Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does

It isn’t every day you wake up to suddenly realize you’re related to a cartoon. Every time I see Dale Gribble on King of the Hill, I swear Mike Judge had actually crawled inside my head and put my uncle Bob in his show.

Bob is my mother’s oldest sibling and only brother. And now that I’m an adult, I understand this was a smart move on God’s part, since I’m convinced that if Bob had been forced to share the testosterone with his brothers, he would’ve eaten them alive in order to preserve the stupidity of the species. You see, Uncle Bob was a shining example of just what a high-functioning degree of stupidity could do for a man.

My first memory of Bob is one evening at the house, watching him load his dogs into their wire cages to haul us all off to the local 4-H camp. That’s right, folks: Bob had twelve Coon hounds. The truly amazing part wasn’t that he had so many dogs, but that they actually had a Coon hounds club that met once a month (and that they could read a calendar). Aside from a secret handshake that involved the licking of the palms, to this day I still don’t know what they did at these meetings. But he loved it so much they eventually promoted him to President. He’d sit there, just presiding over the meetings in his mirrored sunglasses and green John Deere cap with his Marlboro clenched between his teeth, which he refused to remove even while chugging his beer. And if the man had been a church-goer, that’s the way he would’ve attended church, which was probably why my Aunt stopped inviting him in this manner:

“Bob, if you’re not going to change out of that get-up for a quick brunch with the Lord Jesus, then I’ll just have to pray you go to hell, because I’m not explaining that mess to God almighty when it’s your time to go.”

Bob was a walking contradiction. On one hand, he was very political--a devout Democrat for as long as I can remember. He believed in organized government (which was a surprise since he never once balanced his checkbook or carried a calendar to organize his time), and yet he never missed a vote at the polls, or the opportunity to rub my family’s very strict Republican noses in it.

On the other hand, his conspiracy theories and nut job ideologies tended to force him to lean so far to the left that he could wrap around himself twice and kiss his own right ass-cheek. “Clean air is nothing but a government plot,” he’d say, while coughing up another piece of his lung. It was twenty-three-years later that he finally stopped smoking. “Just seemed like it was time,” was his answer when asked why. Sure. And that six-month long round of radiation therapy was just another extended-stay opportunity to enjoy the Jell-O.

Since he was a seasoned hypochondriac, for a long while after they finally diagnosed the lung cancer and told him his time was limited, the rest of us could’ve sworn he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. I think it had something to do with the constant Xs he’d mark on the floor, while dramatically stating, “THIS is where I’m going to die. Mark it down on your calendars. The second I hit forty, you can come back to this spot and find me as cold as mom’s gravy.” We got to the point where we were just plain tired of him constantly getting our hopes up. As of right now, he’s seventy-three, has had part of his stomach removed due to cancer, and still draws those Xs on the kitchen floor. I think it was finally some time back in the mid-Eighties that my Aunt switched out the red crayon for a piece of chalk: Just easier for her to clean up when the deadline had passed with yet another disappointment. Much like the Rapture.

Still, I always liked Bob. Although, the only time he was ever funny was when he told really bad jokes and then laughed his own ass off all by himself, which is really what made him funny. At least he was smart enough to bring his own audience.

I remember one summer in particular where my sister and I, along with our cousins--Bob’s two sons--decided rather than go outside and play in the heat, we’d stay in to watch TV. Now, I’m not exactly sure who found it first, or why we felt the need to go searching through the couch cushions, but suddenly one of us pulled out a Penthouse from the armchair. At first, no one said much--we just kinda stared in fascination. None of us were older than twelve, so while we knew what we were looking at, we just weren’t sure what we were looking at. I think the bigger question for me was, when do you get it to look and act like that? As we slowly leafed through the pages the one consistent question we kept asking on another was, “This is Bob’s magazine?” It was too weird for any of us to think that Bob owned such a piece of high-brow literature, since none of us had ever seen him read, or even kiss his wife for that matter--which had to be to her relief. There were times you could just tell if given the chance, she’d run him over with her car and then hide the body. To this day, even her sons are convinced Bob could not be their father.

But, back to the book.

