Original Gangster*

I once shot a bitch.

You can save your righteous indignation. She definitely had it coming. And, besides, it was Sean Dudjak’s idea.

Sean was better known as The Dude. This was years before the Big Lebowski. And I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s the lone degree of separation between the Coen brothers and me.

The Dude was an older kid. So he was privy to secret wisdoms of which I could only dream. He taught me how to throw a punch and how to ride a wheelie on my bicycle. It’s thanks to him that I know the meaning of the word dildo.

He had a magnificent stash of nudie magazines. This made him a legend with the neighborhood kids. He had a talent for finding any discarded pornography within a ten-mile radius, like some kind of porn sniffing dog. And in those days, the sun-bleached image of a starlet’s unkempt seventies bush was more than enough to earn my allegiance.

One day, while playing video games, The Dude suggested that I call Shirley Ziegler and tell her to come over to his house.

The Ziegler clan was the scourge of our neighborhood, and Shirley was the worst of them. It would be easy to label me shallow for saying so. She was an ogress of sturdy build, and she had a Gorbachev birthmark. It started at the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin like the aftermath of some horrific grape Kool-Aid incident.

But Shirley’s crimes against humanity went well beyond being homely. Her specialty was emasculating the boys on our block. She used her considerable size advantage to systematically beat the crap out of us. And just because she was fat didn’t mean you could escape her wrath. Attempts to outrun her were met with rapid-fire loogies to the back of your head and neck.

Poor Cliffy Thompson got the worst of it. He was a smallish kid with the fine bone structure of a ballerina. But the only dancing he did was with his fingers across the keys of a piano. He was a bona fide musical prodigy. Local news outlets documented this fact on more than one occasion.

After multiple beatings, he finally stood up to Shirley. During the mayhem, he wormed his finger into the purple corner of her mouth and started to pull at her cheek. Her eyes widened with surprise. We cheered him on, emboldened by his success. But the savage was far too wily to fall for his fishhook strategy. She responded by biting through his index finger and severing a tendon. This effectively snuffed out the bright star of little Cliffy’s future.

After that, she stalked the streets of our neighborhood like a nightmare. She preyed on our fears and weaknesses. Rumors started to swirl that she was the human bride of Satan.

I’d have sooner crawled into a cage with a hungry bear than invite her over.

“No way!” I said.

The Dude shook his head. “Look, just call her. I’ve got a plan.”

“She won’t come.”

“Sure she will. Tell her you want to be her boyfriend.”

I wanted precisely none of that. Dating Shirley was something that not even The Dude could coax me into. Nobody held that kind of sway over me, so I stood up. “I’m going home.”

The Dude laughed with his nonchalant cool kid laugh. “You’re not really going to be her boyfriend. We’re going to shoot her with BB guns.”

So I called her.

I professed my love. I told her that I lived for the beauty that hid just beneath her tough exterior. I begged for the honor of her presence at The Dude’s house. And the trap was set.

I was on The Dude’s roof when I spied her from my sniper position. She rounded the corner at Grand Prix speed. The frame of her Huffy Sweet Thunder bicycle strained to support her heft. Its pink banana seat was wedged deep between her colossal hams. The pedals whizzed beneath her, and she grinned like an idiot between labored breaths.

As she grew close, I took my aim. The barrel bounced around as I was overcome with fits of nervous laughter at the prospect of downing the beast.

She was already next-door. If I didn’t calm myself, I would miss the opportunity. And worse, she’d probably want to consummate our relationship with some kind of freak show kiss.

Then a moment of calm came over me. I suppose you could call it a communion with god. I stared down the barrel and drew a bead on the rutty thigh just below her jean shorts.

I exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The BB met Ziegler flesh with a thwack. The impact was followed by an anguished yelp as she careened off course. She wrecked her bicycle into the yard, sending a tsunami of sweaty blubber crashing in all directions.

She sat up and inspected the welt on her leg, spitting grass and venom as she did so. Then she responded to the sight of our merriment on the roof. “You’re gonna die, fuckers!”

So The Dude shot her again.

That ended it. With this simple act of vigilante justice, we unknowingly shifted the balance of power in our neighborhood to our favor.

---

*This is a repost from several months ago, making it centuries old in Internet time. It wasn't my best post of 2009, but it was the one I had the most fun writing. So, whether it's new to you or not, I hope you enjoy.

Normal service to resume shortly.

