Some time last year, my friend Paul Montgomery, as part of his writing duties on the website, iFanboy.com, made a creative challenge — to adapt a fable in comics form. Write, draw, whatever. I didn’t think I had the time to do it, but Paul’s challenge planted a seed. I started thinking of a crudely drawn strip that’s something very different from what I usually do. I decided that my personal challenge would be not only write the script, but to draw it too. I set about trying to teach myself how to draw a simple cartoon.

I didn’t complete the challenge, but the process itself was so fun that I put together a PDF and sent it to Paul. The package contained my original notes, doodles, scripts, and my attempt to teach myself to draw pigs and wolves. I had a lot of fun. I don’t think I’ll ever finish it, but for what it’s worth, it was a fun experiment, and I got a lot out of it.

Now I’ve put the PDF online for you to read, if you so wish.

Enjoy!

Last week I talked about my road from creative writing to an audio drama podcast. A bit of a twisty road, but it’s an interesting one. Obviously, the common link is story. If you know me at all, you know I’m all about the story. If you don’t, please allow me to introduce myself…

My name is David. I’m a writer.

Now, that’s a bit of a bold statement that usually means one of two things: I make my living by writing or I’m one of those feel-good hippie types who says that he’s a writer because he writes, regardless of whether he’s published or not. The internet is full of the latter, and the label is sometimes looked upon with derision.

The truth is that I am both of these things. And I am neither. And I suggest to you that the definitions above are not an either/or proposition. In my case, one begets the other begets the one.

If you google me, you’ll see I have several writing credits on IMDb.com. But this doesn’t mean I made any money by writing. It just means my short films were deemed worthy of inclusion in a film festival. As part of the creative team behind an audio drama podcast, we’ve been nominated and won awards for writing on our series. However, I earn my salary with a business card that reads “Marketing Communications Manager.”

Doesn’t exactly summon up images of corncob pipes, ink-stained fingers, and click-clacking typewriters, now does it?

I do write, of course, and writing has been a part of every job I’ve had since college. In fact, being a “Writer” has gotten me nearly every job I’ve had.

When I moved to Los Angeles, I assumed that I would get a job as a bartender. I had tended bar in San Francisco while attending college, and it seemed the easiest, most marketable skill to bring to any town.

Unfortunately, upon my arrival in Hollywood that fateful July, I learned a tough (albeit slightly obvious) lesson. Everyone in Los Angeles is a struggling actor or writer or producer. And that means there are a LOT of bartenders.

However, I also had my degree in English and Creative Writing, so it seemed foolish not to at least try to get a job as a writer.

I sent a resume full of retail, barista, and bartender experience to an advertising agency, along with a short story I had written. The short story was published by the college literary journal. It was my first publication, and I even did a public reading to a room with, oh, a dozen people in it. A small accomplishment, but one of which I was proud.

Even moreso when the same short story landed me a job as a junior copywriter.

The woman who hired me was my age, newly minted in a management position with the task of hiring entry-level writers. My story had touched her. It had made my resume stand out from the pack. She loved it enough that the rest of the hiring process was pushed along quickly. She was very nice, though not a great manager. She was the first person I met who felt guilty about being a writer.

“Well, I like it, even though I’m not really helping anyone,” she would say. It felt as if she was minimizing her own role.

“But you write!” I wanted to say. “You get to call yourself a writer!” I felt too guilty to actually voice this view. What would happen if she had a comeback?

“Yeah, sure… while kids are starving on the streets.”

“But… words! You… make things up… with words!”

That job ended badly, and, in all honesty, it was a good thing. It was a special niche advertising firm that worked almost entirely in classified ads. I spent most of my days trying to think of clever ways to promote that a hospital was seeking registered nurses.

But I had made my living as a writer, hadn’t I?

And then that same short story got me a job at a production company. A sardonic brit was moved by my story, and brought me on board. Within six months I was scripting satirical commentary and straight news stories. I had a job title of “News Producer.” Later, as the production arm of the company split off, I became the “In-house Producer,” and I was able to write several scripts for different marketing/ad pieces, including an X-Files themed piece for a famous Hollywood lighting company.

After the dotcom bust laid waste to the production company, I struggled a bit. I took several small freelance writing gigs, but I wound up in a day job with an even worse title: “Product Manager.” I had traveled the opposite direction intended. However, even in this position, I made it known that I was a writer, and whenever something came up, I was ready to offer my services. I wrote marketing copy for newsletters and brochures. I wasn’t a good fit for the company, but at the same time, I was able to start my career making short films. And I was gaining those hard-earned writing credits on IMDb.com.

That job led me to the position I’m in now, which involves graphic design, writing, and various other creative tasks. The company I work for is a small one, but they value my creativity, and the job itself allows me to focus on these aspects of my personality in a variety of ways. I spend my days writing marketing copy  and my nights writing scripts and novels and short stories.

Do I make my living as a writer? I do, at least in part. But more importantly, I live my life as a writer, and living it this way has gotten me a number of different jobs. It’s informed my entire career. It takes a certain amount of bluster to say you’re a writer, and even more to back it up. But if you really live it — and this means constantly applying writing to all aspects of your life, whether it’s an advertising tagline or a feature film script or a column on a website  – it will get you where you need to be. There are all different kinds of people who call themselves writers. Yes, it’s a profession, but I see that as a limited definition. I won’t say it’s a calling. For me, it’s just a way to live.

When I was fifteen years old, I was awarded a black belt in the small Ashan-Tao martial arts system. It was a relatively young style, developed by a correctional officer at Folsom prison, and it was known as a system that promoted intense, full-contact sparring. For the most part, the black belts were hardened, athletic men in their late 20′s and above. It would have been a big deal when I, at 15, received my belt, but I wasn’t the youngest. A year before me a  friend who was my age had received his black belt — the youngest student to have received such an honor. As the time of my own test grew closer, we began to hear murmurings of whether or not 15 was too young to be granted the honor and the responsibility of the black belt. At a special meeting, my friend, the young black belt, shrugged off the criticism with the following response: “I earned it. You can take the belt away from me if you think I’m too young. But I am a black belt.”

Our teacher relayed this story to us with a proud smirk.

I received my black belt later that year. I earned it.

I haven’t made any money selling a screenplay. I haven’t earned royalties off the sales of a novel. Call it what you want… but me? I am a writer.

How about you?

The following story originally appeared at part of the audio anthology, “Wormwood & The Five Fingers of Glory,” which was part of Season Three of the audio drama podcast, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery. The following text introduced each story:

The Hand of Glory remains one of the strange artifacts at the dark heart of the many mysteries of Wormwood. An occult object of great curiousity, The Hand has crept into the very center of the chaotic maelstrom of murder and magic in Wormwood, California. The Hand’s true origin has never been revealed. Until now.
“The Five Fingers of Glory” is a new anthology kicking off third season of the critically acclaimed and award-winning audio drama podcast, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery.

