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Aug 17 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes – What Do You Think About Informant Zero?

Hey 3.5 Readers.

I'm looking for a better IZ pic but this will be him for now.

I’m looking for a better IZ pic but this will be him for now.

Another PCM Behind the Scenes, where I seek the advice of the 3.5 in writing Jake’s life.

So…Informant Zero.

What does everyone think of him as a character?

Here’s the lowdown of why I created him:

  • Originally, PCM was just supposed to be a fun, quick column.  I’d ask Jake, “Hey Jake, in the movie X, why did Y happen?
  • Then Jake would respond with a quick, “blah blah blah.”
  • But then imagination took over and I developed this long sweeping backstory that takes us through Jake’s past and his present with an ongoing hanging question of why did Jake fall asleep for 60 years?  (And eventually as the story progresses, why are all his past friends, enemies showing up in the present day?)
  • Therefore, Informant Zero will take on the “quick column idea.”
  • When the PCM site starts up, I’ll still give Jake “mysteries.” And he’ll go with the formula.

What’s the formula?

  • Jake’s doing something.
  • Delilah delivers him a mystery.
  • They banter.  Jake wants her.  Delilah rebuffs him.
  • Jake says “Oh this mystery reminds me of the time when….”
  • Jake recalls his adventure.
  • People who enjoy reading the adventures will hopefully have fun.  People who just wanted to know “Why X happened in Y movie” might get bored.
  • But then at the end Jake will offer his two cents as to why x happened in y movie or whatever the original PCM question was.

So basically, Informant Zero will just provide that quick Pop Culture Q and A.  A Q is asked and he gets right to the A without a big story in between.

But what do you think of him as a character?

I really enjoyed writing the parts about the “Anything Goes Club,” especially the first part where Jake and Delilah have to navigate past all sorts of debauchery.

Thoughts:

  • I wrote the part about the “Anything Goes Club” because I just enjoyed the absurdism and found the idea of a secret club where celebrities go to do whatever they want and have wild, out of control parties was funny.
  • And then I put Informant Zero’s secret lair in the basement of that club.
  • But wait, if Informant Zero is “a shadowy information broker” who collects and trades info about celebrities, then why would the celebrities party at a club where his office is located?
  • Good question.  I realized that and tried to write my way around it.  I tried to explain it.  Let me know if the explanation makes sense.

THE EXPLANATION:

  • Informant Zero uses his info gathering powers for good, not evil.  He’s not out to actively embarrass celebrities and/or the rich and influential, but will if he learns of some injustice afoot and needs to lean on someone with the power to change a bad situation into a good one.
  • He takes money from celebrities to use his powers to cover up their scandalous behaviors, ergo they like him and party at his club.
  • However, he’d never cover up a crime, just embarrassing scandals.

MAYBE IZ shouldn’t own the club?

All the debauchery described in part one is intended to be funny and more or less you could write it off, but then note there is a guy serving drugs at a bar, and that part was mainly added just so that there could be a joke where he rattles off a list of awful, hardcore drugs and then adds “Flintstone’s Vitamins” at the end.

Just random silliness, basically.

But then it hit me – If IZ owns the club, then he’s a drug dealer!  And we can’t have drug dealers working for BQB’s PCM spin off blog!

What would the 3.5 readers think?

So this will definitely need a rewrite.

Possibilities:

  • IZ doesn’t own the Anything Goes club.  The celebrities just give him sanctuary there because they appreciate his coverup skills for their minor infractions.  He ignores their general debauchery, but does get involved when he learns of a crime.
  • Seperate IZ from the Anything Goes Club entirely.  IZ works somewhere else.  Think of another mystery entirely in which Jake investigates the Anything Goes Club or has to visit there in the course of an investigation, because the scenes themselves are too funny to lose.

BOTTOMLINE:

IZ isn’t going to become that involved in the story.  His main function is to do what Jake was originally going to do, namely a quick Q and A about pop culture.  Occasionally, IZ might toss Jake a mystery or give him an assist with some info for a case he’s working on.

So it’s just a matter of coming up with an origin story.

Admittedly, a guy who collects info on celebrities with an office in a private celebrity depravity club is kind of problematic so I’ll have to figure this one out.

ALSO:

In PCM, BQB is already kind of the shadowy figure.

