Saturday, June 30, 2007
I almost forgot
About a week ago, someone from the bar I frequent gave me his old TV. So, after a year and a half, I finally know what's going on again. It doesn't seem to have changed too much.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Bogus Check
Behold the BOGUS check that the bank thought was good enough to process. Note how my signature is obviously not mine. Of course they say it is an Internet transaction because that allows people to write checks with your name on them and run them against your account without your signature. Thank God they got my Zip code right, otherwise it might not be so obvious. They also didn't know enough to know which Branch is my originating branch. Thank God the Market St. Branch was good enough. BTW, I've blurred the routing and Account numbers so no one else can rip me off. I took down the image of the back of the check, mainly because it wasn't right for me to condone stealing from them.
I Curse You
So, I was checking my bank account today to make sure I had enough to pay all of my bills and of course what do I find but a BOGUS check on my account that went through yesterday for $99.75. This isn't the best time to be stealing money from me. So, I called and the bank is sending me an Affidavit of Forgery to sign and get notarized and mail back. I've lost the money until then and there is nothing they can do to stop it from happening again, at least until the Affidavit gets processed and then that "company" won't be able to do it again. Of course by the time that happens the company will have a new name and bank account. What's most annoying is that the bogus company has a Bank of America account and when I lost my First Tennessee ATM card while doing sign surveys, it was at a Bank of America. All anyone who found it would have needed is a card reader to pull the info off the magnetic strip. Sure the card itself was cancelled, but the address/account # was all preserved on the magnetic strip. So, whoever is out there taking money from me for a company called THE STRONG BUCKS, I hope you die horribly. I curse you and all of the offspring of your tepid and cowardly loins. May the money bring you nothing but suffering and pain.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Detective [Part VII]
PART VII – Morning
Morning hit like it always did, abrupt and painful. The Detective rolled off the sofa and stood up. Two cups of coffee, two cigarettes, a shower and a shave and he was driving to work. The Sun was just beginning to hate the world.
He arrived at the Precinct just as the shift was changing. It was painful ritual requiring him to pretend that he actually liked the other Detectives in the Squad. Handshakes and pats on the back were exchanged freely, worthless currency. Eventually he made it to his desk with a cup of coffee in his hand.
He had nothing, four crime scenes, four teeth, and all of it a dead end. If something didn't break, well that wasn't an option. He couldn't even think of a motive. The worst part was that there were no bodies. Without bodies, there wasn't any homicide. Without proof of a homicide, it was a waste of his time. For all he knew these people were still alive sans a tooth and completely unaware anything had happened to them.
He needed a body. The thought would have been disturbing to most people, but it was what he needed. It was what he required.
He picked up the phone and dialed his friend the Dentist.
"Hello."
"What's shakin' Doc?"
"You got my message."
"Yeah, and it opened a world of possibilities."
"You got nothin'."
"Bupkiss."
"Maybe I can help."
"That's why I'm callin'."
"Where are you torturing your liver these days?"
"Where am I not?"
"I'm in town at a convention on Wednesday. Good enough?"
"It'll have to do."
"What's the bartender like?"
"She's the only thing that gives me hope."
"That'll do."
They made plans to meet and The Detective hung up. That gave him 24 hours to find out something everyone else didn't already know. That was 24 hours closer to the phone ringing again. He got up from his desk and walked out side for a think and a smoke.
[This is an experiment. I don't know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It's about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we'll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It's still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Morning hit like it always did, abrupt and painful. The Detective rolled off the sofa and stood up. Two cups of coffee, two cigarettes, a shower and a shave and he was driving to work. The Sun was just beginning to hate the world.
He arrived at the Precinct just as the shift was changing. It was painful ritual requiring him to pretend that he actually liked the other Detectives in the Squad. Handshakes and pats on the back were exchanged freely, worthless currency. Eventually he made it to his desk with a cup of coffee in his hand.
He had nothing, four crime scenes, four teeth, and all of it a dead end. If something didn't break, well that wasn't an option. He couldn't even think of a motive. The worst part was that there were no bodies. Without bodies, there wasn't any homicide. Without proof of a homicide, it was a waste of his time. For all he knew these people were still alive sans a tooth and completely unaware anything had happened to them.
He needed a body. The thought would have been disturbing to most people, but it was what he needed. It was what he required.
He picked up the phone and dialed his friend the Dentist.
"Hello."
"What's shakin' Doc?"
"You got my message."
"Yeah, and it opened a world of possibilities."
"You got nothin'."
"Bupkiss."
"Maybe I can help."
"That's why I'm callin'."
"Where are you torturing your liver these days?"
"Where am I not?"
"I'm in town at a convention on Wednesday. Good enough?"
"It'll have to do."
"What's the bartender like?"
"She's the only thing that gives me hope."
"That'll do."
They made plans to meet and The Detective hung up. That gave him 24 hours to find out something everyone else didn't already know. That was 24 hours closer to the phone ringing again. He got up from his desk and walked out side for a think and a smoke.
[This is an experiment. I don't know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It's about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we'll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It's still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Detective [Part VI]
PART Vi – Home
For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t been home for two days. The cat was pissed. As soon as The Detective walked in the door Mr. Squigmyre showed him his ass then sauntered off, probably to pee in his shoes. The Detective picked the mail up off the floor where it landed from being shoved in the slot in the door. He needed to get a mailbox. What genius thought people wanted to walk in their door and trip on their mail?
