Showing results by author "Bill Ciccotti" in All Categories

This is the story of four GIs in one tank, cut off behind German lines during WWII. They fight to stay alive and remain human during the carnage of war.

Twenty years ago, an east coast mobster killed a connected hood. He took off with the mobster’s wife and the dead guy’s stash. The mob has been searching for him for years. And they came to the bad lands of Montana with an ax to grind.

Death at the Rodeo. There's a serial killer on the loose. He's hacking up Rodeo Cowboys with a vengeance. Cowboys and Indians, escape convicts, bar fights galore. Hell, there's even a kidnapped Indian girl thrown into the mix. Death stalks the rodeo and only a wild west Marshal can stop it. Saddle up for a hell of a ride, partners. Hold on tight, the action is about to commence. Everything in life will kill you. Choose something fun.

A speckled box tortoise finished its labored crossing of a rutted and shabby highway. A thin jackrabbit watched the reptile while rubbing its nose with a wrinkled forepaw. In the shadows, a rattlesnake watched both while deciding what it wanted to have for breakfast. And, the car rolled along. The sun drifted sluggishly over tall spiny cactus and haphazardly strung boulders. Blue skies. No problems? That relentless, molten sun beat down upon the weathered and cracked blacktop.

Tina, Biker’s Coffee, whatever you call it, it’s just as deadly. Crystal Meth. The heartbreaker, life taker, home wrecker - it was hitting the Jersey Shore. Tina had come to town with her kiss of death. The Don wanted us to stop them. We had to finish this. The Don was sending his top man, Johnny Koman, down. But we needed one more guy on this hell ride. A tough bulldog bastard. We needed Sal Bandino. Wise Guys versus Biker Madmen. Hell was coming to the Jersey Shore, and it was up to us to stop it. Two to the back of the head and all.

The desert can kill you in many ways. And all of them, are permeant. The Sahara Desert, desolate, inhospitable, and deadly. In Morocco, the Sultan holds nominal power. The real power resided in the arms of the French army. The Foreign Legion. But not everyone was happy. A bandit warlord wanted the French out and massacred in whole. There were many evil brigands who sought chaos for their own depraved reasons. Yet, in that turbulent area, the magnificent French Foreign Legion shone brightly.

Death is the inevitable end to all of us. Or is it? Perhaps, not everyone dies. Some come back from the dead. Over. And over. And over again. Just ask Juan Baltasar de Cristóbal la Roja. For he, like Gaius Longinus, the Roman Centurion, walks the Earth eternal. But Juan dances at the Reapers fickle demand. He has been cursed into becoming a plaything for El Muerto. These are the stories of a tortured man who the Reaper has decided to pay with before feasting on him. A came of eternal chess if you will. Ebb and flow of conflict and chaos. No rules, no goals, no victory.

A casual trip to Puerto Rico. Fun, sun, and hot senoritas. What could possibly go wrong? Everything. A Spanish Don gets whacked. We get blamed for it. The cops, the mob, and even the cigar lady over on Esmeralda Avenue are out to kill us. We barely escape from the El Conquistador hotel with the cloths on our back. Wet bathing suits, no less. We’re not alter boys. I mean, we’ve left a few bloodstains on the wall. But we had no part in this tropical execution. But come hell or high water, we were going to even the score.

Dangerous men tread the pathways of the underworld. Tough men. Wise guys. Killers and guys like us. The law is black and white. The boys, well, we live in the grey. Night was beginning to fall along the Florida Keys. A classic cobalt black El Dorado glided smoothly along those grey twilight roads. On that tranquil, pleasant evening, danger was stalking Shangri-La.

Presented for your approval is a collection of mob stories with a touch of lime. Florida crime tales of muscle, mayhem, and misadventure....

A mob hit gone perfectly. Except for that one witness. Now, the killers have to track down and eliminate that witness before their elaborate plans fall all apart. But this witness has connections of his one. Old ones, but nonetheless, dangerous ones. Connections of the most dangerous kind who are never to be trifled with. For you see, this witness has a knack of surviving in the dangers of the shadow world. He didn't get to be 68 by luck alone.

