I give you, a second clip of me acting. Here’s the first if you think you can handle it.
I was visiting my friend in Portland when a few dozen beers led to some ingenious sketch ideas. This is one of them.
- Thomas M. Watt
- Author of Master
Calvin’s heart raced. “So Shea is-”
“Dead,” said Brody, before taking a peek at his Rolex. “Right about… now.” He laughed in his face, blood sputtering from his lips.
“No,” said Calvin. He shook his head, reached into Brody’s jacket, then yanked out the gun. “No!” He stood up and stormed into the club.
It was like swimming through Miley Cyrus’ earhole – Strobe lights bashed the swerving bodies with split-second flashes of blue and red. Bass blasted like bombs were exploding in the speakers. Sweaty bodies, sequin gowns, cocktails in the air.
Calvin’s legs felt like jelly. The sweet ingredients of love that had been swirling in his gut earlier had been poisoned with fear, worry, and knowledge -knowledge that Bridgette had no intention of killing him. Her target was Shea, the woman whose existence sparked Calvin’s future but burned Bridgette’s to ash.
He tucked the handgun into his waistband. As he strolled through he kept his eyes trained for a blonde woman in a red dress. Luckily for him, both women matched that description. Two women in red party dresses sat talking at the bar. One had her hand behind her back, and appeared to be holding something.
Too many dancers blocked Calvin’s line of sight – impossible to get a clear view of her face.
“Move!” he said.
He pushed a few drinkers out of the way, then cracked his knuckles as he motored through the crowd. Brody had said Shea was already dead, but Calvin refused to believe that. He wasn’t too late – he could feel it in his soul.
Calvin’s breath drew heavy as he closed in on the bar. He reached back into his waistband and swiped out the handgun. He hid the barrel up his white sleeve, and concealed the bulky handle with his fist.
Someone popped out at him – an adorable brunette.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“Watch out,” said Calvin.
The two blondes at the bar were facing the counter, backs to him. The one holding something extended her other arm and hugged the blonde beside her into her chest. She raised her other hand like she were going for the girl’s neck.
“Don’t be rude!” said the brunette.
Bridgette was going to slit Shea’s neck.
“Shea, no!” Shouted Calvin.
He jolted forward and took aim. The brunette tripped into his line of fire-
The two girls he had yelled at swiveled around, gazed at him, and blinked like owls. Calvin lowered his gun when he noticed the girl’s hand – she was holding a crumpled napkin, probably with some guys number on it.
Calvin shook his head and tore around. Where were they?
Every clock-hand tick meant Bridgette was closer to killing Shea.
Calvin’s eyes dotted around the packed house again. A few blondes, some red-dresses, but none of them Bridgette nor Shea. Calvin had to strike more than he needed to think. They wouldn’t have left the club, the plan was to kill Shea inside. But where?
Upstairs! Like finding keys in a front jean’s pocket, the obvious location struck Calvin in the forehead. Before he’d gone outside with Shea, he’d spotted Bridgette and Brody hovering over the top balcony. If there were any private place to kill someone in a club, it was the VIP room, and Brody had reserved it.
Calvin rushed through the dancers again.
“Move!” he said.
He plowed through. A guy hitting on a girl blocked his path.
Calvin shoved them to the ground, raced forward to the stairs, then sprinted up the flight. He breathlessly broke through Brody’s party guests’ circle. They quit drinking and mingling.
“Where is she?” Calvin said. “Where is she!”
The guests dismissed Calvin by rolling their eyes and returning to their conversations.
Calvin flipped around. The VIP room in the back wasn’t entirely blocked – a curtain of jewelry beads hid it from view. He could make out moving bodies on the couch inside it.
Calvin rushed inside, smacking away the beads with his gun drawn.
A girl in a black skirt was riding some guy on the couch. She jumped off, and the guy held his hands up.
“Never told me dude! I swear!”
Calvin circled around, gun at his side. The freaked-out couple were panting and staring at him like he were a twisted serial killer. Calvin could care less about how he looked – he needed to save Shea, and too much time had already passed.
“She didn’t say she had a dude!” said the guy.
“I don’t,” said the girl.
Calvin paced with one hand scratching the back of his head, the other holding the gun.
“Oh, well.. It’s a private room, so uhh…”
“Use a goddamn stall then!” said Calvin. He stopped pacing. “Oh my God.”
Calvin bolted out the VIP room and flew down the stairs. He caught a pair of familiar eyes glaring at him during his descent.
They belonged to Big Fella, who seconds later fired a barrage of bullets into the ceiling. DJ killed the music, and panicked yells shook the dance floor as frightened patrons fled to the exit.
Calvin hauled ass over to the bathrooms, running against the tide of club-goers who were gushing out in the opposite direction. He stole a glance over his shoulder – Big Fella was chasing him, gaining ground every stride.
“Move!” Calvin said to people blocking his path.
Calvin pushed his way through, and reached the women’s restroom – door was locked.
“Stop!” He screamed, then kicked it. “Shea! Shea, are you alright!”
The door wouldn’t budge. Calvin loaded the gun, then fired a shot into the bolt. It broke off. Calvin stomped the door – something still jammed it shut from the inside.
