Sneak Peek of Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff! (Where the Hell is Tesla? Book 2)

Sneak Peek of Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff! (Where the Hell is Tesla? Book 2)

with No Comments

This month, I’ve got something SUPER SPECIAL for you… the first three chapters of my brand new novel, Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff! It’s the sequel to the Audible bestselling Where the Hell is Tesla?, and is just as absurd/heartwarming/ridiculous as the first book. But there’s much more that’s new, and it’s not all rainbows and unicorns…


Luckily, me (Chip Collins), Pete, Nikola Tesla, Bobo, and FBI Agent Gina Phillips are here to kick its ass, and send it back to last Tuesday. Maybe. Or maybe we’ll fail, and everyone in the multiverse is doomed. (Seriously, you might want to get that underground bunker ready.) Either way, I’ve got to get home to Julie and find out… woah, I’m not about to tell you that right here in the book description! TMI.

WARNING: If you haven’t read Where the Hell is Tesla?, I apologize in advance, as you might get completely freaking lost. If you do, just call my apartment, I’m usually around, and I’ll fill you in. (If I’m not stuck in the ITA.) – Chip


Listen to the Audio (10 min):


Subscribe to the podcast on iTunes Shop the Ebook/Paperback/Audiobook on Amazon!


Read the Story (7-minute read):


Don’t Touch the Blue Stuff!

(Where the Hell is Tesla? Book 2)

Sneak Peek at the First Three Chapters

Written and narrated by Rob Dircks



Posted by Special Agent Gina Phillips
United States Federal Bureau of Investigation

The United States Federal Bureau of Investigation disavows the following collection of documents, composed by one Clarence “Chip” Collins. It is a work of fiction. As you read its pages, you will likely exclaim “That’s absurd! Completely implausible!” This is good. Keep repeating these phrases to yourself. This is what you should believe. Trust us. We’re the FBI.

Additionally, for those repeatedly requesting Room 3327 in the New Yorker Hotel in New York City, also known as the “Nikola Tesla Room” – that room is no longer available. Not because it’s been commandeered by the FBI for national security reasons, but because, um, they found rats in that room. Just that one room. Lots of rats. Huge ones. The room will be sealed until further notice. It had a terrible view anyway. The rest of the hotel is perfectly clean, no rats, and has much better views.

Finally, this fabricated document also contains a portrayal of me as a cold, angry agent with a hair-trigger temper. This couldn’t be further from the truth. In reality, I am sweet, kind, patient, and rarely discharge my firearm at deserving punk perps. Semi-rarely. Okay, yes, it happens. But like I said, they deserve it.

Please enjoy this fictional document, which spins tales of imaginary events that could never, ever happen.




“Mr. President. We need you to come with us.”

Don’t you hate when you’re having breakfast in the Oval Office, a nice fresh waffle with an egg on top, right there at the Resolute Desk, and a bunch of Secret Service agents crash in, all guns and sunglasses, and ruin it?

“President Collins. The bunker is ready.”

“It’s Chip. Come on, Artie. Just call me Chip. You want a waffle?”

“Sir. Ah, Chip, sir. We don’t have long. The Blue Juice is coming.”

The Blue Juice. Those stupid terrorists couldn’t figure out a nuclear weapon, so they stole a missile containing some Extraterrestrial Plasma Consciousness – not the catchiest name, so I’ve been calling it “Blue Juice” – and have it ready to launch from a sub heading towards the coast of Virginia. Assholes.

“Yeah, yeah. I know all about it, Artie. We’re not leaving.”


“Look. I might just be your stand-in President, but I know a thing or two about fighting the Blue Juice.”

“Sir. With all due respect…”

“Artie. I like you. You’re the best Chief of Staff a guy could ask for. And I get the continuity of government thing. I do. But do you really think I’m going to save my own ass when millions of people in D.C. could die?”

Artie rolls his eyes. He knows I love an audience, and that I can’t resist a dramatic moment.

“No, sir. Of course I don’t.”

“Good. Then get a hold of Pete. Pete Turner. And hand me that journal.”

“Sir. Chip, sir. The regulations state–“

I grab the journal from his hand, slam it down on to the desk, and open it to a blank page.

“It’s time to call Nikola Tesla.”


2. Woah.

Dear reader person,


Normally, I’d say “Shit’s crazy, don’t ask,”and just move on. Because you know how it goes in the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS. But you’re literally one page into reading this book, so I appreciate that you’re totally fucking lost.

So let me back up.

Way up.

Like all the way back to the end of the last book, when I get this email from Pete:

From: Pete Turner

To: Chip Collins

Date: October 23, 2016 1:04am

Subject: Dude


You still have your Awesome Man cape laying around?

I could use a hand.

