New Beginning 458

Hannah Carpenter had been married 24 years when her husband Denby died in a Peruvian bus plunge. He and Hannah had been vacationing in the Andes, hiking from village to village, getting the local flavor, avoiding the usual tourist spots. The bus was overcrowded, the road was narrow, and the driver was speeding. It was an accident waiting to happen, and it didn’t wait long.

Hannah was devastated, but she pulled herself together. She phoned Denby’s sister and asked her to pass along the bad news to their friends and relatives. She arranged to have Denby’s body flown back to Columbus. She canceled her flight home and caught an earlier one. She even tore the report describing the accident out of a newspaper and put it into her purse.

Home in Columbus, Hannah put the newspaper clipping in her photo album, the same album in which she put the photographs of Denby and the Peruvian peasants and the llamas. The news report read:

Crazed Driver Kills 37 Gringoes, Four Goats and Seven Chickens In Bus Crash

Lima, Peru (Reuters). Gustavo Rebozo made the last wrong turn of his Andes Shuttle Service last Monday as he sped along Cliffside Drive with a pint of Old Crow rotgut whiskey in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Witnesses saw the bus fishtailing wildly and passengers hanging out the windows screaming American vulgarities, no doubt distracting Rebozo from his phone call.

In business news, stock in Denby China International plunged drastically in late trading.

Opening: Evil Editor.....Continuation: Dave F.

Cartoon 9

Caption: BuffySquirrel

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Face-Lift 497

Guess the Plot

On After the Sunset

1. An insider's look at the Hollywood machine and what it does to those on the periphery of the industry, as told by NF14221, a streetlight outside the Chinese Theater.

2. When Maggie Farnsdahl goes to live in a sixties style commune, she finds that Earnie Parnecker is carrying on well after sunset. Can she handle this new life of pot, acid, mushrooms and booty calls?

3. Convinced she has a great title for her masterwork, Cheryl is heartbroken to learn that a crappy Pierce Brosnan movie shares the same name. Undaunted, she tacks on a preposition. Will two simple letters spell the difference between the slushpile and stardom? Also, a talking eraser.

4. When his friend Lazarus is killed, Noah is suspicious. His investigation takes him to Florida where he discovers the Fountain of Youth. Could getting younger bring back the hearing he lost, ending his career as a rock star?

5. Gigi, a devoted soap opera fan, gets more than she bargained for when one lonely Friday night she decides to flip on her TV and see what's . . . On After the Sunset.

6. Forced into a nursing home by his greedy daughter Marcia, Emile Lord isn't about to go gently. If he has to run his financial empire by cell phone from a wheelchair, so be it, and if he has to lose everything to ensure that Marcia doesn't get a dime, so be that, too.


Original Version

Dear Malevolent Manuscript Mauler:

My name is ___________. I found your listing on the AgentQuery website. My novel, On After the Sunset, is an urban fantasy at about 115,000 words.

Rock star Noah McCabe lost his hearing, and along with it, his reason to exist. [Lazy slob. What if Beethoven had cashed in his chips after losing his hearing? There'd have been no Die Hard, no A Clockwork Orange, and none of those movies with the Saint Bernard.] Now, the aging ex-musician holes up in his London flat, the Internet his only connection to the world. Then he [discovers newspapers and magazines and that he can turn on closed captioning on his TV, and then he] finds a suicide note posted on his friend's, Lazarus Brown's, blog.

After several unanswered emails, Noah's concern turns to worry. [He was concerned, but not worried, after his friend left a suicide note?] How do you locate someone you know only over the Internet? [I'm hoping it's impossible, because there are a few guys in Nigeria looking for me.] What he knows about Laz is incidental: he lives in America, he became a recluse when his wife died, he collects old music. [Not bad, he's narrowed it down to six people already.]

Through EBay, Noah finds Echo Capris, an artist who sold a vinyl album to Laz. A former fan of Noah's, Echo agrees to help. The shipping address she has for Lazarus is in Kentucky.

When they arrive at the house, its decrepitation [I think you want decrepitness; decrepitation is something else.] indicates that they are too late. [Of course it's too late. The second the EBay woman came up with the address, he should have had her call the cops in Kentucky. Instead he books a flight from London? Or did he come by ocean liner?] That evening's news confirms it; Laz was killed attempting to rob a bank. The obvious conclusion: suicide by cop. [That's obvious? I would have concluded that he was planning to kill himself because he was broke, and then he realized that suicide wouldn't get him nearly as much money as robbing a bank.]

