65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

“Pepsident.”

  “I’m sorry. We only have Aim, Close-Up, Gleem, and Tarter Control Crest.”

  “Give me the Crest, then.”

  “And you sir?”

  “I’ll take a Kahlua and baby oil.”

  “Miss?”

  “Vodka and mayonnaise.”

  “How about you, Miss?”

  “Just hot buttered coffee for me.”

  “I think I’m ready to order.”

  “What can I get you sir?”

  “A pimpleburger.”

  “How would you like that cooked?”

  “Until it turns brown and starts to bubble.”

  “You have a choice of soup or salad with that.”

  “What’s the soup?”

  “Cream of Menstruation. It’s our special — we only get it once a month.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “How about you sir, ready to order?”

  “Yeah. I’ll take boils and eggs.”

  “Good choice. The chef has several big ones just waiting to be lanced.”

  “Is the ham fresh?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the ham. Can you cover it with vomit?”

  “Of course. What kind?”

  “How about from someone who has just eaten chicken?”

  “I’ll have the cook eat some chicken right now so he can puke it up for you.”

  “I’d like it to be partially digested, if possible.”

  “There will be a forty minute wait for that.”

  “No problem.”

  “And you miss? Have you decided?”

  “Yeah. I think I’ll just take a bowl of hot grease with a hair in it.”

  “Pubic or armpit?”

  “Can I get one of each?”

  “I think I can arrange that.”

  “Could we also get an appetizer?”

  “Of course sir.”

  “Fresh rat entrails.”

  “How many orders?”

  “How big are the rats?”

  “They’re a pretty good size.”

  “Okay, two. Do we get to dig them out ourselves?”

  “Yep. We serve out rat entrails live and squirming.”

  “Make it three then.”

  “Can we get a cup of placenta for dipping?”

  “Yes you can.”

  “Is it okay to order dessert now?”

  “Of course miss.”

  “I’d like the sugar fried snot.”

  “Good choice. One of the busboys has a terrible cold.”

  “I think I’ll have a slice of lung cake.”

  “Would you like spit sauce on that?”

  “On the side.”

  “Sir, would you like to order your dessert now?”

  “A blood sundae.”

  “What kind?”

  “What kind do you have?

  “Types A, B, and O.”

  “No AB?”

  “I’m sorry. We’re out.”

  “Could you mix A and B together?”

  “It will clot.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “And you, Miss? Dessert?”

  “I think I’ll skip dessert and eat my own stool when I get home.”

  “That’s a good idea, honey. Cancel the lung cake, I think I’ll just eat my wife’s shit too.”

  “We do serve feces here. Regular and chunky style. We’re also running a special on diarrhea. Two cups for the price of one.”

  “No thanks. Why buy something you can get for free at home?”

  “Thrifty thinking, sir. Can I get you folks anything else?”

  “Yeah. This fork has got water spots on it. Can I get a new one?”

  “Absolutely sir. I’ll be right back.”

  Written for a special edition of the magazine Crimespree, which was given away for free at the first Thrillerfest convention. A variation on this essay also appeared in a special Love Is Murder issue for that conference, using different names and tweaking some of the jokes.

  Every year there are dozens of writing conferences. If you’re a fan of mysteries and thrillers, 2006 brings you Love is Murder in Chicago, Sleuthfest in Ft. Lauderdale, Bouchercon in Madison, Left Coast Crime in Bristol, Men of Mystery in Los Angeles, Magna Cum Murder in Muncie, and a slew of others, many of which suck.

  The best conference of them all is undoubtedly Thrillerfest, presented by the International Thriller Writers. In one short year, the upstart ITW has grown to become the writing organization with the longest website URL: www.internationalthrillerwriters.org.

  What can you expect when you attend Thrillerfest? How can you make sure you get your money’s worth? Will you have a chance to corner ITW Co-President David Morrell and ask him to blurb your new manuscript, The Speech Impediment Murdererererer? (Answer: Yes. Uncle Davy loves this. The best time to approach him is while he’s eating, or in the bathroom.)

