Navel-Gazing Bullshit.

First post of NaWriNoMo

noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Wed, 01 Nov 2006 08:02:00 +0000

This is the first of (hopefully) many posts leading up to the culmination of a 50,000 word pile of utter crap. Click below and then gouge out your eyes in horror of the badness of my writing.

I was born, to the suprise of many, to humble circumstances in a suburban house (actually a hospital, but I hardly spent any time there) in what would change from the "boonies" into the suburbs. A home in every way normal, mother and father married and happy, eventually a few siblings and a some pets. The pets came and went depending on their lifespans and the amount care my attention span allowed them. Living a life fairly normal with no perverts of a type inclined to harass me.

My home originally was at the intersection of a road leading west and a road leading north to a rather large pile of sticks and dirt. After it rained, I remember going to the pile of sticks to see the tiny waterfalls that would form on it with the filthy water from the cow pasture to the north. Growing up being told that I was gifted. A prodigy at nothing, but good enough to get annoyance from every teacher in my elementary schools (catholic, then the heathen public school) to participate in some of the extracurricular activities. The halcyon days when only wanting to read books and think was treated as genius rather than antisocial behavior. "He reads so much, but I never see any evidence of it" one said.

Putting this down for now, it's semi-autobiographical, but in the style of "How to Talk Dirty and Influence People" by Lenny Bruce so interspersed with fiction to speed up the boring bits (meaning it will be mostly fiction, particularly High School).

I have done all that I could to see the evil and the good...

noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 05:21:00 +0000

Yeah, I know that no one reads this and that no one who might probably cares, but I feel the need to put something here. I'm going (hopefully in the next week or so) to a doctor, the doctor will give me a perscription for ADHD meds and I will probably be able to focus better. This may mean that the frequency of posting will go from "whenever I'm just drunk enough" to "whenever I have the time." There it is, drugs may improve me. I'm putting up a revised version of a story I posted a month or three back below.

He hadn't stopped crying for the last twenty miles. As Eliza pulled into the gas station, the lightning flickered again. It cracked close and and she heard a car alarm sound briefly, then stop when it realized there was no danger. She clutched the baby as she ran into the brown wood paneled and white stuccoed building. A woman was sitting behind the counter, thick glasses, pale flabby skin and a large gap in her large front teeth that prevented her from being bucktoothed. The floor was wet and Eliza's shoes squeaked like vicious mice as she stepped across the aging white linoleum. The whole place reeked of wet dog and stale cigarettes, despite the signs that told her both were not allowed in the store.
“How can I help ya?” The woman behind the counter said, helpful, but loud to be heard over the thunder, now frequent, and the baby's crying, which was constant.
“Is there somewhere I could change him?” Eliza said, bouncing Jonathan jr. ad she said it.
“Bathroom's back there” The woman, Joan according the the hand printed name tag on her white polo shirt, replied gesturing towards the area to the left of the register. “It's purty small, but so's he” she grinned wide as she said it.
“Thank you” she ducked into the bathroom, which was as small as a bathroom could be without using the toilet as a sink and changed him on the lid of the toilet. Washing her hands she looked at herself in the mirror, and proceeded to agonize over her wrinkled, sun-damaged tan face and bottle blond hair, which was matted from the rain. She spent several minutes trying to dry her hair with the cheap, ineffective hand dryer, giving up she grabbed her baby and made another mad dash around the building to her white, late-model Trans-Am. As she did so the woman behind the counter shouted “Aren't ya gonna buy something?” then when the answer was clearly no, she added “Bitch!”
She would have felt bad about not buying anything on any other night, but tonight she had to keep moving. If someone had asked her why or where she was going, she would have been at a loss, unable to explain it. She just knew that staying still for any longer than necessary was not an option.
Of course she knew why she had started moving, it was over, everything, it was all falling apart. It had happened in her first marriage, the hanging feeling that it was over, all but the lawyers and custody battle, but this time it was different, stronger and more terrifying, it wasn't just her marriage, it was her who was falling to pieces. She had decided to go to a friend's house about a hundred miles away, wait for the feeling to abate, call her lawyer and go back home. The friend was out of town for the week, she forgot to check ahead, she got in her car and drove away from home, that was three hundred miles before.
Jonathan was crying again, she kept driving, while trying to comfort him. The crying kept going, she turned, and screamed “Shut up, why do you keep crying? We can't stop again, we just can't, so stop it.” As she turned to look back at the road, a flash of lightning showed the milk truck she had been following jack knife, the trailer snapping loose and twisting. She realized just before the car hit that she was going to have to stop, the terror of stopping flooding away the fear of her or Jonathan jr's death. The car crumpled, the milk tank burst and leaked into the ditch mingling with the rain water.
The paramedics arrived 30 minutes later, the milk truck driver needed a dozen stitches in his forehead, Jonathan had miraculously survived the crash unharmed, and Eliza just sat in the puddle of milk and rain water and laughed, the water soaking her red sleeveless shirt and faded denim shorts. She stood up after they had checked her over and began to run the direction she had been driving. Running, she escaped them, the storm fading away as she disappeared in the distance. Jonathan had stopped crying and slept gently during the long drive to the hospital, while the truck driver stared forward blank.

His novel was refused and his movie was panned. [a concession to the usual content of blogs]

noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 10:11:00 +0000

Done this once before, but I thought I might as well let my pitiful personal life shine through. Just feel like ranting. Ignore it or click below to continue.

I guess the major reason I haven't written more here is a general feeling of anger and disgust I get whenever I am around people too long. I get a little too morose as I am ignored and given guff for any emotion that I express (some people understand, but most don't). I'm sorry, but I have had one relationship from the age of 15 and that one was a little bit fucked up . I spent my childhood jumping between groups and with my pitifully long time to establish friendships combined with a general misanthropy has lead to college being the best years of my life. I've stuck it out and have a few people I trust, but still can't really get close to anyone. Honestly, most of you have had at least one positive romantic experience, I haven't and this obviously influences my writing. Fuck you, you lucky bastards and bitches, I hate you all. That about wraps it up. Give me a fucking break, because I'm whiny.

P.S. Will fix the spelling when my keyboard merges into one.!

*Edit: Fixed most of the spelling, the vodka had me by the balls.

Faces look ugly when you're alone...[More story extending, been nearly a week]

noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 08:55:00 +0000

First, I am writing this completely off of the top of my head, second my head is addled by various and sundry beverages (i.e. I'm a little bit drunk) when writing these, thusly, and also I guess thirdly as well, these are as rough a draft as could be. Suggestions of fixes and continuity errors are welcome. I'm just trying to get things written down, also if you're reading this and you know me in person let me know. I probably won't want to talk about any of the stories I write here as the amount of seriousness with which I approach topics is basically beyond my capability in person and the inability to rewrite leads to disappointment of anyone who thinks me a capable writer. As my rambling leads into the story, here's an extension of the previous story. We know join our "hero" at a greasy fast food joint after a night of heavy drinking.

I stumbled in heavily, leaning against the door to open it as my arms gave out. I walked up past the line of people ordering food and asked about their bathroom where it was and if I could use it. This at the moment seemed incredibly urgent. I felt that if I was going to spend anymore time standing I was going to have very little say in what came out of which part of my body and that I would like to limit my options and the damage.

I went into the stall and sat, it felt like acid, I thought, as I thought nearly every hangover, that I would die, this was it, going out like Elvis to be found by some teenager making minimum wage. After an eternity of pain and anguish I felt more than ready for something to fill the gaping ragged hole in my gut.

That's all I got right now. I may revise, but this might remain until November as the first thing people see. I'm too tired and frankly too sober to write much more at the moment.

I'm an ordinary man...[Extension of the story that was the longer one, second extension]

noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sun, 24 Sep 2006 06:30:00 +0000

A Few drinks and the soundtrack to My Fair Lady and I think I can write some more.


The world  spun.  Darkening, more gritty, more real and immediate.  I was aware of it, but unfortunately it was the last thing I was aware of.  The bottle was gone, but I had enough to buy myself another.  This one was sipped.

"Wake the fuck up!  I'm not fucking joking, we're taking you to the hospital if you don't wake up."

"Sure whateveeerrr, I'm awaaakee"  I lifted my head, it was still dark and Bear was slapping me.  "I'm good don't worry."  The world was spinning badly, I looked around.  To the left was a storm sewer, to the right was the street.  Shit, I had had a bit too much.  The world dimmed and disappeared again.

"You okay?  We're going to stop for food."  Bear's voice again.   A firm voice, a little indecisive, but insisting.