But Noah refuses to accept this, despite the video footage. Not just despite it, but because of it. It's Laz's eyes. They're too empty: empty of thought, empty of pain, empty of volition. [Don't beat around the bush; if he's a zombie, say so.] Moreover, the bullet wounds have too little blood. Against her better judgment, Echo stays with Noah and listens to his ravings on kidnapping and brainwashing. They rewatch the robbery footage, and she finds herself falling down the rabbit hole with Noah. [How much footage do they have?]

Their investigation leads them to a green-eyed man who is murdered before they can question him. A second murder takes them to Florida, and a third forces them into the Everglades to avoid the police. [A fourth has them jetting to Bermuda, and then it's off to Nigeria with the fifth murder.] [Rarely if ever has one of my query critiques mentioned Nigeria twice when the query itself didn't mention it at all.] [But can I work in a third?] There Echo falls under the thrall of a youth-obsessed harridan, [Have you been using your thesaurus?] LeGar. Tethered by his burgeoning love, Noah follows Echo and LeGar on their search for the Fountain of Youth. [You travel from Kentucky to the Everglades with a woman you met a few days ago, and then she and a woman you met a few minutes ago invite you to join them in searching for the Fountain of Youth . . . and you agree to go with them?]

LeGar defeats the guardians of the Fountain, and as they cower at her feet, [Wait a minute, they've found the Fountain of Youth? And it has guardians? This feels out of the blue. Five and a half paragraphs of what sounds like it could be a mystery or thriller or mainstream fiction, and suddenly LeGar the harridan is defeating the guardians of the Fountain?] Noah is astonished to discover that a seemingly unharmed Lazarus Brown is their leader. [Lazarus is no longer dead? Didn't see that coming.]

He has no time for wonder, however, for LeGar orders Echo to drink. [And she obeys because . . . ?] The pain of reverse aging rips screams from her throat, and even more terrible, the Fountain is mixed with the River Lethe so that each year of recaptured youth is bought with the memories of that lost year. [Even more terrible? Personally, I'll take a few lost memories over pain that rips screams from my throat.]

When Echo opens her eyes, she no longer remembers coming to the Everglades, no longer remembers searching for Laz, [They were searching for Laz? I thought they thought Laz was dead.] and no longer remembers Noah. [Mainly because she's now two years old.]

I have pasted the first two pages of On After the Sunset below my signature. I look forward to hearing from you.

Thank you,


Notes

I don't care how burgeoning my love for someone I recently met is; when she seriously suggests searching for the Fountain of Youth, the red flags go up.

It needs to be more clear what's going on with Laz. What is he? If he's your first supernatural element, get it into the query before we forget it's supposed to be urban fantasy (I'm not convinced it is in any case.) You might even want to mention the Fountain up front, so it doesn't come from nowhere: When Noah McCabe flies to Kentucky to prevent a friend's suicide, he has no idea he's embarking on an adventure that will lead him to the Fountain of Youth. Yes, the actual Fountain of Youth.

It's way too long for a query letter. Limit yourself to ten sentences, unless this is a synopsis. I can't tell whether the novel ends at the Fountain, or whether most of it takes place after they find it, but focus on what's most important and cut what you can do without.

Having a main character who can't hear would seem problematic. Do all the characters write everything down to communicate with him? It's hard enough to convince someone to go look for the Fountain of Youth if he can hear; trying to convince him by playing charades is nearly impossible.

Cartoon 8

Caption: Evil Editor

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New Beginning 457

Girls have it made. They don’t have to worry about what they look like without a shirt on. They’re not expected to get their heads bashed in at football. They can be creative without people questioning their sexuality. They have doors to lock when they pee. They don’t have to deal with big stupid jocks.

“Had enough, queer bait?”

My hair is dripping. The water plinks back into the toilet. At least someone flushed this one recently. ‘Queer bait’. As if Jack would recognize a real queer if one walked up and kissed him.

“Let him go, Jack. We’ll be late for practice.”

Yeah, Jack. Let me go and take your little dick off to the field. Go play your homoerotic games where you pat each other on the ass and pretend it doesn’t mean anything sexual.

“All right, fairy Marcus. More of the same tomorrow.”

Jack’s hand leaves the back of my neck. I wait in case he’s kidding and will shove me down the minute I relax. I wait as the door opens and closes. I wait, but I no longer know what I’m waiting for. Salvation? The answer to my life?

It's quiet now, safe, so I slip out into the corridor, I want to avoid any more attention from these fucktards. I brush back my dripping hair and freeze at footsteps behind me.

"You alright, Principal Ellis?"

"Fine, fine," I mumble, and scuttle back to my office.


