And yet another shot at the title (part xiii)

Dan was getting a tension headache. “I don’t know James,” he said in his West Hollywood office, “there’s just not enough here. And for christsake, put down that katana!”

“Jimmy set me up!” I exclaimed. “He brought on Cassandra knowing that I would blame Greta and that I would make a fool of myself and that she would fire me for it which would mean I would owe the studio $52 billion! It’s as clear as day!”

“You’re probably right,” he said. “But that would be next to impossible to prove in court. And besides, I’m not even sure what he did was illegal. Unethical, of course. But illegal?”

I began twirling around the katana while I spit balled ideas. “We gotta figure out something, Dan,” I said. “What if I can convince Cassandra to take the stand?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he started pacing back and forth. “I just don’t think that the courts will want to listen to this case.”

Suddenly it occurred to me. “You’re afraid,” I told him.

“Afraid?” he shrugged. “Afraid of what? This all seems like a stretch to me. That’s all. I’m just trying to be pragmatic.”

I snapped the katana over my knee like it wasn’t shit and threw it in the corner. Then I leaned over the desk to look him square in the eye. “This is Hollywood you COWARD!” I told him. “This isn’t the place to play scared. This town favors the bold, the adventurous, the visionaries! If you want to play it safe, then perhaps you should practice law in Wichita Falls! Not here!”

“But I haven’t appeared in a court in years,” Dan pleaded as his voice cracked. “I don’t think I’m strong enough anymore.”

“I see,” I said. Then I transitioned into a more calming state. “Dan,” I continued, “you are the most powerful attorney this town has ever seen. Nothing can change that. You would have beat me if I hadn’t viciously murdered your client. That’s the only reason I won. You pushed me to the brink! It was the battle of wills and I happened to have come out on top. That doesn’t make you the lesser opponent. It was any given Sunday and someone had to win. But now’s your time to have your triumphant return. Let’s go to the Los Angeles Superior Court and show them who still runs this town!”

Dan seemed to have been zapped back into reality. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right: I am the greatest attorney to have ever lived.”

I nodded. “Damn right. But the deadline to pay up is Friday. We must come up with a plan!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

It’s time (Part IV)

“You gotta get me out of this,” Darrel pleaded to his agent. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you on the phone. If they find it, they won’t feed me!”

“Well I’m going through the agreement now and I’m sorry Darrel, it’s pretty ironclad,” Big Beef explained. “Besides, how bad can it be? It’s only a goddamn seminar!”

“I’m telling ya: Darrel, the other one, is trying to kill me here! Is there anything in the agreement about accidental death?”

Big Beef scanned the pages again. “Yes there is: in the event of your death, the publisher is entitled to the rights of your entire bibliography plus a $50 million payout from insurance.”

“Damn it Big Beef! Why did you let me sign that?”

“I thought you read through the whole thing!”

“I’m telling you Beef, when I get out of here I’m gonna shove my fist right up your….”, a big beefy guard interrupted the conversation by tapping Darrel on the shoulder. Darrel turned around and the guard snatched the phone and crushed it with his bare hand, case protector and all.

“Back to the auditorium,” the guard ordered.

“Can I at least piss first?” Darrel asked.

“No.”

Darrel slowly walked back into the auditorium trying to hold his piss in and took his seat. On stage we’re five volunteers sitting in a row, one of whom being Janet Young. They all had a look of death on their faces.

Moments later, Dr. Paul Westinghouse hopped back on stage with all smiles. His face was bandaged up from the ass pounding he took earlier. “Alright,” he said to the audience, “the first lesson in teamwork is sacrifice. I just had all of you drink one gallon of water. So shortly everyone will be pissing their pants. Fortunately we can avoid this embarrassing situation if one of our five volunteers makes a valuable sacrifice.”

