man.”
Estelle sighed then stared at me with tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Yes, which is why I’m not going to do this. If you decide to marry, or not marry Thomas, it’s got to happen without me having anything to do with it. I like Thomas. He’s a good guy, and he deserves that much.”
“What happened to the man-whore I fell in love with?”
“He grew a conscience.”
“Why now?”
“Because I want you to be happy and make the right decision—on your own.”
“What if that decision means being with you?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Goddammit, Finn! Why’d you have to get all wise and sensitive on me right now?”
“I’ve always been wise and sensitive, but my horny side usually prevailed when it came to you.”
“Until now.”
“Well, at least until you decide—for better or for worse. Now, please leave before I break down and end up fucking your brains out in my typical man-whorish fashion.”
“Fine, Finn, but you know this noble side of you only makes me want you all the more.”
“Good, then it means my plan is working.”
She smiled.
“Good night, Finn.”
“Good night, Estelle.”
I walked her to the door, and she kissed me one last time then turned and left. It should have been a sad moment but, oddly, I felt redeemed, for I had finally done the right thing. To celebrate my moral victory, I went to the minibar, refilled my glass, and headed back out to the deck but paused when I heard another knock on my door. Shit, Estelle had probably decided to try and tempt me yet again, so I went to the door, fully ready to try and rebuff her advances, but, when I opened it, there, to my surprise, was Fabiana.
“What happened with the Vogue cover?” I asked.
“I figured you needed me more than they did and cancelled my flight. If they really want me that badly, they can come down here and shoot the cover on the beach.”
She cast her glance down and noticed the remnants of my hard-on pressing against the inseam of my pants, and she smiled.
“I guess you’re happy to see me,” she said.
“Happier than you could ever imagine,” I said, as I stepped aside and ushered her inside my room.
She took a quick look around then turned back to me with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes.
“So, I see you have one of the honeymoon suites. Does it have a Jacuzzi?”
“It’s out on the deck.”
“Perfect, then you know where to bring my cocktail,” she said, as she proceeded to completely undress then walk out and take up residence in the Jacuzzi.
I made her a drink then joined her in the bubbling maelstrom, and we sat there and looked out upon a shimmering sea set ablaze by the light of the full moon. This had become a perfect moment with the perfect woman, and I realized I had finally done the right thing, and fate, instead of punishing me, decided to give me a reward. I turned and gazed at Fabiana, and now I could look beyond her supermodel visage to see what she actually was—a sweet angel of mercy who was here to deliver me unto heaven.
Thank you for taking the time to read Chalupa Conundrum. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend, and it would be much appreciated. Now, I hope you’ll be pleased, because Tag Finn will be continuing his adventures in
Prometheus Protocol.
Private investigator Tag Finn, a former special operations soldier and member of the CIA’s elite Special Activities Division, is enjoying a beautiful Sausalito morning until one of Japan’s most powerful businessmen shows up on his doorstep with an unusual problem. It turns out that a ruthless and brutal serial killer has ritualistically murdered three of his senior vice presidents, and now his son is the only remaining target. Finn reluctantly takes the job and travels to Japan to become a stranger in a strange land, where he must race against time as he tries to find the killer before she can strike again.
Come along with Finn for adventure, intrigue, and some sexual hijinks that will take you from the pinnacle of Japanese society all the way down to a world inhabited by yakuza thugs, ancient secret societies, and a deadly, though beautiful, female assassin intent on revenge.
The Mantasy Series
Soft Taco Island
Topless Agenda
Gordita Conspiracy
Mr. Pickles
Stripper Boat
Poi Predicament
Chalupa Conundrum
Prometheus Protocol
Acknowledgements
I suspect every writer has a large list of people who make their work possible, and mine begins with my wife, who hears every one of my idiotic ideas and gives her opinion freely and without fear that I might get offended and stop helping with the housework. Next, would be my editors, Ruth A. Bright, Chris Cooper, and Aria Pearson who have generously given their time to comb the book for mistakes and keep me grammatically, if not politically or morally correct. After editors, comes my army of proofreaders, namely Matt Zeeman, Chris Imlay, Bob Horton, Katherine Gundling, and Jason Bright. Following them is my family, especially my father Fred Christie, who has always believed in my artistic endeavors and supported them both figuratively and literally. Next would be my mother Jane Christie (Posthumously), who definitely
played a roll in my odd sense of humor. Also in the family category, is my pushy sister Sheree Wilson who helped get me into a posh New York Literary Agency, as well as my less pushy sister, Shelly Hall. From there, it continues on to two special friends who helped in a very unusual way, namely securing the Macbook Pro laptop that I would use to write while incarcerated at Stanford Hospital. Those two generous souls, inadvertently responsible for the proliferation of the Mantasy Genre, are Michele and Dan Scanlon. Next is my oldest friend and layout expert Chris Imlay followed by Dianna Woods, Jimmy and Jodie Woods, as well as Robert O’Brien and Elizabeth “high-beams” Machado, all of whom have been willing to suffer through early drafts, mistakes, inaccuracies, and a vast number of unusual sexual metaphors.
