Just to show how things can change...

My whole opening with Carli's points system for men is cut because it no longer fits the story. At least, not at the beginning. Here's the opening chapter, again. Shorter by 2 pages but better, I think. I hope.

Well...You Gotta Start Somewhere

Carli Vincenzo quietly stood inside a master bedroom's walk-in closet, watching a very attractive man in his thirties be very involved in having sex with a lovely woman who was at least ten years his junior. They were in a luxury condominium on the 25th floor of a new structure along the Wilshire Corridor in Los Angeles. In that young woman's bed. Atop her silk sheets. And she was enjoying him just as much as he was her, if her groans, gasps, sighs, snarls, groping hands and even perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his ass were to be believed.

Live porn! she thought. Not what'd she'd expected, that night, but fun.

His name was Michael Avery Malsby, and he was married with two children. That was all Carli really cared about knowing, because he was immaterial. The one who mattered on that bed was Anastasia Florencia Deveaux, better known as Stasi to any and all of her minions. Her, Carli knew just about everything about.

The little bitch.

To start, she was twenty-three years old, thirteen years younger than Carli. Five-seven. A hundred and ten pounds. Body by personal trainer, which meant actual strength was less than important; just had to look good. Which wasn't easy to do since her head was probably a size too big for the rest of her. As were her breasts. Oh, definitely enhanced by some upscale cretin in Beverly Hills. There was also the nose job, which was obvious, but did at least help the symmetry of her face. Her big, bad, baby-blue eyes carried more than a hint of cruelty in them, which really irritated Carli.

How could a man be attracted to someone like Stasi? Just the challenge of being the one able to handle her? All he usually found was he had way overestimated his prowess in that department.

Of course, none of that slowed Mikey down, and Stasi had shown a willingness to get as deep and dirty and hard at it as him. In fact, harder...as in, Faster, Buddy Boy, Fuck, Fuck. Which was hard to believe he could do.

And counter-productive.

Carli had learned many a year ago, fuck-faster was not the way to life's greatest pleasure. Not by a long shot.

Of course, going over Stasi's attributes meant comparing them to her own, but she had confidence enough in herself and her abilities not to let it wear her down. She was three inches taller, probably twenty-five pounds heavier, but in natural curves and unenhanced breasts as well as some good solid strength, thanks to her years in the army. She also had brown hair, dark eyes and lips that were the most kissable ever, according to the men she'd known. Of course, that might have been because she also knew how to take the...oh, art of sexual stimulation to the point of mind-numbing. Not just in the oral sense but also gynecological. Which was deliberate on her part. She wanted men to come back for more so she could accept or refuse them, as she chose.

So...watching Mikey at work, thinking what he was giving Stasi some good sex, Carli began to wonder if she should take him on to show him the path to true nirvana. The kind with so many serious, solid, strong, intense sensations that you wind up blind, for an instant, at the moment of climax. The kind that lifts you into the clouds and dances with you amongst the stars. If she did, he would never be interested in a superficial Barbi-doll like Stasi, again. He might even make a nice concubine.

Wait...what would the male version of a concubine be? Carli wondered. Concu-boy?

She almost chuckled at the thought, because she already had a couple of lads who could fit into that category. Something to look into, later.

Stasi would never build a harem of concu-boys. She was far too easily bored and superficial. In fact, Carli was surprised Mikey had joined with her, this evening. He was on the cusp of time to move on, so far as she was usually concerned. She must really think this humpity-humping crap he was doing was good sex. Weird.

But then...everything about Stasi was superficial and show-off-y. Consider the condo's interior design...all custom built and arranged to give one the impression of old money well-spent, but silver molding along the polished white ceiling? Silver lamé drapes flanking the sliding glass doors to the balcony? A six-inch deep carpet in black and white waves with a faux polar bear rug atop it? That was bad enough, but what really offended Carli's sense of taste was a massive shell-like headboard done in chrome and perfectly polished into such bright reflectability, it looked like a Debbie Does Dallas version of the mirror scene in The Lady From Shanghai, the way a half-dozen semi-angles of Mikey's ass moving up and down was reflected in them. Even the fucking sheets, comforter and duvet were silver. Just looking at it was hard to handle.

The only good aspect of the room was, it overlooked the basin, to the south. Far better than having the morning or evening sun blasting in against that headboard. Its reflections could whip up a fire as far away as Silver Lake.

Of course, the whole condo had that massive emphasis on silver. Dozens of photos of Stasi on the walls, held in silver frames. No plants to cut through the knife-like decor, and the only books were on coffee and end tables...all of which were dealing with black and white photos in polished silver bindings. A peasant’s version of what nouveau-riche looks like.

Daddy had built his multi-millions in real estate back in Arizona, straight out of his double-wide mobile home for the first ten years. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But he still wore ragged cowboy boots with his bespoke suits, and now had his twenty-six year-old trophy wife dressed in the latest of the latest styles ensconced in a penthouse on North Central, in Phoenix, and had bought himself a seat in the Legislature. And Stasi’s mom now played drunk golf in her khaki and turquoise ensembles outside her own very own condo-complex fronting an evergreen course that cost more to keep watered than interest payments on the national debt. All classless in the worst way, straight down the line.

Carli had cringed her way through the rooms, keeping them dark as she looked for the best spot to hide. Sneaking in had been no trouble. Despite its vaunted security system, Carli's baby brother, TF, was such a computer whiz...if that description was still used, today...he had been able to provide her with all the codes heeded to waltz right into the parking garage without being seen.

"The residents have fobs they use to get through," he had told her, "but if that's lost, they have passcodes to override them."

"Even the garage?" she had asked.

"That's a bug fixed on the car. It's automatic and the code is noted in their system. So fuckin' easy."

So fucking excellent. The only negative part was racing up twenty-five flights of stairs within a certain timeframe to get to Stasi’s floor. After a short text from Carli, TF had set those cameras to looping just long enough for her to make it. While she was in excellent shape, that was still more Stairmaster than she'd done in the last month.

"Damn me for slacking off," she'd grumbled at about level fifteen.

Fortunately, she knew Stasi would be out till late with Mikey, so she had time to find the keys to Stasi's Mercedes and then could just Zen until she heard the little bitch in the hallway. Which was less than an hour later.

Carli heard the main door open and the man, himself, said, "Y'know, Stasi, I don't need another drink...not right now..."

"Oh, are we in a hurry?" God, even that little bitch's tone was obnoxious.

Both had sounded a bit drunk with wine...and lust, if one went by the giggling and growling happening between them. So into the closet she went...then kept the door open enough to peek out and watch. Not because she wanted to see Stasi strip down; it was big, bad, buff Mikey she was interested in...for that, at least. And him doffing his shirt to reveal a well-pumped back...and shifting his pants down over dove-gray boxer-briefs that covered a surprisingly firm ass...then yanking the briefs off...he had lived up to Carli's imagination. Then he and Stasi had fallen on the bed...and he had started his bunny-humping against her.

This sudden plunge and fuck action would normally be a demerit, in Carli's book, but some good clenching action by his butt cheeks mitigated that. Add in the strong legs and fine hands, and how he’d focused his lips on her breasts and neck and kisses at the same time he was bopping up and down...his merits added up on the positive side, despite the fact that he was fucking around on his wife.

Carli had stopped caring about that sort of issue, long ago. She had come to see marriage as just a device for males to own females and not about equals. Especially since too damn many men followed the head on their dick instead of their shoulders. Which Stasi loved to use to her advantage. Not for money. No, Carli figured it was the power trip of fucking around with guys who were married. The belief there was no chance of commitment. She was out to have her fun with whoever she wanted, and the Don't-you-wanna-fuck-me image she presented would be hard for any pussy-hound to resist.

Of course, the moment a guy started getting too close, he'd get kicked to the curb.

So Carli gave Mikey a pass on that, because the more she saw of him at work, the more she also liked his potential. Strictly on a physical level, of course.

That is what made her decide to let him live.

