When John Caine, an obscure midlevel banker from Detroit, accepts the opportunity of a lifetime to manage the backroom business functions of an important National Institutes of Health research lab in Bethesda, he believes his ship has finally come in. But his quirky penchant for illicit tinkering results in the creation and accidental release of a powerful new virus with effects no one could have imagined. Only he holds the answer to how it can be stopped, and he's not telling. Caine finds himself confronted with a desperate White House and an onslaught of rage from all quarters of the world's bureaucracies.

Fast paced, provocative, and offbeat, this cautionary story is thick with political satire and intrigue. It occurs in a world of government turned upside down, where Nancy Pelosi is president of a dysfunctional United States under her ultraliberal regime, while George Bush is a convicted felon and Rush Limbaugh a fugitive. Caine's Pestilence brings together present and former U.S. presidents, would-be assassins, two Supreme Court chief justices, familiar national media political commentators, and the infamous prison at Guantanamo Bay, all in a story readers will find engaging and controversial.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Part 4 CONCLUSION: The Hundredth Lion


In the morning we drove in the moonless darkness toward our setup by the Angwa River.  Cassidy seemed to feel absolutely no ill effects from his binge the night before and acted at first as if nothing out of the ordinary at all had occurred… 
…"I've been the difficult client, I know.  A thorn in your side.  Let's agree that we're both turning a new leaf, and not look back."
"Everything's good," I said with false enthusiasm.
"Honestly, I've had a bellyful of that bitch wife of mine, though."  He looked out his window as he spoke, at the darkness that revealed nothing.
Somehow I had known his positive mood wouldn't last.
"She seems pleasant enough to me."  I could feel myself blush and was glad it was dark inside the cab.
"She gave me quite the tongue-lashing when she finally came to bed, you know.  She'll pay for that and everything else when we're home."  He turned and looked directly at me.  "And I gave her a little taste last night of what's to come."
"Right now we've got our lion to think about," I said.  "The sign looked very good last evening."  I was anxious to change the subject.
"I want one with a huge head and bushy black mane.  I'm having a trophy room built.  Can't wait to pop the first really big boy we see."
"We're very selective about the cats we take here.  To preserve them for future generations.  They're ecologically quite fragile, despite their strength and ferocity."…
…"Wouldn't it be something if one charged!"
"We take only mature males, and never pride lions.  If the dominant pride male is killed, there is often a disastrous domino effect on the entire group."… 
"Have you had one attack?"
"Most dangerous game will run from humans at the first hint.  But as with any creatures, they do not all behave precisely the same.  Occasionally, for reasons I really can't quite explain, the odd lion will charge when threatened or wounded.  It's quite rare, though.  Never happened to me.  But the old timers say that one-percent, one in a hundred, will do the unexpected.  If we get on lion, just listen carefully and do precisely as I say..."

