Day Two/Chapter Two

Quick note. I changed the location of the story to St. Paul, MN. I know it better than I do L.A., and since I know nothing of the 50s, pro wrasslin, law enforcement, or contract killing, I figure it’d be nice to have something I know to write about. Again, this work ain’t edited so…

Chapter Two

The kind of worn, but not beat up Lincoln pulled into the driveway. Inside, Frankie Caboose sat knowing that as soon as he walked in the front door, his world was going to get messy. Sure enough, it did.

Black Frenchy was a woman who expected very little of her man, but the things she did expect she took as serious as a heart attack. Not showing up for Wednesday night dinner one such thing.

Frankie took a breath and walked though the door, yellow roses in one hand, hat in the other. As soon as he saw her face, he knew neither the roses nor his apology would do one bit of good. For a second he wished he would’ve stuck the ether soaked rag down his own throat.

“I got these for you,” he said, handing Black Frenchy the roses. He tried to give her a kiss but she turned away.

“Frankie Carousel, you know what time it is,” she asked.
If she’d of just asked what time it was, he might of thought he stood a chance. But seeing as she called him by his full name, he knew he was screwed.
Frankie shrugged. “I dunno,”
She pointed to the clock. “What’s that say to you?”
Frankie followed her arm to her hand to her long, outstretched finger to the clock.
“I’m late,” he replied as he tried to hand her the roses once again.
“No,” she shot back, “it don’t say you’re late. It says you’re sleeping on the couch!”
He looked at the couch and then at her. Of all nights to be late, it had to be this one, he thought.
“And what the hell are you doing giving me yellow roses? We ain’t friends, we’re lovers.”
“But I thought you liked roses,” he protested.
“Red roses,” she clarified, “are what you give your baby.”
“I didn’t know the was a difference,” he mumbled. “Otherwise I would of got you red ones like you said.” He paused to look her over. “You ain’t got no clothes on.”
She glared at him. “I know,” she replied. “It’s Wednesday.”
“I like Wednesdays,” he replied, smiling. Hoping he could get her to calm down. He moved towards her and wrapped his massive arms around her narrow waist. She tried to protest, but she didn’t try very hard.
“I know you do big boy,” she cooed as she drew her fingers across his back. “Now how about you give me a kiss and tell me how sorry you are.”
Frankie put his hand under her chin and tilter her mouth up towards his. “I’m sorry, doll,” he said as he brought his mouth towards hers.
“You want me to re-heat dinner,” she whispered. “Or would you rather just have dessert?”
With a quick motion he scooped Black Frenchy into his arms and started walking to the bedroom. “Dessert sounds a whole lot tastier.”

Black Frenchy and Frankie Carousel were laying in bed, naked, exhausted, and completely in love. She was curled up beside him, tracing figure eights with her fingers up and down his chest. The full moon light shone through the sheer curtains and basked the room in a cool blue glow. Black Frenchy’s dark skin glistened with sweat.

“Where were you,” she asked.
Frankie opened his eyes and looked at her.
“I know you don’t like me asking,” she continued, “but…” her voice trailed off.
“But what?”
Her fingers stopped moving. “I get worried sometimes.”
Frankie started laughing. “About what,” he replied. He held his arms out. “Look at me, who the hell would be dumb enough to mess with Frankie Caboose?”
“Don’t call yourself that. I hate that name.”
He laughed even harder. “But the Caboose always comes last, babe. I thought you liked that.”
She ignored the comment and instead rolled over to grab a cigarette. She sat up to light it, took a long drag and then put it to Frankie’s lips.
“Do you love me,” she asked.
“What kind a question is that,” he shot back.
“The kind a question I want an answer to.”
“Why you being weird?”
She glared at him and took a drag of the smoke. “You gonna answer the question?”
“Of course I love you. You know that.”
“Do I?”
Frankie didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew that his head was starting to hurt. He stood and started to get out of bed. “I need to get some water.”
Black Frenchy grabbed his wrist.
“Do you love me,” she asked once again.
“Yes,” he said. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Now how about you tell me what this is about.”
“Promise me you’d never cheat.”
“What? Why?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Because you’re French,” he asked. “Or because your tits are too small?”
She tried not to laugh as she covered her anything but small 34Ds.
“Seriously,” she said. “You know why.”
“I don’t care what folks think,” Frankie said. “Their problems are their own. And if they see something wrong me loving a beautiful black dame like you, well then…” He stood up to his full six foot six height and flexed for her. “…I’d like to see them tell it to my face.”
She smiled. “You’d whoop em good woudn’t you?”
“Just like Handsome Jack,” he replied.
Her eyes widened in mock horror. “Not that bad!”
He grinned. “Maybe worse.”

