Inches...

Back from a business trip to NC.  Sure glad to be back.  I hate being away from home.  And now I think I will close on a house Friday and I will be so happy to have this process behind me.  It has been very stressful.  But I hope it will be worth it.

 

So...let's get back to Deuce Maverick, Private Eye.  See what he's up to...

 

Bullets ricochet off the metal fire escape, inches from my head.  That's right.  Inches from my head.  Gunshots. 

 

Now to most people this might be devastating.  It make make you clam up and cry.  Or throw up your hands and beg for mercy.  Or run for your life.

 

Not me.  It pisses me off.  Big time.  I swivel around to face my attackers and see them, all three guys bearing down on us, shooting with their nice, black automatic pistols.  Did I mention I hate handguns?  I do.

 

There's a nice, smelly trash dumpster across from where we dropped from the fire escape.  I push Liddy toward it, forcing her to take refuge.  She's screaming something that I don't even try to take time to comprehend.  I'm sure it has something to do with not shoving her around.  Despite the fact that 3 hired guns are trying to perforate her perfect, round-

 

Dang.  How'd that get in there?  You really shouldn't be getting distracted by sex at a time like this.  I mean that could really get you killed.  You know?  I shake myself out of it and swivel the shotgun up to face my killers.  That's right, my killers.  You see, I've already consigned myself to the fact that it's over.  There is no way in hell that I will make it out of this one.  Which is a direct contradiction to what I just said about not thinking about sex cause it could get you killed.  I mean, if I know there is no way in hell I am going to make it out of this one alive, who cares if my dying thoughts are of making it with a hot, older lady?  I sure don't.

 

Either way, I ain't going without a fight.  I take dead aim with the big shotgun at the lead gunmen.  He's reloading as he runs toward me but the adrenaline is pumping so hard right now that it looks like to me he's moving in slow motion.  I can see his eyes go wide when the barrel of the shotgun covers him.  He changes direction slightly, like he's going to dive behind something but my super reactive reflexes pull the trigger before he can complete the move.  The blast covers him, throwing him backwards like a rag doll.  His body slides to the pavement and the rain pours down harder.

 

It's never easy killing someone.  Even in self defense.  And unfortunately I've had to do some of it.  Nasty business killing is.  You see, the fact is, you just ended somebody else's run at glory.  I mean ultimately that's what we're all about right?  Trying to get enough glory that our names are never forgotten.  Look at Billy the Kid.  Everybody knows him.  And why?  He was a mean, killing son of a gun.  Hitler?  Genghis Khan?  Rambo?

 

Sorry...I guess Rambo is a fictitious character and not fit for my argument.  But I think you get my drift.  We all want to be known for something and to be remembered.  Most people are happy letting their families remember them for a couple of generations before drifting off into oblivion.  But then there's others that need to be remembered for being the best golfer or the best basketball player or the best actor and actress.  And then there's the criminal element.  They want to be remembered too.

 

Too bad this guy was done.  I doubt he was anyone that anyone would care about remembering.

 

Boy, was I wrong about that one....

 

(to be continued)

Handguns...I hate handguns...

Handguns...I hate handguns...

