While going through some of my old possessions, I found an old bit of writing I had done. It's a very short short story, more of a micro-narrative really, hastily scrawled while waiting in line for something, if I recall. It makes reference to Conan O'Brien's perceived nemesis from his Finland special, which I suppose would date this to about 3 years ago. I should warn you, it's not particularly funny, it's ridiculously short, and doesn't make any sense at all. In fact, the only person this thing is probably of any interest to is me. But I do feel bad about not posting anything, so here's a bit of silliness.
Only once did I have the pleasure of meeting Forss Fagerstrom. It was the winter of '88, the coldest one yet recorded by the weather gypsies. As I recall, he was wearing forest green moccasins, and smoking a rather large rubber phallus. We were at the same fancy dinner party, on the occasion of Admiral Forsythe's eleventh birthday bash. Fagerstrom's eye caught mine, and for whatever reason he chose to impart some wisdom.
"Jimmy," he said, though my name was Wagsley, "Jimmy my boy, has anyone ever taught you the secret to successful banking?"
I could honestly say no one had.
"Well, the secret, dear Jimmy, is to take all of your money and fashion it into tiny paper boats. And the change, well, they can be sailors, can't they?"
I saw no reason why they couldn't, yet the entire process still confounded me. "And how does one gain returns in such a venture?" I inquired.
"Poor naive Jimmy," he ticked. "Don't you see? You send the ships out to sea, and they return from the new world with gold, and spice, and stuff."
His breath reeked of cheap brandy as he leaned forward to deliver the final word. I wasn't sure which "new world" he was talking about, so I did the only rational thing I could. I drew my revolver, pulled back the hammer, and blew out the back of his head all over the balloon animals.
In the ten years since the murder, and the resulting police shootout that claimed 18 lives, I have been able to see that his words, though profoundly stupid, do carry some wisdom. He didn't mean physically fold your money into ships. Or maybe he did, point is it's a metaphor. Probably. I'm not really sure, but then I guess I'm not as smart as Forss Fagerstrom.
He really had so much to teach us. It's a shame his life was cut tragically short by me.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Dick Shandley and the Purple Cat Conundrum
Dick Shandley marveled at the object which he now held in his hands. He slowly rotated it around, regarding it from all angles. He reflected on all the hard work he’d put into it, getting it just right, just perfect. Looking at it now, he was certain that he had succeeded. He had just rolled what might be the world’s fattest doobie. He dropped it onto his desk, eliciting a clearly audible thud. This motherfucker, he inferred, was dense. A little too dense, maybe. With a slight bit of trepidation, he picked up the object and placed the end of it in his mouth.
A few moments later, the office began to shimmer, and Dick felt his stomach start to turn as he experienced a sudden jolt, as though the world had just dropped down two and a half feet. As his eyes refocused, he found himself staring at a short haired purple cat sitting at his desk, which in turn was staring at a point approximately six inches behind Dick’s head. Dick removed the joint from his mouth and stared at it in disbelief, not least of all because he hadn’t lit it yet. The purple cat cocked its head at the white, bulging object in the strange man’s hands, wondered for exactly six tenths of a second what was supposedly so damned interesting about it, then set about systematically hunting down a passing speck of dust.
Dick Shandley, now reasonably convinced that the ends of his joint were not the least bit singed, put his mind to working his way around his next mental block, accepting that a purple cat had, thirty seconds ago, spontaneously materialized in his office. He worked out the following premises: firstly, that thirty seconds ago, his office had been completely free of cats, and second, right now there was a cat in front of him. He had no problems with either of those ideas separately, but putting them together caused his brain to just sort of lie back and think of England. He set aside for the moment the fact that the cat was purple, as that was a detail, and Dick found that details only served to slow him down. Much to the agony of his clients, Dick was a sort of big picture private eye. On his last case he had been hired to find some proof of infidelity. Realizing that his target would probably have some suspicion he was being followed, Dick instead tailed a random person. He had tried to explain to the frantic woman how this man he had photographed was a perfect sample of the human condition, and how the way he held his fork in the restaurant implied the adulterous nature of man. This was how Dick had his nose broken for the third time.
Dick looked down at the cat, which had now stretched its purple body out on his floor. At last Dick reasoned that there hadn’t been a cat there before, but there was now, and to just leave it at that. The left and right sides of his brain shook hands and agreed to never speak of it again.
So, now, on to the third and final problem: what was he going to do with this cat? Dick didn’t consider himself to be the type to own a cat, or for that matter any sort of animal, child, or houseplant that would have to depend on him for its survival. At this point, he slid the massive doobie into his coat pocket. He supposed he would have to take it to the animal shelter.
Dick tried to find a box to put the cat into, but the only one he could find was the one his Blackadder DVDs came in, and that obviously wasn’t big enough. In the end he would up just wrapping it up in a bundle of old towels.
On the bus, a man named Lyle Davitian sat across from Dick. For some reason, something about this man with his ugly green coat and his pile of smelly towels caught Lyle’s attention. He wondered why the man had cut so many holes into his towels. As he took all of this in, a small purple head popped out of the end of it. The man quickly shoved it back into the bundle. “A purple cat!” Lyle shouted with amusement. He looked around; everyone on the bus seemed very annoyed with him, and the man with the purple cat simply shook his head at him slowly. When he got home that night, he told his wife, “You know, I saw a purple cat on the bus today.” She said nothing, so he repeated it, a bit louder this time. “That’s nice, dear,” she told him. “I don’t think you heard me properly, honey,” he returned, now getting somewhat cross, “I said it was a PURPLE CAT.” This caused his wife to begin to heave a long sigh, one that didn’t end until they were divorced six months later. Years down the line, he would still tell the story as he drank alone in a different bar each night. “It was that damn cat, it was the start of it all,” he would tell the bartender, “If it wasn’t for the cat, everything would still be like it used to.” Finally, one night Lyle Davitian’s ex-wife came home to find her ex-husband hanging from the rafters of her bedroom by his neck. She collapsed to the floor, her breath too shallow to even afford her full sobs. The only sound that could be heard was the gentle sway of the rope, back and forth. Back and forth.
Dick Shandley stepped off the bus, annoyed at the scene that idiot had caused. He walked into the animal shelter and presented them with the cat that had appeared on his desk. “Oh, not another purple cat,” said the man at the front desk.
