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Michael St. John’s “Fast Ride On A Golden A**”

RKO PICTURES ~ Where it all began for Michael St. John.

HELLO AMERICA—Many of you continue to inquire about my next book, “Fast Ride on a Golden Ass.” I decided to give you a sample and I have no doubts that some of you will feel it is outrageous for sure. However, I pray you enjoy the tease!

Before Jonathan knew it, he was spread-eagle on his stomach, as if he was following a police command.  He was feeling a part of himself being ripped open.  His anger suddenly turned into disgust and hate. It was amazing how these two emotions gave him the strength to tumble this man from his body allowing him to roll to the floor of his small room. However, when he was about to crawl to escape, the man grabbed one of his legs, and began pulling Jonathan towards him again.

With every ounce his small body could muster, Jonathan was able to kick himself free. He managed to get to his feet, but the man seemed more crazed, more determined to finish what he had started. The stairway was located right in front of Jonathan’s bedroom door. As always, the lower level of the house was only lit by one small lamp when the family was away during the evening. It was only him and the demon.

When Jonathan thought he could successfully reach the stairs, the man’s hand locked around his shoulders. During the scuffle at this point, miraculously, he was able to position himself at the edge of the stairs. Then suddenly, the creature before him became nothing but the enemy. Stuffed with all of these strange, fragmented emotions and blotched images, he violently pushed the man’s hand away, causing him to stagger, then, stumble backwards, losing his balance and suddenly falling down the stairs.

Jonathan stared down at the twisted, naked body. He began to shake uncontrollably. An aspirate sounding voice punctured his brain with “You’ve killed him…you’ve killed him!”

Hours later, he woke up in his bed. He could hear muffled voices filtering up from the downstairs. He looked up only to find his grandmother, Irene, sitting on the bed holding his hand. Her eyes disclosed that she knew what might have happened. When he attempted to speak, she gently put her finger to his mouth and whispered “Don’t…you don’t have to …that man was a living devil.”


Hollywood is a place where you can be paid a thousand dollars for a kiss and 50 cents for your soul. It lures you in with the lights, the glitter, and gold, likened to a siren on a passing ship with a multi-colored sign that reads: come let us take you for a ride. LET US LACE YOUR DREAMS WITH THE PUSS OF SHALLOW EXPECTATIONS. LET US SELL YOU! Unfortunately, like thousands of others, Jonathan Harris rode the bus to that end, like an alien hungering for a new world of hope, one which might allow you to grow and develop like any other human being. He was a willing victim, ready to sell his soul just for the chance sing the glories of his dreams. After all, he was conceived on a field of war, nursed in a pit of fire and was raised in hell.

Jonathan felt like a stranger, constantly landing at unknown bus stops, searching for the place where he might belong. Even when, supposedly, there was no room at the Inn or a least told there was nothing which might suit his needs, his determination to taste the tantalizing juices of being alive was only intensified.  When all the doors appeared closed, then it happened. Jonathan became the meat on the rotisserie, constantly whirling in rhythm, doused with promises by those who lived off the innocent and naïve creatures who believed in their destiny. He was accessible, marketable bait, and the cannibals eagerly smelled him out and fed themselves like pigs from a trawl.

It was one of those rare and delightful occasions when all of Los Angeles was receiving a healthy downpour of rain as Jonathan’s bus pulled into the Greyhound depot. It was difficult for him to withhold his excitement. The more he viewed of the city, the more he wanted to see. It was a tremendous relief to finally be in this place the whole world believed dreams were said to be realized. After all, wasn’t this the purpose of his journey, to wash away the dark shadows of a life that was edging dangerously close into an abyss of no return?

The idea of becoming a film actor was not foremost on his list of objectives. He simply wanted the opportunity to grow, to learn as much as he could, to be in an atmosphere where he might be respected and appreciated for what he was, as a talent. He didn’t harbor any fantasies about becoming some kind of film star. His first love was the theatre. Like so many other young performers from the east coast, he believed that didn’t take much talent to be in films. After all, one only had to look the part or be a certain type. He didn’t relish the idea of shining someone’s shoes, doing a dance number in a Gene Kelly movie.

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