" /> BRAINPAN LEAKAGE » garden hose
  • You Want My What?

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    Once upon a time, many, many severals of bunches of years ago, when I was but a “baby author,” I had this bizarre experience. This is not to say that I don’t have bizarre experiences now, because I do. In fact, I have experiences these days that are even more bizarre than they were back then, but hey, we aren’t here to talk about today. We’re here to talk about yesterday. No, not the Beatles song… No, not the Tommy Shaw – Jack Blades song either.

    Sheesh… And y’all claim that I’m the one who chases random chickens. Maybe you need to look in a mirror, ya’know?

    Anywho, let’s get back to the story… Way back umpteen years ago, I was scheduled to appear at a local Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention. It was called, Name That Con. Yeah, a little weird, especially since folks would submit names for it and a winner would be selected, but they would still called it Name That Con. Not the winning name.  Not any other name. Just Name That Con. I kinda think maybe they should have just called it, This Is The Name Of This Con, or something of that sort… But I digress. Sort of…

    You see, being a new kid on the block as authors go, exposure was the thing, and I was out to get myself a big ol’ slice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t doing a very good job of pacing myself. I would arrive early, stay late, and volunteer to fill in on panels wherever needed, all in the name of getting my… well… name, out there to folks. It’s what you’re supposed to do. But, as I said, I wasn’t really pacing myself. These days I’m a lot older, and slightly wiser – but only slightly. I pace myself quite a bit. In fact, when at a convention when I am not at a panel or autograph session where I am scheduled to be, I can usually be found in the hotel bar – Yes… Pacing myself.

    So anyway, Saturday afternoon rolled around and there I was, sitting in the lobby next to the registration tables, signing books for all three or four of my adoring fans. Actually, there were a few more than that, but remember, I was new on the scene, so while LKH, who was immediately before me, had a line around the block, I had not quite as many. No worries. I’ve been working to change that, with a modicum of success.

    But, anyway, there I was. I had already been going full tilt since Friday afternoon and I wasn’t done yet. As if that wasn’t enough, about an hour or so after my book signing was supposed to end, I was scheduled to be at Union Station downtown (the con was being held at a hotel out in the burbs) in order to be a guest on a paranormal radio show called, Shaowworlds. (Good show… Too bad it’s not around anymore. I was on there a few times actually, but this particular instance was the first.)

    And so, the book signing ended, and I milled around the lobby of the hotel for a bit, chit chatting with my publicist/personal assistant Scott (aka Chunkee), who was ferrying me about and making sure I was where I needed to be, when I needed to be, and how I needed to be.

    This is when things started to go South. By that I mean I was suddenly approached by Vampirella…

    Now, given that this was a Sci-Fi/Fantasy Con, you would probably surmise that I am talking about a long-legged, buxom, raven haired beauty with crimson lips and sharp fangs, who is wearing a skimpy costume. After all, costuming and SF Cons go hand in hand. And, had this been the case, things probably wouldn’t have gone South [it would have (insert your own gratuitous erection inference here)], provided I kept in mind that I was a married man.

    However, this was not the case. Not about the married man part.  I mean about the babe in a vampire costume part. You see, the Vampirella in question was none other than a lovely young lady who worked in some capacity or another for the Red Cross. It seems the convention was running a blood drive and they were behind in their goal of 12 Quadrazillion Pints of bodily fluid extraction.

    And so, Vampirella cajoled and charmed me into surrendering a pint of the red stuff. I have to say, she was a hell of a salesperson, or, ummm, whatever-person I guess, because she wasn’t even a redhead, nor was she wearing leather and stilettos – therefore I really had no reason to fall for her pitch. However, being younger, less wise, and not pacing myself, I agreed to the exchange – blood for cookies and OJ (In retrospect, that must have been how she roped me into this whole thing.) So, off to the Blood Mobile I went, promising my publicist that I would most certainly be finished in time to make it to the radio station. Why would I make such a promise? Well, because Vampirella told me I would be.

    After signing the paperwork, getting poked, prodded, stuck, interviewed, inspected, detected, and otherwise abused by Vampirella’s assistants in the traveling exsanguination chamber, I was directed over to a cot and told to lay down. Soon after that, Vampirella’s chief henchwoman, we’ll call her Hildegard Renfield for lack of a better name, wrapped a bungee cord around my arm fourteen times, slapped me repeatedly, then drove a hollow railroad spike into the same arm, and attached a garden hose to it. As the precious red fluid drained from my person, she began to serenade me with a litany of things I was not allowed to do for the next 12 to 24 hours. Honestly, had she been a redhead I would have thought it was just another day at home with The Evil One, but she wasn’t, so I didn’t.

