Jamie Grefe's Blog, page 23
September 14, 2014
Interview w/ Arthur Graham (Rooster Republic Press)
September 8, 2014
Skin Flick (Horror/Thriller) Screenplay @ The Black List
September 5, 2014
Looking for a Feature Length Horror Script? Look No Further, Friends.
August 23, 2014
Interviews in the Dark (Living Dead Magazine)
August 21, 2014
DECKER: Episode Five (An Adaptation): The End For Now…
I would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to show some DECKER love to @timheidecker, @greggturkington, @m_proksch, and @adultswim. I’ve had a wonderful time working on these adaptations and I hope you enjoyed reading them. Today I present you with the fifth and final adaptation to this exciting series. If you’d like to catch up on your reading, check out my adaptations of episodes one, two, three, and four. Thank you, dear readers. God bless America.
DECKER: Episode Five (An Adaptation)
It’s a long chug from Central Park to the White House.
Decker commandeers his seat across from President Davidson. His hands still tremble from the pressure of squeezing shut Abdul’s terrorist throat. But the cold chills of a national threat no longer stings his warrior brow. He feels lighter like a cruise ship born of risky cocktails and impossible missions. Decker’s mission was not impossible. It’s been cleared. He flicks a speck of bomb-ash from his black blazer and leans back, satisfied with one final request itching to luau off the tip of his tongue.
President Davidson’s ghostly face is illuminated by the video phone image of Agent Kington’s grinning mug. Davidson gives Decker the nod of approval. “On behalf of America,” he says, “I want to thank you for saving us from the terrorist.”
“You’re welcome,” Decker says, eyes narrowing into his signature squint.
Davidson’s neck-meat jiggles. He asks, “How did you do it?”
“Once we broke the code and figured out how to access the secret documents, it was easy.” Decker grins like a sleuth hiding a muddy hand. “You see, I can read and speak Arabic and I dis—have determined that the plot was in en—was to blow up Central Park.”
“Incredible.”
“Once I got that information,” Decker says, “I headed to the park and stopped the terror attack with brute force.”
“And I couldn’t be happier with the results,” Agent Kington blurts from the video phone.
“It’s what saved America,” Decker says.
“Incredible,” Davidson grunts, in awe of Decker’s single-minded cunning. “Decker, you’re, you’re a hero.”
“What’s incredible,” Decker says, cocking his heroic head, “is how you failed to use the constitutional authority guaranteed to you by our founding fathers to use force to protect the homeland from these savages. Don’t you realize that as Commander-in-Chief you have the power to bomb these people back to the stone age? When will you ever learn that your administration is a disgrace. You— all your pathetic attempts just to try to get through this term so that when you come out you can go on your stupid book tour and give your pathetic lecture circuit. You sold this country a bill of goods and now the chickens are coming home to roost.” And Decker’s lips curl into a grin of satisfaction.
President Davidson’s grimace sneers in shame, eyes dart to the left, those fingers fidgeting like he doesn’t want to face the truth, like pissing down a hill of broken promises.
“I agree,” Agent Kington says.
“Right,” President Davidson says. He blows a puff of hot air out his mouth, lets it fill the air. “I… I should just resign and make you president.”
“I would recommend this,” Agent Kington says.
But Decker’s eyes are truth-seeking missiles, keenly aware that the corruption wouldn’t stop even if he were to assume Davidson’s phony position. His index finger shoots into the air. “But I refuse,” he says. “I’m needed out there in the shit, protecting you and us from people that want to do us harm.”
“And thank God for that,” Agent Kington says, voice fuzzed and crackly like the ghost of George Burns echoing from a tin outhouse.
“You deserve the medal of honor,” President Davidson says.
“I know and I do accept the medal of honor,” Decker says. “That there’s anything else, Mr. President, I wouldn’t mind borrowing Air Force One and heading off to Hawaii for a vacation.”
“You got it,” President Davidson says, nods.
“Mr. President,” Decker says. “you’ll never get my vote, but you have my respect.” He rises, plants his palm firmly in President Davidson’s hand and squeezes. And for a moment, they’re close, closer than they might ever be again.
“Coming from you that means a lot.”
“All the best,” Decker says.
And he snatches the once-dangerous briefcase off the President’s desk, turns his back on President Davidson, and marches cool steps of victory out of the office.
Davidson stares slack-jawed like a sad dog, but he’s hopeful. “Decker truly is our most valuable national treasure.”
“And I am a big fan as well,” Agent Kington parrots, “We’re lucky to have him.
“Be safe in Hawaii, Decker,” President Davidson barks proudly from his seat.