The anthology series charts the path of the fabled Hand of Glory through history, from its creation in 700 BC to its arrival in present-day Wormwood. Inspired by the works of writers such as Robert E. Howard, Bram Stoker, Dashiell Hammett and Richard Matheson, three Wormwood writers have taken up the task of revealing the storied history of the Hand of Glory from the dusty streets of ancient Assyria to a haunted  Sicilian Monastery to the shadowy backstreets of Chinatown and beyond.

Dead Man’s Hand

(with acknowledgment to the works of Dashiell Hammett)

I.  A Petty Death

“You know this stiff?” asked Lieutenant O’Malley, scratching the whiskers on his chin. He pointed to the dead man lying face down on the street, arms and legs jutting out at crazy angles.

Harvey Cross shrugged his slim shoulders. His eyes were small and close-set, almost invisible beneath his arched brows. He shook his head and said: “From time to time. He’s a snitch. Name of Petty. Linus Petty.”

“Well, looks like Petty was trying to overcome his namesake,” said O’Malley.

“What do you mean?” asked Cross.

“We found this on him,” O’Malley extended his hand. In it was a folded stack of bills.

“Christ,” said Cross, tipping his hat back on his head and rubbing quizzically at his left temple. It was a move O’Malley had seen before, back when Cross worked in the Homicide division.  “So why call me?”

“When’s the last time you talked to your snitch?” O’Malley’s thick brow creased, darkening his eyes.

Cross shot him a look: “What are you after?”

“We found something wrapped up in this wad of dough,” said O’Malley, flipping out a small white card. “Recognize this?”

Cross recognized the simple black font. He already knew what it said. He answered: “My card.”

“We’ve got a small-time snitch carrying some big-time cash… and your business card.  I’m going to ask you again, Harvey, and for the last time… when’s the last time you talked to Petty?”

“I haven’t talked to him in months, Tom. Maybe Petty just liked to keep my name handy. You know how it is.”

“How about your partner?”

“Johnny? No, Johnny’s been working a pretty basic cheating husband thing. You know how it is. Besides, he and Petty didn’t see eye-to-eye. “

“Enough of a difference to kill a guy?”

“You know Johnny.”

“Yeah, I know Johnny.”

“How’d Petty die anyway?” said Harvey, eyeing the corpse. He could clearly see the holes in the jacket, but wanted to steer the conversation down a different avenue.

“Gunshots. Looks like two. In the back.”

“Witnesses?”

“None. Yet. Folks are pretty tight-lipped in this neighborhood, but we’ll find one.”

“So Petty was running away. Out of the alley. Someone shoots him twice. But…” Cross circled the body, walking up to it from behind. “The killer would have had to walk out of the alley, past the body.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, Petty has a wad on him. That’s no small amount of money, Tom.  Why didn’t the killer take it?”

Tom O’Malley scratched his chin again, then loosened his collar a little. “Jesus, Harvey, I don’t know. Maybe the killer wanted something more valuable?”

“More valuable than money?” said Cross, “Hell, Tom. Now that’s a thing I’d like to see.”

II.  Cross & Callahan

By the time Cross opened the door to the offices of Cross and Callahan, it was nearly five o’clock in the morning. Cross figured he might as well get a head start on the day since there was no use sleeping after the police had put the screws to him. The office was dark. Mindy wouldn’t be in for another few hours, and his partner Johnny Callahan wouldn’t be in for a few hours after that. Cross flipped on the light-switch, but was startled as the telephone began to ring in the early morning gloom.

“Cross and Callahan,” said Cross, nestling the receiver to his ear.

A low whisper of a voice crossed the line: “Harvey. I’m sorry.”

“Johnny?” asked Cross. It had to be his partner, but Callahan was a thick man with a voice to match his powerful presence. The man didn’t whisper.

“It’s the hand, Harvey. I had no idea…” Johnny’s voice trailed off.

“Johnny, I can barely hear you,” said Cross. “Where the hell are you? You hear that Petty just turned up dead?”

“I didn’t believe them,” Johnny rambling loose-jawed now, and Harvey had to wonder if the old rummy hadn’t returned to his ways. The big man had been known to like a drop of the hard stuff. “I didn’t believe him until I opened the door. I think I’m lost. I can’t find my way back. It’s so damned cold here.”

“It’s always cold this time of year, Johnny. Listen, just tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you. You down at that joint on Geary?”

“I’m not in San Francisco, Harvey. I’m not in the city anymore,” said the voice.

“Where are you?”

“Someone is… someone is following me. Every time I turn, they disappear like shadows. But if you don’t look closely, you’ll catch them.  There are doors, I keep opening the doors, but they turn in on themselves. I think I’m walking in circles. The hallway is always the same.”

Whatever was happening, it was clear Johnny Callahan, who had survived the Great War, who had been a decorated policeman and a fine private detective, was cracking up. It had happened to lesser men quite easily, Cross noted, but he never expected it of John Callahan.

“Listen John, I’m going to come and find you. Are you at a telephone box? Where are you?”

“Don’t let them take the hand, Harvey. You’ve got to destroy it. They’re already watching you.” The receiver clicked and the line went dead.

Cross tried to puzzle out his partners words, but it was too early and he hadn’t slept a wink. He dialed Callahan’s house. Maggie answered the telephone in a sleep voice.

“Morning, Maggie. Sorry to wake you.”

“Harvey? Harvey… what time is it?”

“It’s early. Listen, I’m trying to find John.”

“He didn’t come home last night. He said he was on a case.”

“He was. He is.”

“Is everything okay, Harvey?”

“It sure is, doll. Don’t worry.”

“Harvey? You’d tell me if… if  it happened again?”

“ Johnny’s on the job, that’s all. Forgets to check in sometimes.”

“Promise me, Harvey.”

“Mags, I—“ Cross caught himself. He rubbed the narrow bridge of his nose. “John’s my partner. This is entirely business. That’s how it has to be, remember? It’s best for all of us.”

Maggie went cold. “Okay, Harvey. Thank you,” she said reluctantly.

Cross hung up the receiver. He recalled the case Callahan had been working. He rifled through Callahan’s file cabinet, retrieved folder marked “Zane.” He sat down on the leather sofa and flipped through the pages.

III. One Gloved Hand

Mrs. Priscilla Zane stepped through the offices of Cross and Callahan at a quarter past nine o’clock. Despite the early hour, the woman appeared fully put together.  She wore a fur-lined brown overcoat tied over a neat silk grey dress. Her raven curls were smothered by a felt cloche hat. Mindy, the smiling blonde who ran the front desk, politely sent the woman to Harvey’s office.

“I got her as quickly as I could, Mr. Cross,” she said as Harvey lit her cigarette. He returned to his desk, where he retrieved a pouch of Bull Durham tobacco and proceeded to roll a cigarette for himself.

