Gambits #12 – Deadly Umbrellas

Like the myriad of disgusting headlines my friend sends me or I discover in my own local news, I’m sharing another one I haven’t seen beaten to death (yet).  Not that it’s not out there by any means, but I haven’t seen it circulating in print or TV.

Here you go – Death by beach umbrella.

Many accidents and injuries involving errant beach umbrellas go unreported, but you should know that between 2008 and 2017 at least 31,000 were reported and required emergency medical treatment. Several deaths by beach umbrella have even been reported along with quite a few maimings, including loss of eyeballs, feet, appendages and abdominal parts.

What a fucking great setup. PI or Bounty Hunter Barbie on the beach with Hunky Ken. After the fashion observations and minute accessory descriptions, the wind kicks up.

“Damn!” She exclaimed, pissedoffedly. “I paid twenty dollars for that hat.”

“Hat?” Ken said, absently studying her perfect buns that sported a confectioners dusting of sand.

“Yes, my white straw sun hat with the blue and fuscia Kate Spade knock-off bandana. There it goes!” She pointed into the mess of tumbling, rollicking beach umbrellas, picnic baskets, beer coolers, plastic starfish and towels piling up against the pier and tourist gift shop.

“Isn’t Kate Spade like, dead?”

“That’s why the knock off is so valuable, moron.”

“Check that.” Hunky ex NATO superspy Ken tapped his temple saying “Be right back.” He dashed recklessly into the melee. Upon grabbing her fashion statement hat he stopped in his tracks and began blocking incoming beach debris with his forearms like Wonder Woman in a speedo. The wind abated as suddenly as it started.

“What’s wrong?” Bounty Hunter Barbie asked.

“This one has your name on it, Barb babe,” he shouted, then muttered “or is it babe Barb…?”

When she arrived, he pushed the upside-down umbrellas and coolers aside to give her a clear, yet disturbingly grim view.

“Jeez, Hunky Ken. It’s Benson Ekoreck, the witness protection skip I’ve been looking for.”

“With a beach umbrella stuck in his chest.” Ken reached to remove the umbrella.

“Stop!” Barbie screeched in that shrill voice she hated but just came out when she was upset or orgasmic. “That’s my umbrella!”

Well, of course it is. Was. Whatever. Anyway, there you go, a free plot device. Remember, you heard it here first. Evanovich owes me five-spot if she uses it.

Seriously – Umbrella deaths and bodily damage are a reality. So much so that several Democratic Senators, two from Virginia and one from New Jersey on a day with nothing better to do sent a letter to the Consumer Safety Commission demanding the effects of errant beach umbrellas be looked into.

“Beach umbrella safety is always lower on anybody’s list, until you get impaled by one,” Senator Menendez said.  

Well no shit, Sherlock.

Can’t help myself – If the fictional scene started above had gone on, it might have ended this way –

“That cop thinks you whipped up the windstorm with your hoo-ha somehow so you could get the Bail Bond on that dude refunded,” Hunky Ken said, disaffectedly brushing sand from his glistening bicep.

“He’s just a hairy scrotum in a cheap suit looking for an easy way out. I didn’t do it, so he can kiss my ass and go pound sand. Hey, what’s that on your shoulder?”

“Uh, souvenir?”

“Souvenir? You can’t just take things from a closed crime scene just because it started out as an Act of God, Hunky Ken.”

“Ohh… But the cops said to pick out what we wanted…” Hunky Ken stopped, looked glumly back at the pile of beach crap being picked through by once happy beach goers. “I guess I better take them back.”

“I guess. Wait. Them?”

“I got you one, too.” In a quick move based on years of training and reflex perfection, he whipped two beach towels off his shoulder, snapped them out in front of himself before handing one to Bounty Hunter Barbie.

“Oh my God!” She inhaled a big breath. “A Versace beach towel! You don’t see many of these.”

“Or these.” Hunky Ken held up an oversize Def Leppard towel. “This is major killer.”

Bounty Hunter Barbie rolled her eyes. “What’s so special about a Def Leppard towel?”

