Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Brian Ekberg's LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, August 18th, 2004
9:26 pm	At the Other End of the Street No way am I going to do it, kid. I've already done it about a hundred times; maybe even a thousand now that I think about it. It's YOUR turn; it's YOUR time. I've done my time and I'm not doing it again. That sound? Shit, I don't know. Could be anything I guess. Sounds like bones breaking, don't it? Or maybe something big throwing up something even bigger. Best thing to do -- and this is exprience talking, kid -- is just to ignore it. Block it out. Even if it means sticking your thumbs in your ears and your fingers in your eyes. You'll want a few digits for your nose once you get close enough to smell it, too. Hell no, I'm not going to guarantee you anything kid. I made it back because I was damn lucky, not ever because I knew what I was doing. All I can do is slap you on the back and wish you Godspeed. Maybe if you're lucky like Ol' Jimmy, you'll come back. All I can tell you, for sure, is that if you do it enough times - and come back - sooner or later Vito will pick some other poor sucker to take your place. Sort of like how he picked you out to replace me. Think of where you'd be right now if it weren't for Vito, kid. Probably being violated by the Fire Chief while wearing Saran Wrap around your naughty bits because that's the way Chief likes it. Vito saved you from all that and you repay him like this? I say close your eyes and get it over with kid. Whatever it is at the other end of the street, one thing's for sure: It's different for you than it was for me. Buck up, little fucker. Squeeze your ass shut and keep yelling "For Vito! For Vito!" if it helps. NOW GET! Current Mood: excited Current Music: Lilac Wine - Jeff Buckley (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, August 13th, 2004
5:36 pm	Day 6 - And When Autumn Finally Arrived He liked to think that, with the right kind of instruments, some very clever forensic scientists could make out his butt-print on this chair which sat on his deck. He didn't think of it often, really, but when he did, it sort of scared him a bit that he had spent so much of his recent time sitting on his front porch, watching cars and kids go by. If it wasn't so damned interesting, he wouldn't do it, he told himself (and his daughter -- always more than a bit interested in encouraging him to exercise; how he hated even the sound of it!) Declaring "Devine Providence of Senility" on his 70th birthday he had, then and there, given up lying and now freely utilized this privilege of the very old to share his opinion when asked or not, about any number of topics. Because of this, were he asked by his daughter, or even his grandson in his weekly Wednesday call from Mississippi State, about the whereabouts and go-betweens of his recent times, he would tell them the truth: I've been sitting here thinking about your mother (or grandmother, as it may be). There wasn't much else to think about, really. He could watch the kids skipping to and from school at 7:45 and 2:15, respectively. He could listen for the city bus and time his watch by its route. He could wave when the mail man walked by and yell something about the weather. It was all by rote and it was just counting down one day or another. He was not unhappy and that was the truth. He'd tell anyone that and he meant it, no matter how often they asked. How could one be unhappy with memories like these: Yellow sundresses changing into high neck sweaters which covered snow white necks. Long walks with snow crunching under feet changing to the first swim of the season. Who could shed a tear in front of the thought of ruby red lips and a laugh like an angelic recital? No matter what he did or didn't do these days, he was alive in THAT time, surrounded by the smell and the sounds of the where and when Autumn finally arrived. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 12th, 2004
10:35 pm	Day 5 - Something's Burning When I was a little boy, I listened to a band that featured Kenny Rogers before he was a big star, before he was the Gambler and before he loved Lucille (even though the bitch left him at precisely the finest time). Though I've forgotten the name of the group -- something appropriately 1970s mellow chic would be a good guess -- I'll never forget the name of a song of theirs that has stuck with me to this day: "Something's Burning". The chorus of the song was "Something's burning, and I think it's love." Think about the effect words like that had a on a seven-year-old mind such as mine. I didn't know what love was back then. Sure I knew I loved my Mom and Dad, my dog and my sister but I didn't know what that meant. More importantly, I didn't know why what I felt for my family would ever, or would ever NEED TO, burn. Burning implied destruction and pain to a young kid like me. It meant fire alarms and memorized escape plans drilled into your head by teachers and parents alike. Never did occur to me that burning could mean anything other than the breaking down of something precious to me. I still remember Kenny Rogers et. al., and their leather vests, wide-collared white satin shirts and tight jeans that looked like denim leggings, standing among bales of hay on the back cover of the album -- embracing both the cowboy chic of the mid- to late-1970s and a down-home, but subtle twang. Somewhere, amidst the hay and polyester, I guess I learned something new. (Comment on this)
Monday, August 9th, 2004
7:34 pm	Day 4 - On the Other Side Tina has a zit on her face, just below the right corner of her bottom lip. She's scratching at it, picking the little mound of inflamed flesh, in the hopes of getting rid of it. On the other side of this little pimple, this tiny imperfection that is doing a damn good job of ruining Tina's weekend, there nothing more than some skin cells, fed up with a bit too much oil and dirt embedded in their linings, and some very sensitive nerve endings. There's pain in the spot where Tina scratches, swishing around those nerve endings pisses them off even more. Still, she ignores the pain, oblivious to their microscopic irritation with her, and continues scratching. She's trying to convince herself to go the extra mile and really dig in with her thumb and forefinger nails and rip the fucker off in one clean motion. There would be a stab of pain and a dabble of blood probably but that would be that. The stuff on the other side of her face could just quiet down once and for all. Then Dan arrives from behind her and puts his arms around her and squeezes her stomach gently. Dan wonders if he can feel what's on the other side of her tummy, the little miracle they made a few months prior. She spins around quickly and he keeps his hands where they are, ending up on her rear end as she spins. "What's on the other side here?" he asks, feeling for a line that would clearly mark a panty line of some sort. Feeling none, he raises his eyebrows in an expression of mock surprise. "Thong?" When she nods, he says, "Saucey for a soon-to-be mommy aren't you?" She laughs and presses her hand unconsciously to her stomach, where his hands had been moments before. (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 7th, 2004
11:40 pm	Day 3 - Someone is calling your name. Someone on the other side of the planet just finished Googling you; that's three times this week for him. For the record, he's also Yahoo'd you, Deja News'd you, hell, he even Webcrawled you, just to satiate the completist in him. The more than 200 RSS feeds he subscribes to daily trawled no new hits on your name in the eight hour since he last synched. Last night you spent a hazy evening, wandering around in a maze of flashbulbs, accosted by alien voices, whose only connection to the language you spoke was screaming your name. Surrounded by strangers who knew only as much about you as your parents did the moment you were born. Someone is always calling your name here and you've learned to merely tune it out. Now he's tired and for good reason. He's been at it for the past six hours -- reading, collating, wading through hundreds of sites, for a glimpse of your name. Words that contain merely a sequence of letters similar to your last name are enough, by the end of his search, to set his eyes alight and make his heart skip a beat. At this point, he knows, it's time to give up for the night. Nothing new will be coming out until Monday at the earliest, and more likely Wednesday or Thursday... when the parties pick up and the photos always turn up. It's like this every night. You've been shaking hands and smiling at people who would sooner see you with a bullet in your head, and they're feigning interest in your name, affecting laughter and muttering under their breath about your haircut as you leave. The same party happened two weeks ago and two weeks before that. Hadn't you just driven to this very restaurant on Monday? And here it is Thursday night and you're out again. His eyes are red and stinging, as if they've been newly implanted and are just getting used to sunlight. He has his fingers on the power button of his monitor, when a NEW MAIL icon flashes in the corner of his desktop. His heart and mind want to ignore the message until morning but his intuition knows better. He clicks the icon and his mail client opens. The subject line of the message reads: THE EAGLE HAS LANDED. There is an attachment and he opens it. Five minutes later he is in a car, heading towards the airport. It's Wednesday night where he is and, as he checks his watch, he figures he'll arrive in eight hours. You thought you'd drive yourself tonight, give Jason the night off. His wife is pregnant anyway and he'd really like to be with her during these last few exciting weeks. Note to yourself: Have Alexis hit Baby Gap tomorrow and buy some gifts, before it's too late. You already missed the shower, albeit on purpose. The last thing your career needed another pregnancy rumor. For the past eight-and-a-half hours, he has been staring at the back of a United Business class seat. He has blinked 5,110 times. You just stepped out of your IS-400 and are walking to your modest apartment. "Modest" is how In Style magazine referred to it, in October of last year. Your publicist nearly shit herself into a frenzy on a phone call to the L.A. editor after the article hit the racks. You have closed the door and are making your way down the small driveway ("Quaint without being overtly retro!"), your eyes distracted from the front entrance-way as your search your purse for your door keys. From somewhere beyond your field of vision, you hear your name; this time not shouted, or accompanied by the bum-rush of flashbulbs and clicking shutters -- but merely whispered, in a rasping voice, like a ghost's laughter. Someone is calling your name. This time, the sound of your name will not be ignored. Not anymore. Current Mood: exhausted Current Music: Josie - Larry Carlton (Comment on this)
Friday, August 6th, 2004
4:46 pm	Day 2 - "I was listening to something I heard before." I was listening to something I heard before. I always do this, you know; it's an old habit that I'm ashamed to admit I just can't break. Helen writes me from Prague saying things like: "You have GOT to listen to this DJ I heard on the radio today. Europe fucking RULES!" And then she'll go ahead and include a link or a mp3 sample attachment and I can never fucking bring myself to open it. I mean never. It would only take a flick of the wrist, a click of the finger and, what, thirty seconds out of my life? Thirty seconds to pause, sit down and listen to something that someone who used to be really important to me thinks really RULES!. How passive an act is listening, besides. It's not like she sent me a Noam Chomsky essay to pore through, the long tracts of text eating out the corners of my eyeballs as I lose myself somewhere in between sentences eleven and twelve in paragraph three, wandering in a maze of text, somewhere between the signposts of "media" and "influence", stuck on a participle dangling beneath a canyon of egghead invective. It's just a song. And, for better or worse, it means something to her and it speaks of where she is right now, which is about 2,300 miles from where I sit right now in my bathrobe, lighting up my third Kool of the morning. She may be staring at a dirty Eastern European river right now. Fog may be escaping from her mouth at this very moment as she shivers a bit and stares up at a gray sky. I won't listen to whatever it is she wants me to hear. At this point, it's just too much of a commitment. Current Mood: harried Current Music: The Completists - The Tragically Hip (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 5th, 2004
10:31 pm	Day 1 - Write About a Summer Night How many more of these will come along, Before we move on and separate How many like these, where the nights come late And daylight seems days away? And here's my promise to you all: I will look at you now And will do my best to remember each of your faces Because this may be the last time I remember to do this Before I get too old to care Before the job, and the family and the yapping dog Have all taken precedence in my world. I'll try and remember -- if not your face, then at least your voice -- The night I recognized our last summer sliding away. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: Dinner at Eight - Rufus Wainwright (Comment on this)
10:24 pm	The Return I didn't intend to return to this LiveJournal until November, when Nanowrimo rolls around again, and I post my novel in progress as I write it. I'm still planning on doing that but thought that my fiction suit, as Grant Morrison calls it, has become a bit dusty and wrinkled through months of neglect. Therefore it's time to spruce it up, dust it off and exercise some muscles. What set this off was seeing a book/workbook/flash card set called "A Creative Writer's Kit" by Judy Reeves. The flash cards can go straight to the Horned One, as far as I'm concerned but the writing calendar, which includes a prompt for each day of the seems ripe for a project. And what better place to practice than here, on LiveJournal, where exactly noone is reading? The goal, then, is to do an exercise a day, based on the prompts in the calendar book found in "A Creative Writer's Kit", beginning today, right now. If you're reading this, I don't think you're noone. Current Mood: curious Current Music: You Borrowed by Helmet (Comment on this)
Friday, November 28th, 2003
