Pictures of things

New Masks

While I don't make a huge deal about it, I do love maks. I enjoy faces with dead, hollow eyes, looking at me. Call it a kink. ANYWAY! I got some new masks for my walls...

No all men know Red Socks mean sex.

I recently read an article that several people posted, and while I agree with most of what the author said, I noticed a glaring omission. At least it was glaring to me, and I’m going to mention it. I wouldn’t say that the point missed is the most important, I would put it number three or four on this list, but it is very important to me.

Men must always be the romantic pursuers.

This one frustrates the hell out of me because I am not good at pursuing romantic leads. If a girl keeps trotting just out of reach in hopes that I’ll chase her, I’m far more likely to say “Every time I start to get close, she moves away. She must not want me near her.” I know a lot of guys who are bad at working out what the girl is thinking and if she wants to be pursued or just left alone. However, good or bad, we have to do it or die alone. This is because everyone knows a girl is NEVER supposed to so much as say she likes a guy, lest she be seen as too eager and thus… slutty. It doesn’t even matter if she is sexually promiscuous*, because she chases a boy she likes, she is instantly a slut and no better than she should be. So she has to try and be subtle and send tiny hand written notes while he’s looking for billboard signs of approval.

This sets up a moronic situation where girls are sending coded signals that she thinks are obvious and men are just missing. In the end, it means that I end up listening to girls complain “I don’t know what else to do. I wore red socks.” to which I end up saying, “Well, you have to understand… wait, what?” and she says “Yeah, I wore red socks. I even pointed them out to him.”

Me: “Which means… what exactly?”
Her: “Well, the red socks means that I’m totally hot for him. That I’d fuck him in the hallway, right there and then, if only he’d ask me. But he hasn’t asked me, so he must not want me. *SOB*”
Me: “WHAT?”
Other Female: “Yeah, that’s totally what red socks mean.”
Me: “Since… fucking… when?”
There’s more to this conversation, but their end turns into more secret code talk and my end devolves into an interesting pattern of profanity and bafflement. .

The point is that it would help enormously if we all agreed that girls can pursue boys and no one is a slut or a fag for letting it happen. Also, can we all agree to either dump things like the red socks, or to give men a cheat sheet so we know what the obscure things you think you’re being obvious about actually is? Seriously, red socks? I didn’t make that shit up.

*not that I have anything against promiscuity mind.

PICTURES! The uh... hands of fate

You will be redeemed through Kung-Fu (a poem)

Every once in a while
I find myself asking
What if it was really Bruce Lee
That died for our sins
And then
Because that drinking game
Never actually ended
I have to take a shot

More pictures

DANCE!

Now you too can be a true love of someone's

Use a laser to fuse the threads, you'll get a shirt without seams or needlework.
Dry cleaning should have an obvious solution, though I question doing it in a well.
Drying out on an old bush should be easy if you snap off the pointier thorns first.

To get seeds from the north side of a dam, just go to the Nile River.
Embed a peacock feather in Lucite, you could just about use it as a hoe.
If you impregnate a piece of leather with the right plastics, you could produce a leather sickle capable of cutting down some crops.
Heather can be woven into a rope, you just gotta be careful and work with fresh stuff.

Still working on that acre of land, but I suspect the answer lies in a shallow area. One of those that a large area shows up when the tide goes out.

Also working on not being obsessed with folk songs from the 1600s, but that's not going as well.


While on the subject, if you think prophecy protects you, check the careful wording before declaring it in battle to the one person who is a living loophole.

Just saying... rapture edition.

This whole rapture business has made me want to start screaming something at Christians. The phrase, “Take a good, long, hard look at your religion” has been springing to my lips. Because seriously, that shit is kind of fucked up from an outsiders’ point of view.

I mean, only 3% of Christians are expected to be taken up in the rapture. That says to me that no matter how good you try to be, how strong your faith, you will never, ever be good enough. You signed up with the most judgmental prick in the universe, an over-powered busy body who wipes out all life because man is somehow “wicked” and he gets pissed about that. I mean, have you ever read the list of things at are an abomination unto Nuggan? Stupid shit, shit that don’t matter to nobody but this so-called god and the silly rules lawyers who quote him. What you eat, if you shave, mixing fabrics, who you fuck… shit that ain’t no body’s business, not even the gods. These aren’t rules for a good life, these are bullshit micromanaging laws to make sure you are kept in line by an office sociopath. I mean what kind of holy writ is this? It is a sin to be cool.