No sense in wasting someone who might be fun to use, later. Might even meet cute to draw him into her sphere, since she was certain he was soon to be an unmarried man. Horn dogs like him who get dumped by their wives are easy pickin's. And there is lots of you I'd love to pick at, she told herself. But first things first. Let’s get it done, folks.

As in, finish up.

Today, okay?

Damn...another merit for Mikey was his staying power. Very few men lasted more than five minutes pumping in and out like he was, and they’d been at it for a good twelve. Not that Carli was keeping time. But watching this nonstop live porn was starting to affect her...oh, let’s just call it her emotional state. Which could detract from her goal. Not good.

But oh, Mikey’s ass. Mikey’s legs. Mikey’s back. Shifting and moving in the slashing shadows. Even the nape of his neck, so recently barbered and clean. Drifting into his shoulders. It...it was all so fucking hot, if Stasi had been a guy, too, that would have made it impossible to keep control.

Nothing like some gay porn to take a girl over the line.

Could it be that Stasi digging her nails into Mikey’s back and drawing blood was what slowed things down? Was that her way of making sure he took long enough to make her happy, too? Carli had never tried that, since she had her own little tricks...but hey, if it works...

Oh, good. He was going faster and faster. And Stasi was all but screaming. It was getting close.

Of course, that’s when a neighbor suddenly pounded on the wall, next door, howling, “Keep it down in there!” He was only barely audible but definitely trying to be heard. As expensive as the damn place was they could have added a tad more insulation during construction. Good walls make good neighbors, don’t ya know, to pervert a phrase.

In response, Stasi got louder. Screamed. Laughed. Dug her nails into Mikey’s lovely ass, making him howl.

Waves of desire crashed through Carli, and she almost sighed herself into an orgasm.

Faster he went, and faster and faster...until he gulped and jolted and grunted and slammed harder into her. Once. Twice.

Oh, yes, so very good, Carli thought. And here comes a third one. All puns intended. That is a most excellent sign. And what was better? Stasi drifted into all but purring.

Apparently, Mikey had taken care of her, too.

Carli took note; a little pain might mean lots of gain in the act of love. Yes, Mikey was definitely boy-toy material...

Of course, not now. First, she had to complete her plan of action.

She drew in a long, soft, deep breath. Let the sensual nature of the moment envelop her. Wondered how difficult it would be to work Mikey up, again, tonight? She knew she looked good, right then, even under the full-body onesie she was wearing. Granted, he wouldn't be able to see her lips, because they were hidden behind a balaclava. Still it might be fun to see what she could get away with, once she was done. Maybe take him with her?

Down twenty-five flights of stairs? Fireman style? Yeah, that's gonna happen.

Which brought a smile to her face. Was she actually contemplating a kidnapping and rape? She had to cover her mouth to fight back a laugh.

Forget it, Carli. Track the little bastard down, later.

Mikey finally rolled off Stasi, revealing his front was almost as nice as his rear. Abs soft in just the right way. Pecs solid and well-formed. A good face with features that would do well in an aftershave commercial. And a nice-sized erection that was in the process of dwindling. Oh, and praise the lord, no body-shaving. But no condom, either? Oh, that’s a demerit, you bad boy.

He lay flat on his back, still breathless and exhausted. Light trails of sweat whispered off his face and torso as he said, “Oh, shit, Stasi. I never met a girl could do what you do. Son-of-a-bitch.”

Meaning you’ve never had many girls.

Stasi ran her hands up and down her body, stroking breasts that were still pointed straight at the ceiling, they were so damn solid.

Did men really think that's how they were supposed to be? Seriously? God, men were born stupid.

Then Stasi traveled down her body to her thighs, saying, “You were...good.”

He laughed. “Comin’ from you, that’s a serious compliment." 

"Don't be silly." 

"No, I mean it. Never had a girl rate me like that.” 

Wait till you hear my rating, hot stuff, Carli smirked. 

Stasi looked at Mikey. “How many other girls have you been with?” 

“None, since you.” 

Obviously. 

Stasi used her nails to toy with his left nipple...not really playing, considering how he inadvertently cringed. “Not even your wife?”

He rose to lean on one arm and look at her. Kiss her. More sweat trailing down his torso in ways that were so elegant and erotic. “That was never sex. Just another form of masturbation.” 

Okay, Mikey, demerit time. Never diss the soon-to-be-ex. 

Stasi giggled. “You’re a sick fuck.” 

“I try.” He kissed her, again. “Would you marry me if I was free?” 

Oh...Mike, Mike, Mike, big mistake. Huge. Massive! 

Stasi jolted upright, sharp and sudden, startling him. “What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?” 

“I...uh...it’s just...well, Melinda and me, we don’t love each other, anymore. I don’t think we ever did, really. It was more like her dad and my dad wanting to merge families, or some shit like that, so we got talked into it. Then we had the kids. Now they’re off to college. She’s going nuts trying to make herself look like she’s twenty, again, and it...it’s scary.” 

Oh, shit, he’s around forty? He looks so much like he’s still down by thirty. Nice. Take away a demerit. 

Stasi jumped from the bed and went to the balcony, saying, “Fuck, Mikey, why you gotta bring that shit up now? We’re havin’ fun. We were.” 

“I am,” he said, rising to follow her. Rolling up to his feet like a cat rolls out of bed. Stretching then joining her outside. And he did have a nice shifting motion in his ass. Oh...and the sheets are wet. Another good sign. 

But now they were both finally out of sight. 

It was time. 

Carli slowly, carefully, quietly opened the closet door. She slipped a police baton from a belt around her waist and got it ready. Moving soft enough to be totally silent, she found... 

Stasi and Mikey looking out over the LA Basin’s glistening lights. An ocean of shimmering gold on black velvet under a clear sky. A gentle breeze whispering against the silver lamé drapes. It was all so-so romantic, like in a Woody Allen movie. Mikey embraced Stasi around the waist, from behind. “But wouldn’t it still be fun if...y'know...if you and me...?” 

“Don’t you dare say that fuckin’ word, again,” she snapped. He caressed her shoulders. 

“But I...I thought...” 

She shrugged him off. “No, Mikey, you didn’t think. Men like you never do. Well, not with the head on your shoulders.” 

True about that. 

Carli drew closer, silent as death. The club at the ready. The two of them stood there, bathed in the glow of a half-moon, above. 

“Stasi?” he said. “I want to be with you...” 

She turned to him. “Mikey, I like you. I like fuckin' with you. But that’s it. And if you’re gonna get all possessive and demanding...then that is...it...and...” 

And she looked straight at Carli. Her expression became confused, not startled. Frowning. Mouth opened. Obviously, seeing a black-clad figure approaching you from within your own bedroom just did not make sense. 

Mikey noticed her gaze and started to turn, asking, “What is...?” 

BAM! 

Carli slammed the baton down on his head, sending him to the floor, unconscious. Before Stasi could even think to scream, Carli shoved her over the balcony’s railing. 

She screamed then. 

All the way down. 

Twenty-five floors... 

Until she slammed against the tiles next to the pool. Her blood sprayed the walls and stained the chlorinated water. 

And that, as they say, was that...regarding Stasi.

Carli glanced Mikey over. For a moment, she considered sending him down after her, in honor of his wife. But he did make such a lovely picture, lying in the soft moonlight, naked. And the truth was he hadn't actually done anything to Carli, so he didn’t deserve to die. Not like Stasi did. Not for just fucking around. 

She crouched down and pinched a nipple. It felt nice, with the hair soft around it. Then she fondled him. Noticed he had a mole on the left side of his dick. And his balls could have used another milking. But no time for that. 

Dammit. 

She sighed. Tossed the baton out over the balcony. Then she sent a text to TF. It's done. 

She dug Mikey's wallet from his pants and checked his driver's license. Michael Avery Malsby. And he's thirty-eight? What the fuck, did his parents pimp him into that marriage, as a child? She found some business cards, so removed a glove and, using a fingernail dipped in his blood, wrote his address on one of them. Then she carefully put the wallet back in his pants before slipping out of the condo and back down the stairs to the garage. 