I sat up, my head bumping lightly against the roof of the car.  I set my head back down again, it was resting on Bear's lap surprisingly enough.  It was really fucking bright, too goddamn bright, at least noon.  "I'm good, where are we stopping?"  My stomach jumped a little as I thought of food.  I layed back down and closed my eyes.  My hands went up and rubbed my eyes hard.

"Don't know yet.  Pulling into some town up ahead here."  She reached down and gave me a bit of a shove upright.  "The usual fast food joints, some small bars and a couple of other small restaurants."

"I think I'm going to vote against another bar."  I grinned, but a quick and painful glimpse let me know that no one cared about my hangover.  "Something greasy and a big glass of water sounds pretty damn good.   That or more sleep."

"Yeah, that's the general plan.  Aside from Fool, we all had a bit too much, not as bad as you, but still..."  She reached out and patted my shoulder.

"We're going to fucking Hardee's and I'm getting a fucking giant greaseburger.  I don't fucking care what you want."  Fool barked as he wrenched the wheel towards the parking lot.

This was going to be a god damn long day.



A reason or an excuse...
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 07:11:00 +0000
It's your choice.  I'm having a hard time writing without being forced.  I'm frankly becoming acutely aware of the limitations of life as a dedicated bachelor.  The experience of "love" is one that many expect as evidenced by a few of the responses to the story I posted previously when it was given to my class.  By disavowing all knowledge of something that is a large part of most male's lifestyle I see the limits.  My own fault, as soon as I find a way to write away or around the limits of my experience, I shall return.  I've honestly tried to write new stories (or revise old ones) for here, but my limits are hitting me harder than I expected on many of my "best" ideas.  In summary, the fat alcoholic guy who writes this here site is whining instead of writing.  Expect  a lot of updates come November for National Write a Novel Month.  No guarentee on quality, aside from stilted and terrible.


First draft, readable.
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 05:09:00 +0000
The first draft of the longer short story I wrote. I made some drastic changes on the second draft. I'm going to start tomorrow on another of similar length. Posted with no edits, I'd post the final draft, but I sent it into a literary magazine (Third Coast) and I'm not sure if it's okay to have it here. Click below for mediocrity in longer form.
New post made it work.  Here it is readable this time. Old post kept up as monuement to failure.  

 "Hobbyist."
  Jeff Rink
 The hooker was lying at my feet unconscious; it was not nearly as fun as I thought it would be. I had planned it all so carefully, step by step, each leading me flawlessly into the next. Once I actually did it though, an unconscious hooker lying there, waiting for me to slit her throat, carve her abdomen to remove my memento and leave her bleeding in the alley, all my carefully ingrained romantic imagery of a man in a top hat and long black coat, terrible grin, and gleaming razor blade fell to pieces. It just was not very fun, there was satisfaction in success up to this point, the sense that I was going to do some sort of moral duty and clean up society, and the idea of it being in the paper the next morning was neat, but it just lacked a sense of fulfillment. I suppose that finding out that your new hobby really is not all that fun while a hooker lies unconscious on the pavement at your feet is a little late in the game.  
 I really was proud of myself that I had finally started a hobby, not like when I was going to brew my own beer, learn to play million-dollar Black Jack, or breed parakeets for fun and profit. Each of those made my cheap plywood bookshelf sag a little more, but did not ever lead anywhere. In this case I was not able to find a guide so I wrote down my steps, making up my own little booklet. Without further ado, here are “Saint J. Bakier's Steps and Rules for Successful Ripping: With notes from the author on his own experience.”
 
 Step One is called “Getting the Tools of the Trade.” It is self-explanatory, you will need all the requisite tools for the act and the image, these are:
 The  blade: Must be very sharp. A straight razor is one possibility, but  this is not ideal especially given the difficulty of finding a  genuine straight razor. A stage prop razor is obviously inadequate,  these are not actually sharp. The key with the blade is that it is  sharp enough to go through the skin easily; a butcher's knife is  very effective as it is designed for a similar purpose. For the same  reason surgical tools, such as scalpel, are most likely ideal, but  are not necessarily as good as butcher tools, a surgical tool is  designed to be used on a living person, it's designed for slower,  careful use. Butcher tools in contrast are designed for use on a  carcass, but are not as precise. The main thing to remember is the  blade's purpose, it is to be used for the killing slash across the  throat, then for post mortem mutilation and the removal of an organ  as a memento. All of this has to be done with speed and ideally  precision. Remember when picking your blade the purpose of its use,  it has to be very sharp. In my case, I decided on a professional  quality butcher knife I found at a local supplier, assuming that  with no real training I would never reach a level of precision that  would be noticeable with any tools. The speed, however, would  hopefully allow me further opportunity for practice.
 
 Hand  and arm protection: This again has a number of options for the  reader to decide upon. It is not as critical to the successful  practice of the hobby, but is a consideration. Since you will be  approaching the target from the front with the intention of  strangling them into unconsciousness, they will likely struggle,  possibly scratching the practitioner in the process. Avoiding  leaving evidence such as skin under your target's fingernails is  important; in addition being scratched is not enjoyable. Leaving  fingerprints or getting blood on your clothing are also  considerations, pick a material that is easily washable. Gloves  should avoid leaving distinctive fibers or marks on the body, a  generic pair of winter gloves should suffice. Make sure that you  will be able to grip properly while using them and also use the  blade efficiently. For the sake of image black is best, but avoiding  an appearance that will draw suspicion is also important. In my own  case, I decided on thin brown leather gloves and a red fleece jacket  to hide blood spatter. With elastic at the cuffs it prevented  exposure of my arms during the strangulation, the pockets had ample  room for the gloves to be stuffed in when disposing of it.
 
 A  method of removing your memento from the scene: This has fewer  options. Ideally, it has to be airtight to prevent smells,  inconspicuous when leaving the scene, and easily cleaned off at the  scene. The transportation is important, but if you can make a quick  run to a safe area, then it will obviously not be as important. A  ziploc bag can be effective if you are doing this within a short  distance of your home, though this is not recommended. If you drive  to the area, then the need for transportation will obviously lessen  with the distance from where you are at the time to where you plan  to go. In my case, I decided on a soft lunch box. With a slick  exterior I could wipe it down and avoid getting blood in my car.  Needless to say, even the best transportation for your memento won't  hold up under scrutiny and you are likely to be bloody and equally  as suspicious.
 
 Step Two is “target acquisition,” and had been incredibly easy. A few nights of surveillance and you should be able notice that at least one of them has a schedule. That is the ideal target, knowing her route you can find the perfect place to hide and know where to go afterwards. This is key as the longer the distance from strike to safety, the greater your chance of being caught in the act. I parked my car in an alley about halfway down the block from the alley where I would grab her. This was a perfect area as I was able to move through the alley behind the buildings and exit to the street on the other side. I also picked a time when she was switching where she was looking for customers, rather than when she left at the end of the night. If you grab them at the end of the night they will be missed sooner than if you grab them in the middle of their rounds. A john is not going to report that his hooker didn't show up for their weekly meeting, but a roommate, family member, or friend will report that they didn't come home.
 As far as picking a specific target out of those that have a schedule, this is almost purely a matter of personal preference. Depending on your own confidence in your strength, you may want to pick a target who is considerably shorter or lighter than you. I'm six foot, two inches tall and weigh in the mid two hundred range, so this was not at all a consideration. I ended up picking a roughly five foot seven inch, slim, hooker in her early twenties by my estimation. I picked her because of an old mid sized scar on her cheek that reminded me of an old song. Your own criteria can be as arbitrary as mine as long as you pick a target who matches the other, more practical, criteria.
 I touched on this briefly before, but the time and location of your strike are most important. The location should provide cover from the street and give you a clear avenue of escape. The time will vary based on your target's schedule, but you should try and strike near the end of her night, but not at the end as I said before. This is a good time as she will be tired, also the number of people on the street, each of whom is a potential witness, will be less.
 Now that you have your tools and know the who, when, and where of your strike, Step Three is the how. Ideally you will bring them off of the sidewalk and strangle them from either the front (traditional) or the back (the safe method). Strangle until they are unconscious, then carefully lower them to the ground. They will be completely limp after becoming unconscious so be prepared for the weight, even the lightest target will likely be over a hundred pounds and the limp human body is a very awkward thing to move. Standing at the side of the head of the body, kneel down, take your blade and bring it down on the side of the neck opposite you (if you are on her left, start on her right and vice versa) and bring it slowly across the neck. Then you go to work on the abdomen, remove your memento and leave the scene. Since you will be doing this in darkness you will need to plan ahead as to which part you plan on removing and how. Medical websites can provide some information on the removal of organs, but with basic anatomical knowledge and since you are working on a dead body, it's relatively simple.
 