Second! Okay, gonna cheat but, this comic perfectly defines my second problem really. So, really? Pain, penury and persecution are the road to faith? You guys have heard about enjoying yourself, right? I mean, a mature god doesn’t tear your whole life apart just so you can prove to someone else how much you love them. If this were a relationship, people would tell you that you’re dating a psycho and you need to leave them… like now. Don’t pack, don’t tell him, run! Before he kills the firstborns… again!

Seriously, you want a god in your life, go pagan. They have cookies, some of them literally have devotional cookies*. Just for a moment, let’s compare the two. Pain, misery, arrogance of leaders, and the constant torment that the one time you frenched Suzie Jenkins on a dare in fourth grade (before you learned what frenching actually is) will damn you forever on the one side. On the other side, cookies, wine, sex, and a god who generally only fucks your shit up if you piss them off personally by burning one of their temples or killing their kid or something. Also, pagans rarely, if ever, go around claiming that the world is going to end on a set day just to get attention.

I’m just saying it might be time to take a good, hard look at your religion and ask yourself if maybe you should compare with what others are doing.

Just saying.


*Technically, they’re little cakes, but they’re really good cakes.

Five pics

Just 5, promise.

It was a dark and stormy night, but a shot did not ring out.

I could trickle these out a few at a time, but I'm sort of feeling it right now. So! Here are some picutres of Rochester Hills in the rain.

Tomorrow's Playlist

Just saying...

R.E.M. - It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)
John Mellencamp - This May Not Be The End Of The World
Prince - 1999
Blondie - Rapture
Apocalyptica - Harmageddon
Muse - Apocalypse Please
Machinae Supremacy - Anthem Apocalyptica
Madonna - Die Another Day
Def Leppard - Armageddon It
Kermit / Rowlf - I Hope That Somethin' Better Comes Along
Enigma - Return to Innocence


And a couple, just for me...
Queen - Fat Bottomed Girls
Billy Joel - Only the Good Die Young


EDIT(!): How could I ever forget this one?

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Thirty-Five)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

Chapter Thirty-Five: On the Road Again

 

            I was thinking that I should go across to the other office and try to console Shiri when my cell phone started to vibrate in my pocket. I’ve begun to hate that stupid thing. I’m not a Luddite, I just don’t like people being able to get in contact with me every damn second of every day. I pulled it out, seeing it was the office and answered it.

 

            “Yeah?” I asked.

 

            “Is my car smashed?” Debbie’s voice asked.

 

            “No.” I said.

 

            “Why not?”

 

            “It never came up.” I said.

 

            “You didn’t run over the fucker who killed Dale?”

 

            “No,” I told her. “I half drowned him in the bathtub.”

 

            “Half drowned?” She asked. “Why only half?”

 

            “Because fully drowning him would have been murder and I couldn’t do it, but I made sure he got arrested, he’s in jail with rest of them. Shiri I.D.ed him and everything. He’ll go to jail for a long, long time.”

 

            “Okay.” She said. “You should have smashed my car through the bastard though.”

 

            “Why?”

 

            “I’ve arranged another car for you.” She told me. “I was so sure you’d smash my car up I got Shiri to buy it the day before yesterday. She and Dale were supposed to have picked it up and taken it to her place for safe keeping.”

 

            “Well that’s gonna be a happy little memory then.” I told her. “Everyone here is pretty broken up over Dale. This was a close little family they had and I think this is their first death.”

 

            “Shit.” She said. “Well, we’ve got some insurance, we can give that money to his survivors. Make sure they know we’ll pay for the burial and everything, okay?”

 

            “Yeah.” I said. “I’ll make sure of that. You going to fly out for that?”

 

            “Probably.” She said. “I mean, I guess I should.”

 

            “Alright.” I said. “I’ll have to work a few things out though. Like where we’re going to keep Jill and I for the time being.”

 

            “I have confidence in you.”

 

            “Thanks.” I said. “I should go try to do some damage control with Shiri.”

 

            “Okay.” She said. “I’ll call you later.”

 

            “Okay.” I said, and then decided to add that little thing that guys are supposed to say sometimes, but often don’t. “Love you.”

 

            “Love you too.” She replied and we hung up on that note.

 

            I walked across the office and knocked on the door of Shiri’s office. It took her a few seconds but I did finally hear her say “Yes?” through the glass after a lot of shuffling around. I didn’t blame her, I’d want to have a moment to make sure I was composed too if I wasn’t a completely unfeeling bastard who is ready at a moment’s notice. I opened the door and got a good look. She’s wiped the tears away, but they’d only just stopped a few seconds ago and could start again at any moment.

 

            “Hi.” I said as I closed the door behind me. “You okay?”

 

            “I’ll be okay.” She said. “It was just, you know, sort of a rough night.”