Cross said: “On the telephone you told me you hadn’t seen Johnny in three days, Mrs. Zane.”

“Please, call me Priscilla. Is there a problem, Mr. Cross?”

“Well, the problem… Priscilla… is that Johnny was in here yesterday, and he left this.” Cross slid an open notebook across the desk. “Now, I don’t usually go through John’s things, but I’ve reason to believe my partner is in trouble. He says here that he saw you two nights ago, and you two met with Linus Petty.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose the days have slipped my mind. It’s so difficult. I’m quite nervous all the time, wondering if Herbert is– ” Priscilla dropped her face into one gloved hand. “Do you know that I haven’t seen my husband in two days, Mr. Cross?”

“I’m sorry for your misfortune,” said Harvey flatly in a rehearsed voice. “But Linus Petty is dead, and John Callahan is also missing. About the same amount of time as your husband, I might add. I’ve reason to believe that my partner is in serious trouble.”

Mrs. Zane raised her eyes. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

Harvey considered telling the woman about the phone call but quickly thought better of it. He lit his cigarette and regarded her coolly.

“What’s your angle, Mrs. Zane?”

The woman touched her collar. She seemed taken aback by Harvey’s forwardness. “What do you mean, Mr. Cross?”

“I mean that I know what you told us about your husband, but something doesn’t add up. The whole situation’s queer, and I need you to clear it up for me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Cross. I told you what I believe, that my Herbert is seeing another woman.”

“Who is the Albino?”

“Excuse me?”

“Johnny tailed your husband for two weeks, Mrs. Zane. He kept notes. Your husband never even looked in the direction of another dame. In fact, your husband is nothing short of a perfect, law-abiding citizen — with one exception. Three times he met with someone Johnny called ‘The Albino.’ So, I’m going to ask you again: what was your husband up to, and who was the Albino?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Zane, touching her lips with her handkerchief. “I’m afraid I haven’t been exactly honest with you, Mr. Cross.”
IV. The Value of Truth

The Albino was a man named Alfred Rogers. He was a peculiar kind of merchant. He dressed in smart suits, kept his hair shiny and thick with Brylcreem, but his place of business was a cluttered room the size of a large pantry. The door to his shop was hidden deep along a narrow alley in Chinatown.

“You must be Harvey Cross,” said the man as he emerged from a smoke-filled back room. The Albino was as pale as his namesake. He hid his eyes behind dark spectacles. He was a tall man; he looked down on Cross with a tight-lipped half-grin.

“Mr. White,” said Cross, quickly removing his hat. “Thank for taking my call.”

“I’m not one to meddle with an investigation. My little business thrives on the value of truth. Truths, of course, come in many forms.”

“Maybe you can help me get to the bottom of one particular truth.”

“And which would that be?”

Cross spat: “I’m here about ‘the hand.’”

“Which hand would that be, detective?” asked the Albino with a tight smile.

“Don’t get cute with me, White. The hand of glory. The one Herbert Zane was trying to sell to you. I know all about it.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Cross, I’m afraid we’ve a bit of a misunderstanding. I’m not in the business of ‘buying’ merchandise. I’m what you would call… a facilitator of transactions.”

“You’re the middle man?”

“If you must put it that way, I suppose. I provide a valuable service.”

“The kind of service that ends with one man dead and two more missing?”

“In my line of work, you can never be certain,” said the Albino. “But in this case I can assure you I have nothing to do with your missing partner.”

“I never said anything about a partner, Mr. White.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” answered the Albino amusedly.

If the revelation rattled the man, Cross couldn’t tell. He said: “Tell me what you know.”

“Well, I know your partner was following Mr. Zane. He asked me about Zane’s doings, and I explained that Mr. Zane was looking to sell a family heirloom.”

“And this was something called a ‘Hand of Glory.’”

“Do you even know what it is you’re talking about, Mr. Cross?”

“Some kind of antique from what I’ve been told.”

“And who told you that?”

“Friend of the family. It makes no difference to me, Mr. White. I’m not here about a dusty piece of jewelry. I’m looking for two missing men. And one of them is a friend of mine, so let’s dispense with the pawn shop lessons and get to some answers.”

The Albino chuckled. He pressed his pink knuckles against the counter-top and leaned toward Cross.

“You’re embarking on a very dangerous course, detective.”

“As are you, Mr. White.”

The Albino eased back, returning to his prostrate position. He looked down for a moment, and Harvey noticed the man had a black-eye.

“Yes. Well,” said the Albino, “At any rate, it doesn’t matter. I told Mr. Callahan what he wanted to know, and he left.”

“Did you have a buyer lined up?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you give that information to Johnny?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“In exactly what manner are we speaking here, White?”

“My clients are… rather exclusive and peculiar. They prefer their privacy.”

“But you told Johnny.”

“He was… rather persuasive.”

Harvey grinned. The tall man was used to preying on his clientele, and Harvey figured that dealing with street toughs was a little out of his jurisdiction. He glared at White, leaned in, and said quietly:   “I can be pretty persuasive myself.”

The man tensed, and then sighed and said:  “Of that, I have no doubt. I have no intent to withhold anything from you. What I gave Mr. Callahan before he left was this.” White slid a small black card across the grimy counter.

Cross picked up the card. He flipped it over and read the small white type.

He shot The Albino a look: “This is what you gave Johnny?”

“Indeed.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s the only link I have to my client.”

“One more question, White. Did Johnny tell you anything about leaving town? Going somewhere cold?”

“Not as such.”

“All right, then. Thanks for your time, Mr. White.”

“Mr. Cross? It’s funny that you mention the cold like that. It reminds me of something the client said. He wanted to meet somewhere. He called it the Cold Room. I thought it was perhaps the name of a club.”

“And did you meet the fellow in the cold room?”

“We never got that far. Communication ceased once Herbert disappeared.”

V. Lonely Women in Distress

The following morning Harvey dialed the operator and asked for the number printed on the card given to him by the Albino. The number had been disconnected. Cross set the hand-set back into the cradle and began to read through his partner’s notes and files. After Callahan’s brief note about the Albino, there was nothing to indicate the identity of the other party that the Albino had mentioned.

At half past ten, Priscilla Zane burst into Cross’ office. This morning she wasn’t as prepared as she had been the night before. Her coat was thrown hurriedly over a housedress, and her makeup wasn’t done. Dark shadows clung under her eyes, making the woman look much older than Cross had previously assessed.

“Mr. Cross! I’ve been trying to reach you!”

“Well, don’t you look the fright, Mrs. Zane. Has someone else gone missing?”

“Please, Mr. Cross. Don’t be cruel! Someone’s following me – and I believe they mean to hurt me.”

Harvey looked up from the newspaper he had been reading. The woman looked genuinely distressed.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I… why, yes. I don’t believe he was even trying to hide the fact that he was watching me.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s a large man… muscular. He was bald. And… he wore a big red mustache.”