Calvin rotated his body then charged, shoulder first. He made some headway, but only a crack. He could hear their voices – Shea and Bridgette were shouting in a heated argument.
“Help Calvin!” said Shea. “Hurry!”
“Trying to!” said Calvin. He backed away, then charged again – he banged it open enough to barely slide his arm through. Calvin hurried back one more time. He sprinted forward, turned to crash, then caught sight of Big Fella, holding his glock.
Big Fella fired but missed.
Calvin busted through and fell on the tiles of the women’s restroom.
“Let her go!” screamed Calvin.
The two blondes fought near the far wall, backs to Calvin. They were nowhere close to the mirror, and both had red dresses and blonde hair. The one closest to the wall was on her knees, struggling to escape the neck-brace of the women behind her. Calvin couldn’t tell who was who.
“It’s finished god-dammit! Get off her!”
The woman standing up raised a knife. She was on the verge of slitting the other girl’s throat. Somebody kicked the bathroom door open – Big Fella.
“Duck Shea!” said Calvin.
He pulled the trigger, and fired a bullet straight into the back of the woman with the knife.
“Oh… shit,” said Big Fella, stopping behind him.
The blonde women with the knife crumbled to the tile. She dropped the girl she’d been choking, and the knife fell from her loosened grip. It was Shea, and she lie on the floor, clutching her bleeding heart.
“No,” said Calvin. “God… no. There’s no way…”
Bridgette stood up, coughed to clear her throat, then fanned herself.
“Curious, didn’t you realize we wore the same dress and I didn’t say anything? You should have known we needed to get rid of both of you to be married. Now you’ll be in jail, and she’ll be a corpse.”
“How… no. This isn’t happening.” said Calvin.
“It is, sorry bae.” Bridgette rubbed his cheek, kissed him by the temple, then left the restroom, as did Big Fella.
Calvin walked forward like he were knee-deep in mud. “Get up,” he said. “Get up and be okay.”
The club music was off – looping police sirens took its place.
Calvin reached Shea. Blood poured out from her chest wound – the bullet went straight through her. Her eyes turned up as she gasped for air.
“Cal.. Calvin?” she said.
He slid down against the back wall, then tugged her onto his lap by her armpits.
“It doesn’t end like this,” he said. “No, no. It can’t.”
“Don’t be!” he said. “It’s my fault!”
She coughed, then smirked. Tears welled up in Calvin’s eyes. He clenched the knife handle, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Don’t die.”
Police barged in.
“Put the knife down!” One shouted. “Put the knife down!”
“Please,” she said.
Calvin sniffed. “I won’t.”
“Get on the ground! Now!”
“Forever.” Calvin pressed his lips into hers, then plunged the blade into her neck.
Police fired away until both were riddled with holes. They died in each others arms, lips joined together.
Brody and Bridgette did a series of joint interviews following the tragedy that made national headlines. Security footage proved Calvin slugged Brody across the face then robbed the him of the gun he used to murder Brody’s wife.
Choked up with tears, Brody spoke about how blissful life could have been had he only won that fight, and interviewees and the American audience sympathized with his loss. Bridgette invited the public to share with her as she grieved, and many understood how disturbed she felt to discover her husband had kissed the women shortly before ruthlessly murdering her.
When Bridgette and Brody tied the knot, wedding gifts poured in from around the globe, and business boomed for Brody’s car dealership. They accumulated widespread fame from their against-the-odds love that blossomed into marriage, which proved to so many that not even a destructive mad-man could permanently destroy the lives of blessed good people for long.
The sudden influx of funds from Shea’s family fortune certainly helped Brody’s chain of dealerships thrive, but Brody always insisted he’d trade the tens of millions he’d inherited from Shea for even a day of her descension back to earth, even if it only meant holding her in his arms one more time.
When asked about the century old knife Calvin had used to carve into Shea, Brody informed viewers that the knife had belonged to her great, great, great, great grandfather, who had used it to peal a grapefruit he gave to a girl that became his future wife. They began the billion-dollar company together, and the knife had been passed down from generation to generation. Brody added, with tremendous difficulty, that Shea and he had always hoped to have children, and the knife would have gone to their firstborn. Because Calvin slaughtered her to soon, Shea died as the last surviving member of her incredible family.
*On a curious note, the shooter and his victim were buried in the same graveyard, despite specific orders and a never-ending outcry from the public. Shea and Calvin’s gravestones were placed side-by-side, in a remote area under some sycamore trees. The graveyard director position became a revolving door, and each new person hired for the job resigned within their first week, swearing “Forces beyond their control” prevented Calvin and Shea’s gravestones from ever being separated.
Hope you’ve enjoyed the series! Check in tomorrow for the official cover release for Master, my novel about a former football star’s quest to save his family from the deranged psychiatrist who infiltrates his dreams.
A long black limo pulled up and parked by the curb. The driver walked around the vehicle and opened the door for them.
When Bridgette crouched down to enter, Calvin noticed a handgun tucked away in her purse. He stopped where he stood.
“All aboard the S.S. Jackhammer!” said Brody.
Cheers and laughter followed, along with a few clanks of bottles and glasses.
“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” Calvin said to Bridgette, his wife.
