Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Eleven

"All I'm sayin' is 'Like a Virgin' is...ummm..." said Carmichael.

"No no no, that's not right." replied Gibson.

They had been sitting in Effing Janet's for almost an hour, attempting to reenact a movie scene, to the extreme irritation of their waitress.

"Okay," tried Carmichael again. "So you got this girl, and she's sayin' that this guy's so good in the sack that--"

"No, that's not even close. Do you really think Tarantino would have written lines so shoddy? No way."

"Shoddy? Okay, Grampa."

"Shoddy's a perfectly copacetic word."

"I'm not even gonna respond to that."

"Ooh, ooh, the waitress is coming, let's do the bit about tips."

"Okay, but I wanna be Mr. Pink."

"That's just because you're a cheapskate."

The waitress approached the table in time to see them doing their best attempts at verbatim dialogue, enhanced in ridiculousness by their desperate desire to impress their pretty waitress.

"Am I...interrupting?" she asked. "Or can I interest you in desserts this afternoon?"

Carmichael shouted at Gibson, "Dammit, man, we had one chance! One chance to get that right, but now she's here and we can't start over. Good job."

"Yunno, if you guys spent more time actually being badasses instead of trying to act like movie badasses, things would work out better for you. Besides, you know everyone dies in the end, right? Possibly not the best movie to base yourselves off of in that case, yunno?"

"God fucking dammit!" shouted Carmichael. "Maybe some kinda spoiler alert next time? Gibson hasn't seen the end!"

Gibson scooted his chair back and thumped his forehead on the edge of the table. "Now what's the point?"

"Oh, don't say that. Now look what you've done! And yeah, we'd both like a slice a cherry pie."

"A la mode," said Gibson, muffled in his chest.

The waitress clipped away snippily.

Carmichael dutifully tried to restart the dialogue. "So like I was saying, I don't see why I should have to tip if--"

"What's the fuggin' point?" moaned Gibson into the table.

"Hey man." Carmichael patted Gibson on the back. "It's okay. We'll watch it when we get home and you'll get so caught up you won't even remember what that bitch said about the ending."

"No, not that. Well, yeah, that, but what about this?!"

"I'm uh...not sure I follow."

"This! The diamond heist, the life of crime, the LIFE for that matter!"

"Hey, don't say that. We'll all be so rich by this time next week that we won't know what to do with ourselves."

"No, what's the point of even living at all? We're all gonna die in the end, just like she said."

"But that was a movie. She was talking about the movie. You got that, right?"

"Yes, but what's the point of living! We all die at the end! Nothing we do matters. Even this, this is just a stupid filler conversation to take up room in some pointless story!"

"Hm. Well, I got nothin' to say to that."

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Ten

The day was uneventful. Work. Effing Janet's. He sat in front of his laptop, struggling to hear a crime movie out of one working speaker over the sounds of his upstairs neighbor's squeaking bed springs and screaming girlfriend.

There was a knock at the door.

Ezra cautiously approached the door and said into the crack, "Who is it?"

"It's Lily. Please let me in."

Ezra's forehead thumped against the door. "Lily...do you know what time it is?"

"Okay, I know it's late, but--"

"No really, what time is it?"

"Like one-seventeen, but who's counting."

"Sounds like you are."

"Gaaaah...I am. I haven't slept for more than ten or fifteen minutes in at least a couple weeks and fucking Brandon and Jeanette up there AREN'T FUCKING HELPING!!!" The last part was directed at the ceiling. "I just...if I can come and sit with you and like...watch a movie or something I think I might be able to fall asleep."

"Why. Is that my responsibility?" murmured Ezra into the wall.

"What was that?" she called through the door.

"Fine...come in," he said.

He opened the door and she followed him inside and sat down next to him on his saggy little couch. She looked somehow different to Ezra, and at first he couldn't discern why. She isn't trying so hard, he thought. It was true--her hair was pulled back in a sloppy pony tail instead of its usual calculated curls, she wore no make-up and her heels and short skirt were traded for sweats and slippers. Ezra hadn't noticed how pretty she was until now. She slumped and her head rested on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why are you sorry?" she asked. "This is so nice of you."

"I feel like you caught my insomnia."

"Well, if it came from you I guess it can't be so bad." Ezra had always thought sweats were inherently comfy clothing. She reinforced the opinion.

