Taking time off...

Christopher Thompson

No writing today and nothing tomorrow...and for I don't know how long. Maybe having a break from everything will help me reconnect with Simon's story.

When next week's job in Little Rock is done, I may dip into my savings and go someplace I've never been. Like Norway. We'll see how I feel once it's over. 

Another fucking crash and burn...

Sean Cheetham, artist in oils

I thought I knew what the structure was for The Murder of a Quiet Man. Start simple and silent and slowly build Simon's character as the prosecution and police fight to make him back down. I began by saying he's going to be killed, soon, so I felt like I could get away with a slow beginning.

Along the way, he's finding stories of others who faced the same issue...and how one who also fought the charges wound up in jail and had to register as a sex offender. Making his life hell. 

Which might give the police and prosecution solid reason to keep prosecuting Simon. If he proves Paley was lying about his arrest, that might provide the other man with an excuse to demand his case be reopened.

Well...today I tried to shift one of Simon's memories to a bit later in the story, which then caused an imbalance in another part and a concern about if something else is too much...and before I knew it, the whole structure had collapsed.

It's just lying there in pieces. The only thing I can even think to do is start over, and I'm lost as to how to go about it.

When I say lost, I mean completely. I cannot think of where to start or how to make it fit back together. Do I cut this and put it there? Do I need another character to help with the transition or the explanation or the meaning? Where do I start? What the fuck do I do?

I tell myself to just get something down and then worry about it working or making sense, but I can't write like that. I need to know where I'm coming from and have at least a vague idea of where I'm going...and I don't, anymore.

I just want to retreat into the shadows...like Simon does...

Better...

Got more done on MQM. 108 pages, which puts me up to Chapter Ten and over 60,000 words. That's with me cutting some repetition. I still had a couple of moments of What the fuck and I doing and Why am I even trying creep into my brain, but I was able to circle around them and let them dissipate.

Something that seems to be rising in the telling of Simon's story is along the lines of The world has always been unfair and we're just no longer able to avoid the reality of it. Nor are we willing to do anything to change that. One or two people can make no difference, not really, but getting more on board is greater than a Herculean task. It's impossible in today's world. It's too fucking chaotic.

That sounds pretty bleak. But I'm taken back to Voltaire's Candide, again and again, where he comes to the conclusion that it's best to just tend to yourself. There's also Cervantes' Don Quixote, where after all his misadventures and troubles, the Don renounces chivalry as foolish, and dies. Both books looked at the world and saw how seriously it and the people in it were lacking in worth.

I don't think for one second I'm on their level, but I can't see what other direction this story can go.

It's hard to deal with the world, at the moment, because it's now all fucking available to you with a few clicks on a keyboard. You have to make a conscious effort not to fall into that whirlpool of shit, especially considering the assholes currently running things.

So today I just had just one serious goal -- do my laundry. And managed it. Also made my bed with clean sheets. Heated some leftovers in an attempt to declutter my fridge. My back hurts, as does my neck, but I'm handling it with Icy hot and Advil. 

Small victories, I suppose.

Comfort food...

When I was growing up, one of the few meals my mother knew how to make was what we called Beanie-weenies. It was a hot dog sliced in half, lengthwise, and put on a piece of plain bread. Then spoonfuls of Campbell's Pork & Beans were layered over them and a slice of Kraft Processed Cheese put on top, then bake at 350 for 20-25 minutes.

It was cheap and filling. A meal for less $0.60, which came in handy considering how poor we were. Granted, that was back when I could eat  cheap hot dogs with chicken crap in them, and it was also the middle Sixties.

Now? I can only make it with Turkey dogs from Oscar Mayer, since they have no chicken in them. It works with Bush's baked beans and Velveeta cheese slices, too.

I continue to love it, even with the adjustments. It's one of the foods I break out when things get to be too overwhelming and I need something to focus on to keep me from crashing into immobility...and I needed it, today.

Another comfort food is making a meatloaf with onion, green pepper and carrot worked into a pound of ground beef, with leftover rice. Cut up some potatoes and carrots to put around it. Slather it all with Campbell's Tomato Soup and bake at 375 for an hour, and that's five meals. Including at least one meatloaf sandwich on plain bread with Sandwich Spread.

I'd have done that, tonight, but I don't have any green pepper, carrots or potatoes, and it's just not right without them. And it has to be right for it to work.

So my Beanie-weenie did the job. I'm calmer. Still don't know why I started spinning off...but now I can relax. And try to figure it out...because I was getting a lot done on MQM.

Jesus, how fucking crazy am I?

And it just goes and goes...