And as we walk with Decker out through the White House and down the red carpet that leads to Air Force One, past soldiers saluting a real American hero, we are left with a strong snippet of admiration from Agent Kington, a declaration of admiration from the bottom of all our hearts, “I really love Decker.”
Don’t we all, Agent Kington. Don’t we all.
But we are not yet finished. For, the world is watching.
Some folks out there are settling in with their grease-slopped taco dinners, or roadkill burgers on a crusty bun, happy families on the verge of slopping into the meat of freedom. A young American husband and son dip hungry paws into a tub of buttered popcorn. Grandpa cracks open a bottle of piss-warm beer, and somewhere, a busy mother, beautiful and delicate and tired, rests her heels for the first time all day in front of the television altar.
Soon, it’ll be Super Bowl Sunday.
And it doesn’t matter if their regularly scheduled programming bleeps, snaps, and cuts to the blazen image of our grand country’s insignia, filling all channels with a live report from the White House. It’s always zero four hundred hours somewhere in America.
So they watch.
They listen.
Through popcorn crunches and sloppy spoonfuls of cranberry sauce and turkey, they listen closely to the words of President Davidson’s message to the United States of America.
“My fellow Americans, I come to you with disturbing and yet, great news. An agent of the United States of America has saved us from peril. Single-handedly, he has crushed a plot to destroy America. He has saved Central Park and he has saved the Super Bowl.”
They cheer.
They hang on his every word, held tight in unity: “And I designate the following Sunday, a parade in his honor, down Broadway in New York City.”
And hearts stir, drums march onward as President Davidson fills their hearts with joy: “Unfortunately, this brave, brave agent will not be able to attend, because of course, his identity must remain secret. And you know who you are. Our country owes you a gratitude of thanks.” The world is breathless, grateful, stuffed, and, for once, truly moved by their leader: “God bless you, agent. God bless America.”
And yet somewhere high above this world’s troubled waters, a black-clad stranger slips shades over his eagle eyes, and looks out of a window at miles and miles of turbulent waters far below. The sun is setting in the West. Air Force One feels to this man like a giant motorcycle plowing the wind to shredded wheat, charging into the end zone to overcome whatever evil forces might threaten to destroy the liberty and justice of our beautiful country.
Godspeed, Decker.
Godspeed.
The End
For Now…
August 14, 2014
DECKER: Episode Four (An Adaptation)
In episodes one, two, and three, we found Decker neck-deep in the mud, faced with the tension of decoding a most dangerous briefcase. Now, in episode four, experience the hottest episode yet, a mix of thrills, wit, and intrigue at the highest level. So, kick back and enjoy another literary adaptation of DECKER. While you’re at it, show @timheidecker, @greggturkington, and @m_proksch some Twitter love and help support DECKER. That’s an order, soldier.
DECKER: Episode Four (An Adaptation)
Decker hesitates like a blonde Hamlet, finally grabs a folder from the briefcase and takes a seat. He flips open the folder, tries to unravel the hideous plan laid out before him.
“Decker,” President Davidson says, just hoping for the speechless Decker to come forth and explain the nature of the danger. “What does it say?”
And the ice cracks.
“One of these plans,” Decker says, “is a plan for them to blow up the World Trade—The Super Bowl—next week.” Decker shuts his eyes: the cheers, the chants. There are cultural lines that cannot be crossed, traditions that separate real men from pigskin—and these scumbags are not gonna piss on America’s pigskin. Not while Decker’s in town.
“The Super Bowl?,” President Davidson says, flabbergasted. “America’s greatest institution.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Decker snaps back. He’s fed up with Davidson’s drizzling stream of rhetoric. “I got ninety grand on the Cowboys.”
And Davidson’s sweaty lips flow to a mud-eating smirk. “I’m rooting for the Washington Redskins, myself.” He flashes Decker a quick thumbs up.
“Of course you would,” Decker says. “The only reason you like football is for all the gridlock. You’re just obsessed with bureaucracy at the highest level.”
All of a sudden, Agent Kington, face still bobbing like on the video phone, says: “I don’t like to just, uh, parrot your opinions, but in this case you’re right.”
Decker ignores Kington, analyzes the contents of a particular document from the case. Foreign scrawl fills the page, a myriad of languages Decker knows by heart. “But the plan that really worries me is this one,” he says, giving full attention to a target etched in blood and an ominous skull and crossbones drawn in the blackest marker with the deadliest intent.
“W-w-what else does it say?” President Davidson says. He’s noticeably worried, can’t stop squirming in his seat like a juiced-up schoolboy.
