Hello 3.5 Readers.
Here’s an advance chapter of a story that will eventually find its way into this season of Pop Culture Mysteries.
Basically, it’s the 40’s. Hatcher’s an LAPD Detective. A gang of bank robbers with a hilarious name is headed for LA.
Stereotypically gruff and angry Capt. Thaddeus Talbot is their boss, and he swears like a sailor on steroids.
Only problem is, I’ve tried my best to keep this PG. I’m doing this selfishly, because I feel it will appeal to more readers (and hopefully, one day make me more money, ka ching!)
I feel like so far I’ve been kind of creative at making these stories interesting, salacious, and at times naughty without resorting to bad language.
I’m not against swearing. I’ve done it on this blog before. I just think once you drop some of the more serious swears, the story starts to become something very different. Thus, I try to limit to “shit” or lesser swears and keep the F-bombs and so on at bay.
So, here’s what I came up with for the Cap’n. I basically replace his naughty words with expletive deleted. Tell me what you think.
And while you’re at it, just give me your opinion:
Should there be serious swearing in Pop Culture Mysteries?
“Uh huh…Uh huh…yes…yes sir…uh huh.”
Even through a shut door, the voice of my old boss, Capt. Thaddeus Talbot, traveled.
Like a couple of kids waiting to get reamed out by the school principal, my partner, Mickey Finn, and I sat on a bench not far from the desk of the good captain’s secretary, Ms. Connie Connors.
Connie had a certain understated beauty about her. She was a looker, to be sure, but she wasn’t trying to be noticed.
Capt. Talbot
She was a brunette and wore a simple green dress with a floral print, always carrying herself all nice and professional like.
Meanwhile, Mickey always wore a white suit, trying to pass himself off like he was some kind of hot shot ladies man. He pulled a handle out of his pocket, clicked the switch, but instead of a blade, a comb popped out. He ran it through a pompadour that rose several inches off the surface of his cranium.
“Think he’s mad?” I asked.
I heard our fearless leader slam his phone down.
“CONNIE!!!”
“Does that answer your question?” Connie asked me, and then in a sweeter tone, “Yes, Captain?!”
“Are those lazy expletive deleted sons of expletive deleted out there?”
“Yes, they are, sir!”
“Send them in!”
“Right away sir!”
“And get me some coffee, will ya’?!”
Yes, readers. Back in those days, you could just bellow out demands for subordinates to fetch you coffee and human resources was powerless to stop you. Come to think of it, I don’t think we even had an HR person. Just an old lady who handled the payroll.
“Of course, sir!”
Mickey and I stood up.
“Good luck boys.”
“Thanks Con,” I said.
Mickey and I headed into the boss’ office. It was always messy. Papers and clutter strewn everywhere. Oh, and I can’t forget the massive bass mounted on the wall, the captain’s pride and joy.
“Shut the door.”
I did and we each took a seat in front of the captain’s desk.
“Hatcher and Finn. Two disgusting, oversized boils on my ass that I can’t squeeze the puss out of for the life of me.”
“Good to see you too, Cap,” I said.
“I just got off the phone with the mayor…”
Here it comes. Under Capt. Talbot’s leadership, Mickey and I plus four other guys were part of the LAPD’s special operations unit. Compared to modern assault tactics, there wasn’t anything all that special about it. We kicked down the doors that everyone else was afraid too, that’s about it.
There was a chain of command and really, the Mayor should have been lodging his complaints with the Chief of Police, but His Honor was a particularly corrupt degenerate and just called Captain Talbot whenever he had a bee in his bonnet, as though we were somehow his personal goon squad.
It was a source of great gastrointestinal discomfort for the boss.
Talbot was a tall drink of water and lanky too. Built like Frankenstein and his face was just as pretty. He was a tough old bastard and we’d often bond over how many Germans we sent into the afterlife during the wars we served in, him WWI and me WWII, respectively.
He grabbed his stomach.
“Goddamnit, my labonza.”
“Ulcer again, sir?” I asked.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Connie came in with a coffee mug and set it on the captain’s desk.
“Thank you sweetheart.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Connie gave me a peak to make sure I was still alive before heading to her desk.
“Jesus Christ,” Talbot said. “His Honor just shoved his head so far up my ass that I can actually taste his Brylcreem.”
Mickey, who’d done little more than stare at his shiny shoes the entire time, laughed.
“You think that’s funny, Finn, you no good, two-bit Irish expletive deleted sucker?”
By now, I should inform you that the good captain had quite a mouth on him. So bad that it could make a longshoreman cover his ears. It was the type of mouth that Ma Hatcher would have washed out with soap.
Also, and I hate to admit it, but he was a racist. And a sexist. Most people were back then. You have no idea how progressive I was for my time.
“No sir.”
“The Dapper Dandies,” Capt. Talbot said. “Those happy go lucky sons of motherless expletive deleted…”
It’s not easy complying with Bookshelf Q. Battler’s request to keep these tales PG, especially when Thaddeus Talbot is involved.
“…they just hit San Diego. Do you know what that means?”
“Chula Vista’s screwed,” Mickey said.
“Finn, I swear to Christ I’m going to leap over this desk and strangle the shit out of you if you don’t shut the expletive deleted up.”
“Sorry boss.”
“LA is next!” Capt. Talbot said. “The Mayor’s sure of it. Washington, D.C’s already sent out some G-Men to take everything over.”
The captain took a swig of his coffee and winced, grabbing his side again.
“St. Christopher’s tits, expletive deleted on your Aunt Edna’s ass!”
My old boss was a virtual Rembrandt of obscenity.
“Cap,” I said. “I hear coffee’s not good for an ulcer…
“Are you a goddamn doctor, Hatcher?”
“No.”
“Did I ask for your expletive deleted opinion?”
“No sir.”
“Then you know where to stick it.”
“Up my ass, sir.”
Talbot slammed his fist down on the desk.
“Expletive deleted! Those FBI expletive deleted suckers are going to waltz right in here like they own the joint, take everything over, and we’re just going to be left sitting around in a circle jerk with our dicks in our hands.”
“Typical Tuesday,” Finn said.
The captain pointed a finger at Mickey, reminding him to clam up.
“We need every man we can get,” Capt. Talbot said. “We need to grab every uniform, every detective, hell, every goddamn meter maid we can get our hands on, divy them up, and post a unit outside every bank in the city limits!”
“Boss,” I said. “No offense, but all that’ll do is scare these scumbags off. If you really want to do them in, we need to set a trap.”
The captain shook his head.
“Hatcher.
“Sir?”
“That is, by far, the dumbest expletive deleted idea I have ever heard in my entire expletive deleted life. I always thought you were the brains of this unit but now you’ve convinced me you’re expletive deleted dumber than Finn. Shoot yourself in the head so I don’t have to look at your stupid face anymore.”
The door opened a crack and Connie poked her nose in.
“Captain?”
“Connie, do you mind? Men are talking here.”
Yeah. People used to say stuff like that too.
“There’s some men here to see you, sir.”
“Tell them to go expletive deleted themselves.”
Connie opened the door all the way. Behind her, there were at least a dozen FBI agents, suits all starched and neatly pressed, not a hair out of place.
And leading the pack?
Noneother than FBI Director and notorious lawman J. Edgar Hoover and Assistant Director Clyde Tolson.
“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll let you tell them that, boss.”
Bookshelf Battle 