We parked our safari truck about two miles downwind of the hide and crept in with stocking feet.  The blind was about six feet square and five feet high constructed from a grid of straight mopane limbs lashed together with vines and covered with long, dry yellow hard-grass. There was a shooting hole eighteen inches square in the front-center, positioned at the level of an aimed gun held by a man sitting on the low log the Africans had put in place.  I sat to Cassidy's right in the corner on a higher log and looked from a properly located peephole at the bait chained to the acacia tree some eighty meters away.  Levitt was behind me and could pop his head through an opening in the roof put there for that purpose.  
The far horizon was just showing the first line of faint light when Levitt pulled his head into the blind through his observation hole in the roof and hissed, "Shumba ri kuuya."
Beyond the acacia tree the first few cubs rushed clumsily and unconcerned toward the well-fed-on impala bait chained to its base.  Then the big lionesses appeared as if magically from the darkness with their cautious, halting, eyes-searching movements…
…There was no mistaking the huge and majestic form of the male as it emerged from the brush and began its lumbering, swaggering walk toward the others, its head swaying, feet padding heel to toe silently, and big shoulder blades moving up and down piston-like as it came confidently forward.  
The big male lion continued to within ten feet of the feeding pride, paused as if completely bored, and laid down on its belly with front feet extended forward and the rear folded beneath its huge hindquarters as if in a crouch.
"It's a pride male," I whispered.  "No go.  We'll wait 'til these feed out.  Another subservient male may be waiting safely behind."
At that point the heavily maned male rose suddenly to his feet and stood glaring at the blind.  His muscles were visibly taught, attention riveted, his weight well forward over his front legs as if preparing to advance. 
An earsplitting blast shook the blind.  As I glanced reflexively toward the source of the explosion next to me, the recoil from Cassidy's big-bore .458 jolted him noticeably backward.  From the corner of my eye positioned beside my viewing hole I caught the motion of the great lion jerking back hard from the impact of the bullet and slamming down oddly in the roughly same sitting position he had assumed a moment earlier.  His shaggy mane hung down covering his chest, but even in the predawn I could see a smear of dark liquid just off center...  
Nothing I had seen before prepared me for the charge of that chest-shot male lion.  It rose in an incomprehensible instant from prone on its belly to a blurred, legs churning and driving streak as it closed the hundred yards to our blind in mere seconds with amazing speed and agility and purpose.
I'm told many people, when confronted with a life or death threat, experience what I did when that lion charged.  A complete focus only on the menace to the exclusion of the outside world.  And a weird sense of viewing things in slow motion...  I recall his legs driving beneath his body, the wind generated by his rush blowing his mane and whiskers back, his head extended and focused on the shooting port—the spot occupied by Brian Cassidy—and, most vividly of all, that rumbling, raw snarl.
The lion hit squarely in the center of the shooting window, his back legs propelling him in a powerful, final airborne vault, his front legs fully extended.  His claws entered the blind an instant before his face smashed through the opening, exploding the front of the rickety structure in a shower of grass and sticks.  Cassidy fired his second barrel wildly into the air, above the lion's head, just as it crashed through the port and into him.
Contrary to what's seen in the movies and read in popular literature, a lion does not roar when attacking game.  No, the lion is still and stealthy when taking down its meal. 
But attacking an enemy is another thing altogether.  The roar serves to give voice to the beast's rage, to stir the fighting instinct in his soul, to intimidate and overwhelm his foe.  And as this huge cat gripped and clawed and ripped the back, chest and shoulders of the hapless and helpless client, as it prepared, mouth opened, to seize its victim's face, the booming roar shook what remained of the blind every bit as mightily as had the animal's initial impact…
…As the lion gripped and clawed and mauled and bit Brian Cassidy, I thumbed the safety off and somehow managed to raise my Winchester 70 near my shoulder in the shattered and still-collapsing blind.  The lion had one claw behind Cassidy's head, the other behind his back in a terrible, tight bear hug as it raked his flesh in frenzied strokes.  With the man and lion intertwined while rolling about there was no way for me to fire without the bullet clearly going through them both.  I watched, rifle ready, as they tumbled as one until all at once Cassidy was on his back on the ground with the lion straddling him from above.  I had an unobstructed side view of the lion without my client in the line of fire.  I raised the rifle, placing the muzzle directly against the animal's neck in the close, twisted quarters of the wrecked blind.  A round was chambered and the safety off in the firing position.

How long I waited and watched, or even why, I still don't know.  It couldn't have been more than another second or two.  But most deliberately and without any reason I can offer, I held my fire.  At that point a shot would not have hit Cassidy.  In the incredibly brief time that I willfully hesitated, the lion placed his gaping mouth over Cassidy's skull and bit down hard.  I distinctly heard the cracking of bone.   I fired into the lion's neck and it instantly changed from a powerful, magnificent, attacking beast—the king of the beasts, long live the king—to a pile of limp and lifeless tissue…
"AHhhhh, gaaawwwwd," he managed a low, gurgling moan.  It was perhaps the most chilling sound I have ever heard…
…At first there was an unbelievable amount of blood, not in spurts or from a single source, but flowing liberally from his entire head down and beneath his body like one of those fountains at a mall where water flows continuously along a stone face…  By the time the plane arrived and he was loaded aboard, the bleeding had mostly stopped and he was silent and still...  
The inspectors arrived the next day for their investigation.  I filled out a detailed report, writing that the client surprised me by firing even though told not to, that I had shot as soon as I had been able, but by then it was too late.  That everything had been done to save him…  I'm not sure of the others' accounts, but they must have supported mine as the death was immediately ruled an Act of God complicated by the client's own mistakes.
During the investigation I had not seen Emily, although I heard her sobs whenever passing near her tent.  Driving her to the airstrip that final day she looked only at the floor and wept.
"I'm so, so sorry," I said.
"Puh-lee-lee-leeze, God..."  She could barely be heard through her heaving sobs.  "Please…tell me this had nothing to do with me…"
Her beautiful, previously clear and bright blue eyes were dulled and reddened and swollen.  Tears streamed from them.  Her lovely, smooth face was contorted in pain.
"It was a horrible accident," I said.  "I'm just so sorry."  And honestly, I was.
We merely touched hands as she boarded the Centurion, her crying silent once more.