On the Bookshelf Battle Blog, BQB openly admits he’s a nerd from East Random Town, USA who by day works at Beige Corp and by night pursues his dreams of becoming a writer.

But in PCM, BQB is kind of like Charlie from Charlie’s Angels.

If you’ve never seen Charlie’s Angels, the angels were three hot 70’s women who worked for Detective Charlie.  They never actually saw Charlie.  When Charlie had a case for the angels, they’d meet with Bosley, Charlie’s assistant, and Charlie would talk to the angels through an intercom.

Mine’s different.  I, BQB, refuse to meet with Jake as I fear he’d just beat me senseless until I explain how he fell asleep in 1955 and woke up in 2014 and I’m withholding that info until he’s filed 100 PCM reports (in the hopes this will raise my readership past 3.5)

So I dispatch my attorney, Delilah, to deliver the mysteries to Jake.  Jake, in theory, could lean on Delilah to spill the beans, but he has the hots for her so doesn’t.

In other words, we have shadowy figure BQB and then we’d have a second shadowy figure, Informant Zero.

I don’t know.  Once IZ’s back story is set up he really won’t have much of a function than to write a quick, short weekly column, barely 500 words just providing quick explanations about PCM questions.

Redacted Celebrity Names

In the story, Jake’s new to the present, so he kind of recognizes the celebrities from TV, but doesn’t know them by name.  Delilah does recognize them, but when she refers to them, it comes up in the story as “Name Redacted.”

Because obviously, if Jake’s invited to a private club to conduct business, he wouldn’t blurt out the name of a celebrity he saw in his report to the 3.5 readers.

However, that cowboy with a cottage cheese problem – assuming there’s a point where I see this project is worth it to continue, I envision a season where Jake gets a job as a babysitter/security guard for a rambunctious actor.  Jake will continue to solve PCM’s but will do so out of the actor’s house where he’s staying instead of at his office above Ms. Tsang’s restaurant.  There will be a side story where Jake’s constantly bailing the actor out of trouble.  (Jake needs some kind of paying job above $5 a PCM case and can’t sponge off Ms. Tsang forever.)

So I’m thinking maybe this cowboy could become that actor (he’s not a cowboy he just likes to wear that hat while Czech dwarves…well, you can read the rest.

I’m not sure how to reconcile that.  Eventually, that celeb will have to be named.  Maybe when the time comes Jake can be like, “remember that cowboy from a previous post, well turns out I’m working for him now…”

Or forget the cowboy.  I could just invent a new, equally rambunctious actor.  There are probably a bunch of them.

What say you, 3.5?

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 7)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

 

QUESTION 1

DELILAH:  Informant Zero, I shall proceed with Mr. Battler’s first question.  In the song,  My Humps, the artist Fergie was asked multiple times by her bandmates, the Black Eyed Peas, what would she do, and I quote, “with all that junk inside that trunk?”

What exactly did she do with that junk in her trunk?

“What, was she moving?”  I asked.

“Innuendo for her extensive backside, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Ahh,”  I said.

Informant Zero took a drag on his cigarette.  He was quiet, clearly deep in thought.  Then it came to him.

“As I recall, according to that 2005 hit, Fergie specifically stated, and I quote, ‘I’ma get, get, get, get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump’ and from there on she uses the words ‘humps’ and ‘lumps’ interchangeably.”

“I don’t get it,”  I said.

“In reference to her voluptuous figure, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah explained.

“Oh.  In that case I’ve been love drunk off your humps for quite some time, Ms. Donnelly.”

“The only thing you’re drunk off of is cheap bourbon.”

“Touche.”

“This is my favorite part of the blog,”  Informant Zero said to me.  “When Ms. Donnelly shuts down your incessant advances.”

“I’ll shut you down, Jack.”

QUESTION 2

DELILAH:  Mr. Battler also asks, “If Iron Man has so many back up suits, why does he not simply give each member of the Avengers their own suit?”

“Ms. Donnelly,”  I said.  “It pains me to hear talk of comic books coming from your angelic voice.  Someday we need to talk about why you waste your time helping Battler at all.”