“That’s a good look, alright.”

Mrs. Zane continued: “There’s more. This was… very distinct. He had a tattoo. It was of a snake, coiling around his hand like this.” She pointed to the area between her thumb and index finger and then slowly circled her finger around the back of the hand and down to the wrist.”

“That’s very specific, Mrs. Zane. How did you get such a good look at this fellow?”

“I stopped in a store on Union Street. I pretended to try on hats, but I got a good look at him as he waited outside the store-front window.”

“You’re an attractive lady, Mrs. Zane. Perhaps he was just an admirer?”

“Please, Mr. Cross. You can’t be serious. With Herbert and Mr. Callahan both missing… why you can’t possibly… you can’t…”

“Relax, Mrs. Zane. I was just entertaining a notion.”

“Oh you were, were you?” she said, looking into his eyes. Harvey noticed the shift in her manner.

“Let’s go about finding your husband, Mrs. Zane.”

“But what about the man who was following me?”

“Did he attack you?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“He could be right outside.”

“Then he’ll have to deal with me, won’t he?”

“And will you… always be close?”

Harvey raised his eyebrow slightly. “I need to ask you something, Mrs. Zane, and I don’t think you’re going to like my asking.”

“But I’ve told you all I know about the hand. It’s a family heirloom that Herbert was trying to sell—“

“This isn’t about your husband, Mrs. Zane. This is about my partner.”

“I don’t understand. You know him better than I do.”

“Do I?”

Priscilla said: “What are you getting at, Mr. Cross?” There was an edge to her voice. Harvey noticed a rosy blush spread across her pale cheeks.

“Look, Priscilla. I don’t care what you get up to in your spare time. My partner… he’s… well, he’s had some trouble with that in the past, you see. So, it’s nothing personal, my dear, but it has an exact bearing on this entire case.”

“Is that a common thing amongst detectives, Harvey?” asked Priscilla. “Lonely women in distress?”

“If you say Johnny took advantage of your… situation… well, I’ll believe you. Johnny was a good soldier, a good cop, and a good investigator. One thing he’s never been is a good husband.”

“And what about you, Harvey?”

There was a light knock on Harvey’s office door. Mindy’s round smiling face pushed through. “Lieutenant O’Malley is on the wire, Harvey.”

“Thanks, Mindy,” said Harvey with a curt nod. He reached across his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “Cross here.”
O’Malley’s voice sounded tired. “Harvey, you’d better get down here. We’ve got another body. Your cheating husband just turned up dead.”

Harvey wrote down the details and then hung up the telephone.

VI. The Wrong Bed

Herbert Zane was a small, mild man by the look of it. His round spectacles were smashed against the pavement. His body was twisted at terrible angles, but his over-coat seemed to drape over the entire mess like a circus tent. A dark pool of blood surrounded the misshapen body.

“He took a dive, or he was pushed,” said O’Malley.

Harvey looked up at the buildings surrounding him. “He hadn’t seen his wife in days. How in blazes did he end up here? Where’s he been all this time?”
O’Malley said: “I thought that’s what you boys were hired to find out. Still no sign of Johnny?”

“I would have called you if I had,” replied Cross.

“You talked to his wife about this?” O’Malley sneered slightly as he spoke.

Cross tensed. He flexed his knuckles. “Don’t you have better things to be worried about right now, O’Malley?”

“I was just thinking that she must be awfully worried, Cross. Given your partner’s history.”

Cross stepped to the heavy-set man, reached out and grabbed the man’s coat with one hand. He hissed: “Johnny was a good cop, O’Malley. He got a raw deal.”

O’Malley took half a step back and put his thick fingers over Cross’ white-knuckled fist. “I never said otherwise, Harvey. Your partner was a good cop. He just chose the wrong bed to sleep in.”

Cross struck out quickly with his left hand, knocking O’Malley squarely across the jaw. The policeman stumbled back at the force of the blow. A uniformed officer rushed to Cross, grabbing him from behind.

“Leave him, Montgomery,” said  O’Malley, spitting blood on the ground. “You get one, Cross. And that was it.”

Cross wrestled away from the flatfoot. He glared at O’Malley: “Did you search the body, Lieutenant?”

O’Malley nodded to another uniformed officer, who stepped over to Cross and presented him with several objects: a ring of keys, a billfold, and a pocketwatch.

“Just your usual accessories,” said O’Malley. “No suicide note tucked into his pocket, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Cross flipped through the billfold, which contained a few small bills but nothing more. He lifted the watch, snapped it open. There was a photograph of a woman in the opposite cover. It wasn’t Priscilla Zane.”

“Despite what you think about me, Cross, I do like you,” said O’Malley, “So I’m doing you a courtesy when I tell you that your partner is currently a suspect in this investigation.”

“I understand,” said Cross. He turned and walked away from the scene with more questions than answers.

VII. A Familiar Tattoo

Cross hopped a trolley to head back uptown. As he looked around at his fellow travelers, he noticed a man in a large black coat at the opposite edge of the car. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He had seen the man on Powell Street. He observed the man from the corner of his eye. The man shifted his position to let a small Chinese woman on the trolley, and Cross caught a glimpse of the man’s large hand. A familiar tattoo wound its way between his thumb and forefinger.

Cross jumped off the trolley car at the next stop. He made his way past a grocer and wound his way through a small alleyway, littered with trash. He ducked behind a row of garbage-cans and waited.

Moments later, the man in the black coat came into view. He walked cautiously into the alley. Cross couldn’t make out much, but he could see the man was built like a Liberty tank. Cross hoped that the man wasn’t as bullet-proof as one.

As the big man passed by, Cross leapt up and prodded his pistol into the big man’s kidneys.

“Not another move until you tell me your game, big fellow,” said Cross.

The man spoke with a thick English accent: “That’d be inadvisable, sir.”

“So’s following a defenseless widow, pal. What’s your game, and why are you tailing Priscilla Zane?”

“The lass is queering a deal between Mr. Zane and an interested party.”

“She’s the one who’s queered the deal, eh? If this deal is so legitimate, why’d you kill Zane?”

“That’s not my doing, sir,” said the big man. “You’ll have to speak with the missus about that one.”

“I wonder what’s more likely… a big man like you pushing Mr. Zane out of a window, or a slim gal like Mrs. Zane.”

“That’s what you call…” the man fumbled for the words, “That’s circumstantial evidence, innit?”

“Following me ain’t helping your chances.”

“It was my client’s suggestion. He thought maybe you knew where the Hand had gone.”

“What do you know about the hand?”

“Not much, sir. I only know my client wishes to acquire it. Priceless artifact, it is.”

“Then why was Zane trying to sell it?”

“Can’t say as I know that one, sir.”

“Why did you say the woman’s trying to queer the deal?”