  Reading and memorizing this carefully compiled article will fully prepare you for anything this conference has to offer. It might even save your life.

  REGISTRATION – If possible, buy your conference pass in advance. Bring proof of your registration to the event (a Paypal receipt, a copy of the letter saying you’ve been confirmed, your hard drive) because there’s a 90% chance your registration was lost, and the people running the conference will have no idea who you are. A much easier, and cheaper, tactic is to simply buy a nametag and a black marker. Stick it on your chest when no one is looking, and you’re in.

  THE HOTEL – If possible, stay at the hotel. After the days’ events are through, there are always exclusive parties where you can get free food and drink and meet cool people. You won’t get invited to these parties, but you can hang out in the hallway with your ear to the door, and listen to JA Konrath make a fool of himself. Actually, you probably won’t need to put your ear to the door to hear that. JA’s pretty loud.

  WHAT TO WEAR – The fashionable conference-goer wears business casual. Comfortable shoes are a must, because you’ll be walking a lot. A book bag is a great accessory. Not only can it hold books, but also an emergency fifth of vodka (do you really want to pay $9 for a martini at the hotel bar?)

  AUTHOR SIGHTING – Imagine it: You’re in the lobby, putting the cap back on your vodka, and suddenly James Rollins appears out of nowhere. Do you just run up to him, squealing like a schoolgirl, and beg him to sign your paperback copy of Map of Bones that you’ve read 36 times, the last time aloud to your pet parakeet that you named Sigma?

  The answer: NO! Jim is a bigshot author, and they all hate signing paperbacks. Go to the bookroom and buy a hardcover first edition. When you approach him, make sure it’s on your hands and knees, because you are not worthy. Address him as “Mr. Rollins” or “Sir” or “Your Highness.” And NEVER make direct eye contact. He’s far too important to look at you.

  In contrast, if you spot James O. Born, feel free to bring him your paperback ex-library copy of Shock Wave. Born will be thrilled to sign that. He’ll also sign other authors’ books, cocktail napkins, food products, and basically anything but the check.

  PANELS – If you’re an author, you need to speak on a panel. But it’s too late to sign up for one now, bonehead. They’ve already printed the programs. If you are on a panel, there’s only one important rule to follow: Make sure you’re on a panel with Barry Eisler. Barry is the one with the gaggle of drooling women following him around, hoping he’ll suddenly keel over so they’ll get to administer CPR. Don’t expect anyone to remember a single thing you’ve said when you’re on a panel with Barry, but at least you’ll be speaking to a packed room.

  FOOD – Conference food is usually barely edible, but it’s expensive to compensate. That’s why all of the popular authors usually go out to eat at the trendiest restaurant in the area. It’s very easy to get invited to one of these exciting outings, where industry gossips flows fast and loose, and Barry often takes his shirt off and dances the lambada—the dance of love. If you want to go along, al
l you have to do is write a NYT Bestseller. If you haven’t done that, then you’re stuck with the hotel food. Be sure to try the potato salad. Is that potato salad? It might be rice pudding. Or lamb. Or a big dish of pus.

  ITINERARY – There are many things to see at a conference, and often you’ll be tortured by the dilemma of two good panels happening at the same time, with no clue which to attend. The answer is easy. Attend both of them. Authors love seeing scores of people leave the room while they are talking—they believe they’re being so effective, the crowd is rushing out to buy their book. Try to do this five or six times per hour, and make sure you open and close the doors loudly. Also, take that extra time between panels to talk on your cell phone. If your conversation carries on into the panel room—it’s okay. His Majesty Rollins will forgive you.

  WHERE ARE THE AUTHORS? – You’ve been trying desperately to get F. Paul Wilson’s autograph, but he’s been missing in action for two days. Where is he? He’s in the hotel bar. In fact, all of the authors are in the hotel bar. If you want to chat in depth with your favorite thriller writer, arrive early while they’re still coherent. In Paul’s case, I challenge you to figure out when that it.

