Tag Archives: Pop Culture Mysteries

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 17 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

BQB on Wattpad

Hey 3.5 Readers,

Is that BQB's latest edit?!

Is that BQB’s latest edit?!

Happy Monday.

Just an FYI I have been putting up installments of Pop Culture Mysteries on Wattpad, you can find me over there at:

BQB on Wattpad

Also, I need to package a few of Jake’s cases together (taking the parts and putting them into one story) for better viewing.

I hope you enjoy them.  I know I’ve enjoyed reading them.

My goal for the rest of the year is to finish Season 1.

My project for next year will be to rewrite and revise Season 1, post it in parts daily on Jake’s spin-off blog, and put out a Jake novel on Amazon.

Season 1 will allude to an “item” Jake brought back from World War II that various ne’er-do-wells want.

The first novel will be about how he obtained that item.

Basically, I’m my own personal network.  As long as I keep seeing a readership for Jake, he doesn’t get cancelled.

Luckily for him, the readership need only be 3.5.

Believe it or not, I do have in mind a reason why Jake fell asleep in the past and woke up in the future, as well as why his various acquaintances make it to present as well…so keep reading and one day, assuming this continues, it will all end with the explanation.

It better, seeing as how Jake has pledged to kick my ass if I don’t tell him.  We do have a contract (100 mysteries for an explanation as to how he got here and how to get home) after all.

Any feedback you have, good, bad or indifferent is welcome.  If you like it, tell me.  If you hate it, please tell me.  I’m putting a lot of time and effort in and would like to know whether or not its worth it.

I know people usually just keep the negatives to themselves but please, throw it out there.

Thanks 3.5.

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Aug 17 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 5)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1        Part 2        Part 3      Part 4

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Ring a ding ding!”

Frank Sinatra.  Dean Martin.  Sammy Davis Jr.

I was in the company of the three greatest musical performers of my era.shutterstock_135718616

Today, the best you could do to get of sense of what I felt like in that moment would be to have a run in with that Justin Bieber kid.

And that, 3.5, is one of the many reasons why I feel sorry for you.

“Hatcher, you old hound dog!”  Frank said in his baritone voice.  “I heard your girl was a knockout but she is gorgeous.”

“Thanks Frank,”  I said.  “It’s good to see you.”

Awhile back I did some work for Frank.  Nothing too serious.  Old Blue Eyes had an obsessive fan who was writing him all kinds of creepy letters, so I was hired to find the wacko and tell him to knock it off.

In addition to my fee, Frank comped me a free ticket to one of his shows and let me hang out with the boys backstage.

Dino shook my hand.  “Jake, are you the one making all the raucous over here?”

“Guilty,”  I said.  “I’m taking home some extra bones tonight boys.”

Sammy swaggered over and shook my hand with both of his.  “Jakey Baby, you deserve every penny of it.  You are one happening cat, you dig?”

“I dig.  Say, where’s Joey?”

“He’s got a gig out in the sticks,”  Frank said.

The redheaded waitress came over with a tray of champagne.

“Drinks, gentlemen?”

“No thank you, sweetheart,”  Dino said.  “My doctor told me I have to abstain from alcohol.”

“So what did you do?”  Sammy asked.

“I did what any self-respecting man would do,”  Dino said as he took a glass and had a gulp.  “I found another doctor!”

Laughter erupted.  We each grabbed a glass.

“To Jake’s nuptials,”  Frank said as he raised his bubbly.  “How long you been hitched, kid?”

“Just a few days.”

“And what, my invitation got lost in the mail?”

I studied Frank’s face.  I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Umm…”

I was waiting for him to tell me he was kidding but he never did.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d want to come.”

“Aww, stuff your sorries in a sack.”

Frank put his arm around me.

“Say, Jake, when are you back in the states?”

“End of the month.”

“Good,”  Frank said.  “Have your people call my people, will you?”

People.  He thought I had people.  I had one secretary.

“I’ve got a bunch of shows lined up in Vegas.  I could use a good man like you watching my back.  We’ll get you a room, make it worth your while, whaddya say?”

“I say…sign me up.”

“Good,”  Frank said.  “Say, we gotta call it splitsville but we’ll see you in the funny papers.”

Frank and Dino walked off.  Sammy hanged back.

“Say, Jakey baby, you want to do me a solid and tell me what you think about this little ditty I’m working on?”

“Lay it on me Sammy.”

Sammy sure was smooth.  My ears were in for a treat.

“I knew this cat, named Joe Spangles and he’d bake a cake for you, with blue cashews…blue cashews!  Mr. Joe Spangles! Mr. Joe Spangles!”

Sammy waited for the verdict.

“Still filling in the details but that’s the gist of it, babe.”

“I like it,”  I said.  “I think you’re onto something there.  The melody’s great but the lyrics need work.”

“I appreciate it, babe.”

Sammy walked off to catch up with his buddies but I stopped him.

“Sammy.”

“What’s the haps, man?”

“I heard you’ve been working on a duet with Peaches.”

“Oh yeah.  A really swinging, outta sight number.  It’s got all kinds of razzle dazzle.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good,”  Sammy said.  “Better since she broke up with that Step Aside Clyde cat.”

Wowza.  Peaches was available.

“You want me to tell her you said hello?”

I pondered that question.  Then I spotted Muffy looking all fabulous and enchanting as she giggled and gossiped with a clique of fancy ladies.