“Excuse me?” asked Dick. “What do you mean, ‘another one?’”
“We’ve been getting purple cats in all week, we’re up to our arses in purples cats.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” the man replied, “you look back there, you’ll see nothing but purple cats. Well, we’ve got a couple of hairless ones, and possibly a beagle too, but mostly it’s just purple bloody cats.”
“I see.” This had caught Dick’s attention. Whereas before the color of the cat had been a trifling detail, a matter for the universe to work out on its own, now it represented a pattern. A very small cog in Dick’s brain had moved a quarter turn to the right, filling him with a new vigor. Where he had simply given up before, there was now something in the works far too engaging for him to ignore: an investigation.
“How long has this been going on?” Dick asked the confusingly British man behind the desk.
“Couple of months,” the man replied. “We couldn’t believe it at first, a purple cat. We thought somebody must have dyed it that, but over the next couple of weeks we noticed that the fur was actually growing in purple. It was around that time that someone brought in another one. Boy, if you thought one purple cat caused a commotion, you should have seen the stir that two raised. Of course, within a few weeks they’d be bringing them in every day, and before you know it we’re up to our—”
“Arses, yes, I know,” Dick interrupted. “Was there anything else unusual?”
“Well, now that you mention it, a few days ago this man comes in here asking about purple cats. He wants to know if we had any, or if we’ve seen any. I told him I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
At the sound of this, Dick increased his rate of blinking by about six hundred percent for a few seconds. “Why on earth would you tell him that?” he asked.
“Well, what would you do? A man coming in out of the blue, asking questions about purple cats all of a sudden. Doesn’t that seem a bit suspicious?”
“Well,” offered Dick, “isn’t that what I’m doing right now?”
“Yes, well, you’ve got an honest face.” This comment surprised Dick more than anything that had happened to him this entire day.
“Here,” said the man, offering Dick a business card. “He gave me this, told me to call him if I found any purple cats. Maybe you can make sense of this whole kafuffle.”
Dick looked at the business card. It said, “PurpaCat Industries,” and it had an address and telephone number. On the back of the card was scribbled the name, “Jared Neely.” Dick thanked the man for his information, and set out on his way.
On the bus, Dick was seated next to an incredibly hairy man wearing a sleeveless shirt with his head buried in a newspaper. Every time the bus hit a bump, he could feel this man’s thick, bushy arm hair brushing against him, like he was being scrubbed. He finally got off the bus, really skeeved out and contemplating what bad day it was for bus travel.
Inside the PurpaCat Industries headquarters, Dick had only to peel back a layer of towels in order to get a private meeting with Mr. Neely. When Dick entered the office, the first thing he saw was a young man in an business suit, fresh out of college, or possibly high school, who was obviously scared shitless over the amount of responsibility he had. The youth directed him to sit down.
“So, Mr... Shandley? What brings you to PurpaCat?”
“Well, Mr. Neely, I’d like to know what the deal is with the purple cats.”
“Yeah, uh huh, sure, well, you see the thing is, we’re kind of trying to keep the whole purple cat thing under wraps, so I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t, you know, tell anyone about all this.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dick blustered. “Mum’s the word, I won’t tell a soul. Now spill it.”
“Well, you see,” Jared stammered, “there’s kind of this whole thing, with like the universe and shit, oh, sorry, I mean stuff.”
“Oh no,” said Dick, “shit is fine. Continue.”
“See, whenever something goes wrong with the universe, like someone does something they’re not supposed to do, like go faster than the speed of light or kill their grandfather or something, it makes a purple cat appear. We don’t really know why.”
“Wait, so if I went out right now and killed my grandfather, it would make a purple cat?”
“No, man, you have to like, do it before your parents are born, or something.”
“Oh,” said Dick, “you mean like a paradox.”
“That was the word I was trying to remember! Exactly, so if you cause one of those paradox things, poof! Purple cat. Oh, also some other bad stuff happens too, but the cat is the first sign.”
“Other bad stuff?”
“Like the universe implodes or some shit, I don’t know, there’s some other agency that handles that kind of stuff, around here we mostly just gather up the cats.”
“So what you’re saying, is that because I have this cat right here, the universe is in danger?”
The kid thought about this for a second. “Oh, yeah, good point. You should probably take it to them and get that straightened out.”
Dick had already been to two different places with this cat today, and the idea of getting back on the bus did not appeal to him. “I don’t really have that kind of time, isn’t there something you can do about it here?”
“Um, okay, I guess. What were you doing when the cat appeared?”
“Well, I was in my office, and I was—” In a startling moment of clarity, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his amazing mega-spliff.
“Holy bejeezus!” shouted Jared. “That’s the biggest damn doobie I’ve ever seen! No wonder you broke the space time continuum with that thing!”
“Seriously? I may have just destroyed the universe by rolling out a joint?”
“Hey, there are some things you just don’t fuck around with man. But hey, what are we doing? We’ve got to destroy that thing!” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Um, with fire! Over the course of the next hour or so. And we should probably open the window.”
Dick held it up to the light, the most important joint in the universe. “Well,” he said solemnly, “if that’s what we have to do.”
And that’s how Dick Shandley saved the universe by smoking out with a guy named Jared.
THE END
AND HERE'S A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR THE KIDDIES:
A few moments later, the office began to shimmer, and Dick felt his stomach start to turn as he experienced a sudden jolt, as though the world had just dropped down two and a half feet. As his eyes refocused, he found himself staring at a short haired purple cat sitting at his desk, which in turn was staring at a point approximately six inches behind Dick’s head. Dick removed the joint from his mouth and stared at it in disbelief, not least of all because he hadn’t lit it yet. The purple cat cocked its head at the white, bulging object in the strange man’s hands, wondered for exactly six tenths of a second what was supposedly so damned interesting about it, then set about systematically hunting down a passing speck of dust.