She found Stasi's Mercedes convertible, quickly removed the license plates and put on a dealer tag, then put on a sun hat to hide her head, fired the car up and drove out of the garage without a hint of trouble. 

She was curling onto The 405 when she saw TF's response, on her phone. Done. 

Meaning, he'd have erased any trace of him having hacked their system, and he was damned good at covering his electronic tracks. No cause for concern, there. 

In moments, she was driving east, down The 10. 

Mikey was still unconscious when the building’s security crew found him, ten minutes later. Blood from the wound to his head stained the polar bear rug. Paramedics were called in and he was rushed to a nearby trauma center, where it was determined he had been struck from behind and had a severe concussion. He remained unconscious for three days and woke with no memory of what had happened. 

They found the baton rolling in Stasi’s blood, next to the pool. Careful analysis showed it also had some of Mikey’s DNA on it, but no fingerprints. The blood had ruined any chance of finding them. 

Security cameras showed no unknown person entering the premises. No one snuck down the hall to Stasi’s condo. The door showed no sign of forced entry...although her passcode had been used to enter at a time when no one was in the hallway. That just wasn't possible, so it must have been a glitch. 

The closest they could come to any unusual activity immediately after she jumped was a silver and chrome Mercedes C Class convertible left the parking garage with a woman in a hat that covered her head driving, and nothing but an unreadable dealer tag on the trunk lid. 

That raised some questions, because none of the guests had a car without regular license plates, but a survey of the residents brought no information to clarify that. And the car could not have gotten in or departed without the proper codes or entry fobs. 

The only scenario the police could come up with regarding the death of Anastasia Florencia Deveaux was...in some fit of rage, she had clubbed Mikey, thought she killed him and jumped to her death. Neither her mother nor her father believed it, but search as they might, they could find no indication of anyone else in the condo. No fingerprints or DNA other than hers and Mikey’s. Nothing. 

So...Stasi was consigned to that world of crazy females who get angry when a married boyfriend won’t divorce his wife...and tries to kill him...then does it to herself. Open and shut case. 

At least, it was...until four days later.

Current status...

As of this moment, Carli's Kills is 395 pages long and 83,210 words. There are 18 chapters, and I think I pretty much have it in the formatting I want. Basically. I'm still doing Courier 12 pt. double-spaced. For the paperback, that will change to Palatino or Times New Roman 10 pt. and 1.15 spaced in a 5.5x8.5 size. This will also determine the cost of the book. When it comes to e-books, this don't matter.

I think I'll try and get another pass done on the book before I print it out. Something quick and dirty to see if there are any glaring errors. I already have a couple notes on things I didn't address near the end, so will handle those, as well. Then comes the red pen, probably while I'm in LA since just about everyone I know is unavailable to get together. Then when I get back, I will input/rewrite the story again before seeking comments.

I'm still debating issuing this under a pseudonym. I'm hearing Kindle gets itchy about such things so may not be able to. Which I don't really mind; it's a vague form of cowardice to do so, and I'm at that age where I don't have time for that. BUT...I also don't have time for simple propriety as regards what's best for my books. If putting it out under Michel Grasley will help it, I will.

I'm also thinking of updating the cover of another of my books...Porno Manifesto. Apparently, the cover is too much for some places to allow on their websites. It got blocked by Tumblr, of all things! I find that ridiculous.

I honestly have no idea why they had a problem and wouldn't let me fight it. You don't see his ass, except for a hint below the title. You don't see his dick. Is it the knife...which is more of a ceremonial blade than dangerous? Good luck getting them to explain.

I need to find a way to be more provocative without being more provocative.

When I say completed...

What I really mean is, I'm done with writing at that moment. Today I went back over the next to the last chapter of Carli's Kills, where everything comes to a head, and reworked it to where it made more sense. Had more reason for things to happen. And explained a moment or two. It still drags, a bit...Zeke is shot and it seems Carli and Eldora are too busy talking to do much about it, so there's no real sense of urgency...but it's better.

Next comes the summing up, which should...hopefully...finalize all aspects of the story. Which ain't gonna be easy. I've got lots of loose ends to deal with, but some of those may vanish in the 3rd draft.

So I watched a Netflix rom-com-ish film because a friend of mine was the cinematographer on it -- Brad Rushing, an artist when dealing with light and film. It's a sweet story, a sequel to an earlier project he DP'd, where everything works out just right in the end once people accept each other for themselves. In both of them. Very Hallmark-oriented.

They're both called A California Christmas, with the sequel adding City Lights, and everything looks good and rolls along smoothly. The acting is okay, and both were written by Lauren Swickard to meet all the expected moments in a movie like this. She also played the female lead and her husband, Josh Swickard, was the male lead.

Fortunately, Josh is gorgeous and has his shirt off a few times in both of them, so those moments kept me going. But these stories really aren't my thing. The closest any of my work comes to something like this is The Alice '65, and even that one has a layer of darkness to it that neither of these projects have. I feel like I need to heat up some tortillas and slather butter, salt and Tabasco over them just to wash away the sugar.

Brad does such great work it hurts me not to see him in the same strata as Vilmos Zsigmond, Peter Biziou and Vittorio Storaro. But the film industry is vicious and talent alone gets you nowhere, no matter what anybody says. I like how he's finding work and maintaining his level of beauty, I just wish it was for something like Blade Runner. He's just as good as Jordan Cronenweth.

Hey, fates, help me win the lottery so I can put Brad's art to work!

Night

Because the fascist right wing in America is hell bent on turning the United States into a version of either Hitler's Germany or Stalin's Russia, I felt the need to start reading all books being banned by those animals. I read Maus before it won the Pulitzer, and own a copy in hardcover. Pantheon House. I've read The Color Purple also, as well as Huckleberry Finn, 1984, Animal Farm, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and Catcher in the Rye, to name a few. But I hadn't read Night by Elie Wiesel.

So read it, this evening. In one sitting. It's only just over 100 pages of text. I got a copy from the library for Kindle, because they don't have a physical copy of it. I find that shocking.

In simple crisp prose, Elie Wiesel portrays his time as a Jewish boy from his home, at the age of twelve, to life in Auschwitz up through Buchenwald, where he was freed. He showed how true that old wives tale is about a frog in a pot of water that is slowly growing hotter and hotter. How it won't jump out until the water is boiling and it's too late.

He does not stint on the denial of Jews leading up to those days...and the horror and despair...and the occasional kindnesses. And the nearly incessant brutality. Small wonder the fascists want this book banned. It points to the evil of their intentions.

I despise censorship. I don't believe in shutting anybody up, so long as they are not calling for the violent overthrow of a democratic government or out to get people killed. So having a governmental body like a school board or city council determine what books shall and shall not be read is the wildest violation of the 1st Amendment I can think of. What's ridiculous is, wealthier people can get around the bans, quite easily.

What's sad is, this will mainly impact kids who don't have ways around them. Middle class children can buy the books or read them on their tablets, iphones or laptops. But kids in poor neighborhoods who don't have access to well-stocked libraries or the tools to work around there not being copies for them to read are left in the cold. So having wealthy white people like Stephen King tell them to find the books themselves reeks of casual privilege.

I've had my books sort of banned...by Amazon, WH Smith and Kobo. But I had alternatives to get them out there and sold. I know this gives me an edge against those who would deny my work. But even though my sex scenes are only about as graphic as what you'd read in a Jackie Collins or Judith Krantz novel, theirs are MF while mine are MM...so I can't get put into libraries.

That's why I howl at censorship and those who would decide for themselves what is right and proper to read. It's what I have to do as a writer.

Okay...draft 2 completed

I finalized the last 2 chapters of Carli's Kills, this evening, and once again the powers that be have kicked me back to the curb. I had this neat outline worked up as to what the final confrontation would be...and Dax, the main bad guy, shot it down. Literally. The bastard actually shoots Zeke! Startled me, somewhat...

It also cut probably four pages out of the ending...so it seems rushed, right now, and that is not what I want. I've been accused of getting out of my books too fast, before, so I'm trying to put the brakes on to keep this one from just being a slam-bam-thank you, ma'am kind of ending. More depth. More contemplation.