There were six messages on the machine. Two were automated loan scams, one was from his Mother, and the other two were from people calling him back with information about the case. He was one of those cops that’d rather have the information as soon as he could, so he gave out his home number. He used his cell phone for personal calls. Anything that went through the switchboard to his desk phone got routed to his cell when he was out. He felt bad about not giving his mother his cell number, but he always called her back and she knew that if it was an emergency she should call the precinct.
One of the messages about the case was from a friend who’d been a Dentist in the Army. The Detective had sent him a package with the details of the case. It wasn’t something he was supposed to do, but he did it anyway. He was supposed to use the experts on retainer through the city. They’d say what you wanted, even if it wasn’t the truth. His dentist friend was a mystery nut and until now he’d not had a reason to use him. The message was simple. He wanted to meet.
The second message concerned the china. The tea sets were all bone china. They still hadn’t found any maker’s marks on them but they were going to run the patterns by an expert at an auction house. They’d probably been picked-up at estate sales. The Detective wouldn’t be surprised if the perp had been collecting them for years. The good ones always looked ahead. If the perp had been real smart he would have paid cash and not bought them in the last few years.
The last message was from Kris. She was calling to let him know she was sick and had switched shifts. It looked like he was staying in. He went into the kitchen and opened a can of food for the cat. Then, he poured himself two fingers of Knob Creek and picked up the phone and called his Mom.
He fell asleep on the sofa watching a Western he’d seen a thousand times. The whiskey made the sleep come faster. Just before he completely went under he felt the familiar weight of Mr. Squigmyre jumping up onto his chest. He went deep to the warmth and the sound of the cat purring on his chest.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t been home for two days. The cat was pissed. As soon as The Detective walked in the door Mr. Squigmyre showed him his ass then sauntered off, probably to pee in his shoes. The Detective picked the mail up off the floor where it landed from being shoved in the slot in the door. He needed to get a mailbox. What genius thought people wanted to walk in their door and trip on their mail?
There were six messages on the machine. Two were automated loan scams, one was from his Mother, and the other two were from people calling him back with information about the case. He was one of those cops that’d rather have the information as soon as he could, so he gave out his home number. He used his cell phone for personal calls. Anything that went through the switchboard to his desk phone got routed to his cell when he was out. He felt bad about not giving his mother his cell number, but he always called her back and she knew that if it was an emergency she should call the precinct.
One of the messages about the case was from a friend who’d been a Dentist in the Army. The Detective had sent him a package with the details of the case. It wasn’t something he was supposed to do, but he did it anyway. He was supposed to use the experts on retainer through the city. They’d say what you wanted, even if it wasn’t the truth. His dentist friend was a mystery nut and until now he’d not had a reason to use him. The message was simple. He wanted to meet.
The second message concerned the china. The tea sets were all bone china. They still hadn’t found any maker’s marks on them but they were going to run the patterns by an expert at an auction house. They’d probably been picked-up at estate sales. The Detective wouldn’t be surprised if the perp had been collecting them for years. The good ones always looked ahead. If the perp had been real smart he would have paid cash and not bought them in the last few years.
The last message was from Kris. She was calling to let him know she was sick and had switched shifts. It looked like he was staying in. He went into the kitchen and opened a can of food for the cat. Then, he poured himself two fingers of Knob Creek and picked up the phone and called his Mom.
He fell asleep on the sofa watching a Western he’d seen a thousand times. The whiskey made the sleep come faster. Just before he completely went under he felt the familiar weight of Mr. Squigmyre jumping up onto his chest. He went deep to the warmth and the sound of the cat purring on his chest.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Sicko Sneak Previews
SICKO is rolling out early for a series of sneak peaks on Saturday night. Unfortunately none of them are in TN where the majority of the six of you that read my blog reside, but they're in the big cities for the rest of you. CLICK HERE to see where it's showing. I really do think it's worth seeing. Don't worry, I'm not getting anything to plug it. That's how strongly I feel about it. After seeing it I wondered if my monthly payments to KP would be better going into an ING Orange account instead.
Thus concludes the advertising portion of today's blog.
Thus concludes the advertising portion of today's blog.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Detective [Part V]
PART V – The Lab
The lab was the antithesis of the Precinct house. It was spotless and didn’t smell like last nights meatballs. It had a welcoming open architecture of glass and the natural light poured into the access corridors. The labs themselves were more controlled. The Detective liked it here. No matter what the temperature outside was, The Lab was a constant 68.
He signed in and then took the elevator to the third floor where he hoped they could fit the sequencing of the tooth’s DNA into the queue so it didn’t have to wait another week. He was pretty sure that if it went that long he’d end up getting the report just as the phone rang telling him it was time for another tea party.
The truth was it’d take too long anyway. The Lab didn’t actually do the sequencing anyway. Like everything else these days it got outsourced, sent off to be processed at an industrial for-profit lab. However, they could give it priority nudge. And if he played his cards right they would. The girl who ran the check-in desk had a thing for him. He’d have one right back for her if he thought it’d do either of them any good.
She smiled as he walked through the front doors. She always did. Then again it was easy to smile in a bright place like this. He wondered if she still smiled when the lights went out at night. She gave him a playful once over then asked, “Did you bring me something nice?”
The Detective pulled the jar from his pocket and set it on the counter. Somehow that single tooth grinned. “I hope you got a sweet tooth,” he said. She laughed a little. Then she noticed the blood on the tooth and got to work.
“What is this, number four?”
“Lucky number four.”
“I bet you need a rush.”
“I bet you’re right.”
“Only if you buy me drink.”
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if I get the results back in three days.”
“You’re on.” She grabbed the jar and dropped it into a padded envelope as the label printed out. She’d been typing away the whole time.