"Well what's wrong?"

"I've got whatever you call writer's block for painters."

"You paint?"

"I did."

"What...did you paint?"

"Ummm...one of my art professors says I'm a post-modern impressionist, but I don't really try for anything. I just see something, decide how it makes me feel and paint it that way."

"That's...really, really cool," said Ezra. "I um. I really want to see some of your stuff some time."

"Maybe if I'm not too nervous I'll show you later. Hey," she picked up a piece of paper he had printed out earlier, "where'd you get this?"

"Ummm...printed it up earlier. Why?"

The paper had pictures of Upton Behringer and his associates along with reward money amounts. At the bottom of the page he had added it all up, equaling a sum that would make the future less worrisome for just about anyone.

"Goddammit, Ezra, I have to tell you. My other reason for being stressed out. These guys...they come into my work all the time. I think they're planning to break into the museum."

"I know. I'm looking forward to it," Ezra said, much, much more candidly than he had planned.

"What?"

"Oh man. They uh...I had a meeting kinda thing with them this morning. They have a plan they want me in on."

"Oh, Ezra, please don't tell me you're considering it."

"Um. I kind of am. But--" She stood up quickly, face flushed with shock and upset. "But please, listen. I have a plan too."

He began to talk and she slowly sat down on the couch. They both became very excited and paced together in different directions across his tiny living room. Eventually they paced in the same direction and were soon lying in his bed, smoothing out the edges of the plan. When he was done, she kissed him and he kissed her back.

They both slept very well that night.

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Nine

"I don't get it."

"What?"

"I don't get it."

"I think," said Carmichael, "that what he's trying to say is that the metaphor is...less clear than you think it is."

"Uh, yeah. I don't know what the hands do."

"I hope they don't do anything to the balls," murmured Gibson. The Four Wise Men snickered curtly.

"You work at the museum, yes?" Behringer stubbornly ignored them.

"Yeah."

"I need you to help us...remove something from inside."

"You want me to help you break in and steal something? What if I don't help you?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Um...yeah."

Behringer slumped exasperatedly in his chair. "If you won't help us we'll kill you. Idiot."

"You're all very extreme."

"Hells yes we are," said Gibson.

"Okay, what do you want to steal?"

"I understand you will soon be exhibiting a certain diamond."

Ezra glanced up uncertainly. "The Pharaoh's Glory?"

"Yes," said Behringer, eyes shining hungrily.

"Alright," said Ezra. His face split into a broad smile. "I can definitely help you with that."

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Eight

"Jesus, Siddhartha, Joseph Smith, whoever can talk some sense into you, will you PLEASE! STOP! SHOUTING?!" shouted Upton Behringer from a leather armchair in the corner. "There are those of us...in this room...in this very...cave of, of, of, WELL NOT FUCKING SOLITUDE, that's for damnably sure, who are trying to leech the pains of an evening of sin from our livers and minds and, most importantly, and most regrettably, our souls."

"The boss is hungover, so shut the fuck up," said the one in sweatpants.

"Frederick," said Upton to the sharply dressed dwarf sitting on the wooden stool next to him. "Will you tell that nimrod Carmichael to refrain from relaying my communications to our guest in such...simplified fashion?" He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted at the ground.

Frederick raised a single fist and Carmichael was struck dumb.

"Now. Ezra McNeil. As you will remember, we have met before, though I hesitate to call it a true meeting. Thus, let us strike it from the record. My name is Upton Behringer, and these," he gestured at the two men in front of the elevator, Frederick the dwarf and four men playing foosball a few feet from Ezra, "are my associates. Frederick is my right arm man, my most trusted and loyal friend, my partner and my lover. I believe you have already met Carmichael and Gibson. They are what we in the business call my muscle. The four playing that...game are The Four Wise Men. They wanted to be called 'wise guys,' but I refuse to let this look like some shoddy Italian organized crime syndicate, so numerically challenged nativity reference they are. Say hello, gentlemen, give our guest a wave."

The Four Wise Men stopped their game to turn and raise their arms in unison at Ezra, showing their matching nametags, which read, "Melchior," "Caspar," "Balthasar" and "Carl". They were of identical height, wore identical plain business suits and skinny black ties and sunglasses and had identically parted blonde hair.

