“Spoken like a true politician,” Delton said, with an impish grin. “That’s the same kind of carbon statement my daddy likes to rip apart and piss on.”
“All the same,” said Mr. Ingram, “I think the city deserves all you can give it today. I don’t care about the missing citizens of Primex. I care about the ones here in Cannonball City who work for me.” Mr. Ingram leaned forward and cocked his left eyebrow. “Get someone moving on the case, okay? If your law enforcement can’t find my missing person soon, you will lose my vote and the votes of my subordinates here, guaranteed.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
Mr. Ingram extended his hand for a shake.
“Welcome to Cannonball City,” he said.
~~~~~
I hope to start releasing these novels by the end of 2015.
Note: As of December 26, 2015, Cannonball City: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One is available for download at certain retailers. This edition is the abridged version of the first three books of the A Modern-day Fantasy series, told as one continuous narrative. For more information, please click the link to its official page. And be sure to get your copy today.
Preview: My First Mullet
One of my pet humor projects, a collection of stories about the war between man and mullet, began as a series of poems I’d written for a UCF poetry class that had a grading rubric I basically protested. The first poem was written to satisfy the base assignment, and the second and third were written to satisfy the class’s revision requirements. But then I kept going. Then I kept going some more. Then I started writing short stories about characters with mullets. And it kept going out of control. At one point I had even reimagined a classic American poem from one of our literary giants as a story about mullets. I probably crossed the line on that one.
Here are two of the 18 poems in their entirety and clips from two of the five short stories I plan to release with the collection:
“The Transition” (My First Mullet, Part 2)
I never used to care about hair,
It was always something that was just there.
But when I knew it was getting long,
Ignoring it would’ve just been wrong.
I decided I would get it chopped,
Down at the local barber shop.
But when I felt the trim completing,
I could feel my dear dignity depleting.
I thought short was the way to go,
Since that’s the only style I know.
But scissors stopped above my brow,
Leaving the back of my head to grow.
Now my hair flows a funny way,
Stuck to the top with back blowing away.
It’s like a raccoon cap glued to my head,
Without the stripes or fur to shed.
It also makes my neck feel hot,
Especially since I sweat a lot.
But I’m disappointed about this no matter what,
Because I wish I never got my first mullet.
It forces on me an achy-breaky heart,
Tempting me to rip it savagely apart.
Now that I have scissors in hand,
I’m slashing the back to fit my demand.
I may not care a whole lot about hair,
But I know when people start to stare.
~~~~~
“The Aftershock” (My First Mullet, Part 3)
Why do you torment me,
Hair among hair?
You flop short of my forehead,
But flow like a cape down my back.
Waves twist around my neck,
As you are careful not to touch my eyes.
Now I know what it feels like,
To be an eighties rock star.
I did not expect your arrival,
Hair among hair.
Barbers informed me of a new style,
Insisting it would be cool.
Then they cut me in places,
Leaving others alone.
I demanded scissors at each angle,
But they lost their tip instead.
My heart is now sunken,
Hair among hair.
I wanted total hair shortness,
But must deal with shortcoming.
I used to find enjoyment,
In the way the wind touched you.
But now you’re so uneven,
And people just want to make fun.
You may be my first mullet,
But with these shears I must make you
My last.
~~~~~
From “Axl Maniacal” (My First Mullet, Short Story #1)
Detective Maniacal
I went ahead and took her case, even if it could hardly pay for the new batteries I’d just installed in my TASER. She was so desperate to catch her husband in the act, regardless what it might do to her heart, that I couldn’t say no. She was willing to tip me in vegetables if I could get the results she was looking for by ten o’clock. I took pride in reading people–their intentions, their expressions, and in some cases, their thoughts–but I still didn’t understand women.
“You sure you want to find out?” I asked her. I had taken the call on my office landline.
“Look, I already know it’s true,” she said. “I just want closure. Can’t breathe until I have the proof.”
“Suit yourself.”
My new client gave me the vitals on my new target: medium height, dark mustache, sleazy, allergic to cats, probably in bed with his mistress.
“It’s a slam dunk,” she said. “I’d catch him myself, but he can sense me from half a mile away. You’re the best shot I’ve got.”
“Well, in my experience, it’s never a slam dunk. Something always gets in the way.”
I moved around the contents on my desk, including the alimony check I’d inherited that one time I tried gambling.
“He won’t suspect you’re onto him, and he won’t see you coming. It’s the perfect situation.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think you know what it means to have a perfect situation. You say he’s at the Meyers Hotel?”
“Our credit card statement has record of a dozen transactions there in the last three weeks.”
I wrote the information down on my digital notepad. My old flip phone didn’t have apps, but it did have a handful of handy tools programmed in.
“I really think you should reconsider your request,” I said.
“And I really think you should quit debating me, take my fifty-dollar payment, and go spy on my husband.”
