Mer Rouge (Part 53)

The deputy stuffed the contents back into the billfold and placed it where he found it. Dirk finished his business with the other deputies and strolled back to the cruiser. He opened the door, hiked up his pants, and plopped down in the driver’s seat. He noticed that he left his wallet in the car. “Shit,” he said under a muffled breath. Then he picked it up and placed it in his front pocket. After starting the engine and making a u-turn, they headed back in the direction of the Judge’s mansion. Fornier picked his teeth in the passenger’s seat. He rolled down the window and threw the toothpick into the wind. Then he rolled it back up and stroked his chin.

“Say sheriff,” he said, “remember that time when all us boys went gambling in Gulf Port? Remember that whore we picked up?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well why didn’t you fuck her?”

Dirk lowered his shades and glared at his deputy. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“Well,” Fornier continued. He made sucking noises between his teeth. “I guess it just made me remember that I never met your wife.”

“You know I don’t have a wife, Forn.”

“Shit. Why not?”

Dirk stammered. “Because, you know, filing for a marriage license would raise a lot of questions. I don’t even have a birth certificate.”

“Hell, Dirk, you know that the judge would take care of that for ya.”

“Sure, I guess I just haven’t had the time.”

“Just haven’t had the time, huh?” wondered Fornier. He loaded his lip with a heavy pinch of Copenhagen. “You’re old as dirt, Dirk. I’m sure you’ve gotten plenty of strange through the years.”

“That I have.”

“Let’s just hope your boys in the Klan never find out about Alajandro.”

The sheriff slammed on the brakes. He reached for his pistol but Fornier already had his drawn and pointed at his eye socket. “Now listen here you cocksucking queer,” the deputy said. “These guns might not do us a bit of good but it’ll be enough to put you out of commission. And I’ll tell everyone we have a homo in our ranks! That is unless we can cut a deal. So listen good: I’m no longer a second fiddle in this outfit, ya hear!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

The odyssey

I had an existential crisis after watching The Odyssey. The film was good—if not great—don’t get me wrong. But I kept finding flaws: Tom Holland was boring; the story ends 20 minutes after its emotional climax; some of the back stories were difficult to follow; where the hell was Logan “Not Tom Hardy” Marshall-Green? Etc etc.

Then I realized something: am I the problem?

Christopher Nolan has done something that no other filmmaker has ever achieved. The Odyssey, if not many other titles in his filmography, is foolproof. You can find flaws until cows come home but none of it will matter. Even Nolan’s biggest hater — along with the right wing trolls pissed off over his casting choices — will have to admit that no matter its shortcomings, The Odyssey is a great movie.

And how he does it is no secret. It’s all right there in front of you: big ideas, big emotions, hire the best in the business. When Nolan introduces one big idea, seconds later he’ll introduce another big idea. If he doesn’t have an interesting plan on how to stage an action scene, fuck it! He’ll let the music and sound carry the weight. The only way he could have failed is if he had chosen uninteresting source material or ran with an original concept. And obviously that’s not what happened. Nolan made a film adaptation of the literal bedrock of the Western canon.

In short, there was no way that Christopher Nolan could have failed here. It was genius. I haven’t been the biggest Nolan fan, but he absolutely destroyed my every attempt to hate this movie. It nearly killed me.

So I’m gonna be real with you folks, The Odyssey is on par with Lawrence of Arabia, Ben-Hur, or any other great Hollywood epic. That’s just a fact. But then again, perhaps we’ve been fed CGI slop for so long that it’s refreshing to see real actors on real sets.

So just a tip for Hollywood execs, take a step outside the studio on occasion.

Mer Rouge (Part 52)

He sulked in the passenger’s seat. Dirk didn’t say a word to him as they rolled around the large country ranch dotted up with flame retardant grass. He reckoned every sheriffs deputy was on site. But Morehouse parish was safe. It was Sunday. The time for crime wasn’t today unless it was an attack on the Judge’s land. Yet Fornier was still pissed at the Sheriff. His leg wound hadn’t healed and the rising sun was threatening to scorch the earth. Dirk was driving. He lowered his shades and looked to his deputy. “Hot one ain’t it?”

Fornier said nothing.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

“You shot me all to hell Dirk.”