“It’s a collector’s item, babe, Barb, uh Barb — ”

“Never mind.” Barbie pouted, unaffected by his enthusiasm.

“No, really. Check it out, Babe, uh, Barb uh… In this picture?” Hunky Ken palmed up the silkscreened band photo on the towel for her. “The drummer dude still has both arms!”

NVDT Random – Oh, What the Hell

Once upon a time, someone suggested that I couldn’t write the gross stuff. So I reworked a ‘Jackson recruiting for the softball team’ bit into Russian Interference and forgot about it. Fast forward. This morning I had a post in the can about why bother writing fiction, but in that post, I read something that triggered something else, and what follows just fell out. Another thousand words to a vehicle on blocks in the weeds. Exercise is exercise, right?

***

Burke nodded at the two uniforms tying off yellow tape, pulled on his gloves. At the front door of the overgrown, desperately-in-need-of-paint 1920s Pasadena craft house a short, squat crime scene suit handed Burke a suit of his own, turned him around, and sent him back down the front steps with “Don’t care who you are, put this on.” He stepped off the cracked walk into dead grass and weeds to avoid the plastic evidence storage bucket brigade and shook out the disposable Tyvek suit with built-in booties. He wrote BURKE – MCD on the front and back of it with a Sharpie, struggled into and zipped it, hit the sidewalk in step with the in-bound parade. Inside, the first person he encountered was his FBI Task Force partner, her arms folded.

“About time, Burke.”

“Miss much, Lachelle?”

“Words will just get in the way.”

“Gloria Estefan. Nineteen-Eighty…?”

“Six. I was thinking Leon Russell.”

“What the hell do you know about Leon Russell?”

“As children, my sisters and I sang oldies for our supper. Everybody knows about the Wrecking Crew. White people, backing black girl groups? All the rage in El Lay back in the day.”

“Is that an issue now?”

“Could be the reason I can’t find a young brother anywhere can keep time without a damn drum machine.”

“So it was all a conspiracy to neuter black people’s natural rhythm?”

“Could be.”

“That’s why you went to college, joined the FBI? To sort that shit out? You do, they’ll put your face on a collectible stamp. Right in there with Thurgood Marshall, Lena Horne, Louis Armstong –”

“That’s enough.”

“If they do, picture me in a tile-lined, state-run eldercare, toothless, in diapers, licking the back of your head to stick your face on my Publisher’s Clearing House entry form.”

“You’re more disgusting than the crime scene, you know that?”

Burke wasn’t sure if it was his pee yellow Major Crimes Division suit or Laschelle’s emblazoned with FBI that parted the crowd of forensics bumping shoulders in the narrow halls while she led him through the restored once upon some time just after World War II house to the kitchen. The door of the fridge stood propped open with a found-on-site broom handle wedged between the door and the frame. Blood dripped from the bottom of the refrigerator into forensic collection Tupperware.

“Fuck. Me.” Burke turned from the gray-haired head thawing in the freezer compartment. Another, younger head with red not-found-in-nature hair sat on a Thanksgiving-themed serving platter over the vegetable bins. An almost full jug of Florida’s Natural Lemonade and a half-eaten Subway sandwich perched on the top shelf. “Can’t we make lemonade in California?”

“We used to be in the orange business.”

“I feel a ‘Disney is the evil empire’ sermon coming.”

“Not from me. I like my mice in underpants. And my orange juice from Florida.”

Burke glanced at the expensive coffee/grinder/espresso machine. “I don’t suppose there’s coffee…”

“There’s a Starbuck’s jug on the doughnut table. Out there,” she thumbed toward the back door. “On the driveway.”

“Espresso would be nice.”

“If you’re telling me you’d put anything made in this house into your mouth …”

“Couple of heads and a leftover meatball sandwich in the fridge, dirty coffee cups in the sink… Tells me it didn’t seem to bother whoever lives here.”