Back home I spent plenty of time with my wife, Sheila, and our three children.  The approach of April heralded the retreat of the rains and the upcoming Easter holiday.
As a Catholic, I was expected by tradition to go to confession at least once each year, during the Easter season.  When I visited the aging white frame church in the little European-settled town near our farmstead, the old German priest slid the divider in the confessional open as he had so many times before.  I gave him a brief account of what had happened on the last day of Cassidy's life, on some of the events that had led up to it.
"Zo, vot den iss der sin you vish to confess?" the old man asked at the end…
"I failed in my duty to protect my client," I said.
"I zee…und vot off der vooman?"
In the Catholic faith, the very act of concealing a serious sin during confession is a greater offense than the suppressed sin itself.  I knew that well.  Still, I said, "Nothing.  She went home.  She was very upset.  My sin is failing in my duty to protect her husband.  I knew he was unreliable and should have taken that into account.  That is what I am here to confess."
The month dragged on.  Near the end of April I went to town to buy a few supplies and stopped by the post office as usual for our mail.  I knew it was from her before I read the return address.  The words on the thick, beige personal sized envelope were handwritten in blue ink.  The letters were elegantly formed with feminine, flowing strokes and swirls.  I had never seen her writing, but it was unmistakably from her.  And while I had not expected it, had never thought I'd see or hear from her again, I was somehow not surprised…
That evening I sat before the hearth with the last of its mopane fire we built each evening even in the hot rainy season to drive the humidity out.  The kids were asleep and Sheila was in the bedroom getting ready for bed.  Sheila with her thick, lustrous brunette hair, those beautiful blue English eyes and soft, white skin.  With her perfectly proportioned, seductively rounded and inviting form.  My best friend, the mother of my children.  Sheila, my confidante, partner, and bedmate.
"Are you coming?" she called to me.  "I'm about to switch off the light."
"In a moment," I answered back.  "I just want to damp the fire."
I took the unopened letter from my pocket and stared at it for the longest time.  I touched it to my nose and lips.  My thoughts were of Emily and the brief time we shared.  The scent of her hair and glistening moistness of her lips were brought back.
"…and what of the woman?" the priest had said.
I knew I'd be going back to his confessional soon, long before next Easter.  I slipped the…envelope…

Read the entire The Hundredth Lion and other short outdoors fiction in Bascom's upcoming collection of his stories entitled BENEATH A HUNTER'S SKY, to be released in 2015

Monday, December 15, 2014


Copyright ©2014 John G. Bascom
SUMMARY of Parts 1 through 3

From Part 1 And it is just such an edgy sixth sense of impending though ill-defined mayhem that is experienced when first meeting that rare train wreck of a very bad client.
"Brian Cassidy."  He stood close and said it loud, showing his big, professionally whitened teeth in an open-mouthed smile. 
A slightly built young blonde woman pushed the copilot seat forward and slid unaided from the Centurion's cramped back seat.
"I'm Emily Cassidy," she smiled softly while extending her right hand.  Her blue eyes met and held mine in a way that was warm and friendly and nothing more…
From Part 2... Cassidy was regaling everyone with his exploits of the day.  I noticed when he poured his third vodka and tonic, two-thirds of it alcohol, into a very tall water tumbler.  The client's pretty young wife, Emily, sat back from the fire reading a book, seemingly oblivious of her husband's ranting.
"Get a load of the little princess," he said sarcastically after he realized she was ignoring him.  "Too good for this crowd.  As long as she has her designer jeans and credit cards, she wouldn't know if she were in Africa or Cincinnati."

