Moe Lane's Blog, page 46
May 4, 2025
May the Fourth be with you.
Hey, well, the first three movies hold up, and so does ROGUE ONE, and I just started first season of ANDOR and that’s pretty good. THE MANDALORIAN first and second seasons were excellent. You take what you can get, right?
#commissionearned
Patreon Microfiction: Heading for the Light.
I dunno if the guy in ‘Heading for the Light’ is getting out of Hell, either. You could argue it either way. It’s complicated.
Patreon!
May 3, 2025
The THE UNHOLY TRINITY trailer.
Not gonna lie: seeing a Western with Pierce Brosnan and Samuel L Jackson playing two old-timers too stubborn to die – and too ornery to let anybody besides the other kill them – appeals. Even if THE UNHOLY TRINITY is not my usual fare.
My mini-review of THUNDERBOLTS*.
Short version: It Did Not Suck. This is actually much higher praise than you might think. It got me into the theater, when I didn’t even bother with the latest Captain America film (it’ll be on Disney+ eventually), and I didn’t mind being there.
Slightly longer version: I liked THUNDERBOLTS*. It is extremely self-aware of what it is, how people are going to react to it, and the limitations that it operates under (including nigh-universal cases of imposter syndrome). Fortunately, there are a number of very good actors in it who can do ‘battered and bruised, but not quite broken yet.’ It’s one of the more grown-up superhero films lately, with characters who are actually better people than they’d like to admit.
If you’ve given up on Marvel, that’s cool. If you haven’t, this won’t make you lose hope.
Off to see THUNDERBOLTS*.
After the Friday I had, I rather badly need a sandwich, beer, and movie with Big Booms. People actually seem to like THUNDERBOLTS*, too, which always a plus. I’ll let you all know how it went.
Book of the Week: UNSEEN ACADEMICALS (Discworld book! Going for $1.99!).
I was going to be snide about the new cover to UNSEEN ACADEMICALS, but a bunch of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels are something like a buck-ninety-nine on Kindle right now. That’s a ridiculously good deal, bad covers or not. It’s so good, I’m not even going to snicker about the unrelated thing that I was going to snicker about…
#commissionearned
May 2, 2025
Been staring at cover templates all morning.
Oh, geez, it’s already 2 PM. How time flies… anyway, hoping to have the print version of the worldbook ready to submit by Sunday. Huzzah…
May 1, 2025
The ‘This Is Spinal Tap – 41st Anniversary’ trailer.
I am so there, I’m going to need my mail forwarded.
(H/T: GeekTyrant)
The mysteriously unfinished “Tom Vargas and the Case of the Meddling Priest.”
Here is something interesting: I started this, and I don’t remember how I wanted it to end. What do the rest of you think?
Tom Vargas and the Case of the Meddling Priest
There’s a sage of the Old Americans that argued that stories are dangerous, because they want to be told more than anything else in the world. Stories don’t care who gets used up in the telling, either. The more bodies on the floor, the bigger the story, right? No worrying about Destiny, either, because that’ll be filled in later. There’s always gonna be some schlub who’ll walk in at just the right moment, and get all the happy endings. Makes it all nice and neat, as long as you don’t squint too hard.
That same sage said that you had to fight back, become the ‘bicarbonate of history.’ Far be it from me to comment on the wisdom of the ages, but you don’t always need a fizzy drink to make somebody spit up a story. A head-butt in the gut can do the job just as good, as long as you butt the right gut.
You also need a pretty hard head; but when you’re a Shamus, that comes with the job. Or you’ll wish it did, real soon.
…
“You are Shamus Tom Vargas?”
I hadn’t heard a knock, but would have I, really? It was a quiet Saturday afternoon in Cin City, complete with a breeze fresh from the sea, and I had my feet up and my hat down, contemplating my plans for the evening. I’m told that I snore on such occasions, which I don’t believe in the slightest. I’m right there, ain’t I? So why don’t I ever hear it?
