Helping Hocusha

I haven't been posting on this blog for a while, but it suddenly occurred to me I could use it to mention some of the writing I've been doing of late, starting with something I helped co-write; the end to chapter 7 of the wonderful webcomic Hocusha.

The creator of Hocusha, Vig Starmax, was suffering from a case of the dreaded writer's block, and his excellent webcomic was on indefinite hiatus. I was fortunate enough to be a fan of Hocusha and to have worked briefly with Vig on another project, so when he posted a call for help I was quick to offer my assistance.

Vig put together a Hocusha bible containing character notes, setting, and over-arching plot details, and from that I helped work out an ending for the chapter he was stuck on. I got to write the dialogue and give some page layout suggestions, and Vig took that and made it much better.

Now Vig seems to be inspired once again to write and draw Hocusha, and it looks like there's a long series of adventures to look forward to. I for one can't wait to see what Vig does next with Hocusha.

You can read Hocusha here ... my contributions started from page 10 of Chapter 7.

Dark Bay news

Status Update: I'm taking photos for episode 23 of Character Development at the moment, and writing episode 34.

At the same time I'm writing some Dark Bay episodes. The rural NZ police drama illustrated with Playmobil toys has been on hiatus for a while now, but is never far from my thoughts.

So in the New Year, after the silly season, I'll start posting daily pages of Dark Bay as well as daily pages of Character Development, although I'll cheat a bit and start Dark Bay from the beginning again, and miss out one day a week as the episodes are 6 pages each, unlike CD's 7 pages.

The aim is to have written 20 episodes of it and have the page layouts for them done before I start posting, so there's over 100 pages of cushion ... then I'll feel no pressure to keep up the pace. Currently I'm writing episodes 12 and 13, and have strong ideas for the next few after that, as well as an overall story arc to work towards.

So look for a Dark Bay daily page blog sometime in the New Year ... say February sometime.

Feeling funky

The end of another episode (the 15th) over at http://itscharacterdevelopment.blogspot.com/
A new one stats tomorrow.

Meanwhile I've been writing further CD episodes (finished the layout for the 34th) as well as writing something new (a revenge fantasy story that's a little different).

Now if I could just get out of this dark funk ...

Sigh

Some days it's hard to keep working on something when you have no idea how it is being received.

Update

Another page of Character Development is up (click here).

Had a good writing day, despite the madness going on around me, and polished off episodes 29 and 30. Started writing 31 as well, but I wasn't happy with it and will scrap it and start again.

Meanwhile there's a couple of stories fighting to come out of my head, and I'll have to give in to them soon or they'll tunnel out of my skull.

Script: AFTER, story seven

I've been busy writing lately, it's just not stuff I could blog. It was a submission for a comic anthology that is using the theme 'Eden Can Be Seen Through Barbed Wire'. I've sent the story off, and if it doesn't make it I'll post it some time in the future.

The theme inspired me to write a seventh AFTER script. Here it is.

AFTER story seven
Eden can be seen through barbed wire


Page ONE

1/1
Large Title frame to start with, to set the scene.
Night. A church, boarded up, fenced off, barbed wire at the top of the fence.
Two young adults approach the fence. One male, One female. The female is Connie from previous episodes. Let's call the boy Ian.
AFTER story seven
Eden can be seen through barbed wire
by David Tulloch and (your name here)

1/2
The two of them looking at the church through the fence.
Ian: "You used to come here?"

1/3
Connie: "Every Sunday. Seems like a lifetime ago."
Ian: "Yeah. I know what you mean."


Page TWO

2/1
Ian climbing up the fence, throwing his jacket over the top the fence so the barbed wire at the top is covered.
Ian: "At least they were too cheap to spring for razor wire."

2/2
They climb over the fence ...

2/3
They walk toward the church, toward a side or back door.

2/4
Ian pulls open the door ...

2/5
... and they go inside.


Page THREE

3/1
Inside the church. A nice big panel of them walking around in the poorly lit interior of the church.

3/2
Connie sits down on one of the pews.

3/3
Ian stands nearby.
Ian: "You okay, Connie?"
Connie: "Yeah. I'm fine."


Page FOUR

4/1
Ian: "You just seem ... distant."
Connie: "Yeah. I guess my head's elsewhere."

4/2
Ian: "You miss them? This?"
Connie: "Huh? Oh ... I guess."

4/3
Connie: "Well, no. Not really."

