Creatures

By Michael D'Agostino and Danny D'Agostino

"Creatures," is an action-filled Sci-Fi Comedy Thriller.  Adapted from Danny D'Agostino's acclaimed audio book, "Creatures" has been updated as a novel with a wealth of new comedy and action to excite and titillate the reader.  See several reviews of the audio book below.

Stan and Leroy Hangjab, two street-wise detectives from the Southside of Chicago, and the precocious 14 year old Richard T. McCormick the 4th, rescue the City of Chicago from the clutches of the evil DNA genius, Dr. Franklin Norman Stein and his mutant humanoid creatures.  Pandemonium and chaos break out when Stein's ferocious creatures threaten the fate of the entire the city of Chicago. 

Stan, narrating the action at Police Headquarters:  "The place was in pandemonium:  cops criss-crossing the office, bumping into each other like a pinball machine.  All the phones were ringing.  As we entered the Chief's office, he was on the phone with the mayor, who was screaming, 'I want this situation turned 360 degrees around!  You hear me?!'" 

I yelled "Chief!"  Maybe I spoke too loud at the wrong moment, 'cause the Chief spilled his milk on his bobbing duck, and his right eye began twitching.  And before we could get in a word, the Chief got a little huffy.

"I know what happened!  Things were all right around here until you two characters showed up.  Now I got trouble with a capital 'H' for Hangjab!" 

He reached for two bottles of pills - one for his blood pressure and one for his ulcers.  "Where's my Tums Ultra?!" he yelled.  "Who took my Tums Ultra pills?!" "They're in your hands, Chief," I answered.

And the Chinese pols from Chinatown were none too happy either:  "Nobody in this room know nothing!  Get better advice from a dog!"

Reviews:

"Superbly produced, bluntly humorous, outstandingly written."

-Midwest Book Review

"Outrageousness, hard-boiled detective fiction, hardy series of guffaws can cloud your vision."

-Rich Gotshall, Indianapolis Star

"Fantastic.  I was astounded."

-Thomas Fortenberry, Charlotte, N C

"A wonderful mixture of comedy and science fiction."

-Harold McFarland, Readers Preference Reviews

"Kudos to Danny D'Agostino."

-Anthony Buccino, Reviewer/Writer, Nutley, New Jersey

Stan and Leroy's Uncle Ed, depressed and in bed:  "You know what my boss told me, Stan?  The people in Berwyn think they are so special.  A quarter pounder isn't good enough for them.  They gotta have a third of a pound burger, plus mushrooms.  Maybe I shouldn't move to Berwyn.  Who needs that?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael and Danny D'Agostino
• Release date: Apr 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533772657

Book preview

cover.jpg

Adapted from the acclaimed audio book, Creatures the novel has an abundance of new material to rouse the funny bone and imagination of readers.   Creatures, the audio book  won praise from these reviewers:

Superbly produced, bluntly humorous, outstandingly written.

-Midwest Book Review

Outrageousness, hard-boiled detective fiction, hardy series of guffaws can cloud your vision.

-Rich Gotshall, Indianapolis Star

Fantastic.  I was astounded.

-Thomas Fortenberry, Charlotte, N C

A wonderful mixture of comedy and science fiction.

-Harold McFarland, Readers Preference Reviews

Kudos to Danny D'Agostino.

-Anthony Buccino, Reviewer/Writer, Nutley, New Jersey

OTHER COMEDY NOVELS BY

 MICHAEL AND DANNY D'AGOSTINO

Robobro - Urban Warrior

Lenny

The Dollar Store Lady - Bad Blood!!

Back To Sovietsky (coming soon)

Mister Mars (coming soon)

C R E A T U R E S

MICHAEL and DANNY D'AGOSTINO

Copyright 2016 by Michael and Danny D'Agostino

All rights reserved.  This book remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be copied and/or redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.  If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.  Thank you for reading this book and for your support.

Cover Art by Olga Kosheleva

CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

About Michael and Danny D'Agostino

About Robobro - Urban Warrior

About Lenny

About The Dollar Store Lady - Bad Blood

CHAPTER I

I'm Stan Hangjab, former wheelies ace of the South Side of Chicago.  Back in the old days, I used to do wheelies on Lakeshore Drive during the rush hour, on my custom-built Harley.  My Knucklehead chopper was a special deal, man; complete with 2 foot gorilla handlebars, a 4 foot sissy bar, and custom drag pipes.  I took off the factory exhaust and replaced it with a set of growler drag pipes, which I then cut off.  They were a bit loud, but I didn't care.  So what if the neighbors zipped the finger at me when I drove by.  What the heck.  I enjoyed being the talk of the neighborhood.  And I didn't have to worry about the cops neither.  Half of those dudes were ridin' around on hogs during their off hours. 