Black Frenchy got up on her knees and scooted to end of the bed with a look that let Frankie know exactly what she wanted to do to him. He slowly walked towards her and as they met she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Raking her nails up and down his back she looked up at him and whispered. “I love you Frankie Carousel.”

“I know you do, babe,” He said, rubbing the top of her head. “I know you do.”

Filed under: Uncategorized , nanowrimo, crime, st. paul, true crime

The NaNoWriMo Challenge

To get off my writing ass, I signed up to participate in the NaNoWriMo.org write a novel in 30 days challenge. For any of you who have attempted to write a book, you know that a novel in 30 days is no small feat. That’s why I’m giving my readers a disclaimer: don’t expect what you read to be great, much less even very good. Why? Because stringing together 50,000 words that kind of make sense is tough enough as it is.

I’ll try to post what I write as I write it. And while I’ll try to keep typos to a minimum, you’ll note that the editing is non-existant.

The working title is “Canned Heat”. I hate it. The plot is as follows:

Set against the backdrop of 1950s Los Angeles, Canned Heat introduced readers to Frankie “Caboose” Carousel – a professional (if you can call it that) wrestler at a crossroads. Barely getting by, his wrestling career going nowhere, and saddled with more gambling debts than he can ever pay back, The Caboose knows his life is in the shitter. What he doesn’t know is how to get it out. But when Frankie wins a match he shouldn’t and runs afoul of the local promoter, One-eyed Jack, he’s faced with a choice that really isn’t that much of a choice – living without a head or helping One-eyed Jack take care of a problem with a rival promoter. As it turns out, as bad as Frankie Caboose is at wrestling, he’s as good when it comes to killing folks.

 

Chapter One

The way Frankie Caboose saw it there were some things a man could simply not tolerate. And bad manners were one such thing. Heck, if there was one thing that made him angrier than bad manners he couldn’t think of it. Maybe folks hitting animals, but Frankie equated that with bad manners too. To Frankie, there were all sorts-a-things that could be qualified as bad manners. Not taking your hat off indoors? Bad manners. Failing to stand when a lady entered or left the room? Bad manners. Doing whatever it was brought you to meet Frankie’s acquaintance? Probably bad manners.

“Now, if only Pretty Boy Pete wouldn’t a said such an ugly thing, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”

The man sitting across from Frankie Caboose didn’t reply on account of his mouth being taped shut.

“But,” Frankie Caboose continued, “You can’t call a guy’s girl a tar-titted nigger and suffer no consequences, can you?”

The man nodded. As if agreeing would help his cause.

“That’s exactly what I thought.” Frankie waved his oversized gloved hand in the man’s direction. “It’s rude.”

Frankie turned and took a look at the fella taped to the chair. Aside from the swollen eye, he was in good shape. Scared, but otherwise okay.

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” he said to the man. “Punching a guy in the eye when he don’t expect it ain’t exactly the most polite thing to do, right?”

The man shook his head.

“Well you’re right, it ain’t.” Frankie smiled. “Suppose that means I’ll be putting a quarter in the manners jar when I get home.”

Frankie Caboose shrugged as if thinking about what he’d done then walked over to his leather duffle bag. Pulling out a cloth and a bottle of ether, he looked at the man sitting in the chair.

“Now I know what you must be thinking,” said Frankie as he held up the bottle and rag.

As if on cue, the man started to panic. Nostrils flaring, he strained with all his might against the ropes that held his arms and legs to the chair. A high-pitched moan fought to escape the tape over his mouth.