In her voice I could hear her choking back the tears. Or maybe she was swallowing her frustration. Either way, the only way I was going to talk her out of this request was if I had stayed on the phone with her until ten o’clock. But I didn’t have that kind of time, and neither did she.
“Just so you know,” I said, “I’m not a fan of vegetables.”
***
The sun sets in my city, which means the nutcases are coming out to play, and that suits me just fine. Without those precious members of the flights of fancy club, I’d be broke, or at least bored. They certainly keep me employed. Yes, good things happen whenever the sun sets around here in my town. The creeps emerge from their random shadows and begin their missions to lure me onto their cases. The victims show up at my door and demand I help them bring the creeps to justice. The creeps fall on their knees and beg me to hear them out, to see their side of the story, to understand why they’re being framed for their creepiness. I usually don’t empathize. They’re not the ones paying me the big money. I get the biggest thrill when I look them in the eye and tell them to screw off, to take their pleas before the judge. It brings me to that echelon of justice where the private citizen can influence a man’s fate without ever banging the gavel himself. Around here we call that vigilantism. Being a paid vigilante is my kind of business. It’s all kinds of fun.
But tonight’s platter of fun-for-me has a light meal. Normally, I’d have three cases waiting f
or my attention as I’d wrap up whatever I’m working on currently–I like to keep my planner full in case one or two of my jobs require less effort to finish than usual–but I’ve already cleared out my backlog for the week, and my current case, involving a truant husband and his unpredictable tastes, is just one photograph away from completion. So, I don’t know what I’m gonna do once ten o’clock hits. Sleep, maybe? Catch that new Denzel Washington movie? Like I said, tonight’s platter is light on substance. Most likely I’ll just prowl the streets and see if I can find some trouble.
Honeycomb Diner is gaining somewhat of a gathering tonight. Karaoke, I believe. Wednesday nights have that allure–beckoning attendance of the drunk but artistic crowd–and it’s never short on its interesting characters. My most interesting cases generally start here, though I admit picking up a lucrative one from here is rare. The patrons of Honeycomb Diner are an eclectic lot, but the eatery is a dive, and these people are not part of the fancy-pants collection. I like them, though. They make me laugh.
As I stir my orange juice and watch the glass entrance swing open, I pay close attention to the person entering. Is he confident? Is she pissed? Is he bleeding? Does she carry a large bag or a small one? Is he carrying her bag for her? I find that the smallest detail in how they present themselves to strangers can tell me everything I need to know about the problems they cart around in their busy little brains.
Take the old guy that just walked in, for example. He’s kinda small, not exactly a midget, but definitely lacking the bone mass he had as a young man. His back is slightly crooked and his shoulders slump. Pretty typical for an old man. Tells me he was too busy in his youth to take excellent care of his health. Might be some genetic issues contributing, too. Why was he too busy? Maybe he had a family to take care of; maybe his house was full of kids who also had genetic weaknesses. Looking at his fingers, the lack of wedding ring tells me that he rarely saw his kids when they were growing up, or he never took that step in life. If that’s the case, then he either kept himself busy to keep his mind off of loneliness, or he sat around and let his body go to waste because he gave up, or he worked regular hours but had an unsavory job that made building a family difficult. The fact that his shoes are polished leather, but scuffed down to the soles, tells me he’s a former businessman who just can’t get used to retirement and refuses to change the same shoes he was wearing back when he was toppling empires in the late 1980s. His fierce birdlike eyes confirm my thoughts: He was a decision-maker who hated compromising his meticulous schedule for anything, including his health, but he had to slow down to prevent getting another heart attack. The fact that he’s here, eyes dead-set on his favorite corner booth, giving no mind to the swelling population of patrons around him, tells me he knows what he wants. The old man’s a go-getter. Probably was his whole life. Will be until the day he ignores his doctor’s advice and dies.
Am I right about my assessment? Probably. Am I gonna take the seat next to the old man and start asking him questions about his past? No. I don’t need to validate my assumptions. His personal life isn’t the case I’m trying to finish.
The important thing is that I’m usually right.
I take a sip of my orange juice as I wait for the sun to disappear completely. The house lights are already set to full, and the canned music is slowly migrating from contemporary jazz to Top 40 pop. The host of the karaoke party is already on stage checking his sound equipment. I’ll be long gone by the time the party gets going, but it’s always fun watching the dude get upset over technology. I can tell he’s already confused by his wiring. The cords are all the same color, and they’re twisted into knots. He’ll be spending the next twenty minutes untangling them and finding the right holes in which to plug them in. Be even worse for him if one of the frequent seductive ladies pays him a visit while he’s trying to figure out whether it’s safe to grab the exposed wire.