Just then the FedEx Guy walked through the front door. She buzzed him in and she handed him the envelope. He put it with the pile in the corner and started running his magic box over each label.
“Would you have bet me if he’d already picked-up for the day?”
“Yep. Then I would have driven it to the airport myself.”
“Call me in three days and we’ll see where we stand.”
“Why don’t I call you in two?”
“Why don’tcha?”
With that he turned and didn’t look back. He felt a little bad about the fact that even if he did get the results back in three days all she’d get was a drink. He’d have Kris call him and make an excuse about the case and leave her sitting in the restaurant just before the food got there. He’d drop enough money to cover the meal and an after dinner bottle of wine so she could hate him in the morning. Then he’d go to the bar and get good and drunk for being such a bastard. But, she had a thing for him, and he’d have one for her too if he thought it’d do either of them any good.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
The lab was the antithesis of the Precinct house. It was spotless and didn’t smell like last nights meatballs. It had a welcoming open architecture of glass and the natural light poured into the access corridors. The labs themselves were more controlled. The Detective liked it here. No matter what the temperature outside was, The Lab was a constant 68.
He signed in and then took the elevator to the third floor where he hoped they could fit the sequencing of the tooth’s DNA into the queue so it didn’t have to wait another week. He was pretty sure that if it went that long he’d end up getting the report just as the phone rang telling him it was time for another tea party.
The truth was it’d take too long anyway. The Lab didn’t actually do the sequencing anyway. Like everything else these days it got outsourced, sent off to be processed at an industrial for-profit lab. However, they could give it priority nudge. And if he played his cards right they would. The girl who ran the check-in desk had a thing for him. He’d have one right back for her if he thought it’d do either of them any good.
She smiled as he walked through the front doors. She always did. Then again it was easy to smile in a bright place like this. He wondered if she still smiled when the lights went out at night. She gave him a playful once over then asked, “Did you bring me something nice?”
The Detective pulled the jar from his pocket and set it on the counter. Somehow that single tooth grinned. “I hope you got a sweet tooth,” he said. She laughed a little. Then she noticed the blood on the tooth and got to work.
“What is this, number four?”
“Lucky number four.”
“I bet you need a rush.”
“I bet you’re right.”
“Only if you buy me drink.”
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if I get the results back in three days.”
“You’re on.” She grabbed the jar and dropped it into a padded envelope as the label printed out. She’d been typing away the whole time.
Just then the FedEx Guy walked through the front door. She buzzed him in and she handed him the envelope. He put it with the pile in the corner and started running his magic box over each label.
“Would you have bet me if he’d already picked-up for the day?”
“Yep. Then I would have driven it to the airport myself.”
“Call me in three days and we’ll see where we stand.”
“Why don’t I call you in two?”
“Why don’tcha?”
With that he turned and didn’t look back. He felt a little bad about the fact that even if he did get the results back in three days all she’d get was a drink. He’d have Kris call him and make an excuse about the case and leave her sitting in the restaurant just before the food got there. He’d drop enough money to cover the meal and an after dinner bottle of wine so she could hate him in the morning. Then he’d go to the bar and get good and drunk for being such a bastard. But, she had a thing for him, and he’d have one for her too if he thought it’d do either of them any good.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sicko
I just got done watching Michael Moore's new documentary SICKO. It's been torrented and seems to be spreading faster than a pandemic across the interwub. There seems to be a bit of fear it'll be seized since it contains footage, and a pretty significant bit of narrative that occurs in Cuba and Homeland Security has said he entered the country illegally and might move to seize the film before it's been released. This won't happen of course, especially not now, and probably wouldn't have anyway, but the bringing of charges against him and his crew is still feasible. It's his best work. I've had issues in the past with bits of his films where he integrates himself into the narrative and have thought in the past he sometimes took things well beyond documentary. Not this time. See it. Make your own decision about what it says, but see it. I oddly hope that his next subject is immigration. It was fascinating without an audience, but would be ten times more so with one. This is the kind of film you see with friends then go have a cup of coffee and talk about.
The Detective [Part IV]
PART IV - The Street
The street was hard an unrelenting. Even the few blocks from the car park to the lab made his feet hurt. If he wasn’t walking he was driving and if he wasn’t driving he was sitting. Most days he wished he could teleport. Maybe in the future they’d figure out away to let cops teleport. That would be the shit.
A block from the lab, The Detective watched as an all too familiar scene played out in front of him on the sidewalk. A homeless guy in a wheelchair sat outside a bank hitting up the customers. It was a smart play, make them feel guilty just after they’ve gotten money or deposited some. Sure, some people were inside the bank arguing to keep their house, but they had some change too.
The Detective wasn’t interested in the panhandler. He’d seen plenty. What he enjoyed was watching the mark. He didn’t care about the ones that gave money and cared even less about the ones that just walked by. He looked for the guilty. Studying the body language of the guilty was something he enjoyed more than almost anything but beer, cigarettes and talking to Kris.
Just before he made it to the wheelchair he got what he was looking for. A young guy in his mid to late twenties walked out of the bank and right into the line of fire of the homeless man. Almost before the homeless man said a word, the kid’s hands were in the air and he was shaking his head saying that he was sorry he didn’t have anything, making too big a show, then walking on.