Dick Shandley, now reasonably convinced that the ends of his joint were not the least bit singed, put his mind to working his way around his next mental block, accepting that a purple cat had, thirty seconds ago, spontaneously materialized in his office. He worked out the following premises: firstly, that thirty seconds ago, his office had been completely free of cats, and second, right now there was a cat in front of him. He had no problems with either of those ideas separately, but putting them together caused his brain to just sort of lie back and think of England. He set aside for the moment the fact that the cat was purple, as that was a detail, and Dick found that details only served to slow him down. Much to the agony of his clients, Dick was a sort of big picture private eye. On his last case he had been hired to find some proof of infidelity. Realizing that his target would probably have some suspicion he was being followed, Dick instead tailed a random person. He had tried to explain to the frantic woman how this man he had photographed was a perfect sample of the human condition, and how the way he held his fork in the restaurant implied the adulterous nature of man. This was how Dick had his nose broken for the third time.
Dick looked down at the cat, which had now stretched its purple body out on his floor. At last Dick reasoned that there hadn’t been a cat there before, but there was now, and to just leave it at that. The left and right sides of his brain shook hands and agreed to never speak of it again.
So, now, on to the third and final problem: what was he going to do with this cat? Dick didn’t consider himself to be the type to own a cat, or for that matter any sort of animal, child, or houseplant that would have to depend on him for its survival. At this point, he slid the massive doobie into his coat pocket. He supposed he would have to take it to the animal shelter.
Dick tried to find a box to put the cat into, but the only one he could find was the one his Blackadder DVDs came in, and that obviously wasn’t big enough. In the end he would up just wrapping it up in a bundle of old towels.
On the bus, a man named Lyle Davitian sat across from Dick. For some reason, something about this man with his ugly green coat and his pile of smelly towels caught Lyle’s attention. He wondered why the man had cut so many holes into his towels. As he took all of this in, a small purple head popped out of the end of it. The man quickly shoved it back into the bundle. “A purple cat!” Lyle shouted with amusement. He looked around; everyone on the bus seemed very annoyed with him, and the man with the purple cat simply shook his head at him slowly. When he got home that night, he told his wife, “You know, I saw a purple cat on the bus today.” She said nothing, so he repeated it, a bit louder this time. “That’s nice, dear,” she told him. “I don’t think you heard me properly, honey,” he returned, now getting somewhat cross, “I said it was a PURPLE CAT.” This caused his wife to begin to heave a long sigh, one that didn’t end until they were divorced six months later. Years down the line, he would still tell the story as he drank alone in a different bar each night. “It was that damn cat, it was the start of it all,” he would tell the bartender, “If it wasn’t for the cat, everything would still be like it used to.” Finally, one night Lyle Davitian’s ex-wife came home to find her ex-husband hanging from the rafters of her bedroom by his neck. She collapsed to the floor, her breath too shallow to even afford her full sobs. The only sound that could be heard was the gentle sway of the rope, back and forth. Back and forth.
Dick Shandley stepped off the bus, annoyed at the scene that idiot had caused. He walked into the animal shelter and presented them with the cat that had appeared on his desk. “Oh, not another purple cat,” said the man at the front desk.
“Excuse me?” asked Dick. “What do you mean, ‘another one?’”
“We’ve been getting purple cats in all week, we’re up to our arses in purples cats.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” the man replied, “you look back there, you’ll see nothing but purple cats. Well, we’ve got a couple of hairless ones, and possibly a beagle too, but mostly it’s just purple bloody cats.”
“I see.” This had caught Dick’s attention. Whereas before the color of the cat had been a trifling detail, a matter for the universe to work out on its own, now it represented a pattern. A very small cog in Dick’s brain had moved a quarter turn to the right, filling him with a new vigor. Where he had simply given up before, there was now something in the works far too engaging for him to ignore: an investigation.
“How long has this been going on?” Dick asked the confusingly British man behind the desk.
“Couple of months,” the man replied. “We couldn’t believe it at first, a purple cat. We thought somebody must have dyed it that, but over the next couple of weeks we noticed that the fur was actually growing in purple. It was around that time that someone brought in another one. Boy, if you thought one purple cat caused a commotion, you should have seen the stir that two raised. Of course, within a few weeks they’d be bringing them in every day, and before you know it we’re up to our—”
“Arses, yes, I know,” Dick interrupted. “Was there anything else unusual?”
“Well, now that you mention it, a few days ago this man comes in here asking about purple cats. He wants to know if we had any, or if we’ve seen any. I told him I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
At the sound of this, Dick increased his rate of blinking by about six hundred percent for a few seconds. “Why on earth would you tell him that?” he asked.
“Well, what would you do? A man coming in out of the blue, asking questions about purple cats all of a sudden. Doesn’t that seem a bit suspicious?”
“Well,” offered Dick, “isn’t that what I’m doing right now?”
“Yes, well, you’ve got an honest face.” This comment surprised Dick more than anything that had happened to him this entire day.
“Here,” said the man, offering Dick a business card. “He gave me this, told me to call him if I found any purple cats. Maybe you can make sense of this whole kafuffle.”
Dick looked at the business card. It said, “PurpaCat Industries,” and it had an address and telephone number. On the back of the card was scribbled the name, “Jared Neely.” Dick thanked the man for his information, and set out on his way.
On the bus, Dick was seated next to an incredibly hairy man wearing a sleeveless shirt with his head buried in a newspaper. Every time the bus hit a bump, he could feel this man’s thick, bushy arm hair brushing against him, like he was being scrubbed. He finally got off the bus, really skeeved out and contemplating what bad day it was for bus travel.
Inside the PurpaCat Industries headquarters, Dick had only to peel back a layer of towels in order to get a private meeting with Mr. Neely. When Dick entered the office, the first thing he saw was a young man in an business suit, fresh out of college, or possibly high school, who was obviously scared shitless over the amount of responsibility he had. The youth directed him to sit down.
“So, Mr... Shandley? What brings you to PurpaCat?”
“Well, Mr. Neely, I’d like to know what the deal is with the purple cats.”
“Yeah, uh huh, sure, well, you see the thing is, we’re kind of trying to keep the whole purple cat thing under wraps, so I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t, you know, tell anyone about all this.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dick blustered. “Mum’s the word, I won’t tell a soul. Now spill it.”
“Well, you see,” Jared stammered, “there’s kind of this whole thing, with like the universe and shit, oh, sorry, I mean stuff.”
“Oh no,” said Dick, “shit is fine. Continue.”