“Sick fuck.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him down a short hall into a taped off but unoccupied by forensics bedroom furnished in a stainless-steel table slightly larger than a twin bed with a commercial-grade meat grinder bolted to one end. Under the grinder, half a dozen empty five-gallon ice cream buckets hosted flies. By the hundreds.

“Now we know why no early morning Pasadena dogwalkers have called in any headless corpses for us. Was that anyone we should know in the freezer?”

“The freezer is her mother. The –”

“‘Her’?”

“The day-to-day things found here say female.”

“I should go take a –”

“Bagged, tagged, gone. You don’t need to be prowling around in feminine hygiene products and thirty tubes of lipstick when there’s real crime scene material here requires your particular brand of investigative ju-ju. Besides, we’ll for damn sure get more CSPs of minutiae out of here than we can look at in a fucking year. And before you get all pissy, I made them hold up on moving the hard stuff until you’d seen it, gotten your ‘vibe’.”

“How thoughtful. The mother. She had on lipstick. Makeup.”

“I think we’ll learn she was dead, probably from natural causes, before being decapitated and frozen for posterity.”

“ID on the other one?”

“This was in the fridge by her head.” Lachelle pulled a small forensic ziplock from the pocket of her hazmat, held it up. The bag contained a lapel pin. Suthapali Grenada, MD. Oncology.

“Rage. This is rage, Shell. It’s been about rage all along. Fuck. How’d we miss it?”

“Overtrained to ignore the obvious, maybe? Her mother tapped out, the girl lost it. After that, anybody having too good a time? AMF.”

“And you already know who ‘the girl’ is?”

“Waitin’ on you to catch up. It’s the Venice ice cream lady.”

“Fuck. Me.”

“You said that already. You can keep at it, but you’re not my type.”

“I don’t know if that was sexist, racist, or age-ist.”

“Get over yourself. Care to know what she did with the bodies?”

“Hamburger patties. Maybe breakfast sausages.”

“Damn. You’re good for an old white man.”

“There you go again. There was a six-pack patty press and a half-empty Costco size Cajun Spice jar on the kitchen counter.”

“I knew that. Making sure your eyes were on this early of a Sunday.”

“Goddammit…” He toed one of the ice cream buckets. “You know this has to be the biggest DNA cluster fuck ever. How many heads now, total? Thirteen, plus the two in there. Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re still wanting the freeway ramp cactus head in this. I say no.”

“I say you want a different obsessed, fucked up whackadoodle for that one, for job security. Sorry, they found cactus head’s charm bracelet in the garage.”

Shit. Now there’s trophies?”

“My Ontie used to say if you’re going to lose it, be textbook about it.”

“I need coffee.”

“I’ll say you do. Wait till you see the garage.”

Gambits #11 – Rattlesnake, Whiskey and Uranium

Plus a Handgun, a Suspended License and a Stolen Car

Character Study +

John D MacDonald, Elmore Leonard, Dashiell Hammett, Laura Levine, Fitzgerald – A few words and a reasonably complete picture. From characters to towns. Solid. You know who and where and aren’t bogged down in details. His suit looked dirty but wasn’t. Avocado appliances, a small box-store table for two. A Grand Canyon dishtowel hung from the oven handle. A big man. Pink. Rubbery. Thin and nervous enough to make it contagious. Yellowish skin. Dark circles under unsteady eyes.  He was wide and plodding. Neckless, shoulderless, bald. His necktie short, loose, the knot partially buried by a third chin.

Okay, enough fun. Gambits is about writing prompts, cues, unusual manners of death. Here’s another one from an old friend of mine. From The Daily Oklahoman. A paper I threw in my youth (quite accurately) from a red Sting Ray.

GUTHRIE (AP) — Police in Oklahoma say they found a rattlesnake, a canister of radioactive powdered uranium and an open bottle of Kentucky Deluxe whiskey during a traffic stop of a vehicle that had been reported stolen.

The traffic stop happened June 26 in Guthrie, about 30 miles (45 kilometers) north of Oklahoma City. Guthrie police Sgt. Anthony Gibbs told Oklahoma City TV station KFOR that police don’t know why the uranium was in the vehicle or how it was obtained, though uranium ore can be bought on Amazon.

