Tag Archives: Pop Culture Mysteries

Jul 12 2015
2 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Future Ideas for Pop Culture Mysteries

Happy Sunday, 3.5 Readers.

Delilah K. Donnelly, BQB's exceptionally attractive henchwoman...er, attorney.

Delilah K. Donnelly, BQB’s exceptionally attractive henchwoman…er, attorney.

Here’s the deal.

In my personal life, I’m busier than a porcupine at a pin cushion convention.

If I get an hour a day to write, I consider myself lucky.

That’s why blogging works for me.  Every day, a short daily post, and then I move on.

That’s also why Jake, Ms. Donnelly and I are doing so well with Pop Culture Mysteries.  Ms. Donnelly delivers, Jake reports, I post.  Who could ask for anything more?

Here’s some ideas for the future.  Since you’re my 3.5 readers, you tell me if any, all, or none of these are appealing:

#1 – A Spin-Off Site

I’m mulling over the possibility of creating a spin-off Pop Culture Mysteries site.  Already secured the site and everything.  It’d be all Jake all the time.

PRO:  Jake gets his own digs.  More Internet presence for the Bookshelf Battle goodness.

CON:  It’s been an uphill battle in the snow with no shoes on to get people to feast their peepers on this site.  The idea of splitting visits and views among two sites rather than just bring them all here worries me.

But if I did create a spin-off site:

#2 – Both Sites Work Together 

As said above, I have less free time than a cat a yarn ball factory.

Jake and I would set up the Pop Culture Mystery posts here on bookshelfbattle.com.  You, the 3.5 readers, would give us advice, feedback, criticism, ideas to make them better.

In fact, as the gumshoe and I consider directions the various plot lines of the series will take in the future, we can already see some things we’d like to change in what’s been posted so far.

(Jake and I have still yet to meet in person.  Ms. Donnelly handles all our correspondence, of course.)

Am I going to fully rely on you 3.5 readers?  No.  In the future, I hope to retain the help of an editor.  But, for those interested in self-publishing, this is a chance to see how the sausage is made.

The posts on bookshelfbattle.com would essentially be rough drafts.

After Jake and I get the time to flush them out (with your feedback), I’d post the polished posts on the Pop Culture Mysteries spin-off site to be preserved for the ages.

Which brings us to:

#3 – Seasons, Arcs and Books

Multiple posts would be put together on the spin-off site as seasons.  Each season would follow Hatcher through different story arcs.

And each season would end a book that would be sold on Amazon (perhaps even other book distribution platforms in the future).

For example, we’re in season one right now.  It’s an introductory season where we are learning who the characters are.  I hope to end it with… Mr. Devil Man (read a sneak peak of the first chapter here).

The books would be stand-alone, meaning a) you could buy it, read it, and understand it without ever having read the site posts but b) hopefully book readers would enjoy it enough that they’d go in search of more Bookshelf Battle goodness by visiting the sites (this one and the spin-off), thus increasing platform traffic.

I foresee a lot of audience interactivity:

  • Self-publishing nerds advise Jake and I here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog.
  • Mystery nerds enjoy Jake’s stories on the spin-off blog
  • Book nerds enjoy Jake’s books sold on Amazon.
  • I enjoy the profits because Ms. Donnelly is one hell of a lawyer and Jake doesn’t bother to read the fine print.

Speaking of…

#4 – Putting Money Into This

Relax.  I’m talking about my money.

I don’t want to knock self-publishers, writers and other artists who rattle their electronic tin cup to ask for donations.

Some people have accomplished great deeds doing that.  The Veronica Mars and Super Troopers 2 campaigns being examples that come to mind.

Personally, I find it icky so I’m not going to do that.

I look at this as a business and if it’s to go forward I need to put some skin in the game.  What does that mean?  I don’t know.

Enlisting some editing help, character artwork, images etc.

In business, the best strategy is to put out based on what’s coming in.

In other words:

  • You build a lemonade stand.
  • Everyone on your street stops by.  You make a second pitcher of lemonade.
  • Everyone in your neighborhood comes over.  You make a third pitcher.
  • Everyone in town wants your delicious lemonade.  You dump the stand and rent a storefront.
  • People in the next town over drive all the way over just to sample your tasty lemonade.  Time to invest in a second location.
  • People just can’t get enough off that sweet yellow stuff (shut up, I’m talking about lemonade).  You need to start selling franchise rights because…profit!

What you don’t want to do:

  • You build a lemonade stand.
  • Aunt Gertie says it’s the best lemonade she’s ever hand.
  • You drain your bank account, take out a high-interest loan from a loan shark, and set up a bunch of lemonade stores on the hope that people will come only to be left with a bunch of empty stores, moldy unused lemons, and two broken legs. (Damn loan sharks).

That was my longwinded way of saying that the first season or two will look like they were produced on a modest budget, but if people like the work, I’d gladly put book proceeds towards making future seasons better.

The biggest criticism of self-publishing is that it often looks cheap.  That’s somewhat understandable because these are often works produced by people on a budget, not big time studios with cash to burn.

But there’s a difference between cheap and crappy.  It’s possible to put out respectable work on a budget.

Cheap doesn’t mean your work has to look like it was packaged by a bunch of carny folk.

Take The Simpsons. The first shorts that appeared on The Tracey Ullman Show were cheap to be sure, but they made people laugh and convinced FOX to dump some money into it.  Here they are, still kicking after 26 years.

It’s all a carefully choreographed dance.  I can’t put a ton of my own money into it now in the hopes it will pay off big time later. If it doesn’t, my bill collectors aren’t going to buy “sorry, I spent all the money on my private dick” as an excuse.

But the more eyes that end up on the sites and books, the more old BQB’s wallet can be pried open, even if moths will fly out.