“Uh-oh, he’s getting cold feet, you were right about this guy!” said Brody.
“You’re not even inside, and you already want to argue?” said Bridgette.
The laughter and chatter died down.
“It’s just…” said Calvin. “When did you get… Are we going someplace dangerous?”
For a moment the limo went quiet. Then Brody let out an explosive chuckle, yanked Calvin inside by his tie, and everybody returned to their previous festive mood.
“Grab a drink guy, lighten up. It’s Friday!”
Bridgette laughed. She took the seat right beside Brody. Calvin moved around at a hunch until he squeezed in between two women.
“Name’s Calvin by the way.”
“What’s that?” said Brody.
“My name is Calvin. We haven’t met before. I’m a firefighter.” He scratched under his jaw. “You know, my name isn’t guy.”
Brody raised an eyebrow.
“Ignore him. He’s a party-pooper.” Said Bridgette.
“No, no,” said Brody. “I’m a stand-up guy myself. My name is Brody, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Calvin. Your wife has nothing but wonderful things to say about you.”
“Oh, that’s a surprise,” he said with a laugh. Everybody chuckled along with him.
While the party guests indulged in the jovial mood, Calvin sat with his knees pressed together. He reached into his pocket for his phone, and started to text Bridgette.
When did you buy a gun?
“Baby, hold this for me!” Bridgette tossed her phone through the air.
Calvin made a jerky move to catch it. He wanted to ask her out loud, but her eyes darted to every spot he wasn’t.
Calvin shook his head, then slipped Bridgette’s phone into his other pocket. When he did, he inadvertently elbow-jabbed the breast beside him. Calvin instantly crossed his arms close to his chest, then sighed, shut his eyes, and let his head droop backward.
“I’m here, in my mold,” he muttered to himself.
“But I’m a million different people, from one day to the next.”
Calvin’s eyes shot open. The woman who he’d just bumped into had sung the rest of the verse.
“Bittersweet symphony?” said Calvin.
“I know, don’t you hate that song? Slaves to money then we die? Sorry, but money equals happiness.”
Calvin raised his eyebrows and grinned politely.
“That was a joke… kind of a bad one. Not sure where the laugh goes. The verve? Please. I love that song.” She mumble-sang the melody and bobbed her head.
Nothing about her screamed super-model. Especially not the freckles spotting both her dimpled cheeks. But she was… simple. And simple was better than ideal. A lot better.
“Another bottle,” Shea!” said Brody.
The woman beside Calvin nodded, then reached into a cooler and took out some Pinot Noir.
“Throw it,” said Brody.
“Well I don’t want to break-”
“Throw it, throw it, throw it!” began Brody, slapping his hands to his thighs. The rest of the party followed his lead, while Calvin had his eyes on Shea. She blinked rapidly, shook her head, then chucked it like it were a dead rat over to Brody. He and Bridgette tried to grab it at the same time, and in their haste they knocked the bottle straight to the floor, where it shattered. Wine spilled over Brody’s slacks and Bridgette’s ankles. The cheer halted.
“Dammit Shea,” said Brody. He fanned out his wet hands.
“Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have thrown it. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t you worry doll. Brody bought more than enough,” said Bridgette. She flashed a picture-perfect smile.
Calvin twisted his lips, then pressed out the creases in his slacks.
“I know, I’m clumsy. Here, I’ll pass you another,” said Shea.
She retrieved a new bottle from the cooler. Brody crouched low then made ‘chuga-chuga’ sound effects as if he were a train, and ‘chugged’ over to her.
“Hey, here’s an idea? Why don’t you just hand it to me?” He chuckled loud, then snagged the bottle from Shea. “You’re the best,” he said, then returned back to his seat beside Bridgette. He popped open the bottle, then poured those around him a glass. He met eyes with Calvin, who sat with his arms crossed.
“Would you like a glass?”
Calvin scratched under his jaw. “This is your wife, right?”
Brody glanced at her, then tugged his lip corners up with his cheeks. “How truly awful of me… I’ve been so excited to have fun tonight, formal introductions must have slipped my mind. Calvin, you’re sitting next to my wife, Shea.”
Calvin nodded with his tongue pushed into his teeth.
“Hi,” said Shea. She held out her hand, but Calvin’s eyes were trained on Brody.
“I’m not used to these events, so help me understand… why am I sitting next to your wife, while you’re sitting by mine?”
Bridgette glared at Calvin. Brody raised his eyebrows. The other party guests quietly sipped their drinks.
Brody opened his mouth, but Bridgette grabbed hold of his wrist.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she said. “Calvin… babe? This an adult event. Try to act like one.”
“It’s ok, B-ridge,” said Brody, returning Bridgette’s hand to her lap. “Now Calvin, it’s my fault for not giving you the four-one-one, but typically at events like this, you actually don’t use any seating charts. Had I known you would have felt more comfortable, I would have been happy to draw one up for you.”
Many of the party guests bit their lips. A few chuckles escaped.
“B-ridge?” said Calvin. “What’s that, your pet name for my wife?”
Bridgette’s palm smacked against her forehead. Brody wore a tight-lipped smile.
“Why don’t you tone it down a notch, huh guy? You didn’t pay for this limo. You don’t know anybody here. You wouldn’t even be here if weren’t for B-ridge. So take a drink, and enjoy the good vibes.”