Ah, once again been a while since my last post.  Not that anyone reads this so it doesn't really matter.  It's more of an effort on my part to keep my writing skills honed to a fine point.  Use it or lose it, right?  Right...
Still waiting on final word on the last house.  I think all will be ok but you never know about these house deals.  Sometimes they can go south at the last minute.  Which leads me to Deuce Maverick and his current situation.  If you remember, his office window had just been shattered by...but wait, if you don't remember, go read the previous blogs for crying out loud.
And with that, on to Deuce....
My hatred of handguns aside, I am still quite quick when the ol' Big A hits me.  Adrenaline that is.  I love that stuff.  It can make the most intense situations seem even crazier.  Fight or flight syndrome and all that jazz.  Whatever the case, I grabbed the women's arm and dragged her down behind the desk with me.  Rain drops cascade in through the window with each gust of wind and I can faintly here men yelling outside.  Most of what I hear is "did you get 'em?"
I decide to risk a quick peek.  I see them.  3 guys in dark suits and white shirts.  All are carrying automatic pistols.  All are bulky.  All are most definitely mean and probably hired assassins.  I turn back to the woman.
"Who did you piss off?  Dick Cheney?"
"Possibly.  I'm not sure.  I did mention something about his wife that-"
"That was not a serious question.  You know Cheney?"
"Of course I know him."
No explanation.  That's what I like about these hoity-toity rich women.  They only tell you what they think you need to know.  Which invariable gets me knee deep into trouble.
I decide it's time for action.
"What's your name," I ask.
"Liddy Anne Horne."
I recognize the name of course.  Ex-wife of the former mayor.  They divorced right before the mayor was killed.  Some think the mafia hit him.  I think it may have been his constituents.  Either way I know a bit better of what I am dealing with now.
"Come on."
I grab her hand and lead her to the door.  On the way I grab the shotgun and a few extra shells I keep in the peat moss around the potted plant.  It's loaded.  Like I said, I have no fear of big guns.
In the hallway, she automatically heads for the elevator.  I stop her and head for the fire exit instead.
My building is pretty old and fire escapes consist of those old rusted staircases you see on every old building in NY.  I've used this one several times and each time I wonder how much longer it will be before it crashes to the ground. 
A quick look below reveals no bad guys...yet.
We head down.  Every step clatters loudly but the pouring rain and occasional thunder seems to cover the sounds pretty well.
"What's your plan?", Liddy asks.
"Plan?  Get out of here alive of course.  And take you with me if possible."
"I'm paying you good money to protect me!"
I'm just about to point out the fact that I have received absolutely no money from her and in fact we have not come to any kind of financial agreement when gunshots ricochet off the fire escape, inches from my head!
to be continued...

Travelling...

Travelling....

So I'm on the road again.  This time I'm in the great city of...well, I'm not in any city really.  I'm on an island.  St. Simon Island in southern Georgia.  I'm taking care of some company business down here for a few days and spending the rest of my time cooped up in a motel room.  So, what better time to write a blog than now?
I just realized it has been some time since I last wrote.  I have been very busy.  Finally found a house.  Finally found 3 houses actually and made 3 different offers before one was accepted.  Now we just have to close the deal and get moved all before August 31st.  Should be a fun time had by all. 
I guess I will continue with Deuce Maverick, Private Eye and see how he got into the jam he currently finds himself in...
I opened the door casual like...you know, slow.  It's more dramatic that way.  If you just snap a door open, it says something about your personality.  It says that you are rash and brash and impulsive and not disicplined.  Now those are nice attributes for a punk rocker, but for a private eye, it doesn't make such a good impression.  So I always open my door slowly.  Which I was in the process of doing when the lady outside decided to push her way in very aggressively and...brashly!
She immediately went to the windows behind my desk and began looking out into the night.  My windows over look the parking lot and I guess she was watching for something.  Either way, I decided it was time to break the ice.
"Hi.  I'm Deuce-"
"I know who you are.  I know what you do.  Now cut the chatter and get a gun.  Someone is trying to kill me."
Guns.  This is going to sound so...gay.  I hate guns.  They scare me.  I guess I should blame my childhood.  You see, when I was only 7, I watched a man die of a gun blast to the head.  It was gruesome.  The head literally blew into...
Dang.  I can't lie.  I didn't see some dude get shot.  I was just trying to rationalize my irrational fear of handguns.  Truth is, I don't know why I'm afraid of guns.  And not every gun.  I have no fear whatsoever of big guns like shotguns and elephant guns and rifles.  Just handguns.  I guess it's the fact that something so small can hurt you so big.  Or even kill you.  Or maybe I am just weird.
Anyway, it's always quite embarrassing when a client asks me to "pull out my gun" or "go get my gun" or some such crap.  Cause I don't have one.  At least not a handgun.  I do have a big double barrelled shotgun that belonged to my grandfather.  It sits in the corner behind a big potted plant.  It's loaded and it's very dusty.  I don't use it much and was disinclined to grab it right now.  So I ignored the woman's request for a gun and grabbed a flashlight instead.
"So, who's trying to kill you?"
I thought it was a good question considering the situation.  Of course, I was wrong.
The woman turned from the window and speared me with a look that if possible, would have pulled my still beating heart out of my chest and soaked it in gasoline before applying a match and watching it burn.
Her reply was just as searing.
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here now would I?  I'd be at the damn police department."
I didn't have time to point out the idiocy of this statement by virtue of the fact that the window was shattered by gunfire.  Hand gun fire...
(to be continued)

Hard drive failure imminent...