#5 – Conclusions 

All I’m really asking is:

  • Does this strategy sound good or bad?
  • How have Jake and I done on the series so far?  Does it seem like something worth putting more work into?

As always, thanks for listening, 3.5 readers.

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 12 2015
1 Comment
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 7

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Hatcher’s on the hunt for Craig Henneman, a stick-up man who committed a mortal sin in Hatcher’s eyes, namely, offing the guy who supplied him with alcohol.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5    Part 6

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

For a lawman, there’s nothing more unsettling than a locked door.

I’d found myself outside a slew of them in my day and each time, only God knew what was waiting for me on the other side.

And he was never in a sharing mood.

Hatcher and Betsy back together again.

Hatcher and Betsy back together again.

I was standing outside Henneman’s apartment, Wanda still resting snugly under my arm in a nondescript flower box.

Though the scumbag I was after had taken his ID back when he rifled through my pockets earlier, I remembered the address with the help of my photographic memory.

A good memory is just one of the many traits a man has to hone in order to become an investigator of my caliber.

I rapped three times on the door.

“Delivery!”  I barked.  “I have a delivery for a Mr. Craig Henneman.”

Come out and get delivered to your maker, you rat bastard.

Hearing nothing, I pulled out my tension wrench and lock pick, two tools any good locksmith has on him.

I inserted my two little helpers and searched for that special lineup of pins that would gain me entry to the home of a murderer.

Snap.  The bolt turned and I was in.

No need for the subterfuge any more.  I dropped the box and started clearing rooms, letting Wanda’s double-barrells to lead the way.

The bathroom was clean.  To clarify, I’m saying it was “clean” in that there was no one hiding in there waiting to smash my coconut open with a beer bottle, not in the tidy sense.  The toilet looked and smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned in the history of the world.  The only ones happy about that were the cockroaches who were using it as their own personal swimming pool.

Pretty sure I saw one of those nasties do the backstroke.

Moving on, I hit the kitchen.  No one there either.

In my LAPD days, I cleared out crapholes like this all the time.  As long as you treat every nook and cranny as if its being used for cover by some delinquent who wants to introduce you to the business end of a gun, there’s nothing to it.

I headed for the living room.  It was a mess, but a mess the local coppers would be interested in.

The coffee table was lousy with heaps of white powder.  Another hundred  or so small bags of stuff sat in a pile on the couch.

China white.  Columbian nose candy.  Big time booger sugar.

Called by any other name, it was still cocaine.

There was a bedroom off to the right.  I kicked in the door.

No one.  Nothing but trash, moldy food plates, and empty take-out containers.

It was like someone was waiting for a maid that was never going to come.

I stepped back into the living room and was about to clear the bedroom on the other side when three shots were fired through the door, the bullets narrowly missing my squash.

Wanda belched out of both barrels as I dove backward, landing on the coffee table, which smashed into splinters as it broke my fall.  The white powder went flying everywhere, turning the living room into a blizzard.

Some of it got into my mouth.  It had a fresh, pleasant smell almost like…baby powder.

Another shot.  I was flat on my back on the floor so it came nowhere near me.

I pulled two shells out of my pocket, inserted them into Wanda and cocked her with great gusto.

One more shot.

I was a firearms expert and I could tell by the sound of the blasts and the size of the holes in the door that the goon holed up in the bedroom was using my very own Betsy against me.

The sixth shot came.  The idiot was out.

“Get your ass out here and face the music, Henneman!”

The response?

“Wah gwaan, mon?!  Irie, irie!”

I sprang to my feet, kicked in the door and pointed Wanda at a fella who wasn’t the man I was looking for.

I’m not sure how to describe him.  He was white but he had these long dreadlocks, a pair of pants with a bunch of pockets and a green and yellow shirt that depicted the Jamaican flag.  I assumed his eyesight was subpar, since he squinted behind a pair of round black glasses.

I get we live in very politically correct, racially sensitive times now, the logistics of which can be hard for a fella from the 1950’s to wade through sometimes, so I’m just going to say he looked like a white guy trying to pass himself off as a black guy and hope I don’t offend Mr. Battler’s 3.5 readers into flying the coop.

“Drop that piece and kick it over here.  And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

He did as I ordered.

“You aren’t fit to have your grubby paws anywhere this six-shooter, slime ball.”

“Jah mon!  Yah come up herr actin’ the bombaclad fool!”

“Where’s Henneman?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I said.  “Craig Henneman.  He lives here.  Where is he?”

“Jah mon me yardie Craig jammin off to de Jamrock mon, the birdy fly fly away to de funkyside.”

I grabbed the weirdo by his shirt collar and slammed him against the wall.

“UNHAND ME JAH FILTHY BALDHEAD!”

“TALK NORMAL!!!”

Suddenly, the clown’s accent moved from Rastafarian to clueless Californian.

“OK sir,”  he said in a shaky voice.  “I apologize for shooting at you but I hope now cooler heads can prevail and we can talk this out with some rational dialogue.”

“If you don’t tell me where your buddy is in two seconds…”

“It’s cool man, it’s cool.  He’s out there.  He’s rustling up some cash.  You can go back to Diego and tell him he’s going to get his money soon and then we can put this whole silly misunderstanding behind us.”

“Who’s Diego?”  I asked.

“You’re not here to collect for Diego?”

“No.”

From behind me, I heard the metallic sound of a hand gun slide being racked up.

“Then step aside because I am.”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 11 2015
2 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

My Favorite Hatcher Quote Thus Far…

Dames.  It’s like the nicer you are to them, the more they want to knock you over the head.  I swear, one day I’m going to do something nice for a female and when she replies with nothing more than a “thank you,” I’m going to be so shocked that I’ll drop stone cold dead from a heart attack.