3:39 pm	Tell You what - Entry 28 Murray wondered if he had dandruff. It was an inane thought to be having at such a moment, surrounded by five men brandishing weapons, with an intent to beat him profusely, yet he could not help it. For months he had been dealing with a scalp condition brought on, it was his theory at least, by a complete lack of salty air in the atmosphere. He had never had such problems while in the Naval ROTC at Kansas State. It was only when he moved away from central Kansas that he began experiencing these scalp problems, which manifested themselves as thick white flakes on his shirt. Each time he scratched his head – and the problem was worsened by his baldness, he maintained, not helped – his scalp would erupt in an avalanche of powdery flakes, which would then dot his shoulders and back. It had gotten to the point where he refused to wear shirts or sweaters of a shade darker than gray, for fear of offending a passerby with his debilitating dandruff. And here he was covered completely in black, his face and head covered in an ill-fitting mask and hood which was constantly shifting his head back and forth. He could just imagine what his shoulders must look like now. It was embarrassing enough to have been caught in such a manner, especially after running up such a massive Ninja Shop bill; but to have his scalp flaking at the same time, it was too much. “Who the hell are you?” said the guard closest to Murray, the only one of the group who was unarmed. Murray could not tell if he was the leader of this particular squadron but could only assume so at this point. Murray knew the only chance for survival was in the element of surprise and, if he had lost the initiative by being caught, he could regain it through sheer force of will. Murray cleared his throat quickly and did his best to lower his voice a notch or two as he spoke; injecting a whispering, menace-filled note to his words, in the hopes that he could throw his opponents off balance, if not terrify them. He crouched low as he spoke and flayed his arms to either side of him, affecting what he thought might be a convincing martial arts stance. As he crouched, he brought his left arm down and quickly rummaged into his open gunnysack. Before any of the guards could react, Murray found what he had prayed he would. “I am ninja,” Murray said. “Prepare thyself!” With that he leapt up into the air and straightened his body as much as he could before he reached the full apex of his jump, nearly three inches off the ground. As his body landed, he splayed out his left foot and bent his right leg dramatically, forming a sort of sideways check mark with his legs. He placed his open palm directly in front of his face in a fierce jabbing motion. His other hand he slammed towards the floor and threw down a small object. He had hoped two things about the smoke bombs. First he hoped they had not gotten wet in the gunnysack during his escapade up the side of the ship. Second, he hoped they worked as advertised. At the Burl Ives’ Ninja Shop, they had promised to “provide an easy escape out of nearly any situation” and Murray took this to heart as he tossed down the small black object and watched it explode into billowing white clouds of smoke. Murray sat, crouched in the dramatic pose he had stolen directly from a mid-80s ninja film he had watched for research the night prior, as the smoke poured around him. The thickness of the smoke surprised him but he knew that, because the yacht was moving, it was only a matter of time before it dissipated. Did the smoke have enough time to work? Had he used the bomb in the proper context? Had he followed the instructions on the box correctly? After several seconds of waiting, the smoke dissipated enough so that each of the guards, amongst their coughing and tearing eyes, could make out a vague black form in the center of the explosion, still crouched on the ground – one hand out from his body, his fingers extended, the other hand pressing the ground and his legs crouched in an extremely uncomfortable-looking pose. Even after all the of the smoke was completely gone, the dark figure refused to move. It was only until Murray was picked up off the floor that he gave any indication that he recognized what was happening to him. “What is the meaning of this?” Murray said, his voice trailing off towards the docks where they had come from. “You are no longer supposed to be on this plane of existence!” he shouted. “Keep your goddamn voice down,” said the unarmed guard, his arms wrapped through Murray’s in a tightly-held full-nelson hold. “Burl Ives lied to me,” Murray yelled. “He lied about the smoke bombs! Burl Ives said it would provide an easy escape!” “You make another sound, boy, and I’m going to knock you out.” Murray did not like the tone or content of that last sentence so he kept his mouth shut as he was led off the main deck and into the interior of the yacht, all the while mentally composing the nastiest, most vitriolic letter of complaint his mind could muster at that moment. As he was being led off towards the stern of the boat, he noticed he could not see any guests he had noted earlier walking up the gangplank. These men were well-trained indeed, and knew enough to keep an intruder such as him away from the curious eyes of Hobson’s guests. If only he could get someone’s attention at that moment, he might be able to get free, but then what? Murray knew that whatever plan he had for when he got onboard, could now be crumpled up and thrown away. His plans did not matter now – he would be working off his wits and skill, such as they were, alone. They were not gentle, these men who dragged him wherever they were going, and he did not benefit by going completely limp, as he thought he might. Instead, the guards misinterpreted his submission as an act of resistance and he his abdomen paid the price, as he was struck by a baton several times – not hard enough to break anything, but certainly enough to get his attention. He coughed beneath his ninja mask and did his best not to breathe too hard – sucking in the cloth from his mask might prove fatal. He was brought into an elegant but spare room, with minimal furniture and no windows, save for some glass paneling on the entrance door. A chair was brought forth and he was slammed down onto the seat, his arms brought behind his back and tied to the chair behind him. When the knots were tied to the guard’s satisfaction, the unarmed guard who, in the light Murray could see was Asian, ordered all but one of the remaining goons to leave the room. He was wearing a pair of black leather gloves and he took them off slowly. He was smiling at Murray when he spoke again. “You wait here. No need to get up.” He laughed at his joke and left the room quickly. The remaining guard stood by the entrance of the door, crossed his arms and stared at Murray. As he sat there, a dull ache creeping up the left side of his ribcage, Murray realized he had an itch on the back of his neck. He wondered if the guard would scratch it for him, then decided against asking him for assistance. --- Darby and Tanya had been having a lovely time. That’s what anyone else on board Hobson’s Yacht would have thought, with just a casual glance at either of them. To the guests on board, they appeared to be just another nouveau riche couple enjoying an evening together onboard the beautiful ship. Inside, however, both of them were nearly exploding inside. “At least you look the part,” Darby said to Tanya. “I must look like a nun at a biker convention in this getup.” “You look great,” Tanya said. “Besides, I do not need you to get nervous here. I am already nervous enough as it is.” Darby nodded and wiped his brow, hoping he was not sweating as much as he suspected. “Oh damn, is that him?” Darby asked and pointed to a white-haired man ordering drinks from one of the yacht’s bartenders. “No! No that’s not him,” Tanya said. “I’ll point him out to you when I see him. Please stop pointing!” “What are we going to do when we see him?” Darby asked. He had been wondering that ever since they had gotten on board. “I’m not sure yet,” Tanya said. “Maybe nothing. We’ll just have to see what happens and how far Murray can get before we act.” “For all we know, Murray isn’t even here. For all we know he chickened out and is still at home. Or he got lost on the way to the docks. Or he’s tied up somewhere on the lower decks. We should have spent more time planning this!” Darby’s voice had moved from a hurried whisper to a desperate, shrill hissing sound. He hated himself for the fear he was feeling but, at the same time, couldn’t help it. They weren’t supposed to be here and, if they were caught, who knows what might happen? Emmitt Hobson and his kind were not men to be trifled with – they were not mere enthusiasts or dabblers in the business world and they did not have small appetites. These were men of action and consequence. Darby had dealt with their kind. Darby had told jokes to their kind. Darby had been booed off the stage at corporate-sponsored events by their kind. He had no great desire to cross them without having the upper hand. --- DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY: Writing ends tomorrow, at least temporarily, as I enjoy the rest of my Thanksgiving weekend. Look for the story to resume (and conclude) at the beginning of the week. (Comment on this)
Thursday, November 27th, 2003
10:07 am	Tell You What - Entry 27 As he reached the edge of the dock, Murray hid behind several crates towards the yacht’s stern. He had a few moments to catch his breath, his back up against the crates and he took stock of his situation while doing so. He was already exhausted from the final sprint down to the edge of the dock, which did not bode well for the rest of the evening. Another resolution for future escapades in espionage – get back on the treadmill. There was simply no excuse for being this out of shape. Fifteen years ago he would have been kicked from the service for displaying such poor dedication to his physical form. How he had lazed in his waning years! A quick equipment check through his gunnysacks and everything seemed to be in order. He still questioned the wisdom of carrying both sacks but the sales associate at Burl Ives’ had been insistent – this gear was the standard pack for yacht assaults in urban environments – and he had a brochure to prove it. Who was to argue with marketing paraphernalia? His ducks in a row and air back in his lungs, Murray peered backwards over the top of the crates, straining his eyes in the darkness to try and find an opening on the yacht. He knew there was no way he could take the gangplank as an entrance – there were far too many eyes and he was dressed for clandestine activity, not success. It was at this point that Murray realized he had all the equipment needed to board a yacht and take control of it from the ship’s captain, and he liked to think he had the necessary skills (cardiovascularly notwithstanding), but he didn’t have much of a plan for actually getting on board. Had he assumed there might be a secret backdoor entrance to the yacht, or that he might somehow be spirited upon the lower decks by praying to some Buddhist spiritual deity? The simple fact was, there only seemed to be one entrance to that yacht, and it was completely unavailable to him. “Time to think like the ninja,” Murray whispered to himself. The people at Burl Ives’ surely had not lied to him, he thought. If they said everything I would need to get on board this boat was there, then everything was there. He rummaged through his bag and began laying out his equipment, one piece at a time: ninja target boards, wooden samurai boken, spiral point keychains, rubber (and authentic metal) ninja stars, several aluminum fighting fans, and an absolutely gorgeous white T-shirt emblazoned with a dragon whose head was aflame and the words “SILENT FURY” airbrushed next to the flaming dragon head. Then, Murray found what he was looking for – the grappling hook! Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? He pulled out the instrument by its large metal head, four hooks emanating from a center point and a 30-ft. length of night-black nylon neatly tied behind the head. He carefully undid the velcro wrap that kept the nylon rope in check and lengthened out several feet of slack. While he had never actually used a grappling hook, he had seen enough Chuck Norris movies to understand how they worked. One more check over the top of the crates and then he was going to go for it. During that final check however, he found exactly what he was hoping he would not – several men roaming around the stern section of the yacht, each of them bulky and dressed in uniform. It could have been the crew or it could have been a security detail hired by Hobson for just such an occasion. Regardless, it meant trouble for Murray. He watched the men carefully, trying to get an accurate count of their number and patrol patterns. After a minute or so he estimated their number at least three. So far their patrolling seemed haphazard at best, which could be a blessing and a curse, Murray noted. A blessing because they might be gone for long stretches of time, a curse because they could fall upon his position at any moment. Say what you will about military discipline, Murray thought, but at least it’s predictable. He knew his only opportunity to make this happen would be to look for his next opportunity and seize it with relish for he might not get a second and the boat was due to leave at any moment. He turned around, facing the yacht and the crates directly in front of him and raised his head above them. Certain he could not be seen, he waited for the nearest guard to leave the vicinity of where he would aim the grappling hook. As soon as the guard made off, he stood and began wildly swinging the metal head of the grappling hook above his head, building momentum. He was afraid he might strike himself in the head but, at the last possible instant, let the head fly towards the yacht – only to have the metal head strike the side of the boat and cause a terribly loud clang and a large dent in the hull. Murray reeled the head of the hook back in desperately, his arms working furiously hauling the rope up from the depths it had fallen into. Without pause, without even checking for a second his target again, he swirled the hook again over his head and aimed higher. This time the grappling hook found it’s mark, securing itself solidly on the railing of the yacht. Murray gave a mighty tug to test the weight and when the hook did not budge from the railing, he knew it was safe to proceed. Yet those guards could return at any moment, Murray knew. He did not have enough time to pull this off, yet he was too far gone now. All that remained was to swing across and commit himself fully. Without a moment’s more hesitation, Murray grabbed hold his two remaining gunnysacks, threw them over his shoulder, grabbed the rope and leaped off the edge of the dock. The idea, when using a grappling hook in such a manner, is to grasp the rope close enough to the top of the rope so that one actually uses the wedge of the hook – dug into its target firmly – as a fulcrum from which one can swing confidently from Point A to Point B. While Murray knew this in theory, he did not execute it in the slightest in practice. In fact he had chosen to grasp the nylon rope with so much extra slack that his heroic swing turned more into a leap into the salty ocean followed by a quick jerking motion just as his feet hit the sea, thus slamming him into the lower hull of the stern end of Hobson’s Yacht. His feet and legs all the way up to his lower thighs were now sopping wet and he was out of breath, yet somehow Murray had managed to keep hold of the rope after all. He was gasping for air now and, as he tried to pull his left arm up over his right and attempt to climb the rope to the deck, he knew it was impossible. Not only was he soaking wet from the waist down now, he was hauling to sacks worth of equipment. He doubted he could have supported his weight completely naked for much longer; there was no way he could haul himself up fully clothed and hauling forty pounds of equipment. “Curse you, Burl Ives!” Murray said through gritted teeth. He knew he had but one chance, the Tiger Claws in his bag. The rope had become to slippery and he could not keep a firm grasp. Furthermore he had to dump one or both of the gunnysacks – they were weighing him down and might very well drown him if he actually let go of the rope altogether. “Oh why didn’t I just pole vault on deck?” Murray asked aloud. The idea had occurred to him but had seemed, at the time, not the least bit fitting for a ninja. He was not, after all, an Olympic athlete, he was ninja, at least on this night. Terrified, Murray let go of the rope with his left hand, after managing to position his feet against the hull of the boat, thus giving him a bit of extra leverage. He felt confident, now used to his surroundings, that if he could just get some relief from his burden, he could indeed make his way up the side of the boat and on deck. Grasping the rope desperately with his right hand, Murray managed to removed the first gunnysack from around his neck. He placed it in the water and was surprised to see it semi-floating. He unzipped it quickly and said a silent prayer to Neptune Himself that this was the correct bag. His prayers were answered when he found his Tiger Claws at the top of the bag. He grabbed them quickly and sadly let remaining contents in the sack float to the bottom of the sea – an offering of thanks to the God of the Seven Seas who had assisted him this night. What Neptune would need with a SILENT FURY ninja shirt and several pair of thumb cuffs, Murray had no idea but was all to happy to give them up. After managing to get his Tiger Claws around each palm, he felt immeasurably safer, the Tiger Claws providing an extra safeguard for climbing up the side of the yacht. The second gunnysack still clung tightly to his shoulders and he wondered what was in that sack – and cursed himself for not better organizing his gear. Slowly, he raised his left hand over his right and, feet planted firmly (if not confidently) to the hull of the boat and stepping up in unison, he lifted himself up a few inches. When he felt his body rise, Murray wanted to cry for joy. He had NOT fallen, his arms had NOT gave way in their sockets, he was NOT bleeding from the wrists in his effort. Oh bless you, Burl Ives, bless you! With each repetition of hand over hand, Murray felt the confidence grow in him. By now he had moved three feet up the side of the yacht uninterrupted and felt he was in an excellent physical groove. Call it adrenaline, call it practice, call it Neptune-given ability; whatever the reason, Murray was feeling confident and as alive as he’d ever felt. That was when the yacht bell rang and he felt a sudden lurch all around him. All of a sudden, the engines of the yacht were roaring, churning up a wake of disturbed water underneath his feet. He felt the yacht start to move away from the docks and the motion caused him to lose his grip momentarily. Had the yacht been still, it would not have been a problem, he could have certainly compensated. Now that the boat was moving, however, Murray’s equilibrium was all thrown off. At the last possible moment, Murray jammed his open palms into the side of the Hobson Yacht as hard as he could. The Tiger Claws dug into the yacht’s hull but did not stop Murray’s momentum for several inches. A terrible wrenching scream came from the metal as the Tiger Claws scraped against the hull. Murray was nearly blinded by the noise but was pleased to see it had worked. He had not fallen into the open sea and the rope was still within his grasp. It took him three tries to find hold on the rope as the boat’s momentum was causing the rope to sway gently with the yacht’s motion. Once he found the rope again he confidently let go of the boat with his Tiger Paws and felt himself swing gently as the rope swayed under his weight. Resetting his position on the boat he began his ascent up the side of the yacht. This attempt, however, he noticed was much quicker. He was making much quicker progress up the side of the boat. The jolt of nearly plunging to his death in the open sea must have given him newfound strength as he was no progressing up towards the deck at an alarming rate. By the time the railing was in sight, its metal glow reflecting a bright moon, Murray knew it wasn’t adrenaline that making his ascent so rapid – it was two of the Hobson security guards, hauling up the rope themselves. “Oh shit,” Murray said, under his breath, and wondered if maybe falling into the sea might have been a better choice after all. DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY: I'm about 2,500 words away from hitting my 50,000-word goal and I realize this story will not be done by then. Nonetheless, I'll be stopping (for a few days at least) as soon as I hit that 50K mark. It's been an intense month of creativity for me and I need to enjoy a couple days at least of NOT getting up at 6 a.m. to write my ridiculous novel. Rest assured though, both of you reading this, this book will be finished soon and we can all move onto the next one. I've enjoyed this process so much, I don't even want to think about editing "Tell You What" right now; instead I'm just going to move onto the next book, whatever it may be. I'll come back to TYW in a few months and see what I think of it then. Right now, I'm just looking forward to taking my 50-60K word document to Kinko's and printing it out, just to look at the damn thing. I may never even read it again, but I'll look at it a lot. And when people ask, when the see it placed on the middle of my coffee table in the living room, I'll tell them, yeah that's mine. I did that. Current Mood: excited (Comment on this)