I hate hard drives.  I have had so many hard drives crash in my lifetime.  I mean, computers haven't really been around that long if you think about it.  I didn't start using a computer in school until I was in high school.  And it was some Texas Instruments thing that used cassette tapes as memory devices!  You pushed play and it would load whatever program you wanted to use into memory.  Prehistoric.  But right now, I kinda wish I had something as reliable as cassette tapes.  I'm sitting here looking at a red flashing light on my backup drive.  The good thing is that it is my backup drive but the bad thing is that I have used it recently to save a lot of other things on that I never backed up anywhere else.  So I'm feeling pretty foolish about it right now because I know these things happen.  A lot.  One of these days I will learn my lesson.
And maybe one day Deuce Maverick, Private Eye for hire will learn his and thus continues his story...
Like I said, it was raining.  Hard.  And it was lightning and thundering too.  I've always wondered why the phrase is normally used "thundering and lightning" when really lightning must precede thunder. Either way, both were present and hitting hard.
I was sipping a beer, watching the rain come down in sheets when the knock came at my home slash office door.  Now, most of the private eyes on TV have a glass door.  When someone comes up to the door, you can kinda see their silhouette in the glass.  I guess it makes for good TV because it primes the scene and builds suspense. 
I don't have any glass.  It's just a solid, wooden door.  But it does have a peephole, one that I installed myself with a do-it-yourself kit from Home Depot.  Or maybe it was Lowe's.  Either way, I put it in myself.  And of course I dropped it in the process.  At the time I didn't think anything about it but later I discovered that the glass inside had broken somewhat.  It still works, but only if you want to see the person at your door from the waist down.  Which is alright by me cause most people hold their guns about waist high.
I took a quick look out my busted peephole and decided that based on the waist down view, I'd probably take the case.  She was well dressed, with black leather boots, a long flowing skirt, and one of those gargantuan designer bags to match everything.  She looked like she had money and for a PI with a lease to pay, she looked pretty good.  I just hoped that she had a case that would take some time.
Now contrary again to the popular notion of TV, we PI's do not normally lead adventurous lives.  Most of our time is spent staking out double wides looking for husbands that are two timing their rich wives with some Huddle House skank.  Sometimes I get cases that are more interesting like the time a man paid me to hunt down his killer before he died.  He was certain someone was after him and he wanted to know who it was before they got him.  Unfortunately, he choked on a meatball at Luigi's Italian Restorante before I could find the culprit.  And before I could get paid.  Such is the life of a private dick.
So I opened the door thinking I knew exactly what was coming.  A crying, older lady who just knew she was being cheated on by her old man and wanted me to prove it so she could collect the lion's share of their combined fortune and get to keep the house.
Boy, was I ever wrong about that one...    

Rain, rain...

Rain, rain go away

Alrighty then.  It was quite obvious to me that my last blog was started with the wrong size font.  It is quite hard to read.  Or maybe it is because I have a huge widescreen monitor that supports resolutions that would blind the sun.  Either way, I will make this one bigger.
I'm in North Carolina right now, coordinating a special event for my company.  I've had to recruit 30 caddies to come to timbuktoo NC to caddie at a grand opening up here.  All was going fine until today one caddie out of the 30 needed did not show up.  Fortunately, I have until tomorrow to get someone else which I have already done.  But it makes me wonder how people can commit to something and then just blow it off like it is nothing?  Don't make sense to me.  Oh well. 
I'm sure that any of your that come here are much more interested to read about Deuce Maverick, Private Eye, so let's see what he is up to.
"You know what I'm up to, dude."
Uh, how would I know that?
"Because I'm your frikin alter ego!"
Oh yeah, that's right.  So I know that right now you're drowning in a wooden coffin and you have a woody because your face is smashed into Liddy Horne's chest.
"It's about time your remembered."
I guess the question that really concerns me about all this is how are you going to get out of that box?
"I'll get to that in due time.  But first, I need to set up how I got here in the first place.  And the problem with that is you."
Me?
"You.  You see everytime I get rolling with the story, you end it like on some cliffhanger or high note or some such nonsense like that.  Why don't you just let me finish the story?"
I have a life outside of this blog you know.
"And my only life is inside it!"
I'm sorry you feel that way Deuce.  I'll try to give you the time you need each time I update this blog.
"I just want to get this story out.  And I know that my one faithful reader out there wants to hear it."
Ok...ok.  So why are we arguing?  We just wasted all this time and you could have been continuing your story?
"You know, if you weren't me, I'd hit you."
Let's just get on with the story, ok?  If I remember right, you were in your office.
"My combination office home.  Which by the way, I need to talk to you about that.  Why the hell did you make it seem as though I don't have enough money to have both a home and a office?"
Because you don't.
....
"Is that something that really has impact on my story?  Couldn't it have just been left out?"
No.  It adds dimension to your character as my alter ego.  It says "here is guy who is working hard but not really making it."  It says something about who you are and where you are going.
"I don't like it."
Why?
"It's not helping me land chicks.  Chicks want stability, not some guy that can barely make ends meet."
You may not realize this yet, but you are really quite a stable guy.  You have good credit, you finish almost every job you begin, and you would never leave someone you truly love.
"Can't you just write in a nice, hot girl that sees all that in me?"
She's on the way.
"Really?"
Just hang in there, ok? 
"And she's hot?!?!"
Now, I believe at the end of the last blog, it was raining....