– Jake Hatcher, Pop Culture Mystery Detective

Pop Culture Mysteries:  The Wrong Guy – Part 6

To be fair, I assume there are women who feel the same way about the men in their lives.

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Jul 11 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 6

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Here, just read it nerds:

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Wanda was splayed out across my desk, practically begging me to caress her.  I wasn’t sure what to caress exactly, since she didn’t have much in the way of the curve department, but she was a welcome sight just the same.

As I gulped the last drop of La Orina de Serpiente (or, “Snake Piss,” as the gringos call it), I knew it was time to cover her up and take her out on the town.

Good old reliable Wanda.  Not much to look at but always there in a pinch.

Delilah K. Donnelly, Legal Counsel for a Website with 3.5 Readers

Delilah K. Donnelly, Legal Counsel for a Website with 3.5 Readers

Next to her was a box of red roses.  I pulled the posies out one by one and laid them out next to Ms. W.

A knock on the door.

“Mr. Hatcher?”

Delilah.  I hated to do it but I stashed Wanda under the desk.  After all, my old friend wasn’t a sight to be taken in by the peepers of a classy sophisticated dame like Ms. Donnelly.

“Come in, Ms. Donnelly.”

How did this gal do it?  Every time I saw her she looked like she’d just stepped off a fashion show runway in Milan.

In her hand was an envelope, the contents of which I could only assume were yet another Pop Culture Mystery Question sent by my secretive employer, Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler.

“Pardon me for barging in unannounced but I’ve been positively swamped with case work and I wanted to…”

Delilah slammed on her brakes and stared at me like I was some kind of odd ball existentialist painting.

“Mr. Hatcher, are you well?”  my demure visitor asked as she took a seat and locked one knee over the other.  “You look…well…more like a hobo than usual.”

“I had a long night,”  I said, ignoring the hobo crack.  “Sometimes when I’m in the thick of a case I allow my hygiene to slip by the wayside.  All part of the private dick game, ma’am.”

“A case?”  Delilah asked.   “You’re working for someone other than Mr. Battler?”

“You could say that,”  I replied.  “Though the client’s most likely been zipped up into a body bag by now.”

“Oh how dreadful,”  Delilah said.

“Fella who worked at the…at the uh…”

Delilah knew I drank more than a thirsty fish with a straw in its mouth but my pride prevented me from admitting it.  Just then, I noticed the empty bottle of Snake Piss and moved it off the desk, tucking it carefully on the floor, right between my legs, which coincidentally, was where Wanda was as well.

“At the intellectual book store,”  I said.  “Specialty shop, only sold volumes for high falutin’ thinkers.  Sad business.  I considered him a friend.”

Delilah clutched her pearls.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hatcher,”  she said in a breathy tone.  “I had no idea you even had any friends.”

Dames.  They say it’s a man’s world yet some how I’m certain Delilah would have chewed me out royally had I lobbed such passive aggression her way.

“Once in awhile I meet someone who doesn’t assume I grow a pair of horns and a tail when nobody’s looking.”

I don’t know why, maybe it was the false courage brewing in me courtesy of the La Orina, but I decided to make like Babe Ruth and swing for the fences.

“Come paint the town red with me sometime, Ms. Donnelly, and you’ll find I’m not such a bad friend to have.”

The blonde’s eyes rolled like they were a couple of whitewalls on a 57 Chevy barreling down the highway.

“We have been over this subject, Mr. Hatcher,”  she said, curtly.  “There is no friendship to be had here.  Our relationship is strictly business.”

“Of course, Ms. Donnelly, of course,”  I replied.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Delilah grabbed one of the roses off my desk and studied it carefully.

“Mr. Hatcher, surely these roses aren’t intended for me?”

I yanked it out of her hand.

“Of course not,”  I said.  “Didn’t we just agree that our relationship is strictly a business one?”

It was the first time I saw Delilah come close to being flustered.

“Yes but…”

“Why would I get roses for a mere co-worker?”  I asked.  “That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Ahh,”  Delilah said.  “I take it you’ve found a candidate to become the fourth Mrs. Hatcher then?”

I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

“I might be seeing someone,”  I said.  “But I don’t really discuss my personal life with business associates, Ms. Donnelly.  I’m sure you understand.”

I had a hunch that I’d just caused Delilah’s mind to implode, but as expected, she didn’t show it.  Just a simple nod.

“Indeed I do,”  she said.  “This is…good.  Good for you, Mr. Hatcher.  A female companion will surely help you adjust to life in the modern world.”

I reached into my desk drawer, pulled a cigarette out of a fresh pack, and stuck it between my lips.

“Please Ms. Donnelly,”  I said as I lit up.  “Stop sifting for details.  You’re just embarrassing yourself now.”

Eh.  Maybe that was overkill.  She stood up and laid the envelope on my desk.

“I shall leave this for you and be on my way.”

“Tell the nerd it’s going to be awhile before I get to this,”  I said.  “I’m hot on the trail of a real humdinger.”

“Certainly,”  Delilah said on the way out the door.  “I’m sure Mr. Battler and his 3.5 readers will understand.  Good day, Mr. Hatcher.”

“So long, Ms. Donnelly.”

Hot damn.  She wouldn’t admit it even if faced with water torture but I could tell that dame was sweet on yours truly.  When she found out those roses weren’t for her, that another broad was in the picture, it was like her little heart pulled out a tiny violin and strummed a sad, sad melody.

Unfortunate part for me was that there was no other gal in the picture.

I reached under the desk, pulled out Wanda, and cocked her good.

Then I…wait a minute.

Wanda was my father’s old double-barrel shotgun.  The only thing Pa Hatcher left to me, besides his wit, wisdom, and a penchant for communicating through long, drawn-out monologues that were rife with exaggeration.

