Uber! Trover! here's your story (this post is way long)

[clubjockey]

Okay... we're gonna play a game and Uber's gonna splain the rules to you all... and he's gonna say how can play besides him and me and Trover...

I gotta run so I'm leaving this one to Uber to splain...

Here's the start...

Yes its old and some of you will recognize it... sue me, okay?

.......

The cinder drifted purposefully down out of the clear summer sky, as if it were seeking a warm and loving home after a long journey. Tom watched the cinder as it fell. Finally, the cinder nestled comfortably on the open face of his cheeseburger, joining the jalapenos and the mustard in a ballet of intense flavors. Tom put the top bun on his cheeseburger and took a big bite. As the mustard dripped down his chin, Tom looked at the smoldering remains of his bungalow and the weary firefighters as they stowed their gear and began to drive away from the pile of ashes and cinders. Everything that had been his house up until about three hours ago, was now a pile of charcoal. “Damn,” thought Tom, “I wish Lorelei wouldn’t get so angry. Next time I’ll have to hide my lighter.”

………


“Yes… yes… It’s all gone. No, I said ALL of it. Shut up! She probably used the chemicals from the dark room as an accelerant.”

Tom Jorganson was crouched down in a phone booth in the parking lot of a Sunoco station about 5 blocks from what used to be his house, talking into the handset.

“She got pissed off, that’s why! You know what she’s like when she gets mad… Yeah, yeah, I DID do something… but Christ! Since when is kissing somebody grounds for getting your place torched? She’s a psycho. So… can I crash at your place? Shut up! I can’t ask her… I don’t even remember her last name… Julie-something… I just kissed her, she kissed me really, it’s not like we’re dating. No, Lorelei will NOT come do your place, too… Come on Carla! I’m your freaking BROTHER! You gotta let me crash for a day or two… yes, that’s all… a day or two… OR TWO!… Thanks, I’ll be over in a couple of hours… No, I was doing laundry so I have clothes at least.”

Tom stood up and put the handset back on the phone box. Across the street from the Sunoco was a Handi-Mart. Tom crossed over and went inside. The clerk (an elderly frog-faced lady that Tom thought looked like Aunt Bea on a bad day) gave tom the evil eye and glanced repeatedly at the clock by the register (9:45 am) while Tom paid the rest of his laundry quarters out onto the counter for a cold six-pac of Stroh’s. Tom smiled cheerily at her and opened a can as he was leaving.

“Hey! You can’t drink that in here!” croaked Aunt Bea.

“I’m not.” Replied Tom as he went out the door taking a long pull on the blue can.

Tom tossed the bag with the rest of the beers into the open passenger side window of his brown 87 Mazda RX7. The car worked well, but it was really starting to show the wear and tear. Two battered plastic laundry baskets with neatly folded clothes sat in the back seats. He started the car and pulled out of the Sunoco parking lot and headed down Grandville Boulevard toward his sister Carla’s apartment.

Tom had been living with Lorelei Danner for about 7 months (until about 4:00am that morning). At first she was what Tom had described as “Fun dressed in a skirt and high heels”… She was a fixture at nightspots and parties all over town. It got to the point where it was just not the place to be unless Lorelei was there, If she’d been there and had left, the place was passe… if she was supposed to show up later, everyone kept an eye on the door. She was tall and strong and athletic with over-the-counter died blond hair and a warped sense of humor. And she wrestled like animal during sex… and she bit. But, above all else, she had a temper. Tom remembered vividly watching her chase down a guy in an old LTD that had cut her off on the freeway. She chased him to a supermarket parking lot and had managed to rip half the vinyl off his landau roof before the police got there. When he’d first met her, Tom didn’t believe the stories she told about throwing a girl out of a hotel room window or biting a guy’s finger off that pinched her on the butt in a bar, but now he more than half believed them.

Carla lived in an old renovated 1940’s apartment building off Grandville in one of the older parts of town where students and bartenders and topless dancers and artists lived. When she answered his knock Carla greeted him with a cup of instant coffee and a yawn. 10:30 was a little early for her. She went back into her bedroom to change out of the XXXL football practice jersey she slept in, and Tom went for the shower.