10:06 am	Tell You What - Entry 26 The Gibson Marina docks had been deserted since six o’clock, Murray knew. There was no way a unionized sailing crew, so used to the civilian comforts ashore, would dare work a minute past the appointed hour. It would be their downfall, Murray noted; for while he was fairly certain he could gain access to the yacht once in its proximity, there was no way he could get near it – not with all the ninja equipment in the world – without the assistance of the mechanized laziness of union workers. Murray had considered walking to the docks. The idea of having a vehicle licensed in his name anywhere near the scene of this caper rankled him – should things go awry, it would be too easy for an investigating officer to track him down and put him away for a laundry list of offenses he would surely be committing this night. In the end, however, he decided not to walk it once he remembered how much gear he would be hauling with him. The idea of lugging two large sacks of equipment with him for more than 30 blocks was not in the least bit appealing. He had even toyed with the idea of public transportation, but was not sure how late the buses ran. Besides, he wondered, where would he change? So he had driven after all and parked his car in a tiny alleyway about five blocks away from the main docks entrance – an inconspicuous spot, as it was near a few area bars that would be serving drinks to the late-night crowd anyway. His car would not probably not even be found and, if it was, would surely remain wholly unimpressive. Murray checked his watch, straining his eyes at the face. His best guess told him it was either 11:45 a.m. or 7:30 p.m. He prayed it was the latter. If so, by now things were underway. Darby and Tanya had arrived at the Hobson Yacht, showed their invitations and, if all went well, were onboard the boat and doing whatever they needed to do. It had upset Murray that he had only been privy to select details of their plan; indeed, they had barely inquired into his well-thought out and detailed plan during their early afternoon meeting. Tanya said the less each of them knew about what the other was planning, the better, especially if they were caught. While Murray could not argue with the logic of that tactic, he had been a bit hurt that neither Tanya or Darby had been the least bit interested in checking out the detailed maps he had composed, the blueprints of the Hobson Yacht he had acquired from the Internet, or the receipts from the Burl Ives’ ninja shop detailing his equipment list and expenditures. He made a point of asking about reimbursement for the expensive shopping trip he had made, but was similarly disappointed with the lack of response on that front. Nonetheless, Murray was confident with his planning, if not the execution. After all, there were many people who enjoyed reading about war, but few who had actually taken part. This was proving to be a much different exploit than he had ever undertaken – he could only hope countless hours he had spent training his body, mind and spirit at Kansas State could prepare him for what he was about to undertake this night. He scoped out the main entrance to Gibson Marina from across the street, behind a garbage bin that smelled like two-day old pizza. Through his binoculars, he could discern no movement at the front of the docks, nor could he pick out his destination as well. This was bad news. He had hoped he would have immediately spotted Hobson’s yacht, or at least a long line of nouveau riche lining up to board. At least he would have a better idea of where he was heading. No suck luck, however. The coast was clear, at least temporarily and Murray looked to his left and right before crossing the street at full sprint and diving through the main entrance. His body hit the ground quickly and knocked the wind out of him The rolling motion he had planned to scrub off some of the momentum was temporarily put on hold as he tried desperately to regain his breath. Instead of making one fluid motion through the entrance, rolling smoothly and immediatley upending himself and continuing on, Murray lie there for a moment and wondered if anything was broken. He did not fell any snapped ligaments or bone piercing through his skin however and, when he rose to his feet again, he was pleased to note his ability to place his full weight on both legs. Excellent, he thought. My first major clandestine movement is a success. From the gunnysack in his right hand he pulled a small spray bottle and quickly doused himself with several spritzes along his head, face, and body. If Burl Ives was correct, this bottle would either prevent his scent from being picked up by any guard dogs the Marina might employ, or it would served as a cunning aphrodisiac for seducing elderly widows intent on giving up state secrets for sexual favors from eligible bachelors. Murray deeply hoped it was the former, as he had no intentions for illicit liaisons this evening, as welcome as they might be in any other situation. When no canines came to greet him after several seconds of waiting, Murray assumed he had made the correct choice of sprays and crept alongside a dock building, keeping his back to the wall. He had seen enough espionage movies to know it was important to stick to the shadows whenever possible, to take advantage of the dark clothing he was wearing. He remained unconvinced that he had chosen the right size – he was feeling severely chafed in some seriously private swaths of his body – but trusted the opinion of the Burl Ives salesman. It was not wise to question an Asian in the ways of the Ninja, Murray noted. Not only do they have thousands of years of experience behind them, they might just assassinate you then and there for dishonoring them! There it was! The sound Murray had been straining to hear since his arrival at Gibson Marina; the dull buzz of party-goers living it up as they entered Emmitt Hobson’s yacht. The sound was coming from behind him, and Murray saw there was only one way to reach the yacht – down the main thoroughfare that led off from the entrance and then cutting a 90-degree right turn. Somewhere beyond that blind corner, was docked Hobson’s yacht. He checked his watch again, bringing the face of the watch to his nose once again. It was now either 7:45 or noon, according to his timepiece, which left him exactly either fifteen minutes or eight hours to find his way onto the Hobson Yacht. Under normal circumstances that would be plenty of time – Gibson Marina was not that big after all – but with the added care he was taking moving from point-to-point, plus the fact that he was crawling on his belly to avoid any laser detection systems which might be installed at the Marina, meant that fifteen minutes just might not be enough. He cursed himself and vowed that the next time he was morally blackmailed into illegally breaking and entering into a well-known city mogul’s personal vehicle, he would leave at least an extra hour early, depending on traffic. For now, however, he would be forced to play the hand he was dealt. He immediately decided that crawling from one waypoint to the next would no longer work. Laser lattice network or not, he would have to take his chances in the interest of speed. After all, the effective ninja was not only silent, he was swift. Murray pulled away from the side of the building, his next objective – an number of oil barrels about 150 yards away directly in front of him – in sight and began running as quickly as he could, raising his legs to his abdomen with each step, hoping to provide a smaller target to any laser-guided devices. The result made it look like Murray was a speed-tiptoeing giraffe in a black shawl. Nonetheless, when he crashed against the barrels, desperately out of breath, only to hear no alarms sound, he knew his technique had paid off and he was undetected. He took a quick peek over the top edge of the barrels and could now see Hobson’s Yacht directly in front of him. He saw a large gangplank where the last of the well-dressed guests were climbing aboard the yacht – woman in elegant gowns and bright jewelry he could spot from his vantage point, 500 yards away; and men dressed in tuxedoes, leading their wives and guests aboard slowly. What a surprise they had in store for them tonight, Murray thought. He strained his eyes but could not pick out Darby and Tanya from this distance. He hoped they had arrived on time and knew things would be much more difficult if they could not uphold their end of this dangerous bargain. It would be a matter of trust as, however; despite his desperate pleadings, he could not convince either Tanya or Darby to bring walkie-talkies with them – Darby refusing because they would not use them, and Tanya ridiculously claiming she did not have room to store anything in her dress. “Put it on your hip,” Murray exclaimed. “There is a belt clip, after all!” “Murray, I’m not wearing logging pants and a flannel shirt, you idiot. I’ll be wearing a gown,” Tanya said. And that was the end of that; she would hear nothing further regarding his list of recommended equipment for either of them, which meant that he did have a chance to give Darby the double-barreled pump-action blowgun he had bought for Tanya, or the novelty combination exploding nunchakus he had bought as a gag gift for Darby. How he would have loved to have seen the look on Darby’s face when he brandished those chucks, should things come to that, only to have them explode in a fine powdery mess as soon as they made contact with the nearest solid. Murray was 250 yards away now, still keeping to the shadows carefully. He could hear the sound of a jazz piano trio playing on board the yacht, and saw twinkling lights from a chandelier in the main dining hall, shining through the port windows. He was close now. Current Music: Radiohead - Hail to the Thief (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 25th, 2003
8:00 am	Tell You What - Entry 25 Denise McClure was waiting for Murray at his desk, when he arrived at 10 a.m. the following morning. The look on her face meant Murray would not, in fact, be enjoying his morning sabbatical walk around the grounds of the building; it meant he would not have a chance to go spying on the lovely Dhalia in Human Resources; it meant he would not even have a chance to track down his Brown Nike and his PDA. “Denise, what a pleasure to see you so early,” Murray said “Murray I want to talk to you about what your press conference yesterday,” Denise said, getting straight to the point. Normally Murray would appreciate that in a person, especially a woman, but her tone indicated she was heading towards a point that Murray might not want her to reach. Murray played dumb, figuring the less he said, the less she had to complain about. “It isn’t very often that I get a call from the CEO’s office, Murray,” Denise said. “Rarer still when it’s actually the CEO himself calling me, and not his secretary.” Murray nodded his head and moved towards his desk, placing his briefcase on the counter top and the two gunnysacks full of gear down at his feet. He wondered if Denise would be curious as to what was in the sacks and he wracked his mind for an excuse just in case she asked – sail rigging? Salt and pork? Field hockey equipment? Murray found the last option the most believable and went with it, loaded the excuse into his mental gun and prepared to fire if provoked. “Your behavior at yesterday’s press conference was beyond unbelievable, Murray,” Denise said, apparently not even aware of the bags Murray was holding, or their tremendous bulk, or the loud clanging noise they made when Murray set them at his feet, or the numerous spiked joints showing through the fabric of the gunneysacks. Murray shuffled his feet slightly and cleared his throat. “I felt I was firm but fair, Denise.” “Firm but fair? You referred to Henry Jacobsen from the Wall Street Journal as a lazy-eyed, sister-sniffing brigand. You invited the senior business reporter from the Washington Post to, quote, ‘Go have sex with Napoleon’s corpse.’ Under what circumstances was this kind of name-calling necessary?” When Murray did not immediately reply, Denise went on. “I’d like to read you another direct quote from your press conference, just to see if you can grasp what I’m talking about here. This is you, towards the end of your final statement: ‘Not only does Compass Bank fully deny all charges levied against our executive board, we think the press would do better into looking into the private lives of several of our major competitor’s CEO’s. I, for one, know of at least two of them who prefer having intimate relations with lower members of the primate family. One in fact, has even flown as far as the deepest jungles in Africa to ask permission to marry a particularly comely chimpanzee. ‘If the business community is more concerned by corporate misdealing and the many, many financial blunders and outright criminal activities of our executive board, than by the serious moral and religious outrages committed daily by our competitors, not to mention vile sons of bitches such as Emmit Hobson of Hobson Foods, then we are truly living in the End Times and I will see all of you in Hades. Good day to you all, you incredible bastards.’ Murray was smiling by the end of her recitation, pleased by his sly mention of Hobson in his closing statement. That salvo would be seen, in hindsight as the opening shot over Hobson’s bow, with the final blow coming tonight – the final judgment in Hobson’s downfall, for better or worse. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you are not fired,” Denise said, the words straining from her lips tautly. “At least not yet.” Murray nodded his head and finally found the confidence to speak; now that his judgment was handed down, he felt he could be a bit more open about his situation. “Of course I am not fired. Why would anyone want to let a valuable corporate asset like me back into the free agent market? Why, I’d be snapped up in a millisecond by your closest competitor, my salary tripled, my benefits doubled and my conscience clear!” “If it was my decision, you’d be on the streets right now, you idiot. Never mind that it was my fault in the first place for putting you in that room alone. If the big wigs on the 13th Floor hadn’t loved your act in there – a goddamn miracle in and of itself – I’d be pounding pavement, looking for a new gig as well. As it is now, they think it was a brilliant ploy on the part of our department – deflecting the blame away from Compass Bank and shining a light on some of our competitors.” Murray nodded again, slowly feeling himself getting sleepy. All this business talk made him so tired – it was a wonder he had not simply dozed off during the press conference, instead of finding a way to personally insult more than 15 assembled members of the media. “Already the WSJ and the New York Times are preparing a piece on Hobson Foods in particular. I’m not sure what they’ll find but apparently it’s big, at least that’s what my sources tell me. So this might end up to be okay after all. You just better hope they find something and find something fast – otherwise the spotlight will be on Compass once again and, this time, it won’t waver. “As much as I hate your method, Murray, you bought our legal team some time in their defense preparations; and even though you probably ruined my relationship with at least three close colleagues, I have to admit you saved our department’s ass out there yesterday. For that, you get to keep your job.” Denise walked away and Murray felt a huge sigh of relief escape his body. That had been close, he noted. The last thing he needed was to lose his job, especially after putting all the ninja equipment on a credit card. It was going to take him months to pay this credit card off anyway – without a job it might take years. Murray knew he had been in the right during the press conference, he just did not understand the larger implications of what he was saying. All he really wanted to do that day was convey his feelings towards members of the press in an open forum where people would not be able to run away from his scathing viewpoints. He wanted to be in a position of power and treat them all the way they deserved to be treated. That his actions had proved to be a boon for the company was only an added benefit in his mind. Murray powered up his PC and began debating whether or not he should read his e-mail. It was only 10:15 a.m. and already he felt as if he had worked a full day. That dressing down by Denise had really taken the wind out of his sails, and he knew that he must be prepared for the night’s activities with a clear mind and a strong body. He logged into his computer workstation and then leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together behind his head and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could take some time off after this was all over. A nice vacation was a wonderful idea. Somewhere far away from the trouble and tumult of his daily life here at the office. Perhaps a location that offered wide open stretches of open sail to traverse. That was his idea of a vacation. A sail around the tip of Africa perhaps? He had never circumnavigated Cape Horn, yet it was a dream of his to do so. Perhaps a small jaunt across the English Channel in a rowboat wearing on the top half of a penguin costume and smoking bubblegum cigars – an original idea Murray had formulated years ago as a bid to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. Three times had the Guinness Board rejected the idea, despite Murray sending several photographic “proofs of concept” of the proposed event, taken in his living room, with his couch serving as the small rowboat substitution, a vacuum cleaner serving as his oar, and a tuxedo jacket replacing the top half of the penguin costume; a particularly witty touch, Murray noted. The Guinness folks just did not understand true innovation after all. --- The Nuns of Perpetual Annoyance’s Headquarters were, of all places, in the downstairs offices of a church in the Mission district of the city. Darby could not tell if this was intended as irony or not, but though the coincidence too interesting to overlook. That the organization even had an HQ was interesting enough – though its location was not widely known; the Nuns being an anti-establishment organization after all. Nonetheless, for all their frog-tossing and pie-chucking, they were a legitimate non-profit organization recognized by the city for their charitable works, and as such had as much right to be there as anyone else. Darby stood at the main entrance office to the building, a yellow door with chipped paint with a wooden sign hanging over it. Woodburned into the sign was a phrase Darby did not understand but recognized it to be either Latin or Greek. He didn’t bother to write it down for later research but instead knocked on the door loudly. He put his ear to the door and listened intently. Not hearing any footsteps, he banged on the door again. This time there was a response and Darby stood back from the door as it opened. As he stepped into the church building, he took a quick look to his left and then to his right, as if looking out for anyone who might be watching him. The door shut behind him. (Comment on this)
7:55 am	Tell You What - Entry 24 It was the last time Darby performed his act at this particular gym. The two men who came to escort Darby out of the building had forearms that were larger than the fattest part of Darby’s thighs and, as he tried to put on a good face in front of his audience, while being carted off “stage”, he knew this gym wasn’t the best one to meet his needs. As his venues changed, so did his act. After several fruitless months of searching, Darby finally found a gym that allowed him to do his standup act in front of the cardio exercisers, this time as a prop comic; after a particularly brilliant idea had struck him one morning. He was already at the gym with people who wanted to get fit – and his goal was to entertain them. Why not start a program where he could do just that, and get paid to do so. He pitched his idea of a prop comic aerobics instructor a week later and the gym manager, having just lost two instructors a week prior to a larger competitor, gave Darby a shot. Darby was thrilled with his opportunity, and with his newfound windfall, upgraded his stage attire from the suit and tie to a specially-made magicians tuxedo, complete with more than twenty pockets in the inside of the jacket, the sleeves, the back, the inside and outside of the pants, even a maze of interlocking pockets through the sleeves and lining of the jacket, for running long napkins through. It was a thing of wonder, Darby said of his coat and if there was one thing the world needed, it was another combination magician/prop comic. The classes he designed went reasonably well, despite a complete lack of music – which at first seemed to break a cardinal rule of intense aerobic exercise. Darby countered that argument at Aerobics Conventions with the idea that the laughter he provided would double the lung capacity of any regular practitioner of his method. While he had yet to prove out his theory in practice – his class attendance had dipped slightly from the five people he had played to the first day (who had been expecting Jolene Anthony’s Pilates/Yoga class), to two people – a legally blind septuagenarian from China and an apparent homeless person who spent most of Darby’s classes attempting to chew off his own hair. This was what Lenny Bruce called “earning your stripes,” Darby knew. If he were ever to reach the ranks of the big boys in the business, this was where he would ply his trade and learn his craft – in the aerobics room of a downtown gymnasium. Truly Hollywood was only a few deep knee bends away. “Okay! Let’s lift those legs up. My God, look at that!” Darby said, pointing to the old woman. “The last time I saw a Chinese person working that hard, he was building a railroad! Okay!” --- Murray, for his part of the evening’s preparations, went shopping. Tanya and Darby had a semi-legitimate reason for being on the Hobson’s yachts on the following evening, but he had no such luxury. His entrance onto this maximum security pleasure vehicle would only be gained through guile and cunning and strength of will, luckily three things that Murray knew he possessed in spades. However, without the proper equipment, all his natural ability would be for naught. There was only so much, after all, one person could do before the natural awkwardness of the human form took over; what he needed was a few select supplies to allow him to transcend his form and use his abilities to the best possible advantage. Burl Ives’ Ninja Shop was in the Mission District, two blocks away from the subway stop, in one of the most heavily Latino neighborhoods in the city. The shop had stood for decades, ever since the noted singer and actor had bought the location and opened up the ninja weaponry and equipment shop as his last will and testament. Few people knew that the man who was best known as the charming, grandfatherly voice of the “Snowman” on the “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” holiday television special, was actually an avid student of the Silent Art of Assassination and had, in fact, spent the last healthy years of his life, engaged in serious martial arts study in Nepal. The store, then, had become one of the many secret treasures of the city. People in the know came from all across the nation, indeed the world, to see the store and its many treasures – a living will and testament to the man whose voice had inspired so many. As the plaque on the front of the store read: “Hi, I’m Burl Ives. Welcome to my Ninja Shop. It’s my hope that you will find everything you need here for any clandestine activities or assassination attempts you’re planning. As Rudolph’s friend the Snowman, I hoped to inspire him to greater heights in his bid to lead Santa’s Sleigh. As proprietor of my Ninja Shop, I hope to inspire each and every one of you to committing silent and deadly homicide under cover of darkness, never to be seen or heard from again.” While practically any other celebrity ninja supply store had been overtaken by commercialism and cheap wholesale crap, Burl Ives had, with his vast fortune collected from his long and prosperous show business career backing him up, insisted upon quality. There would be no pandering cheap crap in Burl Ives’ Ninja Shop. Every throwing star that bore his name, every kendo stick handle stamped with the Ives’ crest, every “Burl Ives’ Demonstrates the Seven Strike Double Choke Kicks” video he sold, was of the highest quality tested and approved by a rigorous Quality Assurance team in Winnepac, Minnesota. Therefore, Murray knew he was in the right hands when he entered the door to the shop and heard the lilting strains of Ives’ voice, singing “Silver and Gold” gently. “Good day to you, sir,” came a friendly voice from the back of the store, obscured by several large sword cases. “I will be with you in one moment.” The voice was slightly accented, Murray noted, but he could not place its origins. This did not concern him, however, for he was too taken aback by what he saw in the store. Never in his life had he seen so much splendor. In ever corner of the room was some highly tuned, sharpened edged weapon or spy device. Every shelf offered untold wonders of violent and often retractable nature. Why, there was even a life-size mannequin of the man himself – Burl Ives – replete in full ninja regalia, the white cloth of the suit bright and clear against the snow capped peaks he stood against. Murray was awed. “Ah yes, you admire the picture of Sensei Ives,” came the familiar voice again. “Oddly, that picture is said to have been taken three days after Sensei was pronounced legally dead by a Kansas hospital in 1995. To this day, noone has been able to prove that either story is credible.” “So, you’re saying he may still be alive?” Murray asked, incredulous. As for a response, the man, who, by the looks of him, was likely Chinese, simply raised his index finger to his mouth and tapped his lip gently twice. “What can I help you with today, sir?” the man asked after completing his gesture, his voice chirpy in its friendliness. “Are you planning a spot of revenge, perhaps ultimate vengeance of a jilted lover? Would you like to spy on a multinational corporation using the methods of the Old World? We have several books and instructional videos for sale.” Murray was delighted with the man’s candor, if not his speaking style, and felt he could really open up to him. “Nothing of the sort really,” said Murray. “This should be just your standard B and E, albeit under some interesting circumstances.” “Ah yes,” the man said. “Breaking and entering – one of our specialties. No proper B and E would be complete without a set of ninja grappling hooks.” “Yes, yes of course. I’ll take that. I think I’ll also be doing some climbing as well, perhaps not necessarily using a rope.” “Tiger claws, my dear man! The well-equipped assassin-for-hire never leaves the prefecture without them.” The Chinese man unlocked the glass cabinet beneath him, which was filled with an array of instruments, not all of which Murray recognized. He grabbed a small box from the cabinet. Inside, were two small metal bars with five metal hooks. Attached to the bar were velcro straps that were used to secure the bars to the palm of the climber, the hooks were there to be used to attached to the side of walls. “And these work?” Murray asked, not sure they could support his weight. The Chinese man nodded vigorously. “You need to make sure you punch stiffly with your palm into whatever surface you’re climbing, but they should provide an ample handhold to nearly any surface you need. He smiled broadly and Murray was convinced. “Pack them up and leave them by the register, my good man. I’ll be needing much more before I leave you today.” “Of course, of course,” said the shop owner. “But, if I may, if you describe exactly what kind of mission you are undertaking, perhaps I can more fully assist you with our complete line of Burl Ives infiltration and termination equipment.” He had a point, Murray conceded. There was noone else more prepared to equip him. Still he wasn’t sure he could confide in the Chinese man fully so, as he relayed his plans for the following evening’s activities, he left out several select details. Were the proprietor to be captured by police (or rival celebrity ninja shop), he would be unable to provide them with the necessary details, even under intense torture and interrogation. Murray was pleased with his strategic planning, knowing it was worthy of even the most seasoned Navy man. The Chinese man nodded thoughtfully and listened to Murray’s plan of attack, and even offered several stratagem alternatives of his own for Murray to consider. By the end of their conversation, Murray left Burl Ives’ Ninja Shop with several gunnysacks full of grade-A ninja equipment and confidence in his mission, his techniques and the righteousness of what he was planning to do. Perhaps, Murray thought, as he was making his way back to his apartment, lugging the heavy sacks of equipment alongside him, perhaps I can use this gear to somehow extract my revenge on Brown Nike as well. He was convinced, after all, that Brown Nike had somehow broken the seal of his PDA and pilfered and pillaged his way through the invaluable data contained therein. If it came down to Brown Nike’s life and several disputed copyrights and patents, Murray had a clear idea of which would take precedence. The loss of the PDA would not have been such a big deal, if Murray had remembered to back up his work, he realized. He cursed his slothfulness and vowed that if the PDA ever returned to his possession, he would first wipe it clean of any offending fingerprints and then would religiously back up his work – meaning only on Sunday. It was as good a promise as he could make right now, for Murray’s anxiety level was increasing with each passing minute – with every thought of what he was about to undertake, his blood pressure rose a degree. He wondered if he would be able to sleep at all that night, and knew he might have to resort to chemical aid – he needed a good night’s worth of sleep to fully prepare himself for what was sure to be a long night to follow. (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 23rd, 2003