 “Relatively simple.” I hadn't thought about the level of darkness in the alley. I could barely see her lying there, only the glow of the slick yellow fabric of her mini-skirt and stripped green and orange halter top, both of a cheap fabric that was some sort of combination of spandex and vinyl. My heart was already out of the work and now it seemed as though the next step would be a near-impossibility. I did not relish the thought of trying to find and cut out her kidney in the dark with a razor-sharp butcher knife. One slip and I would be digging one of my fingers out of her, a less than ideal scenario.
 I thought back on what had brought me into this hobby, perhaps regaining my nerve and risking my fingers inside the body of hooker with the hope of a ending my first adventure with kidney in hand. A far better prize than home-made beer or dozens of squeaking, shitting bundles of feathers. I decided to take up a hobby to alleviate the boredom. Eight hours a day I sat in an office, mornings spent drinking weak coffee and wondering if this is the hangover that finally kills me and then wishing that it had in the afternoons. All while staring at forms, writing a few words on them or stapling them to other forms, sending these out to wait for them to return with someone else's writing or someone else's form stapled to them. Taking the form again I wrote on it or stapled it to yet another form, and send it out to be written on or stapled by another person, or possibly the same person as the first time I sent it away, knowing that I would see it again soon enough.
 After work ends at 5:00, I head immediately to my apartment, or to the liquor store if I need to, then I eat dinner, usually a cheap can of chili or soup, and drink whiskey until I pass out on my couch. I wake up hungover and go into the office to spend some more time with my beloved forms.  
 I wanted something new, I went to the bookstore on Saturdays and stared at the various hobby books, until an employee came up to me and I bought whatever book I had in hand at the time, soon I had a sizable collection of books I would never read on things that weren't interesting. My Sundays were spent sitting on my couch watching the History channel. Between aliens, the bible, aliens in the bible and brick-making, there was a show on Jack the Ripper. I spent the whole next day at work reading everything I could find about him on my office computer, forms went out without being stapled or written on and no one seemed to notice.  
 My evenings were no longer spent drinking myself to sleep and instead were spent watching the hookers from the parking lot of a derelict chapel on White street. The Chapel shared my name, though it fit a church far better than a person. My mother was simple religious woman, she demanded I receive a good Catholic name. She always said that all the best people in history seemed to have the same first name. She died when I was five, within six months I was in an orphanage and starting school. I quickly realized that winding up in an orphanage was a blessing, she was either on very heavy drugs or an idiot.  
 Sitting in my car in the parking lot of Saint Jude's Chapel, I watched the hookers. I took detailed notes on the comings and goings of each, looking for and in three nights finding my target. This was the same one that now lay at my feet, although all of them had a schedule of some sort this one caught my eye. I had watched her every night for three weeks, finding her patterns.
 Slim and younger than the others, in her twenties at the oldest, she seemed to haggle with the clients more than the rest. Considering the size difference, I would have no trouble knocking her out and finishing things. She also seemed to have a very lax schedule of clients, they would meet her and then haggle for a long time.  
 The usual customers she met on White Street. She only had a few regular clients, a burly man who looked like a boxer who pulled up in a green dodge that looked like it had been in a few losing fights with other cars and various street signs, lamps, and barriers. Another was a thin old man in a suit in a dark red Porsche 911, he would get out and argue with her for about 20 minutes every time, before he hung his head and she got into the car. The last was a man in his mid-twenties in a wrinkly white dress shirt, long sleeves pulled up to the elbows. He drove an old ford pickup, rusted wheel-wells from salted winter roads. He would stand there pleading with her until she hung her head and got into the car.
 I watched her route, she would cut through the alley where I caught her around three in the morning, switching to a new corner on Nichols street. There she met other customers, who she met varied. I don't think I saw the same one twice.
 She was pretty, the gaudy uniform of a hooker, skirt little more than a thick belt, shirt a brightly colored censor bar, and shoes high and pointed, flattered her attractive figure. She had her hair died a pale green, straight, hanging down to just below her neck.  
 I came close enough to get a good look only once. She was standing on the corner of White and Nichols, right under the streetlight, her skin pale and unblemished, taking a purple hue from the harsh light. I noticed a small scar on her cheek, old and faded, at least a dozen stitches went into it's making. That sealed the deal, she was my target. Turning the corner, I speed up and went home. I picked my night, that next Wednesday was the day. Grabbing her in the alley while she switched corners, from the regular to the irregular customers.
 I was going to have to figure out what to do quick, every second made it more likely that someone would find me in a rather awkward position. I looked down and grinned. Hoisting the hooker's slender form over my shoulder, walked to my car and threw her across the back seat, tossed the knife in a dumpster and started off. Driving down the street, I tossed the gloves out the window and turned on the radio. It was on a talk radio station, taking a news break, the middle east was blowing itself up, a local woman was involved in a car accident, she died in the ambulance of inter-cranial bleeding on the way to the hospital, and a still unidentified man had broken into a young woman's apartment to commit suicide, business as usual. As the car pulled into the loop at the entrance of the hospital, I rumpled my hair, widen my eyes and screeched the car to a halt.
 Keeping my eyes wide I grabbed her and ran inside. Holding her in front of me I yelled “I need a doctor, this young woman's been attacked!” Now this will be a fun game I thought, a nurse running over and then away to get a gurney. They wheeled her into another room, a doctor entered momentarily, then exited.
 “She's conscious, we'll have to keep her over night for observation. What happened?” The doctor looked me straight in the eye the whole time he spoke, but only the last part seemed to be directed at me.
 “I was turning onto White street, my headlights hit an alley, I saw the woman in there and someone in a black hooded coat struggling. I stopped and ran over, but by the time I got there the guy was gone and she was knocked out. So I grabbed her and drove here as fast as I could.”
 “Well, I'll need you to stay here and wait for the police, do you know her?”
 “No, I've never seen her before. Is there somewhere I can grab a bite to eat?”
 “There's a cafeteria in the basement, but it's closed. Head over to the desk and give them your contact information, there's a vending machine in the employee lounge, they'll point it out to you. Let me know if you need anything else.”
 “Thanks, I'll do that.” I started to the desk and the doctor went back into her room.
 A woman with short graying hair and a wrinkled pale face took my information, and aside from the usual cracks about my name, seemed like sure could not be less interested. She gave me a key to the break room. I bought a cheap turkey sandwich in plastic wrap and a can of pop. I took those out into the waiting room and was half way done with my dinner when I thought that this would be a great reason to take a day off work. I grabbed a courtesy phone and left a message saying that it was complicated and that I would explain when I came in Tuesday.
 I was laying across the chairs in the waiting room trying not to look at a blue-haired skeleton who could have been a civil war widow vomit thick and white into a bag. A stout doctor came over. He coughed, not a real cough, a polite one.
 “Mr. Bakier?” He said.
 “Yes? Is she alright?” I sat bolt upright, imagining that I must have looked pretty concerned, I was enjoying the hell out of it.
 “Ms. Simpson? She's fine now, she wants to talk to you now.”
 “Sure, where's she at?” I was standing then, wringing my hands.
 “I'll take you to see her, the police have already taken her statement and they would like to speak with you before you talk to her.”
 “That'll be fine, I'm ready to help any way I can.” The Good Samaritan, for the first time I inwardly thanked my mother for her religiousness, a man named “Saint” has to throw them off. We walked into a room on the second floor. Two detectives sat on a bed at the far end of the room.
 