“They want to blow up Central Park with a nuclear bomb,” Decker says. “Today.”
“Today?!” President Davidson says, stunned.
“I better head to Manhattan to stop the attack,” Decker says, his eyes already angling to a squint, his patented sign of dedication, intensity, and single-mindedness.
“W-w-w-wait, Decker,” President Davidson says. “M-m-maybe it’s too late. Maybe, maybe we should just surrender.” The president’s panic buttons are on red alert, a million deadly possibilities race through the jungle of his grey hair. “Kingston, what do you think?”
Kington says, “I’m gonna disagree with you.”
“Now, for once,” Decker says, “I’m gonna agree with that nerd.” And Decker’s eyes are slits of pure vengeance, shut tight as if he’s entered a trance. “Mr. President, let me be clear. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not surrender. Do you understand me?”
“Got it, Decker,” President Davidson says, puppy-dogging his gaze to his lap.
But Decker’s not through. Not by a long shot. “Now I can stop this plot,” he says. “I can end this madness right now if you give me the tools to go out there and fight these terrorists the way I know how.”
“Got it, Decker.”
“Call my copter.”
“Yes, sir,” President Davidson says, trembling. Sweaty fingers pick up the phone and make the call. “We’d like Mr. Decker’s copter on the White House lawn immediately.”
“That’s the first smartest thing you’ve done all day,” Decker says.
“Yes, yes. On the White House lawn.” President Davidson hangs up, looks up to wish Decker the best of luck. But he’s alone in the room. Decker’s gone like a ghost who was never there. And a slight wind hits the American flag Davidson keeps beside his desk. It stirs his heart like a football barreling straight to the soul.
Before Decker’s copter hits the White House grass, our man in black is missing in action. The air force captain manning the beast pokes his head out and orders his pilot to kill the engine. We listen as those humming blades slow and stop. But there’s another sound, distant but voracious, heavy and revving. It’s the sound of a motorcycle gunning out onto the lonely highway. And the captain shakes his head, smiles. He gives a salute to the wind, to the sound of a born warrior riding off to fight freedom so we can live. He salutes Decker.
We zip from Washington D.C. to Central Park. Decker’s hog hits country roads, burns gas so fast cops can’t stop him, won’t stop him. He passes bicyclists, RVs, sports cars, and keeps chugging.
We arrive at Central Park, zero four hundred hours, military time. Decker’s face is sweat-slicked, but he’s not tired, can’t stop. This is the fuel that makes his inner bomb tick. He ditches his helmet, and slaps on his patented black shades. It’s go time, baby.
Decker scans the crowd, his lightning-quick Langley mind like a viper reaching to bite. He sees a kite flittering in the sky. An American family holding their child. A jogger rushes past. A man on his cell phone. “Terrorists gotta be around here somewhere,” he says, feels his stomach clench. But he rails against fear, keeps searching. A young couple sitting side by side. A man takes a drink of bottled water. Decker’s pulse quickens.
And then his eyes betray him. A man in white stands over a trash can. Not any man, but a man Decker thought he knew. His Afghanistan warrior of peace… His friend. Decker sees Abdul.
Abdul mutters to himself, cursing America as his hands fumble with a silver contraption, wire-rigged with a button on top. While Decker can’t make out what Abdul’s saying, he does notice Abdul is about to drop that wire-rigged contraption—that bomb—into the can.
Decker sprints across Central Park, his mind muddled with the memories of when he last met Abdul in that desert clearing. Decker remembers clearly the promise he made on that fateful day: “Abdul, thank you very much for your help in securing me this very important secret document… and therefore I’m grateful and the country salutes you—but let me just tell you, this is going to make our country safer and, in turn, we’re going to help you provide freedom, safety, and security for your own country, because that’s what America has promised you. That’s what America is going to deliver no matter who the president is.” And Abdul’s seemingly sincere response, “My pleasure.”
Can’t trust a liar, Decker thinks. Can’t trust anyone. “Abdul!” he yells.
“No, Decker,” Abdul says, spite froths out his mouth.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Decker says, coming in close, trying to assess the situation. The only thing he sees is that bomb and he hears it tick. He doesn’t have much time.
Abdul switches to his mother tongue, says, ” You can’t stop me. It’s Allah’s will.”
“Allan’s will?” Decker thinks. “How can it be you?” he says. “I thought you were on our side.”
And this nails Abdul’s rage to rise. “Yes, I tricked you! I tricked your president. And not only will you and the city of New York be killed, but the Decker name will be ruined. Everyone will know that you destroyed America.”
