David Dubrow's Blog, page 30

The Exorcist: S1 E1 Review

It’s impossible not to compare Fox’s The Exorcist TV show to William Peter Blatty’s novel or William Friedkin’s movie at least a little bit, which is a problem; showrunner Jeremy Slater has massive shoes to fill, and the program is going to fall short no matter what. The Exorcist in print and film have simply cast too great a shadow across the horror genre to be redone on any level.

Nevertheless, the show is making a decent run at it. Not great, but decent. Try to look at it on its own merits. Spoilers await below.

Pleasantly, this is not a reboot. A reference to the MacNeils’ travails with Pazuzu decades ago is made clear, so we can consider the show a sequel, of sorts (and not like the execrable Exorcist 2: The Heretic).

As for the cast, everyone did as fine a job as possible, given their material. Alfonso Herrera as Father Tomas was suitably confused, frustrated, and frightened; Ben Daniels as Father Marcus was the proper take-no-prisoners, knows-more-than-he’s-letting-on exorcism veteran; and Geena Davis was aging, uncomfortable, and unhappy as the lady of the house who thinks her daughter may be possessed by a demon. Not a demonic spirit, mind, but a demon. There’s a difference: a garden-variety, non-denominational ghost can be a demonic spirit, but a demon comes from Hell, and must be exorcised by a servant of God. A priest.

What’s lacking in the show are the stakes. We didn’t see enough of the Rance family to care about them, let alone like them. That may come in time, but without seeing something to be outraged by, perpetrated upon this nice, innocent Catholic family, who cares about what happens to them?

We know demons are evil; it’s one of the things that makes them demons. So the flashbacks of Father Marcus trying to save the kid in Mexico and failing don’t quite cut it. They killed a kid. That’s horrible. But so what? And when you consider that Father Marcus was acting against the wishes of the Vatican in his exorcism technique, it can be reasonably implied that the kid’s death was, in part, his fault. Are the writers going to go anywhere with that?

I liked Marcus’s references to “they” when talking about the demons; there’s an implication of a broader plot, which would up the stakes and make us care some more. The effects were creepy when necessary, and there’s a general sense of dread throughout.

This is a program I really want to like, so I’m hoping it gets better in subsequent episodes. The start is flawed but promising. Bring us more darkness, more horror, more pathos. Make us feel something.

Book Review: A Father’s Choice: A Memoir of Love, Loss and Hope

Anthony Perry’s A Father’s Choice: A Memoir of Love, Loss and Hope is brief, but shines a brilliant spotlight onto an important and timely issue. The narrative describes more of the lead-up than the aftermath, providing an emphasis on healing over recrimination. Third-wave feminism’s domination of the issue typically shunts stories like Perry’s off to the side, which makes this an important book.

Abortion doesn’t just affect the woman undergoing the procedure (let alone the baby being killed), but also the baby’s father, who is often considered irrelevant to the mother’s decision-making process. Even if he desperately wants to keep the baby, as Perry makes clear, the prevailing narrative is that abortion is the mother’s choice, and the mother’s choice only. There’s a terrible, powerless inevitability to Perry’s memoir that makes this a difficult read, but not difficult enough. Between the pointless fight scene in the last third and the strange non-reaction to Jenny’s horrible admission, the impact is somewhat muffled, putting distance between the reader and the events.

Whether you’re pro-life or pro-choice, you owe it to yourself to read this book. Too often we read about fatherless homes and deadbeat dads; here’s a grim story of fatherhood denied.

(I’ve written about turning from pro-choice to pro-life here.)

Back to School Sale: A Post-Mortem

Overall, my Armageddon Back to School Sale met my modest sales goals, so I can’t complain. It didn’t do as well as my earlier giveaway, but the reasons are clear:

Despite the concept of perceived value, where people expect to pay more for things that they consider of higher quality, readers will almost always download a free book, given the opportunity. The risk and effort are amazingly low: just a few clicks and you’ve got a book. Most people who download free books rarely read them; they download them just to have them. A person who buys something typically intends to do something with it. So it’s kind of an apples-to-oranges comparison anyway.
In addition to Ereader News Today, I advertised the sale with a few less well-known book marketing services. The smaller services didn’t perform and I won’t use them again. The most success I’ve had was with Book Barbarian (reserve your spot way in advance), Ereader News Today, and Books Butterfly. I was rejected for BookBub again, but that’s okay: I kind of expected it. I’ll get there eventually.