  THE BOOKROOM – This is the most important room in the whole conference. Here, you’ll find all of the books by all of the authors in attendance, expect for the one book you truly want to buy. They’ll be out of that one. But don’t worry, there will be plenty of pristine, unsold, unread copies of Bloody Mary by JA Konrath. Plenty of them.

  BARGAIN HUNTER TIP – All the paperbacks in the bookroom are free if you simply rip off the cover beforehand! Don’t be bashful—the booksellers love it!

  ETIQUETTE – It’s during one of the delicious buffet-style meals. You’ve got your plate piled high with something that might be meat in gravy, or it might be a cobbler, and you’re searching for a place to eat. While walking around the room, you see an empty chair between Tess Gerritsen and ITW Co-President Gayle Lynds. Do you dare ask to sit there? In a word, NO! They are huge mega bestsellers and that seat belongs to someone a lot more important than you are. Go sit by Jon and Ruth Jordan, who publish this magazine. Always plenty of chairs around them. The surrounding tables are usually free too.

  PAID ADVERTISEMENT – Buy the anthology Thriller — Stories To Keep You Up All Night, an ITW collection featuring stories by superstar mega-bestselling authors such as JA Konrath, and others.

  ATTENDEES – Conferences are a great place to meet new people who share common interests. They’re also a great place to get abducted by some weirdo and killed with a blowtorch. Wise convention goers avoid talking to anyone else, at all times. Try to keep some kind of weapon on you. They sell $59 letter openers in the hotel gift shop, right next to the $42 tee shirts and the $12 bottled water. If you’re an author, save the receipt—it’s deductible.

  Or try carrying around a plate piled high with that stuff they served at lunch—the stuff in the gravy. That way, if someone tries to assault you, you can say, “Stop it! I’m eating!”

  AWARDS – At most conferences, the writers like to congratulate themselves by giving each other awards. They usually do this over a nine course meal that takes eleven hours, and a cash bar that charges so much for a Budweiser you’ll need to put it on lay-away. In an effort to distinguish itself from the many other conventions and organizations that do this sort of thing, the ITW decided to do this as well.

  The star-studded gala begins at 7 P.M. on Saturday, and ends sometime on Thursday morning. When the event has concluded, be sure to congratulate the lucky winners. It’s also a lot of fun to go up to the losers and congratulate them for winning, and then pretend to be confused when they tell you they’ve actually lost. Do this two or three times to the same loser. They’ll start to find it funny, eventually.

  SIGNINGS – There will be many scheduled signing times, where dozens of authors all sit in the same room and greet the hundreds of fans waiting in line for Lee Child. If you’re in Lee’s very long line, remember that to keep things moving quickly you aren’t allowed to say more than two words to him, and he’ll only have time to sign an “L.” A lower case “L.” Lee’s a very busy man.

  Lee Goldberg, on the other hand, will have plenty of time to sign his full name. Plenty of time. If you so desire, he’ll even sign it using the time-intensive, hand-lettered art of calligraphy. Don’t be afraid to ask. He has plenty of time.

  SUNDAY – This is the day where everyone sleeps in and/or catches their flight home, and panel attendance is traditionally low. By some dramatic conference oversight, 9 A.M. on Sunday is when JA Konrath has his scheduled panel. He’s not sure how this happened. Perhaps he pissed someone off somehow, unlikely as that may sound. But he urges you to attend this panel, on the super-exciting topic of writing for female characters. Never saw that hot-button topic at a convention before, have you? There will be some other high caliber authors on this panel, probably, and JA is bringing some butterscotch schnapps to put in the audience’s coffee. Get your lazy butt out of bed and be there. He’ll be entertaining. Promise.

  CONCLUSION – Remember, if you want to have a memorable conference, responsibility rests squarely on one person’s shoulders—the person running the conference. Be sure to complain about every little thing, at any given time, even if it’s something they can’t fix such as, “The carpet is too soft” or “F. Paul Wilson touched me inappropriately” or “I hear voices in my head.” Demand a refund. Threaten to contact an attorney. And above all, remember to have fun.

  A humorous take on the many detectives in crime fiction who are able to glance at a crime scene and brilliantly deduce everything that happened. I wrote this for an anthology, but they rejected it. Too Monty Python-ish, they said.