“Well there’s one thing you didn’t count on,” Decker says, his fists suddenly assuming the grip of an eagle ready to pounce.
“What?” Abdul says.
“Is that I never let America down.” And Decker strikes with furious strength. He dives, thunders a Navy Seals military chop to Abdul’s shoulders. Abdul loses his balance and Decker leaps on top of him, boars his weight into him. But the bomb is clenched in Abdul’s hand. Decker feels Abdul push against his weight, but with two eagle-talon hands of steel, Decker karate chops the bomb out of Abdul’s grip, watches it tumble to the grass. But in that second of distraction, Abdul wraps his traitorous hands around Decker’s neck and squeezes. Decker feels his breath stop.
But he can’t give up. Won’t die. Won’t ever die. Suddenly, Decker summons an otherworldly strength and swings both arms into Abdul’s elbows, breaking the choke. “Aaaaahhhhhhh!” Decker yells. And the tables turn. “Die, you piece of shit,” Decker says, wrapping his own meaty hands around Abdul’s neck. He gives the traitor a taste of his own medicine, and shuts off Abdul’s windpipe. The scream of freedom Decker released moments ago climaxes like a hurricane as he squeezes harder and harder until the gurgling Abdul stops breathing. And dies.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The bomb beckons—it’s gonna blow. ” Oh, shit,” Decker says. “The bomb. We gotta get it airborne.” Decker leaps off Abdul’s corpse. The beeping quickens. There is no time. Decker scoops up the bomb and sprints into the open park. He spins with the grace of an Olympic athlete, his body dancing in circles, winding up and up and up to launch the bomb far away from the American people. The wind whips around him with each spin, and suddenly, like lightning shooting out of his arm, he releases the bomb into the air and watches it soar like a football out past the end zone, past the bleachers, and up over New York city.
BOOM! The bomb explodes in the air. Decker watches the flames dance and blossom like a poppy field of red, white, and blue fireworks on the Fourth of July. He’s out of breath, but it doesn’t matter, for in his mind, those deadly flames signify freedom and redemption. He did it. And the world is once again safe. The game will go on.
And as that bomb rains down brittle ash, Decker envisions the American flag and what it stands for. He gives Old Glory a nod and heads back to his hog. He revs it and hits the highway. It feels good. It really does.
To Be Continued…
August 13, 2014
My Aha Moment
Daniel Vlasaty is hosting some of my thoughts on writing, joy, and noise in his new “AHA MOMENT” column. Read it HERE.
August 7, 2014
DECKER: Episode Three (An Adaptation)
If you’ve read my adaptations of Decker episodes one and two, you know that things are heating up, boiling over and about to burst. Today, I present my adaptation of episode three. It’s a suspense-driven cliffhanger. Like Decker himself, it hits hard and packs an American punch. So, strap in and enjoy. You can support Decker by showing @timheidecker some Twitter love, as well as the great @greggturkington, whose acting is a real treat in this episode. Thank you and Happy Decker Day, everyone.
DECKER: EPISODE THREE (AN ADAPTATION)
President Davidson’s beady eyes dart left and right like a stuck pig as the cold steel of Decker’s gun nuzzles the side of his head. It’s now or never. He knows Decker’s unhinged enough to pull the trigger, spray presidential brain-syrup all over the desk. But letting Decker share communications with a top secret agent could cause political ramifications from here to Swallow Valley.
“The choice is yours, Mr. President,” Decker says, ready to roar. “Do you want your skull and brains and blood splattered all over your desk or are you going to pick up that video phone and call CIA and get me your best code breaker?”
And this is it. The president feels death well up in his belly. His estranged wife. Delinquent kids. His legacy as a leader. All gone to scrim. It must be done. “Fine,” he says, giving in to the heat. He reaches for his secure video phone, boots it up.
“That’s what I thought,” Decker says.
The president’s cheeks twitch, eyes widen with relief. And his fingers stab at the video phone’s keypad. It’s camera scans the president’s face, lasers those beady retinas, and loads to completion.
“Welcome, President Davidson,” the video phone’s female voice says.
“Uh, give me Special Agent Kington, on the screen.”
Decker lowers his guard, leans in. He’s already soaked up the president’s password, studied the intricacies of this so-called “secure” device. But Decker’s strategic peeking halts when he gets a glimpse of Special Agent Kington—”smells more like a Kingston to me,” Decker thinks. He assumes these so-called “special” goons are assigned fake names to protect their identities. But this guy takes the cake and pisses mud all over it: a goofball Hobbit, greasy comb-over in a suit, and that classic CIA why-are-you-so-smiley-buddy-boy of a guest grin. Decker’s seen it a thousand times. And he doesn’t like it.