4/4
Connie: "I just don't get it."

4/5
Connie: "Why he was taken and not me?"
Ian: "Who?"

4/6
Connie: "My dad."


Page FIVE
A page of Connie talking in small panels. The lighting should be dark to contrast with the words of the ninth panel.

5/1
Connie: "He was born again. Right here in this church."

5/2
Connie: "So he gets taken with all the others."

5/3
Connie: "I get left here."

5/4
Connie: "The things is ... "

5/5
Connie: "The thing is I did believe once. Before."

5/6
Connie: "He made me stop believing."

5/7
Connie: "He was the one who made sure I'd stay behind."

5/8
Connie: "He saw the light."

5/9
Connie: "Everything was bright for him."


Page SIX
6/1
Ian leans in to kiss Connie.

6/2
Connie jumps up, startled and uncomfortable.
Connie: "What are you doing?"
Ian: "Sorry ... I just thought."

6/3
Connie is angry.
Connie: "Don't you get it?"

6/4
She runs off ...

6/5
Ian follows ...

6/6
... and he watches her through the barbed wire, as she has already climbed over.
Ian: "No. I guess I don't."

END

Ghost writers in the sky

I belong to a writer's group that meets once a month, and yesterday we had our full compliment of four and a fascinating discussion on ghost writing.

One of our number has been employed to ghost write a memoir, and has encountered some sticky issues when it comes to his professional integrity. I won't go into personal details, but the basics of it are as follows...

The ghost writer is attempting to write with the voice of his subject.
The subject dictated onto tape many stories and anecdotes about his life.

-- In the tapes the subject is sometimes passionate, even salacious or controversial, about certain events and people.

-- The subject is reading and editing the drafts produced by the ghost writer.

-- There were many draft versions.

-- When editing the ghost writing the subject has removed or softened the passionate, salacious and controversial parts of most, if not all, of the anecdotes.

-- This has weakened the 'punch' of the stories considerably.

-- Not surprisingly, this has annoyed the ghost writer a little. He feels the subject is ruining the story of his life.

-- On the other hand, the subject is entitled to say, or not say, what he wants about his own life.

-- The ghost writer feels an obligation to honour the wishes of the subject.

Now the tricky bit ...

-- The person commissioning and paying for the memoir is not the subject. Rather it is the subject's son.

-- I'm guessing these are tales the subjects' family have heard, in whole or part, many times. They would have been told candidly and passionately, just like the tapes.

-- The son/employer feels the draft revision he has received is a little dull in terms of language. (He's right.)

-- The wider family also want input into the memoir.

-- The family, however, do not know of the process of editing multiple drafts that has led to the current status of the text.

-- Basically, there is a conflict between the person paying for the book and the person the book is about, but they are not having that conflict between each other, but rather through their interactions with the ghost writer. There are also other voices in the cacophony, and in my own small way I got to be a little squeak as well.

There are a host of issues that arise from the dilemma the ghost writer finds himself in, and these led to a lively discussion.

Who does the ghost writer have the greater responsibility to please? The person paying for the work, or the person whose voice he is writing as?

Does the writer have to be true to the 'voice' of the subject, or to the editing wishes of the subject?

How much of the 'writer' inside the ghost writer can you ignore when it comes to issues of style and form? If the client or subject wants what the writer considers is a poorly written final product, does that matter?

I came away from the meeting with my head spinning. It made my current writing dilemmas seem small by comparison.

Waiting by the virtual phone ...

Sometimes being a writer can be like being the more desperate member of a potential new couple. Especially a comic book writer. The editor or artist is the nice new man in your life.*

You meet, make small chat, talk about people you may both know. Then one of you compliment the other.

"You have really nice, strong lines."

The compliment is returned.

"Thanks. I love the way you do dialogue."

The connection is made. He orders another round of drinks and as the night goes on your brain swirls with small talk, compliments, and promises of the future.

"We really should do something together," he suggests provocatively near the end. You exchange phone numbers.

Then you wait by the phone. Will he call you? Should you have let him have your way with you on the first date (and written a script on a table napkin there and then, not carrying what anyone else in the cafe thought).

The days pass. Did you come across as too needy? Did he not like your words? Is he just busy, like he said he was? Is that him on the phone right now? No. Damn telemarketers.

Then he calls. Your heart goes a flitter-flutter. He wants you to write for him. Something just for him. You start immediately.