Dogs...

Dogs

If you missed the last blog, I began relaying the story of my alter ego, Deuce Maverick, Private Eye. I'll continue that in a moment, if I feel like it. I'm looking for a house. If you've ever looked for a house to buy, you know what I'm going through. You find a house you think you might like and you realize it costs way too much money. Why can't it be easy to find a house you like in the neighborhood you like with all the amenities you like? I guess that is too much to ask. It's been a trying time. Hopefully soon I will find what I need and like. Now on to Deuce....
Let's see, when I last left you I was knee deep in dirty water, locked in a wooden coffin that was slowly sinking with my head pressed between the ample bosom of my current client, Mrs. Liddy Horne. As I mentioned earlier, Liddy is quite a striking woman for her age (which I have not had the courage to discover). Suffice to say, she's a ringing testament to the power of science and medicine to keep a woman beautiful and virile. And here we have a psychology lesson for all you wonderful readers out there. No matter the dire and dreadful consequences that await a man, he will still find a way to think about sex. Or women. Or women having sex. Or boobs.
Of course it is precisely at this moment that the cold water our coffin is slowly sinking into reaches my cajones. A swift jerk back to reality reminds me that we are probably about to die.
"Are you going to get us out of here or not?!?!"
I can't say that I find Liddy's voice attractive however. It's very high pitched and squeally and generally makes you feel as though you are an English butler serving the Queen her tea several minutes late. I'd probably do her but I'd need ear plugs or duct tape and since I don't have either on me, I guess I won't die having sex. Which is too bad. If you have to go, I've always thought that might be the coolest way to go.
But I digress. And you are still wondering how I got into this mess. Well, it all started 24 hours ago. I know this is going to sound cliche and all, but it was a rainy night. Pouring cats and dogs really. I'm not sure why all these stories seem to start on a rainy night but they do. It's just a fact of life. Accept it. I was working late of course when the hesitant knock came at my office door.
Well, not really my office. You see it is a combination office and home. I can't really afford both. So I sleep at my office. It's really quite comfortable but living in your office means you are pretty much always open. Which is ok since it means I never miss an opportunity to take a case. Unless I'm on a case and wind up drowning in a wooden coffin while potential clients are calling and visiting my office. It's a catch-22 really. You can't get cases unless you have cases and when you have a case you are not around to start cases. I need a partner. Or at the very least a secretary. A nice, pretty secretary with long legs and a tight, little body...
Sorry. Sex again. We've had that psychology lesson.
It was raining...

Storyblog...

Well, I decided to get this myspace stuff started.  But I won't bore you with those details.  Instead, my alter ego, "Deuce Maverick, Private Eye" will take over from here.
I been in some pickles before.  No doubt about it.  I've been fed to sharks, chopped with meat cleavers, beat with logging chains, and sadly enough, hit over the head with a thousand dollar bottle of wine.  I've been in bar fights, cat fights, dog fights, hog fights, cock fights, and one of my favorites, a stewardess fight (at 39,000 feet no less).  Not to mention I've been thrown out of said airplane (at 8,000 feet), fell off a bridge, trapped in a cave, mugged by a midget, and beat silly by haggis.
Yeah, I've had some pickles.  But none of those can quite compare to where I find myself right now.  And no matter how hard I try, I can't stop looking at the dame's knockers squished up against my face.   You see, we...that is me and her, are locked up tight in a wooden box.  A homemade casket that is.  And her blessings upstairs are making this a very cramped time indeed.  What's worse though is that our comfy little tomb is slowly filling up with water.
But that's not the story really.  The story is how we got here in the first place....
(to be continued)

Testing out windows live writer...

This is a test that might help me blog more...since I am not happy with myspace...

move

check out myspace.com\hoopchi