Who did you 3.5 degenerates think she was?

Get your mind out of the gutter.  Giving a female name to our firearms was a longstanding Hatcher family tradition and I needed Wanda if I was ever going to recover Betsy.

Carefully, I set her down in the empty flower box, closed the lid, picked her up under my arm.  It was the only way I could think of to walk around the city with a weapon that large without attracting suspicion.

I grabbed a few extra shells out of my drawer, tossed them into my trench coat pocket, and decided it was time to go.

Those flowers.  Seemed such a waste to let them wilt and die without giving them the chance to make someone smile.

Had Ms. Donnelly not given me the old “there is no friendship to be had here” speech, I’d of gladly forked them over to her, though I doubt it would of won me any points.

That dame was harder to crack than a lead lined safe.

And besides, she’d gone to the opera with a gentleman caller recently, so there was competition of a variety more classier than this gumshoe.

Even so, Delilah’s inquisition filled me with a modest amount of hope.

Just a modest amount, mind you.  I never allow myself to get too hopeful.  Hope is the only thing I can think of that can mess with a fella’s mind more than alcohol.

I picked up the bouquet, headed downstairs, and cut through the kitchen, where Ms. Tsang was supervising three of her employees as they prepared lunch for a floor full of hungry paying customers.

“For you, sweetheart,”  I said as I foisted the flowers my landlady’s way.

“Oh Jake,”  Ms. Tsang said as she took them and sniffed them.  “You shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Well, I know I’ve been a real pill to live with and you did take care of me for six decades so I figured the least I could do was…”

“Actually the least you could do is get a job that pays more than five bucks a case so you can help out with the bills around here but this is a start.”

Dames.  It’s like the nicer you are to them, the more they want to knock you over the head.  I swear, one day I’m going to do something nice for a female and when she replies with nothing more than a “thank you,” I’m going to be so shocked that I’ll drop stone cold dead from a heart attack.

“Where’d you get the money for these?”  Ms. Tsang asked as she looked around her cupboards for a vase.  “They look expensive.”

“An unexpected windfall,”  I said as I snatched a piping hot egg roll off a platter and headed out the back door.

Honestly, I dipped into Karen’s thousand bucks.  Whoever she was, I assumed she wouldn’t mind if I took a few dollars to help with expenses as I tracked down Lou’s killer.

And believe it or not, but a box to hide Wanda’s butt ugly mug from the world was a much needed expense.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 10 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 5

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES:

Hatcher has formed a friendship with Lou, the package store owner who supplies him with booze.  Lou’s not the typical hooch jockey.  He wants Hatcher to say so long to the sauce and attend an AA meeting with him.  Before that happens, Lou’s ticket is punched by a slime ball that our resident gumshoe allowed to get away during an earlier altercation.

Part 1     Part 2    Part 3     Part 4

My friend was dead and the realization that it was all my fault socked me in the gut and followed it up with an uppercut to my jaw.

I’d misread Hennemann big time.  The store was Lou’s joint and he’d chosen the path of least resistance.  Why did I interfere?  And after I did, why did I let that kid go?

shutterstock_229113649Stupid me.  Here I thought I had the ability to read a man cover to cover like he was a walking talking copy of War and Peace.  Turns out I barely got past page one.

I thought Henneman was worth a second chance but all I did was let a cold blooded monster loose on the world.

Worse yet, I pissed him off to the point where he put my pal on ice.

Lou and I, it’s not like we were bosom buddies or anything.  We never shared anything deep or meaningful.  That’s not something that men typically do with other men.

But I felt for the guy.  He wasn’t much to look at.  He was a lower class working stiff.  And sadly, he was the type of guy that society had no problem crumpling up and tossing into the wastebasket like he never existed in the first place.

Someone needed to go to bat for Lou  and seeing as how I caused this mess, that someone had to be me.

I stepped into Lou’s office and found a phone.  I picked up the receiver and dialed zero.

“Operator, how may I direct your call?” answered a woman’s voice.

“Uh yes, hello doll face,”  I said.  “Connect me to the coppers please.”

“Is this an emergency sir?”

“I should say so.”

“Connecting you to nine-one-one now…”

“No honey, listen, I want the cops.”

Another gal answered.

“Nine-one-none…what’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Nine-one-what?”  I asked.

“Sir, this is nine-one-one.  Is there an emergency?”

“Sweetheart,”  I said.  “You’re confusing me now.  Are you some kind of lady cop or something?”

“I’m a nine-one-one dispatcher sir, are you in need of police assistance?”

I scratched my head and thought about it for a minute.

“So what are you telling me?”  I asked.  “I give you the lowdown and you’ll clue the fuzz in?”

“Sir, are you aware it’s against the law to make a prank nine-one-one call?”

“All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel cakes,”  I said.  “I’d like to report a homicide at the Pack N’ Sack Liquor Mart.”

“Are you there now sir?”

“Yes,”  I said.  “What’s it to you?”

“Are you in jeopardy?”  the lady asked.  “Is the killer present?”

“Yeah, he sure is,”  I said incredulously.  “He blew the shop keeper away then figure he’d stick around and challenge me to a game of parcheesi.  Nah doll, he scrammed.”

“Can you give me the address?”

“What gives with the twenty questions, lady?”

“Never mind, the call is being traced now, police will be at your location shortly.  May I have your name, sir?”

My name.  She wanted it and I didn’t want to get involved.  I only called the cops because I didn’t want Lou’s body hanging around all day like a pile of old pastrami.

Forget my name.  I could of told her the killer’s name.

But this one felt too personal not to handle myself.

“Crosby,”  I said.  “Bing Crosby.  In fact, excuse me ma’am, I have to go give one of my kids a knuckle sandwich.”