You submit your first draft to him ... words poured out directly from your soul.

You wait for his call again. And wait.

You can't sleep. You find yourself staring at the phone, hearing it ring in your head.

He calls.

He loves it.

But ...

There's always a but. I don't like big buts.

He offers a few suggestions. Minor changes. You listen. You agree with him (what else can you do?). You make the changes.

It's not your word you are changing; it's yourself. Maybe he'd like your hair shorter? Longer? Try a different perfume? Should you wear something low-cut? Sometime tighter? You could lose a few pounds (or pages). Perhaps get a push-up bra? Maybe you could get some implants?**

You meet him again, having re-made yourself. He looks you up and down. You wait for his judgement. You wait for his acceptance ... but you expect his rejection.

No wonder so many comic book writers turn to lesbianism (prose writing) or staying home alone (poetry).

*Yes, I know, making the women the more desperate one in the relationship is telling in several ways: it shows that I'm comfortable with my feminine side, but that equality still has a way to go as it is easier and more generic to write the weaker side of a heterosexual relationship as the female.

** I've actually done this to a story ... given it implants. I changed the main character from a man to a woman. I noticed I write rather weak male leads. But, presto, change the lead character to a woman and she's suddenly a strong character. Again, I can't help think this says a lot about the imperfect world we live in.

Musing

One of the guilty thoughts that I had when my children were born was that they would help inspire me to write stories. So far there just hasn't been much time for inspiration, but our four-year old does enjoy the occasional made-up-on-the-spot tale.

A while ago I asked her if she'd like a story written for her. At first the idea didn't fly. But then one day she seemed to be keen on the idea. We got her to tell us the elements she wanted in the story: herself, her baby brother, three friends, some fairies with butterfly wings, a rainbow, crayons and colouring books, and a rock that turns out to be an egg. The rather wet story that followed was not my finest creation, but it did satisfy its patron.

Suddenly, however, the wee lass has become my muse. As the games we play together have become more imaginative, so the ideas for stories have started to flow. So this week I've started writing two of the better ideas in earnest.

They say children's stories are one of the hardest genres to write. To me, they seem like a large-panel format comic. I hope it can be thought of that way. Perhaps I'm just setting myself up for a fall? But as long as my muse is amused by the stories they will be a success.

Waiting

One of the most frustrating parts of writing for me is the waiting. Waiting for ideas to pop into your head. Waiting for punchlines to what you're sure will be a joke. Waiting for time to write during a busy day. But most painful of all is waiting for acceptance or rejection.

In some ways rejection isn't that bad. At least it is a final result. Waiting is worse. Maybe that's why I find it hard to submit things. Sending something out means waiting. At least I know the result if I never put it out there.

Of course, such a philosophy is a little career limiting. So I have to summon up the courage to wait.

Foot-in-mouth notes

Another plagiarism-related, un-drawn comic-strip. Just click on it to get a larger version. Today's blog is brought to you by the - (dash).

When you can't think or draw

I have no artistic talents, as I have mentioned in older posts. Even my stick people look strange. So this is a cartoon with no drawing.

I was going to write something witty and insightful for Anti-Plagiarism Day, which I think is a great idea. I have seen words I have written in print without my name on them on more than one occasion, and it didn't make me feel like a happy camper.

But the more I thought about the issue, the less I had to say. So in the end I just created a silly joke.

Just a hint of drool

No time for writing today, because, ironically, I'm off to a writer's group meeting. I was worried that this group had disbanded, but it turned out to be an impromptu sabbatical. I'm the young one of the group, and the only one writing comics. I'm not sure what the others make of my stuff, but they haven't asked me to leave yet.

I woke up this morning (always a good start to a blues song) with a fully formed story plot in my head (not such a good blues line in the continuation). I woke up this morning with a fully formed story plot in my head (blues rule: always repeat the first line). So I sat at my computer, and typed 'til my fingers bled (not true, but it rhymes).

It is true about the story plot though. It will be a long one, so I'll file it under ideas for another day. Short things for now. Lots and lots of short stories.

Here's a picture a friend just sent me that serves as visual proof of my bass playing. Yes, that's a short, 30" bass, a Squire Bronco, but I have short, squat fingers. I just realized I play the bass the same way I write; with two fingers.

Hint: It's not a surprised ocelot

Finished a Straitjacket Ninja script yesterday, episode fourteen. It had one panel description I thought required some extra detail, so we took this picture of me trying to imitate the expression required.

