Haunted: Dark Delicacies® III

by Del Howison

  “Please don’t hurt me no more, man. Why?”

  Straightening up, Scratchmaster removed his shades. He eyeballed Underdogg through the glass. “Because I hate rap music!”

  The kid’s eyes blinked incredulously through his agony. “But … you Scratchmaster, man. That’s what you do, bra, that’s what you do!”

  “I’m gonna school you, boy. Rap ruined the music. Back when I started out, we knew how to play. R and B. Soul. Even funk. Motown. Smokey. Aretha. Even Teddy Pendergrass. Even Sly. You know those names? I sessioned with them. I was by their side in the recording studio making their records. And it didn’t start with them. Shit no. You know who Robert Johnson is, boy? Sonny Boy Williamson. Howlin’ Wolf? They was giants. That’s who we listened to when we was comin’ up. Then you dumb fuck can’t-play-a-note-crackhead-rap-motherfuckers come along with your bullshit rhymes and your ’hos and you ruined the music. Put me out of business.” The venomous old man spewed bitterness and bile from a ruined, disappointed life, twisted into insane viciousness. “Nobody puts me out of business.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy old niggah, I don’t know what you’re talking—!” Underdogg twisted in the chair in the mechanical restraints.

  Scratchmaster continued on his bipolar rant, his mood veering schizophrenically from righteousness to murderous fury. “All you rap motherfuckers want to do is wear your chains and smoke your crack and act like gangstas with your bitches. We was musicians in my day, boy. We learned guitar. And we learned piano. We could play. And we hung with cats could play. And we toured our shit. We worked hard. Hard work. And now it’s all gone. The music is gone. Because. Of. Rap. You punks all think it come easy. You think you put on chains and strut like an ape to a beat box with a cheap rhyme and you get yours. I’m getting mine. The people want this rap shit, I give the people what they want. Always give the fucking fuckers want they want …”

  The record producer returned to the booth. Opening a closet, he pulled out a stand with a saline drip on an intravenous tube.

  “W-what’s that?” Underdogg mewled.

  Taking the hypodermic syringe at the end of the tube, Scratchmaster injected it in the kid’s forearm. “Why, this here is saline drip. Make sure you don’t go all into shock and pass out on me. You got a lot of screaming to do, and for that, your ass gotta be awake.” The record producer looked disgusted when Underdogg began to snivel. “Don’t you want to be a star, boy? Don’t you want people to listen to you on the radio?”

  “I-I just want to go home. Please let me go.” The kid was bawling like a bitch.

  “Well now, that’s no way for a … what do ya call it … gangsta rapper to act. What would 50 Cent say? He’d say ‘see ya wouldn’t want to be ya.’ I want to hear what you got!” Scratchmaster’s bony fingers closed on the long handle of a fire hatchet.

  Underdogg’s vision blurred as he saw the tall and skeletal old man grab the heavy axe from the table, heft it high above his head, and swing it down hard. Wfffffffft. The kid heard a wet snapping crunch and watched the front of his sneaker shoot like a rat across the floor with his severed toes and half his foot still in it.

  The last thought that passed through his mind was, where was he going to steal a new pair of Nikes.

  Then he wasn’t thinking anymore. Just screaming. Someone was screaming louder than him. “And my name ain’t Scratchmaster, boy! You hear me?” roared the old man as he swung the bloody axe home again and again in red volcanic eruptions of gore. “My fucking name is Leon!”

  He hacked and hacked until the tape ran out.