Calvin mirrored Brody’s tight-lipped grin. “Sounds radical.”
Shea rubbed Calvin’s kneecap, then whispered in his ear. “Just ignore him.”
Calvin turned and they met eyes.
Shea darted her hand back, shook her head, then scratched behind her ear. She turned to Brody and smiled. “I’d like a drink!”
Brody’s eyes fidgeted between her and Calvin. “…sure.”
To be continued…
“We’re doing great, really great… I just needed to listen better… No, a kiss goodnight and in the morning… not a chance, my parent’s divorce ruined me… she’s their mother, man!… Sounds good, you too.” Calvin ended the phone call and put out his cigarette. He hung his head, then smiled and opened the sliding door. He returned to the bedroom.
“Oh my god,” said Bridget. She scrunched her nose and sniffed. “You smell like cigarettes.”
“You quit, not me.”
“Smells repulsive.” Bridget finished shimmying into her red party dress. “How do I look, baby?”
Calvin plopped down at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets. “Great.”
Bridgette slipped her thumbs under her spaghetti straps and flipped her top down. She wiggled at the hips, so the two hills filling her push-up bra jiggled around.
“This better, baby?” she said with a laugh.
Calvin smiled. “Didn’t think you were dressing up for me.”
“You’re my husband!”
“…why don’t I come along, for a change?”
Bridgette scoffed. “We’ve been over this. You don’t do good at social events.” She tugged her red dress back up over her breasts, then smiled and pecked Calvin on the cheek. “You’re the one I come home to. You’re my protector and guardian… but sometimes I need you to protect and guard the kids.”
Her phone beeped. She peeked in her purse, then scurried with it out to the hallway bathroom.
“I was thinking maybe I could join you this time,” said Calvin.
“Why? It’s just me and people from the dealership.”
“But it’s a club, right?”
“You won’t let me dance now? God, give me a break-”
“Never said that, babe. But you’re going dancing, so I’m sure bringing a spouse is fine.” Calvin sighed, then dragged himself out to the hallway. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “You said you wanted to spend more time together, right?”
“At the dinner table! The dinner table, baby! When I’m here alone, and you’re working, or whatever it is you’re really doing.”
“Ok… well maybe it would be fun, like the old days. It’s good to go out together sometimes… I already hired a babysitter and cleared my plans-”
“Aw, baby,” said Bridgette. She came over to Calvin and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “You cancelled your date with your guitar, all for me?”
He forced a tight-lipped smile.
“I told Brody I’d be his date tonight,” said Bridgette, before glancing at Calvin through the corner of her eye. She scratched her eyebrow. “If you really want to come, I’ll let him know.”
“I do… You’re important to me.”
“Aw! You’re important to me!” Bridget smiled, then pinched Calvin’s cheek. “Fine… you win.” She grabbed her phone, tapped out a text, then waited for the response with her fingers in her lips.
“Who’s Brody?” said Calvin.
“Huh? Oh, my boss.”
“I didn’t know. You don’t say much about work.”
Bridgette’s eyes went wide. “I don’t say much about work?”
“I’m a firefighter… I work with all guys… Three days in a row.”
Her phone beeped. Bridget laughed so hard she snorted, then covered her mouth.
She grabbed her purse and left the bathroom shaking her head.
“You wanted this, not me!” Shouted Bridgette. She opened the front door and left the one-story house.
Calvin remained where he stood. He noticed something in their wedding portrait he’d never noticed before – Lying on the hill in the background was an old couple. Calvin squinted and moved for a closer look to be sure – the woman, easily seventy five, had her hand in her husbands pants! The husband, who might as well have had ‘grandfather’ written in wrinkles on his forehead, was smoking something that was far too fat and green to be a cigarette.
“You dirty dog…” said Calvin.
The front door swung open, and Bridget stuck her head back inside. “Well? Aren’t you coming?”
“Yeah, sorry,” said Calvin. He met her on the driveway then followed her out to the curb. Calvin plucked out another cigarette and lit it.
“Let me,” said Bridget, summoning the pack with her fingers.
He lowered an eyebrow, then handed her the lighter.
“The cigarette,” said Bridget.
“I thought you quit?”
“I did,” she said, then nabbed one out from his pack. She sucked half the life out with one puff. “We’re in for a show tonight, babe.”
“Brody’s bringing his wife,” she said, exhaling a stream of white smoke.
“Oh,” Calvin said.
Bridgette pet down his hair. “She’s a bitch, honey. Imagine Cruella de Vill’s vagina. Everyone at work hates her. If Brody wasn’t such a sweetheart, he’d have divorced her already.”
Calvin lowered her wrist away from his hair. “Maybe he feels marriage is his best option… No matter what.”
Bridgette cracked up laughing and soon was in tears. “Yeah, right. Brody? Honey, he’s got more options than he can count! His wife’s a leech… married him for his money. Plus she’s dumb as a rock. Words won’t do justice, you just have to see for yourself. I kind of feel bad for him. Even her. She’s what’s known as ‘Fugly’.”
Calvin nodded. He lit another cigarette, but Bridgette plucked it from his lips. She smoked it, tossed it on the ground and stomped it out with her heel.