For the first time in so many years, I realized I was over my first love.  I’d moved on and not only was I happy, but I was able to allow myself to feel it.

“You there, babe?”  Sammy asked as he waved a hand in front of my face.

“Huh?  Oh.  No.  No thanks.  I’m just glad to hear she’s doing well.”

“Yo Sammy!”  Frank shouted from across the floor.  “We catching this flight or what?”

“I gotta run,”  Sammy said.  “Stay groovy, babe.”

I found Count Rickard and pulled up a seat next to him at the bar.

Shortly thereafter, the casino manager arrived to hand me a cashier’s check for twenty-five large.

“Congratulations, Mr. Hatcher,”  the manager said.  “I assume you wouldn’t want to carry this much cash with you, so I’ve taken the liberty of issuing you a check for the sum.  It’s as good as currency in any banking institution of your choice.”

I stared at it just to make sure it was real.  It was.  I tucked it into my breast pocket and could feel it burning a hole in my jacket already.

The Count and I sat and yakked it up for awhile until the redheaded waitress returned.

This time, she looked at me longingly and said, “Voulez vous coucher avec moi?”

“Um,”  I said.  “I’m sorry ma’am, but I don’t speak French.”

The Count, who was multilingual, laughed.

“She asks if you wish to sleep with her, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Get outta’ town!”

“I shall remain in town.”

“No foolin’?”

“Not at all.”

“Huh,”  I said.  “Tell her thank you but I’m a married man.”

The Count tapped the strumpet on the shoulder.  She looked at him and he said, “Je suis desole mais Madame, Monsieur Hatcher est une grande homosexuel.”

The waitress stomped her foot, shouted “Bon sang!” and took off in a huff.

“I hope you let her down easy, Fabes.”

“Something like that.”

“Fabes, have they got karma in Hungary?”

“I believe they have karma everywhere.  Why do you ask?”

“As of this very second, my life is better than it has ever been.  My business is successful.  I just won a fortune.  Every bimbo in the joint wants to dance the forbidden fox trot with me but I’m not interested because I’m married to a beautiful woman who revs my engine.  My ex-girlfriend is free of a monster I accidentally introduced her to and I don’t feel bad for mucking up the relationship I had with her anymore.  Oh, and just in case that’s not enough, I’m going to be paid to go to Vegas and hang out with three of the best entertainers in show biz.”

Count Rickard bit a cherry off the pointy end of the little umbrella in his drink.

“And yet, you say this all in an ominous tone, filled with doom and gloom.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Why should you?”

I patted my pocket to make sure the check was still there.

“Karma means you can only have so much good and so much bad in your life,”  I said.  “Up until recently, I’ve had a life that I wouldn’t wish on a dog.”

“Then rejoice,”  the Count said.  “For your time has come.  The universe is finally rewarding you with some good for sticking it out through so many years of bad.”

“Maybe,”  I said.  “But maybe it’s too much good.  Maybe if it gets any better the universe will arrange for an anvil to drop on my head to balance me out.”

“Oh Mr. Hatcher,”  the Count said.  He stood up and left a stack of chips at the bar to pay our drink bill.  “Such negative thinking will get you nowhere.  Come, my friend, let’s collect our wives and return home for dinner.  This is a night to celebrate.”

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

BQB EDITORIAL NOTE:  I will now read from a statement prepared by Delilah K. Donnelly, Attorney for the Bookshelf Battle Blog:

“The appearance of Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin in this story was for fictional and parody purposes only.”

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Aug 16 2015
2 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 4)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES..

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Sergei Yakubovich chomped on a cigar and studied his hand like a sinner looking for a loophole in the bible.

“You are bluffing, Mr. Hatcher.”

“There are two things I never do, Sergei,”  I said.  “Bluffing’s the first.”

The Muffster

The Muffster

“And the second?”

I took a hearty swig of of scotch.

“Drink with a commie.”

I motioned for the waitress to fetch me another.

“But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

Sergei had a permanent dour glare on his face, as if someone was perpetually pooping on his party.

He looked down his nose at me over a pair of circular spectacles.

“You are full of the shit of a bull, American swine.”

Yakubovich held himself out to the world as a legitimate businessman, though it had long been rumored that he had secretly made his scratch by using his politburo contacts to obtain and sell Russian arms on the black market.

One of the many reasons why I despised the pinkos.  The guys who always got on their soapbox about how the villagers should share toilet paper rations were always the first ones to get all capitalist when it came to their own personal wealth.

“Only one way to find out.”

The waitress, a darling auburn haired lovely in a skimpy black dress, set another scotch down in front of me.

I flipped her a chip.

“Keep ’em coming, doll.”

“Oui oui, monsieur.”

Muffy rested her chin on my left shoulder.  One whiff of her perfume was all I needed to feel like a man.

“I thought I was your doll?”

“You know you are, my sweet souffle.”

Sergei pushed a large mound of chips into the already heaving pot in the center of the table.

“Prepare to be crushed, comrade.”

Count Rickard tossed his hand down on the table and backed away.

“Mr. Hatcher,”  my former client said as he stood up and fastened the top button of his coat.  “If there’s one lesson I learned when you bailed me out, it’s how to not be drawn in by greed a second time.”