Another special thank you goes out to Greg Owens, good friend and international man of business acumen, who passed on the following advice from his mentor George Leonard—take the hit. Which means: should you ever be sidelined with something such as five years of cancer treatment, do something positive with the time—in my case writing a bunch of escapist, erotic, adventure novels.
I’d also like to thank Mike Rowe and his Dirty Jobs show, Tom Selleck and the creators of Magnum PI, Jeremy Clarkson, James May, and Richard Hammond and their show Top Gear (which is now more or less the Grand Tour on Amazon), and, last but not least, J.K. Rowling and her Harry Potter book series. All four would make an unbearable time more bearable, and, in the case of when I finally left the hospital, I had a new immune system and more or less was the equivalent of an adult newborn and therefore had to avoid the public and its various viruses, bacteria, and germs. To that end, I was home all day every day, and the only way to keep from going totally bonzo when I was writing was to have a show on in the background. With Dirty Jobs I found the perfect everyman in host Mike Rowe, whose filthy exploits and double entendres kept me feeling connected to the “dirty” world beyond my room. Top Gear and its wacky hosts and scenic locations kept me fully entertained and desperate to get well and make it back out to the world at large. Magnum PI, however, was a different experience, for it brought me back to one of my beloved childhood shows, and its characters and setting served as a kind of comfort food during the anxiety filled hours of treatment. In the early stages of treatment, however, I started reading J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter. Nothing was better at taking my mind off the chemo drip, and it was actually the void I felt after finishing the series that helped inspire me to create my own literary world in which to escape—though mine would obviously be for adults and contain a shitload of profanity, humor, and sex. We often underestimate the value of entertainment and its unique ability to take us away from our problems, and so, to all four entities and all those involved—you have my gratitude!
My final word of thanks goes out to my vast martial arts community, all of whom helped keep me alive and well throughout the dark days of cancer treatment. At the top of that group, and requiring special thanks, are Matt Thomas, Rick Alemany, and Margaret Alemany whose wisdom and teaching helped inspire many of the techniques in the book. Beyond them and within our own karate community is Lauren and Rob Sandusky, Thandi Guile, Aria and Daniel Pearson, Tom Jacoby and Jennifer Solow, John Hedlund, Michele & Dan Scanlon, Katherine Gundling, Bob Horton, Sue Fox and J.T. Meade, Mark, Matt, Brad, and Jade Zeeman, Ted Hatch, James Parks, Rob Capps, Mari Sciabica, Jeremy Holt and the Holt Family, Sabrina Haechler, Jonathan Johnson, Brannon Beliso, Catherine and Eric Engelbrecht, Catherine and Ian Moore, Tamera Blake, the families and students of Christie Kenpo Karate, Michael Mason MD, Natalya Greyz MD, Sally Arai MD, and the Stanford University BMT Unit & ITA. If you don’t see your name here, don’t worry—there is a more comprehensive list of the karate community on the Thank You page of my website.
To all of you, I say be well—and more importantly—dump well.
Origin of the Mantasy Genre
In 2010, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Non-Hodgkins T-Cell Lymphoma Cancer, and, with only weeks before my imminent demise, began rigorous dose dense chemotherapy. With an extremely low survival rate, about one in five, I was particularly lucky to achieve a full remission in just over two months. I went on to receive a stem cell, and eventual bone marrow transplant at Stanford University, the last procedure being the most effective treatment for a lifelong cure.