Opening: Sarah L......Continuation: Anonymous

Cartoon 7

Caption: Paul Penna

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Cartoon 6

Caption: Pacatrue

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Cartoon 5

Caption: Chumplet

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Evil Psychiatrist

The renowned lecturer, innovative scientist and "Shrink to the Stars" takes a rare opportunity to dole out his advice to those he normally wouldn't give the time of day, all because of his love for humanity and that unpleasant community service sentence.


When I submit entries or comments to writerly blogs run by amusing editorial types, even though many of the readers know my online identity, I still feel compelled to click "anonymous" at the last minute and slink back into the shadows. How do I cure myself of this zero personality disorder?

Anonymous

Every time you submit anonymously, put a dollar into a jar. At the end of the year, send me the money, and I'll put together a big Evil Psychiatrist party. Though you won't be invited (hey, you'd be a real downer), your anonymity will have brought joy to many.


Dear Evil Psych,

It is all about me, isn't it?

Sincerely,

Author of going to be the best damned book ever written, hold on to your wallet, we're going to make millions together and you only criticise my work because you're jealous and not smart enough to understand it and what do you mean it's not believable, I was there, it actually happened, and you just don't understand how important it was but it was an important lesson that I have to share with the world. Actually.

To be frank--and I'm always frank (why, I even go so far as to criticize waiters and hair stylists when their work doesn't meet the high standards a person of my standing has every right to expect from his admirers and servants)--I would have to say--and keep in mind that this is just one man's opinion, albeit one highly influential man who has achieved the greatness for which he was destined, and much sooner than expected; and who enjoys a good cheese danish with French roast coffee--not really.


Deer EP:

Last tim u aksepted kweschins u sed mi spel een wuz bad. Az a rezult I tuk a long wok and fel in 2 a dep depreshin. 4choonitlee, mi oners fownd me and it ternd owt thuh depreshin wuz akchooalee a seenk hol. B cuz I discuvrd it errlee, thuh sit!ee wuz abl 2 fix it b 4 thuh hol naybrrrhud wuz kunsoomd. I wuz a lokul hero and in al thuh payprs. Mi oners evin gav me a treet and sed gud boy! How du u du it Evl Sikiatrist?

Gud Boy in Grrrreenvl

Thousands of lives have been saved, and while I appreciate your giving me the full credit, that's hardly fair. The truth is, it's the city of Greenville that should be giving me the full credit, including the key to the city and a substantial reward.


All I want to do is sleep. What should I do? Is the answer obvious?

You need to dump your husband and take up with a man who won't bug you constantly, and who I know can keep you happy and keep you awake: Mr. Coffee.


Recently I was stood up at the altar; well, a seaweed-covered rock, given that it was to be a beach wedding. I have learned that my fiance was actually seeing three other women at the time. How should I recover from this trauma?

Word on the street is it was you who didn't show up. The good news is, your man has dumped the other three women. The bad news is, he's fallen in love with a cute 27-year-old bakery owner.


I often feel like I should wear a black cape when I'm in public, but I always chicken out at the last second. I've noticed that you used to wear a cape, but now you don't. I've also noticed that you darkened your eyebrows recently and changed your eye color. Also, you now roll your garbage cans to the curb between 6:30PM and 7PM on Monday and Thursday evenings, instead of early Tuesday and Friday mornings like you used to, except last Tuesday when you forgot. Can you offer me some advice on my cape dilemma? Please write back soon! Or just shout the answer out your window. I'm the woman in the blue Ford Taurus. ;)

Indecisive in Your Driveway

HEY LADY!! YOU'RE DRIPPING OIL THERE! I JUST HAD THAT DRIVEWAY PRESSURE WASHED!! COME ON, MOVE IT!!!


Dear Evil Editor:

I am just 18 years old, lithe, nubile and pregnant. I have a rare genetic disorder in my family that crops up every few generations: we bear furry young. I have ultrasonic confirmation that such is the case with my current condition. Even though some might view my offspring as more akin to werewolf (or weredingo -- there's an Austrailian brach) than human, I know that you are not counted among them. Having luked this sight since its inception, (well prior to this conception) I am well aware of your ah, should I say, affection for weres and how! I do not feel that I am prepared to take on the challenges that raising this child might bring and I was wondering if you would be interested in adoption? Please contact me at your earliest convenience, being mindful of the lunar cycle, of course.

Sincerely,

A silent minion

Evil Editor? I think you put your letters in the wrong envelopes, babe. Just my luck, I get this EE clown's weredingo spiel, and he's probably got my tasteful nude pics.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Recently I am having stressed at work. I am the facilitator of a non-profit organizational with the goal of returning to people their money that has been lost or unclaimed for reasons of unknown death. As you can maybe imagine this work requires much correspondence! Some people are cordial in their response, but occasionally such as in recent weeks I have epistolized with very shrewd and tenaciously individuals, hence my increased stressing. I would be most gratefully if you could relate to me some ways to ease the stressing. As time is preciousness, I do not wish to make yours unprofitable. Any advice you can offer to me in this matter I will gladly compensate you handily in advance. Please forward a bank account number to which I may electronically wire payments.