Signora Isabella Bellavenuti was quite a sight.  She was an Italian fashion designer of world renown, though what passed for trendy finery back then always amazed me.

Coincidentally, it still does today.

She wore a white mink stole, likely produced from the pelts of a hundred deceased varmints and an elaborate hat, festooned with feathers and miscellaneous plumage, curving at various, oddly chosen angles.

PETA would be up her ass with an electron microscope if she were around today.

“This is, how you say, ‘Too rich for my blood?'”

She too backed off and sucked on her filtered cigarette as if it were her last.

Yakubovich and I engaged in a stare off.  Neither one of us was going to budge

“Your will is like that of your countrymen, Hatcher,”  my Soviet adversary said.  “Bloated, lazy, and soft.”

I belted down my newly arrived scotch.

Then, I pushed the remainder of my chips in.

“Au contraire, Yakubovo-whatever,”  I said.  “Your resolve is like the Communist Party’s motto: sacrifice is great, especially when the other guy’s doing it.”

The tension between us grew thick and palpable.  You could cut it with a knife, eat it up and still have enough left over for seconds.

Signora Bellavenuti lightened the mood.

“Marone!  Had I wanted to witness a pee pee measuring contest, I’d of watched my last two lovers duel over my hand!  Show your cards already!”

Yakubovich splayed his cards out on the table.  Eight, seven, six, five, four.  All hearts.  A straight flush.

The looky lous who’d gathered round the table emitted a collective gasp.

“Sacre bleau!”  Muffy cried.

Old Sergei had played better than I gave him credit for.

“What in the name of Barbara Stanwyck’s underpants?!”

The Russki snickered and started raking the pot towards his side of the table with his hands.

“I guess I underestimated you, Yak-a-boo-boo.”

“Is Yakubovich,” my nemesis said.  “And yes, you failed to recognize Russia’s might, just as your leaders will when we fly the hammer and sickle over the White House.”

“Over my dead body,”  I said.

“That is idea.”

I stood up.  I looked around the room.  All eyes were on me.

The French waitress brought me another shot.  I drank it, then slapped the empty glass down on the table.

“That’s good,”  I said.  “That’s really good.”

“Do not embarrass yourself, Hatcher.  Take your lumps like a man.”

“Say Yaka-bo-bo, what did the Queen do after she dropped a big steamer?”

I tossed down my hand.

Ace.  King.  Queen.  Jack.  Ten Spot.  All clubs.

You could have knocked that Bolshevik over with a feather.

“A Royal Flush?”

Cheers.  Applause.  Accolades.  And most of all, money.  Sweet, glorious cheddar.

It was mine.  All mine.

Twenty-five thousand smackers.

I know, 3.5.  That sounds good, but not life changing, right?

Wrong.  Adjusted for inflation, I was staring at the modern day equivalent of a quarter million.

Muffy hugged me like she wanted to push herself through me.  She planted her lips on mine and we sucked face like a pair of flounders who’d just crashed into one another on the ocean floor.

And not for nothing, but as soon as that bread was the property of yours truly, a lot of chickadees in that joint started giving me that look.  You know the one.  Like we were on the plains of the Serengetti, they were jaguars, and I was a nice, ripe, juicy caribou butt that they wanted to sink their teeth into.

But as far as I was concerned, Muffy was the only kitten I was interested in.

Outraged, Yakubovich slammed his fist on the table and stormed off.

Count Rickard shook my hand and it was congratulations all around.

An attendant gathered up my chips.

“I’ll cash you out sir.”

I accepted adulation for awhile until Fabian’s wife, Arianna, the Countess Rickard, found us.  She was an average looking broad.  Wouldn’t knock your socks off but you wouldn’t turn her down in a pinch either.  She had a slight hair lip, though it was nothing that a little hot wax couldn’t have cured.

“Muffelia!  I’ve been looking all over for you!”

The Countess had taken a real shine to my better half, treating her like the daughter she never had.

“Come dear,” the Countess said.  “I simply must introduce you to the Duchess of Shropshire.  I think you will both get along famously.”

“Merci.  Excuse moi, Jacob.”

The missus wasn’t gone for more than a few seconds when I felt a strong hand slap me on the shoulder.

I turned around.

“Frank?”

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Aug 15 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 3)

Monte Carlo

June 1952

I was having a ball.

Muffelia

Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux aka the Second Mrs. Hatcher

No really, I was in attendance at an actual, bonafide ball.  I was wearing a fancy white tuxedo and everything.

Toward the front of the room, a conductor whirled his baton about, back and forth, leading strings, winds, and all manner of instruments in a breathtaking waltz.

Meanwhile, the second Mrs. Hatcher and I were cutting a rug on the large, luxurious floor.

“You dance divinely, mon cheri,” my partner whispered in my ear before nibbling ever so suggestively on my lobe.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, my little creme brulee.”

Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux.  She was a sultry Cajun coquette, the type of woman who made men’s hearts overflow with passionate lust.  Like the bayou she was born and bred on, she was mysterious, mischievous…and oh so dirty.

Sorry 3.5 readers.  I didn’t mean to scandalize you.

I love it when a broad wears her hair up, mostly because I spend the whole evening in anticipation of when it comes down.  And Muffy was the Queen when it came to finding out what made my blood pump.

Her lips were red, full, and so very kissable.  Her hair was blacker than a coal miner’s boots and that night, she wore a silver gown with dangly earrings to match.  Men aren’t that hard to please, ladies.  We like shiny things.