10:13 am	Tell You What - Entry 23 In truth, he had been a standup comic for years – he just had never taken his act out of the gymnasium. Several yeas prior, Darby had formulated the idea of becoming a standup comic, sat down and wrote a bunch of material that he felt was relevant and topical (if not exactly funny). All he needed, then, was a place to perform his act. A nightclub was out of the question, however. Not only was he inexperienced and his material untested, he had no intention of playing to a crowd that might stand up and leave at any moment; the blow to his ego would be too much for him to bear. The search for an appropriate venue began in earnest, however and they changed as Darby’s act changed as well. At first he preferred playing children’s birthday parties and family reunions – but learned that children had little appreciation for well-formed puns on the national deficit and the evils of the Reagan administration. He stopped playing family reunions when, at his last gig, it was learned by the head of the family that Darby was not, in fact, a white-skinned African American cousin twice removed from South Africa. It was either that, Darby remembered, or the Medgar Evers jokes. Darby knew he would need to change with the times but also knew that he could not count on himself to continually come up with new topical humor. There was only one choice left to him – improvisation. While never his strong suit, Darby knew that this style of comedy was the only way he could keep his act fresh and artistically challenging for him. Anything else would be faking it and, at least in this part of his life, Darby refused to fake it. He had seen some of the great improvisational comedians through videos and television shows and marveled at their skill, their ability to take any situation, no matter how odd and outlandish and extract not only the humor of the situation, but also the character and humanity, which was the real trick. It was easy to get a few laughs through poop and pee jokes (Darby had built his career, such as it was, on this fact) – the real skill came in creating a situation that not only entertained an audience, but also connected with them on some other level. Still, there was the matter of the venue. Darby had no intention of taking his act to places where improvisational comedians thrive – parks full of homeless people and Renaissance Fairs. Instead, he wanted a truly captive audience, one that would sit and be attentive of him and his burgeoning creative abilities, no matter what he tried. There really was only one answer. Darby applied for a gym membership as soon as the idea struck him. He appeared in a full suit and tie the day he went to fill out the paperwork. When the muscle-bound woman assisting him asked what he did for a living, obviously impressed with his well-tailored appearance, Darby lied and said he was a standup. What a thrill to lie to a perfect stranger; and, in that moment, he realized he WAS a standup comic, at least in the eyes of this person. The act of creation was sometimes as easy as saying it already existed, Darby noted, and a rush of cold chill went up his spine. It truly was an exhilarating experience. “What are your fitness goals during your membership, Mr. Arnello?” the muscular woman, whose nametag read Doska. “Well, I hadn’t really even thought of it,” Darby said, which was the truth. He had goals for his gym membership, but none of them involved losing weight of improving his muscle-to-fat ratio. Doska suggested several rudimentary exercises he could try on his first day, concentrating his area of focus on his prodigious stomach and upper body. Despite being fairly rotund, Darby had surprisingly small arms, Doska noted. With regular attention to a careful diet and a regimented exercise routine, Doska said, it would definitely be possible for Darby to slim one down while bulking the other up. “Now, can I show you to the men’s locker room?” Doska asked. “That won’t be necessary,” Darby asked and stood up immediately. He grabbed the sheet of paper Doska had prepared regarding his preliminary workout schedule and shook her hand, profusely thanking her for all her assistance. When they parted ways, Darby noticed the paper packet also included a map of the gym facilities. He checked the map quickly with his index finger and, finding his destination on the map, headed there quickly. The cardiovascular room at the gymnasium was a whirl of activity. Darby peeked at it quickly from around a corner, eager to see for the first time the room he was playing in, but not wanting to give anyone a peak of their soon-to-be-much-beloved afternoon exercise entertainer. There were so many people in there! Row upon row of exercise bikes, treadmills, stairmasters, rowing machines and an odd piece or two that Darby could not recognize – and nearly every single piece of equipment was occupied. This truly was the most ingenious idea Darby had ever had. How those sweating masses in the cardio room would welcome his comedic relief from their busy and stressful lives. Certainly, he noted, exercise is a wonderful stress reducer, but not when compared to laughter! There was nothing like roaring, deep, belly laughter to take away the stress of the day and leave you spent and cleansed. This is what Darby aimed to provide his beloved audience. He turned away from the cardio room and leaned up against the wall. He would give himself 30 seconds before making his entrance – let the suspense build up before you ever get on stage. He had read that in a book, “How to be a Stand Up Comic – Without Being Funny!” which he had ordered online from a comic’s Web site. The book was mostly useless but did, in its way, prove the title true. The book was ham-handedly written and absolutely unfunny, yet it was no lie that the author was indeed a standup comedian and Darby had seen him on several television shows, ruining the lives and careers of the actors around him with his high-pitched delivery of utterly inane dialogue. Certainly if THAT nebbish could find a way to eke out a living as a sitcom star, Darby could find a way to entertain a group of health nuts. Wait, Darby thought, I have to warm up first. I can’t just go out there cold! It would be a disaster, he knew. To go out alone on stage with no backstage preparation was an invitation for tragedy. The only problem was, he didn’t have that many stage exercises he could by himself. It would be virtually impossible to try any of a number of standard stage warm-up techniques such as Big Booty or Yes And…? Even that vaunted standard stage prep exercise Paralyzed Senility was out of the question. All of them required two or more people to take part, so one could practice listening and feeding off one another. Darby, then, was stuck. Due on stage at any moment, yet completely unable to calm down his pre-show nerves with some simple exercises. “Wait a minute,” Darby said, suddenly. “If it’s exercise, I need, it’s exercise I’ll get!” He then ran to the nearest machine he could find and climbed on. Unsure of whether the machine was intended for his legs or his arms, Darby tried several configurations of threading his limbs through the joints of the machine and staring against them, trying to get one part to move. When nothing happened, he consulted the directions printed on the side of the machine, and realized this was a machine designed to assist in the development of the buttocks. He carefully emulated the position of the naked man, stripped of his skin, in the diagram and lay down on his stomach, curling his legs under the bars at the opposite end of his head. He did several quick and dirty lifts with his legs, the weight bar crashing into the back of his rear with each violent exertion. By the end of the tenth repetition, Darby was screaming in agony, with beads of sweat dotting his forehead, hairline, eyelids, lips, chin, neck and ears. Now that was what he called a proper warmup! Darby felt incredible – limber and strong and well toned for the first time since fifth grade. He was as ready as he’d ever be, this was his moment and the start of a new life for him – the first step towards writing unfunny books and a career as a mediocre sitcom star. At full gallop, Darby ran into the cardio room and began waving his arms crazily in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. It had long been his goal to make an entrance, no matter what the cost. Above all else, an audience would remember their first impression of you. In fact they may remember nothing else. Darby was wishing the latter point would not turn out to be true however, as he was falling to the ground, having tripped over several of the stationary bikes’ power cords plugged into the floor. As he toppled through mid-air, Darby hoped bitterly that he could salvage what was left of his performance after this particularly awkward entrance. When his head smacked the floor and a welt of blood appeared on his forehead after striking the foot of a exercise bike station, he suspected he might not be able to recover after all. The show went on, as the saying goes, however. Darby sprung to his feet and clapped his hands together loudly, yelling a few times, though his voice was decidedly weaker this time, from having sprinted into the room in the first place. There was plenty of time for notes after the show however. For now, the entertainment must begin in earnest! “Hi folks, I’m Darby Arnello. I know my last name sounds like a Pepperidge Farm cookie and that’s because my mom was a big fatass! Okay!” “So hey folks I’m here for the next ten to fifteen minutes, whichever comes first! Okay!” “Seriously, I’ll be your exercise-time comedian, though, judging by the looks of some of you out there, you’ll need to stay here a couple more days after I’m gone! Okay!” “It’s crazy, these gym memberships, huh? They get you coming and going, don’t they? Sort of like a Nevada whorehouse! Okay!” From the back of the room, a single solitary voice, “Hey buddy what the hell do you think you’re doing?” A heckler, Darby noted, it had to be. Darby had read about this particular species of entertainment insect in another text “I’m OK, But You Don’t Look So Good” by another fairly well-known comedic columnist for a major metropolitan newspaper. The heckler’s job was to make him- or herself the star of the show, not the person actually on stage – or in front of the exercise bikes, as Darby noted. They were vermin – too cowardly to come up on stage themselves and try out their non-existent routines; instead choosing to put down the work of others for a few cheap and easy laughs. Darby knew the best way to beat a heckler was to ignore them, for a response was just as soon an acknowledgment of their existence. He continued on with the scripted portion of his routine, ignoring the ever-increasing jibes from the guy on the rowing machine in the back. “Hey, fellas, what’s the deal with the shower room in a male locker room? I mean have you ever SEEN so much pent-up sexual frustration in one spot? It’s like the Easter Morning in Amsterdam! Okay!” “Shut up you idiot, I’m trying to watch Larry King Live!” said the voice in the back of the room. Darby plugged along. “But the worst thing is when you’re in the showers and you accidentally get caught looking at another man’s jimmy! I mean, how awkward is that?! You’re just looking around innocently and you just happen to lock eyes with another man’s junk – then you look up and he’s staring right at you! What do you do? Do you smile? Because that elicits one response – ‘Hey I like what I see there. Perhaps you would like me to touch it gently?’ Do you curl your lips and snarl? ‘Hey get that thing away from me, I’m no fag!’ Okay!” “Please be quiet, sir, we’re trying to concentrate here.” Another voice, this time from a young Asian woman just getting off her bike and toweling off her neck. They were ganging up on him here, and Darby knew he had to react quickly. Enough with the scripted material, he went straight for the kill. “Okay okay! Thanks for coming tonight. I know all of you must be really tired. What I’d like to do now is get some suggestions from the audience for a scene. Any suggestions at all!” Darby cupped his hands to his mouth and repeated himself above the sounds of the television sets above him, whose volumes were being increased now by the Asian woman who held a remote control. “ANY SUGGESTIONS AT ALL!” “HOW ABOUT SHUT THE FUCK UP!” said the guy on the rowing machine. “Thank you sir!” and Murray immediately launched into a one-man improvisational scene where he was chasing an imaginary creature called “The Fuck of Baskerville,” trying desperately to capture the creature and place him in an imaginary box, thus shutting The Fuck up. Darby wasn’t exactly pleased with the outcome, but did find solace in his characterization of the 85-year-old Prussian peasant woman he played in the skit. “Thank you, thank you! Okay! That was completely improvised, folks. Nothing scripted in that scene at all. Okay! Now I’d like to pay a little game I call “185”. What I’ll need from you is a suggestion of a type of JOB. Someone give me a suggestion for a type of job, please! Anything at all!” When noone responded, not even the heckler in the back row, Darby cupped his hand to his ear and yelled “Did I hear astronaut, ma’am? Yes, astronaut it is.” He then stepped forward and a projected his voice fully. “One hundred and eighty five astronauts walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Hey guys, we don’t serve astronauts here’, so the 185 astronauts say, ‘Awww Buzz off!’ Okay!” Darby continued with the astronaut theme; feeling he was on a roll. “One hundred and eighty five astronauts walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Hey, we don’t serve astronauts here’, so the 185 astronauts say ‘That’s one small step for mankind, and 30 giant leaps to the bar next door.’ Okay!” Even Darby laughed at that one, then chastised himself immediatley. Breaking up on stage was a sure sign of a rank beginner. “Can I get another suggestion? This time, a type of vegetable please!” “Did I hear corn?” Darby asked, when no response came. “Corn it is!” “One hundred and eighty five corns walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Hey, we don’t serve corns here’, so the 185 astronauts say ‘What, I didn’t hear you, sonny! My EARS aren’t so good!’ Okay! EARS! Hahaha.” At this, a large-framed woman exited her treadmill, picked up her towel and began walking out the cardio room entrance to Darby’s right, glaring at him the entire time. Without a moment’s hesitation, Darby bellowed, “Get back on that treadmill, honey! If you don’t listen to the rest of my act, you’re ass is going need to have Good Year tattooed on it!” Okay!” “Shut up, you asshole!” said the guy on the rowing machine again. Darby had had enough with this guy. Between the idiot heckler and the woman leaving, all while Darby was really killing with some new improv material, it was too much for him to bear. He had to take action now, as ignoring the guy was not making him go away. This called for more drastic action. Darby steeled himself for the coming onslaught and then brought his imaginary microphone to his mouth. “Hey look buddy, I don’t come and pee in your garbage truck, so why don’t you stop shitting on me while I’m working! Okay!” ----- DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY: There are few things as difficult, I've realized with this last entry, as writing quality comedic material. I have immense respect for those able to do it, especially the tight stuff of the real pros. Those of you who know me probably can identify the standup/author/sitcom star I'm referring to in the Day 23 entry. Yes, I still hate him. Yes, I always will. No, I will never understand his success. (Comment on this)
