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Dec. 27th, 2012
Three Santas at the Yacht
Dec. 27th, 2012 02:24 amThree Santas man a booth down at the Yacht. There are four shots of Jäger laid on the table before them, the last sitting before a conspicuously empty seat. The three Santas vary in both size and width. Santa One, is a naturally robust fellow with the face of an old general you saw in a history book once but have now entirely forgotten his name. A Pall Mall hangs perpetually from his nicotine yellow beard. A real beard too. A detail he is keen on pointing out.
"Even as a little boy," he lifts his shot and contemplates it thoughtfully, scyring through the shimmer of its dark surface to a murky past, "I would dress up as Santa Claus. And not just for the holidays. N'uh. All year round. Even in the summer I would wear red shorts and a white t-shirt. But not once did I ever take off the beard. Least 'til I could grow my own out."
"Yeah we know, Phil." Santa Two interrupts leaning back in the seat directly across from him. Santa Two has a lumberjack's physique and a fake white beard hangs askew from the last face you ever want to owe money to. A long scar runs off the ridge of his left brow and lands straight down the cheek to chin.
"It's a little thing called 'commitment', Danny." One leans forward and starts tugging on his own beard and sloshing Jäger down his fingers. "Go on. See what happens when some lil' wise ass tries giving it a tug to prove I'm not real."
"Watch your drink there, 'Santa'. I don't plan on buying you another." Two interrupts lifting his own shot and holding it before him ceremoniously."Alright gentlemen, I ain't got all night. So what say you? Shall we do this thing or not?"
"Cunts!" Santa Three barks glaring at the TV mounted in the corner and slams a fist across the table to make the ashtray jump startled. Three's red suit and white beard hung off his gaunt frame with the grace of a Christmas tree star hanging off a Menorah. Three sports an eye patch over the right socket and a pair of thick black framed glasses over them. Reflected across their lenses is the game and under the ill-fitting beard gold teeth snarl.
"Saul!" Two snaps his finger at Three. When Three spins his attention on him Two raises a single brow that drains Three's rage from his face. Two peels open a smile worthy of a child's nightmare. "I said 'shall we do this thing or not?'"
"Sure, Donny." Three lifts his shot and smiles back. A smile that would cow the finest of dentists and send the lesser ones scrambling for a new career.
"Alright," Two zips up the grin and raises his shot a little higher, "a toast then. To Vinnie Esposito, a faithful solider and our fallen comrade in the War on Christmas."
"To Vinnie!" One and Three chanted solemnly. The Three Santas as one saluted with their Jägers to the empty seat across from Three, swung them down to tap lightly against the gnarled wooden table and swooped them back up to their lips.
A hiss, a slurp and a gulp followed.
Two and Three laid their emptied Dixie cups upside down while one crumbled his up into a ball before tossing it into his mouth. Chewing on the cup thoughtfully he noticed Two and Three staring at him in open disgust. He took another bite and then swallowed it down. With a shrug he offered an explanation: "Waste not want not, right?"
Three went back to the game and Two just shook his head exhausted. It had been a mean Holiday season. The War on Christmas was always a little rougher than the season before it, but this year had been a real bitch. A whole platoon of Santas wiped out over the weeks. Fucking Vinnie, Two ruminated, the kid was just a rookie and had no business being assigned Terminus. He almost made it too, hung in there right until Christmas Eve, when he was coming out of the liquor store with a few bottles for the boys and got hit with a 'Happy Holidays' lobbed from an indifferent cashier. That was it. The Kid was down for the count with the magical meaning of Christmas forever ruined for him. He just walked right out handed us the bags and started stripping out of his Santa outfit while singing 'The International'. They tried dragging him back into the car but the poor bastard was too far gone. The sight of three Santas wrestling a singing and half-naked man in a parking lot was too much for even the most jaded citizen to ignore. The boys took off and made their rounds. Drunkenly caroling in front of MARTA stations, wino filled parks and random bars. Occasionally they would offer a glug off their bottle and by offer insisted rather menacingly.
They put on a brave face but at the end of the night there could be no denying they were a man down. The fifth that week.
"War is Hell." Two grumbles and glances over at the empty seat.
"No." Two corrects eying with naked want Vinnie's Jäger, "It's actually, it's actually, uh - 'War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.'"
"Yeah?" Two shrugs, "Same difference from where I'm sitting. Which isn't for long."
Two slides out of the booth. He straightens his beard out. Stretches out until his back pops and lays a single twenty dollar bill on the table.
"Go and take Vinnie's shot, Phil." Two says nodding to the Jäger. "He'd have wanted you to have it."