Faking It

My eyes scaled the colorful heights of the magazine rack, lingering in places before continuing their ascent. Finally, I found The Paris Review and removed it. As I thumbed its pages, the sounds of the barista frothing milk bubbled up from across the room. I’d purposely gone to a small local bookstore on my quest, and it shared close quarters with the café, mingling the scents of books and cappuccinos.

I replaced the magazine and turned to face the guy behind the counter. He hunched over fiddling with something beneath the register.

“Do you have any of The Paris Review Interviews?” I asked.

He prairie-dogged into view, displaying his buzz cut and what they call birth control glasses in the military. “Don’t think so.” He drummed his fingers on the linoleum. “We could order it.”

I considered it for a moment before thanking him and declining. I gathered up a few literary magazines instead and shuffled to the checkout.

He rang a couple up before saying, “You’re a writer.”

It wasn’t really a question, but I still stumbled and stammered in search of an answer. I felt a blind dizziness reminiscent of childhood games of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

“I dabble,” I said after a long pause.

---

I’m still not sure what makes a writer, what minimal credentials are required before you can declare yourself one without feeling like a fake. I don’t feel I’m there yet, but I’m working on it.

It’s from this place that I answer the questions below. Tina who posts great Supernatural fiction at her blog The Clean White Page tagged me, so I’ll do my humble best.

I’m also supposed to tag someone else, so consider yourself tagged. You know, if you want to be, or whatever.

---

1) What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?


Just finished a scene for the manuscript. Not sure about the oldest thing I still have, maybe the mushroom cloud of suck of a spec script I wrote years ago.

2) Write poetry?
I enjoy reading poetry, but I don’t write it well. That’s why you’ll only find things like haiku about hillbilly sex on my blog. (How’s that for a keyword?)



3) Angsty poetry?
I would sooner give myself a Tabasco sauce enema. That said, I can’t deny writing some crappy teen-angst poetry when I was younger. I may see if I can dig some up and post it to the blog. Not sure if it still exists though.



4) Favorite genre of writing?


A few I find myself drawn to: Literary fiction, Magical realism, Southern Gothic. 



5) Most annoying character you've ever created?


Never felt the need to create an annoying character. When the time comes, there are plenty of real-life resources to draw from. 



6) Best plot you've ever created?


I find plot to be more difficult (but no less important) than character. I don’t have a best plot yet. Ask again in a year.



7) Coolest plot twist you've ever created?
Colonel Mustard did it in the Library with the revolver. I’ve posted a couple of short works on the blog that have twists at the end. I’d be interested if any readers have a favorite in that regard.



8) How often do you get writer's block?
I find the best cure for writer’s block is to park your culo and write. Sometimes the muse must be dragged, kicking and screaming back to the cave.



9) Write fan fiction?


Nope.

10) Do you type or write by hand?


I type, but I do keep a notebook where I’ll occasionally jot ideas and story notes by hand.



11) Do you save everything you write?


I do lately.



12) Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?


Yes. My first attempt at the novel fizzled before I went back at it with a different and fresh approach. I’m feeling much better about the direction it’s taking as a result.



13) What's your favorite thing you've ever written?


There are parts of the manuscript that I love.

 

14) What's everyone else's favorite story you've written?


No idea. I’ll take blog post nominations in the comments section though.

15) Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?


I was scared shitless about writing the romance elements of my manuscript. Now, I actually think they’re some of the best things I’ve written.



16) What's your favorite setting for your characters?


Depends on the story, whatever resonates. 



17) How many writing projects are you working on right now?
I always have blog ideas. I’m about 40,000 words into the first draft of the manuscript. I’m editing a short piece of humor fiction in the hopes it will be published soon. I’m also working on a short fiction piece that I’ll submit sometime early next month.

 The goal is to amass a few publishing credits while finishing the novel.

18) Have you ever won an award for your writing?


Nada. I haven’t entered any contests though, so the odds were stacked against me.

19) What are your five favorite words?
I’ve recently discovered a particular word that I use WAY too much in my writing. Now that it’s identified, it will be destroyed.



20) What character have you created that is most like yourself?


None really. I gravitate towards the bizarre in creating characters. I’m totally vanilla by comparison.



21) Where do you get your ideas for your characters?


Where does anyone get ideas? Everywhere. Nowhere. 



22) Do you ever write based on your dreams?
No. But I do a lot of writing in the early morning by necessity. I’m by no means a morning person, and it often feels like I’m still dreaming. 



23) Do you favor happy endings?


Happy endings belong in Thai massage parlors. You can quote me on that.



24) Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?