 

            “First time?” I asked her as I sat down.

 

            “First time I was kidnapped and nearly gang raped or first time I fucked up and lost someone on the job?” She asked me with more self recrimination that was good for her.

 

            “Either.” I said.

 

            “Both.” She said as her face scrunched up and a tear started. “You think you’re tough until something like this.”

 

            “The first time is always bad.” I said.

 

            “Does it get easier?” She asked,

 

            “No.” I shook my head. “It never does. However, you get used to it and you with time you’ll feel good again.”

 

            “Is this how it was, when you did that thing?”

 

            “Are you asking about the seven with one blow thing?”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            “That was a fluke.” I told her. “I was scared shitless that whole time. It was just a lucky strike that I killed Chester Cat.”

 

            “Luck?” She asked.

 

            “Luck.” I agreed. “I was so exhausted that day. I can hardly remember all of it now. You’d think every detail would be imprinted on my mind, but actually it’s sort of muddy now.”

 

            “You weren’t scared last night though.” She said.

 

            “I was pissed last night.” I said. “That was the end of a very long road and I was tired of everyone’s bullshit. Then it turned out that there was more bullshit this morning.”

 

            “Should I have tried to save you?” she asked. “Come after you?”

 

            “No.” I shook my head. “You probably did the right thing. It’s just that I don’t have a history of cooperating with people. It’s sort of my standing policy not to cooperate. I’ve gotten this far on my looks and my balls, which is classic tough guy stuff.”

 

            “I’ll try to remember that.” She said. “I’ll get a pair of balls and start getting by on my looks.”

 

            “Why don’t you just do what works for you and I’ll do what works for me and we’ll both get our respective jobs done.”

 

            “Sounds slipshod.” She said, trying to laugh. “If we’re going to get ISO 1200 certification we need a process and stuff.”

 

            “Fuck certification.” I said, giving my best go at a smile. “They can take us as they find us or not at all.”

 

            “Okay.” She said and then looked at the phone like it was an accusing aunt. “I’ve got to call Dale’s boyfriend and see what they want to do about his burial.”

 

            “Well.” I told her. “Don’t go spending any money. We’ll pay for everything. Debbie said that we’ve got an insurance policy on him and she’ll give the money to whatever survivors he has.”

 

            “That’d be Jim.” She said.

 

            “Then she’ll give the money to Jim.” I said. “Until then, make plans, do what needs to be done, just send us the bill.”

 

            “Thanks.” She said.

 

            “Not to change the subject too suddenly, but I understand there is a car.”

 

            “Yeah.” She said, “Debbie got me to buy it because she was sure you were going to crash her car.”

 

            “You want to go look at it?” I asked. “Get out of the office for a while?”

 

            “Okay.” She nodded.

 

            “Let’s grab Jill and got for a ride then.”

 

            It turned out not to just be a car. It turned out to be a nineteen fifty-seven Heron Roadster convertible, complete with tailfins and rear lights that were really cones to resemble rocket jets. The front end looked sort of what you’d expect if you turned a woman in a low cut dress into a car. Or rather it looked like someone had seen a beautiful woman and tried to express how he felt about her by rendering her in the form of a car’s front end. The car was the expected cherry red, the leather interior was the sort of candy shop red and white that Debbie would like. All in all, it looked like one of the more sexual cars I’d ever glanced at.

 

            “Well…” I said looking at it as we walked around it. “It is exactly what she would pick.”

 

            “It’s awesome.” Jill said, running her hand over the door and leaning across the hood in a pose that was designed to make you think bad thoughts. “You could fuck all night in that back seat.”

 

            Shiri and I both froze in our tracks at that. I can’t say we both went to the exact same place, but I’m pretty sure that if we looked up from our own private worlds we’d be close enough to see the other one waving. Jill smiled at us, placing her finger on her lower lip and letting the tip of her pink tongue press against her finger nail.

 

            “Yes.” Shiri said finally, proving I could even hear her from her own private world. “I expect you could.”

 

            “This is just the sexiest car I’ve ever seen.” Jill stood up in a very provocative way, sliding her breasts across the slick looking hood before walking towards the passenger door and straddling one leg over and then swinging the other leg around.

 

            I am fully aware of the age difference, but I’m also aware that the last three years had been exceptionally formative for Jill. She had rounded out in some places, tightened up in others and over all filled out. I have no idea what Shiri was thinking, but I’m guessing it was an all girl version of what I was thinking. I was pretty sure she must be, which made me want to tell her that she should be ashamed of herself. I’m not one to admonish the subordinates for what they think about when not on the clock, but if Shiri’s thoughts were even one tenth as filthy as mine then she should be ashamed.