  The following morning, warm summer rain pelted the decrepit warehouse of 666 Records. The rundown area was bleak and deserted. From somewhere in the building, the cool R&B strains of Smokey Robinson floated out into the humid air. Behind the rusty razor-wire fence, the feral Doberman pinschers skulked, drenched. The heavy industrial rear door creaked open and Scratchmaster stepped out in his robe. The air blossomed with Smokey’s lyrical falsetto in an old Motown classic song pumping from the stereo inside. The guard dogs snapped and growled hungrily, straining on their chains. Adjusting his shades, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the Afro’d record producer carried a bucket of chopped meat he dumped in the dog-feeding trough. He got away from his animals quick as they attacked the meal. Scratchmaster hummed “Just take a good look at my face” along with the music as he went back inside. The feral canines dug into the bloody chum slopping out of the trough, digging their jaws into the red, dripping shags of flesh. They devoured all traces of it in a few bites.

  One of the Dobermans suddenly yelped, whimpering as it spit out something hard lodged in its molars.

  A gold tooth.

  * * *

  Snow fell on the peeling billboard for 666 Records lording over the frozen December Missouri Avenue. Cars hissed by on the slushy sleet-encrusted street.

  A local record store was open.

  Posters were everywhere for the new “Underdogg” CD.

  Blasting out of the store speakers, a song with the vaguely recognizable hideous screams, power drilling, and hatchet chops of Underdogg’s dying moments.

  A line of local teenage boys and girls were waiting outside to purchase the first copies, shivering in the cold.

  Scratchmaster watched from his heated limo, puffing a cigar. He wore his black suit and fingered his ivory cane.

  “Excuse me.”

  Scratchmaster turned to see the eager face in the opposite window.

  “You Scratchmaster, ain’t you?” It was another belligerent young gangsta rapper holding a homemade CD. “Would you listen to my stuff?”

  The record producer watched the kid, and he sort of smiled.

  Then opened the door to his limo….

  HOW TO EDIT

  RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON

  The Problem

  So. Let’s get started.

  My name is Bill Wiley and I’m a professional writer. Perhaps you are too. Or perhaps you want to be. It is a noble calling. Right up there with opera and giving blood. However, there is a dark side, which you indulge at your peril.

  The lure of elaboration.

  I speak from experience. Despite efforts to condense, I just couldn’t seem to wrap it up. If a period is the STOP sign in a sentence, I have run too many. Engulfed in heightening and widening, I have creamed readers like innocent pedestrians.

  Writers can’t resist. We explain. Then we say it again. Then we say it once more … just in case we missed anything salient or pithy. And by the way, salient and pithy are similar enough that I could have used one rather than both in that sentence. More on this often irresistible, self-destructive tendency later.

  The problem: we are hemorrhaging words. The solution?

  Read on.

  How Serious Is the Problem?

  It is suffocating our world.

  Without being melodramatic, for writers, the issue is toxic and ubiquitous. We even use words that annoy our readers like toxic and ubiquitous. Yes, I’m aware writers claim that explaining at length improves clarity. Or enhances style. I’ve heard it all. I’ve said it all. I’ve gushed and exceeded word count with oblivious verve.

  But let’s take off the long-winded gloves (a labored metaphor I will cut and, if you’d written it, I’d hope you would too) and be frank:

  Here’s what is really going on: 1) narcissistic indulgence, 2) self-adoring excess.

  Which, by the way, are basically the same description expressed two different ways, an aggravating variation on the “pithy/salient” syndrome alluded to above.

  On your path to good writing, always remember: pencils have erasers to eliminate mistakes. They also have them to erase ego, crud, and prolongation.

  A Handy Tool for You

  For illustrative purpose, I am weaving writing misdemeanors into this piece so you can see them up close. Like swollen, unsavory lab specimens. Scrutinize their lack of discipline, poor execution, and general sloth. If you play
close attention, you can learn from my bad examples.

  Remember: good writing is taut. Embrace exactitude. Purge the superfluous. And get serious about it. No more false promises. No more lip service.

  Another sentence I will cut, as the point it makes is redundant.

  How Widespread Is the Problem?

  Are you kidding?

  It’s everywhere. Brochures. Menus. Deodorant instructions. Horoscopes. Writers are drunk on self-expression. Awander in word thickets. High on adjectives. Mainlining verbs.