 “Have a seat, Mr. Bakier, I'm detective Walker, this is my partner, Milton.” He shook my hand and his partner grunted as Walker said his name.
 “Hello, sir, how can I help you?” I successfully fought a grin, Walker was the good cop and Milton the bad. It was like a movie.
 “We understand that you brought Ms. Simpson here this evening. What were you doing out that late?”
 “Looking to get some action?” Milton jumped in before I could answer.
 “No sir, I have insomnia, I drive to try and clear my head some nights.” Hold your applause, I planned that one.
 “And on your drive this evening you saw Ms. Simpson being attacked?”  
 “Yes sir, I was turning off of Nichols on to White, heading to get some instant coffee since I wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, my headlights went over the alley and I saw two people struggling.” It was going too well. I thought they were going to grill me, try and trip me up with inconsistencies.
 “Did you see her attacker?”
 “Only for a second, he was wearing some kind of dark blue or maybe black coat.”
 “How were your headlights able to light up the alley from across the street?” Here we go, Milton was giving me a hard one, it had to be 50 feet to the other side of the street.
 “I must've left my brights on. I'm a little forgetful.” I smiled a bit and gave a little shrug.
 “Hmm... So you saw Ms. Simpson and her assailant across the street and he was wearing a dark red coat-” I interrupted Walker.
 “It might have been red, sir, but I only got a quick look. I think it was blue or black though.” Couldn't waver, they'd jump on that.
 “-So you stopped and took her here. Why didn't you call 911?” Walker continued without acknowledging my comment.
 “I don't have a cell phone, sir, I thought it would be quicker to bring her myself.”
 “What time was this?”
 “Around three or so, sorry sir, I don't remember exactly, I do know it was only about ten minutes before we got here. The lady at the desk asked me some questions when I got here, maybe she remembers what time it was.”
 “We have that information already, if you would just make sure that it's accurate. After that I think you can be on your way.”
 “Don't skip town.” Milton added, it took me a moment to realize he was joking and I grinned, it was a really idiotic joke.
 “It looks fine, sir, the doctor said that Ms... Simpson, wasn't it?” Walker nodded, “wanted to see me. Is that alright sir?”
 “It's fine, we already got her statement, she's down the hall in room 2112.” Walker pointed to down the right side of the hall.
 “Thanks , sir.” I started out the door.
 “Just one more thing, Mr. Bakier.” The bottom dropped out, I was hanging, trying to kick my boots off. “We'll probably need you to come to the station tomorrow to give a complete formal statement, here take my card, it has the address on it.” I was in the clear. Saint: 1 Law Enforcement: 0.
 Ms. Simpson was lying on the bed absently staring at a magazine.
 “Thank you Doctor.” she set the magazine on the table by the bed and looked at me for a moment. “Can I speak to Mr. Bakier alone please?”
 The doctor nodded and left the room. Aside from her and me, the room was empty. The soft neutral lights glinting off the cheap white laminate floor into my eyes, as I stared down, in a way that I hoped appeared humble or even bashful.
 “Call me Saint or Jude.” I extended my hand to her. She slapped it away.
 “Cut the bullshit. I know what you did, Bakier.” She looked angry. “I know you're the one who choked me.”
 The jig was up, she had me, a new twist, unexpected. “Okay, then why haven't you called the police in? Seems like I should have my face pressed against a wall being read my rights.”
 “Because I want to give you an opportunity instead. I don't know what your plan is, but I know that I sure as hell am getting something out of it.”
 “I was going to cut your throat and take one of your kidneys as a trophy” Saying it out loud made it seem kind of strange. “I figured it would be too difficult to do in the dark, so I decided to take you to the hospital instead and play Good Samaritan.”
 “Figured it was something like that, I don't care why you didn't go through with it. I just want to know what you plan on doing now. I've got an idea and I want your help for this, you'll do it or you're in jail for assault.”
 “You are looking at my plan, lying to the police, the doctors, and you. Trying not to get caught. Seemed like fun.” I shrugged. “If you have a plan and it sounds more fun than prison, I will go along.”
 “Glad to hear it, omitting some details, the two of us have a pretty tragic story. Poor girl attacked by a big scary man in a dark alley is saved by a stranger, named Saint, it doesn't get much cheesier than that. I know a guy at the local paper, I can get us some publicity to tell about how traumatic the whole thing was.” She coughed and I took the opportunity.
 “Sounds fun, but how does that benefit us?”
 “We're all over the fucking news, then the poor woman and her rescuer decide to start a charity to rescue other poor souls in terrible situations. It probably won't make us rich, but with some creative bookkeeping, we can both live comfortably as 'administrative heads.' Almost no work, a good steady paycheck, and the respect of the community.”
 mean no more forms, no more shitty coffee, and no more hobbies. “Sounds like fun, but where do I Her offer sounded damn good, not only did it take my little deception to dizzying heights, it wouldcome in? Seems like you could run the whole thing by yourself.”
 “I need someone to go to fancy dinner parties with, looked pretty next to and deal with certain sorts, just about anyone would do. The advantage with you is that I have control. You decide to get uppity and steal or anything and I can give up your secret and you're up to your neck in shit”
 “We have a deal Ms. Simpson.” I stuck my hand out and we shook on it.




"Hobbyist"  first draft.
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Mon, 07 Aug 2006 02:07:00 +0000
The first draft of the longer short story I wrote.  I made some drastic changes on the second draft.  I'm going to start tomorrow on another of similar length.  Posted with no edits, I'd post the final draft, but I sent it into a literary magazine (Third Coast) and I'm not sure if it's okay to have it here.  Click below for mediocrity in longer form.

Edit:  Because of a problem, things are weird.  I'll try and fix it.
Edit...again:  Drank to much, smoking cigarettes and listening to "Who's Next?" again instead.  Maybe tomorrow

 "Hobbyist."
  Jeff Rink
  The hooker was lying at my feet unconscious; it was not nearly as fun as I thought it would be.  I had planned it all so carefully, step by step, each leading me flawlessly into the next.  Once I actually did it though, an unconscious hooker lying there, waiting for me to slit her throat, carve her abdomen to remove my memento and leave her bleeding in the alley, all my carefully ingrained romantic imagery of a man in a top hat and long black coat, terrible grin, and gleaming razor blade fell to pieces.  It just was not very fun, there was satisfaction in success up to this point, the sense that I was going to do some sort of moral duty and clean up society, and the idea of it being in the paper the next morning was neat, but it just lacked a sense of fulfillment.  I suppose that finding out that your new hobby really is not all that fun while a hooker lies unconscious on the pavement at your feet is a little late in the game.   
  I really was proud of myself that I had finally started a hobby, not like when I was going to brew my own beer, learn to play million-dollar Black Jack, or breed parakeets for fun and profit.  Each of those made my cheap plywood bookshelf sag a little more, but did not ever lead anywhere.  In this case I was not able to find a guide so I wrote down my steps, making up my own little booklet.  Without further ado, here are “Saint J. Bakier's Steps and Rules for Successful Ripping: With notes from the author on his own experience.”
 
  Step One is called “Getting the Tools of the Trade.”  It is self-explanatory, you will need all the requisite tools for the act and the image, these are:
 The  blade:  Must be very sharp.  A straight razor is one possibility,  but this is not ideal especially given the difficulty of finding a  genuine straight razor.  A stage prop razor is obviously inadequate,  these are not actually sharp.  The key with the blade is that it is  sharp enough to go through the skin easily; a butcher's knife is  very effective as it is designed for a similar purpose.  For the  same reason surgical tools, such as scalpel, are most likely ideal,  but are not necessarily as good as butcher tools, a surgical tool is  designed to be used on a living person, it's designed for slower,  careful use.  Butcher tools in contrast are designed for use on a  carcass, but are not as precise.  The main thing to remember is the  blade's purpose, it is to be used for the killing slash across the  throat, then for post mortem mutilation and the removal of an organ  as a memento.  All of this has to be done with speed and ideally  precision.  Remember when picking your blade the purpose of its use,  it has to be very sharp.  In my case, I decided on a professional  quality butcher knife I found at a local supplier, assuming that  with no real training I would never reach a level of precision that  would be noticeable with any tools.  The speed, however, would  hopefully allow me further opportunity for practice.
 
 Hand  and arm protection:  This again has a number of options for the  reader to decide upon.  It is not as critical to the successful  practice of the hobby, but is a consideration.  Since you will be  approaching the target from the front with the intention of  strangling them into unconsciousness, they will likely struggle,  possibly scratching the practitioner in the process. Avoiding  leaving evidence such as skin under your target's fingernails is  important; in addition being scratched is not enjoyable.  Leaving  fingerprints or getting blood on your clothing are also  considerations, pick a material that is easily washable.  Gloves  should avoid leaving distinctive fibers or marks on the body, a  generic pair of winter gloves should suffice.  Make sure that you  will be able to grip properly while using them and also use the  blade efficiently. For the sake of image black is best, but avoiding  an appearance that will draw suspicion is also important.  In my own  case, I decided on thin brown leather gloves and a red fleece jacket  to hide blood spatter.  With elastic at the cuffs it prevented  exposure of my arms during the strangulation, the pockets had ample  room for the gloves to be stuffed in when disposing of it.
 
 A  method of removing your memento from the scene:  This has fewer  options.  Ideally, it has to be airtight to prevent smells,  inconspicuous when leaving the scene, and easily cleaned off at the  scene.  The transportation is important, but if you can make a quick  run to a safe area, then it will obviously not be as important.  A  ziploc bag can be effective if you are doing this within a short  distance of your home, though this is not recommended.  If you drive  to the area, then the need for transportation will obviously lessen  with the distance from where you are at the time to where you plan  to go.  In my case, I decided on a soft lunch box.  With a slick  exterior I could wipe it down and avoid getting blood in my car.   Needless to say, even the best transportation for your memento won't  hold up under scrutiny and you are likely to be bloody and equally  as suspicious.
 