The sheriff raised his shades and gazed out the windshield. “The mayor was standing there. I had to do something,” he reasoned.

“You’ve always treated me like a piece of shit.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I relieved you of death.”

“But I’m not treated as one of you.”

“You gotta understand,” Dirk said. “We’ve been around a long time. Things work different between us. You still know your mother and father. Ours have been dead for centuries.”

“Doesn’t give you the right to shoot me.”

“You fucked up Forn. Hell, even you can admit that.”

Fornier didn’t reply. The cruiser rolled up to the estate entrance and Dirk climbed out the driver’s seat. The deputy sat there. Meanwhile Dirk whistled into the thicket and two deputies sprung out with their faces painted by camouflage and the sheriff stood with hands on his hips and discussed the day’s business. The Oak Ridge Boys were playing on the radio. Fornier relaxed in the air conditioned cruiser and looked at the empty driver’s seat. Dirk’s billfold fell out of his pocket and was resting between the seats. He picked it up and looked at its contents. Inside was an old folded tintype photograph of a well dressed man of no more than thirty. In the handwriting below it read the name Alejandro Caballero. Also in the wallet was a handwritten note in Spanish. Fornier barely understood it. But he understood enough to recognize the handwriting and the opening line: mi amante, Alejandro.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Pain before pleasure

So maybe I get a lot of sideways looks when people learn I’m an LA Chargers fan. Some might call me crazy for investing in a fourth-tier Scottish football club. But I have my own practices to sports patronage. And these practices are perhaps totally antithetical to the American way.

They say that Americans abhor a loser. And it’s true. No one remembers a second place finalist (unless you’re the Atlanta Falcons for blowing a 28-3 lead in the Super Bowl). In the US, allegiance to the local team is never a given. You find Lakers, Cowboys, Packers, and now Knicks fans across the country despite never setting foot in those cities. They became followers because of one simple reason: they win. They win A LOT. And when they return to their losing ways, fans dip out and stow away their gear only to bring it out again when the hype machine comes back.

It’s cool if that’s how you follow sports teams. I just have no respect for it.

For I have one core belief: if one wants the true fan experience, they must endure the pain before the pleasure. I find it shameful, totally SHAMEFUL, to take part in a team’s success while ignoring the brunt of its failures. For me, sports fandom is supposed to be a rollercoaster. The full euphoria can only be felt from the suspense of climbing upwards from a deep depression and then free falling and repeating the process over and over again. And you’re not doing your part as a fan by only living in the glory of winning. The hard — and most rewarding— work is done during the losing years by continual support and raising expectations. That’s the only way to be a part of a team and not some Johnny-come-lately jackass.

So I have a challenge for all sports fans. It doesn’t matter if you’re an American football fan or European football fan. Or perhaps you’re a lover of Australian rugby or International cricket. Pick a middling or bottom-dwelling club. Think to yourself “I see something in you, kid”. And then support that team in any way you can, FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Will they ever win the big one? Who fuckin knows. But if they do, boy oh boy! Winning will feel all the more sweeter. But more importantly you’ll have some goddamn integrity.

“So why didn’t you become a Browns fan?” you might ask.

Well for starters, everyone knows Cleveland is cursed. Which makes my admiration for Browns fans even stronger. But you have to ask yourself: which is worse? Perpetual mediocrity or perpetual shit? Personally, I found the former to be worse. With shit, your expectations are usually in the gutter. And because the bar is so low, it’s usually easier to hurdle it. With mediocrity however, it’s more common to catch a whiff of total victory only to have reality come and smack you in the face. It feels like eternal damnation. If I can’t be in heaven, I’d rather be in hell. But purgatory is a special kind of punishment.

And that’s why I’m a Chargers fan.

Bully Wee

Are you anything like me? Too old? Too lazy? And too crotchety to pick up new interests and hobbies?

Well I have the perfect solution for you!

It’s not testosterone replacement therapy. Nor is it psychiatric therapy for clinical depression!

It’s buying ownership in a sports club on the other side of the planet!

For years, I told myself that I needed to get into European football, sometimes known as “soccer” in the United States. But who has the time to learn new rules, players, strategies? I don’t have time for that shit.

So I came up with a brilliant solution: I will buy ownership in Clyde FC, a Scottish football club outside of Glasgow!