...I had remained by the fire alone for at least an hour when Emily walked from the darkness and over to the place she had been sitting...

...The animal was no more than fifty yards out and facing us although clearly unaware of our presence behind a stand of brush.
"Take him when he turns broadside, low directly in the shoulder.  Your first shot has to be good."  I set up the sticks.
Cassidy laid his big double .458 in the pocket formed by the crossing tops of the tripod of sticks, aimed carefully, and fired with the massive bull buffalo still facing us.  I was surprised the hunter had not waited for the buff to turn as instructed, but with a huge, stationery target at only fifty yards it shouldn't have mattered much.
" A chete atekeshura i."
"Levitt says it was barely wounded," I said to Cassidy.
"Yeah," he replied.  "I intentionally hit it just inside the shoulder so we'd get to stalk a wounded buff, and maybe get him to charge."
I could barely comprehend what I was hearing...

From Part 3...I missed the sundowners before dinner, but joined everyone around the fire pit afterwards.  Cassidy was hitting the vodka even harder than the previous evening.
"There's some news, Brian," I said cheerily to my client, wanting to confirm the next day's hunting plans before he became too alcohol-soaked to remember them. 
"There's clear sign of lions hitting the bait beneath the big acacia on the high bank above the Angwa.  A few very large tracks, too.  I suggest we give it a go first thing...   
..."Mr. Lentos," Emily said after a lengthy and uncomfortable pause in the conversation, "your speech betrays you as fellow American.  How long have you been here in Zimbabwe?  There must be a story there." 
I think she simply wanted to distract things from her husband's dismal mood display.
"Everyone calls me Ian.  And I came here as a very young man in my mid-twenties to have some adventure.  Over a dozen years ago.  I was fortunate to be taken under the wing of a greatly respected professional hunter and never looked back.  One doesn't get rich, but it's a rewarding life in many other ways."
"And have you a family, Ian?" she asked.
"I married a wonderful third generation English-Zimbabwean girl nearly a decade
ago now.  We have a little home on a very tiny ten-acre plot in the southern lowveld area not far up-country from the Limpopo River.  Really a very modest place, but we love it."
"Your Ian," Cassidy cut in, drawing out my name in a way clearly intended to be derisive, "the great-white-hunter, gave me a proper scolding out there today.  Seems I don't shoot fast and straight enough for his standards."
I turned toward him.  "The biggest part of my job is keeping everyone safe, and that includes correcting practices that aren't up to snuff.  That and making sure the hunt is conducted lawfully and ethically.  It's for everyone's benefit, especially the client.  It's never intended as a personal affront and mustn't be taken that way."  I was not about to apologize.
"I'm sure his manly display of superiority only adds to his raw charisma.  Isn't that right, Emily?"
"Brian, is this necessary?"
No one made eye contact with him.  Cassidy was obviously quite drunk.  He stood unsteadily.  "I believe I'll hit the sack so I'll be fresh for our lion hunt tomorrow.  You two," he nodded at Emily and me, ignoring the camp managers, "enjoy your little conversation."  
We sat for a time in an uneasy silence.  
"I'm so sorry, Ian."
"It comes with the territory.  It's not the first time I've been set straight by a tipsy and irritated client.  I expected it, actually."
I doubt she wanted to go to her tent while he was still awake.  And I was nowhere near ready for sleep.  We talked by the fire for what must have been an hour or more, her lovely blue eyes reflecting the last flickering of the dying mopane flames. ...Until I felt embarrassed in her presence, quite sure that the intensity with which I was drawn to her was all too obvious.  Was emblazoned like a neon sign across my forehead.  
Another hour passed before we finally turned in for the evening...

Friday, November 7, 2014

John Bascom Biography

Friday, September 12, 2014


Our great guide was Eli Lucas of Alaska Coastal Hunts out of Petersburg.
Check out his new website 

Kuiu Island, Inside Passage, Alaska

Kuiu Island, Alaska has the largest 
population, and the largest size, black bears in the world.