    Still with me on that one? Good, because I almost lost myself there in that last turn…

    So anyway, as Hildegard Renfield neared the end of this list, she informed me that I was not to drink any alcohol for at least 12 hours. Now, this might not seem like a big deal to you, but I’m an author. Alcohol and coffee are pretty much what keep me going, and for very good reason. Therefore, I said to her, “Wait. What do you mean no alcohol?”

    “No alcoholic beverages,” she replied.

    Being the sarcastic ass that I am I said, “Honey. I’m a fiction author. I require alcohol in order to function.”

    “Why?” she asked, obviously puzzled.

    “To stop the voices in my head so I can get some sleep, that’s why,” I told her.

    This didn’t seem to convince her. It didn’t seem to amuse her either. No big surprise, I don’t guess. After all, she’s like some kind of undead assistant to the undead or some such. Although, I don’t remember seeing her eat any bugs, so who knows…

    So, I asked, “What’s the deal anyway? Wouldn’t I just get drunk quicker?”

    “Yes. Exactly,” she replied.

    “Well hell, that’s a good thing,” I announced so everyone could hear. “I can get trashed and it’ll only cost me half as much.”

    “But, you can’t do that,” Hildegard replied.

    “Why not?”

    “You just can’t.”

    “Whaddaya mean?” I pressed. “Are the blood police going to come and arrest me or something?”

    The lady being exsanguinated across the aisle from me thought this was hilarious. Hildegard, not so much, nor did she have a reply.

    Eventually, when I was officially a pint low (although, I still maintain that she took an entire quart), the railroad spike was removed from my arm, I was patched up with an Amazing Spiderman band-aid, and I got 1/16th of an ounce of orange juice along with some cookie crumbs as they booted me out the back door and right smack into my publicist who was standing at the bottom of the fold out  stairs…

    Vampirella, however, was nowhere to be seen. Seems she had already crawled back into her coffin.

    More to come…

    Murv

    To Be Continued With: Is This Thing On?

  • Mistress Of The Flies…

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    Part 2 of 2 Continued from: Heellllpp Meeee…

    When we left off with that cliffhanger at the end of part 1 – BTW, don’t you just hate it when I do that? Well, don’t expect it to change anytime soon. (Bwuahahahaha!)

    So, anyway, when we left off I had just skulked into the kitchen to investigate a commotion only to find the Evil Redhead decked out in her “torturin’ togs” and talking to a Popsicle stick. If none of that makes sense, go back and read part 1. If it still doesn’t make sense, join the club. I was having trouble wrapping my head around it too…

    Now… Something else I need to fill you in on… During the latter part of June and early portion of July we had this absolutely INSANE problem with flies. They were everywhere. Inside, outside, around the side, in the back, out front, above, below… We just couldn’t figure it out. I mean, we keep the litter boxes clean, we take out the trash regularly, double bag stuff that might be conducive to fly breeding, etc, ad nauseum. There was no rhyme or reason for it. Still, they were everywhere…

    And so, on with the story…

    I drew up next to the imitation-leather-clad redhead who was holding a Popsicle stick, and peered carefully over her shoulder. After all, she seemed to be talking to an inanimate object and I didn’t want to startle her or anything. However, as I mentioned before, the stick wasn’t quite as empty as I had first thought. In point of fact, it had a sopping wet blowfly attached to the end with whatever fixative redheaded bug dominatrixes use for restraining their subs. However, this particular blowfly didn’t seem to be enjoying its encounter in the least… its hairy little legs were kicking and its wings were flexing as it tried in vain to escape the clutches of my evil wife.

    “I’m going to ask you one more time,” E K demanded, her attention focused on the struggling insect. “Where are all of you little bastards coming from?”

    The fly buzzed something unintelligible, to me at least, as it attempted to work itself free to no avail.

    “The name, rank, and serial number bit isn’t going to fly,” E K mused aloud, then giggled an evil giggle at her own pun. “Remember, you did this to yourself…”

    With that, she turned on the faucet and held the end of the Popsicle stick into the center of the stream of flowing water. After slowly counting to five she twisted the handle and the water stopped running. The fly sputtered and kicked.

    “Ready to talk now, Dick?” E K demanded. “Where is your base of operations? How many of you are there? What are your attack plans? Answer me, dammit!”

    I cleared my throat and asked, “Ummm, honey… Uh… What are you doing?”

    “Enhanced Interrogation,” she replied without breaking attention from the task at hand.

    “You’re waterboarding flies?” I said. “What? Did you call Dick Cheney for pest extermination advice or something?”

    “Hmmph!” she returned. “I called Dick Cheney all right, but not for advice. I told him to shut the hell up.”

    “You’ve been spending too much time on Facebook*.”

    “You set up my page for me as I recall.”

