Orson unsheathed his sword. After months of Francine’s humiliating, illiterate taunts down at the Grounde Coffee Shoppe, this would be gratifying. Now she would see. The taunting would cease. She lay defenseless behind him.
Orson heard sounds of the evening outside as Newark revelers strolled by. I should be out there, with them, he thought, but no. He turned and strode to her.
“Oh my God,” she gasped at the sight of his shiny weapon, “it’s so…”
Orson smiled cruelly. Her eyes pleaded.
He impaled her. His sword slid smoothly in and sunk to the hilt. She yelled something, and then the life went out of her.
It was over quickly. A moment of silence followed.
“Is dat all you got speedy,” she shoved Orson off her. “I’da charged double if I’da knew all you was gonna do was tickle me with dat gherkin. Throw me my smokes, and leave the money on the table by the door on your way out. Oh, and dey are gonna hear about dis down at the coffee shop. Dey are gonna hear.”
Friday, February 19, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Literary Agent Orson: I Hate Violets
Orson sat nervously with his best selling author in Ground Coffee Shoppe. They waited for Randi, a writer with She RANT! Magazine, and Chairman of the local NOW chapter. Meetings with Randi always made Orson nervous. Secret Service Sunglasses stood by, discretely. Orson spotted the trademark khakis and spiked hair as Randi rounded the corner and walked in. She glared Orson’s way. His gut tightened. His author smiled warmly. She stepped sharply to the counter and ordered: “Medium latte: butch it up.”
Orson cringed.
“Grande latte, triple espresso, for mizz Randi” the cashier called to the barista, and smiled at Randi.
This was to be the interview of her life, and Orson had scored it for her. Now that his author had retired, he didn’t grant many interviews. Randi said she abhorred violence in all its manifestations, and wanted to hear, “from the dumb ass’s mouth why he loved war so much.”
“No mixed metaphors,” Orson had admonished her, “especially around him. He won't 'get it.'”
“I don’t know which angers me more, his stupidity, or his worship of violence, I am a total pacifist” she had said.
Now she approached. Orson shifted. Sunglasses stood ready.
“Randi,” she introduced herself before Orson had the chance. “Where’s your Dick, these days?” She extended a stiff hand. Orson spewed his cappuccino.
His author chuckled, “he’s home in Wyoming.” They shook. Orson cleaned his mess. For one who hates that feature of the male anatomy, she sure mentions it often, he thought.
“Hey, Orson, round his house what does a dyke call a Dick?” Randi asked.
Orson’s abdomen did a double flop, his sphincter seized. His eyes bored holes into the table. God get me through this. “No idea.” He mopped his brow. Everyone was silent.
“Dad.” She said, “but seriously, your Dick really was the Anti-Christ.”
Even the sunglasses laughed.
“A little dyke humor for you.” Randi sat. Knees far apart, leaned forward, elbows on table, chin in palm. She stared. “All right, cut the shit. Why do you have such a hard-on for war?”
“War’s a turble thing, Randi,” he said in his Crawford, Texas accent, “that’s a common misperceptulation about me. I don’t like war. It’s the bad guys like it,” he said.
“Bad Guys?! That’s it, the world divided into cowboys and Indians for you, isn’t it? Good guys over here, bad guys over there. You don’t see any grey?”
Orson squirmed, but his author looked unperturbed.
“Naw, Randi, I don’t see in grey. That’s moral retalitarianism. I see in black and white. I see us as the good guys. I hate violets, but the world’s fulla evil, and sometimes you gotta take it to the bad guy before he takes it to you.”
“I hated your doctrine of preemption, and it’s pronounced violence,” she seethed.
“Is that what you people call it?”
Her face reddened. The pin was pulled, and this grenade was ready to blow. Orson recognized the signs. Sunglasses did too. They moved closer.
Think, Orson think, “Why don’t we—”
“YOU are the bad guys!” Randi yelled and slapped the table. “We’ll tear this white male dominated techno-military-industrial edifice down brick by brick, and we’ll use those bricks to build a bridge to peace, or at least, Cuba.”
“He he, he he he,” he brayed in that funny laugh of his. “That’s a common miscapitulation. There’s no peace without might. Walk softly, but carry a big bomb.”
“You stupid…” She flailed, and stood, tearing her khakis. “These were my favorite…”
No, not the khakis, Orson thought. Uh oh, Orson saw the look.
The sunglasses moved in, “ma’am,” they reached toward her.
“I wouldn’t—” Orson began.