“Uh, Decker,” the president says. “This is Special Agent Kington, Special Agent CIA.”
“Hey guys,” Kington says, a certain lift in his voice as if hosting a television show and not dealing with an imminent threat to the American people.
“Special Agent Kingston,” Decker says, “you come very highly recommended.”
“I’m sort of a specialist,” Kington says, cocky grin on his face.
Decker doesn’t buy it. “We have some documents here we need you to review immediately.”
“Sure,” Kington says.” And what are the—”
“Well, we can’t review anything until we break into this case,” Decker says. “We need help breaking into a three-digit code. Are you up for the job?”
“Interesting,” Kington says. “Alright, let me think about it.”
And this snarky lag dumps Decker over the edge. It’s always these Hollywood Bond wannabes who think the world’s gotta bow to their agenda whenever they want to piss in the popcorn. Have they no sense of the mass of this situation, of the rotten violence that could explode like a barrel of chicken shrimp? “There is nothing to think about, Kington!” Decker says. “We need you to crack this three-digit code as soon as possible, otherwise the whole country is gonna be in problems—can you do the job or not?”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Kington says, oblivious. “I mean, that’s my area of expertise.”
Get a load of this buff, Decker thinks. Full to the brim and caked in the dregs of his own cardboard box. But he’s all we’ve got. And it’s show time. “Alright, Kingston, this is the case,” Decker says. “Can you see it?” He angles the video phone slightly.
Just one fuzzy glance at the case and Kington is intrigued. Being an expert, a collector, a security specialist, his face glows like a greedy Golem. “Of course,” he says, “that’s a collector’s item. Where’d you find it?”
“I got it from a terrorist,” Decker says, suddenly out of patience with this piss pig. “Now, can you get in or not?”
“Ah, I think I can do it,” Kington says, “because I’m the master of codes.”
And the president’s chubby fingers wiggle in nervous anticipation. “See, that’s why I called in Special Agent Kingston,” he says, looking up to Decker, “because he, he is the master.”
This makes Kington’s smirk stink even louder. “Yeah, right—”
“Well, Kingston,” Decker says, interrupting this crony pool party, “can you tell us the code?”
“It’s a lot of work, but, uh, I’m the right man for the job.”
“Goddammit, Kingston,” Decker says, cold fury raging, “can you get in the case or not? What are the numbers?!”
“I knew this question was coming,” Kington says, still gauging the price of the case, the make and heft. “Um, it’s tough,” he says. “There’s just so many of them.”
“You incompetent fool,” Decker says. “I need you to give me the numbers to get in this case. What are they?!”
Kington looks down, fingers engrossed in some top secret device. “This is a internal coding system, so the way to do these codes is to—”
“Damnit,” Decker says, “we don’t have time! Tell me what to do! You gotta help us get open this code!”
“That’s something I’m working on right now and—” Kington says. Stress pounds the room. His slowness unfurls like an endless roll of dismay.
“Oh shit…” President Davidson says, hangs his head.
And even Decker’s hands tremble with the possibility of a national emergency. “Should I turn it to the right?” he says.
Kington shrugs. “Sure, it’s worth a shot.”
“You motherf***er,” Decker yells. “Get me the code! I need you to get these codes open! Are you man enough?“
Kington’s nimble hands bob like puppets below the video phone monitor. “Still plugging away at it,” he says. “We’re getting there. Uh, it should be pretty soon—it takes a lot of work to get these things right, but, uh, it’s worth the effort.”
“Gimme the code, Kingston!“
“Okay,” sure,” Kington says, calm like a stick of nickel candy.
“What are the numbers?!”
And Kington smirks, says, “Five.”
Decker’s fingers go to work on the case. He carefully clicks the leftmost number to five. “I’ve accessed five,” he says. Sweat beads on his brow.
And Kington bags the second number. “Five,” he says. “This is a brilliant system—”
Decker clicks the middle number in place. “And what’s the last one?!” Decker says.
“Five,” Kington says, eyes focused on that device he’s using to crack this code.
Decker snaps the final number to five just as President Davidson’s knuckles turn white. “Let’s see if this works,” Decker says. “Here we go, I’m trying it, Kingston. Your job’s on the line.”
“Okay,” Kington shrugs.
And we hone in on the heat, the sharp pain, the potential misfire that might explode the entire country if this code is not correct. Decker grips the latch. Snap. He knows it’s time. Snap. There is no going back and if this is it, if this is the last hurrah, at least he died trying to protect his country from invasion. And with those two latches unsnapped, he flips open the case.