W.K.

Ameribank 024 9837711. No, wait, that's my savings account, and it already has half a million in it. Send it to my checking account: 923349854. That'll be safer.


Dear EP,

I'm scared of my psychiatrist. He looks angry. What should I do?

Scaredy Cat.

Paying your bill on time would be a good start, Mrs. Langton. Yes, I recognized your font. I feel certain you wouldn't want me so upset that I accidentally posted a transcript of our sessions on the Internet, now would you?


So, I'm like in the airport after persuading the bitch at check-in that she can't bump me and reroute me through fucking Manila to get from Atlanta to Austin and those dickwads at security have xrayed my pantyhose and shone a torch up my ass and now I'm trying to get to the gate dodging round those asswipe "business" men in their cheap sports coats and Gap chinos, followed around by Tumi rollalongs like they're training guide dogs or something, and they're weaving along in front of me with a fucking Star Trek communicator sticking out of one lug with a flashing blue strobe that could bring the airplanes off course, and they're saying like "Hello! Hello? Hi! Yes. I'm in the airport. The airport! I'm going to catch a plane. Right. At the airport. Talk to you later," and all I want to do is get on my fucking plane and have a drink and get home sometime before fucking midnight, so, WTF?

I feel for you, man. I can't help you with the airport, but if you want to discuss why you're wearing pantyhose, make an appointment.


Hunter S. Thompson hails from my hometown. (At least he did before he moved out west and ended up killing himself. Maybe it was existential angst that did him in. Maybe it was facing the reality of his declining years. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was neither. I'm not him, so I don't know.)

Well, anyway, it was his hometown first, really, long before it was mine, and he didn't feel all that at home there - any more than I ever did.

He was one of my written-word heroes before the killing himself part of that story happened.

So my question is this - do you think restlessness and disenchantment are, maybe not necessary equipment, but maybe often helpful, in the formation of an author's temperament?

And, is it helpful to have been from a place like Louisville, a city I still think of by its slogan back in the day: "The City of the Seventies"? Because it still works, you know, that slogan. Sloggy, doughy, dead-zone memories of a place that you can only fit in if you’re like everyone else, is what lives there. That's why Hunter didn't much like going back there. Me neither. Because it never changes on purpose.

God, lady, I'm about ready to off myself after that. Where's my fuckin' Prozac? You didn't happen to write Hunter S. Thompson a fan letter about three years ago, did you?


Why am I so neurotically insecure?

You feel no one likes you. For the rest of the week give every stranger you encounter a big hug. It's a good way to uncover people's true feelings and set your mind at ease.


At my last book club meeting, a woman talked about a recent tour of Dubai. Apparently the German tour guide pointed out a Locals house where Western women can have affairs with Emariti men. Apparently this is a secret.

How can I get these women to talk about books at our book club meetings? I'm fed up with doing all this reading for nothing.

The direct approach usually works best:

You: "Ladies, I fantasize as much as any of you about having an affair with an Emariti man, but we're here to discuss the Koran."

Them: "Again? Can't we discuss Novel Deviations for once?"

New Beginning 456

As Sailoil's ship had brought new supplies, Barnabas had gone out to help the hobbits with the heavy lifting. Talpianna was minding the bar, calling out food orders, serving drinks, attempting to register the crowd of unexpected guests, and fuming.

She was angry with Dragonmama and Roland for their carryings-on.

She was angry with Julia, MD for the news that her Inn might be a source for contagion of Boglin's Bane.

She was angry with (and terrified for) Helen for going off on her own.

She was angry with the moles for letting Helen leave.

She was angry with Sailoil for disappearing.

Taking one consideration with another, Talpianna was not having a good day.

Mary-Fitz was helping out, in the interests of public safety as well as out of her naturally kind and practical nature. Stationed within easy grabbing distance of Tal's left wrist, she wondered if she could interest the Mistress of Moles in enrolling in the charm school she had seen advertised on a matchbook cover. She quietly greeted guests and handed out registration forms and keys, which the moles fetched back and forth. Mary-Fitz made a mental note to check the files before she left; the moles had many virtues, but knowledge of the alphabet was not one of them.

Suddenly the door was flung back against the wall of the draught lobby as a late arrival flourished his way in.

