They Fight Crime part 2

I can see a problem arising for our masked heroes. The bad guys are just not going to sit around and let them get kicked around by freaks in masks. Eventually they are going to call in the Pro from Dover.

The pro here is an expert killer but doesn't inspire loyalty in any of the people who have hired him. That's because he's a burnt out case, he's tried every ideology and has found them all wanting. All it has left him is a skill set for homicide.

Upon hearing the assignment he finds himself curious. Crazed people in masks hitting organized crime. Totally crazy, they should have the survival time of soap fish, but they are still at it. Our pro develops a plan. Since they are acting like comic book heroes, he'll act like a comic book villain. That would be sure to attract them to him, and he'll have the kill zone ready in advance. Given their theatrical motif and the pro's own philosophy (or lack thereof) his identity of the villain is easy to craft.

World tremble and fall to your knees.  Here comes..... THE CRITIC!

"So What's Your Story?"

The man was feeding ducks with intense concentration.  He would shred the bread to uniform little crumbly bits then cast it in the water.  He would always make sure there was enough for each of the ducks who then would waggle their beaks like little jack hammers in the water till every atom of bread was accounted for.

He looked up at me with watery eyes. 

"I was the devil once," he said.  "I suppose that counts for something."

"You were cast from heaven?  You don't look the type."

He smiled and cast more bread upon the water.

"No no no, you are thinking of Lucifer.  The Devil, Satan, that's an office not a person.  Lucifer was the first Devil, but he's moved on.  Honestly, I heard his heart wasn't in it.  Still hangs around down below, so I hear.  But I also hear he has a condo in the Brazil.  Someone even told me he writes children books now."

"You will have to pardon me friend, but you still don't look like the devil type."

"Came as a surprise to me as well.  I was a manager of small store in strip mall in Indiana.  I was making some money, but you know it's never enough.  So I kept my ears open for opportunity.  Well one day in the paper there was this ad for a management position, but it didn't say where.  It did quote a salary, and that was enough to get me to the interviews.  Let me tell you, there was a quite a line."

"How does one get interviewed to be the Devil?"

"Well, it was pretty odd.   First I had to fill out all the forms and the usual style of interview.  Nothing strange except no one would identify themselves.  I was beginning to think it was some like spy thing.  Then things got weird.  They would show me fruit and ask me to make up stories about them.  Once they brought in a crying baby and a dog on a leash and left them in the room.  Well at one point I was being hung upside down and being quizzed on math and I was just about to say enough, when this fellow walked in.  He wore the best suit in the world and the worst smile.  He walked over to me and said, 'Congratulations, you are the new Devil.'"

"And that was that?"

"And that was that.  They took me down, and then really took me down.  The orientation felt like it lasted years, but it didn't.  By the end I thought I could handle pretty much anything.  That's when they gave me the best suit in the world and the office.  I was the Devil."

"How was it being the Devil?"

"Ok."

"Just ok?"
"Sorry confidentiality agreement.  I can say I enjoy retirement more."

With that he went back to feeding the ducks.

"So what's your story?"

"What?"

His voice was a crow's rasp. His face was already soured, and moreso as he frowned. His beard was stiff, white and marked with beer dribble already. He looked like a Santa more Satan than Santa.

"I asked, what's your story. Everyone has a story."

"Naw, most people don't. I don't. A story has to mean something, it has to entertain. I don't entertain anyone, and I don't mean nothing."

He held his beer glass tightly, so it wouldn't get away as he drained it. He didn't bother to wipe his chin.

"Mister, I'll tell you, I'll tell you what. A story, should have a real beginning and a real end. My life. No such thing, amigo. I trudge on. Day, after day, after day, after stupid bleeding God slapped day. I work, I eat, I drink, shit, and sleep. Hopefully in that order. And if I get a little joy for some reason, it lasts about a minute then it is back to the grind. That ain't a story Mister, it's a miserly misery doled out to the good and to SOBs like me alike."

"Sounds, grim. You feel like that, why bother getting up in the morning?"

"Because Mister, it's what you do. Anything else is quiting and I don't quit. I'll don't like no regular work, but I don't quit. Never did. I'll be here till judgement day, and I'll tell the good lord to back off so I can do I high dive into the lake of fire. That's what I'll say."

He began mumbling a little to himself as the bartender came in from the back.

"Did you say something?" He asked.