  See, I’m doing it again. It’s as bad as heroin.

  What Is Good Writing?

  Your eyes waltz across it. It has music, balance, and depth. It provokes thought and feeling. Not resentment and stupor.

  It paints pictures, dodging images strung together like a charm bracelet from Honolulu. It doesn’t overuse commas, underlining, italics, similes, gassy embellishment, big words, or bludgeons of obscure reference: all the tricks of a neophyte, transparent and uninvolving.

  I do think that sentence will ultimately be cut or made into three sentences, but let’s move on.

  Good writing also avoids the overt in concept and execution. It remains subtle while intense. Miscellaneously, it should swerve around exclamation marks, which are like loud drunks screaming in your face, and minimize use of the word “because”; it’s an indolent crutch.

  But none will resuscitate the truly mediocre. Good writing, thus, is hard to achieve. Why? Partially because writing, per the insight of our betters, is rewriting. Consolidation. Sculpture … if you are inclined toward the metaphoric.

  And there I go again. Caught in my own florid avalanche. This is to be scrupulously avoided.

  Here’s why:

  Author’s Disclaimer

  No one publishes my work anymore.

  They used to. I sold lots of books. Eleven novels, thirty-six short stories, eight articles about writing technique. Critics of my fiction said I had edge. Immediacy. I got fan mail. I was stalked by a busty chiropractor from Portland who thought I was the new Cheever. John. Not Susan. A big New York editor wrote a letter to me about a suspense novel I’d written. Said my voice was a “hypnotic scalpel.” Did that make my day? I thought I was headed for the top. A sure clue, life has taught me, that everything is about to crumble.

  Two tanked novels later, even my stalker went home.

  Now they tell me my work is chubby. A yawn. “A wanton spill of exposition,” some critic at Publishers Weekly wrote. How did it happen? My ex-agent says I fell in love with my voice; tumbled into the reflection of my own bloated verbiage, drowning in self-regard. My word bulge numbed minds. That sentence needs some work, by the way.

  The point is: it half ruined me.

  Don’t make the same mistake.

  How Do We Correct the Problem?

  First we acknowledge it. Do not run the other way. It can run faster.

  Then we roll up our sleeves. And we stop whining. Don’t you hate that? I hate that.

  Our vow? To excise linguistic sludge. Be precise. Not sloppy, nor diffuse. Either of which, by the way, would have sufficed in making my point. Again, witness the problem and try to deny its strangling enormity.

  That sentence, by the way, though self-conscious, has some style.

  What Holds Us Back?

  Ourselves.

  If you blame others, you are naive. Not to say there aren’t plenty of unhelpful types who get in our way. I had mine. You’ve got yours. You know who they are. Make a list. And commit to doing something about it.

  No one said writing or the writing life was easy.

  Personal Discipline for Writers

  In the spirit of the aerodynamic, let me mention some of my bad habits and how I have endeavored to correct them.

  For starters, in my quest for the succinct:

  1) I sleep less these days. Three hours a night. When I can ignore the constant pain. But that isn’t your concern. Then, I’m up, and I’m editing.

  2) I stopped seeing people I don’t really enjoy. Not a long list to begin with. Now blank.

  3) I quit drinking and smoking. Both distracted me with their expense and ritual. They also required time that was better spent writing and rewriting. Also, they probably led to my cancer diagnosis. You remember cancer? Cells that just keep multiplying, spreading uncontrollably all over the goddamned place like an Ohio flood.

  Where was the editor when cancer got invented?

  Simplicity Is Your Friend

  In mastering the art of editing, compress. Eliminate. Streamline. And don’t use three words like I just did.

  Ditch all but the vital.

  Did you know Michael Crichton ate the same thing every day when he was writing, in order to edit out needless decisions—allow his mind to think only about what he was writing? He did not regard food as sensual treat nor friend. Simply as fuel.