A well-groomed weasel with a pointy hat strode into the bar, skipping his way to the ceiling on gasps of "Randolph" transformed by a whoosh of his whiskers into levitating stepping stones.

"I need a dozen moles," he said, "stout and true, to burrow underneath Mordor and save Middle Earth - and I need them fast."

Tal poured herself a stiff tankard of gin, topping it up with Boglin antidote till the pewter began dissolving.

Now she was angry with Randolph, too.

She was angry at him for walking in without wiping his feet.

She was angry at him for not blowing her a kiss.

She was angry at him for destroying her favourite trollflesh chandelier with his hat.

Mary-Fitz ducked under her desk to avoid the stampede of eager moles and violently hurled Wyrmwear crockery.

"What's the big hurry?" Tal asked.

"At the rate Frodo and his team are moving," Randolph replied, "this'll end up running to a trilogy. And it's way past my bedtime already."


Opening: Talpianna.....Continuation: Whirlochre

Cartoon 4

Caption: Blogless_Troll

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Cartoon 3

Caption by Anonymous

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New Beginning 455

Every Friday night Johnny goes to a hotel bar, finds a woman with a cigarette, and asks for a puff. He’s never refused.

His lopsided grin and black curls are not handsome. He wears no watch. Johnny owns one suit which he wears on Fridays. Briefly. Women at this hotel-bar are looking for something raw and unpredictable.

This evening, Johnny takes the newly-lit cigarette from the woman’s hand. He is easily a decade younger. Johnny caresses her older fingers and takes a step closer. “You’re too beautiful for this,” he says, and drops the cigarette to the floor. Its flame rolls around and settles. Johnny crushes its embers in a slow, rhythmic tease. Her eyes are drawn to his feet. She thinks of youthful sayings and smiles. Johnny wears large shoes.

Women like a man with a sense of humor. Johnny knows. He grins. He's always grinning. He asks her to smell the rose in his lapel. She resists. She knows better. He shrugs and turns around.

Johnny's car is at the curb. He points at it through the window and beckons her outside. It's tiny, and a wreck. The doors could fall off at any moment. She shakes her head and makes for the powder room. She can do better than this clown.


Opening: Chris Eldin.....Continuation: Anonymous

Cartoon 2

Caption by Anonymous

Cartoon 1

Caption by Evil Editor.

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Face-Lift 496

Guess the Plot

The Kings of Box River

1. Card shark, William "Box" River, is going for an unprecedented three-peat as national Texas Hold-Em champion. His bombshell competition, Scarlet Vickens, offers a bribe: if he lets her win, he'll get lucky at love and she'll show him a new meaning to the term "all in." But is he willing to fold his hand and give up fame and fortune when he's dealt three kings?

2. The King family have lived and prospered in Box River, Wyoming for eight generations. But now the Russian Mafia has moved in, and they want a piece of the action. A big piece. Can the King family deal will this threat, or will the Otkupshchikovs become the new . . . Kings of Box River?

3. Jules would give his left eye for a drink. Artemis has been his best friend and drinking buddy since they settled in under the Box Creek bridge three years ago. As Artemis degrades into a cancer-induced dementia and ultimately death, will Jules fall deeper into his self-destructive pit, or will a spiritual epiphany set him on a different course?

4. Outside a small snack bar, near where the Alonguin River ducks between the paper mills and becomes "Box River", two old men play chess, as they have for the past seven years. Each day, chancers, crooks and business men stop by and mumble their requests for advice or money. Then, one morning with a cool frost and long shadows, Solomon doesn't show up to finish a game. That's when the violence starts.

5. The McAllisters have dominated the fishing guide trade of Box River for so long even the local Indians can't recall a time when there weren't any McAllisters on the river. But change is coming in the form of the Bassmasters series. Can the McAllisters survive, or is their reign as the Kings of Box River over? Also, an autistic Sioux boy.

6. Box, Oregon, once a bustling community, is a dying town. The mill is closed, and the mine is empty. When a drifter named King comes along, he and Liam Satler struggle to keep their world together in the face of adversity: dried up farmland, Liam's pregnant cousin and delusional father . . . and of course Jeremy, the prehistoric sea monster living in the river.


Original Version

Dear Agent,

I hope you will consider representing my 85,000-word novel, The Kings of Box River.

Box, Oregon, isn't on the way to anywhere else. Its mill has long since closed, its mine shafts grow weeds, and all that remains of its once-bustling frontier community is a handful of ranchers and the persistent legend of a prehistoric sea monster named Jeremy who is rumored to live beneath the surface of the local river.