I hanged up the phone.  I needed to blow that pop stand and how.

As I sat up, I noticed an envelope lying on the desk.

“Karen” was scrawled across it in messy, mannish handwriting.

Inside?  A thousand smackers and a note:

Karen,

You make me feel like a man but we both know I’m not the man you’re looking for.  Take this and start a new life.

Love,

Sugar Boo

Sugar Boo?  Broads sure have a way of making a man sappier than a Maple tree, don’t they?

I pocketed the envelope, but before the thought enters your grubby little mind – no.  I wasn’t planning on stealing it.

I figured whoever this Karen dame was, she must have been someone special to Lou.  Least I could do was make good on his last wish.

I stepped back onto the main floor and grabbed Lou’s phone off the counter.  Mine was gone and as much as I hated the damn things I knew I might need one.

I checked the register.  Empty.  I can’t think of a worse reason for a man to be dead than money.

As sirens sang their songs, I made my way out the back.

It was time to do what I did best.

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

All Rights Reserved.

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Jul 09 2015
4 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 4

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Our hero wants booze.

Part 2 – Hatcher fends off an armed robber.

Part 3 – Hatcher dies?

Delilah was more stunning than usual, if that was even possible.  She was decked out in a red evening gown.  Her necklace and earrings were lousy with ice, more than you’d fine in an Eskimo’s freezer.

Betsy gone?! Say it 'aint so!

Betsy gone?! Say it ‘aint so!

I was in a tuxedo that was whiter than Tom Sawyer’s fence.

My date curled back an inviting finger, bidding me to join her on the ball room floor.

Wherever we were, it sure was a fancy place.  Folks who dressed like they were the creme de la creme gathered around on all sides to gawk at us.

The band struck up a romantic melody as I took Delilah in my arms. We moved in time with the tunes, our bodies totally simpatico.

“I never knew you were such an impressive dancer, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Neither did I, Ms. Donnelly, neither did I,”  I said as I dipped the beautiful blonde.  “But then again I always feel like I’m walking on air when I’m around you.”

Delilah puckered up and I took that as my cue to move in for the old smooch-a-roo.

Only something didn’t smell right.

“Hey!”

The band put their instruments down and Delilah stepped off the dance floor.

“What?”  I asked.

“HEY BUDDY!”

I jolted awake and back into reality.  Standing over me was a bum who smelled like he hadn’t bathed since water had been invented, which if you mull that one over, was a real long time.

“WHAT?!”

“You’re in my spot.”

It was morning.  The sun was shining, dragging the city’s seedy underbelly out into the light of day for a much needed introspection.

“What?”

“What, what, what,” the bum said.  Somewhere buried under his bushy beard was a mouth that was chewing me out royally.  “What’re you, one of them damn illegal immigrants that can’t speak the language?  This is MY dumpster and I’ll thank you to move!”

My neck.  I grabbed it.  Smoother than silk.  I picked up one of the shiny hub caps and used it as a mirror.

Not a scratch.

My clothes had been completely soaked red with blood but now they were cleaner than ever.

“Fella,”  I said.  “How long have you been standing there staring at me like that with your mouth hanging open like you’re the number one finalist in the inbreeding championships?”

“Couple hours,”  he said.  “God damn it.  Every time the shelter kicks me out I come back here and some a-hole has parked himself right next to my dumpster.”

I reached into my pocket.  My wallet was gone.  And my phone.  And the piece I lifted off Henneman.

The bum put a hand on my shoulder.  I shrugged it off and instinctively, reached for Betsy.

She was gone too.

Betsy and the holster I kept her in.  They were both gone.

I’d never felt more naked in all my life.

The bum put up his dukes like he was in the ring.

I stood up and laughed.

“No offense mister but I’d knock your lights out like the electric company coming for a guy who hasn’t paid his bill.  Here, have your damn dumpster.”

The bum made himself at home as I walked away.  I stopped in my tracks when I heard the sound of a crinkly paper bag being rustled.

I turned around.  The weirdo was attempting to pilfer my provisions.

I snatched the bag away from him.  Broken glass pieces on the ground led me to infer the extra bottles Lou had gifted me didn’t survive the fall, but my half-bottle of Orina de Serpiente was still safe in the bag.

I removed the bottle and tossed the bum the bag.

“There you go fella.  Put that on your head and it’ll be an improvement.”

I took a much needed pull and hit the street.

Had the whole attack been a dream?  Delilah certainly never would of danced with me, and I doubted I’d still be up and around if my neck had been sliced open like a hot loaf of rye bread.

In my mind, I rationalized the whole incident.  I must have gotten so drunk that I passed out and then my imagination worked overtime thanks to Snake Piss brand tequila.

I vowed to never touch the stuff again…as soon as I finished my bottle.

Couldn’t let it go to waste.

Surely, the kid hadn’t cut my throat.  He probably just found me lying there and robbed me while I was sleeping as payback.

What a little weasel.

I walked back to the Pack N’ Sack, figuring I’d talk Lou into letting me read one of his newspapers without paying for it, since the last two bucks to my name had been inside my wallet.

Maybe he’d even let me bum a smoke.  My pack was also missing.

Lou’s door was open.  Odd, since he didn’t open up till noon.

I walked in.

“Lou?”

I looked around.

It was quiet.  A little too quiet.

“Lou!”  I shouted.  “You in the back?”

I walked up to the counter and leaned up against it, waiting for my compadre to show himself.

Then I saw it…streaks of red on the floor off to one side of the counter.

I peaked over and there he was, poor Lou, deader than a door nail and filled with more holes than the plot of a network television show.

“God damn it.”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 08 2015
6 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 3

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Hatcher is on the hunt for hooch…

Part 2 – …but he “serves” a stick-up man instead.

