Le tortoise, c'est moi...

As I move slowly and steadily through the first draft of Underground Guy I find the story shifting in ways I don't understand, with Dev doing things that are somewhat off the wall for him. And yet, are serving to soften him a little. Why? No idea.

But he mentions how he helped his nephews fight back against a bully by showing them some less than proper wrestling moves. And they used them. And got the bully to back down. Mom wasn't happy about the less-than-legal part but still got the hint and enrolled the kids in Aikido so they could learn self-control...and be able to defend themselves.

Then when Diana, the boys' mother and Dev's sister-in-law, confronts him in his London hotel room...he acts more like a teenager who got caught taking the family car without permission than a man who's committed several felonies and faces years in prison. He even refers to an expression she gives him as "having her mommy eyes on stun."

I think Diana scares him a little...which could be fun to play with. She really is like a mother, knowing all and not letting her kids get away with any bullshit. My grandmother was like that. She always seemed to know when any of us had tried to pull a fast one.

There was one occasion where a cousin and I spent the last of our money on a packet of cigarettes and had to walk from downtown San Antonio to her place because we didn't have bus fare. It was only 5 miles and we did it in just over an hour. We thought we were so clever; no one would ever know. Next morning, first question she asked was, "How was your walk?" I never found out how she knew.

What I did find out was I can't smoke. When I try, my voice vanishes. Not as I'm smoking but shortly thereafter. I think the only time I ever had a cigarette and enjoyed it without that happening was when we wrapped the hideous shoot of Wilderness Rule, in Houston. My script. The director's money. Total fuck up, from beginning to end.

I was with a couple of cute guys named Sean and Shane, not related, who acted in the film. We drove from the location to a crewmember's apartment at top speed singing Bohemian Rhapsody because it had a lovely lyric about killing a man and we were contemplating homicide. We drank beer after beer, and since we were in a room of smokers, I smoked a couple cigs. Since it was such an emotionally fraught time, I didn't even think about the voice thing...but I was pretty much fine the next day. Probably because my throat was lubricated with Heineken.

The movie was never finished. Mostly because I tried to please everybody and wound up pleasing no one, especially myself. It left a mark on me. If you ever want to know why I'm locked into second-guessing myself, this project explains it. I refer to it as my Mark of Cain.

Maybe I should change my name to that...

Damn you, Bugs Bunny!

He let me down!

Brain slipped for tortal fun...

This is probably how I'd handle taking care of a tortoise. Them things is party reptiles, they is.

Except I'd never let him near piss-water like Coors. Guinness or, if a lighter brew is wanted, Amstel only. With cheese sticks and marinara sauce...lots of it... 

I do not condone the use of drugs in any way, form, or fashion and had no idea he'd be dumb enough to take a selfie doing it...

Bastard caught on to what I do when I'm not working or writing, but if he thinks he can blackmail me -- HA! Got him right back...

No where's that friggin' hare so I can send them out on a race and test my theory that the old tale about the tortoise and the hare is really just good PR work from tortal's people?

Okay, I've lost my mind...

I keep thinking about turning Carli's Kills into a black comedy...which is crazy as hell. I can do black, it's comedy I'm crap at. I don't have the timing for it. Or something. I dunno. But no matter how hard I try to focus on Underground Guy, which doesn't even begin to want to be funny...except in those moments needed to leaven the suspense and drama...I can't drop thoughts about CK.

Dammit.

I've begun to wonder if I ever had any control over my brain. I've always been the type who goes from moment to moment assuming everything will be okay and never really been able to plan for the future. Wrong -- I do plan, I just don't follow through with them. I'll start then get side-tracked and forget where I was and have to start over again, albeit from a different place.

A coworker of mine is one of those people who can plan her life down to the minute and do it. Keep every one of them. If she's going to be someplace at 3:15, she's there. If she has twenty minutes to cut her lawn, it's cut. She's a whirling dervish at logistics while I'm a slug. I can pack books really well, but handle detail work? Fuhgeddaboudit...

The only thing I'm consistent about is dreaming.

Meandering...

As I've focused on UG, Carli's been rearranging the furniture of her life in my head. She's decided to be older, more focused, and Cara's her daughter from a rape when she was 14. Nothing went right for the girl and she wound up being raped and slipping into suicide because Carli wasn't there to help her. Mom feels guilt and is taking it out on the men who drove her daughter to her death. It's going to be mean...and maybe all told from Carli's POV. Dunno about that, yet...but it'll be like the anti-Gray's 50 shades crap.