Because money’s changed hands, I won’t give away sales figures here; I’m old fashioned like that. I will say that I sold more of The Nephilim and the False Prophet when I gave away The Blessed Man and the Witch than I did just offering each book for $0.99. So 1st Book Free + 2nd Book Regular Price was greater than 1st Book Cheap + 2nd Book Cheap.

My friends, colleagues, and associates on social media were very kind in Retweeting, Sharing, and Liking my book sale post. Thanks very much to Holly Evans and Jason Berry, who’ve always been very supportive (even if they don’t like all of my stuff!).

Special thanks to Chris Barnes, the owner and publisher of The Slaughtered Bird, who was kind enough to spread the word about the sale.

Thanks also to fellow authors R.M. Huffman, Ross Greenwood, Gerri Bowen, Israel Finn, Olivia Stanton, Isaac Thorne, and Iain Rob Wright for their Retweets.

And, last but not least, thanks to John’s Horror Corner, Chris (Movie Corner), Damnation Ave, Kreepazoid Kelly, Indie Undead!, Dave B, Hardcore Horror, and Horror by Proxy. It may be just a click of the mouse to you, but it means a lot to me.

If I’ve forgotten anyone, you have my deepest apologies. This includes my Facebook friends who were likely most kind and spread the word on Zuckerberg’s Social Experiment.

Armageddon Back to School Sale!

For many of us, going back to school after a long summer vacation seems like the end of the world. Whether you feel that way or not, you can at least get in a good, inexpensive read to ease the pain with my Armageddon Back to School Sale!

From Friday, September 16 through Sunday, September 18, my novels The Blessed Man and the Witch and its sequel The Nephilim and the False Prophet are on sale for $0.99 each! That’s only $1.98 for an occult horror series that has been called a “dystopian roller coaster,” “a story that could VERY WELL and truly can happen at any given moment,” and “Written in such a way that you get a very vivid and intricate picture in your head of the locations and the beings in them.”

Get your copies today – supplies are running out!

The Nephilim and the False Prophet: An Excerpt

What follows is an excerpt from the second book in my Armageddon series, The Nephilim and the False Prophet. You won’t find it in the Look Inside feature of the Amazon product page; this chapter is from later in the novel, when Bill learns the price of denial. If you haven’t read the first book in the Armageddon series, The Blessed Man and the Witch yet, you may want to hold off on reading this.

 

Chapter 15: Bill — Teamwork

     The latest in the longest string of baseless lawsuits ever brought to a courtroom by the hardest-working ambulance chaser in Los Angeles has been put on hold by a judge yesterday in L.A. County’s Superior Court of California. The butt of all the worst lawyer jokes you’ve ever heard, George Smolla, is suing every company that has ever used the Happy Guy logo on any piece of clothing, artwork, or other paraphernalia, digital or physical. His client claims to have drawn the symbol ten years ago in her basement, which makes it an open-and-shit case (no, that’s not a typo). It’s pretty much impossible to find a place that doesn’t have the Happy Guy splattered somewhere, so basically he’s suing the entire world. If Smolla can get a settlement on a nuisance case from someone with deep pockets, more power to him…

    You’ve Been Oversued Blog, 10/02/2016

“Come on, grandma. At least drive the speed limit,” Bill muttered. All he could see through the rear windshield of the car ahead were knuckles on the steering wheel and fluffy white hair peeking above the headrest.

What is it about COEXIST bumper stickers that make people think they can drive like assholes? Figures it’s not a Happy Guy sticker. Grandma here doesn’t qualify—

His phone rattled in the center console.

“Hey, Mo,” he answered.

“How’s it going? You still at the office?” Maureen asked.

Bill had to slow down even more when the old lady started riding the brake. “On my way home. Just gotta get gas.”

“Okay, cool. How’d it go today?”

