Spite, Spark Plugs, and "Family" Bullshit.|

Welcome back to the Monday Morning Madness. If you’re reading this, congratulations—you survived another weekend without accidentally joining a cult or eating a Tide Pod. Unless you're Boston. JEE-ZUS! What the fuck?! How the hell do you blow a 3-1 lead? Orlando, I can understand. It's Orlando. But come on.

Whatever. I'm not a sports journalist. I'm not even a writer; I just play one on the internet for legal purposes.

You guys like how I opened with an out-of-date reference and sports shout-out that only three people will get when I'm actually supposed to be promoting the new book? That happens when you treat the blog post like a hostage negotiation. Or when you're underpaid (thanks a lot Grayson!). I'd tell you it's going to be a productive week, but I don't like lying to people I've never met.

Ah, who am I kidding? It's going to be a great fucking day and an even better week! I'm fueled by spite (Folgers) and not-so-cheap breakfast tacos (Stay Weird, Austin). Let's see how much damage we can do before noon, shall we?

Oh would you look at that?

The new book is out. You're probably wondering why I chose the Day of the Dead photo as the banner instead of this turd in a dress called a book cover?

Does the story take place on Day of the Dead?

No.

But it has the Spurs' cabana colors in the overlay and they made it to round two, so fuck it.

Also, I thought the photo was rad.

Look. We’ve all seen the Fast & Furious movies. You know, the ones where a Honda Civic can somehow outrun a nuclear submarine and Vin Diesel survives a five-hundred-foot fall by landing on the "power of family."

The Street King is... not that.

If Dominic Toretto walked into this book, he’d be crying in a jail cell within three chapters because "family" isn't the foundation. It's greed and backstabbing. That's what gets the people going.

The story follows an FBI agent named Gabriella Hernandez investigating a corrupt Sheriff's Deputy. She ends up chasing "The Kid," a car thief so elusive he’s basically a localized urban legend. Think of it as a high-speed chess match, but instead of wooden pieces, they’re using seven-hundred-horsepower engines and enough narcotics to make a pharmacy blush.

Unlike the movies where they shift gears forty-seven times in a straight line, Grayson Ford actually knows how a transmission works. It’s refreshing. Nobody jumps a Lykan HyperSport between skyscrapers. People actually hit the brakes. I know—it’s disgusting and realistic, but it's what the people want.

If you’re looking for a book where people talk about "respect" and walk away from crashes unscratched, hit the bricks, Dorothy. This isn't for you.

But if you're craving the dysfunctional family drama from Sons of Anarchy, or you want a visceral, "I can smell the acrid blue smoke" crime thriller that feels like Michael Connelly had a baby with a gearhead, then The Street King is your fix.

Grayson Ford might be a hermit, but the man knows how to write a car chase.

Now, go buy the damn book so I can afford some better coffee. Or don't. What do I care?

Focker, out!