Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “It’s been a challenging couple of weeks and an even more challenging day, so let’s take a moment to raise our glasses to the man and woman who saved our asses today. To Tag and Dolunay.”

  “Here here!” Margaret said.

  “To Dolunay and dugland!” Babineux added.

  When the cheering dyed down, Farid, looking perplexed, spoke up.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I speak fluent French, yet I have never heard the word dugland,” he said.

  “It’s Babs’s pet name for me, and it means asshole en français,” I responded.

  “I like it!”

  “I figured you would, and since we’re giving out toasts and showering each other with praise, I think it’s time we acknowledge the Topless Agenda’s newest member and a person whose brilliance will very likely change the fate of the world. To Farid Ardeshir, the father of cold fusion, and, more importantly, a good man and a good friend,” I said.

  Everyone clinked glasses and sipped champagne, and soon the quiet rumble of voices filled the room. Waiters appeared with trays of tapas, and it was feeling very much like my first meeting with this group back in Majorca—minus, of course, the topless waiters and waitresses. The party was in full swing, and people talked, laughed, and eventually the great spark of human interaction overshadowed the earlier part of the day’s averted tragedy. Farid and I talked, ate, and finally enjoyed a moment together where we weren’t on the run, being shot at, or jumping out of an airplane. A waiter appeared and gave us both a refill, then Farid clinked his glass to mine.

  “Dude, I can finally say without a doubt that it is seriously awesome hanging out with you again,” he said.

  “Dude, the feeling is mutual.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Real Homecoming

  I AWOKE AROUND eight a.m., and, having visited at least ten countries in three weeks, had to take a minute to look around the room before deciding that I was indeed in my own bed. I’d arrived home a little after ten in the evening the previous night and stayed awake only long enough to down a glass of Soft Taco Island Rum before brushing my teeth and going straight to bed.

  Morning was here, so it was time to face the day ahead, and I stood up and ambled across the floor with my body feeling beat and making audible creaking sounds as I entered my bathroom and brushed my teeth. Feeling minty fresh, I went downstairs and started the coffee machine, and, a minute later, I interrupted it’s pour to fill my cup. Next, I used the backup carton of almond milk as creamer then had a seat at my breakfast table and took my beloved first sip of coffee. The warm liquid soothed my soul and awakened my mind as I gazed out at Richardson Bay to see that the day was beautiful, clear, and free of the usual fog. It was actually hard to believe that I was home, as my mind was still filled with images of my whirlwind trip across the Middle East and Europe. It had been a pretty fucking exciting time, but I was happy to be here at my humble breakfast table. I took another sip of coffee and suddenly felt a familiar pressure in my lower abdomen that inspired me to stand up and make my way to the bathroom, where I gazed fondly at my porcelain mistress.

  “I’ve missed you, my dear, but I’m back,” I said, dropping my pants and lowering my backside onto the cool plastic contoured seat.

  I opened my book to my toilet paper bookmark, took another sip of coffee, then gave my fecal offering unto the bowl—thus losing myself to the quiet comfort of my porcelain kingdom. Sure, I was happy at the moment, but I would have been a hell of a lot happier with the right company—namely Estelle. She was a subject that I was desperately trying to avoid, and just recalling her name was enough to bring a twinge of pain to my heart. I glanced at my phone and for once actually kind of wished it would ring and interrupt my special time—assuming that call was from Estelle, but, that was a mere fantasy, for she was most likely off with her new husband. Oh well. I finished up and headed upstairs and stepped into the shower to wash away a week’s worth of adventure, and, five minutes later, I emerged clean and perhaps a little melancholy. I dressed and went back down to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee, and, just as I was adding the almond milk, heard a knock at the door. Who in the hell could that be? If I were lucky, it would be my neighbor Joyce with a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or blueberry muffins. I padded down the hall, opened the door, and there to my surprise, was Estelle, looking radiantly beautiful in the morning sun with her eyes aglow and her mouth forming one of the most welcoming smiles I had ever seen.

  “Good morning. How was your wedding?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  Well shit, this morning was suddenly looking a bit brighter.

  “What brings you by?” I asked.

  “I’m here to see if I need to make good on the promise I made when we last parted.”

  “What promise?”

  “You know—the one where I promised to give you the most amazing blowjob you could ever imagine if I did indeed bring about some kind of catastrophic event when I interrupted you on the toilet.”

  “Oh yeah, that promise, well you’ll be surprised to learn that, shortly thereafter, the jet I was flying on lost power and had to make an emergency landing, but I survived obviously,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” I said, finding myself smiling uncontrollably from ear to ear as a healthy rush of blood began making its way to my happy place.

  “Well, a promise is a promise.”

  We both stood there smiling stupidly at each other until a thought crossed my mind.

  “I must say, I’m a little surprised you didn’t call first,” I said.

  “I didn’t want to ruin your special time.”

  “Estelle, you could never ruin my special time.”

  “You know, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, and we shared a long hard, passionate kiss. This was definitely looking to be the beginning of a perfect day, and, holding Estelle, my thoughts returned to my earlier musings on the subject of happiness. It really does indeed come from the simple things in life—whether that’s family, good friends, good health, or, in this instance, the woman you love showing up on your doorstep unmarried and, more importantly, after your morning movement.

  Thank you for taking the time to read Gordita Conspiracy. 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

  Mr. Pickles.

  Tag Finn’s obese feline neighbor, Mr. Pickles, has the inexplicably odd habit of attracting trouble, and Finn, having already had to rescue the portly pet three months earlier, is shocked to discover three armed Chinese men attempting a dastardly catnapping. Thwarting their efforts, he and his neighbor Joyce take the troublesome tub of love to the vet to get him microchipped, and they learn that Pickles already has a chip in his neck. But, it’s not the kind found in pets, and instead, is filled with top secret guidance software originating from a Silicone Valley defense contractor.

  Finn sets out to uncover Pickle’s unlikely role in this web of international espionage and finds himself embroiled in a deadly game of cat and mouse with a Chinese spy ring and the very beautiful and potentially deadly Cherry Poppins. Utilizing every ounce of his keen mind and unique skills, he faces danger, intrigue, and wild erotic escapades as he unravels the very dramatic tale of Mr. Pickles.

  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 wit
h 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, 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 butt hole?”

  “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 t
he 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, distribution, 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.