“See, whenever something goes wrong with the universe, like someone does something they’re not supposed to do, like go faster than the speed of light or kill their grandfather or something, it makes a purple cat appear. We don’t really know why.”
“Wait, so if I went out right now and killed my grandfather, it would make a purple cat?”
“No, man, you have to like, do it before your parents are born, or something.”
“Oh,” said Dick, “you mean like a paradox.”
“That was the word I was trying to remember! Exactly, so if you cause one of those paradox things, poof! Purple cat. Oh, also some other bad stuff happens too, but the cat is the first sign.”
“Other bad stuff?”
“Like the universe implodes or some shit, I don’t know, there’s some other agency that handles that kind of stuff, around here we mostly just gather up the cats.”
“So what you’re saying, is that because I have this cat right here, the universe is in danger?”
The kid thought about this for a second. “Oh, yeah, good point. You should probably take it to them and get that straightened out.”
Dick had already been to two different places with this cat today, and the idea of getting back on the bus did not appeal to him. “I don’t really have that kind of time, isn’t there something you can do about it here?”
“Um, okay, I guess. What were you doing when the cat appeared?”
“Well, I was in my office, and I was—” In a startling moment of clarity, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his amazing mega-spliff.
“Holy bejeezus!” shouted Jared. “That’s the biggest damn doobie I’ve ever seen! No wonder you broke the space time continuum with that thing!”
“Seriously? I may have just destroyed the universe by rolling out a joint?”
“Hey, there are some things you just don’t fuck around with man. But hey, what are we doing? We’ve got to destroy that thing!” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Um, with fire! Over the course of the next hour or so. And we should probably open the window.”
Dick held it up to the light, the most important joint in the universe. “Well,” he said solemnly, “if that’s what we have to do.”
And that’s how Dick Shandley saved the universe by smoking out with a guy named Jared.
THE END
AND HERE'S A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR THE KIDDIES:
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Writer's Journey: Part 3 - Journey's End
Well. It's been three weeks, and here we are. I've held a lot of jobs in these past three weeks, and made several attempts at what those of the writing persuasion call "the Life." I tried writing for a nature magazine, but my article, "Marmots: the Silent Strangler of Small Children" received so much negative feedback that they had to let me go. So too was met my canceled-far-too-soon column in Highlights Magazine, "the Anarchist's Cookbook for Tots." Perhaps a more moderate success was my attempt at an advice column, entitled "Eli Says Shut the Fuck Up." Because of the profanity in the title and spaced every four words throughout the text, it was only picked up by the Seattle Sanguinerican; and though it received positive feedback from all four of the publication's subscribers, I unfortunately can't pay my bills with the rendered payment of "all our hopes and best wishes, man." And of course, the less said about my travelogue of the Mediterranean that landed me in front of the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal, the better.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A Writer's Journey: Part 1
There comes a time in a person’s life when he has to let go of the comfortable, peaceful life, and accomplish something truly great. I feel this time has come for me, to become what I’ve always suspected I’d become someday, a professional writer.
There are only two things required to become a professional writer: A kickass blog (check) and a pair of eyeglasses (check and check). As you can see, I possess both of these things, and am therefore, a professional writer waiting to happen. Well, then I shall not struggle against inevitability for much longer, and give in to my true destiny.
Like most people with spectacles and a blog, I have of course written a novel. This is no big secret, for if you have been around writers for long, you will find that those who have not been published yet have written exactly one novel. Perhaps you will be discussing a type of fine quiche, and they will mention that the specific quiche you mentioned just happens to be the quiche of choice of the main character of their novel. Or maybe you will be talking about Johnny Carson, and your writer friend may say, “Johnny Carson, say, he has hands, doesn’t he? You know who else has hands? The characters in my novel.”
But, dear reader, I am not here to bore you with the details and structure of hands, for I am sure there are less mundane, and less retarded aspects of my book that you would like to hear about. My novel is entitled, “Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist, in the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict.” Hopefully you can glean much of the story’s plot from the title, namely that the main theme of the story is the international intrigue and espionage over Estonia’s coveted phosphorite minerals. In this setting, Jake Headstrong, a bespectacled professional writer and soldier of fortune with nerves of steel, biceps of rough, tanned leather, and a kickass blog, is called in by the United States government to solve a crisis brewing in Eastern Europe. The reader is then invited to thrill in the escapades of Jake Headstrong’s straightforward, take no prisoners approach to the keeping of peace and the kicking of asses.
It would, of course, be quite impossible to publish all 619 chapters, 4,890 pages worth of action, adventure, and romance to this blog, not to mention that someone could easily steal my work and pass it off as their own. But then, it would be equally cruel to deprive you of it entirely, so in the spirit of compromise I have agreed to post a sample chapter for your enjoyment. Be aware, however, that this is one of the slower chapters, giving Jake a chance to catch his breath after a huge action scene. It is presented here merely to whet your appetite, and prepare you for the excitement ahead should you choose to buy a copy of my book (forthcoming).
In the meantime, set back, and enjoy this sample from:
Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist
in
the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict
Chapter 62 - National Security
“You’re safe for now, Mr. President,” Jake Headstrong said to the president. “Those ninjas won’t bother you now.” The President awoke to find himself laying on the sofa in the Oval Office. Jake Headstrong turned away from the President and quietly kissed his two fists, Rapscallion and Haymaker. Before turning back to the President, Rapscallion grabbed a huge cigar from his pocket, and Haymaker obliged him with a light.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Headstrong,” the President blubbered. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m so sorry, I’m just not strong enough to run this country!”
Before he could comprehend what was happening, Haymaker was slamming into the President’s chin, lifting him off the ground. As the President landed, he heard Jake Headstrong’s gruff voice shouting at him, “Snap out of it Mr. President! Fine, if you won’t run this country, then I will.”
Without warning, Jake picked up the red phone on the desk, and shouted into it, “now hear this! This is Jake Headstrong, and I’ll be in charge of things from now on.” He slammed the phone down without noticing the confused voice of the Russian diplomat on the other end. From there he marched directly into the War Room.
The men inside the War Room did not know who this man was, but they stood at attention as soon as he entered. Jake Headstrong took one look the screen, and said, “this situation in Iran is getting ridiculous. Let’s just bomb them.”