The Detective was about ten paces behind the guy and watched closely as the real nervous dance of guilt began. As the kid got about twenty paces beyond the homeless man his right hand instinctually went for his pants pocket. Schrödinger’s pocket The Detective liked to call it, because just after saying he didn’t have anything the kid realized that the statement may not be true. So, to keep the wiley homeless guy from seeing anything he waited until he’d walked far enough away to have a possible real reason to check his pocket. Until his hand hit coin, there was an equal possibility he hadn’t lied. If he discovered he hadn’t lied, he’d start to bounce, maybe pick-up the pace and look around enjoying the walk,
He’d lied, The Detective could tell. The hand went into the packet, then stopped as it hit coins. Then it felt around and made sure the amount was what he now remembered to have on him. All the excuses for why there might be less money now. The homeless man could have magic powers and teleported the money from his pocket, or maybe he’d hypnotized the young man just long enough to reach into his pocket and take his change. Homeless people can make money disappear. Of course they can.
Then came the guilt. As his hand had hit the coins his shoulders had dropped slightly, then they had relaxed as he realized he still had all his money. Then in the final stage of a process that took less than thirty seconds, the kid sighed and pulled his hand out of his pocket and let his shoulders fall the extra 1/4 of a inch that signaled defeat and therefore guilt.
The Detective smiled. People were so beautifully susceptible to guilt. What was wrong with just not wanting to give someone else your money? Absolutely nothing. As he walked on toward the Lab, he smile to himself, his right hand was in his pocket cradling the jar with the tooth in it.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
The street was hard an unrelenting. Even the few blocks from the car park to the lab made his feet hurt. If he wasn’t walking he was driving and if he wasn’t driving he was sitting. Most days he wished he could teleport. Maybe in the future they’d figure out away to let cops teleport. That would be the shit.
A block from the lab, The Detective watched as an all too familiar scene played out in front of him on the sidewalk. A homeless guy in a wheelchair sat outside a bank hitting up the customers. It was a smart play, make them feel guilty just after they’ve gotten money or deposited some. Sure, some people were inside the bank arguing to keep their house, but they had some change too.
The Detective wasn’t interested in the panhandler. He’d seen plenty. What he enjoyed was watching the mark. He didn’t care about the ones that gave money and cared even less about the ones that just walked by. He looked for the guilty. Studying the body language of the guilty was something he enjoyed more than almost anything but beer, cigarettes and talking to Kris.
Just before he made it to the wheelchair he got what he was looking for. A young guy in his mid to late twenties walked out of the bank and right into the line of fire of the homeless man. Almost before the homeless man said a word, the kid’s hands were in the air and he was shaking his head saying that he was sorry he didn’t have anything, making too big a show, then walking on.
The Detective was about ten paces behind the guy and watched closely as the real nervous dance of guilt began. As the kid got about twenty paces beyond the homeless man his right hand instinctually went for his pants pocket. Schrödinger’s pocket The Detective liked to call it, because just after saying he didn’t have anything the kid realized that the statement may not be true. So, to keep the wiley homeless guy from seeing anything he waited until he’d walked far enough away to have a possible real reason to check his pocket. Until his hand hit coin, there was an equal possibility he hadn’t lied. If he discovered he hadn’t lied, he’d start to bounce, maybe pick-up the pace and look around enjoying the walk,
He’d lied, The Detective could tell. The hand went into the packet, then stopped as it hit coins. Then it felt around and made sure the amount was what he now remembered to have on him. All the excuses for why there might be less money now. The homeless man could have magic powers and teleported the money from his pocket, or maybe he’d hypnotized the young man just long enough to reach into his pocket and take his change. Homeless people can make money disappear. Of course they can.
Then came the guilt. As his hand had hit the coins his shoulders had dropped slightly, then they had relaxed as he realized he still had all his money. Then in the final stage of a process that took less than thirty seconds, the kid sighed and pulled his hand out of his pocket and let his shoulders fall the extra 1/4 of a inch that signaled defeat and therefore guilt.
The Detective smiled. People were so beautifully susceptible to guilt. What was wrong with just not wanting to give someone else your money? Absolutely nothing. As he walked on toward the Lab, he smile to himself, his right hand was in his pocket cradling the jar with the tooth in it.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Detective [Part III]
PART III – The Morgue
The Detective walked into the morgue and found himself smack dab in the middle of a beer and pizza party. It was the monthly reward for the scrubbing down of all surfaces with anti-bacterial foam and the taking of a full inventory of bodies and parts. They even made sure every one was dead by pulling a quick rectal temperature of all of the corpses.
It’d started three years earlier after two bodies went missing and a vicious staff infection almost wiped out two precincts and most of the hospital staff. The staff infection had come from a stiff that turned out to still be alive. The infection was brought under control just before it mutated into a nasty flesh eater. The detective wasn’t sure why they had the party after though. He was pretty sure he could smell fresh vomit and urine just starting to push its way through the thick stench of cleanser. But, that wasn’t his problem.
His problem was that even though there was only a tooth at each of his crime scenes, they had to be kept here until the lab had time to process them. It was a bunch of red tape bullshit left over from the last Medical Examiner who had run the place like his own private museum and had enough clout to have the city codes changed to suit his needs. The Medical Examiner had died of a coronary while cleaning between the tiles of the morgue floor with a Q-Tip and alcohol.
So, all body parts not actively checked out as court required exhibits, or on their way back to whatever family claimed them had to remain under lock and key. This greatly slowed down lab work, since the Lab techs refused to fill out the 27 forms required to check the bits they needed out. They waited until the Primary Detectives got so pissed they went and filled them out themselves. This was why The Detective was here.