“The other man. Your partner. Put the screws to the Albino, didn’t he? Tried to stop the deal, get the hand from Zane. After that, they both disappeared. My client presumes your partner killed the Zane bloke and made off with the prize.”

“And they think Priscilla Zane put him up to it?”

“Indeed they do, sir.”

“What’s your name, fella?” asked Cross.

“Louis.”

“Good to know, Louis.”

“What happens now, sir, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know.  I’m still mulling that one over.”

“If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

“Sure, Louis, sure thing.”

The large man wheeled around suddenly, his massive fingers wrapping around Cross’ thin wrists and smashing his gun hand against the brick wall of the alley. The gun’s retort echoed off the walls. The last thing Harvey saw was Louis’ forehead speeding toward the bridge of his nose.

VIII. A Soft Halo

Bruised and bloodied, Cross arrived at the Zane house on Nob Hill. Cross suspected it was inherited wealth, as the neighborhood appeared to be well beyond the means of a meager accountant like Herbert Zane. He pounded on the front door.

A black woman in a white apron answered the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cross’ gory visage.

“Is Mrs. Zane available?” asked Cross.

“I’m sorry, sir, “answered the woman, “Mrs. Zane is quite ill.”

“Well, she was fine enough to see me this morning, and I’ve got a few questions for her, so I’m sure she’ll see me now.”

“This morning, sir? I’m afraid that’s no possible.”

“Saw her with my own two eye’s ma’am. So I think it’s pretty damn likely.”

“But…I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that… Mrs. Zane hasn’t been out of the house in quite some time.  The doctor has confined her to bed rest because of the illness.”

After a bit of cajoling, Cross convince the woman, whose name was Alberta, to let Cross into the house. The house was small but ornately furnished. Herbert Zane didn’t seem to be a man who needed to pawn a priceless antique.

Alberta led Cross up the stairs and down the hall to a large bedroom. She peaked her head in first, then quietly motioned for Cross to follow.
A woman lay motionless in a large canopied bed. Her arms were folded peacefully over her lap. She was pale and thin. Chestnut curls spun from her head in a soft halo. Cross recognized her instantly. It was the woman from Zane’s pocket watch.

“Ma’am?” said Alberta softly. “Mrs. Zane?”

The woman stirred, opening her blue eyes. She regarded Cross with mild surprise.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mrs. Zane. Mr. Cross. He says you know him.”

The woman swallowed. She answered in a whisper: “Mr. Cross? Have we met?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Zane,” answered the detective gently. “I’m afraid we haven’t. But I’m acquainted with your husband.”

“I haven’t heard from Herbert in several days,” said the woman. “I’m afraid he may have left me to my illness.”

“Mr. Zane, well, he’s been busy,” answered Cross. “He’s enlisted my help in selling the hand.”

“Ah, yes. The hand.”

“So you know about the hand?”

“Yes. Herbert blames the hand for my current condition, if he hasn’t told you.”

“No I’m afraid he hasn’t given me many details.”

“It was a family heirloom, you see. My father passed away several years ago, and among his possessions was a strange locked box, carved with the most intricate patterns. Herbert broke the lock and discovered a ghastly sight – a mummified hand, encased in wax. At first it seemed a curiosity, but then our luck began to fail. Herbert lost several clients. There was a fire. Our daughter broke both legs in a horse-riding accident. And then my… my health began to fail. Herbert believed the hand was the cause of our dilemma.”

“Why didn’t he just throw it away? Toss it into the bay?”

“He tried. It only cemented his notion that the object was cursed. The hand would always find its way back to us.”

“That’s a hell of a story, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Cross.

“I would very much like to see Herbert again, Mr. Cross. When you see him, can you tell him that his wife is waiting for him at home?”

Cross looked down at the carpet and murmured his reply: “Sure thing, Mrs. Zane. I’m sure you’ll see him very soon.”

IX.  The Other Mrs. Zane

Back at his office, Cross had Mindy dial the other Mrs. Zane. There was no answer. Cross sat at his desk and cleaned his gun. After a minutes, the phone rang. Mindy stepped into the office. Her face was pale.

“Harvey,” she whispered, “It’s Johnny.”

Harvey sprang across the desk and picked up the telephone.

“Johnny!” shouted Cross, “where are you, man?”

There was a silent hiss on the other end of the phone. Cross called out again. He called a third time.

“Harvey?” The voice quietly hissed in the receiver, “Harvey? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Johnny. Can you tell me where you’re calling from?”

“It’s too late, Harvey. You need to listen—“

“I know about the hand and about Zane,” said Harvey, “Christ, pal. You got yourself in the thick of it this time.”

“Yes… Harvey….the hand. You need to get rid of it…”

“I don’t have it, Johnny.”

“…under your nose… But… you have to… return it…”

“Johnny, where are you?”

“The hand… it opens doors…”

“Johnny, they think you killed Zane.”

“I…we fought… over the hand… we opened a door… I came here… to the endless hallways.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“…I don’t know where Zane went…”

“He took a dive off a building in Chinatown.”

“Yes… he went through another… door…”

“Johnny, I don’t understand any of this.”

“No time… don’t look further… can’t destroy it… have to return it…”

The line went dead.

X. Under Your Nose

Harvey searched his office. Johnny wasn’t making much sense, but he did say the Hand was “under your nose,” which was a shorthand the two had developed. Years of detective work had led Cross and Callahan to understand that most thieves tended to hide their valuables somewhere close to their home, presumably out of paranoia that they would, in turn be stolen from. Cross had never considered Johnny a thief. He was a many of many mistakes, but that was a line Johnny wouldn’t have crossed unless he thought it was necessary.

He searched his desk, the liquor cabinet, the small leather sofa. He couldn’t find anything. He paced back and forth, pondering what Johnny might have meant. The floorboards creaked below him. Cross looked down.

He muttered: “Under my nose.”

Cross traced the floorboards, pushing on them gently to see where they came loose. Near the corner, he felt as a small section of the floorboards gave under his weight. He pried them up. In a small space beneath the wooden planks was an object wrapped in a handkerchief. Cross retrieved the bundle, and sat down on the floor. He unfolded the handkerchief and looked at the hand. It was a grotesque ornament, leathery and desiccated, coated with a thick waxy sheen.

“So you’re the cause of all of this trouble,” whispered Cross. “They say you’re cursed. Let’s see what kind of trouble you bring me.”

A shot rang out in the outer office. Mindy screamed.

XI. For a Dead Man’s Hand

Cross leapt to his feet. He dumped the hand into the drawer of his desk, picked up his gun, and slid against the wall. A shadow appeared in the frosted glass window.  The door-knob rattled, and the door cautiously cracked open. As the assailant poked his arm into the room, Cross reached out, grabbed the man and twisted his arm, forcing him to drop his weapon. He pushed his gun into the man’s neck. He spun the man around. He had a long face, a thin mustache, and a large bulbous nose. He didn’t look at Cross; his eyes never wavered from the barrel of Cross’ gun.