“But that sometime is not today, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Wow,”  Informant Zero said.  “What a stumper.  But I’ve got it.  The Hulk is a rage monster.  He’s barely controllable as it is.  Put an enormous psychopath inside a suit that will make him even stronger?  That spells disaster.  Thor?  He’s the Son of Odin. He’s royalty in Yodenheim.  Do we trust Thor’s people?  I mean, do we really trust them?  Would he take that suit back to his own world, have his Norse scientists reverse engineer it and make a bunch of them?  Before you know it, you’ve got a race of white self-proclaimed supermen waging a war of global conquest on Earth.”

“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt,”  I said.  “Called it WWII.”

“Stark won’t give Capt. America an iron suit on account of how they’ll go their separate ways in next year’s Marvel Civil War movie.  I’m going to be there with bells on.”

“This guy,”  I said as I pointed to him but looked at Delilah.  “Is just like Battler.  A nerd who just sits around and wastes all his time on comic books and movies.”

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “But I think he might just be the nerd that Mr. Battler needs.”

“Thank you,”  Informant Zero said.  “Hawkeye wouldn’t want the suit because he couldn’t contribute his archery prowess with metal hands.  And Black Widow?  You could give her an iron suit but it’d lead to global destruction once a month.”

Delilah was aghast.

“Maybe you’re right, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “Perhaps I should start to question why I waste my time on this drivel.”

QUESTION 3

Finally, Mr. Battler wants to know whether or not Tony Soprano died in the series finale of HBO’s The Sopranos.

“Isn’t that the question we all want an answer to?”  Informant Zero asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Producer David Chase gave us a do-it-yourself ending.  That’s sure to always generate controversy with fans who’ve invested hours of their lives in a series.  People want closure.  It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as whatever it is, is directly spelled out.”

“So spell it out,”  I said.

“We see the Soprano family enjoying a night out at a restaurant.  Tony, Carmella, and son Anthony Jr. all gather around a table eating onion rings.  Daughter Meadow is late, and a great deal of emphasis is placed on her inability to properly parallel park her car.  The viewer’s mind races.  ‘Is the family about to be killed?  Is Meadow going to luck out through her tardiness?’  A man in a Member’s Only jacket goes to the bathroom.  Is he just a random fellow who needs to wizz or, in true Godfather tradition, is he going to come out of the shitter guns blazing?”

“Who cares?”  I asked.

“You would had you watched it,”  Informant Zero said.  “Chase was creative, I’ll give him that.  In the past, the answer would have been, ‘it’s up to you.’  However, Chase has since stated publicly that Tony Soprano lived.  What did Tony do next?  Your guess is as good as mine.”

“TV never got better than I Love Lucy if you ask me.  Redhead wants to sing at the club.  Husband says no.  Hilarity ensues.”

“You should catch up on the shows you missed while you were Rip Van Winkling, Hatcher,” Informant Zero said.  “Things have gotten more interesting than a duo of housewives stomping on grapes.”

“Mr. Zero,” Delilah said.  “Do you seek compensation?”

“Now wait a minute,”  I said.  “If he gets offered more than five bucks a case, I’m walking.”

“I’m going to write a number down on this piece of paper, Ms. Donnelly.  I think Mr. Battler will find it more than satisfactory.”

Informant Zero scribbled away then handed the note over.

Delilah looked surprised, then showed me the paper.

“A zero?”  I asked.

“Just like my name,”  Informant Zero said.  “Zero symbolizes nothing and yet, as a concept, it still exists.  That is what I strive to be.  No one knows who I am.  I work to make the world a better place and yet I strive to remain unidentified and unidentifiable.  I am nothing and I also exist.”

“How poetic,”  Delilah said.

“Battler will be happy, the cheap bastard.”

Delilah stood up.  I followed.

“I believe we’ve reached an accord, Mr. Zero.  I shall relay the details of our rendezvous with Mr. Battler and draw up a memorandum of understanding immediately.”

“Very well, Ms. Donnelly.  Mr. Hatcher.”

The door buzzed.  Informant Zero’s goon was waiting for us.

“But Hatcher?”

I turned around.  The shadowy information broker had one more thing to say.

“While I don’t seek monetary compensation, know that one day I might call on you to assist me with a favor.  I won’t disturb you unless it’s a task that only a man of your mettle is qualified for, but when that day comes, I hope my assistance will have obtained me the benefit of your skills.”

“You don’t want me to rub the cowboy down with cottage cheese do you?”