What if the King never died? Imagine the stress and pressure of being Elvis Presley. Suppose he faked his death to get away from the rat race and just chill out the remainder of his star-studded life. Where would he go to hide away? What would he do with all that new free time? That new freedom of doing anything he wanted. Walking down any street and nobody jumping all over him. Picture a man, a living legend if you will, who everyone thought was dead. Where would he go? Key West, baby. What would a great singer who had a voice from heaven do? He would impersonate himself.

We were the tip of the spear, until we got too old for combat. Then we went private. Yeah, we’re older and slowing down a bit. But we’re still deadly. They took one of our family’s father. Kidnapped him, and that was a bad mistake. We work for money. But this one was personal. We were going up against the Mexican Cartel, at least a part of it. We were a ragtag handful of vagabond soldiers of fortune. The odds were greatly stacked against us. But some things are worth protecting.

Tracking dogs were unable to find a scent and strangely refuse to track, at all. Still, Major Andrews continued to hike the area meticulously, crisscrossing the backpack discovery site in over 17 passes. A blood-covered parka belonging to Professor Ciccotti was suddenly found in the same area they had searched several times previously.

Life is unpredictable. It can be a funny thing, if you stay alive to laugh. You never know what you'll catch along its twisted journey. Treasure? Trophy fish? A beautiful girl? Misfortune? How about all the above, plus crazed cartel killers and an insane drug lord. Just a simple fishing trip in Key West, gone to hell in the crash of an airplane. Right on top of discovering a sunken treasure. Murphy’s Law gone insane. If we could escape the death squad, rescue the girl, and dig up that treasure, plus avoid the sharks, while cheating the Grim Reaper, we just may have a tale to tell.

Strange tales of things that go bump in the night. Spooky parts of paradise inside the shadow world. Things few people ever see and fewer still live to speak about. Hector De La Montoya. Butcher of Cassena. South American drug cartel mastermind. He killed an entire village where Father Jim was formerly stationed. And then, there’s what’s left of Nicodemus Vaughn, deranged and overmedicated madman who escaped his straitjacket.

I am Mathieu Baptiste or at least what is still left of him. I am Chef de Bataillon, what the British call a Major. But as I walk, horseless through knee deep snow, rank is of no consequence. I started out on a fine ebony stallion commanding the 1st Squadron or the 1st "Elite". We rode on the blacks, 5th company on browns and blacks. But none of us ride now. All the horses are long gone in the army of Little Boney, Napoleon Bonaparte. We are on foot from now on. This is the story of a small French Calvary unit walking in retreat back out of Russia.

Old men. Perhaps outdated men. But, definitely not, men ready for the junkyard. Not by a long shot. Old but far from broken. Men with fire and zest for life. Dangerous, tough, unyielding wise guys. Mob hitmen, some who still have a soul. Fine food and great memories. Dinner with the mob. A real suppertime serenade. Put a bunch of older wise guys in a room with pasta, booze, and cigars, then watch the stories flow. Golden memories of murder and mayhem. Some memories that the Feds got. But most that Omerta never revealed. Sit back, relax.

War is hell, and hell is for heroes. Blood and fear and death mix in the devil’s stew. Sweat and destruction tries to drown you in the broth. The smell of Satan’s cooking chokes you in feverish brimstone. The sound of demonic fury deafens you. The carnage nauseates you. But you keep walking forward one step at a time. One bullet at a time. You never dare to stop advancing. Because, if you do, you become blood on the ground, and you won't get back up.

New Orleans bar fights with the wrong guys. Louisiana penal chain gang blues. Key West misfits. How can doing something right go so tragically wrong? Falsely accused, railroaded and thrown into the swamps of Louisiana on a life sentence of malaria misery. Yeah, we escaped. But that was just the start of our chain of fools adventure.