Everything we saw up to that point was pretty tame. While we liked to think we were experts already, we could only guess. However, as soon as Roger turned the page to the centerfold, he nearly dropped the book, my sister screamed and hid her eyes, Roger’s younger brother passed out and I just couldn’t help myself: I laughed out loud. For there, in all his stapled and glossy glory, was none other than THE Ron Jeremy. While it’s true there isn’t much need for a sixth-grade junior high-school lady to have any working knowledge of who Ron Jeremy is, apparently the rules for boys were very different, for both Bob’s sons yelled, “Hey! It’s Jeremy!” And I just couldn’t stop looking at...his...um.... His nose was just so BIG for his face. It made you wonder how he was ever able to wrap a tissue round that thing when he sneezed. Luckily, though, he had lots of women hovering over him in the photos to help with that.

Ten-minutes after we had discovered the magazine and its centerfold, Bob came bursting through the living room, searching for something chaste like a flashlight or fan belt, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us with the book.

“Um...er...where’d you get that?”

Roger said, “’Neath the chair cushion. What’s it doing there, dad?”

After watching his face turn eighty-shades of red, he coughed, took a breath, and smoothly replied, “It’s your mother’s. Put it back.”

I was fairly certain I didn’t buy it, for two reasons. One, wasn’t it usually men who looked at the women? And two, I was pretty sure you didn’t "need" such a magazine in your living room to supplement your nightly television-viewing.

It’s been probably thirty-years since we first found the book, and I still can’t get the image of that day out of my mind. Bob never mentioned the incident again, and a few weeks later on a return visit to the living room, the book went missing.

Bob’s mellowed over the years, keeping his NRA rants and trips to the Baptist Gun Show to a minimum, and I can tell you right now, that one day when the Red X finally hits the kitchen floor, the world will mourn one of its most unique characters, who was worthy of his own TV cartoon show.

Thanks, Mike Judge.

NaNoWriMo--Day Twenty-Seven, and I'm a Winner, along with first chapter free

Just about one hour ago, I crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line with a validated 51,625 words.

This has been an incredibly weird journey, to say the least.  But one that I'm very pleased I took.  I've learned a lot about myself as a writer, as well as writing a novel and the approach to that process that works best for me.  I've also learned that if I participate next year, then I will have a better detailed outline from which to work instead of merely a detailed plot. 

By working so fast and forcing myself to keep pace, I've realised that with my last novel (The Gaslight Journal--what?  You don't own it yet?  Stop reading and go buy it:  NOW!) there were some passages that needed more thought in order to make them better, and that was something I did not allow myself to do on this one, and for good reason:  I am too much of a perfectionist, and spend far too much money on lavish luncheons with my nasty bitch-ass critic.

I must say, that writing a novel in this fashion was very different.  I know in my head it works as well for approaching comedy, with everything I know about comedy, but in my heart I SO wanted to go back and edit/pick/re-write, and that's not necessarily a good thing.

Thanks to all who told me I could do this, and encouraged me without abandon.  And special thanks to my word-war buddy, Kevin, who assured me he would continue to stay on my ass until all of Father Jack's story was told (I have another 20,000 words to finish the book).  He beat me to 50,000 words, but in a very sweet letter, he credited me as the reason.

And now, for your amusement, chapter one.

A Most Devout Coward

by

Carla René

Copyright (c) 2010.

Chapter One


Jack Ryan O’Donnell had sat down to a nice, quiet lunch of steamed organic broccoli and distilled hot water; his usual. As he was about to send the broccoli back a third time, a bullet went whizzing by his right ear. Not hearing the actual shot and thinking it was just a fly, he swatted it away when another came very close to shaving his sideburns. This time he looked up from his meal.

Directly across from him at the farthest table with his back to Jack, sat a burly-looking man who was now slumped over his sweet potato pie, and a second who faced the sweet potato-man; leaning back against the wall with his chest contents now being used as a garnish for the pie.

Without registering what had just occurred, Jack noticed a waitress hovering beneath the edge of the lunch counter. “Excuse me, miss!” What an odd time for this woman to be on break.

She yelled back, not daring to leave her spot. “What is it, sir? Kinda busy here.”