– Pete

Now, the first time I got this email I was genuinely concerned. I mean, he’s my best friend and he’s in trouble, right? And if anything ever happened to him I’d be a basket case. But fast forward a couple of months, and it turns out he keeps sending me the same email every week, and the FBI has to forward it to me with a note that says “your friend is annoying,” because, as you know, email doesn’t work for shit in the ITA. And every time I go, all worried about him, he’s just sitting in his living room with Meg, having a beer. And he says, “Made you look.” And we get in a professional-wrestler-style brawl and he throws me out the window.


I just thought of something else.

Maybe I should back up even further.

It might have been a while since you read Where the Hell is Tesla?, or – horror of horrors – you might not have even read the first book. So you might be like, “What the hell is this guy talking about? And what kind of dickhead best friend throws you out a window?”

So you know what? I’ve got something special for you:




Yes, that’s right. I’m going to attempt, in Guinness Book of World Records fashion, to distill a fifty-three-thousand word novel into a single thought for you, requiring just one breath. First, a little dramatic hyperventilating… in… out… in… out… in… out… in… ready?

Okay, when we first met out heroes (that would be me and Pete), Chip Collins (me) was a security guard at a mothballed FBI research building, where I found the lost journal of Nikola Tesla, the amazing inventor of alternating current electricity, among lots of other amazing things, who also created something called the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS, or ITA, a portal which allowed a person possessing its lock combination (zero-zero-zero-zero) to travel through a (boring looking) hallway into all the infinite dimensions that make up the multiverse oh my god I’m getting dizzy


Woah, I almost blacked out. Guess I’m not going for the world record. Oh well. Send the World Records people home. Anyway, moving on, I talked Pete Turner (my best friend since college) into taking a little trip into this ITA thing. And you can guess what happened:

Shit instantly turned upside down.

We got stuck inside, unable to find our way home, got attacked by – and then BFFd – a furry alien we named Bobo, contacted Tesla through his copy of the lost journal (shit’s crazy, don’t ask, it just works), who was being held in a prison by an evil being named WHO, who was bent on collapsing all the infinite possible universes into a single one that he could rule with impunity, then we became superheroes in a lighter-gravity dimension where we met Meg (Pete’s fiancé, more on that later), Bobo died and was resurrected (not a Jesus metaphor, it just happened that way), we met our Alternates – versions of ourselves from other dimensions – a bunch of times, and fought alongside them in the Epic Battle For The Multiverse. Which – of course – we won.

The end.

Wow. So not in one breath, but only two paragraphs. The whole book. Boom.

Anyway, Pete and Meg now live in her dimension, they’ve reached some kind of agreement with the feds and the military, they’re engaged too, and that dimension as I said has lighter gravity, so Pete throwing me out the window is actually a total pisser. It’s like we’re in a superhero movie every time we get together – me as Awesome Man (of course) and Pete as The Brute. Like that time last month we saved the people on the plane after it skidded off the runway at LaGuardia Airport into the East River, and I was like “Damn, this dimension is cool. I think I want to live in this dimension.”

“Nah. It’s kind of a pain in the ass to do it full time, dude. Like you get asked for your autograph every five second– oh wait, you would love that shit.”

“Round-the-clock public adoration? Yes, I would love that shit very much.”

“Bad example. Whatever. Trust me, it’s not all roses. Now shut up and keep pulling, or this thing’s gonna sink.”

“You think they’ll give me another key to the city for this?”

“Don’t be an idiot. There’s only one key.”

“Dude. They gave us each one. That’s two keys right there. They probably have a stock room full of them.”

“I meant you already got your one key. One key per hero.”

“And who made that rule?”

“God, you’re such a pain in the ass.”

So yeah, it’s mostly a blast, but there’s also the breaking stuff. We try not to, but we’re always breaking expensive stuff. Like the Statue of Liberty. Do you have any idea how much new copper panels cost for that thing?

Oh, and speaking of expensive shit I can’t afford, even though the first book did okay, I didn’t see any royalties from it. Nada. Zilch. The FBI wouldn’t let me make money off of it. Can you believe that? Some bullshit national security excuse. So they put me on salary instead, I guess to throw me a bone – or more likely to keep a leash on me.


Me. Salaried. FBI.

I know, impossible. But true. Chip Collins, former low-end security guard and subsequent Master of Interdimensional Travel, is technically (though they definitely don’t like to admit it) an agent of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. You should see them when I flash my badge (literally every single time I pass one of them in the halls, it’s so badass). Rolling their eyes like I’m the biggest embarrassment to the Bureau ever. Which is total horse shit of course, seeing as I pretty much single-handedly saved the multiverse. (Okay, okay, yes, I got a ton of help. A ton.) Pete got to be an agent too, but also continue his double life as part time superhero and part time hedge fund market options risk wealth something-or-other (I never could understand in all those years what the hell he does for a living).

And then of course there’s what happened with me and Julie.


©2017 Rob Dircks



Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.