“Hey,” called Tom over the water sounds. “Can I tell Mike he can call me here if he needs to?”

Carla stuck her head into the bathroom. “You are NOT moving in here, Tom! And I am NOT taking your phone calls for you! Your psycho bimbo torches your house and all your camera gear, fine… that’s what you get for the sex. But I’m not getting caught in your blast radius! Mike can call you at the restaurant.”

“The restaurant! Crap!” said Tom turning off the water and jumping out of the shower. “I’m supposed to meet Mike and Shelton!”


………….


“Feldspar” was a fairly new, trendy, cutting edge regional American cuisine restaurant on Thompsonville avenue in that part of town where old mid-sized manufacturing and warehouse buildings were being turned into lofts and condos and bars and clubs. The façade was distressed brick and beam and a sign made of sheet metal and purple neon piping hung over the old barn-style doors. Tom had been a line cook and now was a souse chef there. This early the place was not open, but a few prep cooks and the cleaning staff were around busying themselves for the dinner rush later that evening. Tom pulled up with a screech in front and hurriedly walked into the room.

It was cool and dark with a smell of air-conditioning and salmon and burnt coffee. Seated at the sleek bar at the front end or the dining room were two men. One was short and slender and moved with sharp quick gestures. He was about Tom’s age and was clearly nervous because he was lighting what looked like his third cigarette. Mike never smoked unless he was drinking or he was nervous. And the ashtray in front of him was filling up. The other man was much bigger and more heavily set. He wore a very expensive suit and a silk tie, but it didn’t hide the fact that he had been a hockey player when he was young… he was muscular and a little heavier than he needed to be, but still very imposing. His face was scared and his nose had been repeatedly broken. He was Ernie Shelton.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” said Tom, sliding onto a stool next to Mike, “I’ve had a… uh… a hell of a day so far.”

“Yeah, man. We heard. You okay?” asked Mike.

“Yeah… I’m good… I was doing laundry. I think I’m still kinda in shock a little. I called the insurance company, they’re looking into it.”

“The rumor is it was arson.” Said Shelton flatly.

“I don’t know. I doubt it.” Lied Tom.

“How’s Lorelei?” asked Shelton.

“Don’t know. She’s not around.”

“She wasn’t in the building was she?”

“No, her car is gone, the firemen didn’t find any bodies. She’s just gone. But you know her, she’ll turn up soon.” Laughed Tom as best he could.

“What about your camera stuff? Your prints and negatives? Is that all destroyed?” Asked Shelton. Tom thought he sensed some tension in his voice.

Tom worked freelance as a photographer… mostly portrait stuff… rich moms wanting family layouts. Teenage girls (and boys) wanting to be models and wanting test shots. Crazy people wanting 64 X64’s of their pet Maltese. Shelton had hired him to do some family work. A couple of sitting in his huge home of him and his wife and their two daughters not too long ago. Tom had done the prints, but had wanted to do a couple of re-prints from the negatives before he turned the whole thing over to Shelton.

“Yeah, it was all there… a lot of it was in the safe, though. The insurance company took it to examine the contents the negatives at least should be fine.” Said Tom. “I’m out a lot of money in cameras but the negs should be good.

“When do you get those back?” asked Shelton.

“Tomorrow maybe?” Said Tom.

“I’d like to get those negatives as soon as possible, please.” Said Shelton. He was pretty intense.

“Yeah… I’ll call you.” Said Tom.

“Sorry for your distress.” said Shelton with a smile. He clapped Tom very hard on the shoulder, enough to make Tom flinch, and he left.

“What the hell was that about?” Asked Tom after Shelton was safely gone.

“I don’t know,” said Mike. “But if you’d have been 10 minutes later I think he was gonna break me in two. Get that guy his stuff and be done with him. Big ugly rich guys in fancy suits and broken up faces make me think Mob, and I don’t like it.”