“The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m hoping to God you’ve got some of the answers I’m looking for,” said Cross through gritted teeth. Behind him, he heard the audible click of a gun being cocked.

“I’m really sorry it had to come to this, Harvey,” said a soft, familiar voice.

“If it isn’t the ‘other’ Mrs, Zane,” he said, not daring to turn his head.

“You know, your partner was a lot easier to convince.”

“What’s your real name, sister?”

“Does it matter?”

“I like to know who’s shooting at me.”

“DeNicolo,” said the woman, dropping all pretenses and picking up an Italian accent, “My name is Francesca DeNicolo.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss DeNicolo.  Now I’m going to call a doctor the girl in the other room, or your man here gets it.”

DeNicolo shrugged, stared at Cross for a moment and pulled the trigger on her gun. The man in Cross’ arms jerked violently, causing Cross to pull his trigger. Cross gasped and stumbled back, covered in gore.

“Expendable,” said DeNicolo, “Just like you and your woman. You know what I want, Mr. Cross.”

“The hand,” said Cross, dropping his gun to the floor. “All this… for a dead man’s hand?”

“The object has a great deal of power, Mr. Cross. They say the hand of glory can open any door. That carries quite an appeal to someone in my line of work.”

“DeNicolo…DeNicolo…” Cross nodded. “I know you. You’re the one they call the ‘Black Cat.’ You did the Frankfurt heist a couple years back.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“You are one crazy broad. Why the charade?”

“I’m a ‘broad’ who get what she desires. The hand is one such thing. My anonymity is another.”

“You let me get Mindy to a doctor, and you can have your damned hand.”

“You have it? Oh, Harvey, you continue to amaze me. You’re more difficult to manipulate than that ape you call your partner, but you certain produce better results. I never expected him to run. Where did you find him?”

“He’s gone. Don’t worry about him. The thing you’re looking for is in my desk. Take it and get out of here.”

DeNicolo looked at Cross cautiously as she circled the room. She kept her gun trained on him as she slid open the desk drawer. She looked down and then up at him.

“It’s not here, Harvey.”

“What are you talking about? I just put it there.”

DeNicolo yanked the drawer from the rollers, letting the contents spill across the floor.

“It’s not here, Harvey! Where is it? In this room? Do you even have it? Are you just buying time to save your girlfriend there? I’ll shoot you both right now—!”

A shot rang through the office. Francesca DeNicolo stared wide-eyed at Harvey. Her mouth dropped open. Blood trickled from her lips as a dark stain began to spread across her green silk dress. The gun fell from her hand, and then after a moment, the woman fell forward and collapsed on the floor.

Cross turned. The massive figure of Louis stood in the doorway, an automatic pistol clutched in his giant hands.

“Client doesn’t like the sort of trouble a woman like that brings,” said the big man.

“I’m not any sort of trouble, Louie,” said Cross.

“Don’t suppose you are, sir. Were you telling the truth then? Hand’s gone?”

“On my mother’s grave, Louie. Johnny had the hand. He gave it to me. I put it right there in that desk. And now it’s gone.”

“That’s how it works, innit? Your partner never owned it. It’ll find its way back to its rightful owner. S’why my client was seeking to buy the hand from Zane. Now I suppose we’ll have to start all over again. Mr. Bressier’s not going to like that.”

Without another word between them, Louis holstered his gun and walked out of Cross’ office as silently as he had entered.

Cross stepped into the main room and found Mindy. The blonde girl had passed out from the shock, but Cross smiled when he saw the wound was only a graze.

She’d need a new blouse and maybe a couple of stitches and belt of whiskey, but she’d live to type another day.

XII. Passed in the Night

Two days later, alone in his office, Cross opened up the morning newspaper and performed his usual routine. He scanned the headlines and then flipped to the obituaries. He was slightly saddened but not surprised to read that Priscilla Bloomington Zane had passed in the night from her illness. The Zane estate would pass on to Priscilla’s only living relative: her daughter Isabella, age twelve.

So, I’m looking to revamp the blog and hopefully dust it off and get some more current content on here. The truth is I’ve been very busy with Wormwood: Revelation and various other creative projects, and this blog is really sort of a portfolio for fiction at this point.

However, I can announce that my newest short story, “Monkeyshines79,” has been published in the latest issue of the online PDF ‘zine, Grok. This is a geek culture magazine that focuses on essays and fiction for the nerdier among us. The theme of issue #6 was “avatar.” I conceived and pitched a short story to the editors, which they accepted. I then went about writing the short story. I do like the short story, but it’s  unusual for me because it’s one of the first ever prose pieces that I pitched first, THEN wrote. It’s a Twilight Zone type of a story, so it’s all about the twist, and it was an interesting writing experiment to come up with the twist and then have to write everything correctly in order to play the twist and make it work.

Grok #6 is online now and it’s free. Please be sure to check it out!

I actually wrote very regularly and was more disciplined and productive in a sustained manner than I usually am.

My NaNo Stats:

Pretty cool, huh? I’m currently at 51,600 words, and I just need to write a couple more scenes, and then I’ll be spending the next few months revising and polishing the work. And then….? We shall see…

My Life in Audio

This article was originally published on Murmur.com

In the summer of 1998, I moved to Los Angeles from the Northern California Bay Area. As a writer and recent college graduate, it would be a fair assumption that I moved to LA to pursue a Hollywood career. This would be inaccurate. In truth, I moved to Los Angeles because my girlfriend at the time was originally from the San Fernando Valley, and she wanted to be closer to her family again. I was a writer in need of an adventure. And, oh, I would write — but not screenplays. No, I was a fan of stories like Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust. I was a poet, dammit, not a crass commercial hack. Los Angeles would be the setting for my Great American Novel Which Observes LA from an Outsider’s Perspective. It was thus that I descended upon the city of angels with all the fervor of a budding anthropologist. The denizens of Hollywood would be my Gorillas in the Mist.

I stand in front of my car and I begin to howl, a steady sound like “oooooooooooo.” I am unsure whether this is true rage or theatrics. My voice doesn’t seem to carry.

After a moment, my girlfriend grabs my arm. She hurries me away. She’s indicating that someone is coming. As we walk to the far end of the small lot, a light shines nearby. There is a truck. I can’t see it well, but as it circles around my ruined car, I see it is filled with men. The truck pulls around and somehow the light falls on a man, sitting in the back of the truck. He is wearing a machine gun strapped over his shoulder. My girlfriend and I begin to run.

At the back end of the lot is a small stairwell. As we run toward that, the men in the truck shout. I know at this point they will shoot at us. I begin to wonder what the bullets will feel like as they pierce my flesh. I consider whether or not I will feel pain, or if the velocity will make initial impact painless as bullets pass through me. There is a sharp burst of rapid gunfire, but it sounds distant, not as close as it should. In this moment, I reflect on the fact that while I have heard gunfire, I have never been shot at.