“I believe that gentleman over there has spilled all over the table. Would you kindly clean it?”

She could hardly believe what she’d heard. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Miss, I don’t have to tell you how quickly a health inspector will shut you down for this sort of code violation.”

As the waitress was about to rip him a new one, a third shot sent her diving behind the counter. The shooter had turned toward Carlos, the chef, now hiding behind the counter, and put the third slug into his head.

This time, Jack noticed the shooter.

As he turned to make his getaway, he saw Jack staring at him and froze as if contemplating whether to put a .9mm round into him.

Jack noticed every detail of his face: ugly red scar on his left cheek, bulbous blue fish eyes, and black hair with that ugly David Schwimmer haircut from the first season of Friends. I always hated that haircut. Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut.

Little did Jack realize, these details would come in very handy in the near future.

But before the gunman could eliminate Jack as a witness, a voice in the crowd screamed for someone to call 9-1-1, thus jarring the shooter back into reality and out the door.

Suddenly, the events registered with Jack, and he stood at his table and screamed like a pre-pubescent cheerleader, “Oh my God, we’ve been hit!” Certainly not one of his more attractive qualities.

Slowly, everyone retreated from their positions on the floor, from behind chairs, and lunch counters. As the diner staff made their rounds to see if everyone was okay, the waitress came straight to Jack.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

Jack continued to scream.

This time she shook him. “SIR! Are you hurt? Your screaming is annoying the children.”

Jack calmed himself and shook his head. “I’m all right. What just happened?”

“Well, I’m no forensics expert, but I’d say we just had a gunman blow away two of our patrons.”

“But why? If you’re that unhappy with the food, you don’t blow away the person sitting next to you eating it, you kill the chef.”

“They got Carlos, too.  Is that really what you want to complain about right now? We’ve had two men shot to death and you’re still bitching about your broccoli?”

“I...”

But she had already turned to attend to customers who needed serious attention.



*****



Twenty minutes later, Jack was sitting in the back door of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket, a paramedic taking his vital signs.

“So, Mr. O’Donnell, let me get this straight. You were just getting ready to return your organic broccoli for a third time, when you noticed bullets flying past your right ear? A person eating in public has a reasonable expectation of peace and quiet. That’s disgraceful.”

“I know. I never have to send my broccoli back more than twice.”

The paramedic rolled his eyes, and said, “Okay. You’re fine. I think that detective has some questions for you.”

Jack walked over to the tall man with the brown tweed jacket and green tie, his gold shield displayed prominently on his lapel. “You wanted to see me?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. O’Donnell. Let’s walk over here so we can have some privacy.”

They strolled over to the other side of the street and sat on the steps to a three-story walk-up.

After Jack described the events again, the detective questioned him on the man’s physical details.

“He had this huge, ugly red scar on this face.”

“Right cheek or left?”

“Oh, I never saw his butt.”

After killing his urge to laugh out loud, the detective said, “I mean was it his right cheek or his left on his face?”

Jack blushed. “Sorry. I’m still in shock.”

The detective was unconvinced, but played it straight.

“It was on his left cheek, going down from his cheekbone to his jawbone. About two-inches wide. Looked like somebody got in there with a spoon and...”

“...that’s fine, Mr. O’Donnell, I think I get the picture. What else?”

“His eyes. They were ice-blue. Looked like that fellow from that old frankenstein movie.”

“You mean Marty Feldman?”

“No, I mean Young Frankenstein. You never saw the movie?”

Again, the detective had to stifle the urge to laugh. “So you mean he had prominent eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Anything else you can remember?”

Jack crinkled his nose in disgust. “Yeah. His hair.”

“You mean he had some?” The detective now chuckled at his own joke.

“It looked like Ross from the first season of Friends. Black, combed straight down and very short.”

“Yeah, I hated that haircut, too. Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut.”

“Exactly."

“Can you think of anything else that may help?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay. Well, since you seem to be the material witness to this crime, I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”

“You mean I’m under arrest? All I wanted to do was send the broccoli back! I mean, I wanted to kill Carlos, but I certainly didn’t shoot him!”