10:12 am	Tell You What - Entry 22 “Well, that’s a relief,” Murray said, finally finishing his perusal of the Hobson invitation. “It appears my services will no longer be needed in your aid, Ms. Tanya. It certainly was a pleasure making your acquaintance and I wish you and your fake husband the best.” Murray quickly stood up and gathered his things as quickly as possible. Before he could leave however, Tanya stopped him and commanded him to sit down. “You’re not going anywhere, Murray. You’re just as much a part of this operation as Darby and I are; in fact you’re probably more important than either of us.” Tanya knew she had to play her cards carefully here, especially when it concerned Murray. Flattery would get her far with him, but not far enough. If she was going to convince him to do what she needed him to do, she would need to let him figure it out for himself, make it seem like it was his idea to begin with and then thank him profusely for assisting her. Judging what she knew of Murray’s intellect, however, that proposition might take longer than she had. “Murray, you read that invitation. This gala is to be held on Murray’s yacht tomorrow night. Darby and I can get on board with these invitations but there is no way we could find our way around amidst all of those people.” Murray thought about this for a moment, then his eyes opened wide with an insight. He lifted a finger and said, “I have a vast library of books detailing the specifications and construction of various sea-going vessels, both commercial, military and civilian, from the mid-1950s and upward. I would certainly be willing to lend you this book for your operation tomorrow.” Tanya’s turned her face downward slightly and looked up at Murray, affecting a slight pleading tone to her voice, “We don’t really have time for that kind of research. Besides, I’m terrible with blueprints and plans and all of that kind of thing.” “I suppose I could watch you from shore with a pair of high-powered nightvision binoculars, and guide you from shore.” Now they were getting somewhere, Tanya thought. She was getting him closer to the boat, at least. “Come on Darby, you pussy. I thought you would love the opportunity to take to the open seas again!” Darby said and, though Tanya knew he was kidding by the tone in his voice, Murray did not take the jibe so pleasantly. He took his napkin from his lap and threw it to the table haughtily. When he stood, the full bearing of his 165-pound frame seemed gigantic, and the light cast of his balding head was nearly blinding. He cast an accusing finger at Darby and his voice cracked with rage when he spoke. “How dare you, Darby Arnello! How dare you accuse me of cowardice at such a time of dire need! You, sirrah, have just thrown down the gauntlet, a velvet-gloved slap to my face! There have been times when I have characterized you in my ship’s journal as a buffoon and an overweight, mush-minded weakling, sirrah, but I have never once, ever intimated that you are anything but a stalwart sailor, ready to take on the challenges and obstacles of Poseidon Himself if need be to help this poor young woman – this pathetic wretch of a hag.” “Wait a minute,” Tanya shouted. “Silence, woman. I have not finished with Mr. Arnello here!” Murray said, putting particular emphasis on Darby’s last name. “If you are interested, Ms. Tanya you the spelling of Darby’s last name is as such: A-R-N-E-L-L-O!” “You son of a bitch!” Darby was up now and glaring at Murray, his fists balled up tightly. “You promised me!” He was shaking with anger and the fat under his chin was quivering in his rage, which looked all the more ridiculous with the spaghetti sauce stains that dotted his chin as well. Tanya knew she had to defuse this situation right now, or the whole thing was going up in smoke. “Both of you assholes sit down right now!” she yelled. She had not yelled this much at members of the opposite sex since she was married, she thought. “None of your petty arguments are important right now. Tomorrow, after this is all over, I don’t care if the two of you meet each other on Boot Hill at high noon, pistols in hand. But you WILL be helping me tonight and we WILL ALL be going to that yacht tomorrow night.” Darby and Murray continued to stare at each other, silently fuming; Murray trying to remember any specific Article of War that prevented murder of a shipmate, and Darby wondering how Helen would take the news if Tanya actually came through with her threat to tell her of him and Janice. Not well, he figured, not well at all. If only that idiot could have kept his mouth shut, Darby thought. None of this would be happening! “What we need to figure out right now is how are we going to get Murray onto the boat.” Murray was silent for a moment, then asked one question, “Where is Hobson’s boat docked?” “Gibson’s Marina,” Tanya replied, glad she had done a little research beforehand. “It’s over there by…” “I am familiar with the location,” Murray replied, still staring at Darby who had not moved a twitching muscle since their confrontation. “I will be leaving you presently,” Murray said. “For I have a full night ahead of me of mental and physical preparation for tomorrow.” He stood up and left the restaurant without any further fanfare. Tanya was not sure what Murray had in mind but the determined look on his face and the finality of his voice, convinced her that he would be able to handle his duties and assist them. To Darby she asked, “Do you have a tuxedo?” “Of course,” he said. “I wear it when I do my stand-up routine.” “You’re a comic?” Tanya asked, incredulous. “Sort of. I haven’t really hit it big yet,” Darby said and did not offer anything further on the matter. (Comment on this)
10:11 am	Tell You What - 21 The meeting had gone well, and the rest of the day was spent congratulating himself by browsing the Internet, looking for mentions of his name and his tirade against the media-saturated country he lived in. It would only be a matter of time, he thought, before the stories hit the wire and Murray finally made a name for himself in the Public Relations world, as an up-and-comer. Who knew that a job an assignment he had been so dreading when Denise had given it to him, could turn out to be such a boon to his career? This truly was it; from now on, for better or worse, Murray would be known as the Compass Bank PR guy who finally “told it like it is.” Visions of Howard Cosell were playing through his mind when Darby phoned him. He picked up the receiver and greeted Darby heartily. “Murray, look I’m heading to O’Deli’s early, would you like to join me?” he asked. His voice was a bit shaky and he was stammering every so slightly, as if his tongue was slightly too thick for his mouth. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Murray exclaimed. After all, he had earned this respite from work after such a successful day. Who wouldn’t take the rest of the day off after such a coup? It was about time he began acting like an executive, since that surely was the direction he was heading in after today. “I will meet you downstairs in exactly one-half hour.” --- At O’Deli’s, Murray relayed his morning’s triumph to an unenthusiastic Darby Arnello, who looked distracted the entire time Murray told the story. Naturally, Murray felt compelled to expand on his conquests, claiming several journalists were heard to be openly weeping as they hung up from Murray’s public rebuke and one Wall Street Journal reporter forever renounced his vulturous ways then and there and claimed he would be taking the priesthood. “I would have rather he joined a branch of our military service,” Murray noted, as an aside. “For there is no better method of finding our Lord and Savior, than in a hale of open gunfire and kamikaze pilots dropping about you like rain.” Even though Darby was refusing to listen and share in his triumph, Murray was unperturbed. How he had excelled! How he had innovated in his field! How many public relations hacks had toiled away in their trade for years, even decades!, without even once feeling the sort of unbridled genius that he felt this day? How many could lay claim to genuine innovation in a field of work known for blatant, sheepish, copycat syndrome? “Look, I talked with Janice this morning, Murray,” Darby finally said. He was resting his hands on the table, fingers interlocked, rubbing his thumbs together, and idle nervous gesture he had picked up years ago and never let go. “No, before you ask, I didn’t tell her anything. God knows she has enough stress in her life right now, than to deal with my problems.” “Ah, yes. What she does not know cannot hurt her! An excellent ploy, young Darby!” “That’s what I was thinking as well. By the way, I’m older than you Murray.” “Only physically, my dear boy. Only physically. What did you tell her exactly?” “Not much really,” Darby said. “I really just wanted to get a feel for exactly what happened yesterday morning at the grocery store. After she relayed it to me again, I’m positive we’re talking about the NPA here. Though I can’t, for the life of me, figure out the significance of the frogs in their attacks.” “It does seem odd, does it not?” Murray said. “Were I to lead the charge on a foodstore of some sort, I would certainly have used muskets and swords. Indeed amphibians would have been nearly last on my list of chosen weaponry to extract from the armory.” Darby shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, Murray. You see, from what I know of the NPA, everything they do is more symbolic than anything else. On the surface, they’re seen as just a bunch of anarchists intent on ruining storefronts and throwing pies in the face of politicians. But if you delve a little deeper, you see that every move they make has wider symbolic significance. Nothing they do is by accident, even if it seems so at the time.” “A worthy opponent,” Murray said gravely, nodding his head in appreciation of Darby’s analysis. “Ms. Tanya had mentioned the nuns had attacked via rollerskates, skating through the store whilst wreaking their havoc. I wonder if there is greater significance to their means of transportation.” “Perhaps there is,” Darby said, thoughtfully. “Look, Tanya will be here any minute. There’s something else I wanted to mention to you before she gets here.” “I will bear no dissention with our ranks, young… er… I mean, Darby,” Murray said, raising a finger of protest in the air in front of him. “We act as one body, one mind, or we are failed before we begin.” “Listen to me Murray. Tanya is bluffing, I just know it. She has nothing on me and Janice other than some vague innuendo and some pieces of a puzzle she hastily jammed together.” “Pieces that actually do fit, however,” Murray noted, with a raised eyebrow meant for Darby. “That is not the point,” Darby said. “As long as she thinks we have no clue she’s bluffing, we hold the upper hand with her.” Murray nodded his understanding and opened his right palm, begging him to continue. “The point is simple – as long as we’re together, do not mention my last name. That’s the final piece she’s missing. I know she could get it if she wanted to but I really don’t think Tanya wants to be in the position she’s in right now. She isn’t comfortable blackmailing people, even if we deserve it.” “Even if YOU deserve it,” Murray corrected. Darby nodded his head. “That doesn’t mean she needs to know everything, Murray.” Murray pondered this for a moment. Despite desperately wanting to be truthful about most matters in his life, Murray conceded that, armed with the wrong kind of knowledge, Tanya could be dangerous. There was no need to potentially risk Darby and Helen’s relationship because of his own crusade for absolute truthfulness in all matters. What would it prove? What end would that serve, other than some high-vaulted ideal, impractical and irrational as it often proved to be? Was not a marriage (albeit one based on infidelity and lying) worth saving through judicious placement of the truth. Was not this his job in real life? A public relations person lived and died by the careful wording and timely release of the facts. Who better, then, to participate in this ruse than someone specifically trained to do so. “You can count on me, Darby Arnello,” Murray said, with a wink. They smiled at each other and sat back and enjoyed a drink before Tanya arrived. --- “Don’t you two look pleased with yourselves?” Tanya said, placing her purse on the top of the table and sitting at the remaining open chair. “I wonder which of you is the cat that swallowed the canary.” Murray stood up and bowed genteelly as Tanya sat down. Darby did not. “I’ll get straight to my point,” Tanya noted and pulled some scraps of paper out of her purse and laid them on the table. “Darby was right about the Nuns of Perpetual Annoyance – they only go after the people that have done something.” Darby nodded and looked over at Murray. It was like the same conversation all over again. Before she handed the papers over to Murray and Darby, Tanya stared at them both individually. She spoke calmly and quietly. “Let me tell you how much this ordeal has affected me, gentlemen. Yesterday, I went home and I had no idea what I was going to do about anything – I had no plan, no money and no idea how I was going to support myself and my son.” “I was so desperate, I did something I thought I’d never do again; I called my ex-husband.” If they picked up on the gravity of this statement, neither Murray nor Darby showed it. Tanya briefly recalled the story of Dan and how he pretended for years that he was a member of our Nation’s intelligence community. “It turns out,” Tanya said, “that he actually is one now. To a lesser extent, I mean. He’s not a spook with the CIA or anything, but he has opened his own private investigation firm. I asked him to look into this situation with Hobson Foods and I’d forgive him a month or two of alimony, depending on what he found. “And what did he find?” Murray asked, finally interested in the story that he feared was at first going to cause him to fall out of his chair in slumber. “Nothing substantial, yet,” Tanya said and held up a pair of crossed fingers to both of them. “But I’m hoping something turns up soon. In the meantime we do have this that Dan dug up for me.” She grabbed the two papers she had dug from her bag and pushed them forward to Murray and Darby. The papers were small, almost postcard-sized made of good stock paper and colored a light cream with black lettering. Murray picked up his copy and held it close to his face, doing his best to read the tiny print without his glasses. You Are Invited! Hobson Foods, Sail the Bay Gala An Evening of Dining, Conversation and Mirth with Your Host – Emmit Hobson Saturday, August 23 Shore leave – 8 p.m. Shore arrive – midnight “My god, Tanya, how on earth did he get these?” Darby asked. She shrugged and said she had no idea. “But I’m damn sure planning on using them.” “I assume you’ll be needing a date,” Darby said, and Tanya laughed and nodded her head. Murray was still on the second line of the invitation, holding the card away from his face, then bringing it close again. He didn’t hear their laughter. (Comment on this)
Thursday, November 20th, 2003
8:06 am	Tell You What - Entry 20 On the ninth floor, just as he was exiting the elevator, Murray ran into Denise McClure who had an expression of panic on her face. She saw Murray and nearly yelped with excitement, “Murray, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. I even checked the men’s bathroom,” she stammered, tripping over the words in her haste. “A most logical place, dear Denise. Well played!” Murray said, once again affecting his vaguely British tone. As long as he had worked at Compass Bank, he had put on this air of confidence, knowing it would intimidate those with weaker minds into believing practically anything he said. Put the right accent on something, Murray always said, and you can convince people that the sky is polka dotted purple. “Murray, listen, I’m in a panic. We’ve got a gang of reporters from the trade publications and the WSJ on a conference call phone in five minutes and Ryan just quit on us.” “Ryan” referred to Ryan Holdfield, a colleague of Murray’s responsible for immediate press relations and on-the-spot news items. Essentially he was the “spokesperson” for Compass Bank during all relations with the press, whether by print, radio or TV. “I never felt Mr. Holdfield was dedicated to his work,” Murray said with a tinge of sadness. “Nevertheless, it is always a sad time to lose a shipmate. Even one so fascinatingly dull as Ryan Holdfield.” Murray made the motion of removing a non-existent hat from his head and placing it over his breast. His face sank in a dramatic expression of mourning. Had she waited any longer to respond, Murray might have broken down in sobs right then and there. “Look, we’ve got a news conference in five minutes that I need you to handle,” she said. “The Grand Jury has indicted Jim Roberts and, unless we handle this the right way, things could get ugly really quick. You were assigned to handle the Compass PR response, so I figured you were the best man for the job.” Murray felt his shirt collar tighten. He had never been live in front of real reporters (except for the time during the Kim’s house raid, when he appeared on TV in his pajamas, what remained of his hair standing straight off his head as if it were oppositely charged from his scalp, and decrying the noise and racket furiously to a television reporter). The idea of leading a press conference did not appeal to him, especially when he realized that, in his haste of dealing with the Tanya situation, he had completely forgone his work responsibilities and not gotten the press release out. Honesty, he felt, would be the best policy here. Perhaps it could get him out of this extremely stick situation. “In all honesty, Denise, the press release has yet to be finalized.” Denise raised her hand, stopping him before he could continue. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s old news anyway. This press conference will take the place of it and we can do a follow-up release after you’re done. Usually, I’d handle it but I have my own fires to put out with those bastards at PR Newswire. This will be a snap, really. If they ask you a question you don’t know the answer to, just tell them you can’t comment at this time and that we’ll know more once the legal team looks at the case against Mr. Roberts.” So much for honesty, Murray thought. It was now time to rely on his wits. “Honestly Denise, I’ve never done anything like this and my throat is awfully sore.” But Denise had already taken him by the hand and lead him into a nearby conference room, handed him a sheet of paper with the conference connection number, salient points to address during the conference and the names of the attending reporters, at least as many as they knew had confirmed. Denise patted his back and gave him a quick word of thanks for saving her skin, then she was out the door. For as long as he could remember, Murray had hated reporters. They were the vile barnacle of the modern world, attaching themselves to anything that passed by and lashing out at anyone who touched them. It was no accident he had chosen a career in public relations after his post-Naval-ROTC career, however. Murray felt it best to keep his greatest enemies closest to him. With that in mind, immediately after his graduation, Murray had sent out a flurry of resumes to every major media organization with a 50-mile radius of Manhattan, Kansas (which turned out to be roughly five newspapers, two TV stations, and an old-time jazz AM radio station. He also sent resumes to several bakeries and pie makers, because he hated those bastards as well. When the responses poured in, Murray soundly rejected each entry-level job offer he had received, saying, in carefully worded letters, that it was either program manager (or senior producer, or editor-in-chief) or nothing. The vile media dogs would have nothing of it, however and Murray who noticed a dramatic decrease in his available funds, knew that if he could not join the media in his desired position, he would beat them, by being the one that reports to the reporters. Everyone knew investigative journalism was a thing of the past. There was not a single story in any newspaper in America that did not first germinate in the mind of a public relations specialist. The idea of subtly shaping the nation’s newscape certainly appealed to Murray – who had ideas of his own. Still, when it came down to direct interaction with the lowest form of life the planet had known – Dear Lord, reporters were worse than Marines! – Murray cringed at the very thought of it. Still, he knew he had no choice. He had been lucky with the press release, but there would be no escaping here. He dialed the number and conference password and waited for the operator to connect him. Finally hearing a low hum of voices on the other end of the phone, Murray began. “Good day, gentlemen. My name is Murray Prenby and I will be leading today’s press conference call. My last name is spelled P-R-E-N-B-Y and my official title is spokesperson for Compass Bank.” A voice on the other line, snarky and undisciplined, like every other verminesque reporter Murray had ever met, “Where’s Ryan?” “Mr. Holdfield is unable to join us today. Fortunately for you, I am here.” Taking control was essential here. The slightest show of weakness, Murray knew, and these dogs would take him and his company and rip them to shreds. This was no time for timidness, this was no time to be wishy-washy about things. It was time to set the topsails with the wind and steer the ship, even though the strongest of storms pressed her down into the sea, triumphantly to port. IT would require strength, it would require a superior attitude, a superior state of mind. Most of all, it would require a superior British accent. Murray began reading the prepared statement at a brisk pace, improvising where necessary or where the written copy did not specify a point. What the statement amounted to was this: Jim Roberts denied all accusations of financial misbehavior against him and would cooperate with authorities to the fullest extent of the law, confident that his case would be made clear when and if the entire situation went to court. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” came a voice across the line as Murray was speaking. “This is Eric Banas from BusinessWeek. Did you just say ‘blimey’?” “Gor, yes I did!” Murray shouted heartily, his accent fully smoothed out and warmed up now. “Right then, matey, le’s move on, then!” Murray was similarly stopped several seconds later and asked if he had referred to Jim Roberts as “gub’nor” and a “right ol’ cock.” Finally, one particularly impertinent voice spoke up again, and Murray recognized it as the reporter who had inquired to the whereabouts of Ryan Holdfield earlier. “Look is this a joke, or something? What’s with the accent?” he said, and slightly laughed into the receiver, his voice thick with the jaded irony that permeated the skin and souls of these poor individuals. Murray could no longer hold his rage in. He smashed his fists to the table, sending his papers flying off the desk and leaned down into the speaker onto the table top, his mouth just centimeters away from the microphone. “Hear me now, you ignorant rube. Your opinion of the quality of this press conference is about as valuable as my opinion of armor strategy used by the Nazis in pre-World War II Poland. In other words, completely uninformed and useless. If you would do me the smallest kindness of keeping your ignorant gob shut while I am speaking, sirrah, I will do my best to remember to actually read your column before allowing my dog to defecate all over your picture in the paper.” Whoever this person was immediately hung up and Murray felt that indescribable joy that came with besting an opponent. There were few analogies he could find able to adequately describe this feeling – exultant joy, religious ecstasy, savoring two Snickers bars in a row, a good Pearl Harbor movie, watching Wild Bill sleep, the complete works of romance novelist Nora Roberts – but he was reveling in them all now. He imagined the reporter, wiping away the tears of defeat from his eyes, perhaps considering a career change from bloodsucking vulture to perhaps something with a degree of value in this world. The very idea of helping one lost soul out of the quagmire of imbedded journalism and muckraking, into the righteous corporate world filled Murray with more confidence and zeal than he even thought possible. Certainly the rest of the press conference would be a snap, after such a victory as this. He sat up again and clapped his hands together, once again affecting his cockney lilt. “Right then, shall we continue?” (Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 19th, 2003
8:07 am	Tell You What - Entry 19 The next morning, Murray was late for work. It had not been his fault, however. There was myriad of things wrong with his morning – he had gotten into a vociferous argument with his alarm clock that morning, striking it with a pillow repeatedly after the alarm had gone off two minutes earlier than he expected. The pillow did minimal damage to the clock however, and Murray grabbed the clock desperately, clinging to ever button and furiously mashing the sides of the clock with his palms, desperately hoping that something would end the incessant din. Nothing worked however, the technology of the instrument was beyond him and he finally resigned himself to the fact. By the end of the morning, after his breakfast of oatmeal and glass of grot, the alarm was still going; indeed Murray could hear it ringing even after he closed the door behind him and headed out for work. Wild Bill could take care of it, he figured. Wild Bill was up earlier than even the alarm clock that morning, the miniature Chihuahua rooting around in the garbage when Murray found him. Murray was outraged at this offense and accused Wild Bill of going through his garbage looking for secret personal files or pornographic material. When Wild Bill made no response, save from licking his left hind leg, Murray knew he had won out and Wild Bill was in his place. Wild Bill was a relatively new addition to Murray’s family and, Murray knew, an increasingly temporary one. It would only be a matter of time before their emotional chess match came to a head, he thought, and one or both of them would have to go. Wild Bill had been dropped off at his house by the boyfriend of his sister, a would-be screenwriter named Todd from St. Paul who was moving to Los Angeles to pursue his dream of finally adapting Sophie’s Choice as a Disney CGI musical. As Todd had no immediate plans for housing when moving to L.A., it was his idea to let Wild Bill stay with Murray while he settled into Southern California. Murray reluctantly agreed, figuring the filial bonds he felt for his sister would overwhelm any trepidation he felt for having an animal as swarthy and sneaky as Wild Bill in the house. Right away, Wild Bill began exhibiting strange behavior towards Murray – constantly running around his feet and yapping (which Murray interpreted as assassination attempts), whining intently whenever Murray went into the bathroom (toilet envy, Murray construed) and, most strangely, an intense effort to shed actual tears when crying – an act so perversely ridiculous that Murray could only interpret as emotional blackmail. When Wild Bill would begin shivering intensely during his crying spells, it would only make Murray feel worse. He was liable to give Wild Bill anything in those moments – and had in many instances. It was one of the reasons, Murray was broke – travelling down to the ATM near his apartment, pulling out the maximum cash allowable and then offering it to Wild Bill as a peace offering. Wild Bill would then take the money in his mouth and run off. For the rest of the evening, Murray would hear the sound of paper being ripped apart as Wild Bill engaged in his favorite past time – shredding and eating Murray’s money. It had been going on too long, however. He could no longer afford (either emotionally or financially) this kind of behavior from a dog. Still, as his sister had told him when he first agreed to take Wild Bill, you run the risk of establishing bad behavior the first time you allow something naughty. How long would it take to curb Wild Bill of his money eating habits, he wondered. How many more twenty dollar bills must he sacrifice to wean the dog off of this disgusting and crippling prediliction? To his credit, however, Wild Bill was an excellent listener and would stare, with large ink-drop eyes for hours while Murray related storied of the open sea to him, regaled him with tales of his time at Kansas State as a young Navy ROTC recruit, read to him long passages of Patrick O’Brian and Horatio Hornblower novels, and sang to him lively, and sometimes bawdy, sea ditties. Once he even got Wild Bill to howl along to a particularly ribald rendition of “Sarah’s Sister, Saucy Sloop of the Seven Seas,” even managing to improvise a wholly new verse of his own, while Wild Bill howled along at his feet. Truly it was a wonderful moment shared between them, though Murray secretly resented Wild Bill for learning the tune so quickly. He knew the open sea was no place for a Chihuahua, and despite his best efforts and outer trappings, Wild Bill would never, could never be half the seaman he was. When Murray finally opened up his work e-mail, he noticed he had several e-mails from his company’s Information Technology Department marked Urgent, which he immediately tossed into his Recycle Bin, as well as several from the lovely Dhalia from Human Resources. He resolved to save these for later, when he had some free time. Whenever he received any sort of correspondence from Dhalia, he liked to print them out and take them to his favorite restroom stall, where he could read them in relative privacy. Then, comfortable and safe in his stall, he would pull out the folded sheet of paper from his pants pocket and read each word slowly, mouthing the words as he went. He liked to imagine Dhalia was actually there, her thick shoulder-length black hair falling around her, her warm slightly accented voice giving an odd rhythm to the pedestrian words she wrote. Once, while reading a Dhalia-penned missive regarding a change to the company’s 401K dispensation plans, Murray found himself in the throes of such ecstatic paroxysms, he nearly fell off the toilet seat and wedged himself between the toilet itself and the side wall of the stall. He saved himself with his open hand at the last moment, but could not get the smell of cleaning solvent out of his skin for the rest of the day. There was also the inevitable Darby e-mail. Several of them in fact, a common theme running through most of them: To: Prenby, Murray From: Darby Subject: We are SO fucked To: Prenby, Murray From: Darby Subject: Oh Jesus no To: Prenby, Murray From: Darby Subject: Can I get a handgun on short notice? To: Prenby, Murray From: Darby Subject: Why me, I ask you, why me? I understand “you” but why ME? To: Prenby, Murray From: Darby Subject: I changed the sheets last night Murray clicked through these quickly, not caring to read the contents of the e-mail. Certainly the Subject: lines said it all, in this case. There was still the matter of the missing PDA, he noted. He had hoped Brown Nike had done the honorable thing, which was to check the PDA for any information regarding the identity of the owner, then returned it quickly and anonymously to the original owner. There was the small matter of Darby’s note in the PDA Identification Screen, offering a reward of “Up To $45,000” for the safe retrieval and return of the missing item. He hated to think Brown Nike would be so dastardly as to hold the PDA for ransom, figuring that if Murray were to offer forty-five grand to an honest man, he could offer far more to a dishonest one, intent on bilking him for every cent. “Ah ha!” Murray said aloud. “But that is where he is wrong, the knave! I have no intention of paying anyone anything!” “Shut the fuck up, Murray,” said Prem from his cubicle across the way. “Way to show up on time, you asshole.” Prem was ready to light into Murray with another salvo of insults but his phone rang and the tone of Prem’s voice instantly had Murray dreading his ability to hear. The sickeningly sweet tone, coupled with the thick Indian accent and language that even the saltiest sailor at sea would never use meant only one thing: Prem was talking to his wife again. As long as he had been working in this cubicle, Murray had dreaded hearing Prem’s conversation’s with his wife, which quickly turned from the trivial points of the day’s activities and to the more sordid recreations of how they both defiled one another the previous evening, or planned to do so after work. That Prem had no volume control on his voice was bad enough; that he had no idea of understanding of the concept of self-censorship and no sense of shame, coupled with a ridiculous inability to correctly pronounce half of the foul words he attempted, meant that it would be a long morning for Murray. Halfway through Prem’s description of a fistful of pipe cleaners being coated with WD40 lubricant and subsequently being set aflame, Murray bolted up from his seat and headed out from his cubicle. He needed to get away, right now. Even if it meant he had to go see Darby of all people, he had to get away. Get anywhere, just to get away from this. He sprint walked down the hall and headed to the elevator where, to his immense delight, the door was already opened, waiting for him. This had maybe happened to him twice before in his entire career with Compass. It always seemed like people were intent on taking the elevator, to his immense consternation. Could not these lazy bastards work in a stair climb or two per day, and leave the elevator trips to those who utilized them efficiently and judiciously? He entered the elevator, hit the button to the ninth floor and quickly slammed his hand repeatedly on the “Close Door” button. The last thing he wanted to was to ride down two floors on an elevator with a stranger or, worse yet, a co-worker. The idea of exchanging idle chit chat with one of the goose-stepping cretins that surrounded him was a hideous proposition, Murray noted. When the elevator doors finally closed, Murray sighed with relief. So far, so good, he thought. Maybe today would not be so bad after all. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 18th, 2003