Everyone looked at each other while the five volunteers sat stone faced. “So allow me to explain the situation,” Paul continued. “All five of our volunteers have ate a fully stuffed burrito each. But here’s the catch: one of the burritos was laced with an insane amount of laxatives. And those burritos were PACKED with jalapeños, eggs, beans, cheese, you name it. So that shit gon STANK.” Paul then took a second to readjust himself for dramatic effect. “Fortunately for that individual,” he continued, “if one of the other four members volunteers to shit their pants in front of everyone, then everybody in attendance will be dismissed to use the bathroom and/or change their underwear. If the random person who ate the laced burrito shits their pants first, then that person will be forced to sit in their shitty underwear all night. Moreover, if anyone in the audience pisses their pants before any of the five volunteers shit, this process will start all over again. Any questions?”

Silence befell the room.

“Alright! So someone better start shitting or else this entire auditorium will be flooded with piss!”

It’s time (Part I)

Darrel snuck out of bed to take a shit. After he clogged the mistress’s toilet, he received an urgent call from a familiar number. “What are you doing at my house?” the voice angrily asked.

Darrel was tired of the hiding. He knew the jig was up. “I’m fucking your wife, what do you think?” he replied.

After a moment of silence, the voice responded. “I’m coming for you.” Then caller hung up.

For the first time in awhile, Darrel actually felt fear. He could barely get his ass wiped before he heard the front door swing open. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He slowly opened the bathroom door and tiptoed towards the back entrance.

“Hold it there buster!” Darrel heard from behind. Startled, he quickly turned around to find the mistress’s husband, also named Darrel, holding a Desert Eagle pistol. “Darrel,” said Darrel, “it doesn’t take much to kill a human being. Don’t you think that Desert Eagle is a little much?”

“Shut your mouth!” Darrel responded. “The only reason I won’t blow your brains across the carpet is because you made me A LOT of money. Your book, My Ass=Your Face, spent 91 weeks on NYT bestseller list. You’re a cash cow. And as my father always told me: never slaughter your cattle in the living room.”

“So you’ll let me keep fucking your wife then?”

Darrel cocked the pistol. “Get the fuck out. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

“Yes sir.”

***

“Goddamnit Darrel!” screamed Bob “Big Beef” O’Connell. “You can’t fuck your publisher’s wife!”

“C’mon Big Beef!” retorted Darrel. “You’re my agent. If I wanted a guilt trip, I would’ve spoken to my bartender!

“You need to start thinking with the right head! The publisher is considering dropping you!”

“Jesus, Beef!” Darrel exclaimed. “You can’t let them do that! They know all the skeletons in my closet! Like, literally. I literally have skeletons in my closet that they know about!”

“I spoke to Darrel. He said that fucking his wife was bad enough, but clogging his toilet went a too far. He said that they will keep you on if you attend a sensitivity seminar.”

“Sensitivity seminar? Another one?!”

“Yes. Not one on sexual harassment though. This is a teamwork workshop for big name executives.”

Darrel was beside himself. “You tell Darrel that I’m a writer, AN ARTIST! Not a goddamn suit!” he shouted.

“Darrel says that he wants team players. Now the seminar is three days long. NO ALCOHOL. So deal or no deal?!”

Darrel rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hand me a fuckin pin,” he finally ordered, then he begrudgingly filled out the application.

After storming out of his agent’s office, Darrel pulled out his phone and dialed up the other Darrel. Unfortunately it went straight to voicemail. “Listen here mother fucker,” he stated in his message, “I’m getting tired of these boring ass seminars. And for that, I’m gonna fuck your wife again!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IX)

“At least carry a sidearm Dad!” Jack advised his dad.

“No!” Rod retorted. “That’s so uncivilized! AND I’m a pacifist!”

“It’s probably not a good idea to attack an entire cartel with only samurai swords!”

Jose had enough and threw the tequila bottle against the wall. “The whole thing is a trap!” he screamed.

“No it’s not!” Rod replied.

“It’s definitely a trap,” Jack added.