Only seven-year-old Liam Satler, son of the town's innkeepers, [Apparently, all that's left of the bustling community is a handful of ranchers and some innkeepers. Do the ranchers stay at the inn, or is that just for tourists?] knows that the legend is true. Since the day he accidentally spotted Jeremy from his backyard, he's been determined to protect the creature from the dangerous world around it. Watching out for Jeremy is a welcome distraction from the things in his life that he can't control: his teacher's inability to understand why he's bored and distracted in school, [Could it be because no one will believe him when he says there' a prehistoric sea monster named Jeremy in the river?] his father's determination to grow apple trees in the dry soil of their yard, [Has dad given any consideration to, like, watering the apple trees?] [The well's done dried up, you say? Where can pop get water now? Wait, how about . . . Box River?] the alarming fragility of his pregnant cousin Holly. [In what way is she fragile? Is Liam the one alarmed by it?]

When a young drifter who calls himself King arrives at the inn [Is it Elvis? Look, there are two ways to put Box back on the map: discover a prehistoric sea monster, which will then be captured and taken to an aquarium, at which point Box drops off the map again, or have Elvis move in, in which case Box becomes the center of the paparazzi universe until he dies for real this time. Wait, maybe the sea monster should be Elvis, grown to such gargantuan proportions he's mistaken for a sea monster by anyone who sees him. Imagine an elephant seal with Elvis's head.] and inadvertently comes to share Liam's secret, Liam isn't sure if he can trust him. However, with his parents thinking about sending him away to school, and Jeremy becoming increasingly difficult to watch over, Liam needs all the help he can get. As the young boy and adult runaway struggle to keep their world in order, they are pushed into actions that jeopardize themselves, the people they care about, and the vulnerable creature they protect.

I would be happy to send along the full manuscript at your request. Thank you for your time and consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,


Notes

What's the threat to Jeremy and why are Liam and King and those they care about in jeopardy? There's no one left in town but a handful of ranchers, who are presumably on their ranches most of the time, so what does Jeremy need protection from? Who's the bad guy? We will care more about this if we know what the danger is.

What I meant was, there's no one left in town but a handful of ranchers, the innkeepers, Jeremy and his cousin, Jeremy's parents and teacher, any other students and teachers at the school, Floyd the barber, and Spongebob.

How can Box not be on the way to anywhere else when it's on a river? Don't they have boats?

Is this a book for adults? When does it take place?

Why am I thinking, "Puff the Magic Dragon"?

You're probably thinking it would make your book ridiculous to have Elvis in it, but I guarantee most people thought it was ridiculous anyway, the minute you mentioned the prehistoric sea monster named Jeremy.

Precautions taken

Regarding the post below this one, I have been convinced after reading a comment from Chris that my life may be in danger. Thus I have changed the names of the scammers who've written to me in recent weeks. The first scammer is now Wang Kee, and the second is now David Disko. This required only a letter or two change, but with the most recent post, for reasons that will become obvious once you've read it, I needed the scammer's name to be identical to some well-known Canadian figure skater, and thus have changed his name to Elvis Stojko.

No longer can you Google the scammers' names and find their letters, as claimed in my articles, but that's the price I have to pay for security. At least now they can't Google their own fake names and find Evil Editor's blog and hunt me down.

I'm Rich, Take 3

As those of you who have hacked into Evil Editor's email account are aware, I've received yet another request for assistance in withdrawing money from a foreign bank. Last time this happened, you'll recall I ended up flying to Ghana in hopes of bribing a bank teller into getting me my money. Didn't go well. Turns out the bank tellers in Ghana are heavily armed, and are far more interested--and persuasive--when it comes to deposits than they are with regard to withdrawals. Who knew?

Having been encouraged to let my money in Ghana continue earning interest (along with an additional deposit I couldn't resist making thanks to highly favorable rates of return) I made my way home and this morning found the following email in my in-box:

Your Kind Assistance!!!

Greetings of the day to you, although you may be skeptical receiving this email as we have not met before,I am Mr. Elvis K.W.Stojko(Executive Director and Chief Financial Officer)of the Hang Seng Bank Ltd.,nevertheless I have a business proposition involving the sum of $24,500,000.00 usd in my bank which I know we will be of mutual benefit to both of us, and I believe we can handle together, once we have a common understanding and mutual cooperation in the execution of the modalities. Should you be interested, please forward the following to me:
1.Full names,
2.Occupation,
3.Private phone number,
4.Current residential address.

Via this email address: [address deleted to keep others from trying to beat me to this opportunity.]
Your earliest response to this mail will be highly appreciated.
Elvis Stojko

I was slightly annoyed that Stojko had forced me to look up "modalities," but not so annoyed that I deleted the email. The best thing about computers is that you can cut and paste a word into Dictionary.com and save yourself a walk to the bookshelf and the heavy lifting involved in using the unabridged version.