“No,”  Informant Zero said.  “Nothing so undignified.  It will no doubt be a task that a man with your sense of right and wrong won’t be able to ignore.”

“Try me,”  I said as I led Delilah out.

“I will.”

The goon called the elevator.  Moments later it dinged and we were inside.

“I don’t like this, Ms. Donnelly.  Not one bit.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “We shall have to do our very best to keep Informant Zero at arm’s length.”

shutterstock_278169329

 

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Aug 13 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 6)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Ms. Donnelly,”  Informant Zero said.  “I have been so very intrigued by Mr. Battler’s blog since its inception that I decided I must get involved.  And Mr. Hatcher, your reports have especially inspired me.”

“So you’re the one who read them.”

“What a life you have lived, Mr. Hatcher.  From 1920 until present day, you have seen this world grow, shutterstock_13743706change, go to war on a massive scale, taken on the criminal underworld of LA’s yesteryear and survived.  Regrettably, you missed quite a bit during your extended nap, but that you’re in good enough condition to share your stories with the world now is amazing.”

“Thanks,”  I said.  “But if I wanted wind blown up my chassis I’d of skipped the trip and stood on an air vent.”

“This is not an enterprise I want to engage in for the rest of my life, Mr. Hatcher.  One day, I’d like to see a Los Angeles where the rich and powerful do what is right because it is the right thing to do, and not because they’re afraid I’ll expose them if they don’t.  Thus, this city needs a hero like you to clean it up and I’d like to do what I can to help.”

“I don’t do much cleaning these days, bub.”

“Then you are truly wasting your talents.  Surely that will change as you get adjusted.  But more importantly, Mr. Hatcher, I can’t help but wonder what this world would be like today had a man of your integrity not fallen asleep in 1955, but rather, had been allowed to continue performing feats of daring do.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the world would be a better place today had you been allowed to keep kicking criminal ass until you became an elderly man during the 1980’s, perhaps even the 90’s.”

“I think about that all the time,”  I said.

“But as an tech expert, I know the mind of a blogger and I know it well,”  Informant Zero said.  “If Battler doesn’t eventually see an increase in readership, he will decide that his time would be better spent playing video games and allowing his ass to expand.  He’ll abandon his blog, you, and your stories will never be shared, because good luck getting through the traditional publishing door.”

“Now just one  moment,”  Delilah said.  “I doubt very much that Mr. Battler will abandon Mr. Hatcher and leave him without the answers he is searching for.”

“He probably won’t, at least not intentionally,”  Informant Zero explained.  “But what if I could help provide a new feature for the upcoming Pop Culture Mysteries spin-off blog, one that would drive up the World Renowned’ Poindexter’s readership?”

I shot Delilah an incredulous look.

“Spin-off blog?  Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Mr. Battler’s mentioned it on his blog a number of times.  Do try to keep up.”

“Do I get any more money for this?”

“No,”  Delilah said.  “At least not according to your contract.”

“Mother of God,”  I said.  “It’s like the damn pinko commies won.”

“Mr. Hatcher,”  Informant Zero said.  “You write very long, detailed reports.  Those are great for individuals who read as a pleasurable past time.  But what about people on the go?  Mr. Battler’s 3.5 readers who only have 3.5 seconds to spare?”

“I don’t know,”  I said.  “Tell them to screw?”

“No.  That’s where I will come in.  You continue to write your long reports.  I’ll write short bursts, quick mini-mysteries, a pop culture question of the week with a short answer.  Together, we’ll inspire Hollywood to plug up their plot holes and put out a better product.  It’ll bring more hits, Battler’s writing career takes off and who knows, maybe if he gets to the point where he actually starts making money off of his Internet ventures, he’ll release you early from your 100 mystery commitment.”

“Now you’re starting to make sense,”  I said.

Delilah was back to reading her note paper again.

“Mr. Zero,”  she said.  “To that end, Mr. Battler has expressed concern that your Pop Culture Mystery expertise may be lacking and has requested that I kick your tires, as it were, with three questions.”

More of that maniacal, ear crushing electric laughter.

“Proceed.”

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Aug 08 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero

By:  Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eyeshutterstock_225997396-2

I pulled my snazzy new set of wheels up to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

The joint was falling apart.  Broken windows, crumbling side panels, and I’m pretty sure I saw some bullet holes.