“Why would they lead us into the United States?” Jose continued. “If we cross the border and kill a bunch of guys, then we’re subject to US law! How do we know that the authorities aren’t watching us?”

Rod picked up his sword and began twirling it around. “We have them on the ropes,” he said. “This might be our last opportunity to finish what we started, Jose.”

“Then we should lead them back across the border and attack them on Mexican soil!” Jose replied.

“No!”

“Dad, if we kill ‘em on Mexican soil then we can get away with this scott free!” Jack pleaded.

“No! Noooooooooooo!”

Rod threw his samurai sword into the air and with one swift kick, he broke the sword in two. Jack and Jose stood in awed silence before Jose picked up the two broken pieces and shook his head. “You’re marching towards your death, Rod,” Jose said, “and I want no part of it. Where will this madness end?”

Jose dropped the pieces on the ground and began walking towards the door. Rod looked out the window into the barren New Mexican landscape. “This is my last cry, as my last blood flows,” he uttered to himself. “Then, O my Tyrians, besiege with hate His progeny and all his race to come: No love, no pact must be between our peoples.”

Jose stopped in his tracks. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

“The Aenied,” Rod said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m an old man, Jose. I didn’t choose this life, and neither did you. Our whole lives, we’ve understood the risks but we rolled the dice anyway. Now’s not the time to back down. We don’t play defense. Now’s the time to attack! Right here, right now! NOW’S the time to make them pay for what they’ve done!”

“Fuckin’ A!” Jack seconded.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part XIII)

“This bullet wound ain’t shit,” Jack said. The bikers were carrying him away while dodging fire from the high flying hueys. While deep in the cover from the surrounding jungle, Jack attempted to cauterize the wound Rambo-style. But this was a spectacular failure and he soon went into shock.

After spending five days in a coma, Jack awoke to find his father standing over him. “Goddamn you, Jack,” Rod said. Then he punched his son out.

Jack spent five more days in a coma due to a severe concussion. When he awoke again, he found himself in a shack far away from Juarez. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.

The scarred up biker sitting nearby put down the tequila bottle. “Puerto Paloma,” he said, then belched and farted.

“Mexico?”

“Nuevo Mexico.”

Jose barged in splashing water on his face and cursing. “Hijo de puta!” he yelled.

“Why are we in the United States?” Jack asked.

Jose picked up the tequila bottle and shook his head. “While you were in a coma, we tracked Pablo and the cartel across the border,” Jose explained. “Your father is a bastardo.”

“Where is he? Whatever business my father had with cartel is over. I’m taking him with me.”

“Good luck with that,” Jose retorted. “He’s not listening to anyone!”

Jack got up from the dusty floor and walked out into the blazing sun. A few yards away was another shack where Jack presumed his father to be. He swung open the door where he found Rod Hardcock in deep meditation. “We’re leaving,” Jack ordered after he kicked in the side.

Rod emerged from deep thought and picked up a pair of nunchucks. He swung them around his body just inches away from Jack. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Why did you come to Mexico?” Rod responded, still focused on nunchuck practice. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to get you away from this mess!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re 76 years old dad! Why are you still running around with a murderous gang of bikers?!”

Rod threw down the nunchucks and looked his son square in the eye. “You think I can’t hang? Try me!”

“Dad, you don’t want none of this.”

“I don’t want to fight you! I’m a pacifist! But I see that you’re still carrying around that pathetic .38. Come on now! You’re a big boy! Give it a shot!”

Jack cocked his head. “You want me to shoot you?”

“Shiiiiiiit, that bullet won’t come near me!”

Jack shrugged, pulled out the .38 and pointed it at his father. “I don’t know what you think this will prove,” he said, “but if you really want me to shoot you…”. He fired a single round and in less than a blink of an eye, Rod threw a shuriken which completely deflected the bullet.

“Mother of god,” Jack gasped.

Rod chuckled. “You still think your old man has nothing left to prove?”