Have I ever been to Scotland? Nope!

Can I point Glasgow out on a map? Also no.

But here’s the best part: You don’t have to have any geographical knowledge to be a part of sports history. All it takes is pulling out your wallet and forking over 80.00 USD to own a share of the club and becoming a part of the Bully Wee family. Think about it. Now that I have a stake in the club, I’m REQUIRED, by law, to be invested in its success by familiarizing myself with Scottish football culture.

It’s genius in many ways.

A few people from Motherwell FC were like, “invest in our club 😭😭😭”. But it’s too late. As a club owner, I’m fully invested in building Clyde FC into the finest club in Scottish sports and I will never, EVER, step foot across the River Clyde into Motherwell. Hell, I wouldn’t piss on your town if it was on fire.

So what are you? Stupid?

Buy your own share of Clyde FC and let’s build something together!

Mer Rouge (Part 51)

The eunuch stood with his large hands and arms folded. His golden robes sparkling in the candlelit room. Dirk observed him. “The Judge is disappointed,“ the eunuch said.

“It’s an entire sheriff’s department against a few men,” Dirk told him.

“Their poor decisions could lead them here.”

“We’ll find them before they do.”

The judge laid onto the old organ. The haunting sound startled Dirk. The decrepit old man lifted a chalice and drank from it. “I’ll gladly hear any input you may have, judge,” Dirk said to him.

The judge lowered the chalice and wiped his mouth. He looked to his eunuch. “The judge will speak through me,” the eunuch said. But the judge again laid onto the organ.

The eunuch bowed his head. “Forgive me sire,” he begged.

The judge stood and stretched his black velvet jacket. He cleared his throat and approached Dirk. It was the closest the sheriff had ever been to the old man. His eyes were gray. His teeth yellowed and crooked. And he smelled like an open grave. “Do you know how long I’ve been around?” he asked the sheriff. His voice barely registered above a whisper.

“A long time, judge.”

“And for all of it to end because of a priest.”

“And a Roman soldier,” the eunuch interrupted.

“I have every officer surrounding the perimeter. There’s no way they’ll break through,” Dirk said.

“Do you have any idea how resourceful the priest is?” asked the judge.

“Yes sir. We’ve met before. In Seville.”

“Then why didn’t you recognize him?”

“Because I figured him long dead. I hadn’t seen his face in centuries.”

“Foolish,” the judge said. “The same could be said of you and me.”

“Yes sir. But the way I saw him. I couldn’t believe he was still alive.”

The judge approached an old wooden chest. He opened it and removed the sword and armor of the old conquistadors. He removed the pork pie hat and placed the helmet on his head. “You were in Peru, weren’t you?” the judge asked.

The sheriff thought the old man looked ridiculous. “I was,” said Dirk.

“Then we must learn from our old master Pizarro,” the judge continued. “As with our hearts, we must prepare this place as a fortress. For there will be no other.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Sam

The lord giveth. The lord taketh away.

First he gave by taking away Lindsey Graham. Now he takes by bringing to heaven Sam Neill.

These things never get easier. Watching your childhood heroes die. From Omen III to Event Horizon. From the Piano to Jurassic World Dominion. He’ll forever remain in the air of our heart. Like a whiff from a godawful fart.

I’ll forever miss you Sam. You could have been James Bond. Like your friend Pierce Brosnan.

Mer Rouge (Part 50)

He loosened the knob. The flame grew brighter and he unleashed it on the shack. A bright torrent of fire covered the shanty building and the wood cracked and popped before it collapsed in on itself. The priest was livid.

“What the hell?! I was living in that!” he shouted at DuPont.

“I’ll tell you boys what, when we’re through with this operation here, all y’all better stay the hell outta Louisiana,” the sheriff retorted. “If I see any of y’all again, I’ll kill you. If any of y’all claim I helped ya, I call yall a liar and then I’ll find ya and kill ya. Understood?”

There were no responses.

“Good,” DuPont continued. “Now the first rule: only I get to use the flamethrower.”

“Then what the hell are we gonna use?” asked Moses.

“Excellent question!”