My girlfriend and I reach the stairway and descend. We enter into a dark, cluttered backyard. It appears to be the ruined area behind black apartment buildings. We coast along, effortlessly. We don’t see the men in the truck, but we seem to know they are following us. They are perhaps at the edge of the dark buildings. We seem to easily hop over small chainlink fences, dashing across interconnected yards in various stages of ruin. Everything is deeply immersed in the gloom.

Now we cut along a small house. Weeds cling to the sides of the dark slats, but I can see that windows are lit. We pass by a warm yellow square and a woman disappears from our sight. We walk along the side of this house further, through the patchy foliage. On the other side of us is another low chain-link fence. It occurs to me that there is another road on the other side of that fence, but it is not visible. I do realize, however, that the men in the truck may appear here at any time. We keep moving quickly. In this moment, I believe that we must get inside the house with the yellow windows. We move to another window and I raise myself up, peering inside.

Inside the yellow room, a man looks up and catches my eye. He is a dark-skinned man with black unruly hair and a patchy black beard. His eye is liquid obsidian. I realize he’s looking at me over a lit candle on a table, which is why the room seems so yellow and warm. He looks at me and does not blink.

I awaken. I am not scared, but the image of the man staring back at me lingers in my mind. I go to the bathroom, pee, return to bed. I sleep again, but that dream does not return. Instead there is a different dream. A casino. Gangsters acting out a sting operation just as it happens on the TV. In another scene, I am in a women’s restroom and I am given a baby to hold. The child is the size of an infant, but she seems to have a toddler’s head, features, and verbal ability. She gives me a note she has picked up from the ground of the restroom and asks me if she has deciphered the letters correctly. I look at the note, the strange symbols. Yes, I tell her, you are correct. I turn the note upside down and I realize that the letters actually spell out words. I read the phrase:

“U R Great.”

But I want to talk about Watchmen, and how I think that – oddly enough – the film has found its perfect place in film history, exactly where it should be, twenty-odd years after it found its perfect place in comics history.

What the what–?

Let me explain:

The late 1980′s were a brilliant time for comics. I’m going to use 1986 as a benchmark, but exact publication times may be mis-ordered or slightly off in chronology. The point is this: ask anyone reading comics at the time about the year 1986 and they will light up. They will probably start to talk. Babble even. You may have to feign interest or politely ask them to shut up. Because 1986 was a boon, man.

Comics were no longer strictly newsstand periodicals for kids. There were now specialty shops dedicated to the hobby, and as a result, comics were being taken more seriously. DC Comics actually ran an ad campaign stating that “Comics aren’t just for kids anymore.” And they weren’t. Frank Miller’s Daredevil was a great hard-boiled noir dressed up in super-hero clothes. Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing added literary sophistication to muddy horror. A black-and-white independent comics scene was growing and adding nuance and depth to the medium. Frank Miller wrote and drew The Dark Knight Returns, and minds were blown. I was in high school, and I remember telling my friend BC Capps that I couldn’t ever really take Batman seriously because I didn’t understand how a guy who wore blue underwear outside of his tights could ever really be menacing to criminals. He gave me his issues of The Dark Knight Returns.

Mind = Blown.

And then comes Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Twenty-three years later, it’s still considered one of the greatest examinations of the super-hero genre ever written. It is the ultimate deconstruction of the genre. Later, Grant Morrison would say that his (excellent) Doom Patrol series was about deconstruction, but as progressive as Morrison was, Alan Moore had really already written the definitive tome on the subject. He had already done similar work with his British series Marvelman (known in the US as Miracleman), but Watchmen stands as a perfect, complete undressing of an entire sub-genre.

That was 1986 in comics.

Movies had some catching up to do.

In 1989, Tim Burton brought some of this to the screen with his version of Batman. But while the movies were starting to capture some of the style, I look back now and realize that as much as I loved 1989’s Batman, it was still gestating. It was like a still-born creature in a mad scientist’s cloning laboratory… to peer into the tanks of viscous fluid was to see a semblance of what comics were doing… a familiar shape, but–upon close inspection– we notice severe deformities. A vestigial tail. Webbed fingers.

As I type this, I have just finished watching a DVD of the film Hancock, a Will Smith super-hero film that is not based on a comic book. This is after a summer spent viewing films like Hellboy 2, Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, and The Dark Knight.

Hancock, I felt, had a flawed execution, but an interesting premise. A washed-up super-hero with some serious problems, meets a washed-up PR guy – and together, they try to change the world. Regardless of the execution of the rest of the film (which was pretty bad), I love this premise. It reminds me quite a bit of the type of independent black-and-white super-hero comic someone would have conceived of back in 1986.

And then it occurs to me: wow, a lot of these recent films seem to fall into that same 1986 timeline.

Batman Begins is Frank Miller’s Batman: Year One, an acclaimed re-telling of Batman’s origin. The film marks the start of a more sophisticated story, driven by character. Batman Begins is a good film, but it is overshadowed by director Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, which is our filmic analogue to Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns.

Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, and even the Spider-man and X-men films become analogues to some of the classic runs of Marvel comics in the 80’s. What is X2 if not the spiritual child of the classic Chris Claremont era of the X-men? Does our 2008 Iron Man serve as an analogue for the David Michelinie/Bob Layton Iron Man run, which included the classic “Demon in a Bottle” storyline? In considering these, keep in mind that I don’t mean to draw links to the actual content; I’m thinking more of the overall tone and sophistication of each.

While the comics-version of Hellboy didn’t appear until the early 90’s, I think it’s safe to say that the Hellboy films could easily represent the “niche” areas of 80’s independent comics, like The Elementals, Grendel, or the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comic books.

And thus, it seems entirely appropriate to me that Watchmen should come along in 2009, shortly after The Dark Knight. Regardless of what you thought of the film or how it was adapted, I think it’s safe to say that it does drive home the point that “super-hero films aren’t just for kids anymore.” It’s dark and grimy and nihilistic and it deconstructs every colorful aspect of the campier super-hero films, beating you over the head with its savage message: these costumed assholes would really fuck up the real world, wouldn’t they?

So, it’s 1986 again. What do we have to look forward to?

Well, we’ve already heard rumblings from studios that super-hero films would follow the “Dark Knight” model, and be darker. Is that any different from the late 80’s when the term “grim and gritty” came into every comic reader’s parlance? Whereupon clone after clone of Miller and Moore repeatedly missed the goddamn point of those original works? Yes, I suspect we’ll see a few very bad films along those lines. In fact, we’ve already started to see them haven’t we, Punisher War Zone?

But, there could also be hope on the horizon? If we can just get films into the 90’s we could see the reconstruction of super-heroes ala Grant Morrison’s JLA or Mark Waid’s The Flash!

