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.”

Deanna – With Two Ns

Roosevelt Junior High, February 11th, 1972

Everyone at Roosevelt Jr. High had been “encouraged” to bring their Valentine’s cards to exchange in homeroom on the Friday before Valentine’s Day because the Pep Club dance was set for Friday evening. Jackson wanted to jump in the air, kick his heels up like a cheerleader and shout something stupid because his Friday laundry bag duty for coach Stephens would get him out of homeroom and all the card swapping. He wouldn’t have to watch guys with their “special for you” Valentine’s cards stand in line and wait to clear on the Hot Girl. Who, unlike him, was a for real cheerleader that wasn’t known for shouting, or even saying anything stupid. Word was she’d already dropped on Matt for the dance so she was, as his mom said, “just being polite.” Yeah, Mom. Politely letting those guys wait in line to hand off their dollar-fifty Hallmark’s for a “Thank you so-o much!” and a chance to dream for a split second about being the lip gloss that rubbed off on her teeth.

Jackson’s “date” to the dance was already set with Mary, his across the street neighbor. The “date” pre-arranged by both their mothers, even though he’d had to ask and she’d had to say “yes.” Sitting next to her in the backseat of his Mom’s Oldsmobile was like sitting next to a cement garden statue. And once at the dance, like every girl he’d gone to a party with since sixth grade, she dumped him immediately on arrival to go make out with somebody else. He climbed high enough up in the gym bleachers to be out of the band’s strobe light, but not far enough into the darkened upper tier to bother the making-out instead of dancing couples, and sat by himself.

A blonde girl with a figure like a tongue depressor stepped down onto his row, sat far enough away to look disinterested for ninety seconds before she scooted over.

“Hey, Jax.”

“Hey, Ellen.” He couldn’t miss the snuffle in her voice. “Where’s, uh…Whatsis —”

“Jim. Cooke.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder toward the slurp and slobber zone. “Jim. Horndog. Cooke.”

“Sorry.” He checked her puffy eyes, red nose.

“What is it, Jax?” She blew her nose on a Kleenex she stuffed into a small silver patent purse she snapped shut with a flourish and some force. “What do you guys want?”

“A lot of guys just want to make out.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Making out is cool, I guess.” He wished he was, or even had the option. “But sitting by a girl, just talking to her, that’s okay too. You can’t make out forever.” He hoped she didn’t call bullshit on home for being a guy who hardly made out at all and didn’t know what to say to a girl, ever. He did love to look at girls, though. How they wore their hair, how their dresses fit, girls with freckles and suntans, girls without either one. Girls with sideburns kind of creeped him out, but mostly all girls were fine with him. Sometimes he’d follow a girl with the right perfume down the hall past where he was supposed to go.

A tall girl wearing coke bottle glasses, white gloves and a new, “you’ll grow into it” blue shift with pleats materialized on his left side. “Have you two seen Deanna anywhere?”

“I’d kinda have to be looking for her, huh Alice?” Jesus. Yeah, he’d seen the Hot Girl, earlier. Hard to miss the pink sweater, but —

“Don’t be a snot, Jax. Matt was asking ’cause he, uh, lost her.” Alice pointed discretely at the makeout section. “He’s up there, but she’s not. I know ‘cause I just…uh…Had to leave.” She sat, knees wide and unladylike, dropped her gloved hands into the fold of her skirt and sighed. “I swear to God, Jim Cooke is the horniest guy in this school. I mean the tongue is one thing, but…”

Ellen honked a big snuffle, Jackson thought he’d be better off out the middle of whatever was coming. He rattled down out of the bleachers past a few more kindred lost and lonely, thought how only a supreme loser could misplace the Hot Girl. He hit the gym floor, scanned the room and couldn’t spot a chaperon anywhere on the dance floor or posted at the doors. He knew it was now or never bail time, seized the moment, slipped behind the band and through the un-monitored cafeteria kitchen doors. He crossed through the cafeteria and eased out, his heels echoing against the metal lockers and marble floors that lined the dark and empty hallways of Roosevelt. He let go of the breath he’d been holding when he’d stepped down the half flight of stairs and grabbed the south exit door’s cold brass arm.

He leaned the door open slow, almost kicked her in the back. Jesus! It was The Hot Girl! Deanna Collings, sitting all alone, on the old, cold concrete steps of Roosevelt Junior High. He had the urge to pee, but found his nerve and sat down next to her.

“Hey, um…Collings. What’re you doing out here?”