His guy on the inside was a narcoleptic former Sysadmin who’d gotten tired of working with warm bodies. Warm bodies had a way of opening their mouths and letting words fall out. The Detective spotted him across the room where he’d fallen asleep with a beer in his hand. It must have just happened since the two people he’d been talking to were still waiting for him to finish what he’d been saying. He’d still talk to “The Warms”, as he called them, once he had a few drinks in him. He could also produce all 27 forms needed to check something out of the morgue by typing a few specifics into a GUI interface he’d designed that’d process everything and spit it out of the printer in triplicate. It cost $100. It was worth it. The program was on his personal laptop only. He gave discounts to those who were directly capable of firing him. They got it for $25.
It took the Detective a few minutes to rouse his guy. The Detective hoped his guy wouldn’t have a hypnopompic hallucination when he woke up or The Detective would have to wait until he came to his senses. Then he’d have to hear about Alien Abductions again. Luckily his guy’s reaction to waking up this time was just a split second of not being able to breathe.
Ten minutes later The Detective was out the door $100 lighter but with a small Jar containing the tooth and a copy of the release order. It’d been almost 36 hours since they’d hit the scene and he’d have to wait another 48 before he had a sample for a DNA match. He wondered sometimes why he even bothered.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
The Detective walked into the morgue and found himself smack dab in the middle of a beer and pizza party. It was the monthly reward for the scrubbing down of all surfaces with anti-bacterial foam and the taking of a full inventory of bodies and parts. They even made sure every one was dead by pulling a quick rectal temperature of all of the corpses.
It’d started three years earlier after two bodies went missing and a vicious staff infection almost wiped out two precincts and most of the hospital staff. The staff infection had come from a stiff that turned out to still be alive. The infection was brought under control just before it mutated into a nasty flesh eater. The detective wasn’t sure why they had the party after though. He was pretty sure he could smell fresh vomit and urine just starting to push its way through the thick stench of cleanser. But, that wasn’t his problem.
His problem was that even though there was only a tooth at each of his crime scenes, they had to be kept here until the lab had time to process them. It was a bunch of red tape bullshit left over from the last Medical Examiner who had run the place like his own private museum and had enough clout to have the city codes changed to suit his needs. The Medical Examiner had died of a coronary while cleaning between the tiles of the morgue floor with a Q-Tip and alcohol.
So, all body parts not actively checked out as court required exhibits, or on their way back to whatever family claimed them had to remain under lock and key. This greatly slowed down lab work, since the Lab techs refused to fill out the 27 forms required to check the bits they needed out. They waited until the Primary Detectives got so pissed they went and filled them out themselves. This was why The Detective was here.
His guy on the inside was a narcoleptic former Sysadmin who’d gotten tired of working with warm bodies. Warm bodies had a way of opening their mouths and letting words fall out. The Detective spotted him across the room where he’d fallen asleep with a beer in his hand. It must have just happened since the two people he’d been talking to were still waiting for him to finish what he’d been saying. He’d still talk to “The Warms”, as he called them, once he had a few drinks in him. He could also produce all 27 forms needed to check something out of the morgue by typing a few specifics into a GUI interface he’d designed that’d process everything and spit it out of the printer in triplicate. It cost $100. It was worth it. The program was on his personal laptop only. He gave discounts to those who were directly capable of firing him. They got it for $25.
It took the Detective a few minutes to rouse his guy. The Detective hoped his guy wouldn’t have a hypnopompic hallucination when he woke up or The Detective would have to wait until he came to his senses. Then he’d have to hear about Alien Abductions again. Luckily his guy’s reaction to waking up this time was just a split second of not being able to breathe.
Ten minutes later The Detective was out the door $100 lighter but with a small Jar containing the tooth and a copy of the release order. It’d been almost 36 hours since they’d hit the scene and he’d have to wait another 48 before he had a sample for a DNA match. He wondered sometimes why he even bothered.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Master has returned
None of you probably care, or even know what I’m talking about, but I’m giddy as a schoolgirl. The Master has returned to Doctor Who. Think Moriarty to Holmes. This third season of the New Doctor Who has been lackluster at best, but these last five episodes or so have been lovely and it is possibly the only show on television anywhere that can make me feel twelve again. It’s kind of like time traveling really. I truly wish I could make you all understand, but it's impossible. I've watched 29 seasons of this show in my short life and it is one of the few constants that give me hope. Of course this ups my Dork status to an almost unbearable level, but so be it.
The Detective [Part II]
PART II – Home
The Bar was the only place he felt comfortable. He took to his stool at the far end of the bar near the register. The spot allowed a complete view of the whole place and especially of the entrance to his right. It also allowed him to talk to the bartender Kris, who was the only person he cared to talk to. She was easy on the eyes too, which helped.
Of course this was the worst of his habits. He fell for female bartenders the way other people fell for pop stars or actors. He wasn’t entirely positive, but he was pretty sure it had to do with the fact that they were nice to him and unattainable. It was a simple arrangement that required no commitment and allowed him to always interact with them with a drink in his hand. It was easier this way, on him at least.
Kris saw him from across the bar and smiled. She finished the pour she was working on then walked his way. “Yeah”, she said smiling and clapped her hands together as though it mattered. “Black and Tan?” She said, as a formality that bordered on ritual.
“That’ll do,” he said and smiled back. They were like two Cold War agents giving the sign/cosign, which they had done almost every day for the last two years. It always fucked up his schedule when she was out sick or on vacation. When her absence coincided with a bad case, it was worse.
She centered him and he could never quite figure out why. That was his own doing, because he simply refused to investigate it. Everything he investigated eventually revealed to him its truth, and he didn’t want to know the truth about this. It was too dangerous. His interactions with Kris were too important. He liked to feel like they had a special bond. He needed to.