  Tactical isolation. It is your ally.

  Trust me, no one else in your life is.

  Insider Tips

  I now eat once a day. I also stopped calling my mother. Easy considering the things she did to me when I was little. I know it’s hard to draw the line. Old habits die hard. But then I suppose everything that doesn’t want to die dies hard.

  Taking Action

  Which brings me to Linda.

  She was never a creative person, even when I married her. To make matters worse, she has zero sensitivity to the new novel I’ve been working on. How is it going to launch my comeback?

  Her lack of vision vexed me. I took action.

  Make sure you do the same.

  A Few More Words about Using Fewer Words

  Never underestimate the profound effect of eliminating the needless. Particularly from your work environment. I heartily recommend removing distractions. TV. Music. Barking dogs.

  Even people. Ask yourself: who is really there for you when the chips are down?

  A friend? Or yourself?

  A perfect example is those annoying creeps at the coffee shop last Thursday. I was in my booth, just back from radiation therapy. Feeling sick. But in the middle of an important chapter. I was on fire; my inner Cheever was back.

  I savored the thought of my ex-agent seeing this new novel, falling back in love with my writing, and being informed to eat shit. I savored my stalker resuming her obsession. I savored the prospect of the critics drooling at my incandescent reentry. Watching their snide eyes narrow with envy, their ulcers bleed.

  But none of that was going to happen because as I sat at the booth, trying to write, the little girls wouldn’t pipe down. Giggling. Jumping. Fake sneezing on each other. Mom busy on her cell phone in the smoking section patio, talking with some douche bag.

  I ask you, what’s more important? Novels or annoying, obnoxious little girls?

  Yeah, no kidding.

  Can You Overedit?

  No. That’s a rumor perpetuated by hacks.

  You can always edit more. A word that gums up flow. Waxy dialogue. A pudgy phrase that slows sleek thought. Be ruthless. Do not become so fond of things you thought you cared about that you aren’t willing to nix them.

  Opportunities are everywhere.

  Another example taken from real life? This morning, as I was about to write, I looked into the mirror and realized something. Two eyes? Maybe I only need one. Why use the excess energy blinking? Just because we’re born that way?

  We need to think outside the box. Before that box is our casket.

  Your Writing Future

  As you cultivate your future career as a writer, learn to never use two words where one will do the trick. Or several ideas to camouflage the absence of a true one.

  Remember, the amateur overwrites. The professional edits. My new novel is a perfect example. The first draft was over nine hundred pages. After a thorough, unsentimental edit, it has greatly improved. I even sent it to my ex-agent to torment him.

  Every life has twists.

  Wrapping Up

  Editing is a philoso
phy of life.

  For example, last night I realized that, in theory, I don’t need legs. Writers sit, not walk. Even two arms, for a scribe like me who writes by hand, is overkill.

  But these are my musings. Arrive at your own. We are the architects of our own fate. As you deepen your commitment to the brief, forge a unique path. Don’t copy mine or someone else’s.

  The key is to discover your own methods. Look for whatever slows down your writing or gets in your way. And eliminate it. Accept no intrusion on momentum. Which I basically already said in the prior sentences, so that one is a goner.

  As a famous wag once said about editing our writing, “… we must be willing to kill our children.”

  Well, that’s a start.

  When all is said and done, there’s only one golden rule: no loss, no gain. If it doesn’t contribute anything, cut it.

  Until it hurts.

  Happy writing.

  The Los Angeles Times

  WRITER’S BODY FOUND

  Novelist Was Plagued by Problems

  Former bestselling, critically lauded suspense novelist Bill Wiley was found dead in his North Hollywood home Tuesday morning. His badly mutilated body, which police investigators said was missing an eye, arm, and legs, was discovered by shocked neighbors. Investigators reported Wiley had used pliers and a jigsaw on himself and bled to death. A final article he wrote about editing was found in his blood-spattered office.