  Special Investigations Inspector J. Gerald Oxnard arrives on the scene moments after the crime has been committed. The usual entourage of detectives from the SI Division of New Bastwick’s Police Department accompanies him.

  I’m the newly appointed member of this crack investigating team, a reward for my exemplary grades at the Police Academy. It’s just my luck that my first case is a murder.

  The portly Inspector kneels beside the cooling body of a man in his late twenties. After several minutes of intense scrutiny, he nods and clears his throat, prompting one of the nearby detectives to help him to his feet.

  “He was killed by a lion,” Inspector Oxnard says. “I’m thoroughly convinced.”

  The room absorbs the declaration, mulling and silent.

  “But…Inspector,” I say, “How did a lion get up to Room 715 of the Vandenburg Hotel without anyone seeing it?”

  Inspector Oxnard puts a thin and elegantly manicured hand up to his mustache and rolls the waxy end.

  “A disguise,” he says.

  “A disguise?” I ask.

  “Of course. Perhaps a long overcoat and some dark glasses. Haven’t you ever seen a lion walk on his hind legs at the circus?”

  Several of the detectives standing around sound their approval. One writes it down in his note pad.

  “But what about the knife?” I ask.

  “The knife?” Inspector Oxnard shoots back, eyes sharp and accusing.

  “In the deceased’s back.” I say.

  There’s a moment of chin-scratching silence.

  “Don’t lions have an opposable thumb?” Detective Jenkins asks.

  “No, you’re thinking of monkeys,” Detective Coursey says.

  “But isn’t a lion kind of like a big orange monkey with sharp teeth?” Detective Rumstead asks.

  There are several nods of agreement. Inspector Oxnard runs a hand through his gray hair, which is slicked back with mint-smelling gel, and wipes his palm on Detective Coursey’s blazer.

  “It had to be a lion with a knife,” the Inspector says, “wearing an overcoat and dark glasses. Put out an All Points Bulletin, and check to see if a circus is in town.”

  “But Inspector,” I say, “there’s no sign of forced entry. How did the lion get into
the room?”

  “Simple. He had a key.”

  “Why would he have a key?” I ask.

  The silence that follows is steeped in apprehension. After a full minute, Inspector Oxnard makes a self-satisfied yelping sound and thrusts his finger skyward in apparent revelation, poking Detective Graves in the eye.

  “The deceased was having an affair with the lion! Thus, the lion had a duplicate key!”

  Excited applause sweeps through the group. Inspector Oxnard draws on his pipe, but it does little good because the bowl is upside down, the tobacco speckling his shoes.

  “Did the lion prefer the company of men?” Detective Struber says.

  “Perhaps,” Inspector Oxnard says. “Or perhaps it was…a lioness!”

  Several ‘ahs’ are heard. Someone pipes in, “Of course! The lioness is the one that does the hunting!”

  “But what about motive?” I ask, my Police Academy training coming out. “What was the motive?”

  “Hunger,” the Inspector says. He nods smartly to himself.

  “But the body is intact.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “None of it has been eaten!” I say.

  “That makes no difference. Maybe the lioness was scared away before she could finish, or perhaps she simply lost her appetite.”

  “I sometimes have terrible gas, and can’t eat at all,” Detective Gilbert says.

  Nods of acquiescence all around, and several discussions of gas pains ensue.

  “But where are the paw prints?” someone shrieks. “Where is the fur? Where is the spoor? Where is the damn reason that this was done by a lion and not a human being?”

  Everyone stares at me, and I realize I’ve been the one shrieking.

  Inspector Oxnard frowns and gives me a patronizing pat on the head.

  “I know you’re only a novice, so I can understand why you cannot grasp all of the subtle intricacies of a murder investigation. But in time, Detective Cornhead, you’ll begin to catch on.”

  “My name is Richards, Inspector. Detective Richards.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Inspector Oxnard slaps my shoulder. “We were all young once.”

  Detective Oldendorff runs through the door and trips over the body. He picks himself up, urgency overriding embarrassment.