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He’s got a scar on his chin, a tattoo on his butt, and everyone is desperate to find this nudist with plenty to hide.
The clock is ticking. Millions are on the line.
The hunt for Jaybird is on!
The frantic quest begins when defrocked financial advisor Jimi Johansen and cat psychic Janis Grack are summoned to the office of blind attorney Sonny Muckle. Janis and Jimi are shocked to learn they are fraternal twins, separated at birth. Sonny is their long-lost uncle; and they all stand to inherit a fortune – but only if they complete a mission: find the twins’ biological father (Jaybird), and return him to Woodstock, where they were conceived.
It won’t be easy. Their newly discovered half-brother – a grown man named LilBuckaroo – isn’t about to let them take his inheritance. Ruthless news reporters are on the trail, too. And so is hook-handed Agent Pete Peebles, recently retired with a nearly perfect record of bringing fugitives to justice. The only one who got away? Jaybird.
Can the twins find their nudist dad and make it to Woodstock in time? Or will the swarm of adversaries keep them from finding fortune – and family?
Deception, misdirection, and oddball characters – including a wigged-out accomplice, a scorned chocoholic, a 103-year-old birthday boy, and a clever cat named Anthony Purrkins – fill this page-turning road trip romp with twists, turns, and mile-a-minute hilarity!
If you like Carl Hiaasen, Christopher Moore, Tim Dorsey, or even Elmore Leonard and Hunter S. Thompson, you’ll love the full-frontal absurdity of Bob Chenoweth and Naked as a Jaybird at the Moon-Your-Mama Bar & Grill!
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“A plot as crazy and twisted as a ride on a Tilt-A-Whirl™ (but with less nausea). NAKED AS A JAYBIRD is hilarious, irreverent, and yet, in the end, a heartwarming tale. Bob Chenoweth is a genius!”
– Tony Perona, author of the Nick Bertetto mystery series and co-author of the Murder on the Bucket List series
“Hilarious journey! A wild, entertaining ride that reminds me of Carl Hiaasen, Hunter S. Thompson, Douglas Adams, and even the Coen and Farrelly Brothers. Enjoyed the hell out of it!”
– Jeff Stanger, humorist and author of The Fungo Society and other Quick Baseball Mysteries
“Absurd. Ridiculous. Funny as hell. And utterly charming. Bob Chenoweth is at the top of his writing game in this irreverent, laugh-out-loud caper.”
– Teri Barnett, Amazon bestselling author (The Oracle Trilogy, Romance is Murder, and more) and award-winning artist
“Epic insanity! It takes balls to write a book like this, and, well, Bob Chenoweth’s nuts! I couldn’t love this book any more even if all the characters were fully clothed!”
– Mark A. Lee, Writer, Historian, and Activist
“Such a hoot! Well-crafted. Beautifully woven. Excellent comedic suspense with one twist after another from a truly twisted writer.”
– Sylvia J. Hyde, Writer and Poet (Living at the Speed of Dark)
“Most writers don’t ‘get’ nudism. Bob Chenoweth gets it – and gets it very right – in this nakedly funny page-turner.”
– Carolyn Hawkins, American Association for Nude Recreation
“Rollicking narrative drive! What a wild ride of creative artistry! It’s sure to be a cult classic.”
– John Clair, Playwright and Writer
“I’ve hooted and laughed at the predicaments these characters find themselves in. What a story! So clever, so twisted, and soooo funny! I’ve never read anything like it.”
– June McCarty Clair, Playwright and Writer
“So cinematic! Quirky characters. Witty dialogue. The laughs come a mile a minute!”
– C. L. Shore, Author of Cherry Blossom Temple, Maiden Murders, and more
“The twists and turns will keep you guessing as you laugh your way through the madcap mayhem.”
– Ramona Henderson, Writer
“Brilliant! I love it! Reminiscent of Tom Robbins, whom I absolutely love.”
– Annie Sever-Dimitri, Animal Communicator
“A fine mystery with … a great twist of an ending! It takes the reader on an ‘uninhibited’ ride into the minds of its screwball cast of charming characters.”
– Angela Gunnell, Poet
Award-Winning Writer and Author
Bob Chenoweth
Bob Chenoweth was born naked, and often returns to the state of undress (near his home in the state of Indiana.) After ghostwriting several books for other people, he finally chose this book to put his name on. Strange man. Ask anyone.