            “Shall we see how she handles?” I asked, which I might have gotten away with if I hadn’t then fucked it up. “The car! I’m talking about the car. Not Jill. I’m not suggesting we bang the eighteen year old until she can’t walk anymore. Obviously! I wouldn’t suggest that.”

 

            “Is it this sly talk that gets them all into bed?” Shiri asked. “Do straight girls think differently? It’s not doing anything for me.”

 

            “You could crawl back here with me Jack.” Jill said as she clambered into the back seat. “She can watch, I don’t mind.”

 

            “Must think pure thoughts.” I whispered, just loud enough for Shiri to hear. She laughed and we got into the front seat.

 

            The car, while looking very feminine, handled very masculinly. The Hudson looked sort of male, but it handled like a woman. It was soft and yielding, warm and fluid. This thing was like arm wrestling, or something guyish like that. I suppose Debbie would be able to handle it, she was good with guys. For me though, it wasn’t quite what I was looking for. We had a good afternoon though, driving around and seeing some sights, with Jill sticking next to me, making suggestive comments all day. By the end of he day, Shiri was stretched out in the back seat while Jill leaned against me like lovers in an old fifties teen romance.

 

            My phone rang while we were driving back to the office for a few things. Had I known what it was going to be… no, I still would have answered. I couldn’t leave Debbie hanging like that. If I’d know what the call was going to be, I would have been on my way already.

 

            “Yeah?”

 

            “Hey Jack.” Debbie’s voice was quick. “Where are those take out menus?”

 

            “Take out menus?” I asked,

 

            “Yes.” She said, putting a note into her voice. “The take out menus. You know, if we need to get take out?”

 

            “Are you taking in code?”

 

            “Yeah.” She said. “I can’t find any of them?”

           

            “Can I talk?”

 

            “Yes, I looked there.” She started sounding annoyed, but I could tell it was faked.

 

            “Are you in trouble?”

 

            “Well of course!” She snapped. “Would I be calling you if I could find the stupid things?”

 

            “Are you hurt?”

 

            “No.” She said. “Not there.”

 

            “Are you in danger of being hurt?”

 

            “I don’t think so.” She said.

 

            “How many are holding you?”

            “Out of the three places I was thinking of going, none of them have online menus.” She said. “It’s really annoying because there are more, but I can’t be sure who has them or not.”

 

            “Tell them I’m taking Jill back to Banbury Cross.” I said.

 

            “What?” Jill sat up and I had to wave at her to shut her up.

 

            “Okay.” She said. “I’ll check there.”

 

            “Is Karen alright?”

 

            “No.” She said.

 

            “She’s being watched too?”

 

            “Yes.” She said and I started hearing things that sounded like my desk drawers being opened. “Your drawers are just a fucking mess. All fucked up. You need to do something about this.”

 

            “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” I told her. “I love you babe.”

 

            “Yeah.” She said. “I’ll see you when you get back from Georgia. Bye.”

 

            “Fuck.” I said as I hung up the phone.

 

            “What’s going on?” Shiri asked.

 

            “Debbie’s got people sitting on her.”

 

            “What?” Jill asked.

 

            “There are parties unknown, at least three of them though, at the office holding Debbie hostage. They’ve got Karen too. She’s going to act as if I’m on my way to Georgia, but we’re going to have to go back to Michigan right away.”

 

            “You want me to come?” She asked.

 

            “No.” I shook my head. “Jill and I will go. I’ll keep her safe. You stay here and run this place.”

 

            “What if something happens to you?”

 

            “Come to Michigan and you can have my Webley-Fosbery.” I told her. “This shit is just going to keep going though. Possibly until I shoot every mother fucker in the tri-county area.”

 

            “Pardon?”

 

            “Michigan reference.” I told her. “Who knows about this car?”

 

            “I guess the guy that sold it to us.” Shiri said.

 

            “All anyone would know is that the car was sold to the company? What?”

 

            “I bought it for me, using company funds.” She said. “It was easier that way. I was going to do the transfer stuff later.”

 

            “Well, we will do it later. So long as no one knows this car exists, I can use that.” I smiled at Jill. “No one’s looking for a fifty-seven Heron. They’ll never see us coming. I’ll need whatever petty cash you’ve got lying around Shiri. Not being tracked will be very important. And hide Debbie’s car. No, better yet, let me give you a couple of my credit cards and you get someone to drive down to Banbury.”

 

            “Okay.” She said. “But what are you going to do?”