Of course, maybe we’re already at a point where comics and film diverge. I’ve heard that we shouldn’t expect any more R-rated super-hero films from Warner Brothers, as Watchmen hasn’t really sold as well as was hoped. So, who knows what’s next. Perhaps, just as Moore’s characters found themselves in an alternate 1985, we’ll find ourselves in the Hollywood equivalent of an alternate 1990.

Which is good, I think. At least then I know we won’t be subject to collectible variant hologram-foil-covered DVDs, right?

To start, I’ve added a LOT of fiction, as you will see below. I hope to use this blog for a lot more flash fiction and writing exercises in the future. But, being as eclectic as I am, I’m sure the blog will find itself home to many machinations, reincarnations, and deviations.

For now, I do hope you enjoy the fiction here — it spans the past 10+ years of my writing career.

Sometimes a little violence is a good thing.

Script by David Accampo

 FADE IN:

            INT BATHROOM - MORNING

            DAN, a single professional dad in his mid-30's frantically
            brushes his teeth. As he leans down to spit, a LOUD EXPLOSION
            sounds from the other room. Dan leans out of the bathroom
            door.

            INT HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

            Dan's head emerges as he shouts down the hall.

                                DAN
                      Eyes!

            INT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

            CHARLIE, Dan's 6-year-old son, sits cross-legged two feet
            from a big screen TV where a violent action movie plays. As
            Dan shouts, Charlie's hands dart to his eyes and cover them.
            After a few seconds, he drops them again.

            INT BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS

            Dan's head zips back into the bathroom. He spits again and
            rinses. From the living room, a man screams.

                                DAN
                          (shouting)
                      Eyes!

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

            Charlie sits, watching the violent movie as Dan rushes back
            and forth, putting on a shirt, then tying his tie. 

            The action hero on the TV screen starts to speak. Dan
            interrupts.

                                DAN
                      Ears!

            Charlie obediently covers his ears.

            After a few moments, the screen goes blank. Dan, behind
            Charlie, holds the remote in one hand and a lunchbox in the
            other.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      Alright, pal...let's go, go, go! I made
                      peanut butter!

                                CHARLIE
                      And jelly?

            Dan points to the jelly stain on his tie.

                                DAN
                      And jelly. Let's go!

            Charlie obediently takes the lunchbox and heads for the door.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            EXT CARPORT - MORNING

            Dan finishes buckling Charlie into the carseat, then hops
            into the driver's seat. The lunch box sits on the roof of the
            car as Dan starts the engine. He backs out and drives down
            the driveway, lunchbox still on the roof.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT CAR - MORNING

            Dan and Charlie rock out to loud punk rock in the car. As Dan
            sings loudly and out of tune, Charlie stops.

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                          (looking in rearview mirror)
                      What is it, pal?

                                CHARLIE
                          (agitated)
                      I gotta go!

                                DAN
                      Now?

                                CHARLIE
                      Yeah!

                                DAN
                      Can't it wait until we get to school?

                                CHARLIE
                      No!

                                DAN
                      Are you sure?

                                CHARLIE
                          (yelping)
                      I'm sure!

                                DAN
                      OK, OK!

            Dan turns looking down the street. 

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                          (to himself)
                      Man, I don't know. Not much...I guess...

                                                                 CUT TO:

            EXT STREET - MOMENTS LATER

            Dan pulls the car over in front of a dive bar with a shabby
            wooden door.

            There's fumbling as Dan opens his door, reaches around to
            Charlie. After a moment they both emerge. Charlie skips
            urgently around the car as Dan leads him to the door.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT BAR - MOMENTS LATER

            Dan and Charlie enter the dim, decrepit bar. A scary looking
            TOUGH GUY is leaning into the bar in front of the
            BARTENDER, a big man wearing an eyepatch and an apron. He has
            a whiskey bottle in hand. 

                                BARTENDER
                      Hey, no kids in here!

                                DAN
                      Look, man, my kid's gotta go!

                                BARTENDER
                      Find somewheres else!

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                      Come on, bro!

                                CHARLIE
                      Daaaaad!

                                DAN
                      Hang on, pal--

                                CHARLIE
                      But it's happen-ning!

                                DAN
                      Yeah, just -- what? No-- wait--

                                BARTENDER
                      You can't go in there!

            Dan rushes Charlie past the Tough Guy.

                                DAN
                      Look, just...we're using the bathroom,
                      alright? He'll just go in. Right?
                      Charlie? Just go. Go!

            Dan frantically waves Charlie away, who rushes off to the
            men's room on the other side of the bar.

            Dan stands straight and turns back to the bartender.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      I'm sorry, man. Emergency. You got any
                      kids? I mean, you know how it is.

            The bartender and the Tough Guy just stare at Dan. The tough
            guy wiggles an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      Look, let me buy something, alright? I
                      mean, not alcohol, but--

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Ernie's pouring whiskey, amigo.

                                DAN
                      Oh yeah, thanks, no..I'm just on my way--

            The bartender flips over a glass and pours the whiskey into a
            glass. He slides it across the counter. Dan eyes the glass.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Might as well drink up.

                                DAN
                      Excuse me?

            Tough Guy wiggles his cigarette menacingly. He pulls a knife
            from his back pocket and taps it against the counter.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Let's just say your timing ain't so
                      great, "dad.' 

                                DAN
                      Whoa...hey, listen guys, let me just get
                      my kid and get out of whatever...

            Tough Guy is slowly, menacingly, approaching.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...I mean, you guys did say "no kids,"
                      and here I am all wrapped up in my world,
                      and...hey...alright...come on...
            A sudden GUNSHOT; the bartender's whiskey bottle shatters in
            his hand, spraying glass and whiskey.

            Behind Dan, Charlie is aiming a revolver. He squeezes his
            eyes shut and fires again. The unlit cigarette disappears
            from Tough Guy's mouth.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Jesus...

                                CHARLIE
                      Freeze, asshole.

                                DAN
                      Charlie! You can't say THAT!

                                CHARLIE
                      Sor-RY!

                                DAN
                      I promised your mom!

                                CHARLIE
                      I know. Sorry, dad.

            Charlie turns, waving the gun. Dan flinches and jumps back.

                                DAN
                      Charlie!

                                CHARLIE
                      Oh! Sorry!

            Dan breathes deep.

                                DAN
                      And where did you...where...what...?

            As Dan tries to summon the thoughts, he looks up and sees a
            body slumped in the men's room.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...holy shit...

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                      yeah, yeah...sorry. We'll both wash our
                      mouths out with soap. Now...now, put that
                      thing down. Come on, let's go... 

            Dan grabs his son's hand and they walk out the door as Dan
            lectures Charlie.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...and what did I say about picking up
                      stuff up in restrooms? I mean, jesus --
                      er, sorry -- I mean, dude, come on...talk
                      about not knowing where something's been.
                      Listen, I don't want to hear your mom's
                      "bacteria" speech again, you catch me...

                                                          FADE TO BLACK.