Peter Prasad's Blog: Expletives Deleted - Posts Tagged "fiction"

Here I sit, looking like the bald-headed biker on a bar stool. Most folks think I’m guarding the bathroom door, so they go outside. Well, it’s all because I’VE BEEN EDITED. I gave her the Hope diamond and get back a glittery tennis bracelet.

NEWS: SONOMA KNIGHT: THE GOAT-RIPPER CASE will be ready for you by Flag Day June 14th. it's a sexy romantic crime thriller set in the heart of wine country. The research was awesome.

GOAT-RIPPER came back from my editor Temma et.al. and it’s been lipo-suctioned without sedatives. Reduced to a filth-grade reading level (ok, 10th grade) but IT SINGS ANGELIC NOW. My virgin queen returned a tawdy tart called art vox populi. I love her little scar and sundry orchid tattoos. We waltz a one-armed lalapalooza.

Every Papa gets growing pains. Mine start in both big toes and end with a headache. Drugs are no help; I favor dregs.

I cried at her ripped bodice and soiled slippers. She lost her tidy whities in the undergrowth. When the clock chimed midnight, her Venetian carriage popped a pumpkin and my bodkin splattered a wall painter’s T-shirt.

Frick if this biker didn’t weep. No sleep. I needed a nap before I could paint on a brave new face for the human race.

So whadda-ya-get? GOAT-RIPPER is a slam dunk three-point outside shot with lotsa air. Warning to Air Jordan. Steph Curry and me be hanging with Buster Posey for Inspiration Ah Hum.

We’re in it ALL THE WAY. GURL-POSSE and GUT-CHECK will be e-book ready by Turkey Day so you can wallpaper your loved ones for Xmas. I have a goal. It keeps me out of jail.

We’ve yanked the anchor to set sail out back the badlands like the motorcycle mol on Highway One Neil Young sings about. We have motion; we have Ocean. Leave your life vest off and jump into life, feet forward, ass hanging out.

I love this writer’s life. Sink or swim, we pay coin at River Stix no matter the condition we’re in.

Huzzah, Barkeep, make mine a triple latte Kenya Gold, double dollop whipped cream and dash the Malagasy vanilla. Set 'em up for my writer friends all round. We have writing to do.

Come join my tribe. We wear feathers and howl at the moon. Dance barefoot and delight plant and animal kingdoms. We line dance in concentric circles to bongo drums.

Cue orchestra, Bolero, if you please. Play Come & Go Blues at interlude. Free popcorn. I swear to champion life and love my neighbor until my last full stop. Then please have me re-printed, re-covered and re-issued. I oath genre-bending until I wear out my britches.

I accept this writer’s fate and wish for but one more life to give my readers. No blindfold. No cheroot. Fire at will.

I shall be reborn with 26 new characters tomorrow. You bet. SEMPER FRICKIN’ FRY. Jake Knight reminds me, I’m a writer and anything can happen.

Welcome a new American hero – Buffalo Dick Maddock. Run as they might, Dick makes this chase of mad bombers a cake walk with blood splatter. Bet on Buffalo Dick in a dust-up. He’ll dog you from Brazilia to Argentina to danger zones north. Then he sprints in a chase that raises the bar from page-turner to cinematic blockbuster. It don’t matter, Dick refuses to die.

I’m amazed when a writer weaves story craft this tight. DICK’s enemies jump off the page with full-blown back story. Hats off to new author Duff O’Brian, a master of plot that drips credibility and rings true in technical detail. The research could crash Wall Street. The havoc promised will keep Homeland Security up at night. So cut your teeth on Uncle Sam’s nightmare.

I emailed O’Brian to learn more. Everything in Buffalo Dick, he says, can be checked on the Internet: The deaths from radiation poisoning in Goianas; the private intelligence agency; the top-secret British army unit; etc. The legend of White Buffalo Woman is authentic Plains Indian lore. He hopes people read along with a live Internet connection.

O’Brian cites Borges, Marquez, and Kafka to explain his ‘magical realist’ perspective. My favorite reference: When Lewis & Clark reached the Mandan villages in 1804, they noted tall, white-skinned Mandans who spoke a language similar to Welsh. It was believed they were the lost descendants of Prince Madoc (Maddock), a 7-foot tall Welshman who historians say made two trips to North America 300 years before Columbus; on the second trip he brought 100 colonists, and they were never seen again.

