ARE YOU READY?
It’s time to argol-bargol with the Neuferatu.This isn't just about the music, my coves, this is a lifestyle beamed directly to your soul. This is a rock-and-roll space-opera and a mythical journey through occultism and noise-punk, with the narrative drive of a beat generation road movie, mixed with extreme action and camp anarchy. It's not about getting whatever kind of cool that the streams tell you about, it's about the coolest fcking cool in the universe. Hunter Moriarty was once the lead singer of the Coolest Fcking Cool; an all-girl rock band and undercover group of bounty hunters. With her lover and band mate, Huxley Valentino, she would rock stadiums and fight psychic vampires, until it all went wrong. Now, she is in hiding, trying to recover from the breakup of the band and mourning the loss of her love, with Hux, the belligerent reconstruction of her ex-lover’s mind, housed in a shapeshifting, sentient gun.
After Hux is kidnapped, Hunter will have to face up to her nemesis; a psychic culture vampire leading a cult of anarchists. She will reconcile love, grief, fandom and friendship to prevent the cult from using her fame to destroy everything she holds dear.
She may even need to get the band back together.
Paperback: mybook.to/coolest-fcking-cool
Kindle: mybook.to/cfc-kindle
"Yat, ni, sam, say! Ein, zwei, drei, vier! Let's go, are you ready!? Let's go! Let's go! Ikou! Junbi wa dekita ka!"
Hunter Moriarty stood at the edge of the stage, leaning into the false gravity that kept her fixed to the ceiling, and shouted until sweat and spit dropped away from her.
They called it the Edge because it was as far away from civilised Avalon as you could get and still make money. A worker's clubhouse on a terraforming orbital; the edge of society, the edge of a living. Hunter Moriarty had blagged a spot at the Up-side-down stage to try out her new sound, something on the edge of acceptable music, telling them it would fit right in. Mr Wilde didn't have a choice when the local Watchman asked, so that night H-Bomb and the Quinn Jets were booked under the condition that no-one got paid and no advertising took place.
Bare-chested, she screamed the final vowels, laughing at her own enthusiasm for noise. Pushing her fingers through the matted and rigid swirl of bright red hair, with her hands gloved in black fingerless sniper-leather, her neck wrapped in skull gold necklaces and electric dead-head beads, her skinny legs in tight black reprojeans terminating in loose black Isolar boots, she looked every bit the skeletal warning against her own act.