One nods appreciatively and wastes no time pulling the shot over his way.
"Well, guys." Two buttons up the blood stained white cotton buttons of his jacket, "It's been an honor serving with you all. Until next year?"
One slurps disgustingly at his shot with trembling hands while Three grunts noncommittally snarling at the screen. Two gives an unseen salute to his men and lumbers off out of the Yacht.
"Even as a little boy," he lifts his shot and contemplates it thoughtfully, scyring through the shimmer of its dark surface to a murky past, "I would dress up as Santa Claus. And not just for the holidays. N'uh. All year round. Even in the summer I would wear red shorts and a white t-shirt. But not once did I ever take off the beard. Least 'til I could grow my own out."
"Yeah we know, Phil." Santa Two interrupts leaning back in the seat directly across from him. Santa Two has a lumberjack's physique and a fake white beard hangs askew from the last face you ever want to owe money to. A long scar runs off the ridge of his left brow and lands straight down the cheek to chin.
"It's a little thing called 'commitment', Danny." One leans forward and starts tugging on his own beard and sloshing Jäger down his fingers. "Go on. See what happens when some lil' wise ass tries giving it a tug to prove I'm not real."
"Watch your drink there, 'Santa'. I don't plan on buying you another." Two interrupts lifting his own shot and holding it before him ceremoniously."Alright gentlemen, I ain't got all night. So what say you? Shall we do this thing or not?"
"Cunts!" Santa Three barks glaring at the TV mounted in the corner and slams a fist across the table to make the ashtray jump startled. Three's red suit and white beard hung off his gaunt frame with the grace of a Christmas tree star hanging off a Menorah. Three sports an eye patch over the right socket and a pair of thick black framed glasses over them. Reflected across their lenses is the game and under the ill-fitting beard gold teeth snarl.
"Saul!" Two snaps his finger at Three. When Three spins his attention on him Two raises a single brow that drains Three's rage from his face. Two peels open a smile worthy of a child's nightmare. "I said 'shall we do this thing or not?'"
"Sure, Donny." Three lifts his shot and smiles back. A smile that would cow the finest of dentists and send the lesser ones scrambling for a new career.
"Alright," Two zips up the grin and raises his shot a little higher, "a toast then. To Vinnie Esposito, a faithful solider and our fallen comrade in the War on Christmas."
"To Vinnie!" One and Three chanted solemnly. The Three Santas as one saluted with their Jägers to the empty seat across from Three, swung them down to tap lightly against the gnarled wooden table and swooped them back up to their lips.
A hiss, a slurp and a gulp followed.
Two and Three laid their emptied Dixie cups upside down while one crumbled his up into a ball before tossing it into his mouth. Chewing on the cup thoughtfully he noticed Two and Three staring at him in open disgust. He took another bite and then swallowed it down. With a shrug he offered an explanation: "Waste not want not, right?"
Three went back to the game and Two just shook his head exhausted. It had been a mean Holiday season. The War on Christmas was always a little rougher than the season before it, but this year had been a real bitch. A whole platoon of Santas wiped out over the weeks. Fucking Vinnie, Two ruminated, the kid was just a rookie and had no business being assigned Terminus. He almost made it too, hung in there right until Christmas Eve, when he was coming out of the liquor store with a few bottles for the boys and got hit with a 'Happy Holidays' lobbed from an indifferent cashier. That was it. The Kid was down for the count with the magical meaning of Christmas forever ruined for him. He just walked right out handed us the bags and started stripping out of his Santa outfit while singing 'The International'. They tried dragging him back into the car but the poor bastard was too far gone. The sight of three Santas wrestling a singing and half-naked man in a parking lot was too much for even the most jaded citizen to ignore. The boys took off and made their rounds. Drunkenly caroling in front of MARTA stations, wino filled parks and random bars. Occasionally they would offer a glug off their bottle and by offer insisted rather menacingly.
They put on a brave face but at the end of the night there could be no denying they were a man down. The fifth that week.
"War is Hell." Two grumbles and glances over at the empty seat.
"No." Two corrects eying with naked want Vinnie's Jäger, "It's actually, it's actually, uh - 'War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.'"
"Yeah?" Two shrugs, "Same difference from where I'm sitting. Which isn't for long."
Two slides out of the booth. He straightens his beard out. Stretches out until his back pops and lays a single twenty dollar bill on the table.
"Go and take Vinnie's shot, Phil." Two says nodding to the Jäger. "He'd have wanted you to have it."
One nods appreciatively and wastes no time pulling the shot over his way.
"Well, guys." Two buttons up the blood stained white cotton buttons of his jacket, "It's been an honor serving with you all. Until next year?"