From a lost tribe to a New York brownstone to an Argentine bistro, Dick chases ‘hell on wheels’ until the tires come off. For pure grit, I loved it. The first 20-pages are resilient with word choice, then the yarn puts you in a hammer-lock until the last page. The dastards do their do until Dick is driven to drill them through and through. 5-stars, plus Orion’s Belt for plausibility, as in OMG this could really happen.

Tea & Crackers Campaign, Chapter 8: Flag Day parade, Saturday, June 14th

The trick to living in Florida is to stay out of the noon day sun, especially if you’re a red-headed pale face with freckles. Even better is to hide inside in air conditioned comfort until sunset. But Aunt Veda’s old cracker house didn’t have air conditioning. Instead the house was sheltered in the shade of a tall banyan tree and we lived with the ceiling fans constantly turning.

Veda had me up early and dressed in my hibiscus dress. I insisted on wearing practical volleyball shoes. It was Flag Day, June 14th, and that meant we were walking in a parade. I looked forward to the day when we’d ride in a convertible with the top down, sitting high up on the back edge and waving at folks, but that day hadn’t come yet.

Flag Day is a pretty big to-do in the patriotic Florida panhandle. It commemorates that day in 1777 when the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia adopted the national flag. Now two hundred and forty years later, we parade with floats and marching bands. At least that’s how we do it in Micanopy, a four-block town of art galleries and cafes south of Gainesville. It was important for Veda to attend, so I put the word out to my email network to come join in the fun. It was the first test of the power of my email list and I had no idea what to expect. Because it was so hot, I didn’t expect much except a shaved ice cone to beat the heat.

I felt wilted by the time we arrived in Micanopy as Veda’s rattletrap Jeep didn’t have air conditioning either. We parked in the parade staging area behind the general store. The mayor of Micanopy, Arthur Danforth, approached with a clipboard and shook Veda’s hand. He was dressed in a frock coat and Ben Franklin glasses, with a white ponytail wig over his bald head, so he was in the spirit of the event. He welcomed us and said our group would march third, after Tugg and his Republican primary challenger, an unknown candidate named Bobby DuPry.

Just as were standing there, feeling alone and forsaken, two cars of Veda’s supporters arrived from Gainesville. Dr. Spector pulled up in his Volvo station wagon with Indian John. Marge Spector climbed out from the backseat and displayed a hand-painted banner: Veda Rabadel, Your Democratic Candidate for U.S. House 28. That made us a group of about ten, and I was standing around wondering what to do.

A loud claxton horn made us all jump back out of the center of the parking lot when Tugg’s crew pulled in. They were driving four new white pick-up trucks, dripping water from blocks of ice and tubs of ice cubes. I went over to investigate and saw that Tugg’s people were planning to hand out frozen juice pops in red, white and blue. They were the long, cylindrical kind that you push up from the bottom and suck on from a hole ripped in the plastic. Dang, why hadn’t I thought of that.

One of Tugg’s trucks hauled a flatbed trailer which was decorated with hay bales and American flags to make a parade float. A professionally-lettered canvas banner ran down the center of the float: Earl Tugg – Your US Congressman. Well, Tugg’s banner was bigger than ours, and with all those new white trucks it looked like he was preparing for an invasion.

I got worried and started texting my volleyball network with an invitation to join us and march with Aunt Veda in the parade. I also texted Jeeter and said we were about to get run over on this parade – was there anything he and Dante could think to do. I never heard back but when he showed up I was happy with the result.

Members of the Micanopy High School marching band wandered over, carrying drums, trumpets, trombones and tubas, all in blue denim uniforms with gold braid around the neck and down the sleeves. The marching band formed up on the side street and Tugg’s trucks lined up behind them. Then more cars arrived with a group of University of Florida cheerleaders. They bounced out and climbed up on Tugg’s float in their jaunty short blue and white uniforms, waving orange and blue pom-poms.