Absolutely. My spelling is probably the worst on the planet, so I have to be very careful. I’m always mortified when things slip through or when I have to write something without the benefit of spell check. 



25) Does music help you write?


I do listen to music when I write, but I try to keep it to instrumental pieces. I read somewhere that music with lyrics competes for the language centers in your brain. It’s probably pseudoscience, but I still do it. 



26) Quote something you've written. Whatever pops in your head.

From the blog: The problem with clever is that it cannot explain love.

Synonymous With Ominous

It was a day of strange sightings and dark things converging. I don't know why. Perhaps it was all perception, a reflection of mingled moods and words. This is what I tell myself.

Morning:

Outside the window, mist spreads the silence of earthbound clouds. Dew clings to spiderwebs stretched across black boughs, diamond necklaces shimmering with terror. I've never seen such webs and I call out for my wife to look. My hand rises to the glass, seeking the assurance of a barrier between worlds. We discuss the peculiar start to the day.

Mid-day:

I jog the neighborhood. The muffled thuds of my feet remind me of fists against flesh, and it disturbs me. I breathe deep through the nose and out my mouth, focusing on the out breath. The sidewalk is scarred with worm corpses, little black s-shapes burned by the sun. Some are already dust. I feel their million tiny deaths and tire quickly.

Afternoon:

An alligator at the edge of the retention pond, still and savage. I watch him warming his blood as I collect the grill-cover from the ground and stretch it over the pit. My gaze falls to my feet. A snake is curled in wait, maroon and gray, its head tracking my movements. It is small but foreign, and I imagine the burn of venom in my leg. I leap back as it lurches forward. I scurry back inside.

---

I'm not one for omens or signs, but it was a day for ominous images and occurrences. Intellectually they mean nothing, but I can't deny a certain lingering creepy feeling.

Do you believe in odd coincidence, or do you give such things meaning?

Seven

I know my last post was a little odd, so if you're concerned about this one having something to do with Gwyneth Paltrow's head in a box, don't be.

I received a couple of blog awards recently, and one of them involves passing it along to seven other bloggers. There are some rules, but as we've established I'm a bit of a savage when it comes to such things. I'll list out seven fantastic blogs and they're free to take the award should they want it; no strings attached.

But first a bit of thanks. TeacherWriter from the blog Writers and Teachers gave me the From Me To You award. Her blog is filled with practical tips on writing as well as some fun contests. If you haven't checked it out, you definitely should.


I'm supposed to list out my seven blogs along with seven things you don't know about me for this one. Here are seven fantastic blogs that you should definitely check out. I mean that. They are seven great blogs.

7 Great Blogs (In no certain order)

1. squid
2. Barry Newsdesk
3. The Imaginary Review
4. UberGrumpy
5. Calling People Names
6. You. Me. No adult supervision...
7. Live Write Dream

7 Things About Me

1. I think that everyone should be given a Punch With Impunity card on their birthday. They can use that card to punch one person without fear of retribution during the course of the year. Maybe people would be less inclined to ass-clownery if they knew that everyone was armed with such a card. Or at worst, you would get to punch the biggest jackass that you deal with in a given year.
2. I served four years in the US Air Force. I wasn't a pilot though, so chicks weren't impressed.
3. I once wrote a spec screenplay. It wasn't the absolute worst thing ever written, but it was damn close. Maybe second or third worst. Steve Guttenberg could've starred in it.
4. When watching Titanic, I figured out before the mid-point of the film that the boat was doomed to sink.
5. I did "The Great American Road Trip" in my twenties. I flew up to see a friend in Alaska and we drove from Alaska all the way down to Mexico then across the Southern US.
6. Regarding the above, I loved On the Road and hated Travels With Charley when reading about such adventures.
7. I'm trying to focus more on writing for non-blog projects, so don't be shocked if the frequency of my posts declines.

In other news, Erin from Blogging is for Dorks gave me an award for writing one of her favorite posts of 2009 (A Place For Regrets). To rank as one of her favorites from the year was a huge treat, and I'm incredibly honored. Thank you Erin!

If you haven't done so, you should check out her wonderful blog Blogging is for Dorks.


And lastly, it's a sad day in the land of blog awards. Mr. London Street just posted his last That Was The Week That Blogged post. I was fortunate enough to have won that award twice, and I really do consider it a huge honor. In fact, the first time he popped by my blog and gave me the award, I had about 12 followers, and I felt like I'd won the Nobel or something. So many thanks to him for keeping that award going for the time that he did. If you haven't checked out his blog, first of all, are you in a cave? And secondly, go over there now: Mr London Street.