For the first time in my life, I was on top of the world.

I’d left the LAPD and put up my own shingle.  Hatcher Investigations was in full swing and in the City of Angels, there was no shortage of wealthy folk with problems that required a man with my special skill set.

My secretary, Connie Connors, who I swiped away from my former boss, Capt. Thaddeus Talbot, was back home holding down the fort.  I owed my success to her.  She kept the business running like a well oiled machine, did all the filing, filled out all the paperwork, and most importantly, played nicey nice with the clients

Thus, all I had to do was the sleuthing.

My bank roll was fat, my car was sporty, and best of all, I had the type of wife who, with just one look, could make a man pitch a tent faster than a master outdoorsman.

Today, at ninety-five, I realize that’s not the only quality a man should be looking for in a significant other, but forgive me, because back then I didn’t know any better.

In my defense, the Muffster excelled at switching off a man’s brain.

Her accent made me putty in her hands, and she never missed an opportunity to bend me any which way she wanted.

She insisted on calling me Jacob, but she pronounced it, “Zsa-Cob.”  “Zsa,” like Zsa Zsa Gabor, the actress from Green Acres, and “cob” like what you hold when you’re eating corn.

“I want you to hold me in your arms forever, Jacob.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice, baby.  You make me feel like a million bucks.”

SPOILER ALERT:  I’d later learn that the “forever” Muffy had in store for me was a mere six months and coincidentally, she’d shoot me six times and leave me for dead over the same amount of money, not to mention run off with Roscoe, my lousy excuse for a kid brother, God rest his soul.

But put all of that out of your mind for now, 3.5.  That night, I was convinced we were both happy.

And why wouldn’t we be?

We were on our honeymoon.  A free honeymoon.   A glorious fortnight in Monaco, the tiny European principality where all the beautiful people of the world gathered to hob knob, rub elbows, trade gossip and measure each other’s bank accounts.

We were the guests of Count Fabian Rickard, heir to a lavish Hungarian dynasty, and between you and me, a bit of a gullible old goose.

He’d managed to get nearly his entire fortune tied up in an elaborate real estate swindle and hired me to track down the fraudulent huckster who bilked him.

The nogoodnik was hiding out in LaLa Land and yours truly located him, put him behind bars, and most importantly, reunited the Count with his cabbage.

He was so grateful that when I mentioned I was about to tie the knot, he insisted that the new Mrs. Hatcher and I be his guests at his chateau, a vacation home he visited quite frequently.

The Waltz wrapped up and the band took a powder.

Our benefactor strolled up to us with a bubbly champagne flute in each hand.  He offered them and we accepted them gladly.

“Ahhh, young love,”  Count Rickard said.  “What I wouldn’t give to return to the days when the Countess and I gazed at one another the way you two do.”

The Count had a devilish black beard that came down off of his chin in a point and a heavily waxed mustache that curled up on both ends.

“Come now, Fabes.”

Fabes.  A little nickname I had for him.

“I bet whenever you’re gone, the little woman counts the seconds until you return and stir her goulash.”

Count Rickard looked at me, trying to figure out what I meant.  Then he let the guffaws fly.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher, you are a card.”

“He is an ace!”  Muffy added.

As jokes go, it wasn’t that funny, but Muffy was hotter than the surface of the sun, so we laughed anyway.

“Come my boy,” the Count said as he wrapped an arm around me.  “You must try your luck in the casino.  Are you a betting man, Mr. Hatcher?”

“Oh, I don’t know,”  I replied.  “Pa Hatcher always told me that games of chance are the devil’s work.”

Muffy looked at me with those dark, hypnotic eyes and straightened my bow tie.

“Come Jacob.  It will be fun.”

Yep.  All it took for me to ignore the sage advice of the wisest man I ever knew was a coy pout from a Southern belle.

Oh well.  Men had done worse things for far less.

“Lead the way, Fabes. ”

Copyright (C) 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Aug 15 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Good evening, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Ms. Tsang.”

“Can I offer you something?”

“Oh, no thank you.  My stomach is positively spinning after this evening.  Is Mr. Hatcher available?”

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

Hatcher’s smelliest case yet.

My landlandy made a sweeping gesture toward me.

“Couldn’t get rid of him if I tried.  He’s all yours.”

I stood up and put my bowl down.  Sweet Merciful Heavens, Delilah was wearing the crap out of that dress.

All I could do was spit on my thumb and try desperately to rub the stain off my trench coat.

I wasn’t sure how long it’d been there.  I couldn’t remember eating anything that looked like it.

“Au chante, Ms. Donnelly,”  I said as I took my visitor’s hand and kissed it.  “Au chante.  What a vision.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Simply stunning,”  I said.  “A lesser man than I would lose control of himself and be all over you.”

“Please settle down,”  Delilah said as she scooched into the booth.  “I should hate to have to mace you.”

“I’m already blinded by your beauty.”

“Must I always fend off your advances every time I stop by?”

“No,”  I said.  “You can surrender to base desire anytime you like.”

The blonde passed me an envelope.  I’d become all too familiar with this ritual.

A visit from Delilah.  An envelope.  A Pop Culture Mystery begins.

It was all too neat and tidy, as if written for the reading pleasure of 3.5 readers.