Dr. Spector said it looked like Tugg had some kind of endorsement from the university. He went over to investigate and one of the cheerleaders told him that Mrs. Tugg had hired them for fifty dollars each for two hours work.

I panicked and send out a bunch more texts calling for members of the Steinhatchee volleyball team to come to my aid, and to wear their uniforms. Aunt Veda desperately needed a show of solidarity. Veda came over and could tell by the frown on my face that I was panicked. She squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry about it. We’re here to learn and see who we’re up against. We’ll lead from behind. We’re a walking tour, a people’s movement. We don’t need cheerleaders and a float.”

“The hell we don’t,” I replied. “We only get one chance to make a first impression. We have to start fighting Tugg from behind every tree stump down here in south district. It’s our home base.” Anyway, that was my logic and Veda just smiled at me. I knew she’d march on no matter who turned out to support her.

I looked at Indian John standing behind Veda and he gave me a sheepish grin. Dr. Spector and Marge stood behind him, with their banner unfurled. We were a sorry sight and I didn’t like this at all; we were about to get run over in this parade. I fired off more texts and wondered how I could poison Tugg’s popsicles. Then the Gator cheerleaders began their chant. “Re-elect Earl Tugg, he’s our Washington rep…yep, yep, yep.” I could have spit bile.

We stood around for ten more minutes, sweating in the noon-day sun, waiting for folks to find seats along the curb of the parade route. I watched the ice water drip off the back of one of Tugg’s trucks and puddle on the street. He was glad-handing folks that stopped by, singling out the men and acting like they were Clan members in some kind of political brotherhood. Mrs. Tugg and the cheerleaders were handing out small American flags on sticks to the kids, and passing out popsicles. The mothers seemed so appreciative that their kids had something to do, and something cold to hold, though I saw one little boy wipe his blue mouth on his mother’s white shorts.

Finally the band got tuned up in marching order. The mayor pulled out a starting pistol and fired a blank shot into the air. That made Indian John jump. The Micanopy High School band started a jazzy rendition of Suwanee River and kicked into a high-stepping march. It took them a few minutes to wheel around the corner to where the parade started. They stopped and lined up again. Tugg’s float started up and moved out to fall in behind them. Mr. and Mrs. Tugg took seats at the back of his float in white lawn chairs and began waving at everyone. The Gator cheerleaders started up on their campaign cheer, waving pom-poms. No doubt about it, Tugg had slam-dunked his presentation for maximum impact. He was riding on that float, like General Robert E. Lee on his white horse, proud for all to see.

Behind Tugg in a cream-white Lincoln convertible came Mr. and Mrs. Bobby DuPry. DuPry’s dark-haired young wife was dressed in Spandex gear like she was queen of the gym. DuPry fancied linen slacks and a blue floral Hawaiian shirt, already sweat-stained under the arms. He brushed his brown hair straight back. His eyes were too close together, which made me think of a ferret.

Small banners on the sides of his Lincoln read: Bobby DuPry – Take Back America. I had no idea where he was going with that campaign slogan. But he didn’t seem to mind, being happy to show his face and generate some name recognition. Maybe like me he hoped Tugg would fall down dead, and if the district voted Republican then he might win the election.

The back door of the general store swung wide and banged against the brick wall. Out marched a troop of military veterans in uniforms from Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. The group was led by two geriatrics on three-wheeled battery-powered scooters in World War Two uniforms. They wheeled right and fell in behind Bobby DuPry's Lincoln. They set a leisurely walking pace, so I began to think we wouldn’t look like the poorest participants in the parade. Truly, the veterans deserved to be honored on Flag Day.

Dr. Spector and Indian John grabbed Veda’s banner and formed up behind the veterans. Aunt Veda and I walked six feet behind the banner. We lined up in the street and waited for the veterans to turn the corner. Veda held my hand until we rounded the corner and then she began waving at folks along the route. Veda’s contingent now numbered about twenty people. It was a sad turn-out but the best we could muster as political novices.

Someone shouted my name and I spun around. There was Thorny and the rest of my Steinhatchee Bobcats tumbling out of her uncle’s sports utility vehicle, in sport bras and shorts with two volleyballs. I never felt so proud in my entire life. I had to wipe away tears. They formed up behind us in a loose circle and began bouncing the volleyballs high in the air. They were setting each other, playing “bump” and making it fun.