The next day was consumed by paperwork. The Detective was pretty sure that if each primary had a secretary that could do the paperwork the world required of the there would be a higher close rate. It was for the best today though. He could smell the “Black and Tans” coming from his pores.
The case was confusing the hell out of him so he’d taken it out on his liver. Well, his liver and his brain. But, no matter how much he drank, his brain always remembered. He’d tried years ago to erase it but had learned it was impossible. From that point on he’d simply focused on his liver. He was pretty sure he could forget everything once he died. He wasn’t sure of that, but it was worth a shot.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
The Bar was the only place he felt comfortable. He took to his stool at the far end of the bar near the register. The spot allowed a complete view of the whole place and especially of the entrance to his right. It also allowed him to talk to the bartender Kris, who was the only person he cared to talk to. She was easy on the eyes too, which helped.
Of course this was the worst of his habits. He fell for female bartenders the way other people fell for pop stars or actors. He wasn’t entirely positive, but he was pretty sure it had to do with the fact that they were nice to him and unattainable. It was a simple arrangement that required no commitment and allowed him to always interact with them with a drink in his hand. It was easier this way, on him at least.
Kris saw him from across the bar and smiled. She finished the pour she was working on then walked his way. “Yeah”, she said smiling and clapped her hands together as though it mattered. “Black and Tan?” She said, as a formality that bordered on ritual.
“That’ll do,” he said and smiled back. They were like two Cold War agents giving the sign/cosign, which they had done almost every day for the last two years. It always fucked up his schedule when she was out sick or on vacation. When her absence coincided with a bad case, it was worse.
She centered him and he could never quite figure out why. That was his own doing, because he simply refused to investigate it. Everything he investigated eventually revealed to him its truth, and he didn’t want to know the truth about this. It was too dangerous. His interactions with Kris were too important. He liked to feel like they had a special bond. He needed to.
The next day was consumed by paperwork. The Detective was pretty sure that if each primary had a secretary that could do the paperwork the world required of the there would be a higher close rate. It was for the best today though. He could smell the “Black and Tans” coming from his pores.
The case was confusing the hell out of him so he’d taken it out on his liver. Well, his liver and his brain. But, no matter how much he drank, his brain always remembered. He’d tried years ago to erase it but had learned it was impossible. From that point on he’d simply focused on his liver. He was pretty sure he could forget everything once he died. He wasn’t sure of that, but it was worth a shot.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Detective [Part I]
[An old Idea I'm playing around with.]
THE DETECTIVE
Almost nothing was left. Everything had been cleaned. It might even be said that some of the surfaces had been polished. The only sign of foul play was on the coffee table where a tea service rested still warm to the touch. A single cup had been poured, and on the lip of the saucer, resting against the base of the cup, was a single bloody molar.
The slight abrasions around the crown of the tooth hinted at unprofessional extraction techniques and so the first thing The Detective began to actually contemplate was the brand of pliers that had been used. The second thing he thought about was whether he should make an appointment to see a dentist. It had been seven years since the last time he’d gone and sometimes his amalgam fillings would hum.
Today though, his teeth just hurt. He’d learned over the years to expect this after a hard night of drinking. This was one of the reasons he hadn’t been to see a Dentist in so many years. His teeth hurt most days and he already knew why. Rubbing his jaw and probing his corresponding molar with his index finger, he signaled the photographer to capture the aspects of the cup and by proximity the molar as well.
There were no witnesses to interview and the uniforms were already chatting up the neighbors so The Detective went out onto the front porch and lit a cigarette. He was waiting for the forensic team to arrive, which was a waste of time. As the smoke rolled up his lip and into his nose The Detective stared at the “For Sale” sign staked into the front lawn. The warning in red and white, slapped crooked across its front, screamed SOLD. After he was finished here he doubted the deal would go through.
People in general didn’t like death. They didn’t like ambiguity even more. Someone had lost a tooth here. More importantly they had lost it by force. The Detective was positive that the force applied had not been done so by the original owner of the tooth. Since no one had lived in the house for over a year he was pretty sure that the coffee table and tea set were new to the scene as well. He’d been witness to this little macabre tableau three other times in the last two weeks. So far the teeth had been from three different people. He was sure the forth would be no different.
The tea was always still warm when they got there. The lab had pronounced it to be Yin Zhen Bai Hao (Silver Needle), a high-grade white tea produced in the Fuding and Zhenhe districts of Fujian, China. The ideal water temperature to brew white tea is between 175 and 180 degrees Fahrenheit. You’re only supposed to let it steep for two minutes. It can be steeped multiple times, revealing new flavors with each pass. The cup is always filled with what the lab believes to be the second steeping. Our guy likes tea, The Detective thought. He must take his cup with him.
He couldn’t stop talking to himself as he took the last drag off the cigarette, That’s what I get for answering the phone. A psychopathic Tooth Fairy with a tea fetish. Next time it rang he was going for a walk.
At his car he stabbed out the butt in the ashtray then called in. By the time the scene was wrapped, his day would be done. He could taste the end of a day like some people could smell rain coming. Above him the clouds lumbered dark and angry across the sky and snow began to fall.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
THE DETECTIVE
Almost nothing was left. Everything had been cleaned. It might even be said that some of the surfaces had been polished. The only sign of foul play was on the coffee table where a tea service rested still warm to the touch. A single cup had been poured, and on the lip of the saucer, resting against the base of the cup, was a single bloody molar.
The slight abrasions around the crown of the tooth hinted at unprofessional extraction techniques and so the first thing The Detective began to actually contemplate was the brand of pliers that had been used. The second thing he thought about was whether he should make an appointment to see a dentist. It had been seven years since the last time he’d gone and sometimes his amalgam fillings would hum.