The Secretary of Defense sheepishly raised his hand. “Um, sir,” he said, “you want to bomb the whole country of Iran?”
“That’s what I said,” Jake Headstrong bellowed back at him, “and when I say I want something done, that means I want it done now.”
“But sir, the sheer amount of explosives, not to mention the diplomatic recours--" The Secretary’s protest was interrupted by Rapscallion entering his skull through his right temple, and exiting through the back of his skull. “I am now also the Secretary of Defense, as well as the President,” Jake declared. The rest of the cabinet silently nodded in agreement.
Jake Headstrong’s next order of business was to address the United Nations. “I want Marine One in the air right now,” he shouted at someone whose name he didn’t know. “Sir,” the frightened voice came back, “Marine One is fueled and ready to go. It can take off as soon as you arrive.”
“God damn it man, there’s no time! Get that bird in the air now!” As the aide, or whatever he was, stuttered into the radio for the helicopter to take off. Jake Headstrong, meanwhile, was already climbing the stairs to the White House roof, taking them six at a time. Bursting his way onto the roof, he sprinted toward the rising helicopter. With a majestic leap, Haymaker and Rapscallion soon found themselves wrapped around the landing gear of Marine One. Jake Headstrong pulled himself up into the helicopter. “Pilot,” he said, “I need to get to UN Headquarters, and make the post be haste.” The pilot slowly turned around, revealing himself to be AN 800 POUND GRIZZLY BEAR!
Using its ability to run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour, the bear rushed at Jake Headstrong at a rate of 38 kilometers per hour. It swiped a mighty paw at Jake, tearing his shirt off and leaving a gigantic oozing red claw mark across his chest. Jake, for his part, did not seem to notice this. Instead he wound up his arm, and planted a firm Rapscallion right in the hairy beast’s mouth, knocking all of its teeth out. The bear fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, noble creature,” Jake said soothingly, “I’ll make it quick.” He quickly straddled the great beast, and wrapped his arms around its head, solemnly snapping its neck.
It was then that Jake Headstrong noticed the chopper was losing altitude...
There are only two things required to become a professional writer: A kickass blog (check) and a pair of eyeglasses (check and check). As you can see, I possess both of these things, and am therefore, a professional writer waiting to happen. Well, then I shall not struggle against inevitability for much longer, and give in to my true destiny.
Like most people with spectacles and a blog, I have of course written a novel. This is no big secret, for if you have been around writers for long, you will find that those who have not been published yet have written exactly one novel. Perhaps you will be discussing a type of fine quiche, and they will mention that the specific quiche you mentioned just happens to be the quiche of choice of the main character of their novel. Or maybe you will be talking about Johnny Carson, and your writer friend may say, “Johnny Carson, say, he has hands, doesn’t he? You know who else has hands? The characters in my novel.”
But, dear reader, I am not here to bore you with the details and structure of hands, for I am sure there are less mundane, and less retarded aspects of my book that you would like to hear about. My novel is entitled, “Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist, in the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict.” Hopefully you can glean much of the story’s plot from the title, namely that the main theme of the story is the international intrigue and espionage over Estonia’s coveted phosphorite minerals. In this setting, Jake Headstrong, a bespectacled professional writer and soldier of fortune with nerves of steel, biceps of rough, tanned leather, and a kickass blog, is called in by the United States government to solve a crisis brewing in Eastern Europe. The reader is then invited to thrill in the escapades of Jake Headstrong’s straightforward, take no prisoners approach to the keeping of peace and the kicking of asses.
It would, of course, be quite impossible to publish all 619 chapters, 4,890 pages worth of action, adventure, and romance to this blog, not to mention that someone could easily steal my work and pass it off as their own. But then, it would be equally cruel to deprive you of it entirely, so in the spirit of compromise I have agreed to post a sample chapter for your enjoyment. Be aware, however, that this is one of the slower chapters, giving Jake a chance to catch his breath after a huge action scene. It is presented here merely to whet your appetite, and prepare you for the excitement ahead should you choose to buy a copy of my book (forthcoming).
In the meantime, set back, and enjoy this sample from:
Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist
in
the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict
Chapter 62 - National Security
“You’re safe for now, Mr. President,” Jake Headstrong said to the president. “Those ninjas won’t bother you now.” The President awoke to find himself laying on the sofa in the Oval Office. Jake Headstrong turned away from the President and quietly kissed his two fists, Rapscallion and Haymaker. Before turning back to the President, Rapscallion grabbed a huge cigar from his pocket, and Haymaker obliged him with a light.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Headstrong,” the President blubbered. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m so sorry, I’m just not strong enough to run this country!”
Before he could comprehend what was happening, Haymaker was slamming into the President’s chin, lifting him off the ground. As the President landed, he heard Jake Headstrong’s gruff voice shouting at him, “Snap out of it Mr. President! Fine, if you won’t run this country, then I will.”
Without warning, Jake picked up the red phone on the desk, and shouted into it, “now hear this! This is Jake Headstrong, and I’ll be in charge of things from now on.” He slammed the phone down without noticing the confused voice of the Russian diplomat on the other end. From there he marched directly into the War Room.
The men inside the War Room did not know who this man was, but they stood at attention as soon as he entered. Jake Headstrong took one look the screen, and said, “this situation in Iran is getting ridiculous. Let’s just bomb them.”
The Secretary of Defense sheepishly raised his hand. “Um, sir,” he said, “you want to bomb the whole country of Iran?”
“That’s what I said,” Jake Headstrong bellowed back at him, “and when I say I want something done, that means I want it done now.”
“But sir, the sheer amount of explosives, not to mention the diplomatic recours--" The Secretary’s protest was interrupted by Rapscallion entering his skull through his right temple, and exiting through the back of his skull. “I am now also the Secretary of Defense, as well as the President,” Jake declared. The rest of the cabinet silently nodded in agreement.
Jake Headstrong’s next order of business was to address the United Nations. “I want Marine One in the air right now,” he shouted at someone whose name he didn’t know. “Sir,” the frightened voice came back, “Marine One is fueled and ready to go. It can take off as soon as you arrive.”