Pumped up the interview with the gay reporter. Named him Zacharia Oldman, and he gets Simon to start seeing that the town is run by the Prosecutor and police, and that no one wants to cause trouble. There's a certain way things are done there, and Simon is upsetting everything by not taking a deal.

It's still on the weak side but works for now. It helps that Zack is black or partially so. I don't think I'm going to specify except to say his skin is the color of Simon's tea, which is a quarter milk. He may play into this later.

Something I've realized about my writing is how few minority characters I have, overall. I don't really specify race, for the most part, though I have included Muslims and Jews. But there are next to none who are black or Asian except in the very periphery.

Jake is half-Irish-half-Persian, in VoT, and I've found a digital content creator named Sean Hammond who is exactly that. Hunter has a couple black guys in fair-size parts at the end, and Bobby has a couple teammates who are black or Latino in BC. Dirc doesn't care if the men he grabs are white, black or Latino, in DDB and DDC.

But ReShawn and Viona are my first fully black characters who are important to the story...and along comes Zach, who is probably half and half and I'm not going to specify. He just is. And I like that.

I'm at 59,000 words, now, and still adding. Yeah, this is going to be a full-fledged novel.

Which is cool.

From the beginning...

I've started working on MQM in a linear fashion and am through to the point where Simon is arrested. I added more back and forth between him and Paley that could almost sound like he's asking the cop to go back to his hotel room to take some photos. 

Which he isn't; Paley is not attractive to him and says so. And that is when he is arrested. Almost like the guy got his feelings hurt.

I've added in a meeting with a local LGBTQA+ reporter that needs some pumping up, and also did some work on the ending. That kept me up till 4am, but it's a lot better.

Thing is...I'm still trying to understand the why of the story. Why these characters? Why this structure and outline? I honestly have no idea, yet. Am I being stupid in writing a story that makes no real sense?

I can be very stupid. That's half the reason I am where I am, today, instead of a roaring success. There's a part of me that gets frustrated and confused, and when I that happens I just go fuck it and do something to push forward. 

But on the few occasions where I powered through and put aside my inner warnings, half the time it turned into a full-on fiasco. Helping Tony LoPresti with Wilderness Rules was one. I should have killed it the moment it started going off the rails. 

Then there was going along with people I knew and trusted on making Bugzters suitable for a animation film. That was never going to work. And my first move to LA was nonstop stupidity, as was moving to NYC before I really was ready for the city.

I'm trying not to be stupid, again, but no telling if I'll succeed....

An artist going by Silverjow posted the process he follows to do a work of graphic art on his computer. 

I got this off Instagram.

Even at my best, I was nowhere near his level...

But could Simon be?

Bit of a deviation...

Today I worked on Simon's coloring book, which will be used against him by the prosecution. Each four lines would fit a sketch to be colored in, with the words embedded in the frame around them. I may publish it as a companion to Demented Dreams: of guys in trouble. Maybe...Demented Dreams, of guys gone missing.

I may bring it up to 24 frames...so 24 stanzas. We'll see...

-------

1.
So Johnny was the kind of lad
Who treated his girl, Jen, so bad
It often made her very sad...
Till one of her friends said she had

2.
A way to handle any boy
Who thought all females were a toy
To use, and knew she would enjoy

The way it truly would annoy

3.
Him. So Jen made the final call.
A guy named Hank said, “Leave it all
With us. He’s the kind who’ll enthrall
My men to join me at the mall.”

4.
So Jen left Johnny on his own
Outside the ladies’ room. She’d shown

Hank who he was. “He is well-grown,”

Said Hank. “So no need to postpone.”

5.
The flyers warned of the same thing,
Young men were missing, with their name
And photos posted. It’s no game.
Seems Hank and his crew were to blame.

6.
Which they proved, grabbing Johnny quick
And strong. All he could do is kick
And twist, but they knew every trick
To gain control. It was so slick.

7.
His jacket was tossed from the truck.
No Stars and Bars. Those are bad luck.
Jen grabbed it, quickly, from the muck
And waved bye to the little schmuck.

8.
So Johnny was well-gagged and bound
Both hand and foot. They did not pound
Him, as there was no need, they found,
For all was done without a sound.

9.
That was when Hank thought to explore
To see what Johnny had, and more.
Pulled down his jeans. His shirt he tore.
Same for his briefs. “Guys, we did score,”

10. 

Said Hank. “He’ll bring us lots of bucks.
His dick and ass are so deluxe,
And he’s a virgin. That instructs
Us...prepare for a cash influx.”

11. 

Then Ricky, who’s part of the team
Asked Hank, “May I fulfill a dream
Of bringing forth his first full stream
Caused by a man? See if he’ll scream.”