Without missing a beat, Deputy Chaz came rolling down the dirt path in the beat up Honcho. Oren couldn’t believe his eyes. With all the windows busted out, Chaz parked in front of the gaggle and shouted at DuPont. “Hey Sheriff!” he said. “I couldn’t find a vehicle big enough to transport all this dynamite. So we just fixed the cab and threw all of it into the bed of this truck. Goddamn! Honchos are one hell of a vehicle!”

“Well boys,” the sheriff announced, “you have your answer. We’re gonna take this dynamite and blow the shit out of Castor’s house and collapse that cursed spring once and for all.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

and yet another shot at the title

I hate summer. It’s hard to feel inspired when you’re sweating your nuts off. So while I’m feeling sorry for myself, I began going through some of my old shit and I came across And Yet Another Shot at the Title, which, if you recall, was the sequel to Another Shot at the Title, which is the sequel to A Shot at the Title. Apparently, I wrote over forty sections of AYASATT which, to be honest, I don’t recall doing. From what I can remember though, I wrote it under extreme duress before abandoning the project altogether. I got tired of writing from the perspective of a raging asshole. But that was a mistake. I now recognize AYASATT as potentially my greatest work.

So maybe James Pietermeister isn’t dead yet. Not that he ever died canonically speaking, but MAYBE I have the energy to crank out one more adventure for him.

Mer Rouge (Part 49)

There was a faint cracking and the man fell to the floor. Looking down at the corpse with its head unnaturally contorted, the patient assessed the officer’s size. It wasn’t a perfect fit. In fact if it wasn’t covered in blood, the other officer’s uniform would have been a better fit. But he knelt down and stripped the dead cop of his clothes. He checked himself in the mirror. Now donning a Monroe PD outfit, the patient strolled out into the hospital corridor while twirling his baton. As he calmly whistled towards the elevator, he tipped his hat to various medical staff passing by. Then he recognized his nurse walking toward him. When she looked up and saw his face, he already had a gun to her side. “Scream and you’re dead,” he told her.

Her face whitened as he nudged her toward the elevator. Inside, she asked him where they were going. He said nothing to her. The doors opened into the lobby and he motioned her to walk forward. Outside, the squad car was parked near the entrance. He opened the backseat and handcuffed her inside. Then he proceeded to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot and in the direction of Mer Rouge.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked him.

The driver didn’t acknowledge her.

“Please let me go,” she pleaded. “I have two sons. They’re twins.”

The driver looked up from the road and glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “I was a twin,” he said to her. “I never knew my mother and father. My brother and I were raised by beggars and horse thieves on the Milove steppe. We should have died there. But salvation came in the form of a golden eagle as the Roman legions swept through our fields. Most of the people were killed, but our caregivers saved themselves by selling us into slavery. My brother and I were taken many miles away. Away from the sea of grass we called our home and into the land of the civilized. They taught us the way of the sword and the arrow and they made us soldiers in the greatest army in the world. That bought us freedom. It bought us celebrity. And ultimately it bought us immortality. Many years have passed since. I don’t know how many. The difference between now and so many years ago seems no different than today from yesterday. I don’t know how many lives I’ve lived. Seen how many people I have loved die. You think that death is the worst possible outcome. But there are worse things than death.”

She sat in petrified silence. Occasionally she’d stare out the window and take in sights she had seen so many times before. She’d wonder if she’d ever see them again.

Many miles down the road, the driver turned the squad car down a concealed dirt path. A mile or two away from the main road, the car stopped near a thicket of southern pine. The driver climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear passenger side door. But he didn’t let her out. He walked several feet away and dusted away mounds of dead pine on the ground. Underneath it all was a buried locked wooden crate and he knelt down and opened it. He took out two swords and the golden roman eagle. Then he lifted the empty crate and sat the eagle on top of it. Taking one of the swords, he remained knelt and lowered his head to pray. She watched him the entire time. He was silent. Motionless. Minutes later, he lifted his head and dropped the other sword into the crate pit and reburied it. He stood up and walked back to the car. He opened the front passenger’s side door and placed the sword and eagle in the front seat. Then he undid the handcuffs and let the woman out.

“Please don’t,” she said.

“Be thankful that this is your only life,” he told her. He tipped his hat and got back in the car. He started the engine and roared back toward the main road.

TO BE CONTINUED…