It's the Hitchcock training in me. Once the story's over, get done with it. And a few times he did that to the movie's detriment, at the end. So...I'll go back over the last two chapters and let them breathe, a little, to make sure I'm not hurting the story in any way.

As of now, it's 387 double-spaced pages in 12 point Courier, and 81,256 words. And still needs to be spunkier. More attitude. I sort of wander away from that, here and there. I could also trim it down a little.

I'm off to LA next week so probably won't do another draft till I get back, on the 8th. It's the Rare Book Fair in Pasadena, the 4th-6th of February...which is a big controversy in the book world. There's also a rare book fair in the San Francisco area, the same time, being put on by an organizer who's been doing this for years. The one in Pasadena was set up despite this by a couple of neophytes whose egos are bigger than their brains. Neither side is happy.

I don't really want to go. One of my friends, out there, will be on a movie. Two others are in Scotland, I think. And another has announced he's now Covid positive. I had a test on Monday and am still negative, so am leery of visiting his family. Guess I'll take a couple books to read and make my pilgrimages to In-n-Out Burger, Marix and Panda Express...then up the coast to Zuma Beach, once. Then it's a redeye home, Monday night.

Should be fun.

Prep work...

I spent the last couple days working out the logistics of the finale. Who's where, when and how. Who lives. Who dies. And nothing seemed to be working until I was sitting in an auto dealership's waiting room as my car was worked on and had nothing else to do but rewrite what I'd already rewritten a half-dozen times. But now I've got a workable outline and my '98 Civic runs very nicely.

Of course, some of my time, yesterday and today, was taken up with a doctor's appointment (skin) and getting another Covid test (results in; still negative) and ordering prescriptions and spending a solid 2 hours trying to get through to the Social Security office in San Antonio. My youngest brother is applying for disability, and dear God I hope he gets it. That would be such a relief.

FWIW, I've been supporting him for a solid eight years. Which is why I'm still deep in debt. He lives in a small trailer in a park on the east side of San Antonio, and I send him enough to handle rent on his lot and most of his living expenses. My sister in Aransas Pass supplements it as she can.

He's 60 and has serious emotional issues...and some physical ones. Severe gout. Cataracts. Skin problems that are worse than mine. And he is skinny to the point of being unhealthy. He's refused for years to see a doctor and the only reason he went to a dentist was to have his teeth removed. My sister paid for that. Now to get disability he may have to have a physical; he's willing to do that, at least.

Dealing with him takes a lot of time and effort, but I do get to claim head of household when I do my taxes...so there's that. Still, it took me telling him I'm close to broke so will soon be unable to help him, anymore, to get him to contact the SSA and start the dance with them. I had to speak with them to verify I'm his only source of income. It's just, I can't let him wind up homeless...and no one else in the family will do anything for him.

Maybe I should run a GoFundMe page to get myself solvent, again.

Outlandish?

It's beginning to look like a couple of women are going to be fighting over my little Zekie. Everything's about to explode with the murders and finale, and both Carli and Sheriff Eldora Parridge have a thing for you know who. One's got the badge but the other wants to get him the hell out of Dodge before the weight of the law crashes down on everyone...and she's got Roofies. If he won't leave on his own, she'll carry him off.

It's becoming more and more the reverse of most romance novels, where the heroine is swept away by a strong caring man who looks like...well, I'd say Fabio but I think a more current reference would be Chris Hemsworth in his Thor of the Golden Locks days. Nowadays, he's got short hair and just looks perky.

So I'm letting Zena doing the sweeping...

And flat out lying. She's not going to admit to Zeke that she killed his friends. She's going to deny it to her grave. It's what adults do...keep their secrets to themselves. Well, Carli's a grown-ass adult who just happens to look like Lucy Lawless.

I think they make a lovely pair...

More inspiration

This photo from a couple years ago is the embodiment of the relationship between Carli and Zeke. Plain and simple...if he had a prosthetic left leg. The boot might hide it. And if he had a tattoo that goes up the left side of his body from his leg to his shoulder and arm.

I wish I had a photo like this for Alex Minsky, but the one I remembered of him and his ex-girlfriend is nowhere to be found. She did a dirty trick on him so it's probably for the best she's vanished into obscurity. But she's the reason we know he's circumcised and nicely endowed.

I went back into a chapter that dealt with some of Carli's self-reflection and doubt and toned that crap down, a lot. She thinks about what she's done, and agrees it's time to stop...but because she wants to build a life with Zeke. She does grow a bit concerned with how much she enjoyed killing Stasi, Grady, Nat and Spit...and wonders if she's addicted to it.

But then she sees his smile and all concerns go out the window...and she asks him to leave the area with her. I'm at the point where he's trying to decide what to do, but things are about to fly out of control thanks to Dax, the drug boss, doing something he should not have done.

I don't think what he does is a dumb move on his part; it's an instinctive one and automatic. He's an animal lashing out so doesn't think things through, and sets in motion events that will prove deadly, all the way around. I'm going with ending idea number 4, which is where Eldora realizes she has to shut this mess down in such a way as to finish it and protect herself.

Boy, does she ever.

Breaking free...

There comes a time, in a story you're writing, when you just have to kick back and say Fuck it. Let it go. Understand you will never control the muse or the ether from whence these stories come. You are a stenographer to ghosts haunting you, demanding their tales be told, and who still have the irritating ability to behave too goddamned human to be dealt with.

Seriously, arguing with those essences gets you nowhere except a one-way ticket to a lobotomy. All you can do, as a writer, is let it flow. Talk it through within yourself, sure...but don't let it take over. That is so easy to do...and death to the creation of it.

Reading my books for A Place of Safety, I now see the first three drafts were merely locking in the story and letting me know which characters will inhabit it. And Brendan is warning to advance with caution. It's like I'm barefoot and shattered glass is everywhere. Some people can walk on that with no trouble; others leave behind trails of blood and pain. I'm somewhat in-between.

My first step into this ocean of destruction will be to finish Carli's Kills. And do it as Carli wants. I keep edging towards making her noble and acceptable, while she's screaming at me, Stop it. No apologies. Remember Beryl Markham, who did her own thing, come hell or high water, and never looked back.

She trained championship horses in Africa, became a bush pilot, was the first woman to fly from London to North America, was friends with Isaak Denison, and fucked anything and anyone she wanted, whether she was married or not. Some say she was the inspiration for Daphne DuMaurier's Rebecca...as the first Mrs. DeWinter.

I wrote an award-winning screenplay about her...for two women who didn't have the rights to her story. They said they did. And I busted my ass. And I'm goddamned proud of what I wrote. But it was for nothing. It was my first lesson in the realities of Hollywood and the system, therein.

Carli is the same as Beryl in her attitudes. And I can use that to keep me focused on her reality. 

Can I do this?

I'm watching season one of You, on Netflix, which apparently is about an obsessive serial killer who's protecting his latest crush...and it is driving me up the wall with its lazy, sloppy, don't-really-give-a-fuck writing. And I'm talking glaring shit, here. For example...

1. A beautiful young woman has an apartment that faces the street, at street level, with tall windows...and no shades or curtains. And walks around in full view of the street wrapped only in a towel...or having sex with her boyfriend, legs in the air...or sleeping. In the middle of NYC! That is begging for trouble.

2. The lead, Joe, played by Penn Badgley, knows books and how to bind them. He's got the tools and materials. Knows they need to be kept in a safe place with constant temperature and humidity level. So what does he do? When he does have to rebind a book, he rips off the boards and spine and says they don't matter. WRONG! And what does he have to keep those books in? A lucite block in the middle of the basement, where it's wasting valuable space...and has air holes in it! Looks more like a prison for Hannibal Lechter than anything else.

3. A rich asshole in the middle of trying to get his new business started is kidnapped, held in that special book room for days, yet never takes a dump or a piss or have a shower, and his clothes never get rank on him. Nor does anyone come looking for him. Not rich parents. not business partners. Nobody. Then when he's dead, decomposition sets in and his body stinks. Do you know how hideously difficult it is to get that smell out of anything, especially something as fragile as an antiquarian book? But let's just ignore that.