12.

Hank said, “Okay. One caveat.
His ass remains a virgin spot
As does his mouth. Because my thought
Is those untouched means he’ll be bought

13. 

For twice the money I’ll announce.
I know of clients who will pounce
On bidding for him. It may bounce
To triple. Each will want to trounce

14. 

The other.” So the game was set.
And in the warehouse, they were met
By more men, who were to abet
In prepping Johnny. They would get

15. 

Him stripped and bathed and bound so he
Was nude, to be viewed openly,
Thus proving everything they’d see
Was real, for which all could agree.

16. 

Johnny was sweet, both front and back.
Worth every penny they might tack

Onto his value. With no lack
Of clients placing bids. They’d crack

17. 

All records. Money pledged so high
Hank had to tell his female spy
“See what we’re making here? Let’s try
To find more men just like this guy.”

18. 

She showed him half a dozen more
Of soldiers, sailors she could score.
Just jerks who treat girls like a whore.
So vanish them into Hank’s store.

19.
Which wasn’t patronized on Earth.
Up off the planet there’s no dearth
Of humanoids, who find great mirth
In using fine young males of worth.

20. 

Above ten-million was the bid
For Johnny, that won them the kid.

So into a pod he was slid
And of him, now the world was rid.

The rest of the chapter...

I think this works...but we'll see, once the piece is done...

---------

At the next major thoroughfare, they turned left and headed straight towards the storm. 

How appropriate, Simon thought, still calm. Like they were going to a party. 

The passing yards that grew wider and wider, surrounded by thick, towering trees. Like nooks cut intof a forest. Politely trimmed. Little traffic. Peaceful. Mesmerizing. Giving neither cop any cause to glance back at him. 

So he casually leaned against the window and focused on the storm clouds, growling and dancing and billowing so beautifully. Shades of gray interspersed with white cotton and quick shafts of sunlight shooting past them. 

It was curious how something so obviously violent could bring him such contentment. Such stillness. They were north of town, weren’t they? Perhaps even northwest so might drive straight into it. He caught curtains of rain descending, well behind the houses and trees. Wouldn’t that also be appropriate? As this would be his final storm. 

Why did he care so little? Had his time in jail had crushed all remaining sense of life in him? The others trapped in that foul facility thought him a coward for letting them take what they wanted. They didn’t understand it was only apathy, not fear. Why fight over something that doesn’t matter to you, anymore? Why worry about who was on top when it was of no importance in the true of things? Let others fight like beasts over rankings that barely mattered in a schoolyard. 

This was nothing new to Simon. For most of his life, he had left others to themselves. That was probably why Doyle had been able to manipulate him for so long. He hadn’t cared enough to stop it until it became unbearable. And even then, all he had done is find a new hole to hide in.

To stay in, once Doyle had passed. 

He had just...had just kept himself separate from the world and its dangers. He’d wanted no chance of a repeat with another Doyle. And the man's friends...friends who never came to see him during his illness...they proved there were more of him around. Too many of him around.

The one positive aspect of the man’s suffering? It had helped Simon with those he tended to, afterwards. Other men who were slowly dying. Men who hadn’t been selfish monsters or sadistic beasts. Who had sought love...given love...and were now being destroyed by that love. Men whose families had cut them off. Like his own had. By the very people who should have supported them.

He came to believe such families were cowards. Filthy, hateful people who thought more of their position in their tiny community than those who needed them most. Who chose to believe lies. Who gladly fell in with assholes who called this a divine punishment, and conveniently ignored how it was merely a venereal disease, like syphilis or gonorrhea. Both of which had also once been fatal.

He tended to these men as gently as a mother might. He listened to their regrets. To the dreams they once had. The lives they’d expected. The men they’d loved. Or hated. Or both. 

And he was deeply cut by how...no matter what they said, no matter what their condition or situation...they seemed to have lived lives far richer than he had ever allowed himself to. Been far more decent and human than he. Been who they wanted to be and built new families and made friends, despite the hate cast their way. Friends who were showing up for them and helping them in any way they could. 

These men had lived as human beings out in the open instead of just existing in the shadows, licking their wounds like a cat or dog after a fight. They could tell Simon anything and know he would keep their secrets. And if needed know, once they were in hospice, he would saint their rooms so the family that had rejected them wouldn’t be too horrified at what they found. 

Even as they were dying they had worried about what their families might think about them after they were gone.

He brought cookies and cupcakes and light salads made of fruit or carrots or macaroni, along with old movies to watch on VHS. He also talked them through depressions and...and on two occasions, remained silent when they confided they could handle the pain and heartache no longer. 