UG is too vague for me to figure out. Things seem to be happening because they have to happen for the book to work. Dev raping a man who happens to be an undercover cop while the man who may actually be a serial killer was on the underground car, too...and Dev connects with him later. It's like a gay white porno telenovela. Without the heaving breasts and catfights. Dammit. Maybe I should throw one in. I think I'm taking my work far too seriously.

It's all really a joke, life is. The fates make fun of everyone behind their backs...and sometimes to their faces. They've been having fun with me since I was 12, and it took me a LONG time to finally see that. I wonder if you can make a comedy out of a serial-killer story? I had a hard time with the shifts in An American Werewolf in London...but maybe that's me being too upset at the idea a fictional character I like is going to be slaughtered.

I hate killing off my characters. I know it's needed. At times. And it's not real. Basically. But I still hate doing it. Maybe it's time for me to stop acting like I'm Tolstoy and think more along the lines of Charlie Chaplin, in City Lights.

This movie is very funny throughout, as the Little Tramp does everything he can to help a poor blind girl regain her sight. She thinks he's a rich man, until she finally sees him, for the first time. And you know she's rejecting him.

You laugh until it breaks your heart...

Not sure where this fits in yet...

I worked on this, this evening. On the slight side but I have a feeling it's helping Dev change his character's DNA.
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I was still drying off when I came out of the bathroom. Tawfi held up a pair of his white Armani briefs. "To wear home."

"Just to my hotel..."

He shrugged. "A well-groomed man should always have something between him and his suit. Otherwise he is nothing but a beast dressed in human clothing. Besides, I did tear yours."

"I've torn some of my own. Never paid for 'em...except once."

"Oh? Have you stories to tell?"

"Not really. Not something you'd want to hear." I held the briefs up. "Jockeys don't cost anywhere near this much."

He just smiled. I slipped them on, and even snug they felt like silk caressing my skin. He turned me around and smoothed them over my ass then wrapped himself around me, from behind. Held me close. Nuzzled the nape of my neck.

I chuckled. "Careful, you'll get something going."

"Next time," he whispered. "I snuck three more pair into your sample case. Wear them in remembrance of me."

"Tawfi..."

"Devlin, in my country it is considered rude to refuse a gift. Please don't insult me."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." Then he rested his head on my left shoulder. "Thank you." He kept holding me, silent for a moment. Finally he sighed, "Martin would accept nothing I gave him. He didn't refuse any of them; he merely hid them in a desk drawer. I discovered them by accident. I asked him about it, the last time I saw him. He told me his company was having difficulties and his wife would wonder how he could afford such nice things. A Polo shirt is a nice thing? A Dior belt? I was so very angry." He took in a deep breath. "I am the reason we did not see each other, again. It took me three weeks to accept the truth of him. He had a wife. Children. And he was frightened he might lose them." He let out a long sigh. "I suppose he is no longer afraid."

I held his arms tight against me. "I understand him."

"You? What have you ever been fearful of?"

"My father, for most of my life. Until I stood up to him. I came home from school. College. He was upset about something or other; doesn't matter what, he was always pissed off. He tried to sling me around and...I dropped and rolled him over my back into the couch. Broke the coffee table. Startled the shit out of the son-of-a-bitch. He looked at me like he didn't know me. I didn't say anything; I just left. That was the night he died...and the night I stopped being afraid. Till now."

"What brought fear back to you?"

"You. The last few days."

He turned me to him. "How do you mean?"

"Nothin'. Things've happened that...that got me wondering if I'm just a beast in a nice suit."

He smiled and picked up my jacket. "An adequate suit. If you want a nice one, we should visit a tailor I know."

"I wear what I can afford, Tawfi. Briefs like these...they cost more than most of my pants."

He leaned against a canopy post, wary. "Are you rejecting my offering?"

"No. I know my manners. But please don't give me any more. I...I might grow to like them, too much."

A hint of confusion filled his eyes as his smile crossed his face. "As you wish."

"And I'm buyin' dinner, next time," I said as I pulled on my pants.

"That will be a novelty. I always pay the tab."

"So do I."

A bit more of Underground Guy...

Dev has been released by the cops. He's back at his hotel and has stepped out to get some copies made when he decided to pick up a man he knew would be interested in having some fun -- Tafiq (AKA: Tawfi), whose profile was sharp and clean, with dark hair, a goatee, and golden tanned skin...not to mention a nice tight build and wearing a Saville Row suite (very expensive). This is after they've had their fun in Dev's hotel room, and Dev's remembering as he walks back to his hotel from Hatton Cross Station. Tawfi speaks cultured British.
__________________

Normally I'm the first guy out of bed and into the bathroom. Instead, Tawfi had rolled onto his feet and taken a quick shower...as I spied on him...and sketched him, something I never did with my conquests, even though I felt more like I'm the one who was conquered. He hadn't noticed me sitting on the toilet till he was done and grabbed a towel.