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Funny thing about La Orina de Serpiente.

Turns out you don’t buy it.  You only rent it.

shutterstock_71510056I’d parked my posterior on a city bench and helped myself to half a bottle.  Lou wasn’t joking about that dish rag flavor.  After a half-hour of wallowing in my sorrows, I felt leakier than a German U-Boat after a date with Admiral Nimitz.

I ducked into a dark alleyway, invited my John Thomas to step outside, and relieved myself behind a dumpster.

I’ve seen my fair share of dark alleys in my day, but this one was positively the pits.  Junk strewn everywhere, a moldy couch with a rat scurrying around the cushions, and a pair of beaten up chrome hubcaps propped up against a rusty dumpster.

I was surprised no one had stolen them yet.  Come to think of it, they were probably jacked off of some poor unsuspecting citizen’s vehicle and stashed there for safekeeping.

My moods have a tendency to swing like a pendulum when I’m on a bender.  Most of the time I feel lower than an ant competing in a limbo competition.  However, on that particular night I was feeling giddy.

“Pop Culture Mysteries.”  Five bucks for every entertainment related case I solve for a nerd.

Maybe Delilah was right.  Maybe I was better than this.

When the LAPD and I parted ways like a couple of ships passing in the night, there were plenty of naysayers who said I’d end up on the skids.

I showed them all and I showed them good.  In its heyday, “Hatcher Investigations” was the premiere private eye firm in the City of Angels.  I owed most of that to the organizational prowess of good old Connie, my former secretary and the third ex-Mrs. Hatcher.

Everyone from the lowliest mook to captains of industry ponied up the dough to purchase my sleuthing skills and by gum, if only I’d clean myself up and give the suds the old heave-ho, I could rebuild what I’d lost and become a respectable member of society again.

I’d just lectured that wannabe stick-up man about not ignoring a second chance and here I was giving short shrift to my own.

Sure, 2015 was a time that made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever but maybe I could embrace it, learn about it, and eventually call it my own.

Hell, maybe I could even turn myself into the kind of guy that could turn the head of one Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly.

I was so excited I broke out into song.

“Camptown races, sing this song!  Doo da!  Doo da!”

What do you want?  No, I wasn’t about to break out into one of those foul mouthed rap songs you folks seem to love nowadays.  Buncha grown men talking in rhyme about dames with corpulent derrieres.  The classics suited me just fine, thank you very much.

“Camptown races, sing this song…all the doo da…DACK!”

My good mood was a goner and so was I when a hand wrapped around my mouth and pulled me backward.  I felt a sharp pain as my throat opened up and blood gushed out of my carotid like an Old Faithful geyser blast.

The hand let me go and in vain, I spun around to confront my attacker only to fall flat on my back.

I was getting weaker and weaker.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of one of the hubcaps.  My throat looked like a pile of butchered meat ready to be sold for a buck a pound.  That was a good deal in my day.

I could barely make out my assailant’s face until he leaned in closer and pulled his hood back.

There he was.  Grinning at me like an idiot.

“What do you know?”  he said as he retracted a switchblade.  “Looks like I was the wrong guy after all.”

Everything went black and I was able to feel the kid rooting around in my pockets for a few seconds before I lost consciousness.

Looking back on it now, I wasn’t sure what infuriated me more:  that after a lifetime spent beating out Nazis and gangsters, I’d allowed a nobody to get one up on me, that I was left to die in a puddle of my own Orina, or that I’d yet to return my tallywacker to its natural habitat.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 07 2015
8 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Hatcher stops by the Pack N’ Sack Liquor Mart, where even the owner thinks our resident gumshoe has a problem.

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE….

The kid was packing a semi-automatic pistol.  He turned his attention away from me and pointed his weapon at Lou.

“Empty it!”  the punk commanded as he pointed to the register.

Beads of sweat dripped off of Lou’s barren cranium, but he stayed cool.  He nodded and without making a fuss, took every last bill out of the register and shoved them into a paper bag.

Booze - it always gets Hatcher into trouble one way or the other.

Booze – it always gets Hatcher into trouble one way or the other.

“Son,”  I said.

The youngun ignored me.

“Son, I think you need to take a long hard look at what you’re doing here.”

The gun was back in my face again.  The kid’s hand was shaking like a leaf being blown around in a swift breeze.  He was more nervous than a hen at a fox convention. 

Clearly, he was not a pro.

“SHUT UP!”

“Why don’t you put that thing away before someone gets hurt?”

The kid’s eyes were filled to the brim with fear. 

“This is your first rodeo, isn’t it Jack?”

“Hatcher,”  Lou said as he slid the bag of money across the counter.  “Will you shut the hell up before you get us both killed?”

The gun was in Lou’s face again.

“DID ANYONE ASK YOU?!”

“Whoa,”  Lou said as he shot his hands up into the air.  “Easy.  No problem.  That’s all yours.  Anything you want.”

“I think if he was going to use that thing he’d of clipped us both by now,”  I said.

And once again, I was staring down a barrel.

“GIMMIE YOUR WALLET!”

I laughed.  “Oh if it’s a payday you’re looking for fella, you’re barking up the wrong tree with yours truly.”

Lou went ballistic.

“HATCHER WILL YOU STOP SCREWING AROUND WITH THIS GUY AND DO WHAT HE SAYS?!”

Spooked by Lou’s fat cake hole, the kid spun around again, but this time I grabbed his forearm and slammed it down on the counter’s hard edge.  He fired a shot that shattered one of the bottles on the shelf behind the counter, spraying a good year scotch all over the place.  What a waste.

The pain forced the perpetrator to loosen his grip on his heater, which allowed me to take it from him.