Text At 10:28

I stand alone at the shore of sleep. The night devours the moon, and the tide is thick and dark like the blood of unknown martyrs. I wait for its approach, for the first lick against my flesh, for it to dissolve me one molecule at a time.

But in the spaces between the waves, I hear a distant grumble. And another me in another place wonders if that's the sound of a gator or maybe the groan of some strange fowl. Such things convene behind my house. They sing their songs of dissonance back there.

I hear another sound, something man-made, it floats across the room like a pixelated ghost. I run my hands through it as I rise from bed to check my phone.

It's a text message from an unknown number in an unknown area code.

It reads exactly as follows:

Tell him you are talking to the Nazis and they want to suck his balls.
10:28pm 12/6/09

I check the number again. Still foreign. It looks like the code to launch a missile.

I assume that this message is from God, and I'm pleased that he didn't use abbreviations.

I think reasonable thoughts -- Do I know him? Which Nazis? And do they really want to suck his balls, or does God have plans bigger than a good teabag?

God has taken to sending me text messages. This is not new. I know that it's God, because the numbers are always different and of an unknown origin, and the words have a certain Geometry, the angles always add up to 180 degrees.

It could all be a joke. I'm aware of this.

But I've glimpsed the hand that texts. It's a hag's hand. A thick black nail bends back from flesh as it types out its messages. And I know this to be a classic red herring, that the reality would look entirely different, if only I could see it.

A Rose By Any Other Name

...would be a weed. I thought saying that was hysterically funny when I was a teenager. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Maybe it had something to do with riffing on the Bard, a testament to my youthful rebellion. Or, more probably, it was because I was a sarcastic shit (when I wasn't busy shoe-gazing and wondering why nobody really "got" me).

But being a man my age with the name Hunter, I understand a little bit about names, about the weight they do or don't carry. As a very young kid, before there were hordes of kids named Hunter, it made me the odd man out. It was the source of playground taunting. It wasn't until much later that I heard of Hunter S. Thompson, and I started to think it might have some pedigree. Of course, that didn't stop my Croatian friend Zoran from making me repeat my name three times upon our introduction.

"So, they call you Hunter?" he asked one last time, grinning sheepishly.

"That's my name."

"Like a hunter?" He screwed up his face in disbelief. "Like a deer hunter?"

"Exactly like that."

At this point, laughter shook out of him. "You don't look like a hunter. You have a face like little baby!"

My wife, however, likes the name. It's strong. It's manly. We discussed this recently. And we decided that, should we ever have a son, we'll name him Stone Rod. Because it sounds tough. And I'm hoping to sire a porn star. Or a weatherman.

Anyway, Leah at The Weather in the Streets, recently did an excellent post about the name of her blog, and it got me to thinking about the naming process for my little slice of the Internet.

I didn't feel much pressure in naming the blog. It's not like I expected anyone to actually read it. Or that I'd make more than a post or two before closing up shop. But I did mull it over a little, I'm OCD that way. Here are some of the names I toyed with:

Huntertopia - quickly ruled out for massive egotistical doucheyness.

Random Acts of Genius - see above then multiply times 1,000.

The Hodgepodge - I looked at several variations of this one. And I actually liked it. I figured it would probably be representative of any future content. Unfortunately, most of the names that centered around that theme were taken. I guess I could have found something in keeping with that name, but the other hodgepodge blogs had to do with crafts, and I was worried about the initiation into their gang. Shanking someone with a bedazzled shiv just isn't my style.

Eventually I started toying with names like The Time Burglar and finally arrived at The Time Crook. I thought it fitting, because I knew that it would almost certainly be a place for the things I write when I should be working on other things instead. And, of course, I suppose it steals some of your time these days too. For that I'm incredibly grateful.

I hope you weren't expecting anything profound.

Out of curiosity, is that what you took the name to mean?

A Place For Regrets

[This isn't a funny post, nor is it lovely. As indicated by the title, this is a post about regret. If you're squeamish, you might want to skip this one.]

As a young boy growing up about an hour outside of Houston, I spent plenty of time outdoors. I fished in the murky shallows of ponds, clutching my cane pole as I waited for the plastic bobber to sink beneath the reflected sky, pulled by a hungry bass. I learned to shoot a slingshot and a compound bow near the edge of the woods. I dug holes in the earth, struggling against the hard clay and the weight of the Texas sun resting against my back, always disappointed when I didn't make it to China or at least strike oil.