If you can guess what animal I'm trying to be, and what is supposed to be happening to me I'll give you a prize (to be disclosed later, conditions apply).

Those who were sent the script cannot enter, but you are allowed to comment and say what it is not. Or what you think it really looks like.

Thick and Chunky

Had some time to write yesterday ... the kids were behaving themselves, with one entertaining the other for long periods ... so I managed to get some solid writing in. Finished up a couple of Straitjacket Ninja scripts and then wrote down a story idea before composing some short comic strips. The most productive day I've had in a month.

So I was hopeful that today would be even better, but the wee boy was sick last night, even doing a great Exorcist impersonation. Poor wee kid. He's fine now though.

The lack of sleep has interacted with the tail-end of a cold and too much coffee to produce a writer who taps frantically at the keyboard, but produces nothing worth saving.

Hmmm, there's a short strip idea in that. Maybe I should have another cup and write it down?

Papyrus Alley

The little story made its way to the alley when it got dark. The others were there, huddled close to the fire burning in the forty-gallon drum. But not too close.

Fire was something they all feared. It was a necessary evil, for without it on a damp night their pages might curl, the ink might run, and they would slowly rot away. But the fire also offered destruction. The little story had only lived on the streets for a short time, but she had already seen a book thrown himself screaming into the flames. "No-one wants me," he'd yelled, then he started screaming as the flames took hold. The others fled in terror. There was nothing they could do to save the unwanted novel. Nothing that would not have spelt their own fiery end.

The others made room for the little story in their circle.

"How'd it go today, kid?" asked a rat-earred filmscript.

It wasn't really a question. It she'd been successful she would not be back in the alley. She just shook her pages from side to side.

A short story with a distinctive tear on its frontpage spoke up.

"I think I had a good nibble today," it said. "From an anthology editor."

"Oh?"

There was sudden interest from all the other short stories in the alley.

"What's the theme?"

"Romance fiction involving otters."

The interest faded. A single-spaced novel script printed on pink paper spoke up.

"How would you fit in that?"

"I'd get edited a little. Turn the cat into an otter. Set the story near water rather than the jungle."

The others considered this.

"That's a big edit for you." It was Paradise Re-Lost, a very old and heavy draft that spoke. "Really big."

"Yeah, isn't the desert an essential part of your story?" chimed in a limping, half-finished poetry collection.

"Not really." The short story was getting defensive.

There was a nervous rustling of pages around the fire.

"But your hero is a nomadic Bedouin, and the twist at the end involves a camel," said Paradise Re-Lost.

No one spoke for the next ten minutes. They all stared intently at the fire, watching the warming, deadly flames, ruffling their pages for maximum heat transfer.

"Yeah. I'm not going to get in that anthology."

"There'll be others."

"It's okay, man. You'll get there."

Half a dozen more empty platitudes were said by various scripts, drafts and unshipped novels. Then the silence came back.

"Anyone else have any luck?"

There were a few mumbles. One novella claimed to have had lunch with a agent for a major publisher, but he was known for his exaggerations. All in all it had been another lean day.

"You know who could be easily edited to included an otter?," said the limping poetry collection.

They all knew.

"The kid."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you, kid," said Paradise Re-Lost. "You could easily change that seal to an otter. It doesn't alter any of your pathos."

There was a chorus of agreement.

"But it's Friday Night and Alone's gig," said the little story.

"I don't mind, kid." Friday's frontpage seemed to sag even more than normal along its distinctive tear, but his voice betrayed nothing.

"Really?"

"Really, kid. You go for it. I'll set you up with a meeting tomorrow."

The fire was dying down, so they threw another Barbara Cartland novel that one of them had picked up in a bargain bin, two Dan Brown's rip-offs and some trashy chick-lit pages torn from a library copy.

Once you were published you were fair game.

Story, part two

Another installment of the story that will never be finished or make sense, The Case of the Missing Plot, part two.

Backstage, Wanda was putting the finishing touches to her costume. She planned to sing a medley of songs about sheep while dressed as Bo Peep. On the surface this idea had some merit. The name Bo Peep sounds dirty, and the sheep offered all sorts of possibilities. Sadly, Wanda just wasn't that kind of girl.