Today though, his teeth just hurt. He’d learned over the years to expect this after a hard night of drinking. This was one of the reasons he hadn’t been to see a Dentist in so many years. His teeth hurt most days and he already knew why. Rubbing his jaw and probing his corresponding molar with his index finger, he signaled the photographer to capture the aspects of the cup and by proximity the molar as well.
There were no witnesses to interview and the uniforms were already chatting up the neighbors so The Detective went out onto the front porch and lit a cigarette. He was waiting for the forensic team to arrive, which was a waste of time. As the smoke rolled up his lip and into his nose The Detective stared at the “For Sale” sign staked into the front lawn. The warning in red and white, slapped crooked across its front, screamed SOLD. After he was finished here he doubted the deal would go through.
People in general didn’t like death. They didn’t like ambiguity even more. Someone had lost a tooth here. More importantly they had lost it by force. The Detective was positive that the force applied had not been done so by the original owner of the tooth. Since no one had lived in the house for over a year he was pretty sure that the coffee table and tea set were new to the scene as well. He’d been witness to this little macabre tableau three other times in the last two weeks. So far the teeth had been from three different people. He was sure the forth would be no different.
The tea was always still warm when they got there. The lab had pronounced it to be Yin Zhen Bai Hao (Silver Needle), a high-grade white tea produced in the Fuding and Zhenhe districts of Fujian, China. The ideal water temperature to brew white tea is between 175 and 180 degrees Fahrenheit. You’re only supposed to let it steep for two minutes. It can be steeped multiple times, revealing new flavors with each pass. The cup is always filled with what the lab believes to be the second steeping. Our guy likes tea, The Detective thought. He must take his cup with him.
He couldn’t stop talking to himself as he took the last drag off the cigarette, That’s what I get for answering the phone. A psychopathic Tooth Fairy with a tea fetish. Next time it rang he was going for a walk.
At his car he stabbed out the butt in the ashtray then called in. By the time the scene was wrapped, his day would be done. He could taste the end of a day like some people could smell rain coming. Above him the clouds lumbered dark and angry across the sky and snow began to fall.
[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
On the other hand...
...I'm just getting into OCTOBER ROAD and oddly enough I'm enjoying it. Can't really say why, but it has nice bits for what it is.
Review: John from Cincinnati
JOHN FROM CINCINNATI is peculiar to say the least. It isn’t the plot, though it does run a bit existential, and it isn’t the fact that if more Jesus Christ references were made you’d think the writers had gone to the Spielberg school of AI (garnering a degree in “shoving it down the throat”. The major problem with the show is that Milch and the other writers seem to have not left the cadence of DEADWOOD behind. The dialogue has an identical timbre and cadence with the added tropes of modern vernacular. It’s truly bazaar. The story itself is definitely weak, but not unbearable. However, if John isn’t an Angel sent to oversee the new Christ, then he must be Christ himself. I don’t necessarily mean literally in the Judeo Christian way, but definitely within the symbolic Mysticism running so rampant through the episode. How else could one explain the youngest Yost child bringing a dead bird back to life and the grandfather of said child floating literally off of the ground. However the most bazaar thing by far is that John seems to empathically communicate on a base emotional level with the youngest Yost prodigy Shaun by some odd dance maneuver that he teaches the young boy which had better pay off the same way Owen Meany’s Hoop Shot did. However, I have to say I didn’t really enjoy it enough to stick around and find out. BTW, in what odd system did Milch and his writers think that John’s “pocket of opportunity/convenience” would not seem both a little odd and truly unbelievable? It was one of the worst story conceits I’ve seen in years. I have no idea why HBO thought to kill Deadwood due to budgetary reasons just to bring this to the screen. Albrecht had better press hitting his girlfriend than this show is going to generate.
Trust me, look at the dialogue and tell me I’m insane. What were they thinking? I’ll watch two more if I can, but it had better evolve into something worth watching or I’ll have to say something nasty about the fact that this beat out DEADWOOD.
BTW, who gives a flying F%$K about surfing in the US but the limited coastal population? I know surfers, but I don’t see anything in this show that would attract them. They’d rather watch surfing documentaries and a fourth season of Deadwood. The again I don't know that many surfers.
How someone like me who loves "reality based fantasy" could not enjoy this show troubles me. It's just not up to snuff, and if it's too weird for me, It's probably too weird for the majority of the population.
Nothing to see here. Back to work.
Trust me, look at the dialogue and tell me I’m insane. What were they thinking? I’ll watch two more if I can, but it had better evolve into something worth watching or I’ll have to say something nasty about the fact that this beat out DEADWOOD.
BTW, who gives a flying F%$K about surfing in the US but the limited coastal population? I know surfers, but I don’t see anything in this show that would attract them. They’d rather watch surfing documentaries and a fourth season of Deadwood. The again I don't know that many surfers.
How someone like me who loves "reality based fantasy" could not enjoy this show troubles me. It's just not up to snuff, and if it's too weird for me, It's probably too weird for the majority of the population.
Nothing to see here. Back to work.
Profanity Report
Just for the S&Gs, I ran the statistics report in Final Draft on the first hour of CA. Part of the report is a profanity report, which is mainly why I ran the report. As soon as I saw it listed as part of the report, I couldn't resist. Although in the end it's funny, it was worse the first time around. I guess I keep slowly removing the curse words as I rewrite. That's kind of depressing really.
PROFANITY
This profanity report should be used as a general guide to the profanity content of your script. Some of the items in this report may not be actual profanity and other real instances in your script may have been missed.
