The Schlichter Arena
Comedy • Politics • Writing
Kurt Schlichter curates The Schlichter Arena, a community of people who like to hug and share feelings to lull their enemies into false feeling of safety before going off like a 50 megaton nuke. This is The Schlichter Arena.
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A PREVIEW OF OVERLORD!

Hey, how about an exclusive excerpt from OVERLORD, the 8th Kelly Turnbull PEOPLE's REPUBLIC novel, coming this fall?

Here, Kelly preps for a mission!

Ernie Smith let Turnbull in through the back door of the facility, a sterile and generic office building on the outskirts of Dallas. It was not that Turnbull could not have walked in the front door with his ID. It was that Turnbull did not want to. There was the possibility that someone would attempt to take the place of Clay Deeds and presume to order him about and Turnbull preferred not to have to kick some schmuck’s ass all over the spy org’s headquarters.
He had his mission already.
“You got that focused look,” Ernie said as they walked down the linoleum-lined hallway under the flickering fluorescent lights.
“Oh, I’m focused,” Turnbull assured him.
“Word is that Deeds got taken,” Smith said as he stopped at the door of the armory and swiped his key card. The metal door’s locking mechanism clacked, and he pushed through. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re heading into the blue.”
“For a guy no one is supposed to know exists, everyone seems to know Clay,” Turnbull said.
“He’s a player at the highest levels,” Smith observed, walking inside. “Or was. You think he’s alive somewhere in the People’s Republic?”
“I know he is,” Turnbull replied, following Smith through. “They told me.”
“They?”
“Clay is bait.”
“Which you’re taking.”
“I have a plan.”
“So, you’re going to go on a massive killing spree to get him back.”
“That’s the plan.”
“That’s always your plan.”
Smith pushed the door shut. The lock engaged.
The armory was actually rows and rows of weapons of all types and sizes and calibers/gauges.
“Looks like The Matrix in here, Ernie. I like it.”
“You said you needed guns, lots of guns. Well, I got lots of guns.”
“Excellent.” Turnbull smiled like a fat boy in a Cheetos factory.

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