This post was edited on 5/6 8:08 PM by clubjockeyif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}

 

[Uber]

RULES!

Rules are good, here they are:

1. Don't step on other peoples story. If somebody puts a character in jail don't suddenly have them in Aruba playing naked ping pong.

2. Don't be a jackass. Goat I'm looking at you.

3. This isn't the short book title thread, put some meat in your posts.

4. If you don't understand what the shift key does, nor where one of these ";" would go, stay the hell away from the thread.

5. This is not the thread to play silly buggers in. That can be done in the rest of the forum. If you play silly buggers in my thread I will in turn play silly buggers with you, and I have been playing for much longer then you have and I am very very good.

6. If you get a spark to write something post to the effect that you're going to take it from there.

You then have two business days to run with it or somebody else can take it away.

7. No furry porn. Just no.
This post was edited on 5/5 4:24 PM by Uberif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}

 

[trover]

I'll take installment two

Posted it under CJs.
This post was edited on 5/6 6:14 PM by troverif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}

 

[trover]

Chapter 2 (Way, way long)

CHAPTER TWO


With a reassuring touch to his still sore right side jaw, Trevor Schneider shifted his weight slightly, then moved his hand to the gear shift as his foot found the clutch, all one smooth movement, leg and arm perfectly in synch. For a moment, he listened to the soft purr of his new Jeep Wrangler, sniffed the new car smell, a scent of freshness, un-natural of course -- manufactured, but a fragrance of upholstery and leather almost as intoxicating as the smell of a woman in heat. He smiled at that thought, remembering last night, the hours spent celebrating his promotion: the presentation of the car, the hot steamy sex, both wrapped in satin, ribbons and sheets respectively.

The smile made Trevor wince and his hand flew to his jaw. “Damn periodontist,” he muttered. “Great timing that was.” He wondered how long before he could chew again, then frowned at the thought of tonight’s cold soup, cringing as even that slight movement reminded him that the miracle of Novocain was spent. He twisted his rear view mirror, saw the lack of symmetry the swelling caused, then turned his eyes to the vial of Vicodin on the passenger seat. He shook his head, and palming the vial, he dropped it into the side-pocket of his sports coat. There’d be time for that later, if the pain was too distracting. For now, he’d prefer to be fully alert for his first day as Office Manager, Claims for All-Country Insurance.

Trevor removed the key, pocketed it, then stepped out of his new prize, briefcase in hand. Standing back, he admired the polished black sheen of his new wheels, the shiny raised letters that told the world that here was a man who liked it rough. His chest swelled and he tightened his stomach, imagining the return of the six packs under his starched white shirt that six years of marriage had swelled to the dimensions of a starter keg. His steps were long and smooth as he moved to the aluminum and glass door that split the Bedford limestone and wide windows of his offices, a converted 50s residence that now housed Trevor and his claims staff, some thirty-eight strong, adjustors, staff and their records and computer equipment.

Shirley, the receptionist from hell, with her too long nails, her pancake makeup and her beehive hair, shellacked no doubt with something from the shelves of the A-1 Hardware store across the street, greeted him with a broad smile. “Well, well, ‘bout time, big shot. How’d the dentist appointment go?”

Trevor put a hand to his jaw. “Never, ever go to a periodontist,” he said. “Better to have your ‘eeth fall out.”

“What? No pain pills?”

Trevor nodded, trying to keep jaw movement to a minimum. He reached over to the pocket-board hanging on the wall, removed a stack of yellow message slips.

“Then you should be feeling no pain, right? Hate to have you suffering on your first day as boss.”

Trevor shrugged. “See ‘ow ‘ong…can go,” he managed.

“That’s nuts, Trevor. Pain pills are given for a reason, dummy. Hell, if you’re not gonna use ‘em, I got this ache in my back…” Her Tammy Faye eyes grew larger in their coal-streaked sockets.

Trevor groaned, the sound half grunt, half growl.

