The Search for Reasons formerly named The Coincidences of Kyle. (part 1) Kyle goes on an adventure all across the country on a fact finding mission. He searches for information that may help his friend, and solve a 65 year old mystery. It is filled with action and romance that is combined with a little touch of comedy. It is also filled with so many facts that make the story almost believable.
Michael also completed a SCREENPLAY for
"The Search for Reasons" in July of 2010.
Kyle's Army, (part 2) Kyle is living a normal life until one day his mom receives a birthday card. It pulls him into another quest that leads him back into the world of government espionage and secrets. He recalls his old Special Ops unit to go on a rescue mission. His friend is hunted down and captured by a secret organization based in Washington DC. In the meantime he discovers the people of this country are being manipulated into thinking the government follows its own laws.
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Michael has completed Dominance. It is based on the continuing adventures of Kyle Jameson. He is forced to search for clues that eventually leads him and his old unit back into active duty to prevent an international incident from occurring.
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Excerpt of Kyle's Army are on the "About the author" page.
Profiling or Prejudice is a mini-novel Michael enjoyed writing. It involves two black college graduates who are best friends that had to move back home thanks to the recession. They are faced (mostly Tyrone) with different situations that involves numerous accounts of profiling, labeling, and various forms of prejudice.
Excerpt from Dominance
I’m going to ask you three questions, and I’m going to asked them only one time,” Agent Ford said in a threatening tone. “If I don’t like what I hear, you’re not leaving this room standing up. Do you understand?” Mr. Fonsworth looked almost confused at first, then it turned into fear. He couldn’t sit still in his chair as he hesitated to speak. “Yes…sir, I…I understand,” Mr. Fonsworth said stuttering and staring at the ceiling camera then toward the mirror knowing someone else was watching. Agent Ford stood up, walked around the table, and leaned in close to him. “Where did you take the child?” “I…what child?” Agent Ford pulled back his closed fist and punched him in the neck at full force causing him to choke and fall sideways onto the floor. “I’m still waiting for the right answer?” For a few seconds, Mr. Fonsworth struggled to catch his breath. He just laid on the floor and gasp for air as he held his neck. “I drove the baby,” he said coughing. “To a address…address that was already in the GPS.” “What was the address?” “I don’t remember—I swear,” he said speaking harshly. “I can’t read too good, but I do remember it was somewhere in New York. I followed the turn arrows on the display and when I reached the house, I placed the baby on the doorsteps and rang the door bell.” Agent Ford leaned down toward Mr. Fonsworth who struggled to get back into his chair. He then stood straight up with his arms crossed, giving him an angry stare. “Where’s the GPS unit?” he asked. “It wasn’t in the Explorer.” “I was told to throw it off the George Washington Bridge when I passed over it,” Mr. Fonsworth said nervously. “Look man, I was given a thousand dollars and a card with instructions from a man in a black suit. I had just got out of jail and needed the money.” “What did the card say?” “It said where to pick up the car, and when to be at the hospital. I had to inform Miss Putroski she had to fly to L.A. and I would be paid two thousand dollars more, after I delivered the child.” “I have one more question and you better tell the truth,” said Agent Ford. “Do you think I believe your story?” “Yeah.” “Wrong answer.” Agent Ford raised his leg and kicked him at full force in his chest, causing him and the chair to fall backwards. Mr. Fonsworth moaned in pain as he tried to catch his breath again. “Where’s the navigation unit?” “I pawned it,” he said in agony. “Where?” “Easy-Pawn on 14th Street.” “Now, don’t you feel better for telling the truth?” asked Agent Ford as he turned to leave the interrogation room. “No…I feel like shit.”
Prejudice or Profiling
“Let’s check out the video game store.”
“If we go in there,” said Jeff. “We’ll be considered as nerds.”
“Not all nerds go into video game stores.”
“Only the ones that stay in there five hours,” Jeff said before quickly gulping his icy cold diet Coke. “We’re leaving in four.”
“You need help,” stated Tyrone. “Possibly a psychiatrist.”