“Calm down, Mr. O’Donnell. You’re not under arrest. I just need you to meet with my Lieutenant. Apparently, no one else but you noticed this man until he had fired 3 shots and was out the door. You’re the only one to get a good look at this hump, and we need you to make a formal statement.”

Jack thought about this for a second, then said, “Um, no way. Ain’t no way I’m going into that dirty station. Nunh-uh.”

“Dirty? What are you talking about?”

“With all due respect, Captain...”

“...it’s detective.”

“With all due respect, Captain detective, I’d rather just have an officer come to my house. There are very few places I go in public, and a police station with filthy criminals is not one of them.”

“Mr. O’Donnell, you’ll be protected--those felons will be behind bars.”

“No, I mean they’re filthy. All that gun powder residue on their hands, bare feet on their bunks, hookers with who knows what. No sir.”

“Oh, I get it: germophobe.”

“And claustrophobe and OCD. What’s your point? Why do you think I drink distilled water? It’s certainly not because it rivals the taste of new Coke.”

“Well, I do understand, but unfortunately, that’s the place where we keep all the pens and paper.”

Jack sighed, clueless that he was being mocked. “Oh, alright. But tell me you’ve cleaned that interrogation room within the last six weeks.”

The detective chuckled. “Not even within the last six months. But I’m certain you’ll survive.”

After forcing the detective to wipe down the back seat of his car with a stack of wet naps, Jack slowly slid onto the lemon-scented seat, but certainly wasn’t happy about it.

“I’m certainly not happy about this,” he said to the detective.

“I’ll make a note of it in your permanent record.”

“Oh dear Lord,” said Jack, “If this goes on my permanent record, I’ll never be able to show my face at that diner again.”

Up in the front seat, the detective could only laugh to himself. Was this rube for real?



*****



Boston’s 12th Precinct was everything the detective made it out to be: loud, noisy, and with a smell that rivaled that of a New York cab. He led Jack through the main lobby and down the hall toward a free interrogation room.

And as Jack had feared, there were no shortage of hookers awaiting their turn for booking. As soon as Jack and the detective walked by, the girls let out cat calls and whistles, with promises of ‘It’s so hot you’ll never go back to your wife.’

As Jack slowed to eye one shapely blond in particular, the detective pushed him forward. “Forget it: that ones a tranny.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tranny. Y’know, a transvestite.”

“Oh, dear Lord. You mean a...”

“That’s right, cupcake. She’s a he.”

“Is that even legal?”

This time, the detective laughed out loud. “Dorothy, where did you grow up, Kansas?”

They reached the empty interrogation room, and again, after forcing the detective to clean the table and chair, Jack took a seat, but refused to rest his hands on the table.

“Would you like something to drink? I’m afraid we don’t have any of that fancy distilled stuff you drink, but I do have some day-old coffee and a doughnut.”

“No thank-you. I’m fine. But I would like to get on with this, if that’s okay. I have things I need to do this afternoon.”

“Oh, sure. Wouldn’t want her highness to be late for tea with the Queen.”

“I’m beginning to think you may be having a laugh at my expense.”

“Naw, that was just sarcasm for no good reason. Of course I’m having a laugh at your expense. We don’t get too many of you “dainty-men” down here.”

“I believe I take offense at that. OCD is not something one chooses, like being gay.”

The detective chuckled. “Well, your sexual proclivities aside, we need to get a formal statement from you about exactly what you saw. I need you to begin writing down everything on this legal pad, and I’ll be back with my Lieutenant and a sketch artist.”

As the detective was ready to exit, Jack stopped him. “Excuse me, Captain detective. But I need some gloves.”

The detective turned to face him. “You need what?”

“Sterile gloves. I’m afraid I just can’t do this without them.”

The detective let out a low whistle. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Funny. That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”

“Go figure. Look. This is a police station. We don’t have sterile gloves. Just fill out the paper and I’ll be back,” he said while closing the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Jack, now done recounting his story to paper, used the last of his wet naps to do so.

The detective entered with a tall, skinny man and the sketch artist.

“Mr. O’Donnell, I’m Lieutenant Marcus Grey. How do you do?” he said, while holding out his hand.

“I don’t shake.”

This caught the Lieutenant off-guard. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t shake. More germs are transmitted through someone’s handshake, than if you were to lick the sidewalk.”