I hauled back and smashed the scumbag’s nose with the butt of the gun, causing the him to hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.  I brought my wingtip down on the guy’s ribs a few times for good measure, only stopping when I heard one of them crack.

Keeping my foot on the crook’s chest, I used my right hand to hold the kid’s own gun on him and my left hand to search around inside his jacket pocket.

“Now then,”  I said as I pulled out the yahoo’s wallet.  “Let’s see who you are.”

My captive spit a mouthful of blood all over Lou’s nice, clean linoleum floor.  I flipped the wallet open and found myself staring at the suspect in custody’s driver’s license.

“Hello there, Craig Henneman,”  I said.  “Whaddya know, whaddya say?”

“I think you chipped my tooth.”

“Least of your problems,” I said.  “The first one being you’re the only criminal I’ve ever met dumb enough to bring his identification along on a heist.  Get on our feet.”

Like a fish in the bottom of a canoe, the kid flopped around on the floor until Lou finally came around and hoisted him up.

“Craig, I want to tell you a story.  It’s called, ‘The Wrong Guy.’”

“Hatch,”  Lou interrupted.  “Let’s just call the cops, huh?”

I ignored my alcohol selling friend and carried on.  The kid didn’t look like he was all that interested, but he didn’t have much of a choice but to listen since I was the one with the gun.

“You see my friend here,”  I said as I pointed to Lou.  “He did what most people would do.  He gave you what you wanted.  Most guys will do just that.  Most guys aren’t looking for trouble.  As much as most guys like to  complain about how exhausting they find life, when faced with the possibility of taking the long dirt nap, they quickly discover they aren’t as tired as they thought.”

Lou returned back behind the counter.  The kid clutched his aching chest and leered at me like he wanted to tear me apart.

“But then there’s the wrong guy,”  I said.  “The wrong guy is usually a real piece of work.  He’s a guy who’s taken a wrecking ball to his existence.  He’s given up on ever being loved by a woman after a lifetime of heartache.  This guy has tossed his dreams into the trashcan where they belong and frankly, he’s taken so many lives that one more won’t matter a hill of beans to him.”

I pressed the cold steel right between the degenerate’s eyes.  He closed them.

“You see son, the wrong guy doesn’t have anything to lose.  You might think you’ll be able to spend your whole life pushing people around and taking what doesn’t belong to you but one of these days you’re going to meet the wrong guy and mark my words, when you meet this miserable excuse for a human being and get between him and his bottle, the last thing he truly gives a flying rat’s ass about in his cold, depressing life, he will not hesitate to take your gun away from you like the sissy mary that you truly are, beat you to a bloody pulp with it then blow your brains out all over the place.”

“Get it over with,”  the kid muttered.

“Oh,”  I said as I stepped back.  “We’ve got a miscommunication here.  Sorry to scare you my boy, but I’m not the wrong guy. I’m pretty close to being the wrong guy, but I’m not quite there yet. You see, I’m haunted by the face of every man I’ve put in the ground, even though every last one of them deserved it.  It’s a helluva thing taking a life.  It causes a torment to brew in your gut that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  You’d of felt it one day had you greased me or my friend over there.  Sadly, you’re probably too stupid to realize that you should thank me for sparing you from the misery that comes with taking a life.”

“If I thank you will you let me go?”

“I don’t give the Pope’s pointy hat about it,”  I said.  “I just don’t need to be kept up at night with your butt ugly mug dancing around in my brain when there’s already a bunch of slimeballs taking up that valuable real estate.”

The three of us just stood around staring at each other like a trio of idiots.

“What now?”  the kid asked.

“Take a walk,”  I said as I put the gun in my coat pocket, not far from where Betsy was resting her in holster.

The failed stick-up man didn’t waste any time in making a beeline for the door.

“Kid,”  I said.  He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“This is a second chance,”  I said.  “They’re few and far between in life, if at all.  Use it.  Pull yourself out of the gutter before you do meet the wrong guy.”

The door bell dinged and the hood was gone.  Lou bolted for the door and locked it, then returned to the counter.

“What the hell is wrong with you?  You could have gotten us both killed ya’ moron!”

“By who?”  I asked.  “That wimp?  Please.  Rule number one of being a criminal is don’t pull a piece unless you’re ready to use it.  One look at that kid’s eyes told me he wasn’t ready.”

“Yeah well, maybe not all of us want to take that risk,”  Lou said as he pulled out his little beep boop phone machine.

“What’re you doing?”  I asked.

“Ordering a pizza. What do you think jackass?  I’m calling the cops!”

I took Lou’s phone out of his hand, hanged it up, and set it on the counter.

“Last thing the world needs is one more life lost to the clink,”  I said.  “Probably just some loser down on his luck who never had an adult in his life willing to teach him right from wrong and thought this would be a good way to make a quick buck.  Don’t worry about it.  I scared that kid straight.”

“You scared a skidmark into my undies is what you did.”

Lou opened up the biggest paper bag he had, put the tequila I’d purchased earlier into it, then added a couple extra selections.

“A reward for the conquering hero,”  Lou said as he handed me the hooch.  “Go home and celebrate.”

“Will do,”  I said as I headed for the door.

“But Hatcher?”

“Yeah.”

“I still want to see you in that meeting Saturday night, mi amigo.  Now I’m convinced there’s something worth saving in you more than ever.”

“Go wash your undies, Lou.”

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 06 2015
17 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy (Part 1)

By:  Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

BQB Editorial Note:  Jake Hatcher has lived an extraordinary life.  Sometimes I’ll let him set aside the pop culture questions entirely and regale my 3.5 readers with tales of cases he’s worked on, both past and present.

Three faces of Abraham Lincoln sat on the counter, ready to emancipate me from my own hellish reality.