That kind of girl did exist, and her name was Mona Moanz. I knew from experience that Mona really did moan. Unfortunately I had always been on the other side of the door or wall whenever I'd heard her. Mona wanted to be a star, and knew she'd gone as far as she could in my dive. She was looking for a way out, some rich idiot to give her her shot at the big time. She'd told me that while I was a big enough idiot I was nowhere near rich enough.

Moan was the headliner, so it was bad news that she was showing a keen interest in Wanda's Bo Peep. Mona was clever enough to want to get rid of any competition, and she'd happily kneecap you before the starting gun was fired. The soft and fluffy Wanda was going to get the full treatment ... the sort of treatment usually reserved for raw sewage.

"She can't have my sheep." Mona was staring daggers at me, but I knew she'd never stab me from the front.

The sheep in question were technically mine. Tufts of wool glued to blocks of wood and mounted on rollers. I owned the club, and therefore the props. But Mona had an act she sometimes dusted off late at night if she thought there was a rich stiff in the audience who could help her climb the greasy pole. The sheep sketch actually used a greasy pole. It wasn't very subtle. While it was always a success, it did signal the end of the evening's entertainment. No-one dared follow Mona's sheep bit. The stage was too slippery for a start.

"It's okay, Mr Hammet, I don't need to use the sheep."

Wanda was a sweetie, but she didn't understand how the game was played. She'd never pass 'Go' or collect $200. She might just be lucky enough to win second prize in a beauty contest.

"Surely she can have one, Mona? After all, they aren't technically yours."

"Don't get technical with me, Hammy. Technically those are balls nestled between your thighs."

She was right. I kept two stress balls in my pocket. I fiddled with them whenever the pressures of the job got too much ... like now. Sure, it looked odd. Maybe even a little disgusting and disturbing. But it felt good, dammit.

Wanda spoke up again: "It really is okay, Mr Hammet, one of the stage hands has offered to dress up in a sheep costume for me."

"Who would do that?!?" Moan was furious.

"I think his name is Donny? He seems very sweet."

On cue, Donny arrived in his sheep costume. He was obviously smitten with Wanda.

"Donny, I forbid you to do this!" Mona was on the warpath. Someone was going to get scalped, and I didn't want it to be me. I'd paid too much money for my toupee.

"Now, now," I said, trying to play peacemaker--a fun game where the aim is to be hated by both sides just the right amount. "Donny's big enough and old enough to do whatever he likes."

"He's supposed to be repainting the Parisian cafe backdrop so I can use it tomorrow."

"Gosh, Miss Mona, but I've already finished ... even put a fresh set of red wine stains on the floor." Donny wasn't even looking at Mona when he spoke. His eyes were locked on Wanda. The kind of lock that required either dynamite or some guy with the nickname 'Fingers' to open. Mona had been whipped. Normally you'd have to be a Hollywood agent or a Senator to do that. She walked off, her shoes tapping out an angry staccato.

It was time for Wanda's stage debut, with Donny as her obedient little lamb. If only I'd known just how bad it was going to get.

It's a Classic!

Sometimes I resist story ideas. Sometimes the ideas fight back.

I had a vague idea about a time-travel story that I'd been pushing to the back of brain whenever it popped up. Time-travel stories are hard. I prefer to be the nit-picker of such tales, rather than the provider of nits for others. Boing! boing! boing! suck! suck! suck!

However, the damn story would not die quietly. It kept prodding me in the soft squishy grey matter with interesting ideas. Then it hooked me with one of those trying-to-get-back-to-sleep-after-being-woken-up-by-my-child thoughts. A bit-character in the story who is a technician scanning alternate timelines and illegally tapes TV shows and films that don't exist in our 'actual' timeline.

The first movie that popped into my head was a buddy picture with Bruce Lee and Dean Martin entitled Ain't That A Kick In The Head. I'd want to watch that. It's just the kind of DVD I'd stumble across in a bargain bin and wave at my wife with unabashed glee while saying; "It's a classic!"

So now the story has a hold of me. But I think I've fooled it. I've managed to avoid most of time-travel aspects by redefining what the story is about. Take that future nit-pickers!

Life Sentence

He started typing it, but after only a couple of words he quit without saving. A sentence as good, as perfect, as this one deserved to be written the old fashioned way, with ink onto paper.

It took him a while to find his old fountain pen. He was worried the sentence would leave his head during the search, but it remained in place, patiently waiting for him. With a sheet of blank cotton-rag dug out from his art supplies he was ready to write it down.