“Are you sure this is the place, Ms. Donnelly?”

“Of course, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said as she stepped out of my passenger seat.

Together, we strolled to a steel plated door, upon which my colleague rapped three times.

She paused.  Rapped twice more.  Another pause, then four more knocks.

A booming baritone voice, not unlike that James Earl Jones fella, came through over the intercom.

“What is the password?”

Delilah retrieved a piece of paper from her clutch, unfolded it, and started to read.

“Hooray for big…”

She stopped and handed me the paper.

“Mr. Hatcher, will you be a gem and read this please?”

I took the note and read it to myself.

“Wowza.”

I looked at Delilah, my eyes begging the question, “Is this for real?”

Her nod told me it was.

Typical Delilah.  She was the kind of dame who wouldn’t say “shit” if she had a mouth full of it, which was ironic because the look on her puss suggested she was always in the process of sniffing it.

I cleared my throat.

“Ahem.  Hooray for big knockers!”

“All passwords must have a combination of letters, numbers, and symbols.”

I tried again.

“Hooray for big knockers asterisk…”

I pointed to an “&” symbol on the paper.

“Ms. Donnelly, what is that?”

“It’s an ampersand.”

“Is that what it’s called?  I always just called it the ‘and’ sign.”

“That’s the layman’s term for it,”  Delilah said, “But the accurate word for it is ‘ampersand.'”

“OK,”  I said.  “Let’s try this again.  Hooray for big knockers asterisk, ampersand, dollar sign, seven, seven.”

Nothing.

“Maybe you’ve been hustled.”

“I don’t understand,”  Delilah said.  “My contact assured me this password would gain us entry.”

BZZZZTTTT!

The man on the other side of the intercom was back.

“You…may…enter,”  he said, ever so ominously.

I grabbed the door handle and opened it.

We found ourselves in a small waiting room, staffed by a hunchbacked old butler in a tuxedo.  The top of his head was completely bald, but he’d grown out the white hair on the sides down to his shoulders.

I could tell by his voice he was the same cat from the intercom.

“Good evening.  I am Armand, at your service.”

He turned to me.

“Might I take your hat, sir?”

“No one touches the fedora, Jack.”

“Very well.  Walk this way.”

shutterstock_51368320Armand pushed open a set of heavy double doors and we followed him inside.

Let me tell you, 3.5 readers, the interior decor did not match the exterior at all.

We found ourselves in a large, luxurious indoor court.  Lilly white marble floors and columns.  A waterfall in the center.  It was straight out of Roman times.

And speaking of Rome, there was an orgy afoot so depraved that it would have made Caligula blush.

“Avert your eyes, Ms. Donnelly.”

“I’m a big girl, Mr. Hatcher.”

All sorts of degenerate perverts were going at it every which way you looked, and that wasn’t the half of it.

A man dressed up in a clown outfit walked up to me, grabbed me by my shoulders, and stared intently into my eyes.

White makeup, curly green wig, floppy shoes, red nose, over-sized polka dot die, he went all out.

“Do you know why the tungsten mermaid swims on a bed of roses across the night shade amber of the pickle farmer’s garden?!”

His voice was all screechy, more disturbing than an owl’s screams piercing through darkness.

“Um…no?”

He laughed.  His laughs started quietly, then became successively louder.

“Ha.  Ha ha.  Ha ha HA HA HA HA MUAH HA HA HA HA!!! NOBODY KNOWS!!  NOBODY EVER KNOWS!!!!”

“A little help here, Armand?”

“Do as you think best, sir.”

I improvised.  I kneed the clown in the groin, gave him an uppercut to his dopey chin and sent him ass over teakettle, dropping the psycho to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Literally no one in the room noticed or cared.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Hatcher.”

We continued on a bit.  The room was enormous.

There were multiple tables set up.  Each one had men participating in various dangerous sports.

There were two men playing that game where you stab the table between your fingers with a sharp knife, timing how many stabs were possible in a minute.  There was a pool of blood on the floor, suggesting an earlier participant had missed and how.

At another table, two men were playing Russian roulette.  Delilah and I watched in horror as one blindfolded participant with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth pressed a revolver up against his temple.

Beads of sweat dripped from the man’s brow and he trembled as he pulled the trigger.