“I take no credit for this mystery,”  Delilah said.  “Mr. Battler is putting his eccentricity on full display with this inquiry and I don’t care for the subject matter at all.”

I opened up the envelope and perused the contents.

Hatcher,

Hatfields vs. The McCoys.  Sunni vs. Shia.  East Coast vs. West Coast Rappers.

From the dawn of time, various factions have deemed it necessary to go to war.

But never has there been a conflict that has stood the test of time as long as the feud between the Smellers vs. Deniers.

A group gathers.  They’re sociable.  Enjoying one another’s company.

Suddenly, a noxious odor permeates the nasal passages of everyone in the room.

And then it begins with an accusation.

One person, assumably after having smelled the proverbial “it” lashes out.  Angry, confused, and yes, perhaps just a bit too judgmental, this individual points a finger at the one believed to be the source of the flatulence, demanding justice and satisfaction on behalf of all the offended olfactory glands in the room.

But what is the accuser’s true motivation?  Is the accuser actually offended OR could the accuser be trying to cover up the dirty deed, shifting blame away from himself and onto an unwitting patsy?

Naturally, the accused party goes on the defensive.  Perhaps the accused is innocent, the victim of an unruly lynch mob.  Or, perhaps the accused is indeed guilty, but yearns for forgiveness and wishes to avoid blame.

After all, haven’t the best of us lost control of our bowels at inopportune moments?  Let he who hath never experienced an unintended cheek squeak cast the first fecal stone.

The accused thrusts back with a most assured, “HE WHO SMELT IT, DELT IT!” thus turning the tables and shifting the accuser’s status from accuser to accused.

Now the newly accused, the former accuser, parries with a comeback of, “HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And around, around it goes.

Where does it stop?

I hope you will know.

The smeller?  The denier?  Who’s responsible?

Beware, Hatcher.  This case stinks.

“Really?”  I asked.

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “I have half a mind to tender my resignation.”

“I hope you don’t,”  I said.  “I doubt Battler’s next ambulance chaser would be as easy on the eyes.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?  A pretty face.”

“No,” I said.  “I seek a mythical, often spoken of but rarely observed woman.  One with looks AND brains.  That’s why you enchant me so, Ms. Donnelly.  You’re the unicorn I’ve been searching for.”

The lady lawyer stood up.

“I think you’ll find that I’m not very horny, Mr. Hatcher.”

Wow.  What scandalous double entendre.  Whenever I think Delilah’s a square, she never ceases to knock it out of the park.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be off now,”  Delilah said.

I walked my guest to the door.

“You must have really put on the ritz tonight,” I said.

“Oh, this?”  Delilah said, noting her fabulous dress.  “Yes, the Bolshoi is in town.”

“I see.  And how is your gentleman caller?”

“As none of your business as ever.”

“Ouch,”  I said.  “Retract the claws. A man can make conversation, can’t he?”

“If that’s all he’s doing.”

I opened the front door.  A limo was waiting for her.

“Is he in there?”  I asked.  “Can I meet your fella?”

“I’m not sure that would be a wise idea.”

“I understand.”

“Finally,”  Delilah replied.

“He’s uglier than a donkey’s butt and you’re too embarrassed to introduce me.  Say no more.”

Delilah sighed.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher.  You’re simply incorrigible.”

The chauffeur walked around and opened the door.

“Say, Ms. Donnelly?”  I asked as my colleague took a seat in her fancy ride.

“Yes?”

“Bolshoi,”  I said.  “That’s ballet, isn’t it?”

“The finest in the world.”

“Think you could score a private dick a couple of tickets?  I know someone who’d like to go.”

“But of course, Mr. Hatcher.  But of course.”

The chauffeur shut the door.  I went back inside and returned to my rice.

It was cold.

Smelt it.  Delt it.  Flatulential accusations.

I knew what Bookshelf Q. Battler was talking about all too well.

I’d once been trapped in a similar situation myself.

An impromptu toot.  A pointed finger.  Anger on both sides.

I doubt the world will ever understand how close it came to a third world war and how I prevented it from taking place.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier

Pop Culture Mystery Question – When gas is passed, who is the culprit?  Is it, “he who smelt it, dealt it?” or “he who denied it, supplied it?”

Another dinner shift over.  Ms. Tsang’s employees cleared dishes and wiped down tables as my landlady took a seat in a corner booth and made with the typey type on her laptop beep boop machine.

I sauntered over with a bowl full of pork fried rice I pilfered from the kitchen.

“Pardon me ma’am, is this seat taken?”  I asked.

Ms. Tsang looked up at me through a pair of glasses.  She only used them for reading.

“Yes.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sat down anyway.  My host noticed my eats.

“I should start running a tab,” she said as she returned her focus to the computer.

Susan Tsang, Hatcher's Niece/Unpaid Landlady

Susan Tsang, Hatcher’s Niece/Unpaid Landlady

On the wall, there was an extensive, elaborate painting of a Chinese dragon.  He was green with a red belly, long like a snake and had a set of dagger like teeth.  His face was angry and menacing, as if he was just itching to leap off the wall and attack the patrons.

“Your mother,” I said as I pointed at the dragon with my chopstick, “Hated that dragon.  Absolutely hated it.  She wanted to run a paint roller over the entire thing.  Said the customers couldn’t enjoy themselves when there was a beast on the wall that looked like it wanted to eat them.”