With a humorless chuckle he said, “Great. None of the fumblefucks shot themselves or anyone else, so we’re playing with house money. Most of ‘em didn’t really hit the target either, but Homeland Security’s not about accuracy. Just there to get the participation certificate, and then right back to sniffing panties at bus stops on the government tit. Another standard work day.”

A brief pause. “I guess I’m glad I didn’t put the phone on speaker,” Maureen said dryly. “Jonah’d learn all sorts of new words.”

“How’s my little man doing?”

“Good. He’s had a good pain day, actually.”

Nodding, Bill said, “Good deal.” Fucking stigmata. Thanks for that, Heck. Thanks, Blessed Man, wherever you are. “I’ll try to be home by his bedtime. He watching Doc McStuffins?”

Maureen snorted into the phone. “What else? He wants to see the Nice Man.”

“Still fixated on that, huh.”

“Well…” Maureen said, drawing the word out, “I think he sees the dad as a TV version of you. Sort of.”

Putting a smile into his voice, Bill replied, “Kind of a stretch, seeing that I’m an old white man and Doc’s dad is a black guy, but sure, I can see that.”

“Maybe he misses Tim, then.”

He’s not the only one. Thanks for that too, Heck. “Could be,” he said, took a deep breath to settle himself, and added, “Anyway, I’ll be home in a few minutes. If the world don’t end before I get there.”

“Har de har har. See you soon.”

“Yup. Bye.” He hung up and hit the turn signal when he saw the green 7-11 sign. Even though they irritated her, his end-of-the-world jokes had become habitual since the Occupy Riots. She still believes in that Armageddon crap, even though it was all bullshit. The world’s still turning. A little more fucked up, but still—

Ahead, the old lady abruptly slowed to turn into the 7-11, making him stomp on the brakes. “Jesus Christ, grandma,” he growled, coasting to the pumps across the lot.

Thumbing through his wallet required a gut check. Got about a grand on the Amex, so that’s no good…fuck it. Citibank it is. It took several swipes with the card at the pump’s payment kiosk to get it to work, which didn’t improve his mood. We can at least still make the vig on this one, if nothing else. He jammed the nozzle into his F-150’s gas tank harder than necessary and locked the handle in the on position. From training black ops to babysitting Homeland Security pukes. How the mighty have fallen.

Lidske was behind it. The contracts dried up ever since Bill had divested Solution 39 from every Lidske-owned company he did business with. They didn’t have to hack us again: all they did was piss in every potential client’s ear. Now we’re not much more than a gun hobby subsidized by my big brother.

As the gas clicked off, someone approached from the side of the building by the trash cans. Young, dirty jeans, UNLV hoodie, tennis shoes beat to shit. Twitchy as all get out.

Meth heads. They’re everywhere, like roaches.

Before the meth head could get within arm’s reach, Bill lifted his head and said, louder than he had to, “What’s up?”

“Hey, sir. Excuse me, sir,” the meth head said, stopping. He shuffled his feet like he had to take a piss. “Could I borrow a few bucks until payday?”

Bill looked around to make sure no one was behind him. The old lady was still trying to figure out the credit card reader at the next set of pumps and a goateed man in a suit had just left the store with a handful of scratch-offs.

“Nah, man,” Bill said. “Hit up the suit over there. He’s flush.”

The meth head put his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Just a buck, sir. Whatever you got.” The constant movement at the corner of his mouth made it look like he was trying to smile.

Just won’t take no for an answer. Bill lifted his shirt enough to show the butt of the Glock in his hip holster. Resting a hand on it, he said, “Fuck off. Now, bud.”

“Hey, sir, it’s okay, sir. Sorry, sir,” the meth head said, but didn’t back away and didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.

In his mind Bill had already drawn his gun and told the guy to get on the ground, but the instant his grip tightened on the handle someone wrapped an arm around his throat.

What the—

It was the old lady. Breath cut off, he slammed the back of his head into her face. Her only reaction was to hiss hot spit into his ear and grab his wrist, keeping him from bringing his gun to bear. As his left hand dropped to unclip his folding knife, pain exploded in his belly.