"Emydon" at sunset

The 50' diesel powered vessel
Emydon (right) was our floating base in the waters of Kuiu Island


Guides Kyle (lft), Eli (rt) and client Curt (ctr)
Sea life such as these breaching humpback whales were abundant in the surrounding waters, in addition to otters, sea lions, seals, bald eagles
Curt's big bear
John & Curt hike to trout stream
John with big Coho caught from stream


John Bascom in Petersburg AK
Look for the Kuiu Island adventure story, "UNDELIVERABLE" in Bascom's upcoming book of outdoor stories Beneath a Hunter's Sky in late 2015

Saturday, May 24, 2014

FEAR & DEATH--Part 2

by John Bascom (Copyright 2014)

Eight(Part 2) Fear and Death Above the M'Kunga

(From Part 1)…I picked up the center of the buffalo's chest in the crosshairs.  Still, Wil had said the third one from the front and this one was only slightly farther back in the shifting herd.  I wasn't sure.
"The one I'm looking at is directly in front.  Between the two trees," I said.
"Yes, the bull between the trees," Wil said urgently.
"The one closest to us.  He's looking straight at us."
"No," Wil said.  "He's looking forward, and his head is partially behind that…no, wait.  Yes, I see, he's looking at us now."
"Closest, the bull looking at us, standing between two trees.  I can see his bosses and penis."
"Yes," Wil said impatiently.  "It's the only bull in the herd.  Between the trees, looking at us."
"I'm sure it's a bull," I said.  "Should I shoot?"
All the other animals had stopped and were now staring in our direction.  I was certain they were about to bolt."
"Yes.  That's it. Shoot!"
With the bull's quartering stance, I realized a center-chest hold, if pulled accidentally only slightly to my right, would risk angling between the brisket and away-shoulder, mostly missing the heart and lungs and risking a dangerously wounded Cape buffalo.  I moved the crosshairs slightly, between the brisket and shoulder positioned closest to my left, steadied the rifle, exhaled, drew a half-breath and held it, then smoothly squeezed off a shot.
Everyone was oddly quiet for several moments.
"It didn't look hit," Wil said.
"I had a pretty solid hold on his chest," I said.
"I didn't hear the bullet impact.  Are you sure you hit it?"
"Pretty sure." 
We all moved down to the area where the herd had been.  The trackers—everyone—searched the ground methodically.  No blood or hair.  No sign of a hit of any kind.
Levi and Gift led us along the track the buffalos had taken.  Their compressed hoof prints and the trampled ground were obvious.  We worked along their trail for about twenty minutes, about three-hundred-fifty yards or roughly a quarter mile by my estimate.  The trackers would cast to the left or right occasionally to see if an animal had straggled or stumbled on the edge of the herd.  The bush had thinned but there was thicker jesse just ahead as we paused to consider our next move.
"You're sure you hit something," Wil said, more as a statement seeking a reassuring response than a question.  "We can't find anything."
I was beginning to doubt myself.
Everyone was just standing around, waiting.  Wil lit a cigarette.  No one made eye contact with me.
It was Gilbert, the despised game ranger, who moved forward toward the leading edge of the thick jesse stand that stretched as far as one could see.  Gilbert, the optimist, thinking outside the box, with his positive attitude and friendly disposition.  Gilbert, who liked and generally wished to help people.  Who liked and helped me.
He moved up about thirty yards and a few yards to our left, then stooped to better see beneath the overhanging jesse bows.  He stretched his neck and head forward, paused, and pointed with his finger.
We all rushed over.  I squatted and looked beneath the jesse in the direction he was pointing.  There, some eighty odd yards ahead, lay the unmistakable black carcass of a Cape buffalo.