           

            “Go home, shoot the bad guys, save the day, win the girl.” I said. “And then, when I’ve done that, I’ll crawl under my desk and never come out again.”

 

 

 

Parody & Genre

I sometimes have a problem with parody. The main problem being that a genre parody will try and include every silly thing the genre has. As a result, even though very few sci-fi movies have laser swords, EVERY parody will include a laser sword. Every blaxploitation movie will include a Brothers Army variant and so on. Things that only occur very rarely will seem like they are staples of the genre because of these things.

As an example, would you say that the self-narrating detective is a staple of Film Noir? Well, if you would, then you’d be mistaken, because it only turns up in a couple of movies. However, everyone knows that detectives narrate their adventures in those kinds of movies because parodies always have the detectives self-narrate. As a result, the rarity becomes the expected norm, which disappoints people when they realize how rare the actual thing is.

No, I didn’t really have a point to make, just that little thing I wanted to say.

Profile picture used to mean something else.

No one ever seems to take photos in profile for fashion/publicity any more. We only ever get full faced shots these days. Sad, profile looks really hot. As an example, Mary Pickford. For another, Pola Negri. And of course, Louise Brooks.

Okay, it just occurred to me that this could be interpreted to mean I've just got a thing for silent movie actresses, since the other examples I was going to cite were Billie Burke and Marie Stevens. That's really not it though, not entirely. It's just those were the times when profile was popular. By the time Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake came along, the standard photo was full faced and looking at something just to one side of the camera, probably a stuffed toy held by the photographer if I remember right. I'm going from the last time I posed for a picture here.

Have a fistful of pics

By Grabthar's hammer, I'm going to be somebody's Auntie Mame if I have to cross dress to do it!

Odd, with every one of my friends/relations that has a baby, I feel less compelled to breed. I keep thinking *whew* someone else took the parenting bullet for me. Each time someone I know has a child, I just think that there is one more baby I don’t need to have to keep the race going. I don’t even need to have one to raise really, because people around me have them and I can corrupt them remotely.

My intention is simple, Syd and I are going to be “those people” that the parents know and always bring the most amazing gifts for the child. You know the sort of thing. BB guns, drum sets, ferrets, semtex, the usual stuff mom won’t let you have. Then, when they're old enough, we'll take each child to Paris or Bournemouth* and show them the strange and amazing world that exists out there. This corrupting influence should, if I do things properly, utterly horrify the child’s parents. At the very least, I should give them an unrealistic view about how the world actually works, or can work anyway.

Sadly, I can't smoke cigarettes out of a long cigarette holder. A) I would die from the smoke before I finished a pack and B) Syd would leave me. I’m a little old to be picking up habits like that though, I think I’ll have to skip it. I’m sure my dress habits would give me away as an eccentric lunatic anyway. You can’t smoke in restaurants anymore, but you can wear a sports coat made entirely of sequins.

I will always call young people “M'dear boy” though. Even if I'm dealing with a girl, I'll probably call her “M'dear boy” because fuck gender discrimination/neutrality. You don't cajole a Dear Girl into a horse race where you’ve bet everything they own** on the outcome, you do that to a Dear Boy. However, as I do believe in the basic tenants of feminism, I will get girls into the same sort of wacky situations. Everyone needs to be tricked into a wacky situation before they’re 21, or they turn out all stogy and get into accountancy or something.



*It can't be Paris every time.
**They own, mind you. Not I own. I never bet my own money and it gives them incentive to win.

A vague idea about costumes

So I’ve had this idea I’ve been calling “Serial Punk” for a while now. The idea is like the other prefix-Punk systems only it’s about the serials of the 30s and 40s. I’ve never been able to connect with Steam Punk, for various reasons, but I do really connect with pulps and serials from the first half of the 20th century. So that would be a good fit, yeah? I’ve been thinking of what would be the parameters, like would include sci-fi like Flash Gordon movies? Or comic book elements from those days? And what about Indiana Jones, which takes place in the time period I’m thinking of?

THAT hardly matters, that’s up to other people to think about, my costumes would be things I’d want to be.

I’ve got an idea about an archetypal Serial Hero (think Indy) and a couple of others, like a Carnival Barker. Don’t ask why, but I love the idea of dressing up in a striped blazer, a straw hat and pointing at posters with a bamboo cane. I’ve also got the idea of an old eccentric gentleman who gets the hero into adventures, but that’s a different matter entirely. You could also dress up like noir detective, or… something for girls. Gotta be honest, I haven’t through much about what women might wear in this situation. However, a girl could wear a plaid skirt and a white shirt and be a schoolgirl from 1915 right up until today.