“Waiting for my brother to come get me.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“A little, I guess.”

“Here.” He draped his jacket over her shoulders. Now he was cold. They never mentioned that in the movies.

“Thank you.” She snuggled into his jacket and stopped shivering. After he’d seen her rescued by his jacket, it could have been thirty below and he wouldn’t have cared.

“You got it nice and warm, too.” She looked over her shoulder in his direction, had the telltale puffy eyes like the other dumped girls. Only an idiot would dump the Hot Girl.

“I heard Matt was looking for you. I thought you guys were —”

“Were what? Were what, Jackson? Huh? What were we?”

“I, uh…dunno…” Wow. She was pissed at Matt and she remembered his name. “Having a good time? Maybe?”

“No! Not a good time. At all. At first, I guess, but then he got, well, he got…” She stopped looking at him, glared straight ahead. “Never mind. I should have stayed home, that’s all. I just need to go home.”

He knew he wasn’t supposed to say “that sucks” to the Hot Girl, or insult her by saying he thought Matt was a serious wuss poser with his Summer Blonde hair and surfer’s cross he had to keep tucked away or a teacher would yank it, so they sat in silence for a while. She was drawing invisible somethings with her fingers on the concrete by her feet when she snuffled pretty big. He knew it was a leftover from how crying sometimes got your nose all into it. He tried to find something sympathetic to say, thought about telling her how his dad had called his little brother a “screaming snot machine” when he cried, pulled it at the last second and went to the bank of manners his mother had hammered into him.

“There’s one of the Pep Club napkins, you know, from the snacks and stuff table, in my jacket pocket. Half a cookie, too. If you want. Can I tell you something funny? About Matt?”

“No.” She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, balled up the napkin and put it back in his jacket pocket. “Well, okay.” She pulled out the half a dry chocolate chip cookie and took a bite.

“When his sister dyed his hair with the blonde streaks she messed it all up, you know, some of his hair and lift up sideburns are like invisible. He draws them back on, and up the side. With some kind of makeup pencil.”

Eyebrow pencil. I know. Some came off on my hand when I slapped him.” She laughed a little through the cookie. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me why?”

“Well, you know, I hate to talk sh –”

“Please?” Girls could load words with so much stuff.

“Okay. He’s a fake. I mean, I know girls think he’s cute and everything but you’re a beach boy surfer or you’re not. And he’s not. Not in Oklahoma in winter, anyway. It’s just kinda stupid, I think. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. My mom told me not to go. With him, I mean.” She looked at the remaining cookie, put it in the pocket with the used napkin. “Anyway, some guys in my homeroom didn’t ask me or even give me a Valentine. I thought you had to in homeroom.”

“I didn’t know that, about homeroom Valentine’s cards. Is that still true?”

“Yes, always. Didn’t Mr. Stephens tell you?”

“Maybe, but I might have been across the street. I’m not there all the time on Wednesday and Friday. I take his laundry to the cleaners.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty?”

“No, I mean, out of all the guys over there, how come you get to leave?”

“He told me he knew I was smart enough to handle it and I wasn’t so stupid I’d forget to come back.” Why did looking at her in his jacket and telling her a story make him feel so strange? “Anyway, ‘cause of that he kept me in gym homeroom for both years. Sort of like I flunked homeroom.”

“That’s silly, Jackson. You can’t flunk homeroom.”

“I could be in a regular homeroom, one with girls if I hadn’t flunked.”

“You didn’t flunk and there are girls in your homeroom. But you have to walk across the gym to talk to them and you’re supposed to give them a Valentine.”

“I didn’t know. So I owe you one, I guess. A Valentine, I mean.”

“I guess, huh?” She gave him a smile that seemed to confuse her face for a second. “Deanna, with two Ns. Here’s my brother.” She stood, retrieved the last of the cookie, shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to him. “Thank you for the cookie, and sitting with me, Jax. Really. I…Didn’t like it out here, by myself.”

“Thanks for, um, letting me. You know, sit. Sorry. ‘Bout Matt. And everything.” He was so glad she hadn’t stayed home and Matt was a loser he wanted to scream. A car rumbled up directly in front of them, blinding him with the headlights. Her brother unwound from the car like a bear from a cave.

“Is this him, little sister?”

“No, Jax just waited with me. So I wasn’t outside alone.”

“Yeah?” Jackson’s hand disappeared when her brother shook it. “You know the guy that did whatever, pissed her off?”

“Uh…Matt?”