I look at the old man still drinking and drinking from a glass that never emptied. A man who when the light was strong you can see through him. I turn to the bartender and just smile.

"Just thinking out loud. Say.. what's your story?"

What's Your Story

"So what's your story?" 

I down the scotch, and I eyeball the gentleman before me.  Dressed well enough, but still a shabby aura.  He wore of all things a top hat, and he had a smile that would be always called a leer.  He held the bottle of scotch and refilled my paper cup.  His choice of furniture was odd, disturbing, and macabre.

"My story you don't need to hear.  It is old and boring.  Now this old boy.  Here is your story."  He smiles/leers again and kicks against the coffin he has been sitting on.  Not just a coffin, but the king of coffins.  Made of lead and the size of a king size bed. It was the coffin made for someone you might not be too sure they were dead enough.

"Ok, I'll bite.  What's his story?"

"Ah, now that's a story.  Here lies Renny LeMere.  The greatest hoodoo man of his time."

"Hoodoo?   Do you mean voodoo?"

"Dear Sir, if I meant voodoo I would say voodoo.  While hoodoo is related to voodoo they are different schools.  Like the difference between the German language and English.  There are many similarities, but they are very different in flavor.  Now Renny here was known as a fixer.  You had a some one throw a hex at you, and Renny could take it off.  He was as smooth as silk and fast as hare on fire."

I take another snort from the paper cup. 

"So, is there a reason that Renny is taking the big nap?  He couldn't have been that fast."

Again that smiling leer, or leering smile.

"Oh Sir, no one is that fast.  No one at all.  But, it is true that Renny's work finally caught up to him.  See there was another hoodoo man at the time named Pappy Lupe.  Now Pappy Lupe was the opposite.  You payed him to throw the curse, the bones, and a dead cat just for fun.  Thing is though, every curse Pappy Lupe threw, ol' Renny he takes it off.  Gets ol' Pappy hopping mad.  Just so mad he could bite tin clear through I say." 

"Well, one day Renny was getting himself ready to go stepping out.  He was dressed sharp and enjoying what he saw in the mirror.  That is til he saw Pappy behind with a gun.  Before Renny could turn around it was all over.  There was a big hole where Renny's heart was.  Well he turns around, and he says, 'You foolish old man.  You don't think I didn't see murder in your heart.  The Barons are my friend and I'll be coming back for you."  With that he falls down dead, deader than sin on Easter morning."

The man takes a swig from the bottle and cocks his head back as if he was letting the scotch slowly flow down his throat.  Finally, he takes a sighful breath and turns to me.  His eyes blacker than night.  I felt very chilled.

"Dear Sir, Pappy was no fool.  The Barons are not ones to fool with.  So he grabs the bag of bones and takes it home.  He had his own plans you see.  There at home there was this coffin all ready.  He places the body within, then begins pouring molten lead into the coffin with it.  When the coffin was full he puts the top on and bolts and welds the box shut.  He then draws on his voodoo to forever seal ol' Renny in the box.  Let the Barons bring Renny back, but he'll always be Renny in a box."

"So what went wrong, something had to go wrong or there be no use telling me the story."

"Oh dear, dear Sir, nothing at all went wrong.  Pappy's hoodoo was strong, and Renny is in the box still.  Will always be in the box."

The man kicks against the coffin with a sullen thud.  Suddenly, the coffin lifted into the air.  His leering smile was now far bigger than his face.  It hurt to look at him.

"Renny, learned to move his prison.  Dear Sir, I tell you Pappy was never so suprised when he was hit by several tons of metal at the speed of a locomotive.  Not much left of Pappy after that.  At least in the body, the rest fell to us.  We Barons can be petty when we feel someone tries to cheat us.  Now Renny is still with us as you can see, and certainly he can help you.  He has a price, and you can consider me his manager."

The man's mouth opens and he eats the bottle. 

"Now Sir, Dear Sir, what is our help worth to you?"

So What's Your Story?

I take another sip from the chipped cup.  It's good.  I look her in the eye.

"So What's Your Story?"

She doesn't answer at first, she looks out the window.  Then she looks back at me.  She gives a smile.  It is a small smile, but it dazzles.

"I guess you can say, my story is my mother's story.   She came to this country, legally I might add, to make a new start.  She had married a doctor, and she herself was well educated, specially when you consider that she came from a small village.  At first, they were very happy.  But that happiness ended when he found out he was sterile and unable to give his wife a child.  He of course wanted a boy, but he knew he could not divorce her since the problem was his.  Each day without a child soured everything for him and in turn for her."