Those days were a kick.  They used to call me Crazy Stan.  I'd do anything to impress the girls. . . . I admit it.  I was a maniac then.  But, things change.  People change.  Now my Harleys are sittin' in the garage, under in a pile of dust 'cause I got no time.  Now, I'm a private dick.

I'm also Dean of the United States Detectives Schools, which is a division of the Amalgamated Detectives Association LLC, which is a division of the Hangjab Detective Agency Inc., all of which I proudly co-own with my bro, Leroy.  

The story I'm about to tell began to unfold on 8-18-08.  We were up on the 8th floor in our offices at 8 North Wabash in Chicago.  Our office was a little dingy affair.  The paint was fallin' off the walls.  But that was okay, as long as it didn't get in our food or on our picture of our mentor and idol, Sir Shylock Holmes, as we called him.  Shylock got us started in the detective bizz.  See, he was a Pakistani dude who emigrated to the South Side in the 80's.  As soon as he stepped off the plane onto U.S. territory, he went gaga over hip hop music and decided to become a rapper.  For six months, Shylock rehearsed his rap in his basement with the passion of a true artist.  Then he put his first music video on Youtube and got savaged by commenters and critics.  They said he sounded like a customer service rep from Pakistan; no one could understand his brand of English.  So deep-six the rapping career.  But failure didn't deter Shylock.  With great gusto, he poured all his energies into his next venture, a detective agency, in back of the convenience store where he worked.  In just 3 years, he became one of  the top private dicks in all Chicago.  You had to wait two weeks just to get an appointment with him.  I met him while on my route, delivering bread to the store, my former career. 

Our painting of Shylock in our office is a gas; looking ever-so distinguished, he's decked out in his trademark gold jewelry, spectacular chains hanging from his neck, four gold rings, and a sharp fedora.  Unfortunately one day, one of Shylock's gold teeth fell out and he accidentally swallowed it, choked and died - too bad.  But before his demise, Shylock taught us everything we know about the detective game.  We will always honor his name.

Getting back to the story: I was doin' an 808: throwin' spitballs in the can.  And coincidentally, I was watchin' the pigeons do their number on our office window, which bugs me, 'cause they do that all the time.

As I remember, Lee was on our speaker-phone discussin' financial matters with Mr. Compassion, the landlord, the delight of our life.

Our landlord growled, You owe me three months back rent!  I ain't runnin' a charity here!  I want the Dean of the United States Schools!  Put him on the phone right now!

Respectfully, Lee responded, You say you want the Dean of the United States Detectives Schools?

Yeah!

He ain't here.

 I don't believe that hooey!  Give me the President of the Amalgamated Detectives Association!

Lee replied, You want the President of Amalgamated Detectives? . . . Out to lunch.

You're giving me the runaround!  I want to talk to the Hangjab Brothers!  You owe me money!

Oh . . . now you want one of the Hangjab Brothers. . . . No.  No.  They're gone.

Where did they go?

Don't know.

Mr. Compassion yelled, You tell them I'm gonna take them to court if they don't pay up!  I'm gonna turn off the heat if I don't get my money!

Hey pal, don't get mad.  I'm only the window washer around here, responded my bro.  Can't help ya.

Now his head busted open.  He started barking.  I'm hiring the biggest lawyer in this city!  You don't know who you're dealing with!  I'm gonna-

Plunk! . . . Leroy hung up.

He doesn't know when to quit, I said.

The nerve of that dude, Lee quipped.  Like every month he wants a check for this hole . . . which reminds me.  Let's go over the books for this month.  Get the books.

Right-o.  But first I got to get the pigeons.

So I opened up our 85 year old crusty window.  Immediately the sound of jackhammers, cars, trucks and buses, and the damn pigeons, hit me.  Their pigeon poo was all over our window ledge.  They were making a city dump out of it.  So I started waving my hands and yelling.

Shoo!  Shoo!  Get out of here!  Git!  Amscray!

My bro, shouted, Hey what are you doin'?  Close the window! . . . Stan!  I can't think.  Close the window!

The squawking beasts finally flew away.  I shut the window.

Sorry Lee.  They're a nuisance.

Next, I went to the john whereupon I proceeded to open the safe.  It was a two-ton job.  They couldn't move it.  So they built the john around it.  Clever.  I twiddled the combination, whacked the lever with a two by four, and the lock released with a pop.  The monster-thick door then creaked open.  I grabbed our accounting book and closed the beast.  Opening up the book on my desk, we went over the figures for July.  Page two:

"Hangjab Detective Agency, Inc. 

Receipts for July: Cash in:  $10.25

Ten bucks for finding Mrs. Hobson's dog, Nathan, and twenty-five cents for rescuing little Danny Lopez from his tree house, for the third time.

Cash out:  $75.00 - for burgers at McDonalds.

NET PROFIT:  minus $64.75"

I looked at Leroy.

Maybe we should cancel our ad in the Enquirer.