CLICK!

An instant sigh of relief all around.

“The guns never have an actual bullet put into them,”  Armand informed us.  “The game master just keeps spinning the empty chamber, fooling thrill seekers into believing their lives are at stake.”

“And what are those fellas up to?”  I asked.

I pointed to another table where two men were talking rather calmly.  Given the other events, it was a little disappointing.

“I’m thinking of a number between one and ten,”  the first man said.

“Five,”  the second man guessed.

“Nope.”

Enraged, the second man flipped the table over and socked the first man right in the kisser, sending his victim’s teeth and blood spewing everywhere.

“Lying sack of shit!  You know it’s five!!!”

Disgusted, Delilah turned away and buried her head in my shoulder.

Suddenly, this place didn’t seem so bad.

Armand finally answered my question.

“High stakes pick a number.”

We kept walking.

A tall, statuesque Amazonian broad wearing skimpy leather lingerie that left little to the imagination was walking a grown man with an orange ball gag in his mouth.

“Heel, worm!!!”  she commanded as she pulled on a leash attached to a spiked collar around the man’s neck.

Ever so eerily, the woman cocked her head to one side as she looked me over, then poked me in the chest with a riding crop.

“Do you wish to be my slave, maggot?  I will bark orders at you morning, noon and night and you will lick my boots, do my bidding, and cater to my every whim!!!”

I rolled my eyes.

“No thank you, ma’am.  I’ve been married three times already.”

Not sure what to make of me, the dominatrix yanked on her dog man’s chain and walked him away.

Delilah pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle.  Delilah laughter was rare, but not entirely unheard of.  I enjoyed it when it came.

“That was quite humorous, Mr. Hatcher.”

“I have my moments, Ms. Donnelly.”

“ROAR!”

Our moment was ruined by, get this, a goddamned real life bengal tiger.  A butt naked woman who’d shaved her head bald was riding the oversized cat like he was a pony.  The woman’s body was covered with an elaborate tattoo of two pandas slapping each other with bamboo sticks.

You think I’m making this up.  I’m not.

I reached under my trench coat for my shoulder holster, where I kept Betsy safe and snug.

“It’s housebroken, sir.  You needn’t worry.”

Sex.  Alcohol.  Gambling.  Assorted debauchery.  We saw it all until Armand led us to a bar.

The bartender wore a full length woman’s dress, red with shiny sparkles, but other than that, wasn’t attempting to not appear as a man.  He had a buzzcut, a mustache, and spoke in a tone that reminded me of my Army drill sergeant.

Oddly, he also wore a spaceman helmet.  He lifted up the visor so he could get a better look at us.

“What can I get you?”  the barkeep asked as he set out a tray full of pharmaceuticals and narcotics.

“Uppers, downers, poppers, floppers, choppers, grinders, whirling dervishes…”

As he rattled of the names, he pointed to a different crystal goblet holding the illicit substances.

“…Crank, yank, and spank.  Meth.  Coke.  Horse.  Oxycontin.  Flintstone’s chewable vitamins.”

“We’re good, Jack,”  I said.

“You sure?”  the barkeep asked.  “I make a good airplane glue bath salt sorbet.”

My reaction was a resounding, “What the?”

I leaned in to Ms. Donnelly’s ear and whispered.

“I don’t get it.  He wants to take a bath with me and build a toy model?”

“No,”  Delilah said.  “I believe people use these products to, as they say, ‘get high.'”

“Great Caesar’s ghost.”

“Perhaps a beverage?”  the barkeep pressed on.  “We have absinthe, ambrosia milk, devil’s delight, and Diet Shasta Orange.”

“It is a trifle stifling in here,”  Delilah said.  “I’ll have a water if it’s no bother.”

“Not at all,” the barkeep said.

He poured the lady lawyer a glass and set it on the bar.  Immediately, I put my hand over it and pushed it aside.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t accept drinks offered to us in a room full of perverts, Ms. Donnelly?”

I was in my element.  I’d spent a lifetime dealing with scum, knew exactly how to act around lowlives, and I could tell Ms. Donnelly was grateful.

“Armand, what the hell is this place?”

“Anything goes, sir.”

“I can see that,”  I said.  “But what’s the name?”

“That is the name.  You are in the ‘Anything Goes Club.'”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

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