She took a sip, then another.  Her tongue licked a drop from the edge of the cup.

"About that time his brother came to stay with them as he went to see America.  The brother was very nice, and things were almost as they were at the beginning.  But it could not last.  The brother left, and soon the doctor found new faults with his wife.  She was getting fat and often moody."

"The brother had an affair with your mother," I said.

She shrugged.

"I doubt it was anything so grand as an affair, but it did happen.  She was very scared and didn't know what to do, so she just plowed on hoping some answer would appear.  It was near the end that she felt a sudden prick on her finger as she was digging into an old flower pot in the patio.  She pulled her finger back and there upon it was the gleaming black body of the black widow.  She did not want medical attention as they would find the baby so she treated as best she could.  As her fever grew, it was if she was going back in time when she was just a simple village girl."

"She must have known that the poison wouldn't be good for the baby, did she hope to miscarry?"  I asked a hard question but it didn't feel hard.  The warm sweet coffee has left me feeling very mellow.

"Perhaps, that was a hope.  But mostly it was fear.  But soon, there was nothing to be done.  The poison burned her body as if it was a fire and her husband came home finding her half naked in the living room.  In such a position her other condition became obvious that even he could not deny it.  He demanded to know who she had laid with.  She looked up at him and she pointed her finger now black at the end at him.  'Anasi sent one of his children to bite me and give me a child.  It is Anasi's child!!'"

"Of course he did not believe her, and in his rage he struck her.  Struck a sick, scared woman.  She could only wail and again she cried out, 'It's Anasi's child!.'"  I will tell you now, the old gods still exist and they still sometimes meddle.  When the doctor struck her again and for the third time she declared the child belonged to Anasi, Anasi himself heard it.  In that instant, he took paternity of the child."

She came to me and took my cup from my unfeeling hands. 

"My mother was damaged physically and mentally, but she was still my mother.  My human father, the doctor, beat me and treated me as if I was a mere nuisance.  He's dead now.  My true father Anasi, taught me many things as I grew older.  For example, certain herbal compounds that can paralyze.  Like the one you just drank.  Do not fear, I will not kill a guest.  But you will not stand in my way."

"This is my story."

To Dream

To dream
               of you
Is all
       I want to do

To be dreamed
                       by you
Would be
              everything I'd want to be
To awaken
                 together
Would be
               all together heaven

Cry Me A River

Cry me a river
Sing me a sea
dream me a moon
who's tide quell
the sea

Find me a lady
an extradinary lady
dream me her name
so I can call her
to me

Cry me a river
Call me a storm
Whisper me Rain
To raise the river
to take us out
to sea

We who are thankful salute you

I want to thank you all for your indulgence
I want to thank my friends for their patience
I want to thank my mother for wisdom
       my brother for his company
       my father for everything
I want to thank you world and thanks for the fish
I want to thank the dreamers to many to mention
I want to thank the visionaries
I want to thank the revolutionaries
       and now
I want to wish you all
a thankful restful loverly holerday

My Heaven

My heaven


is built
world by word
life by line
peers by page
souls by shelf


all is write
in my heaven

A few words on organized Crime in Santa Lucy

Given the nature of the law in Santa Lucy and the natural macho gallantry of the culture, women are very very rarely ever put in prison.  This has given rise to the Mothers and the Sisters.  The Mothers are the ones that actually run the crime families because they control the finances.  It is through the Mothers that all the loot from protection and other crime is laundered.  Before a girl becomes a mother though she is a Sister.  The Sisters are of course involved in prostitution but they are more importantly the messengers between the Mothers and the men.  Though it happens, it is considered bad form for a man to hit a Sister.  However, Sisters are free to attack each other at will and some are fabled for their cruelty.  No one crossees the One Eyed Cat of Madonna Street. 

More on Prison Life in Santa Lucy

As I said, the only prison on the island is run by the Brothers who are actual monks.  Their prison is very clean and hygenic.  The food is actually good and filling.  But no prisoner is given contact with any other prisoner.  Each is in his cell alone.  Worse, noise is prohibited.  If one makes this an issue they will be sorry.  The Brothers tend to be kind but if you shout about and make trouble you will find your head collared with smothering linens.  The only light in the cells are from above, from the sun and the moon.  It's a lonely way to do long time.  Not everyone leaves sane.  In fact, not everyone leaves.  Some find something there and join the Brothers.