“Okay, I get it,” Shirley said, her lips forming a half-pout and her eyes drooping back to normal sized coal-pits.

“Anythin’ new?” Trevor said, keeping his mouth-movement to a minimum.

“Yeah, house fire, probably arson, fire marshall’s office says. They’re still investigating. We got the call first thing. Guy’s claiming his girlfriend set it, some kinda jealous rage. He’s a photographer. Fire guys think somebody used some ‘o his dark room stuff as an accelerant.”

“Who’s working it?” The words came out as “Ooo’s oorking ut?”

“Jerry gave it to Sam.”

Trevor nodded. Jerry was his assistant, Sam his top fire adjuster.

He glanced at the room behind him, the cubicles hiding many of the personnel, but keyboard clatter betrayed their presence despite acoustic tiles in the ceiling and a rug-like covering on the cubicle walls. He saw Jerry wave from his office on the far side, and he returned the gesture, before turning back to Shirley.

‘”Old my calls, 'kay?” He pointed to the phone, waved his free hand.

“Why don’t you just take the damn pills, Trevor? Trying to be a macho tough guy? I saw that new car.” She pursed her gaudy red lips.

He shifted his briefcase to his other hand, fingered the pillbox in his pocket.

“Want me to get you some coffee for downing them? It’s not in my job description, but what the hell, maybe just this once.”

Trevor shook his head. “No hot liccuds,” he said.

“How ‘bout some water, then? Are you sure I can’t have one little pill? What’d they give you?”

Trevor didn’t answer. He turned and began walking through the maze of gray chest-high cubicles, here and there acknowledging the greetings of his staff with a wave. As he approached his office, the large enclosed space in the corner with interior windows cut at waist level so he could watch over his minions, he heard Jerry call, “Hey, buddy, how’d it go?”

Trevor put a hand to his jaw and showed a pained expression. Jerry nodded and laughed.

Trevor walked into his office, placed his briefcase on the floor next to his chair and dropped the yellow message slips on his large metal desk. Sliding his jacket off his shoulders, he pulled the pills out of the pocket before hanging his jacket on a double hook on the backside of his door. He was turning the vial over in his hand when Shirley walked in with a paper cup filled with water.

“Lemme see, what’d they give you?” she said, moving in on him.

Rather than have Shirley chase him around his desk like an owner after a loose cat, Trevor opened his palm and showed her the pill container.

“Ooh, Vicodin, my favorite… and ten milligrams, good stuff! My back is killing me. Can I have a couple?”

Trevor shook his head and sighed, wondering if Shirley’s back might feel better if she went on a diet, lost maybe a hundred pounds, or maybe gave up wearing four inch stiletto heels under those swollen ankles and paddle-feet. Sometimes he wondered how the carpet held up underneath her. Must be industrial strength Hard-Tru, he thought. “Unh uh,” he said, pocketing the pills. “Tanks. Now get ‘ack to ‘urk.”

Shirley spiked out of the office, down through the cubicles, as Trevor watched those buns swing to and fro like tossed medicine balls in a too tight, neon green dress. Maybe ought to make that my first change, he thought; not a good first impression for our clients. He slipped down into his chair, smoothed the messages across his gray blotter. But hell, this was the claims function, not marketing. Anybody who came here already had a policy. Did the look and sound of an obnoxious receptionist matter all that much? Maybe he should start slowly, make only changes that mattered, such as upgrading their filing system or installing XP Pro on all their computers. Yeah, that probably made more sense.

Trevor shrugged and turned to his messages, sifting through them without much enthusiasm. His jaw punched painfully into his consciousness, pulsing into dull throbs matching his heartbeat, and he looked up at the cup of water. Maybe he should take a pill, or perhaps two. Did he want to be distracted like this the rest of the afternoon?

He stretched back and reached into his pants pocket, started to pull out the pill container when he heard raised voices out in the office. Shirley’s he recognized, an all too familiar screech, but the other one was deep and gruff, angry. Trevor looked up, saw heads popping up from behind cubicles, saw the back of a man with massive shoulders. He was standing in front of Shirley and gesturing, his arms pumping in different directions as what looked like a tailored suit swung from side to side across swollen lats.