My evenings generally start here at the Honeycomb Diner. I find that repetition is a fine way to keep myself grounded. Life is full of complications, and juggling several cases at once adds to the complication, but eating dinner in the same place every night reminds me that simplicity is always close. I find that I can always reel my mind back in to something I know, if it seems it’s getting too far away from me. Handling multiple cases brings with it the nasty condition of mixing details together, and often that cheating husband miraculously transforms into a lost dog, and at that point I don’t know which end is up, so I come back to Honeycomb Diner, decompress, eat a hot meal–soup and sandwich–and sort everything out; by the time I leave, that cheating husband is back to being the bastard he is. I couldn’t ask for a better diner.
“Here you go, hon,” says the sultry voice in my ear.
I look up at the pretty redheaded waitress standing over my shoulder. She’s sticking the bill in my face. I smile as I take it from her candy red-polished fingernails. I hope my narrow eyes don’t betray my feelings. Getting the bill is the worst part of my trip. It means I have to finalize my thoughts for the night. As soon as I pay, I have to time my strides to the second, following the plan I’ve established while eating my soup and sandwich. It’s basically the test whether I can stick to my own set of rules. I usually don’t. I’m great at reading people, but confronting them is often harder, and I usually have to talk to someone if I want to fulfill the needs of my case. That’s the real reason I won’t talk to the old man who may or may not have eaten small businesses for breakfast back in the day. I don’t want to find out I’m right about him. Makes it harder for me to empathize with his current state of sadness.
“Thanks,” I say.
My impulse is to flirt with her first, but I probably don’t have time. Judging by the sun’s position, my mark will be heading to the Meyers Hotel’s convention hall soon. I have to catch his latest infidelity before nine o’clock. His wife is gonna start docking me a hundred dollars a night if I can’t deliver the proof by ten. I don’t like losing money. So, I send the waitress on her way without so much as even a wink. Just take the bill and run. That’s what I have to do now.
To be clear, I do pay for dinner at the register. I don’t actually run out with the bill in hand. I’m not that big of a cheapskate. I like Rebecca, my waitress. She’s always nice to me, always remembers me and what I like to eat, and I don’t feel like stiffing her. Yet, I’m still a little cheap. I leave her a three-dollar tip. Eh, let’s make it four. She put chives in my lentil soup. I love my chives.
Now to finalize my plan for the evening. Unfortunately, tonight I still don’t have a plan. Something big’s going on at the hotel tonight, and the only people unaffiliated with the event they’re letting in are paying guests, which I’m not. And even though I’m usually right about my estimations of people, I’m not always right. There’s no guarantee Mr. Cheater is checking in for the evening. He hasn’t exactly published his itinerary for infidelity on Facebook. I know; I checked. I should probably spend more time thinking about this. Wonder if I should order a cup of coffee for the road while I’m at it.
***
Kelly Hart
I’m so out of practice. But, I think I’m excited about tonight? There are a number of reasons why I should be: 1.) I’ll be out of the house. 2.) I’ll look and maybe even feel important. 3.) I’ll fool everyone. I mean, I haven’t actually done anything like this before, so I can’t say for sure if this is actually a good idea. But I haven’t heard recently any disturbing news on the national level about follow-up events to tonight’s related activities, so I think it should be fine. I guess if it isn’t fine, however, I’ll know in the morning. Then, if I ever get a second chance at doing this again, I won’t take it. It should be fine.
Let’s be clear: I have to enjoy tonight. I got dressed up in my skimpiest black dress–gotta look good for the merchandise–put on my favorite gold necklace and hoop earrings, and squeezed into my black stilettos. Sure, I scoured the Forever 34 catalogue and paid good money for this sexy ensemble, and you can bet
I’m gonna squeeze into it any time I’ve got the chance. I can’t stand wasting a pretty dollar. But, I’m gonna feel like a tramp if this turns into a fail. I already feel badly about fattening Forever 34’s corporate wallet. I’m pretty sure its CEO, Dick French, travels to Antarctica on holidays and kills emperor penguins for fun. But, oh the dresses he makes.
Becoming a walking visual stimulus isn’t my only attempt to please the merchandise tonight. I also wore my most expensive perfume, Passion Lust with Cherry Heart. It’s the one that comes in the thick rectangular bottle with the corked top, smells like lilies, cherries, and a hint of lavender oak, and makes the boys do a triple take when they realize that attractive woman that had just passed them on the street also smells like their wildest fantasies–if their wildest fantasies smelled like a fruit forest. You’ve probably seen it. Has a yellow label. Looks and tastes like a fine cognac. Yep, the perfume you can drink. That’s the real reason it’s my favorite. After some dates, you just gotta drink the memory away.
I’m hoping tonight is not one of those nights.
I should also clarify that I don’t actually have a date tonight, at least not one that’s confirmed or consensual, yet. That’ll come after I’ve reached my destination. The real prize hunt doesn’t start until after nine, so I’ve got a little time. I figure I’ll grab a quick bite at Honeycomb Diner. It’s on the way, and it used to be one of my favorite eateries. I stopped going for personal reasons, but those personal reasons were out of my life a long time ago. There’s no reason not to enjoy the better portions of my past a little.
Shell Out Page 7