And the world does not end.
And bombs do not drop from the sky.
And he’s still alive.
“We accessed it,” Decker says, a warm stream of relief washing over him.
“I’m really proud of this—” Kington says, grinning proud.
“Great work, Kingston,” the president says. “You really are the master.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
But trouble mounts. And terror is yet to come. “Ahhhhhhhh,” Decker growls. “These plans are worse than I thought.”
“Damnit, Decker,” the president says. “What the hell are we gonna do?”
Decker breathes out like a dragon, releases a burst of demon breath inside him. He didn’t expect to see what he just saw in the case. No man could imagine it would be this terrifying, this devastating, this unreasonably savage and cruel.
For the first time in his life, Decker is speechless.
And afraid.
To Be Continued…
Decker: Episode Three (An Adaptation)
If you’ve read my adaptations of Decker episodes one and two, you know that things are heating up, boiling over and about to burst. Today, I present my adaptation of episode three. It’s a suspense-driven cliffhanger. Like Decker himself, it hits hard and packs an American punch. So, strap in and enjoy. You can support Decker by showing @timheidecker some Twitter love, as well as the great @greggturkington, whose acting is a real treat in this episode. Thank you and Happy Decker Day, everyone.
DECKER: EPISODE THREE (AN ADAPTATION)
President Davidson’s beady eyes dart left and right like a stuck pig as the cold steel of Decker’s gun nuzzles the side of his head. It’s now or never. He knows Decker’s unhinged enough to pull the trigger, spray presidential brain-syrup all over the desk. But letting Decker share communications with a top secret agent could cause political ramifications from here to Swallow Valley.
“The choice is yours, Mr. President,” Decker says, ready to roar. “Do you want your skull and brains and blood splattered all over your desk or are you going to pick up that video phone and call CIA and get me your best code breaker?”
And this is it. The president feels death well up in his belly. His estranged wife. Delinquent kids. His legacy as a leader. All gone to scrim. It must be done. “Fine,” he says, giving in to the heat. He reaches for his secure video phone, boots it up.
“That’s what I thought,” Decker says.
The president’s cheeks twitch, eyes widen with relief. And his fingers stab at the video phone’s keypad. It’s camera scans the president’s face, lasers those beady retinas, and loads to completion.
“Welcome, President Davidson,” the video phone’s female voice says.
“Uh, give me Special Agent Kington, on the screen.”
Decker lowers his guard, leans in. He’s already soaked up the president’s password, studied the intricacies of this so-called “secure” device. But Decker’s strategic peeking halts when he gets a glimpse of Special Agent Kington—”smells more like a Kingston to me,” Decker thinks. He assumes these so-called “special” goons are assigned fake names to protect their identities. But this guy takes the cake and pisses mud all over it: a goofball Hobbit, greasy comb-over in a suit, and that classic CIA why-are-you-so-smiley-buddy-boy of a guest grin. Decker’s seen it a thousand times. And he doesn’t like it.
“Uh, Decker,” the president says. “This is Special Agent Kington, Special Agent CIA.”
“Hey guys,” Kington says, a certain lift in his voice as if hosting a television show and not dealing with an imminent threat to the American people.
“Special Agent Kingston,” Decker says, “you come very highly recommended.”
“I’m sort of a specialist,” Kington says, cocky grin on his face.
Decker doesn’t buy it. “We have some documents here we need you to review immediately.”
“Sure,” Kington says.” And what are the—”
“Well, we can’t review anything until we break into this case,” Decker says. “We need help breaking into a three-digit code. Are you up for the job?”
“Interesting,” Kington says. “Alright, let me think about it.”
And this snarky lag dumps Decker over the edge. It’s always these Hollywood Bond wannabes who think the world’s gotta bow to their agenda whenever they want to piss in the popcorn. Have they no sense of the mass of this situation, of the rotten violence that could explode like a barrel of chicken shrimp? “There is nothing to think about, Kington!” Decker says. “We need you to crack this three-digit code as soon as possible, otherwise the whole country is gonna be in problems—can you do the job or not?”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Kington says, oblivious. “I mean, that’s my area of expertise.”
Get a load of this buff, Decker thinks. Full to the brim and caked in the dregs of his own cardboard box. But he’s all we’ve got. And it’s show time. “Alright, Kingston, this is the case,” Decker says. “Can you see it?” He angles the video phone slightly.
Just one fuzzy glance at the case and Kington is intrigued. Being an expert, a collector, a security specialist, his face glows like a greedy Golem. “Of course,” he says, “that’s a collector’s item. Where’d you find it?”