“Just a buck, sir,” the meth head said, pulling a screwdriver out of Bill’s gut. “Just a buck.” He stabbed again. And again.

He tried to double over, protect himself, but the old lady held him upright. The bloody vomit that gushed from his perforated stomach couldn’t make it past the forearm crushing his throat. Darkness bled into his vision.

“Just. A. Buck.” Each syllable was punctuated by a thrust of the meth head’s screwdriver. “Sir.” The last one went under his sternum, plunging upward.

Agony kept his free hand from working. He couldn’t even scream.

The meth head pulled the screwdriver out of his chest. “Sorry, sir.” A gout of blood splashed his grinning, twitching face.

The old lady let him go but he didn’t feel it. Not when he fell face-first into the blacktop, not when they doused him with gasoline. He smelled it, but it happened to someone else. Even the pain in his chest and gut had faded.

Bending to look him in the eye, the old lady said, “We’re going to get your wife, Billy. And your little boy. Going to rape them both to death.” Her seamed face brightened in a terrible smile. “I want you to think about that in Hell.”

Bill would have spat defiance, but his last attempt to speak was cut off by the roar of the flames as she set him on fire.

(Copyright 2016 David Dubrow)

The Blessed Man and the Witch: An Excerpt

What follows is an excerpt of the first book in my Armageddon series, The Blessed Man and the Witch. You won’t find it in Amazon’s Look Inside feature on the product page; this chapter is from the middle of the novel, where Diego gets a closer look at his employers, though at a distance.

Chapter 25: Diego – Theater

     Cain spoke to Abel in the field, and when they were alone in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel and slew him with a club fashioned from a cypress tree.

     Then the Lord said unto Cain, “Where is Abel thy brother?”

     Cain said, “I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?”

     And the Lord said, “What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood doth cry to me from the earth. And now thou art cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thine own hand.”

     (Genesis 4:8-11—The Holy Bible, New Kingdom Version)

 

Diego rocked back and forth on the bus seat with his hands between his legs, biting his lip bloody to keep from screaming. That bitch! That fucking bitch! He punched the air five times before he could stop himself. This was the last bus of the night and if he got kicked off he wouldn’t make it back to Boulder on time. The only other passenger was an old lady who sat in the front as far away from him as you could get and not be hanging out the window. Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em try to kick me off this piece of shit bus. And if Gerald leaves without me, then fuck Occupy, too. FUCK YOU ALL. He might have said that last part aloud, but he wasn’t sure.

A terrible, sick pain throbbed from his taint to his bladder as though someone had kicked him in the nuts over and over again. He was afraid to see what it looked like down there. She must know some kind of women’s empowerment kung fu or something. That PMSing cunt! Hearing himself hissing curses out loud, he bit his lip again to stop it. The fucking driver kept looking in the mirror at him and had sniffed audibly when he’d gotten on board. Shithead’s obviously looking for an excuse to kick me off. Thinks I’m high or drunk or something. Judgmental cocksucker.

It took him several seconds to notice that the bus was already a block past his stop. Taking his hands from his groin, he yanked on the red wire and yelled, “Stop, STOP!” After hopping off he flipped the departing bus both birds. “Fuck YOU!” The Occupy camp was two blocks away. You know, fuck this whole road trip secret mission bullshit. Fuck it. FUCK. IT. Micah with his little flag pin and twitchy-ass Gerald can both eat shit and die.

He was stomping over to Micah’s tent to tell him that when he saw Gerald sitting in front of it on that orange milk crate of his, smoking something in a glass pipe. The butane lighter he used to keep it hot flicked off, and at Diego’s approach he proffered the tube with a quivering hand.

The bitter, plastic odor of the smoke told Diego it was meth. He took the pipe, drew in the smoke, held it for a medium-slow three-count, and let it out. If you held it too long it fucked up your lungs and made you cough. If you didn’t hold it long enough you were wasting it. As he handed it back the pain in his crotch lessened. “Uh, thanks, man.”

Gerald shook his head and held out the lighter. “It’s yours. Feeling better now? You were looking a bit…peaked.”