Part 2

We quickly moved up through the jesse stand, stopping about thirty feet from the big
animal laying lifeless on his side.  Wil approached the downed buffalo carefully and nudged his head with the barrel of his rifle.
"He's a bull all right, but not the one I wanted you to shoot.  He's a younger one."
I surprised myself with the overwhelming feelings of joy and accomplishment that swept through me.  I was ecstatic, beaming I'm sure from ear to ear.  I walked up near the animal to admire him.  He was as magnificent in death as he had been staring sullenly at me a up near the crest of the hill a few minutes before.  He had gone perhaps four hundred yards before collapsing in the thick brush.  I knew an average human track runner could cover a hundred yards in just over ten seconds.  With the speed at which that herd took off at my shot, it couldn't have been over forty-five seconds, well under a minute, for my buffalo to run down here and die in this jesse stand.  I was glad it had been quick.
"Nickie's going to go crazy."  I meant to say it to myself but realized I had said it aloud.
I moved closer to the bull and inspected him carefully.  My shot had hit very near my precise point of aim, slightly above by only a few inches and perhaps an inch left.  The bloody wound on his front chest between the brisket and the animal's right shoulder displayed the track of the bullet on his hide as it had entered from the front, angling in such a way that it would travel through its body back and across to the organs behind on the other side.  It was clear the right lung had been raked from front to back, the crossing bullet probably hitting the rearward portion of the left lung as well, and going back into the body through its liver and deeper organs.  There was no exit wound.  I doubt the bull ever really knew what hit him.
My spirits were soaring, the adrenalin doing its work now more so than during the stalk or the shot.  I had thought upon our arrival in Africa that taking a buffalo was secondary to experiencing the bush and its animals.  But I understood now I had been wrong.  This was the thrilling and fulfilling culmination that had turned our safari into an unforgettable experience.
"We try not to shoot the younger ones," Wil said in his scolding tone.
"Look, Wil," I said, grinning.  I was not about to allow his condescension to dampen my moment.  "Shit happens.  I know shooting old animals is important to you.  And it's good with me, too.  But I described what I was looking at in detail three times so you'd understand.  And asked for your permission to shoot."
"I was talking about the older one between the tree and the bush."
This was the first he had mentioned bush.  It had been "between the two trees."
"You said it was the only bull in the herd.  I saw the bosses and penis sheath on this one right away."
"The older bull was farther forward, behind the brush.  He's the one I wanted you to take."
"You might have said as much, Wil.  I'd have been glad to do it.  But I didn't see any animal in that herd larger than this one.  And this one was clearly a bull."
"The older ones aren't necessarily always bigger."
"For my money, I shot the bull I wanted.  The one I described in detail and you cleared me to shoot.  If there was a miscommunication…well…you need to be more careful next time.  But I'm here to tell you I couldn't be happier.  This is what I came for."  I think I was close to laughing, not at Wil but purely from joy and excitement.  "I'm sorry if you're upset, but I'm the happiest man in Africa."
At that moment a visible change came over Wil.  A smile spread across his face, something that had not previously occurred while we took game together.  He spontaneously clasped my shoulder, another first.
"You came here to take your buffalo and you did it," he blurted, not measuring his words now.  "You kept up during our climb up here and while we maneuvered in on that herd.  It wasn't an easy thing, especially for a man who has reached seventy and has had health issues.  And your shot was spot on.  It was quite the achievement." 
He was grinning the whole time, his demeanor all at once joyful and spontaneous, like mine.  It was as if the death of that Nyati in the thick jesse in the hills above the M'Kunga had caused something in Wil and me to die along with it.  For Wil it seemed to be the awful weight of command, the fear of failure, purged by my joy at taking my buffalo bull.  A perfect completion of our safari.  It was as if the anger and discontent that seemed to simmer beneath Wil's surface had died along with that animal. 
And for me the thing that died on the hillside was the fear that I, battling cancer and reaching seventy, had passed a tipping point.  That I no longer could do the things I loved or achieve the things I once had.  I felt redeemed and resurrected by the sacrifice of my beautiful Cape buffalo bull.  And I somehow knew my strange dreams had become a thing of the past.
"It was an exciting kill," Wil grinned, "with its twists and turns."
"Fear and death in the hills above the M'Kunga," I laughed.  Perhaps I should have phrased it …the death of fear…

Wil lifted his radio to call in Mafios with Nickie and the truck.  I couldn't wait for her to arrive.