    “Yeah… okay… You’ve got me there.”

    “I’ve always got you.”

    “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

    “I’m always right.”

    “You really don’t have to remind me about that.”

    “Obviously I do.”

    “Yeah… Okay… So back to what you’re doing here… I take it your dislike of the former VP has something to do with why you are calling that fly Dick, and it’s not just some crass reference to male anatomy?”

    “Oh my, aren’t we quick today,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her words.

    “I try.”

    “Well it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? Flies are almost as annoying as Dick Cheney. Not quite, but almost. So it just stands to reason.”

    “Yeah… I suppose I can see your point there.”

    “Even so, under the circumstances I think both meanings apply.”

    “Yeah, I had a feeling you might say that.”

    “Talk you little bastard!” she demanded of the waterlogged fly, returning her focus to the interrogation while shaking the Popsicle stick like she was resetting the level on an old mercury thermometer.

    I watched her yelling threats at the insect for a moment then spoke up again. “So, this seems a bit complicated and involved. I mean, if this is about torturing flies, why don’t you just pull their wings off or something? You know, simple stuff like regular sociopaths do…”

    “Because I’m not regular. I’m high octane.”

    “Uh… Yeah.”

    “Besides, I tried that,” she quipped. “They die too quickly and I don’t get any information out of them.”

    “I see…” I nodded and took a few precautionary steps back from her. “So… Just out of curiosity… Mind if I ask why you are so intent on ruthlessly interrogating winged insects all of a sudden?”

    “Because they’ve flown over the line. One of them attacked our daughter last night.”

    “Attacked?”

    “Yes. It kept dive bombing her.”

    “Ahhhh,” I said with a nod yet again. “That would explain why I heard you screaming, “Get away from her, you bitch!‘”

    “Hey, it’s one of my favorite lines from Aliens, and you know it,” she replied. “Besides, it fit the situation and I was channeling my inner Ellen Ripley. If I’d had a flamethrower the damn thing would have been toast, trust me.”

    “I’m sure the folks at 20th Century Fox appreciate your loyalty to the franchise.”

    She turned on the water and shoved the fly into the stream again while saying, “Don’t be sarcastic with me lackey or you’ll be next.”

    “I hate to disappoint you but I’m not really afraid of a Popsicle stick.”

    “You would be if you knew what I was going to do to you with it,” she countered. “But, that doesn’t matter anyway because I also have an 8 foot 2 by 12, an economy size tube of epoxy, and a garden hose.”

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah… I thought that might change your tune.”

    “Okay, so what about the flies? I mean, is this whole interrogation thing actually working?”

    “Of course it is.”

    “So, you know where they are all hiding out?”

    “Absolutely.”

    I pointed to the Popsicle stick in her hand. “Okay… So… Umm… May I ask why you’re still waterboarding that one?”

    “Because it amuses me.”

    “Ahhh… I guess I should have already known that, huh?”

    “Yes, you should have, lackey” she replied. “Just for that, drop and give me twenty.”

    I conceded. “Yes, your evilness.”

    However, before I could drop and give her twenty of whatever it is she wanted – she hadn’t told me what just yet – she whipped around and said, “No. Wait.” Then she handed me the dripping Popsicle stick, and added, “Here. Hold this.”

    No sooner had I taken the fly adorned strip of wood from her than she quickly stalked out of the room without another word, and left the twenty still unnamed.

    “Excuse me… ummm… your evilness,” I called after her. “Mind if I ask where you’re going?”

    She poked her head back through the doorway and replied, “It’s time for operation NO PEST STOMP.”

    The next time I saw the redhead she was in the back yard scooping clouds of buzzing Phaenicia Sericata into a butterfly net, then tossing it on the ground and doing a frantic flamenco dance on top of it. (And believe it or not, I didn’t even fabricate that particular part of this tale… She really did… And then to top it off she showed no remorse. In fact, she complained about getting fly guts on her shoes. Given PETA’s reaction to the President swatting a single fly I figure we’ll be hearing from them soon…)

    But, in the end I guess I can’t complain too much. The fly problem seems to be under control these days, we’ve officially renamed the kitchen “Katmo”, and then there’s that nifty Sci-Fi movie power loader suit thing we have standing in the driveway.

    Of course, something tells me Dick Cheney just isn’t going to shut the hell up no matter how many Facebook groups demand it, and that scares me a little. You see, I have to live under the same roof with E K, and if Dick keeps running off at the mouth and annoying her, she just might end up needing another surrogate to torture since we are now out of flies… What do you want to bet that surrogate will be yours truly?

    And you know, I just checked… She still has that giant tube of epoxy…

    More to come…

    Murv

    * Facebook Fan Page: “Telling Dick Cheney To Shut The Hell Up”