“You’re thinking, ‘this can’t be happening’. ‘I done nothing to deserve this.’”

The man fought harder against the ropes. A dark stain grew around his groin.

Frankie grinned as he saw this and patted the man on the shoulder. “It’s okay pal, lotsa folk piss themselves at times like this.”

The man made eye contact with Frankie. For a brief second he calmed down. Then he started crying.

Frankie pulled up a chair and sat facing the man. “I tell ya, I even pissed myself once upon a time.”

This made the man cry harder.

“Here I was on this pretty French beach and the next thing I know I’m pissing my pants. Course, it’s not like I was the only one. Some fellas crapped themselves. Can you believe that? Grown men just going in their pants!”

Frankie took the cap of the ether and with one hand cupped behind the back of the man’s head he took the other and held the bottle to the man’s nose.

“Now you’d think the whole beach would’ve stunk like piss and crap on account of so many of us doing so, but it didn’t,” Frankie said.

“You want to know what it smelled like,” he asked though the man’s sobs.

“It smelt like burnt marshmallows,” he continued as he pulled the bottle from the man’s face.

Frankie grabbed the rag that was sitting on his lap and held it to the top of the ether bottle. He was about to pour the contents of the bottle onto the rag when he suddenly stopped.

“I can’t stand that smell no more,” said Frankie. “I smell it and they all come back. I smell it and I see all them fellas’ guts and brains and mangled bodies lying in the sand. I see all that blood.”

Frankie shook his head, clearing it of that memory and began pouring the ether onto the rag.

“You’d figure after seeing all that blood I’d be used to it but to tell the truth I can’t stand the stuff.”

The man looked up, confused. Maybe a little bit hopeful.

“That’s why I use the ether. No mess.”

The man groaned.

Frankie Caboose patted him on the leg. “And it’s a lot nicer for you.”

Realizing what was about to happen, the man defecated.

“Whoowee,” Frankie said, waving his hand in front of his face. “That’s one of the worst I ever smelt.”

Leaning forward he quickly peeled the tape back from the man’s mouth, shoved the rag in and stuck the tape back over his mouth. The man gagged as he fought to get what little air he could through his nose. Frankie let him get a few good breaths before his pinched the man’s nose shut.

And then he waited.

Within seconds the man passed out. Within a few more he stopped breathing. Frankie checked his pulse to make sure he was dead. He was. A few minutes later he checked again. Still dead.

Frankie stood, surveyed his work and took a look around the motel room. Another job well done, he thought.

He was starting to get the hang of this.

Filed under: Uncategorized , crime, mystery, nanowrimo, pulp fiction, Writing

The email I sent to my office regarding my stolen lunch

Good afternoon all-

Among my many talents, crafting the perfect sandwich is one I am particularly proud of (ranking just behind crafting the perfect headline). Now as everyone knows, a sandwich is only as good as its ingredients. That’s why I spend a little extra on quality meats and cheeses (that generic store-brand “meat” has no place in my food pyramid!). Of course given these current economic times, splurging on the good stuff means making cuts in other areas within my grocery budget (sorry Florida, your delicious oranges don’t make the cut.) Normally I try to mix it up a bit and pick a new meat/cheese combo to get me through the week. Last week it was peppered turkey and havarti; the week before: pastrami and swiss. But this week I figured I’d revisit my old friends ham and swiss. Hardly exciting, but delicious none-the-less.

We all have our own routines when it comes to lunch preparation. Some get it ready the night before. Some do it as soon as they wake up. And some (usually senior management (on the rare occasion they have time to eat)or trust-funders) don’t bother making lunch at all and instead enjoy a nice lunch out somewhere. Me? I make my sandwich right before I head out the door so I can be assured it is as fresh as possible.

Now you’re probably thinking, “Patrick, while I find your fondness of sandwiches mildly interesting and strangely disturbing, what does this have to do with me?”

Absolutely nothing.

Unless of course you are the individual who recently enjoyed the gastronomical delights of my Virginia Baked Ham and Swiss on wheat. Then this message has everything to do with you.