“I got it from a terrorist,” Decker says, suddenly out of patience with this piss pig. “Now, can you get in or not?”
“Ah, I think I can do it,” Kington says, “because I’m the master of codes.”
And the president’s chubby fingers wiggle in nervous anticipation. “See, that’s why I called in Special Agent Kingston,” he says, looking up to Decker, “because he, he is the master.”
This makes Kington’s smirk stink even louder. “Yeah, right—”
“Well, Kingston,” Decker says, interrupting this crony pool party, “can you tell us the code?”
“It’s a lot of work, but, uh, I’m the right man for the job.”
“Goddammit, Kingston,” Decker says, cold fury raging, “can you get in the case or not? What are the numbers?!”
“I knew this question was coming,” Kington says, still gauging the price of the case, the make and heft. “Um, it’s tough,” he says. “There’s just so many of them.”
“You incompetent fool,” Decker says. “I need you to give me the numbers to get in this case. What are they?!”
Kington looks down, fingers engrossed in some top secret device. “This is a internal coding system, so the way to do these codes is to—”
“Damnit,” Decker says, “we don’t have time! Tell me what to do! You gotta help us get open this code!”
“That’s something I’m working on right now and—” Kington says. Stress pounds the room. His slowness unfurls like an endless roll of dismay.
“Oh shit…” President Davidson says, hangs his head.
And even Decker’s hands tremble with the possibility of a national emergency. “Should I turn it to the right?” he says.
Kington shrugs. “Sure, it’s worth a shot.”
“You motherf***er,” Decker yells. “Get me the code! I need you to get these codes open! Are you man enough?“
Kington’s nimble hands bob like puppets below the video phone monitor. “Still plugging away at it,” he says. “We’re getting there. Uh, it should be pretty soon—it takes a lot of work to get these things right, but, uh, it’s worth the effort.”
“Gimme the code, Kingston!“
“Okay,” sure,” Kington says, calm like a stick of nickel candy.
“What are the numbers?!”
And Kington smirks, says, “Five.”
Decker’s fingers go to work on the case. He carefully clicks the leftmost number to five. “I’ve accessed five,” he says. Sweat beads on his brow.
And Kington bags the second number. “Five,” he says. “This is a brilliant system—”
Decker clicks the middle number in place. “And what’s the last one?!” Decker says.
“Five,” Kington says, eyes focused on that device he’s using to crack this code.
Decker snaps the final number to five just as President Davidson’s knuckles turn white. “Let’s see if this works,” Decker says. “Here we go, I’m trying it, Kingston. Your job’s on the line.”
“Okay,” Kington shrugs.
And we hone in on the heat, the sharp pain, the potential misfire that might explode the entire country if this code is not correct. Decker grips the latch. Snap. He knows it’s time. Snap. There is no going back and if this is it, if this is the last hurrah, at least he died trying to protect his country from invasion. And with those two latches unsnapped, he flips open the case.
And the world does not end.
And bombs do not drop from the sky.
And he’s still alive.
“We accessed it,” Decker says, a warm stream of relief washing over him.
“I’m really proud of this—” Kington says, grinning proud.
“Great work, Kingston,” the president says. “You really are the master.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
But trouble mounts. And terror is yet to come. “Ahhhhhhhh,” Decker growls. “These plans are worse than I thought.”
“Damnit, Decker,” the president says. “What the hell are we gonna do?”
Decker breathes out like a dragon, releases a burst of demon breath inside him. He didn’t expect to see what he just saw in the case. No man could imagine it would be this terrifying, this devastating, this unreasonably savage and cruel.
For the first time in his life, Decker is speechless.
And afraid.
To Be Continued…
August 6, 2014
Three Reads w/ Justin Grimbol
Justin Grimbol and I throw back bottles of chili sauce at a dive outside town called The Bonkness Monster. We’ll be here all night and he calls me “Lula” and I call him “Sailor” and for awhile this place is like a hot tub jailbreak on fire.
He buys me another twelve dollar bottle of tequila, but I exchange it for a half-drunk tub of Tabasco. I’m ripping into this night New Mexico style, just pretend we’re in the desert and the jukebox is a raft. Or a van. “If the jukebox is a party van,” I say, “we should pop a tape in the deck, use flashlights for microphones and see how far we can fly. I’ve seen stars blinking pink, you gotta believe.” But Justin has scuttled his bearded rump onto the dance floor. “No, man,” he says. “We’re Drinking Until Morning.”