  Step Two is “target acquisition,” and had been incredibly easy.  A few nights of surveillance and you should be able notice that at least one of them has a schedule.  That is the ideal target, knowing her route you can find the perfect place to hide and know where to go afterwards.  This is key as the longer the distance from strike to safety, the greater your chance of being caught in the act.  I parked my car in an alley about halfway down the block from the alley where I would grab her.  This was a perfect area as I was able to move through the alley behind the buildings and exit to the street on the other side.  I also picked a time when she was switching where she was looking for customers, rather than when she left at the end of the night.  If you grab them at the end of the night they will be missed sooner than if you grab them in the middle of their rounds.  A john is not going to report that his hooker didn't show up for their weekly meeting, but a roommate, family member, or friend will report that they didn't come home.
  As far as picking a specific target out of those that have a schedule, this is almost purely a matter of personal preference.  Depending on your own confidence in your strength, you may want to pick a target who is considerably shorter or lighter than you.  I'm six foot, two inches tall and weigh in the mid two hundred range, so this was not at all a consideration.  I ended up picking a roughly five foot seven inch, slim,  hooker in her early twenties by my estimation.  I picked her because of an old mid sized scar on her cheek that reminded me of an old song.  Your own criteria can be as arbitrary as mine as long as you pick a target who matches the other, more practical, criteria.
  I touched on this briefly before, but the time and location of your strike are most important.  The location should provide cover from the street and give you a clear avenue of escape.  The time will vary based on your target's schedule, but you should try and strike near the end of her night, but not at the end as I said before.  This is a good time as she will be tired, also the number of people on the street, each of whom is a potential witness, will be less.
  Now that you have your tools and know the who, when, and where of your strike, Step Three is the how.  Ideally you will bring them off of the sidewalk and strangle them from either the front (traditional) or the back (the safe method).  Strangle until they are unconscious, then carefully lower them to the ground.  They will be completely limp after becoming unconscious so be prepared for the weight, even the lightest target will likely be over a hundred pounds and the limp human body is a very awkward thing to move.  Standing at the side of the head of the body, kneel down, take your blade and bring it down on the side of the neck opposite you (if you are on her left, start on her right and vice versa) and bring it slowly across the neck.  Then you go to work on the abdomen, remove your memento and leave the scene.  Since you will be doing this in darkness you will need to plan ahead as to which part you plan on removing and how.  Medical websites can provide some information on the removal of organs, but with basic anatomical knowledge and since you are working on a dead body, it's relatively simple.
 
  “Relatively simple.”  I hadn't thought about the level of darkness in the alley.  I could barely see her lying there, only the glow of the slick yellow fabric of her mini-skirt and stripped green and orange halter top, both of a cheap fabric that was some sort of combination of spandex and vinyl.  My heart was already out of the work and now it seemed as though the next step would be a near-impossibility.  I did not relish the thought of trying to find and cut out her kidney in the dark with a razor-sharp butcher knife.  One slip and I would be digging one of my fingers out of her, a less than ideal scenario.
  I thought back on what had brought me into this hobby, perhaps regaining my nerve and risking my fingers inside the body of hooker with the hope of a ending my first adventure with kidney in hand.  A far better prize than home-made beer or dozens of squeaking, shitting bundles of feathers.  I decided to take up a hobby to alleviate the boredom.  Eight hours a day I sat in an office, mornings spent drinking weak coffee and wondering if this is the hangover that finally kills me and then wishing that it had in the afternoons.  All while staring at forms, writing a few words on them or stapling them to other forms, sending these out to wait for them to return with someone else's writing or someone else's form stapled to them.   Taking the form again I wrote on it or stapled it to yet another form, and send it out to be written on or stapled by another person, or possibly the same person as the first  time I sent it away, knowing that I would see it again soon enough.
  After work ends at 5:00, I head immediately to my apartment, or to the liquor store if I need to, then I eat dinner, usually a cheap can of chili or soup, and drink whiskey until I pass out on my couch.  I wake up hungover and go into the office to spend some more time with my beloved forms.   
  I wanted something new, I went to the bookstore on Saturdays and stared at the various hobby books, until an employee came up to me and I bought whatever book I had in hand at the time, soon I had a sizable collection of books I would never read on things that weren't interesting.  My Sundays were spent sitting on my couch watching the History channel.  Between aliens, the bible, aliens in the bible and brick-making, there was a show on Jack the Ripper.  I spent the whole next day at work reading everything I could find about him on my office computer, forms went out without being stapled or written on and no one seemed to notice.   
  My evenings were no longer spent drinking myself to sleep and instead were spent watching the hookers from the parking lot of a derelict chapel on White street.  The Chapel shared my name, though it fit a church far better than a person.  My mother was simple religious woman, she demanded I receive a good Catholic name.  She always said that all the best people in history seemed to have the same first name.  She died when I was five, within six months I was in an orphanage and starting school.  I quickly realized that winding up in an orphanage was a blessing, she was either on very heavy drugs or an idiot.   
  Sitting in my car  in the parking lot of Saint Jude's Chapel, I watched the hookers.  I took detailed notes on the comings and goings of each, looking for and in three nights finding my target.  This was the same one that now lay at my feet, although all of them had a schedule of some sort this one caught my eye.  I had watched her every night for three weeks,  finding her patterns.
  Slim and younger than the others, in her twenties at the oldest, she seemed to haggle with the clients more than the rest.  Considering the size difference, I would have no trouble knocking her out and finishing things.  She also seemed to have a very lax schedule of clients, they would meet her and then haggle for a long time.   
  The usual customers she met on White Street.  She only had a few regular clients, a burly man who looked like a boxer who pulled up in a green dodge that looked like it had been in a few losing fights with other cars and various street signs, lamps, and barriers.  Another was a thin old man in a suit in a dark red Porsche 911, he would get out and argue with her for about 20 minutes every time, before he hung his head and she got into the car.  The last was a man in his mid-twenties in a wrinkly white dress shirt, long sleeves pulled up to the elbows.  He drove an old ford pickup, rusted wheel-wells from salted winter roads.  He would stand there pleading with her until she hung her head and got into the car.
  I watched her route, she would cut through the alley where I caught her around three in the morning, switching to a new corner on Nichols street.  There she met other customers, who she met varied.  I don't think I saw the same one twice.
  She was pretty, the gaudy uniform of a hooker, skirt little more than a thick belt, shirt a brightly colored censor bar, and shoes high and pointed, flattered her attractive figure.  She had her hair died a pale green, straight, hanging down to just below her neck.  
  I came close enough to get a good look only once.  She was standing on the corner of White and Nichols, right under the streetlight, her skin pale and unblemished, taking a purple hue from the harsh light.  I noticed a small scar on her cheek, old and faded, at least a dozen stitches went into it's making.  That sealed the deal, she was my target.  Turning the corner, I speed up and went home.  I picked my night, that next Wednesday was the day.  Grabbing her in the alley while she switched corners, from the regular to the irregular customers.
  
  I was going to have to figure out what to do quick, every second made it more likely that someone would find me in a rather awkward position.  I looked down and grinned.  Hoisting the hooker's slender form over my shoulder, walked to my car and threw her across the back seat, tossed the knife in a dumpster and started off.  Driving down the street, I tossed the gloves out the window and turned on the radio.  It was on a talk radio station, taking a news break, the middle east was blowing itself up, a local woman was involved in a car accident, she died in the ambulance of inter-cranial bleeding on the way to the hospital, and a still unidentified man had broken into a young woman's apartment to commit suicide, business as usual.  As the car pulled into the loop at the entrance of the hospital, I rumpled my hair, widen my eyes and screeched the car to a halt.
  Keeping my eyes wide I grabbed her and ran inside.  Holding her in front of me I yelled “I need a doctor, this young woman's been attacked!”  Now this will be a fun game I thought, a nurse running over and then away to get a gurney.  They wheeled her into another room, a doctor entered momentarily, then exited.
  “She's conscious, we'll have to keep her over night for observation.  What happened?”  The doctor looked me straight in the eye the whole time he spoke, but only the last part seemed to be directed at me.
  “I was turning onto White street, my headlights hit an alley, I saw the woman in there and someone in a black hooded coat struggling.  I stopped and ran over, but by the time I got there the guy was gone and she was knocked out.  So I grabbed her and drove here as fast as I could.”
  “Well,  I'll need you to stay here and wait for the police, do you know her?”
  “No, I've never seen her before.  Is there somewhere I can grab a bite to eat?”
  “There's a cafeteria in the basement, but it's closed.  Head over to the desk and give them your contact information, there's a vending machine in the employee lounge, they'll point it out to you.  Let me know if you need anything else.”
  “Thanks, I'll do that.” I started to the desk and the doctor went back into her room.
  A woman with short graying hair and a wrinkled pale face took my information, and aside from the usual cracks about my name, seemed like sure could not be less interested.  She gave me a key to the break room.  I bought a cheap turkey sandwich in plastic wrap and a can of pop.  I took those out into the waiting room and was half way done with my dinner when I thought that this would be a great reason to take a day off work.    I grabbed a courtesy phone and left a message saying that it was complicated and that I would explain when I came in Tuesday.
  I was laying across the chairs in the waiting room trying not to look at a blue-haired skeleton who could have been a civil war widow vomit thick and white into a bag.  A stout doctor came over.  He coughed, not a real cough, a polite one.
  “Mr. Bakier?” He said.
  “Yes?  Is she alright?”  I sat bolt upright, imagining that I must have looked pretty concerned, I was enjoying the hell out of it.
  “Ms. Simpson?  She's fine now, she wants to talk to you now.”
  “Sure, where's she at?”  I was standing then, wringing my hands.
  “I'll take you to see her, the police have already taken her statement and they would like to speak with you before you talk to her.”
  “That'll be fine, I'm ready to help any way I can.”  The Good Samaritan, for the first time I inwardly thanked my mother for her religiousness, a man named “Saint” has to throw them off.  We walked into a  room on the second floor.  Two detectives sat on a bed at the far end of the room.
 