They heard the screech of ten thousand Harpies. “You ripped my khakis,” the demon voice seemed to come from all sides. She was all talons and teeth. The Sunglasses went flying in every direction, tattered and bloodied. Orson threw his hands in the air. His mouth worked up and down, but no words came.
“He he he, he he he, the U. S. Marines could use a fella like you,” the author said, still seemingly unperturbed.
Her eyes were flames. She moved in their direction. Orson bolted for the exit. “I have big plans for you,” Orson heard the Harpy say.
“Bring it on, big boy.”
Orson heard a thunderous crash as he reached the door. “Awe heck, is that the best you can do, fella. Laura can do better’n that. Tickle me with a feather why don’t ya. You want a piece 'o this. Come and get it. He he, he he he.”
Orson cringed.
“Grande latte, triple espresso, for mizz Randi” the cashier called to the barista, and smiled at Randi.
This was to be the interview of her life, and Orson had scored it for her. Now that his author had retired, he didn’t grant many interviews. Randi said she abhorred violence in all its manifestations, and wanted to hear, “from the dumb ass’s mouth why he loved war so much.”
“No mixed metaphors,” Orson had admonished her, “especially around him. He won't 'get it.'”
“I don’t know which angers me more, his stupidity, or his worship of violence, I am a total pacifist” she had said.
Now she approached. Orson shifted. Sunglasses stood ready.
“Randi,” she introduced herself before Orson had the chance. “Where’s your Dick, these days?” She extended a stiff hand. Orson spewed his cappuccino.
His author chuckled, “he’s home in Wyoming.” They shook. Orson cleaned his mess. For one who hates that feature of the male anatomy, she sure mentions it often, he thought.
“Hey, Orson, round his house what does a dyke call a Dick?” Randi asked.
Orson’s abdomen did a double flop, his sphincter seized. His eyes bored holes into the table. God get me through this. “No idea.” He mopped his brow. Everyone was silent.
“Dad.” She said, “but seriously, your Dick really was the Anti-Christ.”
Even the sunglasses laughed.
“A little dyke humor for you.” Randi sat. Knees far apart, leaned forward, elbows on table, chin in palm. She stared. “All right, cut the shit. Why do you have such a hard-on for war?”
“War’s a turble thing, Randi,” he said in his Crawford, Texas accent, “that’s a common misperceptulation about me. I don’t like war. It’s the bad guys like it,” he said.
“Bad Guys?! That’s it, the world divided into cowboys and Indians for you, isn’t it? Good guys over here, bad guys over there. You don’t see any grey?”
Orson squirmed, but his author looked unperturbed.
“Naw, Randi, I don’t see in grey. That’s moral retalitarianism. I see in black and white. I see us as the good guys. I hate violets, but the world’s fulla evil, and sometimes you gotta take it to the bad guy before he takes it to you.”
“I hated your doctrine of preemption, and it’s pronounced violence,” she seethed.
“Is that what you people call it?”
Her face reddened. The pin was pulled, and this grenade was ready to blow. Orson recognized the signs. Sunglasses did too. They moved closer.
Think, Orson think, “Why don’t we—”
“YOU are the bad guys!” Randi yelled and slapped the table. “We’ll tear this white male dominated techno-military-industrial edifice down brick by brick, and we’ll use those bricks to build a bridge to peace, or at least, Cuba.”
“He he, he he he,” he brayed in that funny laugh of his. “That’s a common miscapitulation. There’s no peace without might. Walk softly, but carry a big bomb.”
“You stupid…” She flailed, and stood, tearing her khakis. “These were my favorite…”
No, not the khakis, Orson thought. Uh oh, Orson saw the look.
The sunglasses moved in, “ma’am,” they reached toward her.
“I wouldn’t—” Orson began.
They heard the screech of ten thousand Harpies. “You ripped my khakis,” the demon voice seemed to come from all sides. She was all talons and teeth. The Sunglasses went flying in every direction, tattered and bloodied. Orson threw his hands in the air. His mouth worked up and down, but no words came.
“He he he, he he he, the U. S. Marines could use a fella like you,” the author said, still seemingly unperturbed.
Her eyes were flames. She moved in their direction. Orson bolted for the exit. “I have big plans for you,” Orson heard the Harpy say.
“Bring it on, big boy.”
Orson heard a thunderous crash as he reached the door. “Awe heck, is that the best you can do, fella. Laura can do better’n that. Tickle me with a feather why don’t ya. You want a piece 'o this. Come and get it. He he, he he he.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)