This was my submission for a 750 word short story for Writer's Digest.
“You’re in trouble doughboy.” said Sergeant Atkins.
Cop clichés appear again and again on T.V. shows and in movies for a reason, there is some truth to them. Perhaps the most well known and therefore truest of these familiar scenes is the “good cop bad cop” routine. Trust me, it works. The best way to get a confession out of a sobbing butterball like Duncan Starger was, is to have one dick be his buddy while the other one becomes Torquemada.
“Look at me when I’m talking crap-stack!”
Atkins always played the boogieman, sick bastard probably loved those Saw movies. It was hard to argue with his methods though, he almost always got results and from the way this sack of Jello was wobbling I figured it was only a matter of time before he confessed to the whole thing.
Atkins and I were called into investigate a series of arsons at several Krispy Kreme donut franchises around North West. Setting fires is a big no-no anywhere, but DC has seven different law enforcement services. That makes burning down a donut shop like abducting the commissioner’s daughter, very stupid. On top of picking bad targets Stager was spotted fleeing the latest scene on a motor-scooter with two Molotov cocktails in the saddlebags. I’m surprised he made it as far as he did, between the helicopter, the seven police cars, and the secret service van; he had zero chance of making a getaway. It was a bike cop that nailed him in the end, jumped right off his cycle and tackled him.
“No, no it wasn’t me. I, I, I’d ne-never do that.” Starger said.
He had one of those high pitched voices that made you want to cram a plunger over his mouth.
“Look, Duncan, we’re going to do what we can for you, but Molotov cocktails, those are pretty serious.” I said
“Th-those aren’t mine. I sw-swe swear.”
Running this meatball into the ground was taking a surprisingly long time. There was no question that he was guilty, but a confession was still a hell of a lot cheaper than the lab work to actually prove that he did it, so until he cracked, there was no going home.
“You make me sick! How much do you weigh lardo?” said Atkins.
“Th-three, th-three, th-three-“
“Yeah yeah, so what do you got against donuts huh? Big fella like you must put them away by the box.”
“I love donuts, it’s just that, it’s just that, th, th, the.”
“Spit it out big boy.”
“Krispy Kreme is bullcrap.”
All of a sudden Atkins and I were looking at a different person. Duncan wasn’t shaking anymore, his voice dropped an octave and he was eyeballing both of us like he was ready to take a bite.
“Is that so?” I asked.
“Factory processed trash, if you ask me.”
Atkins opened his lunch box and brought out a small bag with orange and pink lettering. He pulled out a confection slathered in half-melted chocolate frosting and set it on the table between them. If I had known what he was planning, I would have stopped him.
“What’s that?” asked Atkins, smiling.
“That my friend, is a real donut, Boston crème if I’m not mistaken. Freshly baked, hand stuffed, and served with a smile that’s the way it’s supposed be, anything else is just garbage.”
“Atkins what are you-“
Suddenly, the sergeant brought his fist crashing down on the pastry sending a spray of crème and sprinkles everywhere. Seeing the donut destroyed like that sent Starger over the deep end. Despite the fact that the tables are bolted into the ground he flipped it over like it was made of cardboard sending me straight into the wall. Atkins tried to pull his gun but Starger threw him into the one-way mirror and then crushed him against it with his big fat body. When I came to I could see Atkins flailing getting weaker and weaker and figured I only had one chance to save him. I jammed my taser into Starger’s back and let him have it. He squealed like a branded hog and passed out.
Atkins was in the hospital overnight for his busted ribs. Starger ended up in some nut house, split personalities they call it. The interview room still smells like bacon left out on a hot day. This job may be half clichés, but occasionally something comes along they would never put on T.V.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Keeping Busy
A new sort of literature needs a new sort of critique, does it not? Like many eighties kids who didn’t excel at sports I’ve been playing videogames for as long as I can remember. Many in the literary world may regard this burgeoning media as another symptom of an ailing culture. However, I’d like to put forward that back in the 11th century this crazy slang called Middle English was just starting to make a splash in the British Iles. All I am suggesting is the benifits to keeping an open mind and that art springs from humble beginnings.
Like them or not, there is no way to put video games back in Pandora’s Box. I feel that this new clay ought to be something the literary world is engaged in, rather than apart from. It is in this spirit that a friend of mine, Daniel Bullard-Bates, started a new forum to weigh the cultural and artistic merits of video games. Along with another friend and constant gamer, Joshua Raisher, we will be tossing our two cents at what interactive media has to offer the world of fiction.
I will be the first to admit that video games have a long way to go before the median produces a true Mona Lisa or Enchantress of Florence, but given time and the engagement of discerning fans I think we will all be pleasantly surprised.
Come see what we’ve had a look at so far at Press Pause to Reflect.
Like them or not, there is no way to put video games back in Pandora’s Box. I feel that this new clay ought to be something the literary world is engaged in, rather than apart from. It is in this spirit that a friend of mine, Daniel Bullard-Bates, started a new forum to weigh the cultural and artistic merits of video games. Along with another friend and constant gamer, Joshua Raisher, we will be tossing our two cents at what interactive media has to offer the world of fiction.
I will be the first to admit that video games have a long way to go before the median produces a true Mona Lisa or Enchantress of Florence, but given time and the engagement of discerning fans I think we will all be pleasantly surprised.
Come see what we’ve had a look at so far at Press Pause to Reflect.
Friday, May 1, 2009
A Word on Character
I’m resolved to keeping this blog as focused as possible on literary matters, but recent events force me to divert for a moment to address a terrible wrong. Last night my friends and I saw the premier of X-Men Origins. I won’t drag out the myriad details of this film’s failure; I will simply say that it let me down.