“No more smoking. We’re in this together.”
Calvin twisted his lips, then rocked back and forth as he waited with his hands in his pockets. Bridget texted.
A long black limo pulled up and parked by the curb. The driver walked around the vehicle and opened the door for them.
…To be continued.
“I think I can,” he said to himself, chugging along the sidewalk tracks. “I think I can.”
Donald walked with both fists clenched. Amanda and Thurma strolled a short ways ahead, Thurma with her head down.
He wasn’t angry, he was determined – and approaching a girl who was more than likely to reject him was no easy task for Donald.
“Hey,” he called out.
The two girls turned around. Amanda smirked, and crossed her arms. Thurma stilted like a wooden statue.
“Let me guess,” said Amanda. “You found something and were wondering if it belongs to Thurma. Is that your excuse for talking to her? Because that’s not exactly original.”
“No,” said Donald. “I want to talk to her as myself.”
“Why?” said Amanda, narrowing her eyes. “Been acting like somebody else?”
Donald stared straight at Thurma. “Have you?”
“Erm, I’ll leave you two alone,” said Amanda, before patting her friend on the shoulder and walking on ahead.
“What are you talking about?” Thurma said to him.
“This shit.” Donald pointed back to the bar. “You want some dipshit frat-boy, let me know and I’ll leave right now.”
“I don’t want that.”
“I’m a dork. My name’s Donald by the way.”
“You’re one too.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Thurma. She twisted her lip, then sighed and lowered her gaze to his feet. “But maybe I’m not the bitch who you met, either.”
She looked back up. “Maybe I am just a basic bitch. Maybe if you knew the real me, you wouldn’t have come running to talk to me.”
“I like basic bitches. I’m a basic dude.”
Thurma chuckled, then hid her teeth behind her hand. “So what do you want?”
“What are you after?” She said, then set her hands on her hips. “Is it a number, to brag to your friend about? Because if you really think you’re going to sleep with me tonight-”
“I came to talk with you. That’s all.”
“Because when I look at you I see a part of me, the part that I like.”
“What part’s that?”
Donald scratched the back of his head, then looked away. “I like good morning texts. I like snuggling. I like having to tell a girl she doesn’t have to worry about what’s-her-name, no matter how paranoid she’s being, or clingy she becomes.”
“I’m not following you.”
Donald shook his head, then returned his gaze to Thurma. He creased his brow when he noticed the mark on her chin, then leaned forward to get a better look at it.
“Stop!” she said, then covered the mark with her hand. “That’s rude.”
Donald grabbed her wrist and forced it away, then set his thumb on her chin. “I like the scar you try to hind behind your makeup.”
Thurma’s exhale came heavy. “Oh…”
“The stuff that puts other guys off, that’s the stuff that I like. You could say that’s from low-confidence, but I don’t think it is. I think it’s a preference.”
“There’s no line I can say to make you want me, there’s no maneuver I can use that will get you to like me back.”
Thurma’s eyes fidgeted in Donald’s.
“I’m just saying that I’d like to get to know you. If that friend zones me, then fine-”
“You said it.”
“About fifteen seconds ago. You said the line that won me.”
“Kiss me dork.”
Donald moved in with a smirk, then gave Thurma a light peck on the cheek.
Thurma shook her head, then scolded him with a finger wag. “I swear to God, if that’s what you think it means to kiss a girl don’t ever-”
Donald slid his hand through her hair, raking her brunnette locks up in his fingers until he had his hand wrapped around the back of her head. He advanced until her forearm fell flat against his chest, then dug his lips into hers. Thurma’s eyes dropped closed and the phone she had been holding unraveled from her fingers and plummeted until it cracked against the sidewalk. She immediately pressed her newly-freed hand against the side of his face.
An obnoxious series of honks was followed by a loud holler:
“Fuck her already, bro!” Yelled Freddy.
Donald finally took a step back.
“Number,” said Thurma.
“I think your phone broke.”
Donald smiled, then wrote his down on a wrinkled napkin he’d stored in his pocket. “Nice meeting you,” he said, then turned around and headed towards Freddy’s escalade. Once he took his seat Freddy sped away.
“You better get a tit-pit,” said Freddy.
Donald grinned and looked at him.
“What?” said Freddy.
“I’m the man,” said Donald.
“You’re a man, not sure if you’re the man.”
“No,” said Donald, before turning the bass up on Freddy’s sound system. “I’m the man.”
Hope you enjoyed.
INT. UNDERGROUND ROUNDTABLE – NIGHT
A dozen of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet surround the long, marble table. At the head sits JUDGE MCELROY (65), who strikes his gavel three times.
The white knights quiet down, with some of them even ‘shhhing’ one another.
Welcome, white knights.
WHITE KNIGHTS (IN UNISON)
Thank you for having us here, Judge McElroy.
Now, as some of you may know, the matter we have come to discuss today plays a serious role in our personal lives. We are here to discuss women, and more importantly, their failure to find themselves attracted to the good guys, meaning us, and their terrible inklings toward bad guys –
Judge McElroy lets out a breath, pulls up a poster of Chris Brown, then points at it in disgust.