The voice got my attention, though. It was the kind of smooth baritone you associate with collection plates and sermons, so I was already expecting ‘cleric’ before I tipped my hat up. Then I tapped my hat up even more, because I hadn’t gotten enough of the guy visible on the first go. He was a big fellow, easily above six feet, and so broad across the shoulders that the black robe he was wearing looked like it could do double duty as a sail.
What I wasn’t expecting was the green skin, or the tusks. We don’t get many orcs around these parts; when we do, they’re usually wearing something a lot more mercenary-looking than a cassock and a friendly smile. Heck, this one didn’t even have a club.
My mama always taught me to be polite, especially to people who had money that might end up going in my general direction, so I didn’t waste too much time getting to my feet. “That’s the name on the door,” I admitted as I shook his outstretched hand (he didn’t play any handshake games, probably because we both knew he’d win one). “Case Clearing and general nosiness, Father…?”
He nodded, noting that I had pegged him as a Christian priest. “Father Miguel Cruz. Or ‘Mike,’ if you like. I’m the pastor at San Felipe. Down in Fond?”
“I’ve heard of it. Don’t usually see clients from your part of town, though.” Fond’s not poor, but you can see it from there. Lurking. Wouldn’t matter, except they had a certain ingrained suspicion of Shamuses in that slice of Cin City, too.
I pulled out the pack of smokes I reserve for clients I don’t know, pulled one out, offered him another. He shook his head. “It’s too expensive a habit for me, Mr. Vargas. But feel free.” Looking him over, I believed him; the priest’s robes were in good shape but well-worn, and you could see the places where somebody with steady fingers had done some needlework. I didn’t know what kind of money being a pastor brought in, but it wasn’t sticking too hard to Father Miguel. You’d think I’d like clients like that, and you’d be right. Honest clients are great for your soul. They’re also hell on your operating funds. I already knew that I would be keeping a tight hold on the expense account for this Case, whatever it was.
“So, Father Miguel,” I said after I lit up my own cigarette, “what brings you to my office? What do you need a Shamus for?”
“I don’t, Mr. Vargas,” he replied right away. “I need a detective.”
That surprised me, a little. You’d think that somebody with a genuine Sin City accent would know the score better. “Can’t you get one from the police? They’ve got loads.”
“I tried.” Father Miguel gave me a smile that was surprisingly disarming, considering the tusks and everything. “They said there needed to be a crime first.”
Now that sounded promising. “Okay,” I said as I pulled my feet off the desk. “Maybe we should start from the beginning.”
…
It was a tale as old as time. Somebody had something valuable enough to steal, so it got stolen. Now somebody else wanted it back, but quietly. I don’t know why they always want it back quietly. Maybe if enough people made a fuss, more thieves might get scared off.
I’d say that the Devil was in the details, but apparently that’d be exactly backward. “It’s a relic,” Father Miguel explained. “A piece of the True Cross — ah, do you know what that is?”
“Just the basics,” I replied. “Holy relic from the death of your god, right? Supposed to have miraculous healing powers, vaporizes demons on sight, that sort of thing. They’re supposed to be really powerful relics, too.” I politely didn’t add, So why does your church rate one?, because I’m classy that way.
From the pained look on Father Miguel’s face, he had heard my thought anyway. “That’s close enough for this discussion,” he admitted, “but I don’t know if it’s an actual relic or not. I’ve never been close enough to tell. It was supposed to be a bequest to the Church, you understand.”
“Not yet, Father, but I’m getting there. Bequeathed by whom?” Like I said: classy, and grammatical. I’m the full set, I am.
We eventually got to that. The bequeather was the late Annabelle Rigg Precio. Late, but not entirely lamented: Father Miguel was polite about it, but I didn’t get the impression she was universally loved. “Annabelle had a difficult life,” he explained. “Her family had fallen on hard times, and she struggled to come to terms with her reduced circumstances.”