“Uh huh,”  Ms. Tsang said.  Whatever was on her screen, she was more interested in it than me.

“Your father wouldn’t budge though,”  I said.  “Your Great Uncle, the man who gave him his club in Hong Kong, had a dragon on the wall of his joint just like that one and Joe hired an artist to recreate it from a photo.  He said it brought him luck.”

“Yeah,” Ms. Tsang said.  “Well, if that ugly thing is lucky then I’m still waiting.”

I knew that was a reference to me but I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t blame her.  I wouldn’t want to take care of someone for decades the way she did for me.

“Can you explain this?”

Ms. Tsang turned around her laptop to show me what her peepers had been perusing.  It was none other than the Bookshelf Battle Blog, the official stomping grounds for my client, Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler.

“Don’t stay on there too long,”  I said.  “If Battler gets another reader it’ll go to his head.”

That comment didn’t go over well.  Ms. Tsang was miffed.

“I love you, Jake.”

“Back at ya’ kiddo.”

“But I don’t think you have any idea what it was like to have a grown man sleeping upstairs for fifty-nine years.”

“I have a hunch.”

“Do you?”  Ms. Tsang asked.

I kicked back and enjoyed my free dinner as my niece/landlady enlightened me.

“While I was a kid it was kind of funny,” Ms. Tsang said.  “I’d go up to your office and poke you with a stick, sing songs to you, try to wake you up.”

“Surprised I didn’t wake up,” I said.  “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket as I recall.”

“Mom and Dad took care of you.  I remember they used to shave you.  Clip your fingernails.  They’d lay you out on your couch, strip you, give you a sponge bath, then dress you back up and put you in your desk chair.”

“Wowza,”  I said.  “Did they really?  Yikes, poor Joe and Evelyn staring at my man parts all those years.”

“Until they passed on,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Then it all fell on me.”

My heart sunk.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“Are you really?  Do you really think running this place is what I wanted to do with my life?”

“Why not?”  I asked.  “You do it so well.”

“I do a lot of things well,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “But running this place wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

“I know what you wanted to do,”  I said.  “I remember the little girl in the ballerina tutu.  You had moves, Susie, I’ll give you that.”

“I kept the restaurant going because I had no place else to put you.”

“You could have left me on the curb with the trash for all I care, sweetheart.  Sorry I was asleep.  I’d of told you that.”

“And it wasn’t like I could ever tell anyone,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “How do you explain to a boyfriend that there’s a stereotypical 1950’s hardboiled film noir style private detective complete with a trench coat and fedora sleeping permanently in your place of business, never aging at all?”

“Very awkwardly, I assume.”

“Or not at all,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Dad told me about that man you made an enemy of in World War II.  He told me things could get very bad for you if anyone were to find out that you were in a defenseless state.”

“An accurate assessment,”  I said between bites of rice.

“So, I have a question.”

“I might have an answer.”

Ms. Tsang pointed to the screen, where BQB had posted his latest nonsense.  Something about being the best friend of a little green space man.  The guy was nuttier than a bag of cashews.

“Why are you flushing everything I did for you all those years down the drain?”

“Come again?”

“This blog,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “These stories you write for this Bookshelf Q. Battler idiot.  I hide you for decades and you turn around and announce to the entire world that you’re back?”

“‘The entire world’ is a bit of a stretch,”  I said.  “That site will get more than 3.5 readers when hell freezes over and the devil sponsors a snow man making contest.  I’m pretty sure I’m safe.”

“But you wrote about…”

Ms. Tsang looked around.  The floor was empty.  She leaned in over the table and whispered, “Operation Fuhrerpunschen.”

“So what?”

“Dad said you were sworn to secrecy!  I spent my entire life taking care of a sleepy gumshoe and now you’re daring the government to come haul you away!”

“Please,’  I said.  “Anyone involved in that mission is long gone.  Pushing up daisies and serving as an all you can eat buffet for earth worms.”

“What about the drinking?”

“What about it?”  I asked.

“You’d think six decades would have flushed that demon out of your system,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “But you’re half in the bag now more than ever.”

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to me?”  Ms. Tsang asked.

She stood up and waved a finger in my face.

“Now you listen to me, Jacob R. Hatcher.  You will TAKE this second chance at life that NO ONE EVER gets and you will do something worthwhile with it so I don’t end up wishing I’d of just fed your carcass to a pack of wolves, or I will NEVER speak to you again.”

I thought about it.

“Can I still drink?”

“Ugh!’

Ms. Tsang closed her laptop and stormed off.  She got halfway across the restaurant’s spacious dining room when Alan, her goofy looking busboy met her.

Allan died his hair dark black and wore eyeshadow.  Nose with more metal than a scrapyard.  I think he was one of those, what do you people call them?  Goths?

All I know is he was the most depressing kid I ever saw.

“Ms. Tsang” he said in a drab monotone, “This lady asked to come in but I told her we’re closed.”

The lady?

My colleague in the Pop Culture Mystery game, Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly, of course.

And she was dressed as snappily as I’d ever seen her.  A full length evening gown.  Blood red and lipstick to match.

“It’s ok Allan,”  Ms. Tsang said.  “Go punch out.”

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

And now…

Pop Culture Mysteries:  Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier.

Or – He Who Smelt It, Dealt It vs. He Who Denied It, Supplied It.