“God damn it man, there’s no time! Get that bird in the air now!” As the aide, or whatever he was, stuttered into the radio for the helicopter to take off. Jake Headstrong, meanwhile, was already climbing the stairs to the White House roof, taking them six at a time. Bursting his way onto the roof, he sprinted toward the rising helicopter. With a majestic leap, Haymaker and Rapscallion soon found themselves wrapped around the landing gear of Marine One. Jake Headstrong pulled himself up into the helicopter. “Pilot,” he said, “I need to get to UN Headquarters, and make the post be haste.” The pilot slowly turned around, revealing himself to be AN 800 POUND GRIZZLY BEAR!
Using its ability to run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour, the bear rushed at Jake Headstrong at a rate of 38 kilometers per hour. It swiped a mighty paw at Jake, tearing his shirt off and leaving a gigantic oozing red claw mark across his chest. Jake, for his part, did not seem to notice this. Instead he wound up his arm, and planted a firm Rapscallion right in the hairy beast’s mouth, knocking all of its teeth out. The bear fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, noble creature,” Jake said soothingly, “I’ll make it quick.” He quickly straddled the great beast, and wrapped his arms around its head, solemnly snapping its neck.
It was then that Jake Headstrong noticed the chopper was losing altitude...
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Dick Shandley and the Altamont Divide
Dick Shandley was an unassuming man. He made it a point never to judge people. Never to think good or ill of them or their choices. That wasn’t his job. His job was to insert himself into their lives and expose them as liars and frauds. Dick was a private investigator.
Because of his unassuming nature, he regarded the nervous little man sitting in his office with polite detachment. So what if his eyes had the unsettling quality of never really settling on one thing, instead ceaselessly darting around the room, like a staccato metronome set on “crazy?” Dick knew that this behavior usually indicated that the speaker was lying, just like the beads of sweat at the mans brow, the nervous shuffling of his feet, and the fact that he was wringing his hands so hard he could have crushed walnuts into diamonds. But because he was a man of an unassuming sensibility, he ignored all of this. He ignored, but he also kept his hand on the gun in his pocket.
The man in the chair was in his 50s, with an actively receding hairline and large, thick glasses. What was left of his hair was black, too black, and greasy. He was wearing a dark-colored suit that he seemed to have borrowed from someone two sizes larger than him, and the one thing that bugged Dick was that one of his socks was a slightly darker shade of brown than the other. He jotted down a quick note on his notepad, “Investigate socks.”
“And that’s when the trouble started,” the man said. Dick nodded his head. He wasn’t actually paying attention to what the man was saying, because he was too busy writing down the sock comment, but he knew if he asked him to repeat it, it would hurt the image of his unassuming nature. So he acted as though he had been paying attention all along, and asked the man to continue.
“I trust you know of the incident on the Altamont Speedway on December 6, 1969?” asked the man.
“Of course,” replied Dick, “Hell’s Angels, a handful dead, several injured. It was the end of free love, ‘the day the music died.’”
“Well spoken. Well, as I’m sure you know, the fortieth anniversary of the event is coming up soon, two weeks from now, in fact, and as it gets closer the… incidents have started occurring more often.”
Incidents? Dick wondered what the hell he could mean by incidents. If only he had paid attention earlier. He looked into the man’s eyes for some sort of clue, but they refused to meet his, instead continuing to dance around the room. As he watched, he noticed that the mans eyebrows almost came together to join into a single brow, save for a perfectly circular patch of bare skin in the center. This was interesting, he would have to write this down. He did so, and then looked up again at his client.
“--and then they just vanish. So, Mr. Shandley, what do you think?”
Shit, he had done it again. He would have to continue to fake his way through the conversation.
“Uh, first why don’t you tell me what you think?”
“Well, as I mentioned before, I’m not an expert on this sort of thing, but as I understand it, spirits can be drawn to areas of strong emotional events.”
Ghosts! Aha!
Dick breathed a sigh of relief, because now he knew what the case was all about. The paranormal was something of a specialty of his. Most of his cases were paranormal in origin, a decision he had made because they were the easiest cases he had ever gotten. Ninety percent of the time, he could simply pull out an old walkman he had glued some aluminum foil to, wave it around, say some spooky things and then declare the apparition evicted, and collect his fee. The other ten percent, well, those required some quick thinking.
“So you want me to head out to Altamont to hunt some ghosts, right?”
“Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it, but yes.”
“I can be on a plane tonight.” Dick leapt to his feet, shook the man’s hand, grabbed his hat and coat and rushed out the door. The man was left standing in Dick’s office, alone and confused. He wondered if Dick had forgotten to lock the door, but looking around, realized that there was not anything worth stealing. Once he had waited long enough to be sure that Shandley wasn’t coming back, he too walked out the door.
---
Dick Shandley arrived at the Altamont Speedway early in the morning, to make sure it was empty. He didn’t want a lot of people around to wonder what it was he was looking for. Actually, Dick wasn’t so sure himself what he was looking for, but he knew he was looking for something, and that set his mind at ease.
He remembered his client saying something about people going missing, but he wasn’t really sure how to check that out. Dick didn’t trust the police, and it was too early for the library to be open to check the newspapers. Well, if he couldn’t follow his only lead, he would have to create one himself. He turned his attention toward the only other person he could find, a man half-heartedly pushing a broom around.
“Hey, buddy,” he shouted, “you know anything about these disappearances?”
“Yeah, my brother disappeared last week!”
That was convenient.
“Anything you can tell me about his disappearance?”
The man moved closer to him. “Yeah, it happened right over there.” He pointed at a small empty space between two portable toilets.
“What do you mean it happened over there?”
“Well, I saw it. He was standing over there, then there was a flash, and then he wasn’t standing there no more.”
“And the place he was standing, it was that little nook between the port-a-potties?”
“That’s it.”
“Why was he standing there?” Dick rightly asked.
The man shrugged. “Derek was always fond of tight, smelly places.” Dick could have used this opportunity to make a crude joke at the man’s expense, but he refrained, instead thanking him for his time.
Dick quickly worked his way into the small gap, wedging himself into a very stinky crevice. Realizing the impact of what he was doing, but unable to come up with a suitable witticism, he simply muttered the word “anus” under his breath. The moment he spoke it, he was instantly blinded by a bright light, and he felt his stomach pulled sharply downward. Before he knew it he was falling freely, surrounded by total darkness. This was particularly surprising, as he had still been trying to come up with poop jokes, and was having a little trouble processing this all.