JUDGE MCELROY (cont.’)
The white knights stick their tongues out, some even shake their heads angrily in disapproval. HAROLD (42), bald and grumpy looking, bangs his fist against the table.
That guy’s a jerk!
Judge McElroy puts the poster on the table. One of the white knights, JERRY (20), picks it up and tries to tear it in two. After failing he crumples it instead.
Now, now, gentlemen. Let us not behave as these, quote on quote, ‘bad boys’. We all know that it is not his superior dancing skills that land him the women, nor is it his incredible good looks, as everyone in here is ravishingly handsome, and more than a few of us have achieved high scores on dance dance revolution.
Jerry smacks the table with both hands.
What is it then, your honor? Why do women fall for low-lifes like him? I mean, should we really blame everything on the inferior intellect of females?
The room is quiet for a moment, and Judge McElroy appears deep in thought as he slowly spins his gavel on the table.
JUDGE MCELROY (sighing)
No, no. I’m afraid we can’t blame their brains entirely.
HAROLD (35), who is built like an average person, with a decent smile and a half-decent beard, speaks up with the confidence of a math teacher armed with a calculator. He wears a plaid button down and his hair is combed modestly.
I know what it is.
The surrounding knights look at Harold in bewilderment, as though he is about to tell them the secret they have been waiting their entire lives to hear. PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE, who has a button pinned to his suspender that says ‘feminist supremacist’, jumps in.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Every knight at the table waits on edge.
The white knights are confused. Judge McElroy sits well over the table.
Do elaborate on your theory, sir Harold.
Haven’t any of you ever noticed how he slides his feet, points at his junk, and moves his hips like he’s penetrating one of our females?
The white knights take time to reflect on Chris Brown music videos.
He’s does do a lot of that.
Those are all subliminal messages, geared toward sex!
The white knights gasp.
He’s tricking our women into sleeping with him by his overtly sexual dance moves!
The white knights seem so angry they could do something about it. Professor Super Douche throws his glasses at the table. They bounce once then his FRED, who sits across from him.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Let me get this straight.
Are you saying that, theoretically, if we were to perfect Chris Brown dance moves… women would sleep with us?
The white knights turn their heads to Harold in a flash.
I would never lower myself to that level.
The white knights are discouraged, but politely nod in agreement anyway.
I’ll tell what we should do, though.
Training school for ladies.
The white knights are attentive once more.
It’s not going to be like any ordinary school, though. It’s more like a boot camp… No, no, not a boot camp…
Harold stands up. He begins to walk in circles around the room, staring at nothing as he speaks. Inspiration has struck this man! An idea from the heavens, and every white knight is on the edge of their seat, eager to hear it.
Yeah, a training school! Judge McElroy, where did you send your puppy to get properly trained?
Yeah, yeah! Like dog training… only, for women. Human women!
Some of the white knights are smiling, laughing even.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Harold, you must be joking.
I’m not though! I’ve never thought so clearly in my entire life…
Harold gets up on the marble table. He paces hurriedly as he speaks, raising his arms even. His smile reaches from ear to ear.
There the women will be taught properly. Every time they look at a man with tattoos and a hairstyle, they will be shocked!
With a shock collar?
Exactly! And every time they are complemented politely, or have the door held open for them, or find a man willing to listen, they will be taught to…
Professor Super Douche stands up with vigor.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Give them a blowjob!
The white knights glance disapprovingly at Professor Super Douche, who slowly sits back down.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Every time a good guy does something good for a women, they will be taught to… to tickle his pickle!
The white knights cheer.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
How is that different than what I said?
Shut up, douche.
Say another word I’ll spill your brains on the floor with my gavel, maggot.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
JUDGE MCELROY (to Harold)
It’s settled then. Tomorrow night, we begins plans to build this ‘Lady Training School’. The only question left in my mind, Sir Harold, is what shall we call it?
Harold puts his hands to his hips and stares up to the ceiling. He is deep in thought, and clearly on the verge of one last act of genius.
We shall call it…
The white knights nod in agreement. At first only smiles are the only sign of approval, but gradually, and one by one, they begin a slow clap. Harold modestly accepts by smiling and laughing like Paul Rudd.
PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE
Great idea, Sir Harold!
Jerry jumps across the table and tackles Professor Super Douche. He beats his ass to the cheerful amusement of everyone.
That’s right, I won it.
Versatile blogger award?? What’s that, you ask?
Oh. Ha. A ha, ha…ha. you don’t even know what it is.
Well let me fill you in on a few little details:
The versatile blogger award doesn’t just go to anybody. There is a lengthy process involved, and the qualifications needed just to be nominated are enough to make your head spin. Let me give you a little perspective by telling you what I went through to win this award. I warn you – the daily grind to keep this blog so fresh and clean might come as a shock to you.
– I wake up every day no later than 4:30 a.m.
– I look at my alarm clock and wait until I fall back asleep.
– I wake up again at 9:30 a.m., when my alarm bell rings. I press the snooze button.
– I wake up at 11:23ish and pop out of bed, do three or less pushups, then blast my walk-out song as I make my way to breakfast. (a walk-out song is the rap song that plays for professional baseball players when they approach the plate to hit.)