Now there are some advantages, like cheapness. Since the serials were made on the cheap, your clothes and props can be super cheap as well. Pants haven’t changed much in the last 100 years or so, and as such you can you can pick up most the things you need off the rack without alteration. Even if you want to dress up like The Shadow you just need a black overcoat and a red scarf. A trip to a regular clothing store and then to the thrift shop and you’re covered. You can do the outfits without a lot of extra work and it’ll still look right. All you might have to do is distress a few things. See, Steam Punk really needs to be done full out, with lots of bits and pieces and ribbons and curly cues and details and stuff, or it looks a bit crap. The whole idea is that you’re going back to a day when people were a bit more flamboyant. However, the simplicity would be a turn off for people who want more things on their clothes. Also, not everyone is into that time period.

I am interested in that time period though, and not interested in putting lots of gears and things on my clothes. I could do some extra detail work, but not that much. These are the outfits I want.

In defense of lies.

Whenever I hear someone say something alone the lines of “I don’t read fiction”…

I don’t find myself thinking “Wow! What a serious minded and buys person this must be. Why there’s so much fact to learn, they haven’t got time to read made up stuff.” which is clearly what they want me to think.

Nor do I think “What a pretentious/lying motherfucker this is. Trying to get me sold on the idea that they’ve got so much to get through they’re doing non-fiction first.”

NOPE!

Shall I tell you what I think when someone tries to impress me with their non-fiction only reading?

“What an ignorant cunt!”

How can you even pretend to know anything about say… The Abolition Movement, without having read Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Can anyone claim to understand the plight of the migrant farmers in the 30s without having read The Grapes of Wrath? Sadly, no. I tried, had to read the fuckin’ thing anyway. Can you even begin to gather what was going through the minds of yuppie, over the hill, coke heads in the 80s without having tackled IT? Don’t think so. Can you say you know what it’s like to chase after a golden statue, only to have it turn out to be lead and besides you weren’t after it, but the person who killed your partner? Yeah, reading The Thin Man won’t help, but pick up another Hammett book and you’ll find what you’re looking for. And allow me to let you in on a secret, if you haven’t read the Greek Myths, almost nothing in their history will make much real sense because their mythology goes hand in hand with their understanding of the universe. Without knowing the fiction, you can’t really claim to know the facts. Reflection showing a greater truth and all that.

Hell, how can you possibly call yourself cultured without having gotten into the works of Shakespeare? Or Chaucer? Or Mark Twain. Or the operas of Mozart. If you want to claim to know things, you really need to read the actual books, just watching torrented episodes of QI* won't cut it.

I’m not saying that you have to read every dime novel that was every published from 1485 up until today. I’m not even suggesting that you cast your net as wide as the things I’ve mentioned here. I’m not even really saying that you must read some fiction, just that you need to if you expect one single iota of respect from me. Of course, if you want the flip side of that coin, I don’t have much respect for people who never raise their head above the imaginary either. You’ve got to read something factual from time to time as well. However, to be honest, I rarely hear anyone I think I even vaguely respect try and impress me by claiming that they never read non-fiction books. Usually, the people who brag about that sort of thing will mention how they never read a book of any kind and spit on the idea of watching a documentary.

Seriously, you need to at least read The Davinci Code or something. I've never read it myself, but I understand it's VERY fictional.



*Don’t give me that fucking look. YOU CAN’T GET THEM HERE!

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Thirty-Four)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.  

 

Chapter Thirty-Four: Mister Temple

 

 

            It turned out that I needed Alice to drive Jill and I back to the regional office since Debbie’s car was left at the hotel. I sat in the front seat, with Jill sitting directly behind me as we drove to the San Francisco office. The drive was fairly quiet, because there was something between the two women. I’m not sure it was spoken, but neither of them seemed to be ready to be buddies with the other. I didn’t much care, all I cared about at that moment was having a safe place to rest my head for a few hours.

 

            I felt like I’d spent the last day or so, well… doing the things that I’d done in the last day or so. I felt like I wanted to have a shower and then sleep for a day or two, but I wasn’t going to have the chance. For a while. My phone started to ring and I pulled it out. Alice started to speed up as I pulled the phone out. I didn’t recognize the number.

 

            “Some one is following us.” She said as she put her foot down a little harder, causing the engine to growl louder.

 

            “Jack Collier.” I said, feeling as tired as I probably was.

 

            “Mister Collier.” A voice like a purring puma said to me. “Would you mind asking Miss Liddell not to drive so fast? That speed isn’t safe on these streets.”

 

            “Alice.” I said to her. “The strange man on the other line wants to know if we could slow down a bit?”