So, as my tenth birthday approached, I lobbied hard for a pellet gun. But not just any pellet gun. I'd already mastered toy BB guns. And since I was approaching double-digits in age, practically a man by my estimation, I asked for a Sheridan pellet gun. I'd heard rumor that it was the most powerful pellet gun available. I coveted its smooth hardwood stock and the nickel plating that ran along the barrel. I longed to blow holes through things. But I knew that it was an extravagant request, too expensive, and probably even too dangerous, despite my pleas to the contrary.

Yet I somehow got that gun. I can't be sure exactly why. Maybe because I was a good boy that year, smart-alecky to be sure, but possessed of a certain maturity.

I ran my fingers over the box and asked, "How powerful do you think it is?"

My uncle rubbed at the stubble on his chin, contemplating his answer. "Probably about like a twenty-two. We can take it for a spin and find out."

He probably didn't mean that very second, but I begged and pleaded. The only thing to do with a gun like that was to shoot it, to sight it in, to harness its power.

We packed the gun into the car along with a heavy yellow box of lead pellets and some tin cans we'd collected for target practice. Then we followed the main road in the neighborhood until it turned into a blacktop and eventually a dirt road that cut through brush and sparse pines. It emptied us out in a clearing near a yawning ditch where muddy water snaked through the center and off into the distance.

We loaded the gun and took turns shooting at the cans. It was a single load rifle, and it required pumping to fill its pneumatic chamber. With each lead pellet, we calibrated the sights, until we consistently hit our targets with a plink that sent them flying. The pellets were designed to mushroom on impact, and they quickly tore holes in the tin. I wasn't strong enough to pump the gun to full strength without bracing it between my legs and using two hands. But I wanted to see what it was capable of, and at that power it even shot through the thick metal of a coffee can.

My uncle nodded with approval. "Yep, you're a good shot. And I reckon it's about like a twenty-two."

I was pleased by his pronouncement and tagged a tuna fish can dead center in celebration.

"You know you have to keep this thing on safety. And you can't ever point it at anyone. Even if you think it's unloaded. Accidents happen."

I grunted in agreement and continued shooting. But I was listening. I took in everything he was saying. I looked up to him.

And I followed his advice. Even on that day in the backyard as I shot Coke cans on low power, wasting time by myself.

I remember inspecting the holes in my target and marching back across the smell of pine needles for more practice. And I spotted the brittle brown shell of a cicada clinging to the skinny trunk of a tree. I reached out and touched it, a miniature monster, the remnants of something that disappeared into its own scream during the night. And my eyes climbed the tree, a pine, thin and dark, pointing towards the silent sky above.

A crow perched on one of its high branches, large and menacing, its dark eyes camouflaged. The black of its feathers shone plum in the sunlight, and I was reminded of something ominous, of some old feud between crows and men.

And I decided to kill that bird, to load a lead pellet in the chamber, to pump the gun to full power and to shoot it dead.

The gun was heavy aiming above my head, and I struggled against its sway before pulling the trigger and sending the pellet whizzing upwards, propelled by a loud pop.

But the bird stayed put, resting on his perch.

And I realized that I didn't know anything about life and death, that I was just a boy wielding too much power. And I was glad that I had missed that bird. I was glad that he would soon take flight, lighter than air. And I smiled a toothless grin at him, an olive branch offering.

But he didn't fly away. Just as I'd finished my thought, he fell, fluttering to the other side of the wooden fence and into my neighbor's backyard.

My stomach fell with him. And a lump grew in my throat as I climbed the fence, splinters digging into the soft palm of my hand. My feet slipped against the wood as I struggled to pull myself up to peer over the wall.

The bird hopped, broken-winged in a barren corner of the yard, a spot of dirt where nothing grew. And little clouds of dust kicked up beneath him as he tried to escape, as life left him. Mesmerized, I looked on. I watched until my strength gave, and I tumbled backwards to my own patch of barren earth.

I packed up my gun and my pellets, and I went to my room and locked the door. And I cried. I cried because I was too scared to tell anyone what had happened, to possibly save the crow. I cried because I didn't have it in me to load another pellet in the gun and put him out of his misery. I cried because I understood something that little boys weren't supposed to understand. I cried for his slow death, for the blood on my hands.

Only he didn't die. He still stumbles and flutters, kicking up dust in a claustrophobic place just beneath my sternum. It's a place reserved for the deepest of childhood regrets.