  “Have a seat, Mr. Bakier, I'm detective Walker, this is my partner, Milton.”  He shook my hand and his partner grunted as Walker said his name.
  “Hello, sir, how can I help you?”  I successfully fought a grin, Walker was the good cop and Milton the bad.  It was like a movie.
  “We understand that you brought Ms. Simpson here this evening.  What were you doing out that late?”
  “Looking to get some action?”  Milton jumped in before I could answer.
  “No sir, I have insomnia, I drive to try and clear my head some nights.”  Hold your applause, I planned that one.
  “And on your drive this evening you saw Ms. Simpson being attacked?”   
  “Yes sir, I was turning off of Nichols on to White, heading to get some instant coffee since I wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, my headlights went over the alley and I saw two people struggling.”  It was going too well.  I thought they were going to grill me, try and trip me up with inconsistencies.
  “Did you see her attacker?”
  “Only for a second, he was wearing some kind of dark blue or maybe black coat.”
  “How were your headlights able to light up the alley from across the street?”  Here we go, Milton was giving me a hard one, it had to be 50 feet to the other side of the street.
  “I must've left my brights on.  I'm a little forgetful.”  I smiled a bit and gave a little shrug.
  “Hmm... So you saw Ms. Simpson and her assailant across the street and he was wearing a dark red coat-”  I interrupted Walker.
  “It might have been red, sir, but I only got a quick look.  I think it was blue or black though.”  Couldn't waver, they'd jump on that.
  “-So you stopped and took her here.  Why didn't you call 911?”  Walker continued without acknowledging my comment.
  “I don't have a cell phone, sir, I thought it would be quicker to bring her myself.”
  “What time was this?”
  “Around three or so, sorry sir, I don't remember exactly, I do know it was only about ten minutes before we got here.  The lady at the desk asked me some questions when  I got here, maybe she remembers what time it was.”
  “We have that information already, if you would just make sure that it's accurate.  After that I think you can be on your way.”
  “Don't skip town.”  Milton added, it took me a moment to realize he was joking and I grinned, it was a really idiotic joke.
  “It looks fine, sir, the doctor said that Ms... Simpson, wasn't it?” Walker nodded, “wanted to see me.  Is that alright sir?”
  “It's fine, we already got her statement, she's down the hall in room 2112.”  Walker pointed to down the right side of the hall.
  “Thanks , sir.”  I started out the door.
  “Just one more thing, Mr. Bakier.”  The bottom dropped out, I was hanging, trying to kick my boots off.  “We'll probably need you to come to the station tomorrow to give a complete formal statement, here take my card, it has the address on it.”  I was in the clear.  Saint: 1 Law Enforcement: 0.
  
  Ms. Simpson was lying on the bed absently staring at a magazine.
  “Thank you Doctor.” she set the magazine on the table by the bed and looked at me for a moment.  “Can I speak to Mr. Bakier alone please?”
  The doctor nodded and left the room.  Aside from her and me, the room was empty.  The soft neutral lights glinting off the cheap white laminate floor into my eyes, as I stared down, in a way that I hoped appeared humble or even bashful.
  “Call me Saint or Jude.”  I extended my hand to her.  She slapped it away.
  “Cut the bullshit.  I know what you did, Bakier.”  She looked angry.  “I know you're the one who choked me.”
  The jig was up, she had me, a new twist, unexpected.  “Okay, then why haven't you called the police in?  Seems like I should have my face pressed against a wall being read my rights.”
  “Because I want to give you an opportunity instead.  I don't know what your plan is, but I know that I sure as hell am getting something out of it.”
  “I was going to cut your throat and take one of your kidneys as a trophy”  Saying it out loud made it seem kind of strange.  “I figured it would be too difficult to do in the dark, so I decided to take you to the hospital instead and play Good Samaritan.”
  “Figured it was something like that, I don't care why you didn't go through with it.  I just want to know what you plan on doing now.  I've got an idea and I want your help for this, you'll do it or you're in jail for assault.”
  “You are looking at my plan, lying to the police, the doctors, and you.  Trying not to get caught.  Seemed like fun.”  I shrugged.  “If you have a plan and it sounds more fun than prison, I will go along.”
  “Glad to hear it, omitting some details, the two of us have a pretty tragic story.  Poor girl attacked by a big scary man in a dark alley is saved by a stranger, named Saint, it doesn't get much cheesier than that.  I know a guy at the local paper, I can get us some publicity to tell about how traumatic the whole thing was.”  She coughed and I took the opportunity.
  “Sounds fun, but how does that benefit us?”
  “We're all over the fucking news, then the poor woman and her rescuer decide to start a charity to rescue other poor souls in terrible situations.  It probably won't make us rich, but with some creative bookkeeping, we can both live comfortably as 'administrative heads.'  Almost no work, a good steady paycheck, and the respect of the community.”
  mean no more forms, no more shitty coffee, and no more hobbies.  “Sounds like fun, but where do I  Her offer sounded damn good, not only did it take my little deception to dizzying heights, it wouldcome in?  Seems like you could run the whole thing by yourself.”
  “I need someone to go to fancy dinner parties with, looked pretty next to and deal with certain sorts, just about anyone would do.  The advantage with you is that I have control.  You decide to get uppity and steal or anything and I can give up your secret and you're up to your neck in shit”
  “We have a deal Ms. Simpson.”  I stuck my hand out and we shook on it.
 


Watching as the frilly panties run...
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 03:15:00 +0000
I suck, I do, I do, I do.  I got nothing.  I know no one is actually reading so it doesn't matter, but I have nothing.   I said to myself "I'll do something for here every Monday"  nope.  I made it 3 weeks (4 maybe, I don't know).  I've failed.


"Give me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy"
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 06:10:00 +0000
Not a lyric at all this time, this one is from the genuine Fitzgerald.  I have my own little saying that I'm using for the story that I decided to write.  "Give me a villain and I'll write you a comedy," that's the plan anyway.  I'm not sure I should put anything up for this one since I'm supposed to try and get it published to a magazine.  I've been trying to work on the other one that I put the first scene to below, but it's not coming to me.  I'll put up a very rough draft of the second scene, click below and be bored:

Sitting at a booth in the dim bar we came to a startling realization.
  "So where, when, and how?"  Legionnaire said.
  "Where, when, and how what?" Fool replied.
  ÂYou know...Â pantomimed a hanging, complete with the snap of inertia which breaks the neck when done properly, Bear shivered at the act, we sat silent, none of us had an answer.  It had never really come up before, we knew we were going to, we knew we were doing it together, and the decision and joining together seemed like the difficult part.  I had an almost religious delusion, in the back of my mind, that it would just happen, we'd pick up Legionnaire, the group would be complete, the ground would split and we'd fall in.  The actual grisly details never really came into play.  Now seemed as good a time as any to hammer them out.
  "Shooting, hanging, any kind of jumping off, into, or in front of, and bleeding the wrists or neck are out.  Don't really lend themselves to groups." My words broke the previous silence and brought on a new one. "I need a drink, it'll help me think,"over to the bar I went, nice lady was tending, gave me half a bottle of bourbon for the price of 5 drinks, she said "You're saving me the trouble of washing the shot glasses."   
  I took a few good tugs on the bottle on the way back to our booth.  Legionnaire and Fool were talking in harsh whispers about the relative merits of various poisons, Bear was watching them and chewing her nails away.  I took my seat across from Fool and took another good pull of the bourbon, I was going to kill this bottle before we left, maybe even grab another.  Fool and Legionnaire were too absorbed in the practicality of cyanide Vs. the poetic significance of hemlock, to notice as I offered the bottle around, Bear took a sip, coughed, sputtered, her eyes instantly bloodshot and puffy "I think I'll get something else," more for me I thought, the bottle made a noise like a drowning man as it emptied.