This case stinks

                         This case stinks.

Pulitzer Prize, here I come.

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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: Behind the Scenes – What is the Role of the Bookshelf Battle Blog in the Story?

Hey 3.5 readers.

“It’s a blog that writes about itself. Exceptionally confusing.”

Welcome to another “Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes,” the only column where I, Bookshelf Q. Battler, ask random Internet folk for writing advice because my friends and family are such that they’ll laugh their asses off if I tell them that I’m helping a 95 year old private dick write his memoirs.

There’s been an issue in the back of the mind and it starts to come to the forefront in the Informant Zero story.

OK.  Stay with me here.

  • Jake is a writer for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.
  • The Bookshelf Battle Blog exists in the Pop Culture Mysteries world.  It has to, because Bookshelf Q. Battler bosses Jake around through his attorney, Delilah K. Donnelly.
  • Ergo, won’t people, when they meet Jake, look up the Bookshelf Battle Blog and learn about Jake’s past and his special abilities (non aging, invincibility, etc)

Originally, I thought I’d go with that old cliche where the special hero doesn’t reveal his special-ness to people he meets.  The vampire hides his fangs and blends in with the norms.  Superman puts on a pair of glasses.  Bruce Wayne pretends to be an do-nothing playboy.

Wait, let’s back up a minute.

THUS FAR, WHO KNOWS THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK?

  • Ms. Tsang, obviously, because she took care of him while he was asleep for decades.  Eventually, I’ll work it into the story how that burden really sucked for her and kept her from doing a lot of things she wanted to do in life, including starting a family, because, you know, how do you explain to people that there’s a gumshoe upstairs that just sleeps forever, never grows old and stays young?
  • Delilah K. Donnelly and Bookshelf Q. Battler – Battler’s claim to be able to answer Jake’s question of why did he sleep for 60 years is the center point of the series.  Battler knows, his trusted attorney Delilah knows, but they aren’t telling until 100 Pop Culture Mysteries are solved.  (Or does Battler know – is he just yanking Jake’s chain for the unscrupulous purpose of bringing a writer with an interesting story to his blog?)
  • Others from Jake’s Past, Who May or May Not Start Appearing in the Future, and If They Do, Only BQB and Delilah Will Know Why Past People are Showing Up in the Future – We’ll get to that.  Mickey Finn (Jake’s old partner), first girlfriend Peaches, his three ex-wives and anyone else from the past is fair game to return to the future.

THUS FAR, WHO DOESN’T KNOW THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK? – Agnes Abernathy, aka Agnes the Librarian, is Jake’s unwilling research assistant.  As a public librarian in a busy city library, she’s used to all types wandering in and bugging her to look stuff up for them.  Hobos and bums often use the library as place to hang out and up until Fan Dime Drops, Agnes thought that Jake was another bum.  She still thinks Jake is odd, but after seeing Delilah meet with Jake, she at least believes that Jake writes for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

BUT – she has yet to realize that Jake is a 95 year old private dick.

BUT – if Agnes keeps helping Jake research “cases” for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, wouldn’t Agnes one day be curious enough to take a peak at the Bookshelf Battle Blog and therefore, read Jake’s tales of stuff that happened to him long, long ago?

THUS – I’m not sure how I’ll handle this.  Right now, I’m leaning toward the possibility that:

  • Agnes checks out the BB Blog.
  • Agnes does read Jake’s stories that happen long ago.
  • Agnes assumes either a) Jake’s a nut (like she already does) or b) Jake’s just a modern day 35 year old and he’s just really into historical fiction and roleplaying and enjoys it so much that he walks around in a fedora and trenchcoat.

BUT – Will Jake openly share his “secret” with people?

OPTION 1 – Yes.  After all, Ma Hatcher taught him never to tell a lie.  He’ll wander LA, openly telling people he’s 95 years old and slept for 60 years without reservation. Most people won’t believe him, but at least he didn’t lie.

OPTION 2 – No.  Best to keep it hush hush.  Yes, I, Jake, do claim to be 95 years old on the blog, but that’s just for fun, don’t believe it.

Either way, most people Jake meets in modern times will not believe it.

WHAT ABOUT FUTURE MODERN WORLD CHARACTERS JAKE WILL MEET?

Remember that story, The Wrong Guy, I half finished?

I decided it was too early for all the revelations in that, and to hold off.

SPOILER ALERT:

BUT  – I hope that story will end with Jake meeting a female present day LA police detective.

Female dick...er, detective.

Female dick…er, detective.

Remember how Jake took out a few drug dealers?

The female detective will look at Jake as an off-kilter vigilante and start watching him, looking for a way to bring Jake in.  More and more, Jake will start using his private dick powers to help modern day people.

So, yeah.  Jake’s kinda like Batman.  And the female detective will kinda be like the cops that think Batman’s a menace.

Or maybe Jake’s not like Batman.  Maybe Jake’s honest to everyone about his powers and no one believes him.

It’d be like if Bruce Wayne were to walk around shouting, “I’m Batman!” and everyone’s like, “That’s impossible!  Stop lying, Bruce.”

(Will Jake and the female detective ever come to an understanding and work together? Your guess is as good as mine).

BUT – I guess, like AGNES, the question will be, will the female cop, after reading the BB Blog to find out more about Jake, believe Jake is 95 or just assume he’s crazy or writing fiction?