In the city of Santa Lucy

There is a strange custom in that small city state located on a small island near brazil. In Santa Lucy a man can be found guilty of his crimes and not serve one day in the Brother's House of Correction, the only prison run by an order of monks. Instead, the guilty party merely has to produce anyone who would be willing to take his place in the Brothers and he can go free.

The slums of Santa Lucy are dangerous places, and many an innocent would rather brave the dark halls of the Brothers ... for a price.

"I drank ...WHAT?" Famous Last Words

The flagon with the dragon
and the vessel with the pestle
are both empty
I've drank both brews
false and true

I've a moment of contradiction
A schrodinger hung under
and I can only hope for value dation
from lumbering classes
and clammering masses
to happen long after I start to slumber

Is this Stupid stuff?

"...this is stupid stuff," wrote the poet
Dada read it and laughed
"This in not my pipe."
"We are all unique, beautiful snowflakes."
Kaufman wrote himself into a story
about Kaufman not being able to write a story
Another Kaufman told a joke
did anybody laugh?
And Trent is in the theater laughing at the end
Curtain closes

The artists
they know
what a thin beraggled line
they dance on
That is the
whole durn
truth

Arise

A fissionary vision
this nuclear phoenix
rising and arising
tucking in the night

I had a dream..

Obviously too many horror films is catching up with me.  Last night I dreamed of zombies.  These zombies were slightly different.  Oh, they were the slow, lurching, rotting zombies we've come to love.  They certainly were into trying to eat people if there were people around.  The difference was what they would do when there were no people to eat.  When they were alone they still ate.  They ate everything.  They ate all the rest of the food.  They ate any plant.  They ate the trees and scraped the paint off the buildings with their teeth.  The city was alive with the sound of dead chewing.  When they were done with whatever they ate the residue they left was fit for nothing and cursed the ground so nothing would grow where they left their middens.  So even as we, in my dream, knew we were safe behind titanium walls we also knew it was the end. There would be nothing left by the time these eaters were through with the world.

I was thinking...

If I had a band I might call it:

Two Dimples in Leather
Telsa and the Blue Footed Boobies
Sardonicus
Ten and Two
Amber Waves
Werewolves That Play
Fuzzy
The Inquisitor's Hat Rack
The Kiwi Fax
The Doctor Spectacularly Wundaful Half Time Special and Midnight Show

Because Games are Being Played...

"If the striker thinks he scores
 Or if the keeper cries in shame
 They understand not the crowd's applause
 I make, and hear and earn again
 For I am the crowd and I am the ball
 I am the triumph and the blame
 I am the turf, the pies, the All
 Always and ever, I am the Game.
 It Matters not who won or lost
 Nothing is the score you made
 Fame is a petal that curls in the frost
 But I will remember how you played."
                               Terry Pratchett
                               Unseen Academicals

A New Challenge

Nothing defines a culture like what it eats and drinks.  Romulan Ale for example comes to mind.  I don't know how many cons I've been to where someone in a startrek "T shirt/uniform," has offered me a strange blue liquid of suspicious origins.  With that in mind, I challenge YOU the reader to come up with some new drink/food/taste and put it down here in the comments.

For example:  On the planet Klum, the natives there use the most unique spice.  It is called Haliq and it comes from a bush like plant that grows in the long low plains of the northern continent.  Harvested from the buds of that bush, Haliq appears as a greyish powder with a light almost oaky smell.  Ingestion of Haliq causes a minor rewiring of sensory input.  Colors actually have a taste.  For example, if you are looking at yellow the dish will have a more sour taste, whereas red adds sweetness.  Cooking with Haliq requires balance and a good design sense!

Now it's your turn!!

The Shallow Graves Of Calvandara County

Calvandara county is a sleepy little county in the American South West.  Nothing ever seems to happen there till Tracy McLud finds an empty shallow grave on her just bought farm.  The evidence shows there WAS a body there, but not now.  Where is it?  Joining up with young sheriff deputy on suspense, Eric Lee Ransom, they search for answers.  What they find is a series of shallow graves across the county, some empty and some filled, and begin to unravel the story behind an old feud of the Calvandaras and the Madrossos.

This is a pitch idea for the LAMB. 
http://largeassmovieblogs.blogspot.com/2010/10/pitch-lamb-mystery.html