The constant facial tics made Gerald’s expression almost impossible to read, so Diego just nodded and accepted the lighter. “Yeah. I do, a bit.”

“Good.” Gerald nodded in the direction of Walnut St. “Time to go. You’re driving. Anything here you want to bring with?”

Diego considered going to the tent he shared with the endlessly-coughing Hanlon and grabbing his duffel, but shook his head instead. “Nah. Just this,” he said, lifting the pipe. Fuck it. A new start. I can always find what I need on the way.

Chuckling, Gerald led the way to a white Chevy Tahoe. “It’s a hybrid,” he told him. “Good for the environment.”

The keys were already in the ignition. Diego burned off the last of the meth, put the pipe in the center console, and started the car. “Where to?”

“East. Go east, young man. We’re going to Kansas.”

 

It was a relief to stop for gas, even if it was in some shithole calling itself Russell, Kansas. For the last five hours all Diego had done was drive in the dark, and Gerald was a terrible conversationalist. He had just sat there watching his iPad and giggling to himself. A few hours ago Diego had made the mistake of asking him what he was watching, and Gerald’s response was to turn the screen in his direction. It showed a red-haired man in an orange prison jumpsuit getting his head sawed off by men in army fatigues and checkered headscarves. Behind them was a big red and black flag with green writing in Arabic. Gerald had taken the headphones out of his grimy ears and proffered them, but Diego shook his head and returned his attention to the road. It was horrible, but the guy probably deserved it. Payback for America’s military machine illegally invading Muslim countries. What else were the Arabs supposed to do, just sit back and take it?

At the Westside Propane and Convenience filling station Diego tried to squeeze out some more fuel past the $60.00 he’d paid for, but the pump shut off. Greedy assholes. Sixty bucks doesn’t get you much of anything these days. Here I am trying to save the fucking country from ultracapitalist douchebags and I get nickled and dimed by Ma and Pa Kettle in West Fuckberg, Kansas. Getting back in the car, he asked, “How much longer?”

“Another hour. Keep going. We’re on a tight schedule,” Gerald replied without looking up.

During the rest of the drive Gerald would give strangely specific directions like, “Turn right here and wait twelve seconds at the stop sign, then make a sharp left,” or “go past the fifth house, yes, that one, and stop, no no, go right, no not like that, go faster.” Sometimes he would just grunt and point. He’s like some fucked up GPS that gets its directions from a mental ward, Diego thought after the third U-turn Gerald made them do in a row, but they finally reached a destination, of sorts: the rear parking lot of an abandoned Wal-Mart. The only other car in the lot was a maroon minivan running with its lights off.

“Stop here. Here! Keep the lights on. Keep it running. No, not the brights. Good,” Gerald said, and got out of the car.

Diego stepped out to see two men in black BDUs opening the minivan’s side door. With their watch caps and gloves, the only identifying features they had were their large size and the pale, wrinkled skin of their faces. Their jerky, too-quick movements gave him the creeps.

Gerald moved to a spot illuminated by the Tahoe’s headlights and said, “Bring them over here.”

The bigger of the two men dragged a teenage boy, gagged and tied with plastic cuffs, out of the van toward the waiting Gerald. His colleague followed, pulling out a similarly bound woman who looked like she could be the kid’s mom. Both captives were moaning through their gags, and both had tear-streaked faces.

“Strip the woman,” Gerald commanded, and the kid’s mom uttered a muffled scream.

What the fuck is this? Diego moved over to Gerald and asked, “What’s this shit? I thought you were like a recruiter or something.”

Stepping out of the headlights’ glare, Gerald motioned for Diego to follow him, and in a sickened, outraged voice, said, “These…people are wealthy takers. Thieves. They consume and consume and leave nothing for us, the 99%. All they do is produce waste, burn fossil fuels in cars they don’t need, and stick it to working men like us day in and day out.” At Diego’s dubious look back at them, Gerald put a hand on his shoulder. “They pay us shit wages, take the lion’s share, and expect us to thank them for the scraps they leave. They’re the 1% who piss on us, Diego.”

“I guess, but…” He tried to meet Gerald’s gaze, but it was too dark to see anything except the twitching of his face.