Look for "AFRICA SAFARI JOURNAL" and other stories in Bascom's upcoming book, "Follow Him Up the Mountain" to be published late in 2014

Tuesday, October 30, 2012


Praise for Caine's Pestilence
from readers and reviewers 

Wyblog US

I could summarize my review in three words: Read. This. Book… Caine's Pestilence is a masterstroke of satirical genius…I couldn't put it down. (Chris Wysocki August 21, 2011 www.wyblog.us) 



One of the most compelling and unusual books I have ever had the pleasure of reading...totally original and both comedic and horrifying at the same time.  From the time I opened the first page, it made me want to read it straight through…if you decide to read only one book this year, it should be Caine’s Pestilence.  (LD Jackson Oct. 2, 2011 www.ldjackson.net 


Free Republic

(H)ighly recommend, but …more scary than Stephen King's "IT" which, to this day, still causes goosebumples when I think of the clown-monster.  I will not even try to offer up a glimpse of the terror and horrible events that are part of the plot, and I do mean PLOT!!  Get it and set aside an evening to read it. Make sure the doors and windows are locked and unplug the phone! (GRRR…Free Republic, Sept. 7, 2011,


By Melinda Le Baron—October 30—Goodreads...very tightly plotted... dialogue is priceless...pacing lickety-split quick...ending so surprising you could have knocked me over...perfect for people who like finishing novels with a smile...by far this book is singular in its execution.


BGabby--January 20--Goodreads...I loved this book! Nancy Pelosi as president? G W Bush imprisoned for war crimes? The hopelessly politically correct doublespeak? I haven't laughed this hard at a political novel since Tricky Dicky and Good As Gold...All I know is that I'm keeping this one to enjoy again.


Amazon.com Reader Reviews 

NEW  5.0 out of 5 stars By  Joyce Metzger--July 4--Savage Satire Coupled With Dark Intrigue...excellent...A thought-provoking story...(author) writes from dedicated research and true life experience

By Psychonate--Sept 1--awesome book! Amazingly entertaining...down right scary! Should be a requirement for students.  Finished in two days and that's only because I had to sleep and work.

By Dannette—March 26… rides the fence of politics beautifully, with a spot-on sense of timing and humor.  I found myself laughing countless times at the irony 


By "cobweb"—October 9…Spellbinding with an edgy awareness that the ridiculous situation inching Caine to his death is uncannily possible… Caine's observations, inappropriate humor and irreverent satire bind this twisted plot into an intriguing read and a wakeful night… Totally great reading and we want more. 


By Daune Robinson—April 14…can't remember the last time I enjoyed finding a new author this much - well, yes, I can - it was when I read Watchers and fell in love with Dean Koontz! This book was a pleasure to read. I laughed, cried, screamed and could not put it down. Read it! 

Saturday, November 12, 2011

CNBC Comments on Caine's Pestilence


Political Satire Novel Lampoons Nancy Pelosi, Liberals

"One of the most compelling and unusual books ...ever"  Political Realities


GLADWIN, Mich., -- Caine's Pestilence, a novel melding biotech mystery and political satire, has been released by Canniche Cove Publishing. Written by new author John Bascom, the fictional work unfolds in a surreal 2015  where Nancy Pelosi is president and the ultra-liberal wing of the Democratic Party firmly controls America.

The novel is distinctive in that it defies standard classifications of literary genre, containing elements of action-adventure, biotech science fiction, humor, and political parody. Bascom uses actual public figures as characters. In addition to Pelosi, Minnesota Senator Al Franken is the chief justice of the Supreme Court, while Rush Limbaugh is a fugitive beaming bootleg broadcasts into the US from Canada.

John Bascom, author
"I wanted to write something absolutely unique," Bascom says, "something that would give voice to my concerns about the destructiveness of the liberal agenda taking hold in our country, but in a way that avoids rants or preaching and is delivered in an entertaining, engaging way." Bascom's story unfolds from the pen of the simple, hapless central character, John Caine, writing his memoirs from his death-row cell. An obscure administrator at the National Institutes of Health, Caine fortuitously creates a biological agent that, accidentally released into the population, changes the perceptions of ordinary people about the liberal agenda. The Pelosi administration then goes crazy and Caine is persecuted mercilessly in their efforts to stop it.

The author's mission of entertaining and engaging has met with success according to the conservative Wyblog.us, who calls Caine's Pestilence "...a masterstroke of satirical genius" and tells the blog's fans to Read. This. Book. Today! And the blog Political Realities says it's "...one of the most compelling and unusual books I have ever had the pleasure of reading." Individual Amazon reader-reviewers awarded the maximum 5 stars on average overall.

Caine's Pestilence is available in softcover or Kindle at Amazon.com and as a Nook eBook from Barnes & Noble.