– As “Ice Ice Baby” blares through my studio apartment, I punch the air with a series of aggressive jabs, secretly hoping I’m beating the shit out of the ghost who can’t be touched but can still feel pain. You might think that’s stupid, but when a ghost haunts your place, you can either stand up for yourself or just pretend he’s not there. I’m not a ghost pussy, I’ll stop fighting when he stops stealing my socks.
– I sit down and pour myself a bowl of cereal. It comes in this enormous cardboard box filled with dozens of bowls of cereal. I have to shake it really carefully, because a lot of the time more than one bowl will pop out, and even when I do only get one, the cereal always spills everywhere.
– I grab the milk from the fridge, then cautiously pour it all over my kitchen table, over the pieces of cereal. I then lick up the cereal as fast as I can, or else my Reeses Pieces are going to waterfall over the edge and wind up on the floor. And I hate eating food off the floor. It’s a lot harder and you can’t even sit down.
– I get on my computer and post a blog entry.
That’s EVERYDAY folks! Except for the weekend when I need time to recover, obviously. But next time you think about spending one full year of your life training for the versatile blogger award, I want you to ask yourself: Am I really willing to wake up at 4:30 am, just to post a blog entry? Because if you’re not, I just don’t think you’re gonna cut it in the free-online-blog-one-vote-wins-it-copy-and-paste-your-own-trophy award category.
Thanks again for nominating me, Aunt Joanna!! :)))) Check out her blog, she’s an amazing writer and an even greater story teller come thanksgiving.
Anyway, this is the gift that keeps on giving. Because now I get to write 7 interesting things about myself, and then I’m supposed to nominate
15 other bloggers 5 other bloggers for this award. Here’s 7 things you didn’t know about me:
1. I’m exceptionally boring.
2. I like turtles.
3. English is my first language.
4. That’s all I got.
5. I like Emenim? Specially the song “When the music stops.” That song is bad-ass.
7. Number 6 was a lie.
And now, to nominate 5 exceptionally versatile bloggers:
1. His actual name is writeswithtools. That’s how confident his parents were that he’d be a literary genius, which he is. His blog features post-after-post of useful storytelling information. In fact, merely browsing through his blog for a few minutes will help you improve your own writing dramatically, and at the very least open your eyes to the techniques and devices all great story-tellers use.
3. Amy Barlow. Aka sharp little pencil. She has been my friend since the beginning of my wordpress (good old mcwatty9 days), taught me that it’s “all right” and never “alright”, and is a genuinely smart and funny person. She writes a lot of poetry and is never afraid to speak her mind. I like that about her.
4. Mike Steeden. He rhymes about drunk tom-foolery with pure elegance. I want to get drunk with this man. I think there’s a lot I could learn from him… But more importantly, I think he’d be fun as fuck to go out with.
5. Misha Burnett. He’s a really good writer and has incredible insight into whatever topics he chooses to discuss. This is someone who puts a lot of thought into what he writes, which probably explains why his novel, “Catskinners Book,” is beginning to sell like hotcakes.
Ok, that’s it. Congratulations to my versatile blogger nominees, now you get to nominate 15 other bloggers and write 7 interesting things about yourselves!
– Thomas M. Watt
Author of “A New Kingdom”
Part 1 –
Part 2 –
Part 3 –
Bethany was locked in the closet with Amanda, the young bible-clenching girl who had made the terrible mistake of knocking on Huerto’s door.
“We need to get out of here,” said Amanda. She was blonde and had a fresh black eye.
“Can we? I mean, how has he managed to keep you here?”
“Every window is boarded up. Every room is locked from the outside. He’s always within reaching distance of his rifle. And he never has any visitors over,” said Bethany. She’d been locked in the house with Huerto for four months.
Amanda swatted the hanger poking her. “What happened to you? I mean… why did he stab you?”
Bethany swallowed. “We got in a fight this morning.”
Bethany felt her wound and winced. She stood at a hunch – upright hurt too badly. “I asked to go outside. Even if it meant having a gun in my side.”
Bethany looked down and ran a hand straight through her dark hair. “And he got upset, picked up a knife, then stabbed me.” She sniffed. “A minute later he got out of bed to ‘make us some breakfast’.”
Amanda’s face went blank. “What kind of man is he?”
“He’s not a man,” said Bethany. “He’s a coward. A sicko with a gun.”
“I wish I never came here.”
A shout came from the other room. “Marriage ceremony! Later today, Huerto and the bitch with the bible!”
Bethany shot a glance at Amanda. “Marriage ceremony…”
Bethany swallowed. “I know what he’s about to do. He’s going to wed you with the rifle barrel pressed to your temple.”
“So,” Bethany said, licking her lips before going on. “So maybe that’s my time to do something. I remember where the knife is that stabbed me. If I can manage to get hold of it in secret, maybe I can kill him before he knows what hit him.”
“But won’t that put me in danger?”
“What?” said Bethany.
“If you lunge to stab him when his gun is at my head he’ll shoot me, and I’ll die.”
Bethany bit her fingernail.
“C’mon,” said the teenage girl. “You can’t take that risk-“
“In all the time I’ve been here, not once have I had the chance to hurt him. Today I’m either going to bleed to death or fight back. What would you do?”