"Have you been watching me this whole time?" he asked.

I nodded and showed him the sketch. Nothing lewd about it. Just from the chest up, water pouring over his head and face and chest in a way that was brutally erotic. Quick and simple.

He'd hesitated before he said, "You did that as I washed?"

I'd shrugged. "Just a quickie for our quickies."

He'd smiled and I'd melted. "You're quite good..."

"It helps with the job I'm in. You want it?"

A look of near surprise had come over his face and he'd nodded. "Thank you."

"I'll put it by your suit jacket."

He'd finished toweling off and come into the room to dress. "Do you design all of your pins?"

"Naw, I just clean 'em up. Sketches like this are just for fun."

"You're better than that." I'd grinned and sat on the bed to gaze at him. He'd looked at me. "Devlin, what're you doing?"

"Watchin' you dress."

He'd chuckled. "Shall I do a reverse of the dance of the seven veils?" Then he'd held his Armanis up to his nose and wriggled about and turned to pull them on and I'd nearly lost all control. I'd pulled him onto the bed with me and laid him beside me and kissed him.

"Wish you could stay the night," had whispered from me.

His elegant fingers had caressed my chin as he'd said, "Next time, perhaps."

I'd dressed and accompanied him to the Hatton Cross Station and waited till he'd vanished. Now I was headed back.

I'd thought about having a meal at the hotel's restaurant but it was too overpriced so I'd bought a sandwich at the station and just returned to my room, remembering every moment of being with Tawfi and feeling a bit disloyal to Reg. Which was crazy as hell. Master Thornton probably hated my guts for what I'd done to him, and I didn't blame him. So there was no chance in hell anything more could happen between us. But with Tawfi, I wanted a lot more to happen...even forever.

No way in hell that was gonna happen, either.

I was on the fifth floor but facing the wrong way from the airport. I liked seeing the planes going and coming, especially at night; it helped me zone so I could easily get to sleep, but I had a feeling I wouldn't have that problem, tonight. Tawfi had been the perfect snack to keep the chaos at bay.

I rode up alone and there was no one else in the corridor as I walked down it. I got to my door and unlocked it and entered and got slammed from behind. My high-school wrestling moves kicked in and I threw someone against the bed but they bounced back to their feet and a searing pain ripped into my left arm and I cried out and crashed against the dresser and caught the slightest glimpse of someone rushing from the room. That's when I found a nasty gash in my forearm was bleeding everywhere. I grabbed Tawfi's still wet towel and wrapped it around me then called the front desk.

Son-of-a-bitch, I'd been mugged...

Much better...

I've rearranged the first pages, cutting them down by 15 and adding in some bits and foreshadowing. I'm now at 113 pages and just over 27,000 words. This will not be one of my opuses; I think it'll top out at about 65,000, which should work out to about 175 pages in book form. You never know...I may get an attack of the Tolstoys and go nuts, again, but it's a fairly simple story about a man facing the truth of himself and growing from that understanding. With lots of sex, involved, of course.

The outline is helping me keep track of everything, fortunately. And I've changed some names and locations. I was never completely thrilled about having the opening take place in West Hounslow, but shifting it two stops back to East Hounslow worked wonderfully as regards logistics and detail.

I desperately want to head back to London for a few days to check some things out for UG and MFD, but unless we get a job from a client that requires it, ain't gonna happen. I can't afford it on my own.

This one job I thought might work out is being driven by a man who doesn't want to follow the law, as regards exporting from the UK, so we had to turn him down. No way in hell are we flouting customs requirements; there's too much else that's too important.

I rather like having a 3-day weekend. I'm going to see if I can figure out some way of making this happen more...meaning get my bills paid off and taxes under control. That will not be easy, considering my spending habits. The only reason I didn't spend any money today was I didn't leave the apartment. Felt good staying in...

Hmm...I wonder if I'm becoming a bit agoraphobic? Probably not. I entered a competition that would send me to London to see One Direction. I could live with that; while 3 of the boys are not at all interesting to me, I do think Liam's a doll.

And I definitely feel like a dirty old man saying it.

Predictability...

God, I can be a pain in my own ass, sometimes. And shoulders. I got a nice tense headache over another little bout of writer's block dealing with UG. I tried every trick I knew to get around it...then just sat down and restarted the book. Set up a new Word doc and transferred the first 30 pages over since I liked those...and rewrote them.

Nothing major but enough to shift the setup a little bit. Made clear early on that Devlin Pope wears an inexpensive suit. Expanded on his confusion as to why he's pulling his crap while in another country, since his lawyer's in NYC. Added to his guilt and awareness of how wrong he's being.