Eagle-eyed readers will no doubt have noted two major--and agreeable--differences between this correspondence and my previous ones:

1. This one includes no sob story about the original owner of the money and all his living relatives dying in a natural disaster or a freak bobsled accident. I like that. Straight to the point. Let the dead rest in peace; let us get our hands on their money.

2. 24.5 million dollars is nearly twice my highest previous offer. Given that the bank employee always seems to want at least half the money, for just doing his job, and that there's probably a huge tax bill on the interest the money has been earning, an account of a mere three or four million would be worth squat by the time I got my share. But 24.5 million, that's enough, I thought, to make me and Uncle Sam and this Stojko guy happy, especially if I can talk Stojko down to ten percent.

As with my previous correspondents, I took the precaution of Googling the banker's name. There's always the possibility that Googlitivity will reveal a newspaper article about a Hong Kong automobile accident in which your correspondent was killed, and then you're back to square one.

The first six or seven Googlations were all about Elvis Stojko, Canadian figure skater. I had to hope this wasn't my man, as figure skaters are notoriously brutal in financial matters. Who can forget the time a prominent figure skater hired a goon to bash in her opponent's knee with a lead pipe in the conservatory? Also, why do so many violent crimes seem to take place in the conservatory? And what is a conservatory?

Anyway, as I scanned down the Googlations, I came to two links to letters from my same correspondent. These letters, interestingly, were far more detailed than the one I'd received. They told the story of an Iraqi general who'd been making monthly deposits, and whose entire family had been killed in a bomb blast. In one of the letters it was General Bastaan, and in the other it was General Ismael. Understandable. When you're dealing with this kind of money, you don't want to reveal real names.

The only other difference in the letters was that in the more detailed letters, Stojko didn't ask for the recipient's occupation. In mine, he did. Why the decision to add this line to my letter, when he had subtracted so much other information? Then it hit me: if it turned out my occupation was government mail fraud investigator, he was planning to call off the deal. Clever.

I emailed him back offering two grand (it's always best to offer less than you're willing to pay, so they feel like they put one over on you when they talk you up to five or ten grand). I'll keep you informed.

New Beginning 454

My mother used to tell me the year I was born was the coldest she could remember. Inches from my womb, at the foot of the bed, her hot water bottle froze in the night, she said.

I miss her. And I miss those stories.

Sometimes, it feels like she’s watching over me. At first, I thought - why not? I’m her son, after all. But I’m a scientist, now. I should know how I know - should feel - all of this.

I’m half an hour late getting back to Roland, but I can’t let it go.

So: an experiment.

I shut my eyes and I see my unfinished email hovering in the darkness; medication 50mg etc etc; Vista, photo of kids. And now - yes - now I can see my Mother. Easy.

Mother. Vista. Photo. Mother. Yes: that’s what the brain does. 11th birthday, degree ceremony - I can even balance a Christmas tree bauble on the top of her head if I want.

A tap at the door. "Professor?" The bauble becomes a hat. A tea cozy. Got to keep the head warm. Medication, 100mg.

"Professor?"

Of course. Roland's waiting. I am a scientist; it's not an act. I return to the operating theatre. Bone saw. Stem cells.

Don't worry, Mr. Roland. It's a breakthrough. We'll have your brain fixed in no time -- just like mine.

We went bowling sometimes, mother and I. The ball thumps on the lane and rolls toward the tenpins. Everyone gasps! A strike?

"Professor! Oh Jesus! Oh my God! Professor!"

Oh dear. A slip of the saw. How unfortunate.


Opening: Whirlochre.....Continuation:: ril

Face-Lift 495

Guess the Plot

Rods

1. When wealthy members of the elite South Worbeach Country Club start turning up dead with, quite literally, rods up their asses, suspicion turns toward the often verbally abused janitorial staff. Can Manuela find the real killer before her team run out of broom shafts?

2. From Rod Serling to Rod McKuen, Rod Stewart to Hillary Rodham Clinton, and A-Rod to Rod the Roofer, these hot Rods prove again and again just how agile, untiring and imaginative celebrity Rods can be -- especially when thrust into tight circumstances.

3. Two high school dropouts named Rodney, manning the control panel of the local nuclear power plant, decide to hire hookers over the Internet on the facility's control computer. While waiting for the ladies to arrive, they inadvertently cause all the fuel rods in the plant to superheat. Can Candi and Mandi satisfy the Rodneys and still have time to cool down the nuclear fuel rods before the destruction of the entire Earth?