“You did this to me,” Jeff said pulling his empty drink away from his mouth. “You’re the racist profiling bigot that has abused my mind since the ninth grade, filling it with unethical and demoralizing anecdotes based on a precursor of unrelated and unproven facts fabricated in the frontal lobes of your Neolithic, post Neanderthal mind.”
“Now that was the nerdiest thing you’ve said all year,” Tyrone said getting up and throwing his plate away. “When did you get a Ph.D in psychology?”
“Just a minute ago, when this turtle head, dick shrinking brain-freeze attacked my skull.”
“Absolutely no doubt, you need some loven from one of those skanky grenade’s from Jersey.”
“I’d rather fuck a HIV positive, transvestite prostitute from the red-light district of Queens that has numerous cold-sores compounded with a scorching case of incurable syphilis.”
“I see…so you want to commit suicide, not to mention have a love affair with another man.”
“I was only joking.”
“Sure…you were,” said Tyrone walking ahead while staring at a beautiful skinny white girl.
“Don’t look too hard,” said Jeff. “She’s not your type.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
“Black men are usually seen with a 300 pound white woman carrying a baby with two mixed kids trailing behind them.”
“She’s not big enough for you.”
“Don’t you think maybe having those kids caused her to gain weight?” asked Tyrone.
“Fat white women, can’t find a white man who’s faithful, so they turn to the next best thing,” said Jeff. “A black man that’ll fuck anything.”
“Your mother isn’t fat.”
“She had Jungle Fever after watching that old Wesley Snipes movie,” said Jeff. “Come to think of it, my dad does look like him.”
At the customs desk, Jaree was pulled to the side and questioned repeatedly about a discrepancy in his passport. He was then escorted to a secluded room as his family was allowed to enter the country. The room was dim with a table and two chairs on each side of it. He quietly sat in one of the chairs for ten minutes, and then heard a female’s scratchy voice through the right-side wall. It was a seventy-year old Arab woman telling customs, she didn’t put the Israeli made Jericho 941, Desert Eagle pistol up her vagina.
“I’m too old,” she said with a crackling voice. “Why would I put that thing up there?”
“Maybe to hi-jack a plane,” said a man’s voice.
“I’m traveling alone…to visit my son in Washington DC,” she said nervously. “Who’s going to pull it out…I can’t.”
“Tel Aviv has x-ray machines too,” said another voice Jaree thought was a customs agent, “So how did you get it pass Israeli security?”
“I bet you…those bastards shoved it up there?”
“We’re not playing games,” shouted the other agent. Jaree began to smile. “You better stop the lies old woman…you know how it got up there.” The other agent then whispered into his partner ear.
“Have the Feds take her downtown and book her for conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.”
“The gun is still up there,” said the other agent almost gagging. “I’m not getting it out…I had a big lunch.” The other agent made a cell phone call.
“The chief said, either lube up your left hand or take her to the hospital under police escort.”
“I’ll take her to Grady Hospital,” said the agent helping the old handcuffed Muslim woman out of the chair. “They can handle shocking shit like this.” Jaree giggled and then heard a different set of footsteps heading toward his room door. He became extremely nervous as the door slowly swung open. A tall white male in a black suit walked in while looking carefully at Jaree’s passport.
“Are you Jaree Steva Nabim?” asked the agent.
“Yes…I mean no,” Jaree said nervously. “My name is…who are you?”
“I’m Agent Fuller from the FBI…is it yes or is it no?”
“My middle name is not Steva…it’s Steven.”
“You were born in India…so why would you have the name of a European white male?”
“It was the name of a British soldier that saved my grandfather’s life against the Nazi’s in Burma,” Jaree said nervously. “My grandfather’s dying wish was…that every child in our lineage, have his name.”
Agent Fuller then handed him his passport and turned to leave. “Thanks for clearing that up…you’re free to go. Your wife and kids are waiting for you at baggage claim.”
Jaree reached baggage claim ten minutes later and ran to his wife, giving her a long hug. She became worried and then asked. “Did they stick a hand up your ass?”