The first thing I said to my friends walking out of the Georgetown theatre after the midnight showing of X-Men Origins was “Why Stan Lee? Why’d you do it?” Standing there in the misty rain at 2 AM on a weekday, dressed as superhero at the age of twenty-five, I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. Fourteen friends and acquaintances had gathered together that evening to see a film about our most beloved cultural icons. We so loved these characters that no bounds of common sense, social convention, or good taste could have stopped us from making an appearance that night. We came for many reasons, but mostly, mostly we were drawn by the guileless enthusiasm of my best friend. Hours before the show he had put the final touches on a set of cardboard claws he had proudly worn across town, smoking a cheap cigar to complete the look. Seeing him after the show, his face white with shock and his claws discarded, was like looking at a child who had just learned about the death of a beloved pet at the hands of a careless trucker.
Of course, in the cold light of day we must come to terms with the facts. I know how it happened of course, the same force that has driven the video game world and the music of our times from their lofty beginnings to stinking quagmire of mediocrity in the arts has set its sights on a new target, comics. After the new Star Wars trilogy and the unspeakable abomination that was Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, how long did we think our beloved comic heroes would be safe? The truth is that this was inevitable. The moment it was realized that we, the avid consumers of modern myth, were in fact a profitable demographic, our fate was sealed. Our legends were bound to be strained, diluted, and served en masse to the drunken hoards of movie goers and toy shoppers who scoff at the consequences of their over-indulgence and move from fad to fad after the next quick fix.
The real tragedy is that we asked for this. While we tried to set our expectations low every true fan that set foot into the theatres harbored a secret desire that somehow our legends would win through and that the movie would meet our most desperate ideals. When faced with Hollywood’s inevitable betrayal and cheapening that secret hope died inside us, wounding us so deeply because we kept it close to our hearts where the world couldn’t see it. We set ourselves up for the fall, and fall we have.
The only question that remains is what to do next.
To the writers out there, I implore you. To thine own characters be true. No matter what the material temptation may be, we must remember that the generations that come after us will only have our fiction to truly tell them who we were. Every time we give into stereotype or hammer down our art to make it more acceptable we are reducing not only ourselves, but the essence of our generation. We must do better than this.
To the readers and movie goers, I say there is no other recourse then to heal and move on. We can point fingers all we want, we can rage against this injustice with all the power the internet has, we can even boycott. I tell you though that none of these things will make it better. Until we learn to admit that we are hurt, admit that we are scared, and learn to love again, we will never be whole. Don’t turn your backs on fiction; you’ve been friends for far too long for that. Let solace in the company of friends and time regenerate the damage we’ve suffered, then head out again onto the open roads of fantasy with a clear mind and no memory.
It’s what Wolverine would have wanted.
The first thing I said to my friends walking out of the Georgetown theatre after the midnight showing of X-Men Origins was “Why Stan Lee? Why’d you do it?” Standing there in the misty rain at 2 AM on a weekday, dressed as superhero at the age of twenty-five, I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. Fourteen friends and acquaintances had gathered together that evening to see a film about our most beloved cultural icons. We so loved these characters that no bounds of common sense, social convention, or good taste could have stopped us from making an appearance that night. We came for many reasons, but mostly, mostly we were drawn by the guileless enthusiasm of my best friend. Hours before the show he had put the final touches on a set of cardboard claws he had proudly worn across town, smoking a cheap cigar to complete the look. Seeing him after the show, his face white with shock and his claws discarded, was like looking at a child who had just learned about the death of a beloved pet at the hands of a careless trucker.
Of course, in the cold light of day we must come to terms with the facts. I know how it happened of course, the same force that has driven the video game world and the music of our times from their lofty beginnings to stinking quagmire of mediocrity in the arts has set its sights on a new target, comics. After the new Star Wars trilogy and the unspeakable abomination that was Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, how long did we think our beloved comic heroes would be safe? The truth is that this was inevitable. The moment it was realized that we, the avid consumers of modern myth, were in fact a profitable demographic, our fate was sealed. Our legends were bound to be strained, diluted, and served en masse to the drunken hoards of movie goers and toy shoppers who scoff at the consequences of their over-indulgence and move from fad to fad after the next quick fix.
The real tragedy is that we asked for this. While we tried to set our expectations low every true fan that set foot into the theatres harbored a secret desire that somehow our legends would win through and that the movie would meet our most desperate ideals. When faced with Hollywood’s inevitable betrayal and cheapening that secret hope died inside us, wounding us so deeply because we kept it close to our hearts where the world couldn’t see it. We set ourselves up for the fall, and fall we have.
The only question that remains is what to do next.
To the writers out there, I implore you. To thine own characters be true. No matter what the material temptation may be, we must remember that the generations that come after us will only have our fiction to truly tell them who we were. Every time we give into stereotype or hammer down our art to make it more acceptable we are reducing not only ourselves, but the essence of our generation. We must do better than this.
To the readers and movie goers, I say there is no other recourse then to heal and move on. We can point fingers all we want, we can rage against this injustice with all the power the internet has, we can even boycott. I tell you though that none of these things will make it better. Until we learn to admit that we are hurt, admit that we are scared, and learn to love again, we will never be whole. Don’t turn your backs on fiction; you’ve been friends for far too long for that. Let solace in the company of friends and time regenerate the damage we’ve suffered, then head out again onto the open roads of fantasy with a clear mind and no memory.
It’s what Wolverine would have wanted.
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