If you are a writer, check out this interesting writeup by C.M. Marcum called Self-Promotion. It makes you think about who you are as a writer. Who is reading your stuff, what genre are you writing in? Who are you anyway? It's got me thinking about a few things I could do better, and that's a good thing. Seriously, go check it out. And read some of her stuff while you're there, she's a good writer.
I'm also gonna be starting a new thing soon, something called the Rouges Gallery. Truthfully, I'm stealing the name from Neal James, and the idea is half-stolen from him too. But I got his permission, so it's all good.
So what is the Rogues Gallery? Well, it's a sort of I'll scratch your back, if you scratch mine thing. Minus the actual, literal scratching of the back. There are many other writers out there struggling to put their stamp on paper, and I'll be featuring some of these Rogues by sharing some of their work.
He found Dr. Hook in bed, sleeping with two hookers. He drug him out of bed without any explanation, down the hall, down the marble staircase, and into the dinning room. He picked him up and sat him in a chair, and tied him down with some rope he had found on the floor in Wicked Annabelle’s room. With Dr. Hook tied down, he pushed the dinning table and the rest of the chairs up against a wall. He then slid the chair across the hardwood floor to the center of the room.
He grabbed one chair and sat down in front of Dr. Hook.
“I thought you were dead, Eddie.”
“I’m getting a lot of that lately.” He placed a can of gas next to his chair.
“That’s my gas can.”
“What do you want, Eddie?”
They sat their silently, and then footfalls came down the stairs and the two hookers ran by the dinning room and out the front door. One of the girls had his wallet, and the other was slipping her high-heels onto her feet as they moved.
Dr. Hook shouted at them. “Don’t you take that wallet…
Inside the house, The Rolling Stone followed music through some winding hallways and corridors. He avoided large rooms and doors as much as could be done. He found the source of the music in a small bedroom. It was dirty and cluttered, with syringes cast about on the floor. He saw several bongs, two burnt ends of joints, some cocaine spilled on a dresser. And sitting on a bed was Wicked Annabelle. She was pulling a needle out of her arm as he entered. She dropped it to the floor. On a nightstand she had a record player pushing out Barry White.
What had originally attracted The Rolling Stone to Wicked Annabelle was her long, orange-golden hair. You weren’t sure whether to call it red or blond, it was something in-between. She seemed to be the most unique person he’d ever met, but that was before he found out she was an addict. She needed needles, powders, gases, vapors, pills. If it got you high, she wanted it. He came home once to find her trying to get high from a can of …
The Compound was inner-most city territory, and was located fourteen blocks from Big Fish Murphy’s jive. The Compound housed Dr. Hook, his associates and all the goods were warehoused within its walls as well. It covered three city blocks, and from an outside perspective it could have been mistaken for a middle-eastern palace wall or a Hollywood studio. Wherever your references took you, one thing was undeniable about The Compound—it was secure.
Like heaven, The Compound was foursquare. Each wall had two large and heavy bronze gates in the center. He picked the east gate and rang the bell. He waited.
The gate slowly opened horizontally, just enough for Hawn the Hammer to step through. He was over seven foot tall, nearly four-hundred pounds of muscle, and had a blond crew cut. He had scars all over his face, and it appeared some facial reconstruction of sorts had taken place at one time. He was missing his left eyebrow, and his left eye appeared to be a fake. Rumor has it he ha…