“Struggled, huh? I take it she’s ah, passed on?” Nothing gets past me, let me tell you.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Vargas. She died two weeks ago. I received word that she fell overboard, off the ferry to Peñasco, only they didn’t find the body for a week. We buried her last Saturday.” Father Miguel looked unhappy. “There were more people attending the reading of the will than at her funeral.”
“Yeah. That happens. I take it the relic was one of the bequests?”
“Yes. It turns out that she left it to the Church — but when the executor opened the safe where she had stored her valuables, it was empty of that, and the other items listed in the will. That’s when I was brought into the situation.”
I gave him the old Shamus grin. We have several different versions of that, so I went with ‘good-natured.’ Father Miguel seemed like a good guy, even on short notice; besides, he could probably bench-press me. “So you took a look at the mess, decided that you weren’t the right guy for the job, and went looking for one who was?”
“Exactly. I will confess, I went first to the police.”
“Sure,” I agreed amiably. People are always making that mistake. It ain’t like Cin City cops are lazy; they just know what they’re good at. Somebody snatching pouches? They can sort that out. Week-old thefts where nobody’s talking? Not so much, at least as long as the corpses aren’t piling up. I didn’t have the good Father here pegged as somebody who’d want things to get that bad. “Did your parishioner stick around?” He looked confused, so I elaborated. “You know, as a ghost?”
“Oh! Sorry, Mr. Vargas. I have no idea.” Now I was confused. “My time in seminary didn’t include any lessons in necromancy. Just warding and exorcisms. I wouldn’t know where to start in talking to a spirit.”
“Gotcha. So, no police, no church, and you would have gone to a mage, except that…” the two of us said, “We don’t have mages in New California,” in unison. Like you do. I did say, “You have a cleaning lady or two around, though? They see anything?” I didn’t think that his parish could afford an IATSE wizardly ‘artisan’ on retainer, but one of the Syndicate’s witches? Absolutely.
Father Miguel shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. They said it was too late. The room that the safe was in had been cleaned too many times.” Which made sense, dammit. One of the things you hire a cleaning lady for is to make sure that scryings don’t have anything to bite on. Great for keeping the Universal Dominion out of our business; bad for magically investigating a cold crime.
“So it’s gotta be figured out the old fashioned way.” I poked my hat up a little further to give my head a scratch, get the brain humming. It didn’t sound like too tough a job, but… “A couple of things before I agree to look into this, Father. First off…”
“…You don’t run a charity, right?” Father Miguel’s face was built for smiling, tusks or not. “I knew that already, Mr. Vargas. I can pay you your regular rate, one week in advance.”
“Nah, make it three days,” I told him. “If it takes more than that, something’s gone screwy and the money stops being the important thing. But, next question: just how valuable is this relic of yours? Enough that somebody’d be ready to pile up the bodies to keep it?”
You know, that actually shocked him, a little? “Oh, my. I hope not,” he managed after a second. “These aren’t the days of the Old Americans, after all. Manifestations of the Divine aren’t as rare as they were, back then. Having another piece of the True Cross would be important to the Church, but surely it’s not worth murdering someone over.” Then his grin switched, becoming a good bit more, well, orcish, and a lot less pious. “Besides, if somebody did commit murder in its presence that wouldn’t end well. The Lord takes His Commandments just as seriously as we’re supposed to.”
…
Yeah, obviously, I took the job. I’m telling the story, ain’t I?
Once we shook hands on it, we made it over to the scene of the crime. It was your basic professional hall, the kind where the lawyer shares a meeting room with the accountant and the alchemist moonlights as a notary public. “Annabelle rented a safety deposit box with Senor Lomax,” Father Miguel explained to me. “He’ll be able to tell you the details about what happened.”
“Good.” I didn’t explain to the good father that Lomax was also one of the three prime suspects, since he had a master key and he was a lawyer. Either one might not have been enough, but combine the two? Maybe there was something there. He wouldn’t be the first abogado who figured he knew enough law to wriggle out of trouble.
Lucky for him, he wasn’t the only suspect I had: there were two other people who had keys to the box.