While I appreciate that you appreciate my sandwich preparation abilities – and am humbled that you chose my sandwich above all others – today’s effort was not intended for anyone save myself. In fact, had I know I was cooking for you I would have spent a bit more time and effort preparing a sandwich worthy of your discriminating culinary tastes. To be honest, at the moment I am embarrassed by the meager representation of today’s sandwich. Again, had I known I was cooking for you I would have used significantly more care in producing a sandwich that showcased this ability I speak so highly of. For that failure I am sorry.

To ensure this never happens again please let me know what I can do to bring you the best sandwich experience possible. Was the ham sliced too thin? Do you prefer a smokier swiss cheese? Is there a condiment you are particularly fond of? Let me know and I will craft a sandwich that accommodates your tastes. Additionally, please let me know which days you will be eating my sandwiches as it would be nice to know when I need to prepare an additional sandwich to meet your needs (FYI, I eat out on Fridays so you will need to make auxiliary plans those days).

Of course I could be completely mistaken in your affinity for sandwiches all together. It could be today was an aberration and you chose my sandwich because it was the first thing you saw when you opened the fridge. If that is the case it is unfortunate my effort was wasted on an individual who neither appreciates or has the gustational ability to recognize quality.

That convenience is your only demand speaks volumes of your taste and character. In fact, realizing such depresses me to a level not felt since my high-school football team went 0-9. What a truly sad life it must be to be chained to that evil temptress that is ease. And here I am just enabling that behavior. Well rest easy my friend because from now on I will not be a willing participant in your downward spiral. No, from here on out I will be placing my sandwich in the deepest recesses of the fridge. Safely out of reach of your gluttonous grasp. And while this will surely create distress on your part, you can count on the digestive regularity that the yougurts that typically occupy that fridge space will provide (you will need to provide your own spoon).

Not in to yogurt?

Well since I doubt anyone will be leaving a Big Mac and super-sized box of fries for you, I encourage you to swing by my cubicle in the event that your inconsiderate coworkers fail to bring lunch selections that meet your needs. I will be more than happy to sacrifice funds from my own meager lunch budget to ensure you stay fat and happy (besides I could stand to lose a pound or two).

Thanks!

Patrick

PS. In the likely event that you (the sandwich taker) lack the ability to recognize sarcasm allow me to clarify that I am not your mother, father, BFF or personal chef. Contrary to what you might think, my day does not revolve around making your life easier or better. Nor is it my responsibility to make sure you stay fed. Of course, should you be facing a financial hardship that precludes your ability to afford meals, please let me know and I will do whatever it is I can to help you.

Filed under: Uncategorized , ham sandwich, humor, lunch, Writing

Choose your own adventure

I’ve decided to take Will’s story in a new direction. A direction that you, the reader, will ultimately decide. Chapter One will drop by the end of the week.

Filed under: Trailer Trash, Why I Write , Choose your own adventure, Wreck My Life, Writing

Decisiontime

So the question I ask myself is this: do I put Wreck My Life to pasture and pursue my next story or do I retool it for the fourth time and press on?

Here’s what I know so far.

1. The story (in its current form) doesn’t work for me. The Liz story line needs to be mercifully put out of its misery.
2. Will has moments of greatness, but by and large he sucks. The reason for this is that the characters he interacts with suck.
3. I am bored with this project. It seems I’m always bored with it by the time I get to the end of a re-write.
4. Wreck My Life is more of a character study than it is a story.
5. Did I mention that I’m bored with this?
6. My new story touches upon many of the same themes but addresses a couple more compelling ones.
7. The new story will allow me to break free of the established thinking that is preventing me from taking Wreck My Life in the direction it needs to go.
8. Wreck My Life would probably function best as a short story or novella.
9. On the other hand, not seeing this through makes me feel as if I’m not finishing what I’ve started.
10. Of course, the last few years of writing may have been nothing more than preparation for the new story.
11. In the course of 10 bullet points I think I just gave myself the answer I was looking for.

Filed under: Uncategorized , creativity, ideas, indifferent, inspiration, motivation, productivity, short stories, the writing process, Wreck My Life, Writing