4. At an outpost in the furthest, blackest reaches of the universe, ruling descendants of the original colonists have evolved beyond the need to see. When a visitor crash-lands and resurrects the science of artificial light, will it upset the planet's delicate balance of power?

5. When Chance McCloud goes to California to settle his late brother Jim's estate, he discovers that Jim was working on a top secret project. As he tries to get to the bottom of Jim's death, Chance must seek the aid of the people who have gathered in Jim's front yard, waiting for a big rod-ship in the sky to beam them all up.

6. When last year's winner of the Mississippi Bass Fishing Championships is found dead in his boat with a boning knife in his eye, every fisherman in this year's tournament is a suspect. Fortunately, detective Bo Seldon, an avid fisherman himself, is on the scene. Unfortunately, the murder weapon belonged to Bo, and the other competitors are providing each other with alibis.


Original Version

Dear Evil:

I have recently completed an 85,000 word thriller, titled Rods, set in and around the China Lake Naval Weapons Base in California. [If only because most book buyers are women, this sounds much more promising than the manuscript I received yesterday, titled Tits.] [Try to negotiate some input on the cover art; I have a feeling it's going to make or break you on this one.]

When Navy Engineer Jim McCloud dies in a plane crash, it's the responsibility of his brother Chance to go to California and settle Jim's estate. [You're kidding. It was GTP #5? Even I didn't get it right this time.] When Chance arrives at the naval base where Jim worked, however, Chance finds out that there is a lot more going on than a simple airplane crash. [You got something against pronouns?] [Suddenly I'm getting the horrible feeling someone who won a National Book Award has recommended no more than two pronouns per book. With pronouns, adverbs, adjectives, similes and alliteration eliminated, how long till we can't use nouns and verbs? How long till books contain nothing but prepositions?]

Jim was involved in designing and implementing a program involving rods, the elusive “sky fish” that have become a cause celebre among paranormal researchers. [For those who don't want to look up "sky fish" on Wikipedia, I've done so and will save you the trouble. Some people believe there are creatures that move through the air so fast you can't see them, although a camera can catch a blurred image of them. They're shaped like rods. They've been sighted not only in the air, but also in caves and underwater. I'm not sure if they call underwater rods "sky fish." Possibly they just call them fish.] [The existence of underwater fish has been theorized for some time now.] While many serious scientists regard rods as an artifact of modern photography at best and a hoax at worst, [many quack scientists actually buy into them.] Chance realizes that his brother not only believed in the existence of rods – he had found a way to prove definitively that rods really do exist. [He was planning to catch one with his patented sky-fishing rod.] [Once you call something "definitively proven," it's not necessary to add "really."]

It takes all of Chance's skills as a high-end security specialist to outwit a corrupt Navy captain and find out the truth about his brother's death. Along the way, he is helped by an unlikely group of confederates – a test pilot who considers her job the world's biggest flume ride, a physics junkie who was Jim's biggest fan, and the collection of “rod nuts” that have gathered in Jim's front yard, waiting for that big rod-ship in the sky to beam them all up.

Rods, and the debate about their existence, has been the subject of several television documentaries. [My research shows there have been three such documentaries: The Great Rod Debate: Is Bigger Better?; Is That A Sky-Fish in Your Pocket or are You Just Happy to See Me?; and Buddy, If You Can't Find Anything Better Than This to Watch, You Might Want to Spring For a Dish.] There is also an institute for rods research in Roswell, New Mexico (where else?). [I went to the Institute for Rods Research once. I had a completely wrong idea about what they did there, which led to no small amount of embarrassment when I dropped my pants shortly after entering . . . though I must admit, Miss Dunbar, the receptionist, wasn't complaining.] Rods is a day-after-tomorrow thriller [That's what I used to call Grisham's books. I'd keep asking him, "When are you gonna finish that book?", and he'd keep telling me, "Day after tomorrow." Eventually it was either dump him or kill him.] with up-to-the-minute science and a paranormal twist. I would be glad to provide you with sample chapters, or the entire manuscript, at your request.

Thank you for your time,


Notes

I would rather you said what rods are than say that they're a cause celebre among paranormal researchers. That could apply to anything. You could even start out with the explanation:

Navy Engineer Jim McCloud was on the verge of proving the existence of rods--creatures that move so fast they are invisible to the naked eye--when he was killed in a mysterious plane crash. Now his brother Chance has arrived to settle Jim's estate, and finds that something fishy's going on--something sky-fishy.

This leaves more room to discuss motives and suspects. It also lets you bring the cause celebre line down to lead off your last paragraph (which can then be divided into two paragraphs after the Roswell sentence), the paragraph in which you try to convince the reader that you didn't make all this invisible flying fish stuff up, no matter how ridiculous it sounds.