4. Also, the rich asshole is a junkie. Has coke and other drugs in his system. He also has a peanut allergy. Joe kills him by slipping peanuts into his latte, so it looks like he died by accident. His body could be dumped in an alley in the middle of the night, and with those drugs and his medical history, his death would probably be ruled an accident, even with a nasty smack to his head. Instead, just to pump up the suspense, he's wrapped in plastic, put in the back of a car, complications are tossed in just for fun before he's driven out into New Jersey and his body burned...as people are approaching in the middle of the woods. A shitload of idiotic trouble that is not at all necessary and reads more like filler.

And that's just in the first three episodes! Don't get me started on how easy it is, apparently, to get into anyone's home or apartment in a city of security systems out the wazoo...or break into people's phones or laptops, even with passcodes...or not be caught lurking about like a stalker...or have a car smash into a rock hard enough to cause a concussion in the driver but ZERO damage to the car. It's fucking insulting.

I know this thing is based on a book, and I'm halfway tempted to read that thing just to see if the producers and writers hewed closely to it. If so, my obsessiveness about making CK believable...hell, making APoS believable...is overwrought.

It's truly depressing.

Sete de Sangue

The sun was lower the sky. Still warming the desert, but only in the areas where its beams hit. In the shadows, when mixed with the soft breeze the evening air was bringing, it remained quite chilly.

And that is where Carli was, in the shadows.

She was hidden between brown-black rock formations tens of millions of years of years in age, that shot skyward at least a hundred feet, straight up from the ragged earth. This was off a dirt trail parallel to another dry arroyo. Their base was now scarred with modern hieroglyphics happily sprayed on in bright neon colors that almost...just almost...glowed with reflections from the sun. Broken glass, crushed cans, cigarette butts and syringes proved this was nothing but a gathering place for the hard-drug crowd, so care had to be taken as to where you walked.

And how long you stayed. 

Don't want to get caught by the night crowd, using their space when those soon-to-be-corpses were jonesing for a needle. 

Here, the Dodge sat, nose facing into the rocks, engine humming, headlights on, the beams cutting into the shadows. Directly above, up a semi-trail, was the spot where Carli had watched Eldora and her crew on that low plateau, starting their investigation into Grady's murder. That tarp was still stretched between the rocks. But this time, Carli didn't feel the need to observe them with the bodies, once they were found. She just wanted to be away.

She stood before the Dodge, naked, washing blood off her body. She had a five-gallon jug of water sitting on a rock at about waist level, and was rubbing herself down with a blood-soaked rag. She worked slowly. Cuts and bruises on her body. Hands shaking. Mind deliberately blank. A second jug was on the ground next to the rock...and she would probably need it. And that was just to get back to the house so she could take a long hot shower. 

With lots of soap to wash away the smell of death. 

Then a nice scented lotion, for good measure. 

Killing these two...Nat and Spit...they were bothering her. Especially Nat. Having complete and total control over him like she had Grady. Staked into the same spot, this time next to the Malibu, with Spit's body on the other side of it. Trying to do to him what she had done to Grady...even as he was bleeding to death...she had actually experienced an orgasm as he died. 

Y'know, for some odd reason, that just did not seem normal. 

What is more? She now had to admit she'd felt a bit of a thrill as Stasi had vanished over the balcony railing. And the thought of sending Mikey after her had brought a tingle to more than just her nipples. Then there was a nearly guttural release at Grady finally giving up the ghost. 

Spit had been a fight for survival, and had taken too physical a toll to be enjoyed. Though now it almost struck her as foreplay. 

Almost. 

After all, he was really a creep. 

But Nat... Nat. Him...what had happened could not be ignored or brushed aside. His death had brought a sense of power and pleasure to her that she had never felt before. It almost reminded her of the overwhelming beauty she had sensed the first time she did coke. The euphoria. The peace. The excitement. Snorting it with a PFc from Georgia, who had also turned her on to the joy of fucking while stoned out of your mind. The orgasm she'd had nearly blinded her with its grace and perfection. Carried her for days. Weeks. Months, and she had been unable to achieve that same exquisite torture, again.

Until now.

She hadn't really come close to it with Grady; he had been too slovenly to affect her sense of need. But Nat? He was the exact opposite. Trim. Tight. Not much hair and that was tightly curled in ways she found odd and playful. And his penis? Of a decent length...and circumcised. Once she had staked him down and stripped him, she had undressed and lain next to him and on him and straddled him for some time as he begged and cajoled and argued and whined and finally drifted into shock and stopped breathing. 

It hadn't mattered that she couldn't get him up like she had Grady, try as she might. He was in too much pain and had lost so much blood. Maybe if she had been able to get him to cum, she might have lost her focus and been happy with only Spit's death. Called an ambulance. Told them where to find him. Maybe. But it was a moot point, now. 

There was no question in her mind that each one of these bastards had deserved to die for what they did to Lara. Callous beasts taking joy in the destruction of another human being should be destroyed in just as callous and cruel a manner. Like mad dogs. They were a danger to others...and she had ended that danger. 

Does that make me Samael? she wondered. 

The fallen angel of death. 

She had wondered this a couple of times near the end of her tour in the 'Stan. Her skill on a target range had brought her to the attention of a Field Captain, who had learned how much the Taliban and ISIS hated even the possibility of being killed by a woman. He had talked with her, checked her out, joined her in her bed...at her instigation...seen she had the eye and the concentration, and arranged for her transfer to his squad.

All on the down-low, of course. 

At this time, the Rangers wasn't ready for a female sniper. But a few words with another captain got it fixed by just using just her initials for his crew and keeping her officially assigned to logistics. No need for any colonel or general to know what they don't need to know. And she. Had. Loved. Every. Minute. Of it. The marches, where she proved she could carry as much weight as the boys. The target practices, where she outshone even the best of them. The camaraderie, where her being just as forward about sex and fun as the guys had made her more like a buddy than just an object of prurient need. For the first time, she felt like she belonged. 

Of course, the Captain hadn't expected her to happily lead more than one of his men into understanding that sex was sex, whether with a man or a woman, or both at the same time. He did get a bit huffy, over that, but her kill ratio was too great to let some antiquated morality fuck things up. And he had to admit, his men were a lot closer and morale much better since she had joined the group. So...if it ain't broke and all that... 

But then Lara had been raped...and died...and something in Carli had shifted. She would not let a man touch her unless she initiated things. She kept off to herself, brooding and easily triggered into a rage. And what was worse? At least, to her conscious mind? She now looked forward to killing the enemy.

Needed to. 

Always male. 

She exalted in it. Felt a near orgasm when the bullet hit home. 

Despite her rejection of her mother's religious nonsense, she knew, deep down, this was wrong. Sociologically. Humanly. Morally, even. But there it was. 

The Captain had noticed the change in her but let it ride. She was still his best gun. Until a dumber-than-dirt Second Lieutenant got drunk and grabbed her breasts from behind and told her she was servicing him, that night...and she'd broken his nose without a thought. 

Unfortunately, he got all pissy about it, which meant she had to be returned to logistics and bound for Courts Martial. No matter how much of an ass a Second Louie was, he was still a superior officer. But this one quickly learned that, first, he'd put his Captain in serious trouble with the brass and, second, the other men in the platoon were angry as hell about it. Now he could expect no backup from anyone, so wound up being rostered back to the states, once everything with Carli was settled.

His attack on her was dismissed, of course. But the Army, in its wisdom for once, let Carli accept a general discharge. The idea of getting another black eye over yet another sexual assault allegation being ignored was the determining factor. Which suited Carli just fine. She had begun to formulate a way to exact a vicious revenge on Lara's rapists, and not being beholden to anyone was perfection, to her. 

And now she was keeping her vow.

Pushing through

Another couple of chapters done in CK as I grow nearer and nearer to the day of reckoning...deciding if I go for my tragic ending or my HEA. I've got both set up, with 3 possibilities...and I'm leaving it up to the characters to decide. I think they'll surprise me as much as anybody, because I'm seeing a 4th possibility opening up, as well, concerning Sheriff Eldora Parridge.