“Think you could kick his ass for me?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Give it some thought, man. You did the right thing, hangin’ with DeeDee.”

Stop it, Doug! DeeDee? Really? Goddaa —” Her door closed with a BAM.

Her brother laughed. “Awww sorry DeeDee, I forgot –” His door slammed, the car backed away with a roar, the tires screeched, threw up burnt rubber smoke.

She’d slapped Matt, huh? Wow. Wonder what he did? Jackson knew he’d never get close enough to get in that kind of trouble with the Hot Girl, but his jacket sure smelled good. Wait till he told his parents what a gentleman he’d…Shit! Valentine’s was Monday! And he had to find Deanna with the double ‘n’ a card. Where was he supposed to get a Hot Girl Valentine card that didn’t come in a package with thirty other ones?

***

Saturday morning Jackson upended the paper delivery bag on his bike, brushed out all the funk inside, and pedaled off with enough lead time to make the twenty-four block ride to the mall when the stores opened. He guessed nobody knew about the bookstore because they had tons of righteous Valentine’s cards.

Some were what his mom would call sexist smut, so he stayed away from them. Well, he looked, because boobs were boobs, even cartoon boobs, but he didn’t buy one. He did find a funny one he was sure nobody had gotten double N Deanna. On the front was a black and white picture of a Gerber-ish baby, its face all screwed up with a finger way up in its nose. It was two bucks. He figured because of the book store and the mall and everything, but he bought it.

***

Valentine’s Monday morning Jackson stood up as tall as he could with the extra boost afforded by his cowboy boots and waded through the before school huddle around Deanna Collings. He handed her his card, along with an apology for forgetting in the first place, and instead of a canned smile and “Thank you so-o much!” he got a flustered “For me? Really?” and another one of those smiles that seemed to confuse her face. He also got glared out by her entourage.

He banged his locker door closed back in the hall on his side of the gym, turned, ran into his friend Kirk and three other guys who surrounded him.

“What’s with the big red envelope, man? Crushing out on Collings?”

“C’mon, I had to. I missed Stephens’ ‘Valentine’s for everyone’ announcement. She told me —”

“That never happened. Stephens giving a crap about Valentine’s cards or Collings telling you anything. You’re hopeless, man.” They shoulder punched him, shoved him toward the gym door. “Lying so you can be another Collings Fan Club dork? You’re pathetic.”

Jackson cast a furtive glance across the gym where Deanna with two N’s was surrounded by girls. They were all laughing, a few looked over, checked him out. Dork? Maybe so. But unlike every other guy at Roosevelt, he’d talked to her, alone. No crowd, all by herself. She’d snotted up his napkin, eaten his cookie, even told him how to spell her name like he was the one person at Roosevelt who didn’t know. And his jacket still smelled like her. He shoulder punched back. They could all fuck off. He’d earned his Valentine card moment with the Hot Girl.

***

Jean Collings the Biologist was the guest of honor somewhere she hadn’t been since her son had gone on to high school. In the Roosevelt Junior High Principal’s office where she was presented with her usually compliant, rule-abiding honor student, cheerleader and class president turned angry and defiant daughter who refused to give up a “note” she was accused of passing in homeroom. Along with a Girls’ Gym teacher who should wear looser sweats that weren’t almost high-water capris, and fat old Mr. Greer who remembered her well from Doug Collings’ glory days at Roosevelt.

Mom Collings held out her hand.

“The card, sweetheart? May I see it?”

“NO. It’s mine, and, and, nobody else’s.” Deanna clutched the card to her chest with both hands.

“You showed it to the girls in homeroom and started a ‘disruption’ with it. That’s why I’m —”

“It’s funny. That’s why we were laughing.” She tightened her grip on the card. “And nobody else got one like it. At all.”

“Deanna? The card. Now.”

Mom Collings opened the envelope, made a small face about the baby with the finger buried in its nose.

I Sure Had to Work
She flipped it open
To Pick a Winner Like You!
Be My Valentine?
Happy V Day, Two N’s DeaNNa – J

Jean Collings laughed out loud, looked at the gym teacher and the principal with some serious adult stink eye. “This is why I’m here?” She held the card up, wedged between her fingers. “This? No M-80s in the trash cans or toilets? No math teacher’s upside-down Volkswagen? Just this?”

“The issue I believe, Mrs. Collings, is insubordination. Your daughter refused to show the, um, ‘note,’ to Miss Riordan.”