I then dug into the draft I'd been working on and pulled over two more sections to establish the second and third chapters, cutting around a bit about a guy Dev punished in Chicago. Seems that was what was locking me up. I have this long opening where Dev forces Reg, who is the Underground Guy, into having sex with him...even though Dev knows he's straight and married and innocent of any wrongdoing...and it screws Dev up. He'd be focused on why that is. not reminiscing about another man he forced into sex...not yet.

In fact...I think he's going to be deliberate about revealing his past actions. Almost confrontational. I think subconsciously he wants to be punished, so after he's arrested he gets just as harsh with his interrogators as they do with him. Like two big cats hissing and howling and about to launch into battle. It works better...and even if it doesn't, it got me past the block.

Now maybe the tension in my shoulders will go away.

More from "Underground Guy"

I got a bit lost, today...like I'm slamming too much of the story together and making it into a chopped salad before I've got all the ingredients in...or some stupid analogy like that. So here's some of what I'm happy with. Devlin has just been arrested and is waiting to be interrogated, and he's wondering how him being stuck in England for god knows how long will affect the company since his brother is damaged.

-------

I had to give it to Diana, she had Colin's back. They'd connected when he got lost in Queens and she brought him home. The first couple years after they got married, I'd thought she was just a controlling bitch, but I found out how much of a momma bear she could be for big bro' when Marci, Colin's little-old-lady secretary, used what she knew about it to slap me down after I made a snotty comment about Mrs. Know-It-All-Pope.

It was while I was a junior in college and living on campus, deliberately. She and Colin had been married about six months and she was five months pregnant with their twins. Somehow he'd kept the abuse secret from her, until she walked in on dad berating him with words and slaps over a messed up order. In his office. Where the whole building could hear what was going on. Diana didn't even pause for second but calmly stepped between the two and said to the prick, "You'll stop this shit right now."

Dad tried to shove her aside, but she wouldn't budge. Then he tried to shout her into submission and raised a hand to slap her. Colin tried to pull her away...but she would not budge. She only got cooler and calmer and more stuck to the ground as she glared into dad's hateful eyes and said, "Lay one hand on me, motherfucker, and I will have your ass thrown in jail. Then I will make fucking sure your balls are cut off and shoved up that ass for hitting a poor pregnant lady, because I know people in there. Do you fucking understand me?"

Dad got red in the face and stalked off, using a few choice words. She didn't move...not until Colin started bawling, behind her. Then she sat him on a couch he had in his office, kneeled before him (how she did that in her condition, I will never know), and held his face in her hands till he regained control. Marci quietly closed the office door so they'd have a semblance of privacy, but she could hear every word. And Diana finally learned the real reason he'd been coming home depressed, with cuts and bruises. Dad had sensed she wouldn't tolerate his outbursts so he'd confined them to the office, then Colin would tell her he'd run into something or fallen or whatever other lie he could think of.

He'd started blubbering an apology but she stopped him, whispering, "You were raised to fear that man. I was not. From this day forward I will be at your side, and he will never lay another hand on you. Nor will he raise his voice, again, not if he wants to see his grandchildren."

Fortunately, the son-of-a-bitch died a couple months later from a stroke. I guess in reaction to being forced to hold in his fury. The only reason I came to his funeral was to make sure he really was dead...and spit on his grave.

Of course, that's also when I caught on to why dad would explode at Colin, and I was caught between fury at the prick for what he'd done to my brother and irritation at my brother for not being able to do what dad had done with the company. He came close to ruining it, twice, before I took over. We didn't know about the brain damage, yet, so I thought he just had a porcupine's manner when it came to dealing with clients and that he'd inherited dad's hair-trigger temper. When I was at the office, on more than one occasion I had to disconnect a call as he was shifting into rant and rave mode then make a follow-up call to smooth some pissy dealers.

It was when Diana had forced Colin to make an appointment with a brain specialist and was saying I should see him, too, that I'd snarled about her. And Marci'd told me the story. Then she'd sweetly added, "Wouldn't hurt you one bit to find out how scrambled your brain is."

"What d'you mean?" I snapped.

"Devlin, I've known you since you were two. Little Sir Innocence is not one of your nick-names. Get the scan."

Then she patted me on the cheek in a way that told me if I didn't do as she said, I'd regret it. So I did.

At least Colin was better, now, what with the counseling and Diana's backup...and his kids turning out to be eleven and nine year-old adults instead of obnoxious brats. He still had his moments, but he was at the point where he could apologize for exploding at one of the piss-ant dealers who used and abused us. Looked like he'd be doing more of that, now.