I don't know if this is how it always works when writing in third person omniscient. First person, I'm just dealing with one character as he's going through his process. On the three other occasions where I wrote third person, it wasn't omniscient but focused solely on one individual...David in David Martin, Adam in The Alice '65, and Finn in The Beast in the Nothing Room. They were in every moment of the books and all was viewed through their perspective, almost like they were first person.

I've played with first person being presented as third person, in The Lyons' Den. About a writer trying to write but things keep getting in the way. That story's being told by Ace, the fictional detective, so it's actually Daniel telling the story through a character who's part of his mind...meaning he's telling it in both first and third person. Small wonder people get lost in it. But I had fun writing it, and I've gotten good feedback from those who did get invested in the story.

I haven't done multiple first persons in any of my stories. I find that confusing and hard to keep track of. But they've started doing it in You, however, and it only verified my belief that it throws the viewer. All of a sudden we're hearing Beck's interior dialogue jumping back and forth with Joe's...and I honestly think it hurts the revelation of who a character she's interacting with turns out to be.

I'm still not really invested in this series. They have things happen that have to happen to forward the story but don't make sense considering the truth of the characters involved. Like having a manipulative woman who's as shallow as spit on a sidewalk notice a particular book is missing from her family's library...when she probably never cracked a book in her life. Or Joe always having ways to get into apartments by doing things I flat out know would not happen in NYC.

Hell, anywhere.

I'm now treating this series as a guide to keep in mind it needs to be real when you write it, boo.

Beginning to plan...

I'm ignoring my own protocols for the preparation of Carli's Kills to enter the world of the published. All of my ebooks are on Smashwords because they're more available through Kobo and Apple Books and other people who don't have Kindle. But that also cuts out the KU market, so I'm going to set it up on Kindle, exclusively, to see what happens. It's a MF book so I doubt the puritans at Amazon will be as jerky about it as they are about my MM books.

When How to Rape a Straight Guy and Rape in holding Cell 6 first came out in ebook, Kindle offered them. The publisher I was with set them up. But then Amazon went through one of their freak outs and banned my books for content. I went through a nasty fight with them to get them to back down, and then they only agreed to carry the paperbacks. They wouldn't even discuss carrying them in ebook.

I was all alone in fighting this battle. I couldn't get my publisher to help me, nor did I ever get a reckoning from him of how many copies were sold, so I got my rights back and found Smashwords, and I've had good luck with them.

I also learned how to format for both paperback and ebook, so that they come out the way I want them. Hasn't been easy, but I've got a fair grip on it. Meaning when I do submit to KU, it's a ready file, not one that needs formatting by them. And no ISBN is needed, so that's good. I'll give it a year with KU. If nothing happens, I'm pulling it for Smashwords.

I'm also publishing it under a pseudonym, to keep it separate from my other work. I want to see if that makes a difference in sales. I worked out my final sales figures for 2021, and The Alice '65 fared poorly. I've had people suggest it's because of my gay novels; people don't think it's okay to read or some shit like that. I used to think that was nonsense and that people should get over it, but I've seen so much stupidity in the human race, the last few years, I no longer think my lofty beliefs are valid.

Nothing much I can do about A65, now...but I can give CK a fighting chance, at least.

Something educational that might bear on CK

This is a distillation of Noam Chomsky's Ten Strategies of Manipulation. Which I think Carli may wind up using at the end of Carli's Kills in order to get away with murder. Granted, she's out for revenge and the system of justice failed her, miserably, but vigilante justice? People tend to frown on that.

But here it is...

1. The strategy of distraction -- The primary element of social control is the strategy of distraction, which is to divert public attention from important issues and changes determined by the political and economic elites, by the technique of flood or flooding continuous distractions and insignificant information. Distraction strategy is also essential to prevent the public interest in the essential knowledge in the areas of science, economics, psychology, neurobiology and cybernetics. "Maintaining public attention diverted away from the real social problems, captivated by matters of no real importance. Keep the public busy, busy, busy, no time to think, back to farm and other animals." (quote from text "Silent Weapons for Quiet War"). Think Kardashians mattering more than the KKK.

2. Create problems, then offer solutions -- This method is also called "problem-reaction-solution." It creates a problem, a "situation" referred to in order to cause some reaction in the audience, so this is the principal of the steps that you want to accept. For example: let it unfold (and intensify) urban violence, or arrange for bloody attacks in order that the public accepts the applicant's security laws and policies to the detriment of freedom. Or: create an economic crisis to accept as a necessary evil the retreat of social rights and the dismantling of public services. Bill Clinton's Welfare Reform in the mid-1990s.

3. The gradual strategy -- Acceptance to an unacceptable degree, just apply it gradually, like eyedrops, for consecutive years. That is how the radically new socioeconomic conditions (neoliberalism) were imposed during the 1980s and 1990s:  the minimal state  privatization  precariousness  flexibility  massive unemployment  wages  and do not guarantee a decent income Changes that would have brought about a revolution if they had been applied all at once. Reference the refusal to increase the minimum wage until the only way to do it with any meaning is to more than double it, and that's just too much.

4. The strategy of deferring -- Another way to accept an unpopular decision is to present it as "painful and necessary", gaining public acceptance now for future application. It is easier to accept a future sacrifice instead of immediate slaughter.  First, because the effort is not used immediately.  Then, because the public, masses, always has the tendency to naively expect that "everything will be better tomorrow," and that the sacrifice required may be avoided. This gives the public more time to get used to the idea of change and accept it with resignation when the time comes. Massive tax cuts to the rich will pay for themselves, but help to people is way overpriced.

5. Go to the public as a little child -- Most of the advertising to the general public uses speech, argument and particularly children's intonations, often close to weakness, as if the viewer were a little child or a mentally deficient. The harder one tries to deceive the viewer's look, the more it tends to adopt an infantilizing tone. Why? "If one goes to a person as if they had the maturity of someone 12 years of age, or less, then, because of suggestion, they tend, with a certain probability, to have a response or reaction also devoid of a critical sense beyond that a person 12 years or younger." (see "Silent Weapons for Quiet War") As in...Keep It Simple, Stupid. To the max.

 6. Use the emotional side more than the reflective -- Making use of the emotional aspect is a classic technique for causing a short circuit on rational analysis, and finally to the critical sensibility of the individual. Furthermore, the use of emotional register is to open the door to the unconscious, for implantation or grafting on of ideas, desires, fears and anxieties, compulsions, or to induce behaviors ... "Why should billionaires pay more in taxes when they give us jobs?" Never mind that they don't pay enough to live on.

7. Keep the public in ignorance and mediocrity -- Making the public incapable of understanding the technologies and methods used to control and enslave. "The quality of education given to the lower social classes must be as poor and mediocre as possible, so that the gap of ignorance it plans between the lower classes and upper classes is and remains impossible to cross for the lower classes." (See "Silent Weapons for Quiet War") See #7's response.

8. To encourage the public to be complacent with mediocrity -- Promote the public to believe that it is fashionable to be stupid, vulgar and uneducated... "This is the best we can do, and never mind we promised you more. We had to make compromises."

9. Self-blame strengthen -- To let individual blame themself for their misfortune, because of the failure of their intelligence, their abilities, or their efforts. So, instead of rebelling against the economic system, the individual is self-defeating and guilty, which creates a depression, one of whose effects is to inhibit action. And, without action, there is no revolution! "If you don't like your job's wage, get a better one. Oh, wait, don't do that before you make me my soy milk latte exactly right so I don't scream at you."

10. Getting to know the individuals better than they know themselves -- Over the past 50 years, advances of accelerated science have generated a growing gap between public knowledge and that owned and operated by dominant elites. Thanks to biology, neurobiology and applied psychology, the "system" has enjoyed a sophisticated understanding of human beings, both physically and psychologically. The system has become better acquainted with the common man than he is with himself. This means that, in most cases, the system exerts greater control and great power over individuals, greater than that of individuals over themselves.    All those stupid little quizzes and tests on Facebook, for cryin' out loud.