“They’re hypocrites and racists,” Gerald continued, and spat on the ground. “Denying a woman’s right to choose, keeping anyone who isn’t lily-white shackled to the chains of economic inequality, rigging the game so the rules don’t apply to them. It’s people like them who make owning a farm and living a simple life with the woman you love impossible through pollution and pesticides. They work for Monsanto, Diego. She’s the CEO. The fucking queen of GMO poisons. And her piece of shit husband is a Republican congressman.”

Gerald’s anger was infectious, and Diego found himself getting madder. If Micah was right and this is a war, then they’re the enemy.

“They’re the enemy, yes,” Gerald said. “But they can be saved. They can be…deprogrammed.” He nodded. “Yes. How else is it that they can’t see what’s so obvious to anyone with a working brain? It’s because they’ve been brainwashed. Brainwashed into thinking that their stolen wealth belongs to them rather than the people. My job as a recruiter is to break their programming and free their minds so they can see what the world is truly about.” Taking his hand off of Diego’s shoulder, he added, “So they can be saved. The capitalist programming can be erased from their brains. But it requires hard work and…some theater. Call it…special effects.”

Diego felt bad that he had gotten so mad at them a moment ago. It’s not their fault. “So what…what do we do to help them?”

Gerald’s answering smile was riddled with tics. “You’re right. It’s not their fault. They just need our help. I’ll need you to step back so we can begin. It’ll look a little weird, but breaking someone’s programming is never pretty.”

Nodding, Diego went back to lean against the car. Gerald strolled over to the men who were standing over the now-naked woman and the teenager. There was an exchange of words that Diego couldn’t hear, and Gerald grabbed the bigger man by his shirtfront and shrieked into his face, “What? What? WHAT? They didn’t get the blessedfuckingman’s wife? Why…FUCKING…NOT?”

The remainder of the conversation resulted in Gerald shoving the man sprawling onto the asphalt. “Well, I guess it’s just going to be all on her, then,” he said, pointing to the woman. “Until we get the wife and have some fun with her. And we’d better get the wife.” Kicking the kid in rage so that he and his mom started trying to scream again, he shouted, “Fuck fuck fucking amateur fucks! You! Give me your knife!” The other man handed over a military-style combat knife and stepped back to be with his colleague, who was only just starting to get to his feet.

Diego had to admit: the special effects were damned good. The way Gerald seemed to stick the knife into the kid’s belly and cut upward was really convincing, and the kid’s play-acting was right on point with his curling up and making agonized noises through the gag. With all her screaming and struggling it was clear that the woman bought the whole act. Hell, you’d think she was the one getting stabbed. The brightness of the spurting blood kind of detracted from the realism, but then Gerald started pulling out lengths of intestine, slicing them up, and painting weird symbols on the blacktop with the blood and other fluids. That was really gross. Out came the liver to be used as a paintbrush of sorts, and then some smaller pieces, and while the kid stopped hollering after a while, his mom screamed as loud as her taped mouth would let her.

A few minutes later she was surrounded by a glistening circle of hieroglyphs, pictograms, and what looked like Russian letters or something written in fake blood and sheep guts. She stopped her muffled screaming when the guys in black dragged the emptied “corpse” of the kid into the darkness. In fact, she stopped doing much of anything and just lay there with staring eyes, breathing.

The part Diego really didn’t like was Gerald dropping his pants and taking a big shit on the ground. Is that necessary? He did say it would get weird, but still. Spasming, Gerald made guttural dog-like noises and picked up the shit, painting more of the same symbols on the woman’s body with it. Diego had to look away when Gerald ripped the gag away and stuffed the remaining shit into her mouth. That’s…that’s over the top. This better work. I hope it works.

Chancing another look a little while later, he saw Gerald on his stomach next to her in the circle of blood and guts, grinding his forehead into the blacktop and growling words that sounded like Latin. Every once in a while he would bang his head on the ground, making high-pitched shrieks that must have really hurt his throat.