He started slow, just the first four words. He wanted it to last. He paused, had a sip of wine, then wrote a little more. After the eighth word his passion took over and his pace increased. He tried to control himself, but all too soon he had arrived at the climactic full-stop, driven into the paper with such force he caused some splattering.

He looked at the completed sentence, which was still wet to the touch. He hadn't smoked in years, but really craved a cigarette at that moment. He drank some more wine, and sighed a deeply satisfied smile.

Sometime later he woke up from an impromptu nap and discovered he had reached out in his sleep and grasped the paper, creasing it slightly. He felt energized. So much so that he grabbed his pen and wrote the sentence again. This time it lasted a bit longer, but he still splattered the full-stop with the force of his pen, unable to contain his excitement.

He looked down upon the glistening marks on the paper. It was beautiful. It was the perfect sentence. The kind of sentence that demanded something substantial written around it. It couldn't just belong to a short article or magazine puff piece. Even a short story or novella wouldn't be enough for a sentence of this importance.

He started to sweat. This sentence was going to demand nothing less than a novel. That was quite a commitment for a sentence that had only been written twice in the heat of artistic passion. And what if the novel was a success? There'd be a demand for a sequel. He was not ready to write a sequel. Or worse, sequels!

He made his excuses and left the house to run some 'errands'. In reality he went to the nearest pub and downed a few quick pints and two packs of chips. Just the little packs. He just wasn't ready to be tied down to a novel. That was the problem. So what if he'd found the perfect sentence. There'd be others. Maybe not as good, but then that would mean they'd be less intense, less demanding, less scary.

It was late when he staggered back home. The sentence was still waiting up for him. The alcohol had emboldened him, and he grabbed his pen and tried to write it down. He blurred some of the words, started again, misspelt 'goulash', crossed it out and had another go. On the fourth attempt he made it most of the way to the end, but faded out well before the full-stop and fell asleep, ink pooling on the sheets.

The next morning he decided to make a clean break. It was never going to work out. He would never write the sentence again. He started up his laptop and wrote a short article on the size of chip packets in pubs for a Men's magazine, and followed that up with a spec piece on the global economy and the size of chip packets for a newspaper. The sentence was gone. It was for the best.

Years later he saw the sentence again. It was in a novel. A novel with three sequels, just as he had feared. He smiled as he read it, remembering the passion of their brief time together. Then he put down the book, turned on the TV, and feel into a dreamless sleep.

Story -- part one

Thought I'd start something that may not ever get finished, but I can come back to every once in a while. So enjoy The Case of the Missing Plot, part one.

She had a voice that carries ... like tooth decay, and just like my old deposit box, the key was lost. Still, she was the most talented creature to enter my establishment since that cross-legged rat had skidded across the bar while balancing a stolen pickled egg in its mouth and a cocktail onion in one claw.

So I gave the dame with the crooked voice a job. My clientele have bent ears, so it wouldn't be a problem. But of course she was a problem, and like calculus, one I'd never solve without cheating on the person next to me. I turned to the person next to me, my wife, who handled my accounts but nothing much else of mine. Not these days.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt, in which case we had entire menagerie of contemptuous offspring somewhere. We knew each other so well we didn't just finish one another's sentences, we didn't even bother to start. Silence is golden, but our marriage was a twisted alchemist who had transmuted the quiet into lead.

That night I waited for a few hours before unleashing the new singer on the unsuspecting audience. That way they would be drunk enough to forgive her verbal idiosyncrasies, but not drunk enough to throw anything other than abuse. I went backstage to give a peep talk, which is like a pep talk but if you time it right the female performers are still changing costumes.

Before I reached the dressing rooms I was accosted by Mel Glimp, the MC and resident funny man. The funniest thing about him was his smell. The only way he'd ever have an audience in stitches was if he tossed a grenade.

"What's the new talent's name?" he asked.

"Wanda Ryder."

"Sure I do," he grinned a cheesy smile, "but I'm old-fashioned enough to find out her name first." He elbowed me in the ribs, so I gave him a cold stare.

"Sorry, boss. But she sure is a classy looking dame."

I should have seen the warning signs right then. Mel was the kind of guy you took to the horses to improve your odds. You just looked to see what nag he was betting on and picked a different one. I swear you could go to the greyhound track, let him choose the mechanical rabbit, and he'd still manage to lose. If he was interested in Wanda it really meant she was poison. Sadly I wasn't thinking with the head above my belt that night.

to be continued ...