I came across a video earlier . . . this 18-years-old disabled kid is playing pranks on people. You can read about it HERE.
Something occurred to me; the same thing that occurred to me when the show Scare Tactics was popular.
Let’s say I am walking in a parking structure, and a guy crawls out from behind a car, one arm and one leg gone, leaving what appears a trail of blood after him, and asking for help.
Immediately after, the sound of a chainsaw, and a guy wielding said chainsaw comes out and makes a move toward me.
Roughly one second later (two if I’m wearing a coat) there is a very good chance the guy with the chainsaw would have at least two bullets in him. More, if he did not immediately fall.
The thing is, it need not be me; it could be an off-duty cop, or some other person authorized to carry a gun.
I say that, but it could just be I pull the gun and the guys stop the act, both yelling at me not to shoot. Perhaps I hear them, perhaps not. Stress in what is perceived as a life-and-death situation does things to a person; it has physical effects.
What bothers me is that while that would be my likely response, imagine someone with a weak heart. Imagine a healthy person who turns and runs, and slams into a car or wall, or runs, slips and falls, banging their head in the process, and so on.
The kid is held up as an inspirational role model, and perhaps his other efforts are such. This effort? Not so much.
There are some people who enjoys watching videos of people scaring other people . . . not me. My typical response is a desire to beat the shit out of people who see it as fun to literally terrorize others . . . now, that would be funny to see.
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Anyway, I now have that off my chest . . . on to NaNoWriMo.
I did say I was doing a detective story, and that’s still my plan. However, while that’s still my plan, it’s been a long while since I read Mike Hammer and Philip Marlowe. Heck, I don’t even have the books anymore; I don’t know if I can duplicate in writing the tone I hear in my head (or imagine I hear in my head; I ain’t got no words yet).
And that’s besides the worry about calling women “dames with great gams and not afraid to show them”.
Them days have passed, and we now firmly reside in the PC era (and I don’t mean computers).
So, I tried a little experiment . . . an experiment in writing.
NaNoWriMo Test Sample No. 1
Copyright E. J. D’Alise – 2014
“Next!” I yelled out the word toward the open door as I reached for the next resume in the pile.
Even before she walked through the door I knew what she was. The resume had only a few words on it: “Mech with extensive training”
I don’t have anything against Mechs. The way I figure it, we’re all poor bastards trying to make it through our stinking lives, and what’s inside of each of us didn’t matter.
Mechs had won their independence just last year after more than fifteen years of legal battles and many clashes with people who did not think they deserved a place in society. Some people still thought they did not deserve a place in society, but the courts had spoken.
I looked up, and she was already in the room. I had not heard anything, and she was only five feet away. Spooky. Spooky, and pretty. Spooky, pretty, and tall. Had I been standing, she would have cleared my five-foot-eight by at least another half a foot, and that’s with flats on.
I motioned toward the chair. She sat, and I was struck by the fluidity of her movements. Think liquid cat.
I looked at the face because I did not want to look at the form below it. Well, that’s not true. I wanted very much to look at what supported that face, but Mech or not, I had been taught not to stare. I started to wonder if she had been an entertainment model. They were the most screwed up of all the models, still struggling to find their identity and self-worth.
Holy cow. I stared at her with what in retrospect I’m sure was an open mouth. Military. That meant a number of things. She had already served at least two tours against the Russian-Chinese alliance, and she had been in service for at least fifteen years.
I had never seen a model older than ten service years look anywhere near as good. Or move as fluidly. Or be as intuitive.
“Covert Operations. Decommissioned two months ago.”
I closed my mouth, gathering my wits in the process.
“Uh . . . are you reading my mind?”
She did not smile. Quite the opposite. Her neutral expression gave a little, showing instead . . . well, I could not quite read it. Perhaps sorrow? Perhaps frustration? A little resignation?
“No. It’s just that everyone has the same questions.” She stood as she continued. “I understand your reluctance. I appreciate you seeing me.”
She made to turn just as I spoke.
“Sit, please, Miss . . . there’s no name on your data sheet.”
She stopped in mid-fluid stride, looking back at me. She hesitated for a few seconds before returning to the chair.
“Raven . . . 17”
I regarded her for a few of my own seconds, and then stood.
I went to the door, looked out at the waiting room, and told the rest they could go home. I did not wait for responses; I closed the door and went back to my desk.
Raven looked at me, no emotion showing.
“How do you know I’ll take the job,” she asked.
“I haven’t offered the job,” I answered.
“I see.” She stood once more.
“Covert operation did not include any entertainment functions.” Her tone had taken an icy quality.
“Well, don’t expect me to teach you. I’m kind of way out of practice.”
I leaned back into the chair as I spoke, used one foot to pull out the lower desk drawer, and rested the same foot on it. It felt good taking the weight of of it.
She hesitated, then sat back down.
“Is this the interview?” Her question was formed as she straightened her shoulders, composing herself in preparation to questions she assumed I would ask.
We sat there looking at each other for a good two minutes. Enjoyable minutes I used to memorize her face.
“I’m ready,” she finally said.
“Great,” I answered, “ask away.”
“What?” Confusion just made her look prettier.
. . . . to be continued . . . .
I stopped right there because I was getting carried away . . . I was way past testing tone (which, by the way, does not sound quite like the tone I wanted), and into an interesting story. At least interesting to me.
Damn! Sometimes I hate being a discovery (meaning: seat-of-the-pants) writer. I want to read that story something fierce.
If I do continue, and use that as the start of the NaNoWriMo novel, I’ll have to write at least 50,700 words.
Damn and double-damn!
. . . and I still have to do a few more writing tests; with my luck, I’ll have three or four new stories ideas all clamoring to get out into the world.
How the hell is a guy supposed to get any work done!?
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.