Monday, March 7, 2011

Untitled Novel: Chapter One

Writer's block. The bane of my current existence. I've been working on a novel for about five months now, but since the new year, I haven't written a single word pertaining to it.  I've hit a wall.

Having exhusted the conventional methods of combatting this crippling condition (booze, prostitutes, needle drugs, killing a man in Tijuana to watch him die, free writing, etc.), I've decided to go one step further and reach out for help / encouragement / replenishment needle drugs, by posting the first chapter as is.

The book is currently untitled, about a motley crew of societal rejects that decide to rob a bank.  This first chapter is kind of Tarantino-esque, being that it takes place somewhere in the middle of the story.

Let me know what you think. 
If you think it sucks, there's no need to tell me. I already know.

I open my eyes and see drops of red falling to the floor between my knees.  For a split second, my thoughts travel to how my legs are spread a little too far apart for my comfort level, but there's nothing I can do about it.  My ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. 
I could tell it was about to happen again. 
WHAM WHAM WHAM!!! Shit, a three-fer, he must be getting frustrated.  
The light bulb above us gives me a front row seat to a session of shadow boxing gone horribly wrong.  The floor, made of concrete and speckles of blood is the only thing I'm able to look at… after what feels like hours of getting bashed in the head with a phonebook, I don’t have the energy to lift my head.
To try and keep from blacking out, I do my best to count the drops of blood around me.  Eight inches from my left foot, going left to right… one, two, three…. Wait, those are dry… I'm not the first one who’s been bleeding down here.  The larger shadow moves again.  My eyes follow it as it winds up and brings the square shadow to the circular shadow, again.  I black out anyway.
There's a rush of coldness waking me back up. My reflexes open my eyes, and they immediately get blurry from the bloody water running through them.  “You think you can sleep through this, asshole?”
I feel the world flip sideways and smack me on my right side.  I blink rapidly to get the water out of my eyes. I can feel the cold concrete wall on my cheek, but I never saw any walls around me.  I look around and I realize that it’s not a wall, it’s the floor.  He hit me so hard it knocked me over, chair and all.
“Heh heh heh, you really are a skinny little prick, aren’t you?  I wasn’t even trying.”
The phonebook hits the ground, three and one quarter inches from my nose.   The sound it makes reminds me of a shotgun blast from any one of the Bruce Willis movies I have at home.  Man.  I really wish I was at my apartment right now.  I throw away all of my phonebooks, so the heaviest stack of paper he could hit me with would be my loose-leaf notebook I record my mileage in.  Then again, I have carpeting there too, all of this blood would stain it and I’d lose my deposit.  No question.
My left eyelid begins to twitch from all of the lawyer’s advertisements and escort’s phone numbers making contact with my left temple.  It’s getting to be really annoying.  As if I didn’t have enough problems already, this shit has to start too.
“Alright Chucky,” he says as he crouches down in front of me and his interrogation tool of choice. His black overcoat drapes to the ground, covering his dark colored dress shirt, still perfectly tucked into his dress pants, perfectly creased all the way down.  At the bottom, his very shiny, very expensive looking shoes are flawless.  From what I can tell, there's not a speck of dirt or blood on him, it looks like he just walked out of the house.  He definitely knows what he’s doing.   “My arm’s getting tired, and I’m getting tired… of you.”
A bright light is shinning me in the face now, making it even harder for me to see.  That coupled with the twitching eye and throbbing pain I have in my head, it’s making it difficult to understand what he’s saying right away.  Every thought I have has a five second delay, he doesn’t have the patience to wait that long.  Three seconds go by.  “Hey. HEY!” he smacks my cheek like a pimp getting his ho’s attention.  “Quit stalling Chucky.  If you don’t tell me, it’ll just take me another few days to find it.  So just save me the time.  Where the FUCK is the money???”
Another five seconds go by, all I do is vaguely look up at him and try to gather my thoughts.  Money. Money. Money.  I think it’s with, no its at….
The light shining in my face distracts me again.  The twitching gets more intense. My thoughts get lost into oblivion.
He’s done using the phonebook; he upgraded me to his bare fist.  The shining light comes back; I finally locate the source, its coming from him.
“I-I-I d-d-don…”
“What, you don’t know??  You realize how many times a day I hear those words Chucky???  Someone somewhere HAS to know SOMETHING.  And you know what? That someone is you.”  He pauses to catch his breath. “You know, I had my guy do some research on you, Charles M. Dockwood.”
That’s me.  Charles M. Dockwood. Hi.
“He told me you just moved here two months ago.”
Two months, eight days, and approximately nine hours, depending on how long I've been here… to be more exact.
 “You barely get settled and you already have the nerve to try and pass one by me??  This is MY city!!”
I say nothing.  I have no energy left, he’s beaten it out of me.  All I can do now is concentrate on the shining light.  I squint my eyes to try and make it out.  It looks like its something reflecting the light hanging above us, but that’s all I can tell.  His shirt is partially covering it; he’s crouching down too far.  “That’s it Chucky, I’m fed up with your little prick-ass.  Have fun in the ER… if anyone finds you here.”
He reaches his fist high in the air for the final blow to my head.  This one is going to count.  His shirt stretches up, and I can finally identify the source of the shining light, just before I black out.
It’s his badge.
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