Before long, the falling stopped, and Dick’s eyes had to readjust to the white room that had formed around him. The first thing he noticed was the eerie quality of the walls, if you could call them that, because they did not seem to have any substance, just endless white, stretching off into the distance. He also was not sure what he was standing on, as there was really no discernable floor. The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone.
Standing near him was a silver-haired man wearing a dark suit. The suit, like the man, had something of a timeless style about it. It had no buttons, yet that did not stop it from remaining firmly closed. An odd thought entered Dick’s head, that it was as though the suit had evolved beyond the need for buttons. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but that was unmistakably the impression he got. The man seemed young, monochrome hair aside, yet there was an ancient and knowing quality about his eyes.
“Good evening, Mr. Shandley,” said the man. His voice was soft and reassuring, yet there was a kind of menace there too, like the translation of a nightmare. “It was very nice of you to visit speak the ancient word so you could visit me.”
Dick was curious about how the man knew his name, but there was one thing he was even more curious about. “The ancient word is ‘ANUS?’”
“Oh yes, you see I was imprisoned here long ago in this place, the Trilogic Dimension. Those who trapped me here sealed the rift with a word that they knew nobody would ever say. The most unpleasant word they could think of.”
“Well, apparently they fucked up. After all, I said ‘anus’ and I’m guessing all those other people who I think might have gone missing, maybe. Right?”
“Indeed, you are correct, Mr. Shandley. These others you speak of, they became my prisoners. You see, I am the Game Master, and the only way out of this place is to defeat me in a game of skill!”
Shandley let out a deep laugh. “Are you serious? The Game Master? Did you come up with that name in your parents’ basement?”
“Fine. My name is Steve, okay? Are you happy? To leave this place you must defeat the ancient and powerful Steve.”
“So to get out of here I have to play Dungeons and Dragons with the Great Steve?”
Steve laughed. “If you’ll recall, I said we would play a game of skill.” Steve snapped his fingers, and suddenly a table appeared, with what appeared to be a chess board with triangular spaces, and a sawed off shotgun next to it.
“The game,” declared Steve, “is known as pan-dimensional shotgun chess. The rules are similar to standard chess, except each space has a light component, and a dark component. This affects which pieces can be captured, and when. Also, the knight moves six spaces instead of the standard five, the queen can only capture while moving diagonally, and the bishop must change between light and dark configurations on every turn. Do you understand?” Dick did not understand.
“Don’t worry,” Steve continued, “either you will pick it up when we start playing, or you will lose and be trapped here forever. Another thing to be aware of is that at the end of each turn, you will be transported to a sub-dimension where you must face a challenge of both wits and physical ability. Try not to die during these, because they can be quite dangerous. Finally, you will notice the shotgun on the table. This can be a great asset to you, but be aware you can only use it once, so make it count. In order to use the shotgun...”
He did not finish, because at this point Dick picked up the shotgun and fired it into Steve’s chest, killing him instantly. As soon as Steve’s bloody corpse hit the ground, a rope was lowered from the sky. Dick climbed it, and soon found himself back at the Speedway.
Dick Shandley wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but then again that would be an assumption, and Dick Shandley was an unassuming man. He hadn’t found the missing people, and he wasn’t even sure that more wouldn’t wind up missing. But then, Dick knew that chasing perfection never led to anything but madness. There were just some mysteries better left unsolved. With that, Dick made his way to a little restaurant to get a bowl of clam chowder, and then returned to his hotel one last time to steal the sheets before catching the next flight home. It was a good day.
Because of his unassuming nature, he regarded the nervous little man sitting in his office with polite detachment. So what if his eyes had the unsettling quality of never really settling on one thing, instead ceaselessly darting around the room, like a staccato metronome set on “crazy?” Dick knew that this behavior usually indicated that the speaker was lying, just like the beads of sweat at the mans brow, the nervous shuffling of his feet, and the fact that he was wringing his hands so hard he could have crushed walnuts into diamonds. But because he was a man of an unassuming sensibility, he ignored all of this. He ignored, but he also kept his hand on the gun in his pocket.
The man in the chair was in his 50s, with an actively receding hairline and large, thick glasses. What was left of his hair was black, too black, and greasy. He was wearing a dark-colored suit that he seemed to have borrowed from someone two sizes larger than him, and the one thing that bugged Dick was that one of his socks was a slightly darker shade of brown than the other. He jotted down a quick note on his notepad, “Investigate socks.”
“And that’s when the trouble started,” the man said. Dick nodded his head. He wasn’t actually paying attention to what the man was saying, because he was too busy writing down the sock comment, but he knew if he asked him to repeat it, it would hurt the image of his unassuming nature. So he acted as though he had been paying attention all along, and asked the man to continue.
“I trust you know of the incident on the Altamont Speedway on December 6, 1969?” asked the man.
“Of course,” replied Dick, “Hell’s Angels, a handful dead, several injured. It was the end of free love, ‘the day the music died.’”
“Well spoken. Well, as I’m sure you know, the fortieth anniversary of the event is coming up soon, two weeks from now, in fact, and as it gets closer the… incidents have started occurring more often.”
Incidents? Dick wondered what the hell he could mean by incidents. If only he had paid attention earlier. He looked into the man’s eyes for some sort of clue, but they refused to meet his, instead continuing to dance around the room. As he watched, he noticed that the mans eyebrows almost came together to join into a single brow, save for a perfectly circular patch of bare skin in the center. This was interesting, he would have to write this down. He did so, and then looked up again at his client.
“--and then they just vanish. So, Mr. Shandley, what do you think?”
Shit, he had done it again. He would have to continue to fake his way through the conversation.
“Uh, first why don’t you tell me what you think?”
“Well, as I mentioned before, I’m not an expert on this sort of thing, but as I understand it, spirits can be drawn to areas of strong emotional events.”
Ghosts! Aha!