“This is not a note, Walter. This is a Valentine’s card. In a large, red envelope, addressed to my daughter on what I believe is Valentine’s Day. Where is the problem? Miss Riordan?”

“They were all almost out of control giggling and laughing and I am charged with their physical and moral safety, Mrs. Collings. Deanna is a class officer and a role model. I felt I should intervene.”

“That’s nothing but a large bucket of double talk that allowed you to use the ‘passing a note’ rule as an excuse to get my daughter in here. So you could read her dangerous and immoral Valentine’s card? A card that did nothing but make a group of young girls laugh?” Her glare bounced between the other two adults. “I am less than pleased with both of you. This card is my daughter’s business. I have read it, approve of it and, as she has said and I agree, it is none of your business. The young man on the bench outside, who is sitting there I assume because he is the one who gave this card to my daughter? He should go back to class as well. Don’t you agree?” She waited a few seconds short of getting an answer. “Good. We’re done here.” She banged the door of Walter Greer’s office closed hard enough to rattle the mottled green glass with his name stenciled on it.

“Sorry, mom. Really.”

Mom Collings laughed, pulled her daughter close in a one-armed hug. “Don’t be ridiculous, Deanna. They should be sorry. I’d like to know where he got the card, though. I haven’t bought your father one yet.”

Looney Lunes #162

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Go Outside

WHAITEHAWK MAN FACES JAIL TERM AFTER DEFECATING ON SEAGULL IN REVENGE ATTACK Headline, The Brighton News, UK

Little birdie in the sky
Why’d you do that in my eye?
I’m not mad so I won’t cry
I’m just glad that cows don’t fly (or people…)

If they’d only misspelled FACES

Slow Night On Police Blotter Duty

MAN PUNCHES HIMSELF, CHARGED WITH ASSAULT Headline, Gallup Independent, New Mexico

Why? Because it felt so good when he stopped.

Looney Lunes #161

The Double-Edged Sword Episode

FORKLIFT OPERATOR – Whorehouse near Port of Tacoma is currently hiring FT forklift operators – The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington

IVORY SATAN WEDDING GOWN – strapless, back buttons, size 10. Sparkly Vail, cleaned, $85 –  Classified Ad, Canton, Ohio

HANGING YOURSELF COULD BE PAINFULSO GET A PRO TO DO IT –  Headline in Florida Penny Saver

I have uploaded a short video about my small organ – E-Press release and header on YouTube video by a professional organ builder

Did you hear the one about the horny lady who went to church? She chased the preacher around the sanctuary until she caught him by the organ.

The sword’s other edge – These are why self-editing is so critical. I have read more meaningless or Freudian slips or blind eye publishing in the last week or so it’s crazy. I was victimized myself last week by an autocorrect dictionary that couldn’t decide between hangar and hanger. The moral is we need to read our stuff before hitting the publish button.

Looney Lunes #160 Rise Up, Wimmin 2 fer

Out Damned Spot!

In rural Nepal many families still practice Chhaupadi, a custom that requires all menstruating women to be banished to a small hut or shed for the duration of their period. They are not allowed to interact with or touch any male family members or livestock or enter the family home.

Nepalese men are lucky their women aren’t out in the barn sharpening knives. And pity the lonely fool with a couple of daughters, they all get in sync with mom. Unless it’s World Cup Week.

Yeah, Right, Babe. Sure Thing.

Back in the late 1800s a common argument against giving women the right to vote was that it would allow married men an unfair “extra” vote. As they would surely exercise their influence over their wives to vote alike!

It’s thinking like this that makes me want a word for Male Bimbo.

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.

Looney Lunes # 160 – Rise Up, Women 2-Fer

Out Damned Spot!

In rural Nepal many families still practice Chhaupadi, a custom that requires all menstruating women to be banished to a small hut or shed for the duration of their period. They are not allowed to interact with or touch any male family members or livestock or enter the family home.

Nepalese men are lucky their women aren’t out in the barn sharpening knives. And pity the lonely fool with a couple of daughters, they all get in sync with mom. Unless it’s World Cup Week.

Yeah, Right, Babe. Sure Thing.

Back in the late 1800s a common argument against giving women the right to vote was that it would give married men an unfair “extra” vote. As they would surely exercise their influence over their wives to vote alike!

It’s thinking like this that makes me want a word for Male Bimbo.

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?

Looney Lunes #158

And The New Slang Term For Politician is –

Jellyfish possess a single orifice that serves as both a mouth and an anus.

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.