Trevor pushed back and rose, too quickly for his jaw, which pumped pain in a faster beat. He stepped forward, saw Jerry coming out of his office. He waved him off. “I’ll ‘ake care a it,” he said. Jerry stood by his door, concern knitting his brows and tightening his mouth into a tight o.

Trevor moved rapidly through the maze, ignoring the stabs from his jaw. He saw Shirley stand, step back and point in his direction. The big man turned, lasered him with set eyes. He seemed to be measuring. Trevor increased his pace.

As Trevor approached, the man seemed to grow, looming larger, broader. He had the look of an athlete, one who’d seen violence; the bent nose didn’t come from shaking hands. A ripple shivered down Trevor’s spine. He’d been an athlete too, but a tennis player. And at six feet, one sixty-five, he was no match for this brawn. But what was he thinking? This was a business office; violence didn’t happen in business offices, did it?

The man was standing with his arms at his side, but one fist was flexing. The man cracked his neck, and Trevor felt another shiver. A stab of pain in his jaw. Thump, thump, he could almost hear the blood pounding through torn tissues.

“Is ‘ere some ‘roblem?” he said as stepped forward.

“Yeah, I want some stuff outta that Jorganson safe,” the man said. “And I want it right now.”

Trevor’s face showed his confusion. Shirley said, “That’s the fire, Trevor. We got a safe in. Sam’s got it.”

“I want it,” the man said. He flexed his fist again, hitched his shoulders. Trevor thought he heard the snapping of muscles across sinew.

“Are you the owner of the safe? You said it belonged to somebody named Jor’anson.”

“Jorganson is our policy holder, Trevor,” Shirley said. “I don’t know who this mutton-head is.”

The man turned to glare at Shirley, and she stepped back. As large as Shirley was, she was no match for this guy. She pulled her chair around between her and Burley-Boy, as if a chair on wheels, even a steel one sturdy enough for her ass-mass, would provide any shield against two hundred seventy pounds of enraged muscle. “Should I call the cops?”

Trevor smiled, wincing only slightly at the movement of tissue across stitches. “No, I’m ‘ure dat ‘on’t be necessary, 'Hirley. May I ask ‘ur name, sir, and just what ur connection to the safe is?”

“Non a your business, buddy. What’s wrong with your mouth?”

Shirley said, “Mr. Schneider had dental surgery today. He’s having a little trouble talking.”

The man’s mouth quivered and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s good to know. So a little squeeze might get your attention?”

Trevor stepped back and braced himself. The guy might be large and muscled, but Trevor wasn’t going to stand idly when threatened.

The man saw the movement, raised his hands palms out. “Look, I don’t want no trouble. I just want my stuff. There are some pictures, negatives ‘n stuff in there that belong to me. They don’t have nothin’ to do with the fire, so I want ‘em. Jorganson said I could have ‘em.”

Trevor looked to Shirley, who shrugged. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or who Mr. Jor’anson is, for that matter.” Trevor put a hand to his jaw. “Solly, but I was out all ‘orning. I just ‘earned about the fire, and that we had someding from it. If you want, I can check on the status and let you know where it stands. But I can only give the property to Mr. Jor’anson. I hope you unnerstand.” He shrugged, trying to show he was hamstrung.

The man stepped forward and tapped Trevor in the chest with a bratwurst sized finger. “Screw Jorganson. I want my stuff. Now.”

Trevor slapped the hand away and braced himself once more. The pounding in his jaw had turned to shooting pangs of stabbing pain. Shirley slid over to the phone, lifted the receiver, hovered one finger over the buttons. Trevor glanced over and nodded, and Shirley began to dial.

The man saw Trevor’s glance, saw Shirley’s response. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his options. Could he get to her before she could dial three digits? How much of a distraction would this guy in front of him provide? Trevor saw these wheels spinning in the man’s head, and he stepped around to the side, to be more of an obstruction should the man go for Shirley.