“Fifteen smackaroos,” I said after plunking them down.  “What’ll they get me, Lou?”

Hatcher recounts his life and times as a super sleuth right her on the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Hatcher recounts his life and times as a super sleuth right here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Lou Ramos was the owner of the Pack N’ Sack Liquor Mart just down the street from Tsang’s China Palace. 

He was a walking conundrum, big and small at the same time.  He was so short he barely rose higher than the cash register in front of him, yet sturdy enough that he looked like he could knock your block off if he wanted to.

We chewed the fat once in awhile.  Nothing too deep or serious.  Idle chit chat mostly. 

I hadn’t had much interest in exploring the new world around me, but Lou was peddling the one thing I couldn’t stand to be without.

“Wow,”  Lou said.  “Mr. Big Spender.  What’d ya’ roll over a little old lady for her lunch money or something?”

“Saved up three jobs’ worth of pay.  Time to celebrate.”

With a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned at the top, gold medallion buried in a sea of chest hair, and the worst attempt at a comb-over this gumshoe had ever seen, Lou wasn’t exactly in danger of winning a male model competition.

“Three jobs and all you have to show for it is a lousy fifteen bucks?”  Lou asked as he put a bottle down on the counter.  “Your boss must be a real tightwad.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

I picked up the bottle and examined it.  It was big, heavy and the liquid inside was a lovely shade of amber.  Bright red letters spelled out “La Orina de Serpiente” across the label. 

A drawing of a snake started at the top of the label and curled around down to the bottom.  It had a menacing face, like it wouldn’t mind swallowing me whole.  Made sense.  That’s what the concoction inside would do.

“New shit just in,”  Lou said.  “Nicaraguan tequila.  Snake Piss.”

“Any good?”  I asked.

“I assume it tastes like the water you’d get after ringing out a moldy dish rag,”  Lou said.  “But it’ll get you blotto.”

“You’re a helluva salesman, Lou.  Ring ‘er up.”

Ding ding.  The bell hooked up to the store’s front door rang as another customer walked in.  It was almost ten o’clock at night, just a few minutes shy of closing time. 

It was a young fella, somewhere in his early twenties.  He wore a leather jacket and the hood of his sweatshirt was pulled down over his face.

Lou tossed the devil’s juice into a brown bag and handed me my change.  Ninety-five years spent in this world and all I had to show for it were $2.05 and a $13.95 bottle of South American sadness medicine.

And we all know how long that bottle was going to last.

“Hatch,”  Lou said.  “I don’t know how to say this.”

“What’s up?”  I asked.  “You look like a cat stuck on a hairball.”

“You think you could find another booze joint to frequent?”

“What?  My cash ‘aint green enough for you?”

“Nah man,”  Lou said.  “It’s not like that it’s just…”

The young guy moved closer to the counter.  He looked around the shelves, finally picking up a bottle of wine.

Wine.  Never cared for it myself.  Too snooty.  Wine is for people who like to get drunk but want to pretend like its some kind of educational experience.

Lou leaned over the counter.

“You’re killing yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“Every time you got a little money in your pocket you’re in here buying up the joint, probably going home drinking yourself silly and falling asleep in a pool of your own drool and piss, am I right?”

He was right.

“You’re wrong,”  I lied.  “I don’t know what you think you know but I’m not some kind of Terry Teetotaler who can’t hold his liquor, see?”

I unscrewed the cap and took a pull.

“I see you can’t even wait until you’re home to take a taste,”  Lou said.

“What’s it to you, bub?  You’re one to talk.  You peddle this poison for a living.”

Lou reached into his shirt and pulled out another medallion, smaller and less flashier than the one more prominently displayed around his neck.

“Ten years sober,”  Lou said.

“No foolin?”

“I swear on my saintly tia’s grave,”  Lou replied. 

“Quite a place to work when you’re a recovering booze fiend,”  I said as I screwed the cap back on.

“I know,”  Lou said.  “Pretty ironic but my old man left me the place and I wasn’t about to turn away a chance to run my own business….but yeah.  There are times when I want to drink this whole place dry.”

“You’re a better man than me,”  I said.  “Holding out against all the temptation around you and all.”

“I go to a meeting every Saturday night at St. Anthony’s.  Come with me.”

“Meeting?”  I asked.  “Nothin’ doin.  Those are for weirdoes with a problem.”

Lou stared at me as if to ask if I had really just said that.

“You know you’re going to go bankrupt if you keep trying to talk people off the sauce,”  I said.

“Most people who come in here are beyond helping,”  Lou said.  “They don’t buy from me they’ll go somewhere else so I figure it’s not my place to get involved but I don’t know, Hatcher.  I think there’s something about you that seems like it might be worth saving.”

I popped a cigarette into my mouth and smiled.

“If you think that then you’re probably knocking back the hard stuff more than you’re letting on.  Goodnight, Lou.”

“Goodnight, Rummy.”

I turned around and barely took one step before the youngster pulled a piece and stuck it in my face.

“NOBODY MOVE!”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license. 

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Jul 05 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Hatcher’s Next Case

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Welcome to July on the Bookshelf Battle Blog, where it’s going to be Pop Culture Mysteries all month long.

Next up – Hatcher takes a break from pop culture and solves a modern day mystery in 2015.  A stick-up gone bad leaves a liquor store owner pushing up daisies.  Will our resident gumshoe crack the case?

Tomorrow on Pop Culture Mysteries: The Wrong Guy.

Got a Pop Culture Mystery?  Tweet your questions about movies, music, TV, books, celebrities and entertainment to @bookshelfbattle and he’ll dispatch his attorney, Ms. Donnelly to deliver your inquiry to Detective Jake Hatcher.

Copyright (c) 2015 – Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

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