Of course, this list also applies to today's political situation...which I finally have accepted is completely out of control, thanks to the weakness of Democrats. At the end of 2022, we will probably cease to be a democracy and, instead, will officially be an oligarchy. And this is how our elites got us to this point.

Needless to say, I'm something of a cynic...which is why I'm letting someone kill people with impunity in my next book.

And making fun of it.

Just over halfway done with Carli's Kills...

About 55% of the way through this rewrite, and it's going to take one more for me to begin to be happy enough with it to consider getting feedback. Turns out there's also something of a romance moment in this that might add...or subtract...for the overall story.

Zeke takes Carli out to his zen spot in the rocks, on his Harley. At two in the morning. With his dog Loki in s puppy seat keeping a tight eye on her the whole way. He thinks she's another vet having trouble adjusting back to civilian life so is being kind. But by this point, she's killed a woman and three men. And come close to killing him.

Probably not the most romantic of situations, but on that ride she divorces herself from her need for revenge. The beauty and silence and cold air and Zeke's innate tenderness are almost cleansing her of her hate and psychopathic tendencies.

For the moment.

After all, where can a character go once she's realized she got a sexual rush off of killing a man? Not exactly something you can say three Hail Mary's over and be forgiven.

Progress is slow

I'm going through CK chapter by chapter and also doing a short outline of details for each one so I can make sure I'm getting everything I need to and be consistent about it. I've already caught a couple of errors and things I need to explain or return to, later. It's just slow-going.

What's interesting to me is how the story keeps shifting from humor to horror and back again. Not sure how that's going to play, yet. If this counts as black humor or not. It might just be indecisive, but since I'm doing this as third person omniscient, that might not be a bad thing.

I am having fun with Carli's non-stop rating of the men she meets. She even does it with a couple of Latino high school boys who are dealers for Dax...and decides they're too young. Instead, she gets them to leave town before all hell breaks loose.

The story happens fast...in 8 full days. There's a lot of history that's referred to, of course, but the actual murders go from early Saturday morning to early Sunday morning, the following weekend. Zoom-zoom.

I'm also thinking of doing a calendar for 2023 with images that reference the books I've written. Not all of them...maybe 6 or 8 of my titles. 1 or 2 images for each. Spiral bound, if I can figure out where to do it. Ingram doesn't have it offered on their site. Same for saddle-stitch or staples, so I sent them a query about it.

It would probably be 28 pages, maybe 30, 8.5x11", depending on how I set them up. Just these? Sketches or paintings? Of scenes? Hmm...

Zeke and Carli meet for the first time...

He hopped up the steps to his porch, dropped onto a padded folding chair right by the door, and pulled off his boots. Next, he shifted his jeans down his legs then unstrapped his bionic leg. He set it next to the chair and finished one beer while massaging Stumpy, as he referred to the amputation. All he had left was his thigh, down to just above where his knee used to be. And some scarring, most of which was hidden by a swirling Viking design that would put Game of Thrones to shame.

He had two other fake legs, of various designs. It seemed alternating them helped keep the base of his thigh from being rubbed too raw. Right now, it was throbbing, a little, but not unlivable, and rubbing it helped.

But sure as hell ain't goin' two-steppin', tonight, he told himself.

"Whoop, whoop, Cotton-eyed Joe," he actually said, making Loki look at him as if he were nuts. "Wish I was crazy," he added. "Might help."

Instead of feeling like you're trapped.

Well...now came the hard part...making it through the night. Dusk to dawn had never been easy for Zeke, even before he almost died. His mind just wouldn't shut down, and far too often the thoughts now hitting him were vicious and cold, and out of nowhere. Sometimes remembering the second after the blast. Sometimes the pain of physical therapy. Sometimes thinking of when he'd had both legs and could go climbing in the hills or swimming in the lakes of Minnesota. Sometimes envisioning being jumped by a wild beast intent on tearing him to shreds. To him, one of the greatest blessings was when he drifted into slumber, because he never remembered his dreams.

But that not going to come, tonight.

Not with Grady dying.

Not unless he reached exhaustion, and it hadn't been all that busy.

His brain kept drifting back to the horror of Grady's death. Staked out, alive, to be feasted on by the creatures of the desert. It was beyond comprehension that anyone could do that to anybody, no matter how much they hated them. The pain. The suffering. He could see it. Almost feel it. Made his skin cringe in sympathy.

He needed something to shift away from the horrific images, so opened the screen door and pulled out an acoustic guitar. Still sitting on the chair, he fiddled with the strings, then played a soft, gentle, surprisingly elegant version of Romance de Amor.

The melody had been playing in the bar, in Juarez, the night Zeke got the first part of his arm inked. Grady had pushed him across the bridge in his wheelchair, which made Zeke smile. He had complained the whole way.

"I ain't that strong. My feet hurt. Should've grabbed an Uber. My arms are achin'."

On and on. But after the tattoo shop came beer and burritos, on Zeke, so he hadn't said a word while pushing him back. Probably helped they were both well on the drunk side, and Grady had tried to work his charms on the immigration clerk...and nearly gotten them arrested for harassment. It was only Zeke laughing out of control that had gotten them off the hook. That and Stumpy being very visible.

The next time they went, Zeke had made himself walk. And it had hurt like shit. Grady had been really solicitous the whole way, and Zeke had finally accepted he could make it back to life, after that. So he'd bought this plain guitar in a second hand shop near the bridge. For two-hundred pesos. Self-taught, he wasn't as smooth as he would have liked. It took him more focus than most people, he was sure, but that's why he liked playing it. The melodies seemed to come out more tender, and they did a lot to lift his mood. He'd never make America's Got Talent, but he wasn't interested in that crap, anyway, and...

 Loki skidded to a halt.

And turned.

And sniffed.

And listened.

Then growled towards the Cantina.

Zeke froze. It couldn't be Dax returning. Loki would be barking.

Then the dog carefully positioned himself beside Zeke, in a warning stance and attitude. Okay, this was serious. He carefully set the guitar by his chair and reached back around into the trailer, his eyes scanning the area. He had an old M-16 that was in top condition propped just inside the door. He got it and held it, ready to fire.

Into darkness.

Into silence.

Into nothing?

"Careful," he finally said. "Loki don’t like surprises."

After a moment, a woman appeared from a shadow.

Carli.

Zeke tensed. Kept his finger on the trigger. Was it that same woman? The form didn't look right. The hair seemed lighter. But Rho had mentioned she'd been in disguise, and it was too hard to make out what she looked like, in the darkness. Best to play it safe.

"You can stay there," he said, his voice carrying the hint of a quiver.

"Sorry," she said. "Just listening to the music. It's pretty."

"Bar’s closed."

"I...I know, I just..."

"So what you doin’ here?"

"I...I dunno. I was bored. Thought maybe I’d find some fun, but I arrived late..."

"From where?"

It took her a moment to say, "The college."

"That’s twenty miles off," he said.

She shrugged. Moved a bit closer. Ran a finger over her belt.

Loki's growl went low and dangerous. "You really need to stay over there."

She stopped. Said, "Nice dog. Protective. What’s his name?" Then she held up a hand, realizing. "No, wait, you said...he's Loki. Right? The trickster."

Zeke just nodded.

She crouched. Offered to let Loki sniff her hand. He did not even think about approaching her. Just kept glaring at her. She finally rose.

"You’re doin’ good," said Zeke. "If he thought you were a threat, he’d have bit you, by now."

"Is...is that why he was chained?"

"How'd you know about that?"

Carli hesitated then motioned to the chain lying in the dirt. "I don't think it's there for you."

Zeke leaned back, still wary. "Okay..."

"Oh, you...um, you work here?"

He gave her another shrug, still frowning, the rifle still in hand.

Carli continued with, "What time do you open?"

"Six."

"A-M?"

He snorted in response.

She sighed. "Yeah. Right. Makes for a nice, short commute."

"Works okay."