“Alright then,” Jack replied while he re-holstered his gun, “so you’re a pacifist, eh? I should have known that you’ve become a filthy heathen. But why chase the cartel? What’s the point?”

Rod pulled an immaculate Samurai sword from off the wall and slowly swung it around. “You’re a messenger of the Lord’s Word,” he explained, “but I live by the Way of the Blade. I don’t know why fate has chose me, but I know it’s my duty to purify this land of its violent ways…specially by the tip of my sword.”

“Okay dad,” Jack agreed, “I will help you, but only because I have some unfinished business with Pablo. And after we mercilessly kill all of them, you’re coming with me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part VII)

“I didn’t know there were jungles around Juarez,” Jack said as he swatted away mosquitoes.

“Si Senor,” responded Jose. “Mexico is nothing but jungle.”

The darkness of night provided the perfect cover for Jack and Jose, along with their motley crew of biker vigilantes. The gang passed around a bottle of tequila as they watched and waited several hundred yards away from the cartel’s compound. “Are you sure my father is being held here?” Jack asked Jose.

“Sí. We’ve been watching this place for several days.”

“I know Pablo Santora is behind this,” Jack added. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”

One of the bikers whispered over to Jose. “no reconozco a esta persona,” Jack heard.

Jose gazed through the binoculars towards the compound. “Jack, come here,” Jose said, “do you recognize this woman?”

Jack took the binoculars and scratched his head. “I don’t know who that is,” he replied, “but goddamn she’s tall.” He continued watching this mysterious woman through the window as she handed a large metal briefcase to none other than Pablo Santora. “I knew it!” Jack uttered to himself. The exchange lasted no more than a few minutes before the woman departed in a stretched limousine.

“Now’s a good time to launch the attack,” Jose said. Jack nodded and readied his .38. “Let’s go,” he declared.

The group marched through the muggy jungle until they were right on the perimeter. Without hesitation, a biker launched a flare into the air while another unleashed hell with a 50 cal. Suddenly the compound was lit up with explosions and tracer rounds.

“This is a little much, wouldn’t you say?” Jack shouted to Jose. Then the watchtower exploded from an RPG. Shattered glass and smoldering debris fell onto the men below. “I think it’s the right amount,” Jose retorted.

With the compound covered in fire like it’s the coming apocalypse, the gang marched through the gates and fired on anything that moved. Jack kicked open every door and looked under every pile of rubble looking for his father. Jose found a critically injured member of the cartel whose skin was smoldering and guts splayed out over the ground.

“Donde esta Rod Hardcock?!” Jose shouted to the dying man. But all the poor bastard could utter was “agua…agua.” So Jose emptied his .45 into him.

“No luck so far,” Jose told Jack. Then one of the bikers shouted “lo encontré!” Jack rushed to the portly biker and beside him was a tipped over porter john. And inside the porter john was a shit-caked Rod Hardcock.

“Jack, goddamn you, why did you come?!” Senor Hardcock told his son.

“Don’t worry Dad, I’m gonna make Pablo pay for this!”

Jose inquisitively look around him. “Has anyone found Pablo?”

Suddenly Hueys began whooshing overhead. Before Jack could react, he felt a bullet cut clean through his abdomen.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Eh, whatever

Am I happy with the paperback quality of The Detective James Series? Nope. But it’s good enough and I have no intention of fixing its issues. What’s done is done. I ain’t Ridley Scott; there will be no Director’s Cut.

Only fools trip on things behind them. So I will no longer put any time and effort into fixing this creation of mine. All my critics and haters can suck my dick.

So be sure to purchase your copy on Amazon and please please PLEASE leave a review. They took down my review because Jeff Bezos is a mother fucker, so I don’t care if you actually read the book. That’s not important. Just talk about your day or your favorite color. What IS important is that you give it five stars 🙏

Thank you and I will love you forever. And when I mean forever, I mean FOREVER. 😐

RIP Cormac McCarthy

The three artists that have influenced me the most are comedian Nick Mullen and authors Charles Bukowski and Cormac McCarthy.