"Ass" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
44
It is spoken by the following characters:
QUIET HORSE
"Fart" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
29
It is spoken by the following characters:
MR. O’CASEY
So now I can't stop. Here are the ones for Fabulon and Valentine as well. Valentine wins hands down.
FABULON
"Damn" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
25
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER
"Shit" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
106
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER
VALENTINE
"Ass" (3 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
38, 82, 94
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER MICHAEL, MS. JENKINS, VALENTINE
"Bitch" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
70
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE
"Damn" (2 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
8, 48
It is spoken by the following characters:
GRIGORI, VALENTINE
"Dick" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
37
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE
"Fuck" (4 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
8, 25, 58, 80
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE, VOICE
"Fucking" (2 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
28, 38
It is spoken by the following characters:
MAN IN SUIT, VALENTINE
"Shit" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
25
It is spoken by the following characters:
MAN IN SUIT
It's a little odd in the end though, I always felt there was more in these than there is. I must be censoring myself on the page but not in the draft in my mind. I'm not sure that's a good thing. So anyone reading this and currently writing something in FInal Draft, run the profanity report on what you're working on and post it here in the comments.
PROFANITY
This profanity report should be used as a general guide to the profanity content of your script. Some of the items in this report may not be actual profanity and other real instances in your script may have been missed.
"Ass" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
44
It is spoken by the following characters:
QUIET HORSE
"Fart" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
29
It is spoken by the following characters:
MR. O’CASEY
So now I can't stop. Here are the ones for Fabulon and Valentine as well. Valentine wins hands down.
FABULON
"Damn" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
25
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER
"Shit" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
106
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER
VALENTINE
"Ass" (3 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
38, 82, 94
It is spoken by the following characters:
FATHER MICHAEL, MS. JENKINS, VALENTINE
"Bitch" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
70
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE
"Damn" (2 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
8, 48
It is spoken by the following characters:
GRIGORI, VALENTINE
"Dick" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
37
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE
"Fuck" (4 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
8, 25, 58, 80
It is spoken by the following characters:
VALENTINE, VOICE
"Fucking" (2 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
28, 38
It is spoken by the following characters:
MAN IN SUIT, VALENTINE
"Shit" (1 occurrences)
It appears on the following pages:
25
It is spoken by the following characters:
MAN IN SUIT
It's a little odd in the end though, I always felt there was more in these than there is. I must be censoring myself on the page but not in the draft in my mind. I'm not sure that's a good thing. So anyone reading this and currently writing something in FInal Draft, run the profanity report on what you're working on and post it here in the comments.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Entertainment Cabal
Went to an Alumni gathering this evening. A group of Alums from Columbia are trying to get a sort of Entertainment Cabal off the ground so we can help Skull and Bones each other to the top. I’ve never been much of an Alumni sort of person. I did however get the benefit of seeing a number of people I went to school with and had yet to make contact with here in LA. I also got to see a few people who came out from NY for the event. The best part was discovering how much I’m not alone in my effort to simply survive out here. I’m sure some are finding it more difficult than I am and others less so, but very few I talked to were riding high as it were. All in all it was an enjoyable evening. It got a bit crowded at the end, so I said goodbye to the people I could find in the dark and skulked on home. Hopefully something will come out of all this. Many people have put great work and thought into it. I’d host the next get together myself, but I could really one entertain 8 people or so in my apartment, so maybe I’ll wait until I find something bigger, or at least until I can find 7 more chairs.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Cure the homesick blues
I've been getting a little homesick lately, so I've been killing the blues listening to WDVX at the office. It's amassing what a little bluegrass will do for the soul, especially when you're in lA. I feel a little bad since I'm not in a position to support/donate at the moment, but the sweet relief it provides will not soon be forgotten.
I'm posting from the office as well since access at the apartment is completely gone at this moment. I'm hoping it won't last too long.
I'm posting from the office as well since access at the apartment is completely gone at this moment. I'm hoping it won't last too long.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Having fun with History
Yesterday I purchased and downloaded Handel’s Israel and Egypt off of iTunes. It is of course purely for the need to hear it as I write scenes of CA. The reason is that I’ve decided to place a “Perfected Phonograph” into a scene and as luck would have it Edison completed his Perfected Phonograph and sent it to Colonel Gouraud in London in 1888 to generate oversees sales. That same year Colonel Gouraud took the phonograph to The Crystal Palace and at 100 yards away recorded an unknown number of cylinders (2 min a piece) of a 4000 member choir singing Handel’s Israel and Egypt at the Handel festival that had been held roughly every three years since 1857. As of today, only three of the original cylinders still exist and there is no accounting as to how many were originally made. They are the earliest musical recordings still in existence and reside in New Jersey at The Edison National Historic Site.
I haven’t figured out what exactly is on the five I’m bringing back to life, but that’s the joy in doing it. No one can ever say with certainty that they did not at one time exist. I envision the montage sequence I'm writing to begin with the phonograph playing, which would be diegetic sound and then becoming non-diegetic sound of an actual performance suffusing the scene with a mood of foreboding.
I haven’t figured out what exactly is on the five I’m bringing back to life, but that’s the joy in doing it. No one can ever say with certainty that they did not at one time exist. I envision the montage sequence I'm writing to begin with the phonograph playing, which would be diegetic sound and then becoming non-diegetic sound of an actual performance suffusing the scene with a mood of foreboding.
In case you were wondering...
...they taste like a hamburger with a skosh too much dill pickle on them. Not bad actually.
Friday, June 01, 2007
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