Without warning Diego’s stomach knotted into an icy ball, and he broke out in a cold, greasy sweat. Someone was behind him, someone very horrible and malicious and hateful, and the relief of turning around and finding nobody there was short-lived because the feeling returned tenfold. Turning this way and that, seeing nobody, was terrifying. He knew someone was watching, waiting for the right moment to open a carious mouth full of sharp teeth and bite him. It would start on his softest parts first, like his cheeks and his balls, biting and ripping and tearing. If he screamed it would find him faster, but he had to do something, so he covered his face with one arm and his crotch with the other, but it was right there, right in front of him, and then he just had to scream, he just had to, because his terror needed a voice, a really big fucking voice, so he took in a deep breath—

Mercifully, the feeling stopped. Whoever it was had gone. The shriek building behind his teeth let its way out in a half-whimper, half-groan, and when he opened his eyes again he saw the woman sit up and snap the plastic ties off of her wrists and ankles. Gerald got to his feet as she spat the shit out of her mouth, and they had a short, whispered conversation. At the end of it Gerald strolled back to the Tahoe.

Diego had to move his tongue around the inside of his mouth to find enough saliva to ask, “Did it work?”

“Perfectly,” Gerald replied, beaming through his tics. “She’s with us.”

“What about the kid?”

Gerald peered at him. “The kid? Oh, uh. He’s fine. Never better. Let’s go. We’ve got hours to go before we reach St. Louis.” He opened the passenger door.

Risking one last look at the woman Gerald saved, Diego grimaced. She was putting her clothes back on without washing the shit off her body. And it definitely was shit, not fake. He could smell it from here. Her returning gaze and smile sent him back inside the car and had them on the road in less than a minute.

(Copyright 2014, David Dubrow)

Jews, Mel Gibson, and Hacksaw Ridge

NOTE: My Gentile Encryption Machine (GEM) has been on the fritz lately, with most of the errors occurring, I think, in Display Mode. I believe I’ve gotten it to work. As usual, all Chosen Eyes Only (CEO) material will be separated by double lines (===), with the remainder for public view. Please send a GEM Technician As Soon As Possible (ASAP).

======BEGIN CEO======

I watched my little boy put on his feety pajamas before bed last night. His process is personal to him: he lays them out on the rug in his bedroom, sits down on them, slides his feet into the trouser part, gets his arms into the top part (with some difficulty), and zips them up. He is most careful to keep his nascent wedding tackle from getting caught in the zipper.

He’s five years old.

During this process I asked myself, When do I tell him? When will he be ready for what’s in store?

A week ago we got a Disney Little Golden Book Omnibus hardback from Costco, and we typically read one story from it per night before lights out. Stories from Paw Patrol, Bubble Guppies, Blaze and the Monster Machines. By the end of last night’s story, however, I couldn’t wait any longer. I just had to tell him the truth all Jewish children must learn.

“Sonny boy,” I said, as his big eyes blinked up at me, glassy with fatigue after a long day of kindergarten, “There’s something you need to know. You’re Jewish, son. And before long you’ll go to Hebrew school. There you’ll learn about the acquisition of funds through theft; how to manipulate the inner workings of the news and entertainment industries; and how to destroy this disgusting, Christian culture of American capitalism, turning it into a socialist, egalitarian paradise where you, my son, will be in control…but behind the scenes. You’ll shift foreign policy to always put Israel’s interests before America’s, and you’ll teach college students how horrible America has always been. It’s part of our culture, son. It’s in our blood. My father taught this to me, and his to him, and so on. You were born to skulk in the shadows of history, always manipulating, always undermining. So sleep well. Your mommy and I love you.”

I hope it wasn’t too soon. Please let me know at the next Jew Conclave.

======END CEO======

Mel Gibson’s new movie is titled Hacksaw Ridge. Gibson’s a genius filmmaker, full stop. I loved Bravehart, Apocalypto, The Passion of the Christ. But I’m not going to see Hacksaw Ridge or anything else he does because he’s an anti-Semite. Even though Allison Hope Weiner, a Jewish woman, wrote in 2014 that Mel Gibson deserves a second chance.