"C'mon, Behr Bear," said Gibson. "Call me Mr. Blonde."

"And I'm Mr. White," said Carmichael.

Behringer closed his eyes tightly and ran his fingers through his pomade.

Frederick raised a threatening fist.

"Okay, okay, sorry," said Gibson.

"Aside from their obsession with that damned film, they are really quite good at what they do."

"You mean chase people down alleyways and point guns at them?" asked Ezra with sudden courage.

"Put simply, yes. They shoot, they hit with large, heavy bits of metal, they break doors, that sort of thing. You see, we all have a role in these, these heists. I'm the leader and the planner. Frederick keeps me sane--" Frederick patted his knee comfortingly. "--The Four Wise Men work logistics, scheduling, lock picking, safe breaking and alarm fixing and those two hit things that need to be hit. So we have a face, a heart, a brain and balls."

"Hey, did he call us balls?" asked Carmichael.

"That's where you come in," said Behringer.

"What do you mean?" asked Ezra.

"You're our connection, Mr. McNeil. You're the most important part of all. You're this body's hands."

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Intermission

It's been a while.

I have excuses. For not writing my daily blog posts, mostly. Some of them are actually pretty good. The sexy, sleek sorts of excuses that garner all kinds of sympathy and get people to tell you it's okay, it was all out of your control and good things came out of it. There's a big ol' car accident, the near deaths of myself and an eight-year-old countered by heroic survival, a deliciously fattening battle featuring me and the IRS versus a shady cupcakery, a snapped scaphoid, adventures with the healthcare system by the skin of my insurance-free teeth, a crippling ten-month live-in/entrapment with a fascist ice cream seller and a mid-twenties manchild, a loss of life conviction followed by the obligatory growth and hope for redemption (obligatory only in cases that do not involve eventual suicide) and I wrote and self-published my first novel--The Difficulty Machine.

Maybe I'll tell you about it some time.

So here we go. I'm back. Let's finish "Those Bastardly Dastards" and get some writing practice in. This is what writers do. We write. And read. And make stuffed bell peppers.

It's been a long, stupid, hilarious and frustrating sixteen months, but I think I'm a real, live human now, finally ready to call myself A WRITER, so let's get this show on the road.

Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Seven

The sound was violent. And it certainly was terrifying to Ezra, but the thing about it that was most startling was the way it brought the reality of everything down into painfully stark visibility.

It cracked the air and he hit the ground. There was no slide, no skid on the gravel of the sidewalk; just up then down, like a flip book with all the between-frames taken out. He had a moment to lie with the side of his face against the side walk, dim wounds from yesterday lighting up again and think aloud, "Goddamn, this crashing thing is getting redundant," before rough hands grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him up off the ground.

"Get up! Come on, are you retarded?"

"Seriously, this is what should definitely come naturally, right? Oh hey, I hear a gunshot--let's lay down on the fuggin' ground and think about it for a while."

Ezra cranked his neck around and took in his captors. The first speaker was a severely overweight man in a snug leather jacket, black sweat pants and dirty white sneakers. The second was taller and pale and wore his fading black hair in a greased-back ponytail which descended just past the collar of his black raincoat. Ezra dazedly tried to get his footing back as he was pushed roughly through the doors of a building and deposited into a small and rickety elevator.

"So, uh...what's the deal with all this? What's going on?" said a nervous Ezra, mostly to the gate of the elevator.

"Why do they always gotta ask? I mean, he's gonna find out sooner or later, right?"

"Yeah, it'd be pretty funny though if nobody told him."

"Well don't say that. You'll make him all nervous, and then he'll start thinkin' he's never gonna find out why we're takin' him here. Then he'll keep asking. And then we have to kill him."

Ezra's eyes popped open. "No you don't! I won't ask again! I ummm...I don't even care what happens, really!"

Both men laughed stickily. "Well stop goin' on like that or we will have to kill you!" said the fat one.

The tall one wiped the corner of his eye with a fingerless glove and said, "Well, we need your assistance, so we've gotta keep you around a while longer, so I wouldn't worry too much yet."

Ezra breathed a sigh of relief as the rusty gate slid open and they walked him into the room. He whipped his head around, shouting, "Wait, what do you mean, 'yet'?!"

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Six

The only thing he would remember clearly from that morning was the gunshot.

***TO BE CONTINUED***