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Here’s an Excerpt:
PROLOGUE — Friday, August 12, 1994
(In Which We Sneak a Peek at What’s to Come)
Tranquility, Florida
The Moon-Your-Mama Bar & Grill (on the Grounds of the Grin and Bare It Family Nudist Campground)
Early evening
The blind man walked into the bar, his white cane arcing and tapping before him.
Sonny was an attorney, 45 years-old, slightly graying, slightly balding, and more than slightly gaunt. He shouldered a tropical beach towel and wore amber-tinted wraparound sunglasses. Otherwise, he was naked except for cheap flip flops and a ribbon of toilet paper trailing the left one.
His niece and nephew – fraternal twins Janis and Jimi – followed him inside. Two decades younger and also nude, they appeared to be polar opposites: the young man dark-haired and self-conscious as he clutched a strategically positioned towel; his sister prematurely gray and animated, gesturing and nudging and marveling. “My first nudie bar!” she cried. “Well, for today, at least.”
“Sit anywhere,” a voice called out from shadows behind the bar. “I’ll be right with ya.”
The twins stepped around their uncle and led him to a table with four chairs near the center of the room. Jimi draped his towel over an ice-cream parlor-style chair and sat. Sonny and Janis did the same.
“I don’t really like being, um, exposed like this,” Jimi said, eyeing the bright light over their table.
“For cripes’ sake, Jiminy, you should be getting used to this whole ‘naked thing’ by now,“ Janis said. “How many nudist colonies have we visited so far this trip?”
Jimi shushed her. “First off,” he whispered, “stop calling me Jiminy. Sheesh! Most important, don’t call this place a ‘colony’ or you’ll get us kicked out of here. Have you learned nothing this trip? Don’t you at least remember the sign?”
“What sign?” asked Sonny.
“By the door of the restroom building,” Jimi said. “It read something like, ‘We’re nudists. We’re not ants. We’re not lepers. Please DO NOT call this a colony!’”
“Okay, okay,” Janis said. “We’re in another freakin’ resort, then. Family-friendly with an on-site nudie bar. I guess already being naked eliminates a lot of the mystery when coupling up at last call.”
Jimi shushed her again. “Just behave yourself for once. We’ve come too far to get kicked out now.”
Sonny cleared his throat. “I know we’re all nervous being this close to our goal, but please stop bickering. Be my eyes. Tell me what you see.”
Jimi leaned closer to Sonny. “Nothing fancy. Looks pretty spartan actually—”
“Wow, looka that moon shot!” Janis shouted, pointing to a giant framed black-and-white poster hanging behind the bar. It featured a retro lunar image, complete with a man-in-the-moon face whose right eye has been penetrated by a giant rocket. “That’s gotta hurt,” she said.
“I believe that’s the iconic image from the classic silent film, Le Voyage Dans La Lune,” Jimi informed her. “That means ‘A Trip to
the Moon’.”
“Hey, I wasn’t born yesterday, mister know-it-all,” Janis said. “If I can talk to cats, I can figure out your fuzzy Italian.”
“French.”
“Whatever.”
Again, Sonny cleared his throat.
“Yes, so, as I was saying,” Jimi continued, “aside from the Méliès poster and these tabletop framed pictures of a motherly type – presumably the mama we’re supposed to moon – it’s pretty basic décor in here. Mostly ashtrays and fly strips. Lighting’s pretty good, maybe a little too good. Tropical-style white ceiling fans here and there, on low. About ten tables with two or four chairs. The bar has eight stools. Seating is empty so far except for us,” he said, “probably because that fried turkey Testicle Festival is going on.”
“Everyone but us is out there having a ball,” Janis said. “Or two.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a smug gesture of triumph for landing the definitive Testicle Festival pun.
Sonny leaned forward, unbunched his towel, and then leaned back again. “So, no sign of our target, then?”
Before either twin could answer, the bartender approached their table. He, too, was naked, except for the de rigueur flip flops and an apron tied at his waist. He had ponytailed white hair, wore round glasses, and bore a scar extending from the corner of his mouth halfway down his chin.
“Welcome, gents,” he said, not quite discerning that Janis was no gentleman. His voice was soft and carried an accent – vaguely of New York but perhaps diluted by many years in the south. “Must be visitors,” he said. “Glad you could join us tonight. Grill side is closed this evening, but I’ll be glad to bring you some drinks.”
“That voice,” said Sonny.
“That scar,” said Jimi.
“That moon shot,” said Janis, pointing not to the framed poster but to the bartender’s butt and the bird tattoo just visible beyond his apron.
In unison, they whispered, “Jaybird.”
Now, their true mission could begin. But time was running out.
Copyright 2020 by Bob Chenoweth. All rights reserved.