The Lieutenant glanced over at the detective, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright then, we’ll forgo the handshake. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Captain detective mentioned something about being a material witness.”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know what that is?”

“I was the witness to a crime?”

“Yes, that’s partly true, but there’s more. In this case, not only did you witness a crime, but the perpetrator saw you, plain as day.”

“That’s how I was able to describe him in such detail. He turned to directly face me, and that’s when I noticed his features.”

“And that’s very good work. A lot of witnesses are too scared to be able to remember their attacker. But, I don’t think you’re really getting the implications here, and I need to make absolutely sure you know what’s happened.”

Jack felt tired. “Lieutenant Grey, I am very tired. When can I go home? This place is beginning to make me itch.”

“Well, Mr. O’Donnell, that’s what we need to discuss. You were clearly able to identify this perp. Do you know what that means?”

“I’ll have an easy time of it in court?”

The Lieutenant was incredulous at this man’s dimwittedness. “Well, yeeeeeeeeeees, but it also means that while you saw the perp, the perp also got a very good look at you.” He paused to allow ample time for the truth to sink in.

It didn’t take long until Jack’s mind had wrapped around the truth of the matter. He felt sick to his stomach, but didn’t want to vomit, because the thoughts of having to clean it up would make him even sicker. “Do you mean...”

“...that’s right, Mr. O’Donnell.”

Jack was now screaming again. “THAT GUY KNOWS WHAT I LOOK LIKE!”

As dim-witted as this guy was, Lieutenant Grey felt a bit of pity for him. He’d always felt genuine pity for witnesses whose lives got turned upside-down by perps.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Would you like a glass of water?” said Lieutenant Grey.

“I'm not going to vomit into a glass of water!  But distilled if you've got it, thanks.”

Again, the Lieutenant looked at the detective for confirmation, and only received a shrug.

After Jack took a minute to calm down, he said, “So, Lieutenant, what’s going to happen to me? I can’t get killed; I’d die of fright from all the germs before I’d ever die of the wound.”

“I want you to meet someone.” He tapped on the glass, and sixty-seconds later, another tall, dark-haired body-builder man entered the interrogation room. He stood at attention with his hands folded in front of him, and waited.

“Mr. O’Donnell, I want you to meet Special Agent Sharks Avery of the WITSEC program.”

Jack said, “WITSEC? I don’t understand.”

Avery spoke. “Witness Security. Most vulgarly refer to it as Witness Relocation. But, the good news is, you’re now my new bitch.”

Jack could feel the room spinning, and was certain he might pass out, so he made sure to slump his body over the table to keep from falling to the filthy floor. He didn’t need that flesh-eating bacteria in addition to being what most referred to in the hit man business as “next.”

The detective was at his side in a flash, and offered him one of the station’s wet naps to wipe his forehead. “You alright there, dainty-man?”

Jack was certain he was dying. He began mumbling.

“What is it? What’s he saying?” asked the Lieutenant.

The detective bent closer to Jack, then raised his head in anger. “Oh crap. He’s still bitching about the broccoli.”

“Mr. O’Donnell, I don’t know anything about broccoli, but I do know that Avery here is an excellent agent and will do everything in his power to make certain you are safe while you await trial.”

Jack raised his head. “But I didn’t kill that chef! I wanted to, but I didn't!  Why am I going to trial?”

Now, all four men looked at each other. Finally, it was the Lieutenant who spoke. “This is going to be one helluva long case.”

NaNoWriMo--Day Fifteen and Kicking It Up The Arse




Father Ted kicks Bishop Brennan up the Arse

 That's right fans and Twits:  I'm kicking bishops and taking names.

I just LOVE the Britcom Father Ted, and since one of my chapters from this evening introduced my own Bishop Ted Macguire, a MAJOR antagonist to my Father Jack, well, I thought this photo rather fitting.

By the way, did I tell you I have procured special permission from the Graham Linehan to not only reference Father Ted in my novel, but to also quote parts of the series?  I never, ever get starry-eyed over famous people.  Mostly because to some I am still famous from my television and stage work, but also because the friends I've worked with and are colleagues of, are, to me, simply brilliant and talented friends, but to the rest of the world, they're Kip Wingers, Brett Cullens, James Strausses, and yes...Graham Linehans.