Amanda looked terrified.
“Please don’t get me killed.”
Before Bethany could respond, the lock clicked and Huerto swung the door open. “Wedding ceremony, upstairs!” He pointed his rifle at Amanda. “Get out.”
He waited for Amanda and Bethany to exit, then walked behind them. Bethany led the way, eyes glued ahead. Blood continued to drip down her nightie and the pain was getting worse. She could feel her legs shake as she stepped up the stairs.
Her eyes were dark, as was her hair, but her skin was pale. As they reached the top of the stairs her breath intensified. A strange feeling mixed with all the pain, fear and anger she’d had to live, day in, day out.
It was hope.
Part 5, Coming Soon!
– Thomas M. Watt
Thighs sliding, fingers cramped, sweaty pores, moving hands.
Rocking swiftly, moving gently, moaning sounds, hefty taking.
Hands caress, muscles push, breaths grow heavy, lamps are shook.
Moving swiftly side to side until a turn brings her to rise.
Rising up from up to down, pushing forth, pulling out.
Turning over, once again, breaths do mate, fingers blend.
Kissing, touching, quaking lots, moving down from neck to next spot.
Lips do squish, tongues they kiss, elbows bend , her pelvis kicks.
Eyes they meet from eye to eye at first they see but soon they fly.
Enter back into her body, watch her glisten, feel her naughty.
Twisting over to one side, slides to hip, leg twined is fine.
Hair grows wild in his hand, pulling hard, faster again.
Moving closer, dripping sweat, to her forehead, feel her breast.
Sheets all rustle, bed does break, blankets fall and moans do rage.
Raising volume hear the sounds from one man’s push till one girl’s found.
Voices quiet, thoughts they bleed, grips of holding pressing deep.
Heads come closer, heat it rises, slanted mattress provides for driving.
Springs they rattle, muscles ache, one limb stiffens, one girl shakes.
Hurrying on, fast again, lips they meet, breaths quicken.
All at once the sounds explode as does the load as does the show.
The two embrace for one small kiss before a rest and comfort’s bliss.
– Thomas M. Watt
Mr. Huerto grabbed Marie by the arm just before she reached the front door. “You’re going nowhere!”
“Let me go!”
“No!” He screamed. “Not until you explain yourself. Did you marry me for my money, expecting to take it and marry Joe after he returned from prison?”
She squirmed. “Joe, help me!”
Joe shook his head. “Tell the man, Marie.”
Marie shrugged her arm free. “Fine.” She let out a breath. “Yeah, maybe I did. Maybe I thought it would be the ultimate surprise for Joe when he got out. I loved him!”
“Loved?” said Joe.
She looked at Mr. Huerto, and rubbed his shoulder. “But something happened! I actually fell in love with you along the way! I don’t just want your money, I want you!”
“What about me?” Said Joe.
“Well… I still care about you! But things change! You’ve been gone for so long, Joe! What did you expect? How could you not think things would change?”
Joe grew teary eyed. “That whole time in prison, I served that sentence for you… for us!”
“Well what about me!” Cried Mr. Huerto. “I’m the true victim in all this! To think I’ve been duped, like some kind of idiot!”
“You weren’t duped!” Said Marie. “I love you! You’re my husband!”
“I”m a mockery! Our marriage is a complete sham!”
“No! It only started out that way!” Said Marie.
The door swung open, and Billy the butler rocketed in. “Good heavens!” He said, in a gasp. “What’s going on here? Who are you?” He said to Joe.
“That’s Joe,” said Mr. Huerto. “Fresh from prison.”
Billy the butler gasped again, and ran straight to Mr. Huerto. He hugged both arms around his neck. “Intruder! Don’t touch my man!”
Marie and Joe both gasped.
“Your man?” said Joe.
Mr. Huerto dropped his gaze and scratched the back of his head. He spoke solemnly. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true.”
“What?” Said Marie, with a sniff.
“Me and Billy the butler.” He hardly managed to look back to her. “We’re in love.”
Marie slapped Billy the butler in the chest, and then he slapped her back. They both engaged in fit of wrist flickings, until Joe held Marie back.
“So our marraige IS a sham!” Cried Marie.
“Yes, but darling!” Said Mr. Huerto. “This can all be fixed!”
“How?” She said. “How can all this be fixed?”
Mr. Huerto shrugged. “Well… we can just stay married, and Joe can live here. Come night time, I’ll sleep with Billy the butler, and you can sleep with Joe.”
Everyone else shrugged as well.
An hour later, they sat before the television set, watching a feel-good movie by the fireplace. Mr. Huerto kissed Billy the butler on the cheek, and Joe kissed Marie on the lips.
“One big happy family,” said Mr. Huerto.
“I guess so,” said Joe, before winking to Marie. “We’re gonna go grab some more popcorn from the kitchen. We’ll be quick.”
As Joe and Marie walked hand and hand to the other room, Billy the butler turned and called out to them over shoulder.
“So will we!”
Everyone laughed extra laughingly.
– Thomas M. Watt
A Writer by the Water
Toronto, Los Angeles.....and now CHICAGO. LOGAN Cinemas in midtown Chicago.
Bringer of Nightmares and Storms