McCarthy is an outlier compared to those other two. Other than our penchant for nihilism, we really don’t have any overlapping sensibilities. So I don’t try to emulate him. No one can.

But what inspired me about his writing is the way how he elevated the medium. McCarthy didn’t give a shit about correct grammar or punctuation. Some of his novels have entire conversations in Spanish and he doesn’t care to translate them into English or explain what they were about. He sometimes went into minute details over mundane actions that had no real consequence to the story. Nevertheless, you were completely engaged in this dark world of McCarthy’s creation.

While the obituaries since his death have cited No Country For Old Men and The Road as his most famous works, in my opinion (and really, the opinion of those in the know) his finest novel is Blood Meridian. I’ll go a step further and say that it might be the greatest American novel ever written. McCarthy’s vision of the Old West was dark and violent because the spilling of blood was the only language that land understood. Yet more importantly, never had violence been portrayed more poetically.

It’s unfortunate that it takes death for us to realize this, but hopefully now Cormac McCarthy will be recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time.

Editing is bullshit

If I ever write another book, I’m letting…no, MAKING…someone else rewrite and edit it. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the “real writing” is done in the 2nd and 3rd drafts.

That’s why it’s important to get everything right the first time. I have always had perfect first drafts. But then again I’m probably the second coming of Dean Koontz.

But you though, you probably need to write a 2nd and 3rd draft. Not me. That shit’s for the birds.

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IV)

The border crossing station stuck out against the barren desert. The two guards laughed as they contemplated their easy assignments. “Lo tenemos hecho,” one said to the other.

Suddenly a lone figure barged in. The guards stared in awe at the ominous character. “Passport, please?” one asked in broken English.

The mysterious figure pulled out his .38.

“Jack Hardcock,” a guard gasped.

“Which way to Juarez?” Jack asked.

The guards silently pointed to the west.

“Gracias,” he said.

As Jack walked away, the guards watched as marched towards the horizon. “Dios ayudanos,” they uttered.

Gunshots and Mariachi music echoed through the streets of Juarez. Jack feared no evil as he walked through the valley of death. He knew the city would face the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; God’s vengeance would soon reign.

If he himself was the one to deliver this vengeance, Jack did not know.

“I’m looking for La Casa de La Muerte,” Jack said to a random street vendor.

“Que?” the vendor replied.

“I’m an American,” Jack stated, “it’s my right to not speak Spanish. So you better answer me or answer to my .38!”

“sé lo que estás diciendo,” the vendor said, “pero no conozco este lugar.”

Jack pistol whipped the vendor and prepared to empty his revolver into the poor bastard. But Heaven granted the man a reprieve: at that moment, an angelic voice appeared. “Jack, no!” it ordered.

Jack’s hand began to shiver as he aimed the .38. He knew this voice.

“Maria,” he uttered.

Jack slowly turned around. Maria was as radiant as a bluebonnet under the Texas sun. He thought he’d never see her face again. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve been in Juarez for sometime,” she said, “why did you not respond to my letters?”

“Maria,” he pleaded, “I’m so sorry. I…”

That moment, Pablo Santora came marching up in his Wrangler jeans and snakeskin boots. He put his arm around Maria. “Jack,” Pablo smiled from underneath his mustache, “so pleasant to see you again.”

“Pablo,” Jack simply said. He had to restrain himself.

Pablo lifted a cigar to his mouth. “Jack, old friend,” he continued, “I am the proprietor of La Casa de La Muerte. Please, stop by and see us, yeah?”

“Thank you for the invitation, Pablo,” Jack said.

“Mi amigo,” Pablo chuckled, and he slowly strolled away.

Jack and Maria continued to lock eyes.

“Why Maria?” Jack asked, “Why Pablo?”

TO BE CONTINUED…