Not complete, but that's what I got.  2 and a half pages of shitty exposition and an incomplete second scene.  If you read it, tell me what you hate, I'll bet it's the same things that I hate.



And I've written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones... [random story]
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 03:59:00 +0000
Okay, it's 11 o'clock and I am going to try to start and finish a short story before midnight, for shadow boxing since no one has given me comments and indicated that they are reading.  I would also note that I have stopped trying to find appropriate The Who lyrics and that today's title is from the Decemberists.  Bourbon in, story out (I hope).  Here goes:


   "Put your fiath in the POWERS-that-BE and Their powers will continue you to BE!"  The bum's sign read, I threw my change in his outstretched cup, chipped black with a mathematic proof of theory of relativity on the outside in chalk-white.  I wondered at the meaning of his sign and then at the more pressing issue of getting a meal for myself.  I had wandered into town a few hours before and intended to spend only a few more here before hitching a way back out again.

  The beat-up pickup truck that brought me into town had only stopped at a light that was just off of the highway exit and lead straight back onto the highway out of town.  It's driver didn't really seem to avoid the town, but rather ignored it.  He had forgotten at first that it was here, only remembering it when a sign told us it was only five miles away.  He was heading north and I was trying to get west, another interstate running east-west was "a mile, maybe two" outside of town.  He dropped me here and I decided to find a meal, but I was far enough out of my element that Hardee's was Carl's Jr and people look at you funny if you ask about Kum and Go.  My beaten and battered innards couldn't take another gas station meal of beef jerky and diet pop without rebelling horribly miles from a toilet.
  I kept looking around the little town and asked a few people, but my ragged appearance, while normal to the people who picked me up when I was hitching, made them point me towards the homeless shelter.  I settled for a gigantic greasy burger and a couple of beers at a local bar.
I moved to the edge of town where the beat-up pickup's driver had told me the interstate would run west.  The driver was right and I found an interstate heading west.  I stuck out my thumb and hoped.

Okay, separated from the story, I have no idea.  This is crap,  but I'm twenty minutes ahead of my deadline so I'm calling it.  Here's what you get, no plot, no tension, no finish, now go away. 


Send your troubles dancing he knows the answer [First part of my longer short story]
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 03:43:00 +0000
Here's the first part of my longer short story, I'll try and post the next part next Monday.  I don't think that anyone cares whether or not I actually write anything when I say I will, but I figure it's like shadow-boxing, I have to pretend I have an audience.  Click below for the first part of my longer short story, the title of which I am still considering, currently leaning towards "A Plucked Branch," which I think is more pretentious, but less shitty.  The story was inspired by this article.  Click below, read, then give me a damn suggestion for a title.

Edit: I've gone back and marked the posts with stories in them so that if a new person wants to read them, they're not just The Who lyrics.


   Self-murder, "catching the bus," "punching out," "blowing oneself away," "topping oneself," "Pushing the cosmic abort button," gun in the mouth, gun to the temple, gun against the heart, razor down the block, razor across the neck, rope around the neck, poison, overdose, jumping from building, bridge, or cliff.  I knew a lot of ways to say it and a lot of ways to accomplish it.  I even had my own term for it: "joining the forest."  I still wasn't sure how, but I knew I wasn't doing it alone, I had done too much alone already.  Might as well be sociable for my final moments.

   Legionnaire was the last part of our group and he was late, it didn't bother the rest of us, it only mattered that the group was complete.  Apparently he was the oldest of us at 56, I was next at 27, then Menaced Fool somewhere over 21, but younger than me, it was harder than hell to get a straight answer from him about anything.  Bear was 22, she was sleeping fitfully on the bench seat in the back of Fool's old Pontiac Transport mini-van.  She was turning, twisting, and talking nonsense.  I was sitting hunched on the back bumper, smoking a little hand rolled cigarette.  I would have sat inside, but Bear's ramblings were too creepy.

   We were going to meet Legionnaire in the parking lot of this Kum & Go on the edge of town at 5:30pm, it was now almost 6 and Fool was ranting at the clerk inside, I was smoking my fifth cigarette.  I saw an old man with a thick curly brown beard step out of a beat uJapanesed japanese-made car, the kind of car that is about a year or a fender-bender from sitting in someone's yard with a cardboard sign in the window with "$200 OR BEST OFFER" written on it in black sharpie.  With the beard he looked like cross between a statue of a greek god and a retired boxer who grew old emphasizing the drunk in "punch drunk" with cheap beer.  He started to walk over to me and the van.

   Fool left the store, two cartons of Lucky Strikes sticking from the top of a plastic bag.  He looked at the old man walking towards us, a huge grin split his face, Fool waved and yelled to the man "Howdy, wanna grab a drink?"  Legionnaire nodded and we went to find a bar.


And they couldn't prevent Jack from being happy...
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sat, 08 Jul 2006 05:27:00 +0000
If you're reading, here's the opening paragraph to my long short story, titled "Suicide Solution: Four Player Edition" for the purposes of saving it to my hard drive, I will think of a less pretentious/shitty title before I finish it.  The first lines as of now are available by clicking below:

        Self-murder, “catching the bus,” “punching out,” “blowing yourself away,” "topping yourself," “Pushing the cosmic abort button,” gun in the mouth, gun to the temple, gun against the heart, razor down the block, razor across the neck, rope around the neck, poison, overdose, jumping from building, bridge, or cliff.  I knew a lot of ways to say it and a lot of ways to accomplish it.



Your part is to be what you'll be...
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 05:42:00 +0000
Alright anyone who has been coming here.  I've decided I would like to get more people to come here.  This decision is because I want criticism of the stories that I've put here.  I don't really like them and I want to know what might make them better.  I've decided that every Monday, I will post some kind of writing here.  If you read it, comment, I don't care what you say, just say something.  I'd prefer criticism and suggestions, but insults and mockery are welcome and encouraged, so are links to shock pictures, not goatse, tubgirl, lemon party, or harlequin fetus  though (I've already seen those).

   I'll be starting with this on Monday, I hope to post the first scene of the short story that is the final for my creative writing class.  It should be 2-3 pages.  Criticise away, please, I have to write 20 pages of it by the 28th of this month.  There's the plan, if this is the first time you've been here check out the past posts for my previous stories.  If for some reason you like it, link it to your friends, maybe they'll hate it and can give me some criticism.


Just to shake her shaky hands... [Story here]
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Tue, 04 Jul 2006 04:04:00 +0000
Based on the overwhelmingly positive response (all two) and the fact that around 5 people have been here and none of them have threatened my life, I have decided to post another story I had to write last night.  Again, I don't have a title, but I guess I'll use the shuffle for iTunes and use a lyric from a random song.   Flogging Molly "To Youth,"  I guess So Goodbye is the title now.  Click below and if it makes your eyes bleed from badness, don't say I didn't warn you.


