I don’t know what day of the week it was, and I don’t know what town we were in. It could’ve been any night, any town. It was soundcheck, and the soundman was angry because the sub shop had put capicola into his Italian sub when he’d specifically asked for no capicola. So okay. We’re sound-checking, and across the club he’s sitting behind his sound console taking angry bites of his sub. And this was over twenty years ago, but I remember the bits of sub—lettuce, tomato, whatever—falling from the sub onto his sound console. Because of his angry-eating.

Fast-forward a few hours, and the club is a quarter full, which means three-quarters empty, which means we won’t be getting paid much that night. Two songs into our set the gig is going fine, until the whole sound system starts crackling like the end of a thunderclap that wants to linger. Crackle crackle.

Then: BOOM!

Then: nothing. The whole thing dies.

The band—me and Ed and Johnny and Ricky—we’re looking past the lights, into the crowd, to make contact with the soundman, but he isn’t where he’s supposed to be behind the console any longer. He’s gone missing. No—not missing: I spot him at the bar, a glass of beer in front of him, talking to a woman—long blonde hair, white tank top—who’s turned her bar stool his way and has one leg crossed over the other—like she’s so interested in what he has to say, there could be a stenographer’s pad in her lap.

By the time Johnny and I are off the stage and over by the sound console, the soundman (whose name I’ve long forgotten) has realized something is amiss and meets us over there.

“What gives?” Johnny asks.

“Some kind of electrical short,” the soundman says.

That’s when I look down at the console. There’s a lot of lettuce on it. And it’s wet. “You’ve got tomato juice on your soundboard,” I tell him.

“Or oil and vinegar,” Johnny adds.

“I didn’t even ask for vinegar,” the soundman says. “That place has really gone downhill.”

And here’s the thing: I don’t remember how he fixed it. But he did. And we played on, and collected our gas money, and then it was on to the next club, and the next soundman, and the next, and the next, another day in the life of Sunshine Apocalypse.

FUN CITY HEIST
Genre: Heist Thriller
Release: December 2025
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link

A washed-up rockstar gets his old band back together for one final gig . . . and one daring robbery! A brilliantly funny, twisty heist caper from Pushcart Prize-winning author Michael Kardos.

Mo Melnick used to be a drummer in rock band Sunshine Apocalypse. He used to be someone. These days he rents beach umbrellas on the Jersey Shore.

The last thing he expects is for Johnny Clay, his old bandmate turned enemy, to ask him a favor. Johnny’s dying, and before he passes he wants Sunshine Apocalypse to reunite for one last gig at Fun City, the beachfront amusement park where their musical journey began.

Mo’s in—reluctantly. But then Johnny reveals his real plan: He doesn’t just want to play at Fun City on the fourth of July. He wants to rob it.

The plan is crazy. It has more holes than a golf course. But Mo’s sick of barely keeping his head above water, and, ironically, this crime may provide Mo’s one chance to connect with the daughter he’s never known. So he and his gang of middle-aged has-beens dive into what will be the most outrageous heist New Jersey’s ever seen—if, that is, they can pull it off alive . . .

Packed with astonishing twists and laugh-out-loud moments, Michael Kardos’ unique comedic thriller is perfect for fans of Elmore Leonard and Donald Westlake.

Meet the author
Michael Kardos is the Pushcart Prize-winning author of three previous novels, most recently Bluff, as well as the story collection One Last Good Time. He has a bachelor’s degree in music and played the drums professionally in his twenties. Originally from the Jersey Shore, he co-directed the creative writing program at Mississippi State University for over a dozen years before moving with his family to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. You can visit him online at michaelkardos.com.