"Your...your leg...um, Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"It matter?"

"No. It’s just I..."

He caught on to her hesitation. Her confusion. His voice became more gentle. "You do a tour?"

She hesitated then said, "Yeah. Logistics. Bagram. I was AMS. Saw so many guys like that...so many times."

Zeke relaxed a little more. "Marines. Three-three."

Carli was taken aback. "Helmand? Wow."

"How long you been out?"

"Oh...just over nine months. You?"

"Eight years. Y’know, the bar closed near an hour ago."

"Did it?"

"Don't you know what time it is?"

"Oh, I...no, I...truth is, I was sitting in my car. For hours. Um, trying to talk myself into going inside. Just for a beer. Then I...I couldn’t even get myself to go home."

He quietly propped the M-16 at his side. "Still want one? Shot?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Carli looked at him, honestly confused. She ran a finger over her belt, again. "No," she finally said. "I...uh, I...I just heard the music and it was nice so I came over. But that was a mistake."

"Yeah. Even one-on-one can be hard, sometimes. How you handle classes?"

It took her a moment to understand the question. Finally, she said, "Not well. Remote. Mostly."

Zeke nodded. "You did more than logistics."

All she did was shrug.

"It’ll get easier," he said. "There’s a good VA hospital not too far from here. They’ve worked out ways to get around cuts in funding. I’m Zeke."

"Carli." Then she seemed upset that she had told him.

"Mid-terms're on through tomorrow...oh, but you know that. Good thing is, Saturday night’ll be slow, if you wanna try again. Kids're off on Spring Break. I tend the bar. I’ll comp you one."

"You don’t have to do that. But thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on it...sometime..."

"Your choice."

"Okay. Thanks." She hesitated then backed into the shadows.

Loki did not move.

A few moments later, Zeke heard the Dodge start up. Saw its headlights flare on just up the road and pull away. He gave Loki a pat and scratch behind the ears, saying, "Thanks, boy."

Woof.

"So you think she's lyin'?"

Woof.

"Yeah, me too. Can't lie to a dog."

Woof-woof.

"C'mon, it's chilly out. Let's go in. See if we can find some Rin-Tin-Tin on YouTube."

He set the safety on the rifle, rose and used it to steady himself as he grabbed the guitar then entered the trailer, Loki on his tail while wagging his own.

In the Dodge, Carli drove down The 14. To her surprise, she was shaken. Something about seeing Zeke without his leg, wearing only his briefs and shirt, a sock on his right foot...caught in shadows and the cold night breeze...vulnerable as he played that lovely melody...it sliced into her. The gentleness in him. The calmness. The quiet. And the casual acceptance of her lies. There was nothing about him that struck her as him being the kind of guy who would even tolerate a rape, let alone commit it.

And...there was also one other very important fact... "He wasn’t on the video," she told herself. "He wasn’t on it, anywhere...so maybe he wasn't even there. Maybe."

There was something else that really troubled her. For the first time in her life, she'd felt protective of a man. Someone she didn't even know. Hadn't even really met. And that was weird. Granted, she felt like that about TF, but he was her baby brother. And okay...she'd been like that about the men in her unit...but that was different. That was in a conflict and they were on the same side and...and...

Okay, fine, it's not the first time. Shit.

But there it was. Deep inside, she did not want anything to happen to him...and honestly felt she would do all she could to keep him from getting hurt. Which made no sense, to her. Mainly because the problem was, she had heard him join with the gang in mourning that vile piece of shit, Grady. Like he was a nice guy. Someone decent. Who'd been a good friend. As loyal and trustworthy as that damn mutt. Loki.

Right.

Which didn't even begin to meld with her image of him grunting and giggling on top of Lara. Same for the other three. All of them humping and grunting and laughing while assaulting the girl.

Grady, a good buddy? That also made no sense. Except...it almost sort-of kind-of did. They kept saying wasn't the kind to usually get access to someone of the female persuasion. He had even admitted he usually had to pay for his sexual encounters. And on top of it, he was damaged. He might actually get all giggly and awkward, like a randy puppy that's too excited to control itself. Like he had started to with her, last night.

Damaged.

That word stuck in her head. Zeke was damaged. Nat and JJ were damaged. Was Spit? Was Dax? There was nothing about that in TF's info on them. Was there something she was missing, here? Some detail she'd passed over in her drive to plot a course of revenge?

TF had brought her only the necessary background on all of them, but something else in all of it was how not once had there been previous accusations of rape. Nothing since, either.

No, no...hold on, Carli. Hold on. Don't go getting all sentimental just because they were once soldiers who got hurt serving the military-industrial complex. There were millions of them who didn't hold down and rape young women.

It's just, there was something else in play, and she needed to dig deeper before she let herself get all weepy and bleeding-heart over them. Or not. Because the fact of the matter is, that video was damning. Was absolute. And even though Zeke had not been seen on it, that didn't really mean anything. It had cut off, suddenly, and there was whispering of another voice in the background. A voice she couldn't make out. Plus, Dax was only seen watching the rapes, a couple of times. Almost cheerleading. That alone was reason enough to punish him. And if Zeke had done nothing to stop it? If he had been there but had only watched, as well?

Well...then maybe he should the last to die. She laughed. That made her sound like the Wicked Witch of the West.

"The last to go will see the first three go before him!" she cackled. "And his mangy little dog too."

She drove on, still laughing. Her plan was back on track. A vow would still be kept.

And tomorrow promised to be a most glorious day.  

Are biorhythms still a thing?

I remember back many...many...years ago, Biorhythms was the big explanation for a lot of emotional issues and swings. It seemed to work well when I paid attention to it, but it sort of petered out, after a while. But sometimes I still think about it...and wonder if my general emotional status fluctuates according to that. Because right now I'm low on the scale, both realistically and according to their chart.

I got a filling replaced, this morning, at nearly double the cost of a cleaning visit, and it knocked me into self-recrimination mode. I've never been very good when it came to finances, and I've gotten myself into debt, like crazy. For a while, I was paying it down really well, but then Covid hit and my income dropped by 25%. Now I'm at a stage where my income is half what it was, pre-Covid, and crap expenses like this are making things worse.

Which cuts into my ability to focus on writing. I'm already very easily distracted, which is one reason I think I may be undiagnosed ADD (isn't that a 21st Century way of looking at things?), but I honestly cannot shift my concentration to where I can sit down and write, when I'm like this. I'll step up and mean to start...then get distracted by something dumb. And hours later, nothing's been done. And I feel worse.

None of which helps my negative mood from yesterday, which I why I'm wondering if maybe my emotional state was on a downswing and the dental costs just kicked that negativity into full control. I don't know. I just know it's stupid to get in twitter fights with people who don't matter to you, and spend hours trolling facebook pages for something to pay attention to.

What's sad is, I really want to finish CK. Get it done and out the door.. Problem is, the damn thing won't write or edit itself. And sadder? I really want to have Carli messing with Zeke. Have it as sexy as anything.

But there's a whole section of pretty guys on Tumblr that are way more important to look at than this...   

Love is love...

 

This image makes me happy, even though I've never had it for myself. My books are therapy meant to handle this lack. The reasons for it. The wish it had been a part of me. Joining with someone to face the world together instead of alone. The understanding that this was never possible in my life.

I have been unto myself it seems like forever...and sometimes it just makes me so tired. Weary. I think half the reason I'm writing Carli's Kills, right now, is to try and find that fuck you attitude of Carli's is somewhere within me, and it's not proving easy. I find myself continuing to drift back to the slow shift to decency and humanity, and that is not right for this story.

I'm so done with fighting for an HEA in a world that is nothing but fiction. Filled with people who really, honestly do not give a shit. And so...I'm going back through what I've written and digging to bring that attitude forth in the full story. And my biggest enemy to this is myself.

This is an issue I was having with A Place of Safety. Brendan is fighting to have a life unto himself and not be caught in the hate swirling around him...and finds that it's just not possible. There is no such thing as a safe place for humanity. Never was. It always will be a struggle.

And the older you get, the more it will affect you.