Maybe I would give him that second chance in another time, but I’ve grown pretty tired of Jew-haters. On the left there’s the Obama administration and the vast majority of academia with the BDS scumbags and the loathsome Students for Justice in Palestine. On the alt-right you’ve got Trump-worshipers who have nothing better to do all day than make up terms like “oven dodgers” for Jews on social media. They’re small in number but incredibly loud. I’ve hit my limit with anti-Semites in daily life. I’m just not that interested in parsing Mel Gibson’s redemption: how much outreach he’s done with the Jewish community since his drunken tirade, all the money he’s given to Jewish charities, and whatever. Good for him and his nice Jewish friend Allison Hope Weiner for all the nice things he’s done. For my part, once I conceive the desire to punch your teeth out of your head, it’s a feeling that doesn’t go away.

I’m not saying everyone should shun Gibson, or that ostracizing him’s the right thing to do, or you’re morally compromised for going to see Hacksaw Ridge. Do what you what. The way I see it, there are thousands of movie choices out there, so why should I enrich someone who says that me, my kid, my brothers, and my brothers’ kids are responsible for all the wars in the world?

Forget it. It’s not worth it.

And it’s not because Gibson hurt my fee-fees or that I give a damn about anything he says or does outside of filmmaking. I just think it’s foolish to support people who hate me, not to mention a serious breach of taste. I’ve done it before, but I’m not doing it again. Playing footsie with anti-Semites is a stupid game.

Also, isn’t it telling that Gibson cast a Jewish actor to play Desmond Doss, someone who refused to pick up a gun and fight in the service of his country? Yes, I know he was courageous and carried all those soldiers to safety, but there’s still something not-quite kosher about the casting choice (heh).

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See you at the Jew Conclave. Isn’t it fun to pretend to have car payments and mortgages and household budgets when you’re secretly, fabulously rich? It chafes sometimes, but we Jews have got to keep up appearances. Now more than ever. Those campus leftists and alt-right guys, clever scamps that they are, are onto us. They’ll be our downfall if we’re not more careful.

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The Slaughtered Bird Book Review: Tongues

I reviewed the novel Tongues by Sam Joyce for The Slaughtered Bird:

The reader is often required to suspend disbelief throughout the narrative, as much in reaction to character decisions than supernatural occurrences; this, combined with the author’s particular handling of the issues, makes this a somewhat uneven read.

Click to read the entire review!

Judging a Book by Its Cover: Guns

The four principal rules for firearm handling, codified by the late, great Jeff Cooper, are:

All guns are always loaded.
Never point a gun at something you don’t intend to destroy.
Keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target.
Be sure of your target and what’s around and behind it.

I learned these rules early in my professional career and have never forgotten them. I can recite them in my sleep, just like I can do Heaven Six without having to remember the movements. They’re ingrained.

In my years and years of working with firearms experts, I have never seen a single one of them, man or woman, point a gun at the sky except when shooting birds or skeet. Never. It just isn’t done by responsible gun owners. When bullets go up, they have to come down, and you have no control over where those bullets might land. This is why celebratory gunfire is very, very stupid.

For thriller novels, there’s nothing quite like a cover depicting a person holding a gun. You pretty much have to have that, unless you want to show a silhouette of a man and a woman holding hands and running away from a burning city. Where this motif falls down is in pictures like this, this, this, this, and this. It’s a stupid way to hold a handgun, and even people who teach this way of gun-handling acknowledge that it’s far from ideal.

You don’t have to be a firearms expert to write characters with guns. Heck, you don’t even have to be a “Nazi gun nut” like me. But you should learn the basics, which are easily found online. When I see a book cover showing someone pointing a gun at the sky, I know the writer doesn’t have his firearms material wired tight.

Authors, tell your artist to pick a different stock photo. The whole gun pointing up thing has got to go.

The Slaughtered Bird Movie Review: Vampyres (2016)

I reviewed Victor Matellanos’ 2016 remake of the movie Vampyres at The Slaughtered Bird:

There’s nothing deep, thoughtful, or complex about Matellano’s film, nor is there intended to be: it’s a B-movie through and through, and if you watch it with that in mind you’ll find a lot to like.

There are two (well, four to be technical about it) good reasons to watch Vampyres. Can you guess what they might be? Click to read the entire review!