He hadn't stopped crying for the last twenty miles.  As Eliza pulled into the gas station, the lightning flickered again.  It cracked close and  and she heard a car alarm sound briefly, then stop when it realized there was no danger.  She clutched the baby as she ran into the brown wood paneled and white stuccoed building.  A woman was sitting behind the counter, thick glasses, pale flabby skin and a large gap in her large front teeth that prevented her from being bucktoothed.  The floor was wet and Eliza's shoes squeaked like vicious mice as she stepped across the aging white linoleum.  The whole place reeked of wet dog and stale cigarettes, despite the signs that told her both were not allowed in the store.
  “How can I help ya?” The woman behind the counter said, helpful, but loud to be heard over the thunder, now frequent, and the baby's crying, which was constant.
  “Is there somewhere I could change him?”  Eliza said, bouncing Jonathan jr. ad she said it.
  “Bathroom's back there” The woman, Joan according the the hand printed name tag on her white polo shirt, replied gesturing towards the area to the left of the register.  “It's purty small, but so's he” she grinned wide as she said it.
  “Thank you” she ducked into the bathroom, which was as small as a bathroom could be without using the toilet as a sink and changed him on the lid of the toilet.  Washing her hands she looked at herself in the mirror, and proceeded to agonize over her wrinkled, sun-damaged tan face and bottle blond hair, which was matted from the rain.  She spent several minutes trying to dry her hair with the cheap, ineffective hand dryer, giving up she grabbed her baby and made another mad dash around the building to her white, late-model Trans-Am.  As she did so the woman behind the counter shouted “Aren't ya gonna buy something?” then when the answer was clearly no, she added “Bitch!”
  She would have felt bad about not buying anything on any other night, but tonight she had to keep moving.  If someone had asked her why or where she was going, she would have been at a loss, unable to explain it.  She just knew that staying still for any longer than absolutely necessary was not an option.
  Of course she knew why she had started moving, it was over, everything, it was all falling apart.  It had happened in her first marriage, the hanging feeling that it was over, all but the lawyers and custody battle, but this time it was different, stronger and more terrifying, it wasn't just her marriage, it was her who was falling to pieces.  She had decided to go to a friend's house about a hundred miles away, wait for the feeling to abate, call her lawyer and go back home.  The friend was out of town for the week, she forgot to check ahead, she got in her car and drove away from home, that was three hundred miles before.
  Jonathan was crying again, she kept driving, while trying to comfort him.  The crying kept going, she turned, and screamed “Shut up, why do you keep crying?  We can't stop again, we just can't, so stop it.”  As she turned to look back at the road, a flash of lightning showed the milk truck she had been following jack knife, the trailer snapping loose and twisting to reveal Garfield the Cat declaring his love of milk.  She realized just before the car hit that she was going to have to stop, the terror of stopping flooding away the fear of her or Jonathan jr's death.  The car crumpled, the milk tank burst and leaked into the ditch mingling with the rain water.  The paramedics arrived 30 minutes later, the milk truck driver needed a dozen stitches in his forehead, Jonathan had miraculously survived the crash unharmed, and Eliza just sat in the puddle of milk and rain water and laughed, the water soaking her red sleeveless shirt and faded denim shorts.  She stood up after they had checked her over and began to run the direction she had been driving.  The paramedics grabbed her and forced her onto a gurney, strapping her down.  Jonathan had stopped crying and slept gently during the long drive to the hospital, while Eliza screamed and the truck driver stared.
 


And freedom tastes of reality... [First story I've written for the class]
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Sun, 02 Jul 2006 14:31:00 +0000
Here we go with another story, this is actually only the second story that I've ever written.  The one lower down is the third and the first was a collaborative effort with my brother when I was 13 or 14 that will never see the light of day ever, I hope that it is in fact destroyed, I'm currently looking at notebooks from that time and if it were any worse (even a tiny bit) than those, I'd have to blow my brains out to prevent a possible reoffense.  I don't really have a title for it.  I guess I'll use "There Goes My Gun" for now.  That's a good song, the Pixies are god damn incredible.  It's shorter and I didn't write the first line, it was given to us as part of the exercise.   In a week or so I plan on posting the opening scene of the much longer short story that serves as the final.

Samantha would always regret leaving the balcony doors unlocked.  A man stands on the balcony, the sun rising a deep orange behind him.  He opens one door halfway and slides through the opening on to the light red carpet of the living room, lit with the first creeping rays of dawn.  He moves through the living room, his legs swinging with the precision of a metronome.  Opening the door to Samantha's bedroom, he steps towards her bed.  Standing over her as she sleeps, he lets out a polite cough.  Rolling over she looks up and sees a thin figure silhouetted in the door frame.
  Still in shock, she gapes as he reaches into his jacket and draws a small semi-automatic pistol, glinting a bright silver.  Raising the gun slowly, he puts the barrel against his right temple, the pistol and his forearm flat as a board.  He let's a terse Âsorry,Â escape his lips as he squeezes the trigger.  The sharp report of the pistol pierces her ears as blood sprays from the left side of his head.  His body collapses out of sight on to the floor.
  Her ears still ringing from the shot, she stares at the space where he stood.  Samantha reaches for the light switch, her hand moving through the dark in a smooth practiced manner, it had done the same on hundreds of other nights.  Light fills the room stinging her eyes.   
  Leaning over the edge of the bed she looks at the figure now thrown into sharp relief by the cheap fluorescent light fixed to the ceiling.  Lying on the floor is the corpse of a thin gray haired man in his mid-fifties wearing a dark blue suit and a plain red cloth tie.  Blood now drips slowly from his head staining the white carpet.
  Stretching from ear to ear on the man's face is a grin filled with straight, gleaming teeth.  Her mouth opens and closes in a pantomime of speech.  Eventually it drops open and she begins to scream as tears stream from her eyes.  She continues to scream until the police arrive, then stares with dull unfocused eyes, her cheeks stained with tears and jaw now drooping against her chest, seemingly unable or unwilling to speak or move.  The paramedics move her out of her apartment, through a crowd of onlookers, into the waiting ambulance.




Tell me some bad news...
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Thu, 29 Jun 2006 06:28:00 +0000
Alright, this has now been opened to the general public.  I'm going to put more stories from my writing class up here.  If you know who I am, note that I am using a pseudonym, there's a reason for that, hint: it's not fear of child molesters.  So please don't use my real name. 

There's one story below this post and I'll probably put another one up tomorrow.  I hate them, but I haven't really told anyone about them, so that's mostly my opinion.  I suppose I don't have to worry about criticism, how many people will actually read this? My guess, less than 10.


Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away... [Story here, second I've written for class]
noreply@blogger.com (John Emerson Fitzgerald) — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 07:08:00 +0000
This is a story I wrote for a class, loosely based on my own great-grandpa's funeral.  A side note for technical concerns is that it is 2 in the morning and I've knocked back a few so this is unedited, I don't think I can and I sure as hell don't feel like changing anything right now.  I know that there are maybe two people actually reading this, so most of this is for the biographers who will scour my computer for traces of scandal (they'll find plenty before they find this).  Here it is, Childhood Onset (my current title, written before the story). 

  He watched them, they were tall and seemed to like seeing it.  They kept walking back to it and looking down at it, then they walked away and stood together in small groups, talking in tiny whispers and looking back at it, as though it might hear them and get angry.  It lay there, in the box, still and motionless.  It was old, it looked a lot like his Great Grandpa, but he had moved and talked and joked, the thing in the box didn't.

   It seemed to be as good, or even better, at not being Grandpa, no matter how much it looked like him, as he had been at being him.  The way it was laying there, even though he hadn't approached it, he knew that it wasn't going to shake his hand much less crush it.  It was a strange thing, it looked so much like him, but he knew that it wasn't him.  His Mom had told him that Grandpa was gone, but this thing looked like him.  He got really angry at it, he felt it was making fun of Grandpa, it would make people think that he had been lazy, that he would be rude, lay there and refuse to shake your hand.

   He asked Dad what was going on, what this thing was and why it was here.  Dad said that the thing was Grandpa, at least it had been, but that what made him act like him was gone.  That the Grandpa would lie there in the box for some time so that people could see him and so that they could say goodbye, then that it would go away too.  This seemed reasonable, so he believed him.  Grandpa had changed and what had made him himself was gone and soon the rude, lazy grandpa-in-the-box would be gone too.

   He wondered what was done with the thing in the box (that was and at the same time wasn't Grandpa) after people had looked at it and said goodbye and not had their hands shaken or crushed.  Looking around the room, he saw brownies.  The place where grandpa-in-the-box was on display had given them brownies, but where had they gotten them.

   Before he had looked into other rooms and had seen other people walking up to other people in boxes, looking at them, not getting their hands shaken and walking away to stand in small groups whispering.  The only thing that he wasn't sure couldn't be made into brownies was the people in boxes, since he wasn't really sure what they were made of.  Suddenly he heard a small voice whispering in his ear, it was telling him how the people in boxes were made into the brownies and that was where they went, when the people were done not getting their hands shaken.

   The voice insisted that he was going to be made into brownies too, that this was something that he couldn't avoid.  He didn't want to be made into brownies and he knew that he didn't want to be one of those boxed people, not shaking hands and being rude and lazy.  Even after they had left the place where the brownies were made, the voice continued.  It told him all kinds of things, scary things, it didn't stop telling him the things.  No matter how politely he asked it or how angry he got at it.

   When he told Mom and Dad about the voice and how scary the things that the voice told him were, they brought him to a doctor to look at his head with a machine to try and see the voice.  Another doctor tried to find the voice with words after the other doctor couldn't find it with the machine.  While the doctors looked for the voice, the voice told him that the doctors wouldn't ever find him and that the doctors would lock him in a room until he stopped shaking hands and was as rude, lazy, and ready to be made into brownies as Grandpa had been.

   They never were able to find the voice and eventually he was hoping that the thing that made him himself would be ready to leave soon, he didn't care if people thought he was rude and lazy, he just hoped that the voice wasn't going to follow him.  He thought that maybe after he was made into brownies he could be alone again, that the voice would stop telling him scary things and he could lay in a box and not shake hands, and not hear the voice and just watch people look down and him and whisper in little groups like they were worried he could hear them.  He knew that if the voice stopped he wouldn't care if they what they were whispering about.  He just wanted to be alone again.