 

            “Who is it?” She asked,

 

            “Good question.” I said. “Who wants us to slow down?”

 

            “My name is Temple.” The voice said. “Mister Church asked if I would look after you.”

 

            “Temple?” I asked. “Slow down Alice, we might actually be among friends.”

 

            “Temple?” She asked. “Simon Temple?”

 

            “Simon Temple?” I asked.

 

            “That’s right.” The purring puma on the other line said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think we should have a face to face talk.”

 

            “Where?” I asked.

 

            “You have an office here in town?”

 

            “Yes.”

 

            “We’ll escort you then.” He purred. “No one’s going to bother you with us behind.”

 

            “You sure?” I asked.

 

            “You’ve got Temple behind you.” He said. “Even those crazy comet humpers aren’t going to bother you with me behind.”

 

            “Well, that sounds reassuring.” I said. “So you’ll follow us to the office?”

 

            “And then we’ll talk.” He said.

 

            We drove to the office, with four black SUVs behind us. I think I must have actually fallen asleep because the trip sort of zipped past and I realized the engine had stopped. I started to sit up when I realized the car had stopped and started to look around.

 

            “Are we in trouble?” I asked.

 

            “No.” Alice said. “We’re here.”

 

            “Oh, that went fast.” I said.

 

            “You snored for like an hour.” Jill laughed as she opened the door and got out.

 

            “I don’t snore.” I told Alice.

 

            “Yes you do.” She said. “You know you do. Every woman who has ever had to sleep next to has noticed it. I almost think the reason you’re so good in bed is to exhaust us so we don’t wake up too many times.”

 

            “At least I’ve got being good in bed going for me.” I said as we climbed out of the car.

 

            “Mister Collier.” The purring puma voice said behind me. “I’m Simon Temple.”

 

            I turned and saw a good looking black man with a shaved head smiling at me. While his voice was about eight feet tall, he’d have to wear three inch lifts to get to six foot. He was good looking though, dressed well in a suit that cost about the same as my car costs. There wasn’t anything ostentatious about him though, he looked like he’d been born knowing what style and sophistication looked like.

 

            “Mister Temple.” I said taking his extended hand. It was firm and strong, but not exactly hard. It was sort of like shaking Church’s hand actually.

 

            “Jack!” Shiri said as she ran out into the parking lot, but she stopped when she got a look at Temple. “Oh fuck.”

 

            “It’s cool.” I said waving at her. “Mister Temple is, well, let’s call him the friend of an old adversary.”

 

            “And that’s good?” She asked.

 

            “We should probably go inside.” I said. “I’ve got to talk to you about company policy towards dealing with the Federales as it is young lady.”

 

            “Pardon?”

 

            “We don’t cooperate with the authorities.” I said and glanced at Alice. “We just sleep with them.”

 

            We entered the building, three guys in baggy pants and t-shirts standing at the office door watching out for us. They were a mixed group, two guys who looked like they were in it for looking tough and one guy who I thought could do some serious damage if given a really good reason. They were also a mixed group racially. One black, one white, one Asian. Interestingly, that was the make up of the executive staff that went up the office as well. Technically though, if I remember right, Shiri is Chinese, Thai, Irish and Latino. Still though, we were more or less a matching set of executive and working staff.

 

            “Were can we talk?” I asked.

 

            “Well we can use my office.” Shiri said.

 

            “I was thinking of discussing something with Mister Temple alone.” I said.

 

            “Well, you could.” She stopped and sighed as she opened the door to the main office where Kari was sitting. She then spoke quickly, “You could use Dale’s office, it’s the one across from mine.”

 

            Shiri then more or less ran to her office and slammed the door behind her. It wasn’t much of a slam, probably she was being annoyed with herself for closing it so quickly. I looked at Kari, who was greatly deflated from her attitude of the last few days. She’d been bubbly and warm, but now she looked like she’d been medicated.

 

            “Hi Jack.” She barely said.

 

            “Hey Kari.” I said walking toward her and taking her left hand in both of mine. “You holding up?”

 

            “I’m okay.” She nodded quickly and bit her lip.

 

            “Okay.” I said. “Mister Temple and I are going to go discuss a few matters.”

 

            “Okay.” She nodded in the same quick way and bit her lip again.

 

            “Something happen?” Temple asked as we passed the desks were four operatives sat, looking dejected.

 

            “One of ours was killed yesterday.” I said as I opened the door to Dale’s office. “This was his office.”

 

            I sat down behind Dale’s desk and Temple sat in one of the client chairs. If nothing else, Dale’s office should have been kept in a museum in an attempt to shatter the stereotype that gay men are neat and tidy. I couldn’t actually see the surface for all the assorted papers, photos, cameras and other paraphernalia of our craft. His chair was good and comfortable though, so who cares if the desk was a sight?