8:00 am	Tell You What - Entry 18 Fifty four minutes later, the phone rang. Tanya picked it up on the first ring and yelled into the receiver, “You are late!” Initially Darby had meant to be late on purpose; his thinking was that even though Tanya held the cards in their little duel of wits, he would show her clearly that he was not intimidated by her threats and was under noone’s control. One minute to let her squirm, he thought; let her think about what she is doing and see if she is still so confident when we give her something to think about. The plan nearly backfired however, when Murray arrived, literally seconds before the appointed deadline. Crashing his fists into the door at manic pace, Murray began shrieking at the door, begging Darby to let him into the townhouse as soon as possible. The sound nearly scared Darby to death and he ran to the front door as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him. He threw open the bolt and chain, unlocked the front door and threw it open, only to have Murray literally fall into the front hallway gasping for air. “Hurry, hurry, you damnable fool and close the door before it’s too late,” he gasped, clearly exhausted. Murray obeyed and slammed the door quickly while grabbing a cursory glance outside to see if someone was following him. He did not see anyone, however. “What was that all about Murray?” Darby asked. “Your tone is not appreciated, young Darby,” Murray said. “Especially when I, in my haste, was trying to do you a favor. It is bitterly cold outside and did not want to run up your electricity bill by standing at your doorway and exchanging civilities before you invited me inside. You may thank me now.” Murray’s chin was high and his eyes closed, a look of perfectly righteous conviction. Darby knew they did not have much time, so he just went along with it, thanking Murray profusely for his favor and recommending that Murray go to the bedroom and listen in on the conversation with Tanya from there. Murray had qualms about entering a place “so foul and forbidden” as Darby’s bedroom; a room “squalid in the filth and muck of marital bliss” as Murray put it. As Darby began dialing however, he sprinted to the back bedroom, not wanting to miss a second of the action. “Sorry about being late, Tanya,” Darby said. “We just were running a bit behind.” Tanya harumphed over the line and her voice was sticky with derision, “I’ll bet. You two morons couldn’t tie your shoelaces without a third hand.” She was appalled by their timing, but secretly she was glad they had made the call. She had no idea if her ruse at the deli was actually going to work. That they called meant she had been convincing then. She had no other option now, but to pour it on. Darby was getting tired of the insults already. It was unfortunate enough that his mental acumen was already under fire by his wife on a regular basis, but to be stupid-by-association because of Murray, it was downright embarrassing. What worried him even more, however, was that Murray had not spoken yet. In fact, he was not sure that Murray was even on the other phone yet. He did not remember hearing the other line pick up. If Tanya thought only one of them were present, she might decide to let the cat out of the bag anyway. “Sorry about that, Tanya, traffic was really bad and Murray just got here. I was going to fix him something to drink and then we would sit down and discuss…” “Look, bastards. I don’t care about what you two nancy-asses do in the privacy of your own homes. All I want to know is when are we going to meet and what will you have for me by then?” Tanya was talking fast and hard, just like in the deli. The approach worked once and there was no reason to think it would not work again. “Hello is this thing on?” It was Murray, from the bedroom. “Dear Lord, why does it smell like lilacs in here?” From the bedroom, Darby heard a great creaking sound and then a massive crash. Over the receiver, he heard Murray drop the phone and blurt out a line of the bluest expletive he had ever heard in his life, most of it having to do with inviting the ancient Greek god of the sea to have sex with himself. Holding the receiver away from him, Darby yelled, “Murray what the hell are you doing back there?” “I am fine!” Murray said. “Do not speak to me of this again. I was merely trying to find a comfortable spot in your bed.” “What are you doing in my bed?” Darby screamed, incredulous. This was beyond comprehension. “Are these 200-thread sheets?” Murray asked, once again over the phone. “They are awfully itchy against my skin. I would recommend going to at least 300-to-450 thread. You’ll find a much better night’s sleep if you do so.” Tanya interrupted once again, “Goddamnit listen to me! I realize you two are two of the bigger idiots on this planet but, like it or not, I’m saddled with you. Instead of relying on you help me out, I will now be making the plans,” she said. “You two will follow my lead from now on. If you even slightly veer from the path I lay before you, I guarantee you I will do my utmost to personally ruin both your lives!” “Huzzah for military discipline!” Murray said, thrilled. Once again Darby heard the creaking noise from the bedroom, multiple times. “Well spoken, young lady! I would be willing and eager to follow you to the far side of the world and back if need be! Would not you agree with this assessment, young Darby?” Darby’s head and shoulders sank, and he leaned back where he stood, against the kitchen wall. What would it be like to say “no” at this moment, he wondered. What would it feel like to just hang up the phone, call Helen – tell her the truth about Janice and then just pick up and leave? There was a full tank of gas in the car, and he was sure he could be out of the city and all the way across the state by morning. Maybe by then, he’d have some sort of plan, an inkling of why this was happening and where he should go next. Maybe if he just got in his car, pointed it west and just went on autopilot. “Sounds great, Murray,” he said. “Now Miss Rusoff, a point of order before we continue,” Murray said, shifting around under the sheets in Darby’s bed. “Are you aware that you share a name with an actress?” When he got no reply on the other end, Murray continued. “Yes, it occurred to me today, while still at work, that your name sounded vaguely familiar to me. After some nominal searches on the Internet, I came up with several matches on your exact name. It turns out there is a Tanya Rusoff currently working in the adult entertainment industry today.” Still no reply. “I furthered my research by visiting several of the sites dedicated to or owned by Ms. Rusoff and came up with no definitive proof that you are not her. True, the pictures I saw bared very little resemblance to you and her voice, which I heard from downloading six or seven of her movies, had not a trace of the charming Eastern European lilt that yours possesses. Yet still the evidence remains!” “Murray, stop this,” Darby said, quietly. “Dear Darby, this could be our ticket out of the hellhole this bitch vixen has built for us, so cunningly. To think that this harlot of the celluloid world has been in the Southern California area making blue movies for the past 15 years and only now is transforming herself, and her young son no less, into something of a respectable life!” “Murray, I thought you said you wanted to help her,” Darby said. “Well certainly I did, until I found out she had more men her top deck than the great warship HMS Surprise!” Tanya finally spoke up now. “I am begging you, from the bottom of my heart, to shut him up, Darby. If you do not, I will skip ratting you out to your wife and just choose to come over there and shoot you both dead.” “Yet you have not answered my question!” Murray bellowed. Another bedroom crash and what sounded like a lamp being knocked over. When he recovered, Tanya spoke again, “My name is Tanya Rusoff, Murray. I was born in Hungary in 1977. I immigrated to the United States three years ago after studying art history and architecture at the University of Prague. I am 26 years old. There is no possible way I have been making porno flicks for 15 years.” “I would like to see proof of identification at our next meeting,” Murray said, disappointed that his investigation had been for naught. Well almost for naught, he noted. His research had made the rest of his day fly by. Perhaps he would do some follow-up investigation tomorrow, just to be 100 percent sure of her assertation. The conversation went on with no more outburts or crashing noises from Murray, and surprisingly few additional insults from Tanya. They agreed to meet at O’Deli’s again the following day after work, where they would then formulate their plan of attack on Tanya’s detractors. After hanging up, Murray walked into Darby’s living room, buttoning up his shirt. “Jesus, Murray. Were you nude in there?” “I always sleep in the buff when on land, dear Darby, for it is a luxury the sailing man at sea cannot afford.” Murray rolled his eyes at Darby’s landlubbing ignorance, grabbed his coat, threw open the door and began sprinting down the sidewalk at full speed. When Darby Arnello slept that night, he dreamed of a car pointing west and a full tank of gas. Current Mood: okay Current Music: Less and Less - Tim O'Brien (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 17th, 2003
7:48 am	Tell You What - Entry 17 Darby had insisted Murray come to him that evening. Murray complained profusely, stating he had no car (untrue in the strictest sense, but his El Camino was hardly in ship shape) and then, when caught in that lie, saying he preferred to public transportation because it kept him in touch with the “heartbeat of the city.” Darby told Murray there was bus that made a stop two doors down from his townhouse and told Murray to be there by 5:45 at the latest. If not busy, Murray’s post-lunch afternoon could certainly have been described as active, at least by his standards. Foregoing his nap entirely, Murray decided to hand in his status report to Denise. To say it was a work of artful prevarication was an understatement; for in addition to claiming to be completely caught up on all his projects (including a critical press release regarding the Compass Bank president’s indictment by a Grand Jury on money laundering charges), Murray also said he had scoped out the next three months of personal assignments, spoken with the VP in charge of Finance regarding some innovative cost-cutting techniques he had picked up while backpacking in Peru and conducted a wholesale inventory of all IT equipment on the 9th through 13th floor. Murray knew Denise would never check his list for accuracy, instead opting to give it a quick perusal, make sure there was enough text in each box to appear that each employee was busy and that was that. She probably only needed the status reports because her boss was looking for something to show his boss each week. Still, Murray felt a slight twinge of guilt over the degree of fiction on his status report and, in a fit of conscience, changed “9th through 13th floor” to “9th floor only.” Murray dreaded the evening’s activities. For one thing, it would nearly certainly keep him away from Wild Bill for the evening. How he hated coming home late to Wild Bill – who was not likely to be happy with him if he returned any time past, say, 7:30 p.m. If he wasn’t fed on a regular basis, Wild Bill turned nasty and took out his particularly cruel form of revenge on the house furniture and, particularly, the couch cushions. Murray had gone through six sets of couch cushions in the past year alone. The furniture store that sold him the couch originally had long since stopped honoring the warranty Murray had paid for, claiming Murray was simply taking the replacement cushions and selling them for a profit online. Of course, that was only true in one instance, Murray noted. Every other time had been because of another Wild Bill petulant frenzy through the apartment. It was why he had paid for the lifetime guarantee and the pet damage insurance as well. He did not think the furniture company had a leg to stand on, so to speak, and knew if he had a lawyer on his side he could recoup his losses, but it just was not worth the trouble right now. Perhaps he could call home and let Wild Bill know he would be late, he thought. Perhaps it would temporarily stay off one of his drunken rampages through the living room. Murray was utterly convinced that, not only did he understand English, but that Wild Bill most likely had a much larger vocabulary than even Murray himself. He recalled with clarity the time when he accused Wild Bill of emotional blackmail over a piece of toast they had been arguing about during dinner, only to have Wild Bill sulk off to his bedroom and sleep the rest of the night under the bed. For three days, Wild Bill refused to look into Murray’s eyes, even refusing to go to the bathroom when Murray offered the leash and collar. The shame Murray had felt at this memory was enough to bring tears to his eyes. All that pain and drama, for a damnable shred of toasted bread! What folly! “Enough!” Murray hollered from his cube. He would allow no further feelings of guilt to deter him from the mission at hand. There was much to do tonight, so much that weighed on his shoulders, so many questions that needed answering; he was determined to focus on the tasks at hand and not, for a moment, regret that he would be missing Wheel of Fortune which he knew, from checking the TV Guide, was a repeat. --- Darby had planned on going to the gymnasium after work but knew those plans were shot to hell now. He really wanted to get his time in the cardio room, he desperately needed it, but the 6 p.m. deadline was approaching too quickly. Certainly he didn’t have enough time to change from his work clothes into the three-piece suit he always wore at the gymnasium, especially since he had been having a terrible time of late with the half-windsor knot he had learned on the Internet. The ability to tie the knot came and went, with him, like a baseball pitcher’s screwball. On some days, while sitting on the bench at the gymnasium, he could tie his tie into the handsome thick knot with one hand and head out to the cardio room, ready for work. On other days, and they were more frequent lately, he’d spend 15 minutes or more staring into the mirror intently, trying to remember the diagrams he had downloaded from the Internet. Long end over short end, up over again and up through the hole it creates. Even when he followed the directions to the letter, it seemed one end of the tie was too long, the other too short, or the knot was too thick, too thin. Never just right. Where had his haberdashery skills fled too, he wondered? And when would they return to him again? But, this night would require no well-tailored suit, expertly tied tie or workout routine, he knew. This night required wits far more attuned to espionage and double dealings. Darby did a quick mental evaluation of the last three or four books he had read. Had any of them been spy novels? Perhaps he could glean a conversation or two from them and use them as a guidebook for how to act in such situations. How would a Raymond Chandler hard-boiled hero handle the kind of situation he found himself in now? Likely by pulling a .38 revolver from his pinstripe suit and blasting his way through the mess, he thought. Obviously, that wasn’t an option for him here. To make matters worse, the last four books Darby had read were, in no particular order: The Bridges of Madison County, an apparent self-help book targeted at depressed sailors called Blue at the Mizzen (He hadn’t finished this one, he admitted, but perhaps Murray would like it, and reminded himself to lend his copy to Murray that evening), the latest Harry Potter book and Bridges of Madison County once again. He doubted there were anything Robert James Waller or J.K. Rowling could teach him about blackmail and corporate underhandedness, so he threw the idea out. It was 5 p.m. Time to go home and prepare himself. --- The idea of Brown Nike still holding his PDA made Murray furious. It was nearly the end of the day, by God! Any true man of honor would have done his utmost at returning a lost item to its original owner as soon as was humanly possible. But not this cur; not this brown-shoed brigand. He deeply regretted his panicked flight that morning, and now wished wholeheartedly that he had turned around and faced his opponent head on and demanded his rightful possession then and there. If it be fists, if it be pistols at noon, if it be swords, he should have taken back what was rightfully his! These things could be taken care of tomorrow, he told himself. It was still early in the week and he didn’t think his problems were going anywhere soon. It made no sense for him to go home, only to leave Wild Bill 30 minutes later. He doubted even the reinforced double-ply plastic sheathing he had covered the cushions with could withstand Wild Bill’s onslaught if this happened and he had intention of driving to Darby’s house, which he knew was only 10 or 15 blocks away. He would walk! It had been too long since his last constitutional, he decided and he knew his landlegs were growing soft and rubbery from being chained to his miserable desk job. He pined for the open sea, where he could free his mind from the mindless, meaningless tasks he was bound to, and concentrate on the last noble aim – guiding a sea merchant from Point A to Point B. Darby was phoning him again. He picked up the receiver and assured Darby he would be at his place by the appointed hour. After hanging up, he stood, put on his dark blue navy peacoat and headed out the door quickly, taking an anxious random path, hoping to avoid running into any co-workers and, the exit in site, broke into a high-stepping jog and flew through the door. --- Only one hour to go, Tanya thought. Sixty more minutes and I’ll know if my ruse paid off. She was sitting by the phone now, a cup of black coffee sitting on the table in front of her. She was tracing the rim of the cup with her left forefinger, feeling the heat of the steam against her finger. Dan had their son tonight, and did so for the rest of the week, so at least she wouldn’t be slowed down if they needed to move quickly. She hoped to have this mess resolved by the weekend anyway. There wouldn’t be much more time before the savings ran out and she was truly in desperate straits. For all the worrying and all the tracing and all the wondering, there was still 53 minutes to go. (Comment on this)