He potato-hops, twists, and humbugs for the next hour or five. I pass the time trying to read Gifford. My gut itches, tickles. The sauce is a furnace. “Wait until morning,” he tells me. That’s when the bees sting and the peppers howl. I don’t catch his drift and he spins me out onto that dance floor. It’s packed silly with rumps. We bump chests like bros, like The Bonkness Kids of Instagram. He cannonballs into the middle, gets caught by a group of high schoolers from eighties films. It’s just like he said it was gonna be. And for awhile, we let it flow, keep rewinding the tape. I sit down in the middle of a horde of stomping feet, thunderous grooves and let the world spin hot. It’s that Tabasco. It’s all these words.
Big hands plant my tush on a stool. “Is it morning?” I say, too groggy to sleep, too sleepy to drive. “It’s never morning, friend,” he says. “We’re driving this bus past the horizon, until it crashes dreams to books and poems to paintings.” “Thank you, Reverend,” I say, feeling more Wisconsin than ever–must be the music. And Grimbol’s gone again, but his voice drifts closer than ever like time itself. It fills The Bonkness with a swill of the dog that bites us all, the burden of joy, the party eternal. I let my head sag, my foot tap, and brace my drooling mouth against the Tabasco bottle, and the room spins Grimbol, until morning never comes. And that Grimbolian voice sings old country tunes that keep the place bonking, keep the happiness flowing. And the bartender yanks me up by the hair, tells me sleep is dead wrong and gives me three reasons why that Grimbol is a monster. Here, dear reader, are those three reasons:
“Grimbol’s style is a mixture of youthful nostalgia, X-rated sexcapades with an uncomfortable touch of weirdness, real-life drama, hilarity, and a lot of heart.” —Gabino Iglesias, author of Gutmouth
“Really funny and really trashy. Kind of reminded me of One Crazy Summer with elements of Harmony Korine’s Gummo and 80s junk culture. Also, the author photo in the back might be one of the greatest I’ve seen.” – Andersen Prunty, author of Slag Attack and Morning is Dead
“Ballsy.” – David W. Barbee, author of A Town Called Suckhole
So, I listen and sip, sip and listen, but the best is yet to come. “Hey, Lula,” Grimbol says, but he’s changed. He’s sixteen going on ageless, an open bottle of pure party mania on the dance floor. “I’ll give you three shots,” he says, “to get your booty out here and tear it up like a smokestack,” he says. And on this desert night of the burning gut, I’m one lonely cowboy in dire need of three shots. “Lay ‘em on me,” I say. “Wake me up, soldier.”
And this, is how Justin Grimbol blows the roof off the joint and wakes me up:
PLATTE RIVER, by Rick Bass
There are three short novelettes in this collection. Each reads like a long epilogue. I love that. The stories don’t rely on conflict or excitement, but instead an intense feeling of the grace and grief and all the goofiness that comes out of our souls when we get away from things.
Nature plays a big role in all of Bass’s work. The woods and the creeks in his stories have a lot of personality. But his take on nature is never too sappy or cheesy or hallmarky.
WILD AT HEART, by Barry Gifford
This book has such great dialogue. Gifford’s characters just ramble on and on. One thing I noticed was the confessional nature of the way his people talk. They are constantly telling secrets. People love to come clean. People are rarely blunt or honest really. Still, the need to confess is always there. Good dialogue, both on the page and in real life, should feel like the person’s soul is doing a strip tease. Bad dialogue feels like you’re at the beach and you got too much sand in your asshole.
TWO PROSPECTORS
This book compiles letters written between Sam Shepard and his best friend, Johnny Dark.
It reads like a series of prayers. It reads like dirty notes sneakily handed to you during class. There’s all that sweet bitching that only good old friends can do.
I want to write more letters. But all I got are texts. Sometimes I get pics of my ex girlfriends baby sent to my phone. That baby is gigantic and adorable. Then other text from my best friend, usually involving pictures of naked girlfriends. And sometimes I send dick rhymes to my friend May. Here’s a couple. My dick Directed by Michael Bay. Your dick, needle in the hay. My dick Dances with Kevin Costner. Your dick just an imposter.
—–
By the end of the night, I’m beet red and shimmying up moves I didn’t know I had in me. “Pretty good, Sailor,” I say. “Ready for round two?” “Round two?” he says. “I’m on round twenty-two, baby.” And it’s true. It’s all true. This Party Lord Crud Master has done me up and done me good morning, sunshine. Is it morning? Does it matter? It doesn’t. Are you dancing? I am. Keep dancing. Keep dancing and it never ends, friend. It never ends.