One slurps disgustingly at his shot with trembling hands while Three grunts noncommittally snarling at the screen. Two gives an unseen salute to his men and lumbers off out of the Yacht.
More Advice You Don't Need
Dec. 27th, 2012 03:50 pmWell a lot of authors on here are doling out advice about the craft and I figure I'd throw in my 2 cents while I wait for someone to post another meme about that grumpy cat or a headless photo of some scantily dressed woman for me to thumbs up. Lucky you:
1. When a prospective publisher says - 'no simultaneous submissions accepted' - what s/he means is you'll be hearing back from them somewhere between six weeks to five years. Give or take a day.
2. Want instant feedback, accolades, or criticism? Cool, all you have to do is walk away from the keyboard pick up an instrument or a paint brush and have at it.
3. Zombies, zombies, zombies... and maybe a vampire to spice things up.
4. Respect your editor. Sure no one's ever put down a book and said - 'Wow! That story had no typos and the grammar was impeccable." But on the other hand when you see them it distracts from the experience as a whole. Imagine your favorite movie if every other scene had a boom mic hanging in the shot or if the actors had their costumes change inexplicably during a conversation. It sort of reads like that (and before you bitch about the grammar to some of my narrative posts - keep in mind they are first drafts and I charge nothing for them other than your time.)
5. "Always open a spoken word piece with a quote" ~ Said no great writer ever.
6. Stealing from one artist is plagiarism, but when you steal from a bunch at once while adding a new perspective of your own - well that's just part of the process. Remix don't reuse.
7. Was writing the piece fun for you or an obligation? Because like it or not the work will answer that question for readers no matter how you spin it.
8. It's hard out there for a word pimp. Like many artists in many fields, recent advances in technology means you're going to be basically working for free. Your favorite songs can be downloaded for free, that awesome photograph is yours for the taking with a click of the 'save as' and now most novels can be pirated with just as much ease. It sucks, it really does and it negates much of the influence the artist has in our society by ensuring a creative field is tantamount to choosing to beg for change. Oddly enough the people who bitch the loudest about 'socialism' will be guilty of it. I suggest getting into video game work if you want to make those Benjamins... otherwise you gotta do it for the love.
9. Stop posting pictures of famous authors with captions about their advice on writing and write something. Shit, I've knocked out three short stories in the last week alone and even if you think they suck or you didn't have the time to read them, it sure beat rereading some dead white guy's advice for making art in a world that has long since passed.
10. Know when to hide posts like this from your editors, publishers and their friends;)
1. When a prospective publisher says - 'no simultaneous submissions accepted' - what s/he means is you'll be hearing back from them somewhere between six weeks to five years. Give or take a day.
2. Want instant feedback, accolades, or criticism? Cool, all you have to do is walk away from the keyboard pick up an instrument or a paint brush and have at it.
3. Zombies, zombies, zombies... and maybe a vampire to spice things up.
4. Respect your editor. Sure no one's ever put down a book and said - 'Wow! That story had no typos and the grammar was impeccable." But on the other hand when you see them it distracts from the experience as a whole. Imagine your favorite movie if every other scene had a boom mic hanging in the shot or if the actors had their costumes change inexplicably during a conversation. It sort of reads like that (and before you bitch about the grammar to some of my narrative posts - keep in mind they are first drafts and I charge nothing for them other than your time.)
5. "Always open a spoken word piece with a quote" ~ Said no great writer ever.
6. Stealing from one artist is plagiarism, but when you steal from a bunch at once while adding a new perspective of your own - well that's just part of the process. Remix don't reuse.
7. Was writing the piece fun for you or an obligation? Because like it or not the work will answer that question for readers no matter how you spin it.
8. It's hard out there for a word pimp. Like many artists in many fields, recent advances in technology means you're going to be basically working for free. Your favorite songs can be downloaded for free, that awesome photograph is yours for the taking with a click of the 'save as' and now most novels can be pirated with just as much ease. It sucks, it really does and it negates much of the influence the artist has in our society by ensuring a creative field is tantamount to choosing to beg for change. Oddly enough the people who bitch the loudest about 'socialism' will be guilty of it. I suggest getting into video game work if you want to make those Benjamins... otherwise you gotta do it for the love.
9. Stop posting pictures of famous authors with captions about their advice on writing and write something. Shit, I've knocked out three short stories in the last week alone and even if you think they suck or you didn't have the time to read them, it sure beat rereading some dead white guy's advice for making art in a world that has long since passed.
10. Know when to hide posts like this from your editors, publishers and their friends;)