Gibbs says police also found a gun in the console and a terrarium in the backseat containing a pet Timber rattlesnake.

Gibbs says the driver, Stephen Jennings, was charged with possession of a stolen vehicle, transporting an open container of liquor and driving with a suspended license.

There’s the setup, here’s the character – What the hell was this guy up to? A hit man gone to seed?

 

Trivia – Guthrie was the original state capital of Oklahoma. A handful of bu$ine$$ men wanted it in Oklahoma City. Guthrie, the original territorial capital didn’t want to give it up. The capital is where the state seal resides, by God, and it’s in Guthrie. As bu$ine$$ men will do, they arranged to have it stolen from Guthrie. When it arrived they removed it from a canvas bag and set up shop in a downtown OKC hotel. Where there were smart enough to keep it locked up and guarded.

Gambits #10 B

Why Make It Up When It’s All Right There?

Friends send me strange news bits knowing I will find a use for them. I believe to distract me from using anything personal they might have told me that would read like great fiction. Here’s the real story about the dead woman and the TV from last week. Straight from The Daily Mail. 

“A woman has been killed after falling from the ninth floor of a block of flats in Russia while having sex – but her partner survived after landing on top of her.

The woman, aged 30, was found dead at the base of an apartment block in St. Petersburg on the night of July 5 during what neighbors described as a wild party. Witnesses said they saw a television thrown from the window of the flat, after which the woman and her 29-year-old lover plunged to the ground below. The woman landed head-first on the asphalt and died instantly, local media reported, but the man survived after his fall was broken by her body and nearby bushes. Witnesses told local media that the partially clothed man then got up and went back to rejoin the party.

Police were called, and when they arrived the revelers allegedly threw a mop out of the windows at them. Initial reports suggested the woman had been killed by the falling TV, but images from the scene clearly show her naked from the waist down. After interviewing witnesses, investigators concluded that the couple were having sex on a windowsill when they fell. Two other men were in the flat when the fall happened, but are not thought to have been involved.”

In my Dick Derringer PI version the cops walk away from it because of the TV, no one comes forward about the partially clothed dude for pick-your-reason. In the cop’s interviews the party dudes paint the girl as depressed and despondent over a break up, and the dude who landed on her has bailed. Derringer sets out to uncover the cover up after a scared old lady with an ankle biter dog throws a mop out her window to get his attention. A mop later used in a funny fight scene.

There you have it. Who’s writing it?

Gambits #10

If I Were A Procedural Writer – This One is as Perfect as They Come

Set up for Dick Derringer, Private Eye – A woman, naked from the waist down, falls 9 stories out of an apartment window. So does a television. Both are dead. Investigators do a perfunctory inquisition. Satisfied it’s accidental or suicide they walk away. Bruising on the body is from the fall or the TV landing on her. Doesn’t matter, she landed head first. Splat.

Next – Attractive woman, well dressed, composed (or wild haired wild eyed young woman in sweatshirt with too-long sleeves) walks into Dick’s office. “It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t suicide. Find out what happened.” Dick, the consummate formula PI is always looking for opportunities to 1) get laid, 2) embarrass the cops, 3) strong arm some smart asses, takes the case.

The assignment – What really happened?

Next installment, the real answer. Lets hear it from you plotters out there.

Gambits #9

Get Your Forensics Chops On

In 2013 a Colombian man checked himself into a hospital in Medellin complaining of fever, weight loss and difficulty breathing. Tests revealed he had cancer cells in his lungs but they were 10 times smaller than human cancer cells. More tests and they figured that a tapeworm had infested his body and subsequently contracted cancer, or had already been infected, and passed it on to its host. The man died three days after being diagnosed.

I can see this one. Opening – sweaty emaciated week old stubble man in dirty shirt, his belt obviously cinched to hold up too big pants stumbles in and clutches ER counter. “Hehhh…heh…help…meeee.”