However, I was so honoured that Graham not only gave me permission, but SPOKE to me, that I nearly fainted when he replied to my Tweet.  I felt like I'd just met the Pope himself.

Days fourteen and fifteen have blissfully blended together, because yesterday at 9:30 p.m., I went on a marathon writing session with the sole purpose of getting caught up.

As of thirty minutes ago, I had not only accomplished that goal (our cumulative word count up to today was supposed to be 25,000 if we were writing according to their schedule), but surpassed it by 1,063 words (ending up writing a total of 7,605).  Well, one of my writing buddies had topped out at 25,139 and I simply could not be outdone.

So then, what's in store for today?

More writing, of course.  I may now be caught back up with the Nano guidelines, but I'm still sorely behind on my own.  For a 70,000 word comedic novel to be written in 30-days, I need to be writing a solid 2,333 each day, which is about the average length of one of my chapters.

And like the last time the words and story idea simply poured out of me, today's writing was no different because these chapters had little to no research required.  And I've realised that since my Father Jack has severe OCD, I need to incorporate some of those details to make him authentic, as well as make the comedy spark.

However, I've decided to hold off on doing this, until time for the rewrites.  In fact, there's a lot of detail that I'm purposely leaving out until the rewrites.  I think for a novel to be written at his pace, it's the only way to accomplish that and stay sane at the same time.

On a related Nano note, one of my writing buddies that I whined to early on during my dark days of not being able to find my way, sent me a sweet, oh-so-sweet note yesterday saying he'd been watching my word count progress, and was proud of me, and wanted to encourage me to keep going.  Now THAT, is what I call a writing buddy who knows how to encourage you, even when you didn't ask for it!

Off to bed.  Talk tomorrow.  Have a great day, everyone, and keep at it; you can do it!

NaNoWriMo--Day Six, just skipped right over day five

Nothing happened yesterday, anyway.  OH, except I put up some new Christmas lights around my desk.  I usually save decorating till my birthday on November 11 (make note:  I like Snickers and Broccoli), but just got hit with the festive mood early.

Anyway, so yes, I spent yesterday goofing off again, and trying to amp myself back up for writing.

And today, I did it.  I finished chapter two, thus writing another 2,400 words, and am now pushing ahead through chapter three, with an attempt to finish by tonight so I'm not too far behind on my NaNo word count.  Instead of NaNo's requisite 50,000 in 30-days, I'm shooting for a complete novel at 80,000.

I've often wondered during the last few days the point of pushing ahead with a novel that obviously isn't very good when you first hork it up.  And then I remembered all the trouble I had with continuity on The Gaslight Journal (Making its Kindle debut on Thanksgiving Day!), and found myself grieving because I hadn't written that in close to one sitting and just kept pushing through with it.

Which is, I guess, the reason the experts tell you to write your essays and spec scripts for sitcoms in what they call the "burn draft" style.  Meaning, you park your ass in the chair, and just write--you "burn" through it.  Then once you're done with your literary projectile vomiting, you go back and employ all the techniques you've learned for revisions and edits--thus, shaping it into a thing of beauty that will obviously be ready for human consumption. 

I never knew if that technique worked for novels, but for me, at least on this one, it sorta does.  I'm finding that I'm having much less trouble with details of specifics in previous chapters, thus, less re-reading involved, because I've got Frank Caravechi's younger brother Vinnie already locked in my short-term memory.  I already know when I delve into chapter three in about ten minutes that Sharks Avery is the US Marshal that will help Jack set up his temporary home in South (And not Southwest) Boston.  I automatically know that if Jack takes a tour of his new city, that his severe OCD and claustrophobia will preclude him from riding in a dirty, smelly cab.  Although, if I want to be a real bastard about it, that might create a nice piece of comedic tension.  We'll see what kind of mood I'm in once I finish my Snickers.

So, yeah--it's got definite advantages.

And now my break is over.  Will check in tomorrow.  And thanks for following this sordid saga.  We'll call it, "As The Colon Churns."