For what, he replied.  We're losin' less money than Sears and Radio Shack combined.  And we're in a better tax bracket.  Who knows?  By next year, both of them could be out of business.

You're right, I said.  I gotta keep my Sears wings tips.  They could be a collector's item someday.

Hey, they're already a collector's item.  Only you wear wing tips.

Don't criticize my wing tips, Lee.  I love my wing tips.

At that point Lee asked, How much we got for eats?  Check petty cash.

I walked back to the john and reached into the toilet bowl tank, into the water, for our cash box.  Returning to my desk, I unlocked it, turned it upside down and . . . out came two bolts and a quarter.  We groaned in duo, after which my bro deduced:

Looks like we dine at the beautiful Pacific Garden Mission, again.

Yuck, I uttered.

Suddenly the phone rang. 

A client! Lee blurted out. 

Instantly, I picked it up.

Yeah?

A panicky voice responded, Stanley!  Leroy!  You gotta come and help me right away!  Trouble!  I'm in trouble!

I couldn't make out who it was.  The party was obviously distressed.  Immediately, I put the person on speaker-phone.  His voice was distorted.  All kinds of commotion were raging in the background.  He continued rambling.

Indiana Dunes!  Indiana Dunes!  Help!

Sir! I replied.  We want to help, but we can't understand you.  You'll have to speak slower.  Then I heard:

Get away from me!  Get away from me!  Stanley!

He had us totally confused.  But suddenly, I recognized the voice.  I yelled to Lee.

Uncle Ed!  It's Uncle Ed!  I was getting frightened.  What is it?  What's the problem, unc?

He cut us off.  He wouldn't calm down.  So I picked up the receiver, welded it to my ear and tried to catch the crux of the problem.  Then I was shocked.

Attacked?!  You're being attacked?  What is it?  Who is it?  Uncle Ed!  Uncle Ed!

I could hear him scuffling frantically as he tried to answer me.  Then he screamed.  Then there was . . . nothing.  Then I heard another terrifying scream.  And again, a queer silence. 

Uncle Ed!  Uncle Ed! I yelled.

Lee responded in frustration:  Give me the phone!  Give it to me!

I clicked the phone at least five more times.

It's no use.  The line is dead!  We're cut off!  I paused and looked at Lee.  Trouble, with a capital 'T.' 

Where?

The Indiana Dunes.

Lee's face turned cold hard.  He thought for a second, then said, Get your rod.

And my ammo?

. . . Yeah.

Wasting little time, Lee unlocked his desk drawer, took out his snub-nosed revolver, checked the trigger, the barrel, the sight, then loaded six rounds, flipped the barrel closed, and slid it into his side-holster.

I did same.  I opened my drawer.  It was stuffed with fifteen junk pistols and parts.  Not seeing a whole weapon, I quickly reached into the back and pulled out a twenty-two.  I inspected the muzzle, the trigger, the sight, flipped the barrel open, and she fell apart into five pieces, which dropped to the floor.  Instantly, I kicked the parts under my desk, then stuck my hand real far into the drawer and pulled out my favorite heater - a 44 Clint Eastwood magnum with a 15 inch muzzle - my C.E. Superspecial.  I got this torch on the street one night on the South Side, from a glazed-eyed dude who was stiffed out in the gutter. . . . I conducted a speedy checkout of the pistol, jammed it into my holster, and left the office with Lee.

We ran down the eight flights of stairs and into the alley to our '87 Chevy hearse, our trusty beater; old, but she still purrs.  Luckily, she started right away.  My bro tromped on the gas.  She lurched forward, picking up speed.  Then the door fell off.  No problem.  We screeched to a halt.  I put the door back on, and we sped away, headed for Indiana, determined to do anything to save our uncle from harm's way.  For Uncle Ed, there isn't a person or thing on this earth that could threaten his life without a swift and forceful response from the Hangjab Detective Agency. 

We smoked it all the way to Indiana, peeling rubber through every turn.  We took the Indiana Skyway and every short-cut we could think of.  Twenty-six minutes later:  Our vehicle entered the gates of the Indiana Dunes State Park.  Lee stayed on the main road until we came to a narrow, sandy trail.

Follow it!  I barked.

The dirt road led to a more remote area of the park, which I suspected to be the location of our uncle's campsite, and the possible scene of the trouble. . . . I was right.  A couple of hundred yards down the trail, I spotted it. 

Over there!  Over there!

In the distance, I recognized the top of Uncle Ed's RV.  It was parked in a secluded area, bounded by fifty-foot dunes.  We drove as close as we could, and got out.

As soon as I stepped out of the car I got this real uneasy feeling. . . .

The wind is too rough for this time of year.  I know this place, I thought aloud.  I've been here before.  The wind is hopped up. 

Lee agreed.  The wind was blowing in gusts, kicking up a lot of sand twisters.  Those suckers looked mean.  I didn't like it.

C'mon! Lee yelled.

Fighting the twisters, and swiping sand from