OTHER ISSUES:

  • INVINCIBILITY – In the Wrong Guy, (there’s already some posts that show it) we learn that in modern times, Jake doesn’t just not age.  He’s invincible.  Shoot him.  Stab him.  Toss him off a building.  Whatever.  Jake still keeps ticking.  Note in the past, from 1920 (his birth) to 1955 ( his nap) he was mortal and could have been killed, but now he can’t.  It’s all part of the mystery that we HOPE Bookshelf Q. Battler will reveal once the 100 mysteries are solved.
  • HOW TO HANDLE THAT – It’s the blog issue all over again.  If Jake writes about his invincibility on the blog, won’t characters read about it?  Will Jake just be honest and tell them, “Yup, I’m invincible” will he hide it or will characters just assume he’s lying until they somehow see it happen ( They witness Jake get shot and get back up and are like, oh ok, Jake’s not lying.)
  • BB Blog vs. PCM Blog – Once I write the rough draft of the first season here on the BB blog, I’ll rewrite it, revise it, and then start posting it on the PCM Blog.  So should I not refer to BB Blog and just have Delilah recruit Jake to work for the PCM blog?  I actually think I should just start the season with a note that this all started on the bookshelf battle blog, this is how Jake solved a bunch of mysteries for the bb blog at first, and then work it into the story (I start to in Informant Zero) that Jake will be shifting to the PCM blog.  So the first season will be about how Jake moved from BB to PCM.
  • AGNES – Do you guys like the Agnes character?  I’m toying with the idea that she eventually leaves the library and becomes Jake’s secretary.  On the PCM blog, she might get a regular column where she promotes indie authors by listing five-ten indie books she’d like to see in her library.  (Of course, then she can’t become Jake’s secretary, she’ll have to stay at the library.

SO HOW THE HELL WILL JAKE FUNCTION IN THE MODERN WORLD?  

Eventually, Jake’s going to need:

  • Money – And more than BQB’s cheap-o $5 bucks a case.  Per Delilah’s suggestion, Jake will have to start looking for actual, REAL mystery having clients who pay a lot more than $5.  Ms. Tsang can’t carry Jake’s ass forever.
  • Papers – Jake’s 95 years old.  His driver’s license, documents, etc., they’re all 60 years old.  Maybe Ms. Donnelly can work some of her legal magic to get Jake recognized as an actual citizen…which will require them to show he was born in 1981!  (Hell, maybe that’s a job for an Informant Zero).

AND FINALLY, WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND THIS ONE….

  • If Jake was an infamous lawman in the 1940s and 50’s
  • Then surely, like Elliot Ness and other famous crimefighters, news articles were written about him.
  • Those articles probably printed his picture at the time.
  • And that picture will look like Jake now.
  • So if a) Jake tries to not let people in on the secret that he’s 95 OR if people refuse to believe it even though he’s up front about it:
  • Then how do we reconcile this?

I’M LEANING TOWARDS – People have a habit of explaining away the supernatural.  That bump in the night isn’t a ghost.  It’s your house settling.

(Calm down!  It’s not really a ghost!  Sheesh!)

OPTIONS:

  1.  If Jake hides his secret, he tells people who ask about the resemblance to past Jake that he’s the grandson of infamous 40s 50s lawman Jake Hatcher and was named after him.
  2. But I think I’m leaning towards Jake just is open and honest to everyone that he’s 95 and if they don’t believe it, that’s their problem.  Because people are quick to rationalize the supernatural, these people, like Agnes or the female detective, might just write the resemblance off as a coincidence.
  3. Maybe Delilah goes behind Jake’s back and tells them “Hey, yeah, Jake’s really the grandson of Jake Hatcher from long ago and he just likes to play pretend.”

I dunno.  Many possibilities there.

What I’m realizing is when you move from an idea to actual publication, so, so many loose ends pile up then you have to tie up.

Maybe that’s why so many aspiring novelists quit.  Every new plot point raises more questions to be answered.

But I don’t want to quit.

BUT WAIT A MINUTE, DOESN’T THE BOOKSHELF BATTLE BLOG ONLY HAVE 3.5 READERS?

Yes.  I’m also thinking maybe it’s possible to completely, totally, and utterly WIPE OUT all my above worries by plugging in the following joke somewhere into the season:

JAKE:  Ms. Donnelly, I don’t get it.  I’ve publicly written on the Bookshelf Battle Blog that I’m 95 years old, that I was once a famous lawman, and that I took a 60 year nap.  Why doesn’t anyone I meet ever ask me about that?

DELILAH:  Because no one ever reads the Bookshelf Q. Battle Blog, Mr. Hatcher.  It only has 3.5 readers.

JAKE:  Well, what do you know?  I’m hiding in plain sight!

If I go that route – NO ONE bothers to read the BB Blog because it’s so obscure.  Agnes never reads it.  The female detective never reads it.  They wonder why Jake looks like Jake Hatcher from the 40s and 50s, and Jake tells them he’s his grandson, and because the blog only has 3.5 readers, Jake’s secrets are safe.

Of course, that’ll only work for the first season, and then the joke will have to transfer to the PCM Blog and become that Pop Culture Mysteries only has 3.5 readers, or that anything BQB is involved in is cursed to only have 3.5 readers.

OK then.  Thanks 3.5.  Your feedback is appreciated.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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