He was able to do all of this without judgement, thanks to having survived Doyle’s hatefulness. With them, he felt a gentle coil of understanding make him part of each one. Until the day came where the disease was minimized in its horror and its death toll collapsed. When the world could accept it was nothing more than a chronic illness and begin to provide for them as it moved on to its next target of disparagement and disapproval. 

That was when Simon had thought he could relax. And had. And all had been fine. So long as he’d been in his own little world. But the second he stepped away from it...

The second he’d come to this goddamned town in this goddamned state...

The world revealed nothing had changed. Not really.

Bouncing around...

I had an idea to add this bit about Roger Hanson to the part where Simon is being taken to Paley by Garisov and Corelli, and it took much of my focus to even start to get it right...

-------

When Simon left the bank, it was closing in on eleven so he hurried for the bus station. It was only a block and a half away. 

En route, he could smell rain in the air. Up above, clouds danced in the sky. Lightning did its pirouettes, soon followed by grumbles of thunder. The atmosphere began to change, rejuvenated him. He was beginning to feel hopeful and... 

A police patrol car pulled up beside him, Corelli behind the wheel in his uniform. Garisov hopped out on the passenger side, also in uniform, blocking his path as he said, “Simon Halloran?” 

Simon stopped, breathless, and glared at him. “You know perfectly well that’s my...” 

Garisov rammed him against the side of the car and handcuffed him as Corelli got out to watch. “You’re under arrest. Come with us.” 

He yanked the back door open, bundled both Simon and his backpack inside, and returned to the front seat. Corelli got in and put the car in gear, then turned right onto the closest side street and off they went. 

The nearest people were down by the bus station, so all they saw was two cops arresting what looked like a homeless person before driving away. Nothing to see here; move along.

But Simon understood. The police station and courthouse were the other direction. They were traveling out of the city. They were taking him someplace to hurt him...maybe kill him, and he was amazed at how little he cared. 

He looked through the wire screen behind the front seats at Corelli as he drove. Gazed upon his beautiful Roman profile. His thick black hair. The glorious shape of his skull and a neck that would be so nice to break. His broad shoulders showing not the least bit of tension. His eyes focused on the road. 

Too bad it wasn’t you under that streetlamp, Simon thought. Then I might have done something worth killing me for. 

For example, he would still have taken that photo. Maybe more. Then if he had objected like Paley did, offered him money to pose. Back at his hotel. Back where he'd be in control.

He had written such a scenario in one of his earliest short stories. Offer money enough to matter then...

Shirtless, that’s all. Well, what about your jeans’ top button undone? Or down a little? Then off, if you’re wearing briefs. If not, then i have some you can put on. That would show the fullness of your beauty. 

Build trust. Worm your way past his defenses. Let him become vulnerable. Sensuous. Finally naked...no, nude. Always nude. At which time he would be available for fondling and servicing and... 

And what was the name of the young man in that story? Roger? Yes, named after Roger Hanson. A gay-for-pay porn star he’d had a crush on, just before he met Doyle. Floppy hair. Porn-stache. Sweet face. Nice body that wasn’t overbuilt. And circumcised. Described as such.

He was fairly certain he still had the issue of Lancer that Roger was highlighted in. Probably at the bottom of one of his boxes of photos, someplace. Back then, he’d still been willing to pretend seduction was the best way to have a man. Bring him to your bed by making him think he wanted to be worshiped by you for his dick. 

Slow and tender was the way. Something he’d actually done more than once. But men had been more open and available, then...before AIDs.

Like that beautiful Persian pilot. Starting out as talk. Then holding. Then kissing. Then more. So many times in the back of the newsstand after closing. His hands allowed to go wherever he wanted them to as he slowly brought the man to nirvana. No fucking. Nothing crude like that. Just...giving pleasure. And taking joy from having someone lovely to embrace.

Corelli...what he was doing, now...he may be lovely, but he didn't deserve any such kindness or consideration. He was only worthy of being tied down and forced. Like he'd also written stories about.

Simon wished he’d been strong enough to begin taking what he'd wanted instead of retiring into shadows. The wounds Doyle inflicted on him had shattered his ability to show grace...and it had infected his work. Nothing he wrote or drew after that time was kind or generous...or even something he really wanted to do. 

Except in his dreams. 

Except in his fantasies. 

When no one could be hurt.

Until now. 

And now he couldn’t do anything. It was too late. All because that lump of muscle fat, Paley, had been there instead of this fine-looking lad. Who was now destroying his soul for the sake of that monster. Not out of desire or want or need, but out of...out of what? Solidarity with the brotherhood? 

So stupid. So fucking stupid.