 

            “So what can I do for you Mister Temple?”

 

            “It’s more what I can do for you.” He said steepling his fingers before his mouth. “You’ve annoyed one powerful little group of criminals.”

 

            “I think a lot of them are going to be arrested though.” I said. “I mean the feds are not going to let the Thinkonomics crowd slip through their fingers.”

 

            “Not them.” He shook his head. “I mean the people behind The So-called Church of Thinkonomics.”

 

            “Behind them?” I asked.

 

            “Mister Church told me that you had dealings with them over the event that made you famous.” He smiled then, as if savoring a joke. “The Seven with One Blow event.”

 

            “You’re talking about Unicorn.” I said, wondering if I’d get a flash of lightning and some thunder for saying the name.

 

            “I speak of them.” He agreed. “After that last altercation left them injured, they came out here and regrouped. They’ve been running the Thinkonomics people pretty much ever since they started, so they came here to consider their tactics.”

 

            “Which you don’t much like.” I said.

 

            “I am the sole criminal element in this part of the world.” He stated. “Even the spaghetti eaters, pardon, Italians defer to me.”

 

            “Yeah, but Unicorn isn’t into deferment.”

 

            “No.” He shook his head. “They are not. They haven’t wanted a direct fight with me though, so they haven’t given me an excuse to start one.”

 

            “Are you looking for an excuse?” I asked.

 

            “I’m not looking for anything.” He smiled again and I wondered if he would let me in on the joke. “However, Mister Church did tell me that you were like a magnet for them. He said that if I were looking for trouble I should look for you since it always seems to converge around you.”

 

            “Yeah.” I said. “I do that.”

 

            “I’ve wanted to hurt them, for sometime.” He told me. “And you have created a situation that hurts them without my having to do anything. I am enjoying the event from afar, but I would like to get a closer seat. To that end, if you need something, just ask. If it doesn’t bother you, I’ll have someone watch over you until you leave the general area. I’d like to know where you are.”

 

            “That probably won’t be a problem.” I said.

 

            “Good. I like a man who is reasonable.” And there was something like Church there. A slight hint of menace mixed with the self assurity that comes from knowing you’re the baddest in the room. He didn’t actually know he wasn’t the baddest, but he hadn’t known me for five minutes yet, so how could he know how bad I was?

 

            He reminded me of Church in another way. He spoke like he had to think about what he was going to say and be careful about how he said it, lest he revert to the voice of his youth. I could tell that there was a ghetto talking thug under the smooth exterior, but it was far down and covered with a lot of learned class. He was a man who had come up from the ground level to make himself into something greater than his beginnings would suggest. Just like me, only I wasn’t a crime boss.

 

            “I’ll be going home in another day or two.” I said. “I’ve given my evidence and it’s been agreed that I can give video testimony from Michigan so I won’t even need to come back.”

 

            “That sounds very nice.” He nodded.

 

            “I just want you to know where I stand.” I said. “Because after this I think I’m going to vanish for a while and no one is going to know where I went for a while. I appreciate your offer of help though and I’ll take it kindly.”

 

            “That’s very respectful of you.” He said. “I’m glad we can be reasonable.”

 

            “Well sure.” I smiled my charming smile, which hurt like hell but I did it anyway. “Just don’t have the guys try and be sly, let them just hang out and be obvious. I get paranoid sometimes and I’d rather know my bodyguard is actually with me.”

 

            “Sure.” He laughed as he stood up. “I’ll see to that. You need anything, you let me know.”

 

            And with that he was gone leaving me in the office alone, wondering how deep I’d stuck my foot in it this time and could I pull it out without loosing a shoe.

 

The Old School

I want to start an internet university.

Going to call it "The University of My House" and we'll only give out degrees in Madeupology. No other courses, I haven't got time.

We'll offer BA, BS, MA and PhD in the field. If we can think of other letter combinations, we might offer those as well.

The diplomas will be proper, with seals and ribbons and everything. Might look up and see if I can get a hold of actual sheepskin, just to raise the prices a bit.

If I earn enough from milling these diplomas, I might add a Virtual library and an imaginary Gentlemen’s Club*.





*Not a strip joint, but a proper club. With over stuffed, leather, wingback chairs and old whisky and proper racism, not like the wimpy “Oh, I'm not a racist... BUT!” sort of crap you get these days. No! Proper racism where we don't let people join just because they're white! The Irish are, of course, excluded from that declaration. They can join.