So, what exactly does a person do when faced with extreme isolation and the fear of a potentially premature demise? Well, I started reading Harry Potter and filled many long hours hooked up to a chemo drip, spending my time with the life and adventures of the boy who lived—hoping, in my case, to be the man who survived. There aren’t many books more removed from the doldrums of cancer, so it became the perfect escape. The problem, however, was that I tore through them so quickly that I was soon on my own again—desperately in need of something to fill my long, anxiety filled days.
I tried several popular novels and authors I liked but couldn’t find anything to adequately fill the endless hours of isolation. Of course, I could have wallowed in self pity and played video games or watched Netflix, but I really didn’t want the months of downtime to be meaningless. If I was forced to sit around like a piece of shit, then I wanted to do something with the time. I immediately decided that I should turn my screenplay writing skills into the ultimate, tell-all cancer book, but, five pages in, I realized the topic was too depressing and decided to instead write a novel. It was going to be the book I desperately wanted to read and would include all the things I lacked at that moment—namely sex, alcohol, adventure, travel, and privacy in the bathroom—the key elements for a truly rewarding existence.
I finished chemo at Kaiser then headed south to the Stanford University Hospital and quickly realized that I would have nothing but a window and the internet for a companion in the coming months. Worse still were the medical horrors that would soon become a part of my daily existence. My morning nurse, concerned about the debilitating physical effects of intense chemo, entered my room each day with the following words:
“What would you like me to check first? Your balls or your butthole?”
“Um—neither?” I responded.
At that point, all I desired went into my writing, first and foremost being a little privacy in the ol’ baño. The nurses had an annoying habit of always wanting to weigh my stools—something to do with keeping track of fluid and food intake and the subsequent amount of release. My bathroom contained what I called the cowboy hat, a plastic insert to catch waste entering the toilet. Peeing in the little urinal was enough indignity, so whenever possible, I woke up early and dumped before they could make their rounds. Every day that I sent a number two un-accosted down the drain was a small, though cherished victory. I felt like a prisoner—a veritable Count of Monte Cristo, though my prison was a hospital and my battles were waged over porcelain.
Continuing with the theme of writing about all I lacked meant that the book would sizzle with sex, adventure, and humor. Three months later, I would complete book one and within the year, finish two more—completing what I called at the time, The Mantasy Trilogy—the word Mantasy, being the combination of Male and Fantasy. The following year, I managed to write five more follow ups, all with the same character and eccentricities but with new and exciting storylines and locations. Now, I had a Mantasy Series. Or, if I wanted to follow in Douglas Adam’s footsteps, I would say—books four, five, six, seven, and eight in the Mantasy Trilogy. I’m currently finishing books nine, ten, and eleven.
Writing has always been one of my great loves but sadly, it took a life threatening illness to bring us back together full-time. I have written a number of screenplays and had two optioned for motion pictures, but traditional writing is more complicated and requires a hell of a lot more work. It is, however, more rewarding because you have the ability to deliver your story directly to an audience, whether it’s your friends, the woman at the Post Office, or the thousands of potential readers trolling the online eBooks. It doesn’t need a fifty million dollar budget, a production team, d
istribution, and funding for it to reach an audience—and that is pretty awesome.
About the Author
Lyle Christie was born in San Francisco, raised in Marin County, and attended the University of Kentfield, San Francisco State University, the Academy of Art College, and Dominican University, where he majored in film and social psychology, and minored in Philosophy, Anthropology, and Human Sexuality—all of which gave him the diverse educational background to become a writer and director. In addition, he holds a fifth degree black belt and teaches Kenpo Karate, Jujitsu, Arnis, and Wing Chun. During his lifetime in the martial arts, he has taught civilians as well as police and military personnel and has the unique pleasure of training with elite members of the United States and international defense and intelligence community.
He also teaches firearms, swords, sticks, and knives, though he is equally deadly with the nunchaku, machete, goat, tether ball, and skin flute—the last perhaps being his greatest skill set. Above all else, he maintains excellent, if not grey, hair and lives aboard a yacht in Sausalito with his wife, French Bulldog, and Miniature Dachshund. When he’s not writing, directing, teaching martial arts, or training with the real life James Bonds of the world, you’ll find him fighting injustice, cherishing a number two, working out, or riding his mountain bike through the scenic hills of Marin County.
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