Okay, mystery buffs, who is the victim? How does the murderer do it? Conspire with a restaurant employee, shoot the tapeworm full of radioactive material, active cancer cells, some dread disease? Procedural from hell y’all, promise. Unless you approach it from the ‘shouldn’t have eaten that street vendor cheeseburger in Boys Town’ angle, and then it’s just a case of stupidity complicated by Hepatitis and a random STD.

Source – Rachel Rettner, “Tapeworm Spreads Deadly Cancer to Human”  Scientific American November 2015

Gambits #8

Death By Hygiene and What’s Good For You

The case for roll ons- In 1998 Jonathan Capewell, 16, died from a heart attack brought on by the buildup of butane and propane in the blood after excessive use of deodorant sprays. He was known for an obsession with personal hygiene. His blood level of butane was. 37 per litre, the same for propane. .1 per litre is fatal.

Ladies, if you want to off him for overuse of mismatched man whore products simply over pressurize his Right Guard.

There will be no commentary on how many in WalMart are highly unlikely to die this way.

Eat the Liver. It’s good for you.

Consuming even small amounts of Polar Bear liver can be fatal for humans. Polar Bears, like many arctic mammals livers, contain excessive amounts of vitamin A and can lead to acute hypervitaminosis A.

You know the person. The one your age who has 2% body fat, a weave, and brags about playing soccer with 20-somethings and offers to set you up on a regimen of his bucket a day of vitamins for slightly more per month than the lease on a Maserati?

Liver was a staple in school lunch cafeterias when I was young. I never participated. Keep your eyes peeled for that crazy cafeteria lady signing for a cooler packed in dry ice…If it’s not shrimp or crawfish stick with the green Jell-O full of banana slices.

 

 

 

 

Gambits #7

Hey, Let’s Go To The Museum!

Body disposal 101 – The Smithsonian keeps an army of flesh eating beetles on staff. Their purpose? To strip any flesh remaining on skeletons before they go on display. Or anywhere else.

“Mummy!”

“Yes, I know, Norm. It’s a Mummy.”

“NO! IT’S MY MUMMY!”

“Mr. Bates, is there a problem?”

“No, little Norman here thinks every skeleton he sees is his Mummy. A Mummy, I mean. A Mummy.”

“Of course. After all it couldn’t be his Mummy, could it?”

No, no. She’s at home in her rocking chair, rotting, er, uh knitting away. Knitting. Away. Come along, Norm, let’s go look at the airplanes…”

 

 

 

 

Gambits #6

Read the Emergency Room Reports + Imagination =

There are an estimated 11,250 sex-related deaths each year in the U.S. Feel free to take your flights of fantasy global. No kidding, back when there were newspapers the San Francisco Chronicle ran the weekend emergency calls. All you need is time, perhaps an intoxicant, stupidity and a light bulb…air compressor optional.

“Time” to Revamp the Setting of Your Latest Dystopia or Historical Treatise

The Phantom Time Hypothesis suggests that every calendar on Earth is off by 297 years. Google it. Talk about your effed up time machine. Set the controls for May 22, 2316 and BLAM, in the blink of an eye it’s today. Again. When was the potato famine? How old is Christianity? How long have women been second class citizens? (Forever). Jeez, work this and you can figure out how the guy who played Harry Potter got to be a teenager for like 15 years. And how celebrity birthdays drop numbers.

Or how your heroine walked through a castle door in 1981 as a tourist and ended up in the dungeon of the same for helping Mather protest King Charles II planned revocation of the Massachusetts Charter. 1684 was a leap year in both the Julian and Gregorian calendars. One could have all sorts of fun with this.

Gambits #5

Poison is So-ooo Passe

Naegleria fowleri is found in 70% of US lakes. Nicknamed “The Brain-eating Amoeba,” it hijacks the victim’s brain causing confusion, hallucinations and loss of motor function. Death can occur in as few as seven days.

All you need is a jar of lake water, a hot tub and a little playful “dunk that pesky, fickle bachelor” and he’s history.

Up your game. Poison? Puh-leeeeze…