Thorny led them in a chant, louder than the Gator cheerleaders. “Hey, hey, hey…we’re the Steinhatchee Bobcats and we’ll kick your ass.” I looked over at Veda. She smiled and reached out to hold my hand. She must have seen me tear up, and I knew it meant a lot to her too.

Clear out of nowhere, I heard the deep throaty rumble of Harley Davidson motorcycles bounce off the bricks of the general store. From out of an alley came Dante wearing a rainbow striped shirt unbuttoned down to his belly, driving a Harley hog and grinning like a madman. Behind him came six more Harleys driven by the Gainesville Dykes in full black leathers. Behind them sat six cute lipstick lesbians in bikinis and biker boots, one of them almost entirely covered with orchid tattoos.

My jaw must have dropped and I felt Veda’s hand squeeze mine. I looked over at her. She was smiling. “It takes all kinds to win and election,” she said, “and my campaign makes room for everyone.” I squeezed her hand and suddenly felt more hope than I had since the Bobcats won the volleyball championship.

On that note we set off marching down the short main street of Micanopy. Behind me the Bobcats were setting volleyballs high in the air, racing to the curb to bounce a ball back to the center of the street, and spinning balls in the air when we stopped. Behind them came Dante and his Harley babes. Once we got in front of the crowds that lined both sides of the street, people started hooting, clapping or staring at us like we were the circus come to town.

Ahead, the parade route stretched an extra few blocks past downtown and ended in a tree-lined park. Tugg and his float had passed the end of the parade and swung around to pull into the grassy area. He was busy doing more politicking. A Gainesville news truck was parked at the end of the route, giving the camera crew a long shot view down the entire length of the parade. When the Gainesville Dykes saw the TV crew, they revved their engines to a ripping roar. All six of the bikini-clad passengers jumped up to stand on the back of their bikes. They broke out into their own chant: “Go Veda, Go Veda, Go Veda.” A few voices in the crowd picked it up and we made a nice clatter.

With the parade at a crescendo, I could feel the TV cameras on us. Then the gal with the orchid tattoos peeled off her bikini top and shook her ta-tas in the sunshine. She waved her arms over her head and pumped her fists into the air. Then she bellowed: “Long live democracy, the spirit of America.”

It was a stunning finish. I saw a mother in the crowd cover her daughter’s eyes, and the little girl pried her fingers away to peek at the topless gal. Both mother and daughter were smiling. I saw every man in the audience stare and most of them grinned. And I saw a young woman peel off her T-shirt to flash her pink sports bra underneath and shimmy her shoulders. Her boyfriend lifted her up on his shoulders and she led the crowd in “Go Veda, Go Veda.” The TV crew captured it all.

Well, the shiny chrome Harleys out-drew Tugg’s flag-decked float in the park at the end of the parade. Most of the men hung around to gawk at the Harleys and I saw Veda shaking hands with their wives and talking to their kids. The bikini gals posed for ‘selfies’ with the veterans, who wanted to hug on those girls like they were a petting zoo. And the camera crew stayed to shoot some of it and interview Veda.

Tugg and his fleet of white trucks didn’t stick around. I saw Mrs. Tugg pay off the Gator cheerleaders and they left too. Bobby DuPry and his Lincoln followed Tugg’s trucks out of town. I never got a chance to say hello and size him up. As it turned out, that would come later.

I looked around at families socializing and Veda making friends and I felt like Chief Micanopy, having won the field, in his first battle of the second Seminole Indian War. Of course, it wasn’t much to brag about as he and his warriors got deported to Oklahoma later in the war, but for a first skirmish I felt we had done well.

On the evening news, the Micanopy Flag Day parade was the lead story, probably because the video footage was so racy. The topless girl was shown, covered by a black band across her chest, and you could hear her “Go Veda” chant and the proclamation “long live democracy, the spirit of America.” Aunt Veda got in her first sound bite on local TV. She was recorded in close-up saying: “I’m running an inclusive campaign so that all the voices of District 28 can be heard. My name is Veda Rabadel and I want to be your new representative in Washington DC next year.”