Dick breathed a sigh of relief, because now he knew what the case was all about. The paranormal was something of a specialty of his. Most of his cases were paranormal in origin, a decision he had made because they were the easiest cases he had ever gotten. Ninety percent of the time, he could simply pull out an old walkman he had glued some aluminum foil to, wave it around, say some spooky things and then declare the apparition evicted, and collect his fee. The other ten percent, well, those required some quick thinking.
“So you want me to head out to Altamont to hunt some ghosts, right?”
“Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it, but yes.”
“I can be on a plane tonight.” Dick leapt to his feet, shook the man’s hand, grabbed his hat and coat and rushed out the door. The man was left standing in Dick’s office, alone and confused. He wondered if Dick had forgotten to lock the door, but looking around, realized that there was not anything worth stealing. Once he had waited long enough to be sure that Shandley wasn’t coming back, he too walked out the door.
---
Dick Shandley arrived at the Altamont Speedway early in the morning, to make sure it was empty. He didn’t want a lot of people around to wonder what it was he was looking for. Actually, Dick wasn’t so sure himself what he was looking for, but he knew he was looking for something, and that set his mind at ease.
He remembered his client saying something about people going missing, but he wasn’t really sure how to check that out. Dick didn’t trust the police, and it was too early for the library to be open to check the newspapers. Well, if he couldn’t follow his only lead, he would have to create one himself. He turned his attention toward the only other person he could find, a man half-heartedly pushing a broom around.
“Hey, buddy,” he shouted, “you know anything about these disappearances?”
“Yeah, my brother disappeared last week!”
That was convenient.
“Anything you can tell me about his disappearance?”
The man moved closer to him. “Yeah, it happened right over there.” He pointed at a small empty space between two portable toilets.
“What do you mean it happened over there?”
“Well, I saw it. He was standing over there, then there was a flash, and then he wasn’t standing there no more.”
“And the place he was standing, it was that little nook between the port-a-potties?”
“That’s it.”
“Why was he standing there?” Dick rightly asked.
The man shrugged. “Derek was always fond of tight, smelly places.” Dick could have used this opportunity to make a crude joke at the man’s expense, but he refrained, instead thanking him for his time.
Dick quickly worked his way into the small gap, wedging himself into a very stinky crevice. Realizing the impact of what he was doing, but unable to come up with a suitable witticism, he simply muttered the word “anus” under his breath. The moment he spoke it, he was instantly blinded by a bright light, and he felt his stomach pulled sharply downward. Before he knew it he was falling freely, surrounded by total darkness. This was particularly surprising, as he had still been trying to come up with poop jokes, and was having a little trouble processing this all.
Before long, the falling stopped, and Dick’s eyes had to readjust to the white room that had formed around him. The first thing he noticed was the eerie quality of the walls, if you could call them that, because they did not seem to have any substance, just endless white, stretching off into the distance. He also was not sure what he was standing on, as there was really no discernable floor. The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone.
Standing near him was a silver-haired man wearing a dark suit. The suit, like the man, had something of a timeless style about it. It had no buttons, yet that did not stop it from remaining firmly closed. An odd thought entered Dick’s head, that it was as though the suit had evolved beyond the need for buttons. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but that was unmistakably the impression he got. The man seemed young, monochrome hair aside, yet there was an ancient and knowing quality about his eyes.
“Good evening, Mr. Shandley,” said the man. His voice was soft and reassuring, yet there was a kind of menace there too, like the translation of a nightmare. “It was very nice of you to visit speak the ancient word so you could visit me.”
Dick was curious about how the man knew his name, but there was one thing he was even more curious about. “The ancient word is ‘ANUS?’”
“Oh yes, you see I was imprisoned here long ago in this place, the Trilogic Dimension. Those who trapped me here sealed the rift with a word that they knew nobody would ever say. The most unpleasant word they could think of.”
“Well, apparently they fucked up. After all, I said ‘anus’ and I’m guessing all those other people who I think might have gone missing, maybe. Right?”
“Indeed, you are correct, Mr. Shandley. These others you speak of, they became my prisoners. You see, I am the Game Master, and the only way out of this place is to defeat me in a game of skill!”
Shandley let out a deep laugh. “Are you serious? The Game Master? Did you come up with that name in your parents’ basement?”
“Fine. My name is Steve, okay? Are you happy? To leave this place you must defeat the ancient and powerful Steve.”
“So to get out of here I have to play Dungeons and Dragons with the Great Steve?”
Steve laughed. “If you’ll recall, I said we would play a game of skill.” Steve snapped his fingers, and suddenly a table appeared, with what appeared to be a chess board with triangular spaces, and a sawed off shotgun next to it.
“The game,” declared Steve, “is known as pan-dimensional shotgun chess. The rules are similar to standard chess, except each space has a light component, and a dark component. This affects which pieces can be captured, and when. Also, the knight moves six spaces instead of the standard five, the queen can only capture while moving diagonally, and the bishop must change between light and dark configurations on every turn. Do you understand?” Dick did not understand.
“Don’t worry,” Steve continued, “either you will pick it up when we start playing, or you will lose and be trapped here forever. Another thing to be aware of is that at the end of each turn, you will be transported to a sub-dimension where you must face a challenge of both wits and physical ability. Try not to die during these, because they can be quite dangerous. Finally, you will notice the shotgun on the table. This can be a great asset to you, but be aware you can only use it once, so make it count. In order to use the shotgun...”
He did not finish, because at this point Dick picked up the shotgun and fired it into Steve’s chest, killing him instantly. As soon as Steve’s bloody corpse hit the ground, a rope was lowered from the sky. Dick climbed it, and soon found himself back at the Speedway.
Dick Shandley wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but then again that would be an assumption, and Dick Shandley was an unassuming man. He hadn’t found the missing people, and he wasn’t even sure that more wouldn’t wind up missing. But then, Dick knew that chasing perfection never led to anything but madness. There were just some mysteries better left unsolved. With that, Dick made his way to a little restaurant to get a bowl of clam chowder, and then returned to his hotel one last time to steal the sheets before catching the next flight home. It was a good day.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Pants, the Silent Killer
The detective pulled up, skidding his car across 3 lanes of traffic and into the side of an old brick building. His engine sputtered a few last words of regret before giving up the ghost and bursting into flames. The detective slammed the door, bending over the more convenient of the two engine block halves and lighting his cigarette on the flames. After taking a long drag, he sighed.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
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