Suddenly, the man reached out, gave the right side of Trevor’s jaw a playful slap, but slap enough to double Trevor over, cause him to fall back. With that, the man spun, said, “I’ll be back,” and powered through the door.

Jerry was at the door in an instant. He waited a few seconds, making sure the man was gone, then rushed outside only to return a moment later. “Big black old Caddy, no plates. There were two of them, one in the car, engine running. The big guy got in and they pealed out." He looked from Trevor to Shirley. "What the hell was that all about?”

Trevor was fumbling in his pockets, still doubled over, cradling his jaw with his free hand. He pulled the pill box out, squeezed open its top, spilled two pills out. He rushed over to the drinking fountain just down the hall, popped the pills in his mouth, took a big gulp, grabbed his jaw as the cold water hit raw tissue.

Shirley was on the phone. She covered the receiver. “Guy wanted something out of that Jorganson safe that came in late morning. He wasn’t Jorganson.”

Jerry hurried over to Trevor. “You okay, man? Geez, that musta hurt.”

Trevor looked up, stared at his second in command through watery eyes. He nodded, still cradling his jaw.

Shirley came over. “The cops’ll be here in a few minutes. I gave ‘em a description of the car. They’ll be looking for them in the area.”

Jerry grabbed Trevor by the shoulders. “C’mon buddy, let’s go to your office, have you lie down on your couch for a while. Let those pain pills take hold.”

Trevor pulled his hand away from his jaw, wiped his eyes, then smacked the wall above the fountain with the meat of his hand. He shook his head. “Let’s go see Sam. I wanna know what’s in that safe.”


This post was edited on 5/7 5:54 PM by troverif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}

 

[clubjockey]

The origin of this was...

From Old Owl... who challenged me to write a bad sentence... so I wrote that opening paragraph as an example of how I can write bad...

But I saved it and decided to play with it... That's why it doesn't fit with the rest of the story...

 

[clubjockey]

I got #3...

But it will be until Thursday or Friday

 

[trover]

Questions to ponder...

Who is the protagonist?

How/why did All-Country Insurance get the safe?

Does All-Country know how to get in the safe?

Got lots of ideas where this could/should go, but think the most important issue, structure-wise, are the protagonist/antagonist issues.

 

[clubjockey]

Yeah... generally in this kinda game...

you sort of wind up with one of those big bloated Steven King kinda deal where there are 50 protagonists and 50 plot lines and it gets tough sorting them out...

If its just gonna be mostly you and me, we ought to be able to work that stuff out pretty well...

I got a couple of very broad sort of amorphous ideas... and I need to now go back and re-write my opening section... not to change anything thematically, but to flesh it out more...

I'm not even sure whats going on, frankly...vbg... I don't even know if a crime has been committed... You got any idea? (I kid... I do have an idea or two, but they're open for debate)

 

[trover]

I'd suggest...

we determine who is gonna be involved, then we refine our ideas via email. I've got some ideas, but if we sit here and debate it all, our chapters will lose much of their ooommph with our readership.

Things we gotta think about:

protagonist/antagonist;
three acts;
mystery or thriller (sorry, I don't do serious fiction, the stuff that can take fifteen pages to cover three minutes - too boring except for Tom Wolfe);
chapter hooks;
surprise ending.

To make this work, we should have an opt-in decision by all who want to play a part, then we can have people volunteer for each segment or assign responsibilities if we hit slow periods. We should shoot for three hundred pages typewritten give or take. My editor says to shoot for a hundred thousand words.



If we're gonna make it good, we also ought to think about editing. I'd suggest CJ and me for that, although we could do it by election. We should consider weekly installments, which would allow for writing and editing, so we put out only what's good. I worry about posting, getting the next guy going, then having somebody previous edit his chapter, so the next guy is either left hanging or the stuff makes no sense.

Let's get our people together and agree on the rules, not that Uber's weren't a good start, then go from there.
This post was edited on 5/9 11:45 PM by troverif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}