 | Donald E. Westlake is Deadby Miracle Jones |
There's nothing to say about him; not really. Nothing special. He worked so hard and so well that he became his work. What more could a writer ask for then to die in Mexico, spending the cheddar from his last score?
Except also to be read.
Here, sit down. Better yet: stand up. I've got something for you. I got it from a friend; I won't say who. Can I trust you?
Of course not; but I planned for that. Put this in your pocket. Goodbye. You look good. How have you been?
What are you drinking?
***
THE WESTLAKE CAPER
The score: steal all of Donald Westlake's Parker and Dortmunder books!
If you take advantage of this, do the right thing and post these instructions somewhere else. Have a little ethics!
PHASE ONE: First up, sweetheart, you are going to need a torrent client. Maybe you've heard skinny kids in coffee shops talking about torrents, asking about torrents, writing the word "torrent" on napkins and underlining it and then eating the napkins. It's a big operation: a whole powerful technology exclusively created to make theft fast, efficient, and hard to uncover. Mainly, it's for movies and music, but it works just as well for books. In fact, books are so small that getting them is practically instantaneous. How fast is instantaneous? You get up to pour yourself a cup of coffee and then you are done. It's "strange times" when it is actually easier to steal things than to buy them. Makes you wonder, right?
Anyway, it works like this: everybody who wants a certain file downloads the complete skeletal structure of the file to their computer. That's the torrent. Then, when they use the torrent, they download and upload at the same time. You can't "get" without "giving," so there is some risk, but it is spread out. Diluted. The data never stops moving, so it can't be traced. You steal and share, and then you've done your bit. It's a swarm job.
The two biggest torrent clients available these days are uTorrent and Vuze. Get one of them. Toss a coin, whatever. Now you've got your tool. You should never trust your tool, but you should always have one anyway.
PHASE TWO: Once you've got your client, you are going to need your torrent. These can be difficult to find and you end up going to a lot of dingy, filthy websites, poking around, and riddling your registry with lice and diseases. It teaches you a lot and it can be good for the soul, but it's always dangerous.
Look, I won't lie: I know people on the inside so I went ahead and did all the dirty work on this one. Here's your torrent. It was damn hard to find. I think you will find it has everything you need, plus a little extra for your trouble.
PHASE THREE: There's only one problem.
There's always a problem, isn't there?
If things look too easy, then it's a trap. Nothing is easy, except doing nothing.
Anyway, all these books are coded for the Sony Ereader: that new Jap device they are trying to push downtown. But I found a way around that. There's some guys I know -- they say they are Turkish, although I suspect they are Eastern European -- who don't like the way Sony does business. Anyway, they made this, which will help you read these books, if you are sharp enough to install a little homebrew software (and I know you are).
***
Goodbye John B. Allan, Judson Jack Carmichael, Curt Clark, Tucker Coe, and Timothy J. Culver. Goodbye J. Morgan Cunningham, Samuel Holt, Sheldon Marsh, and Alan Marshall. Goodbye Alan Marsh and Edwin West.
Goodbye Richard Stark.
Goodbye Donald Westlake.
It all went wrong one last time.
Posted by miracle on Tue, 06 Jan 2009 21:00:55 -0500 -- permanent link
| Literary Hostage Crisis in Cuba!by Miracle Jones |
The last time America slept over, America left something behind that Cuba has been using as a bitter conversation-starter every time both countries accidentally show up to the same awkward party: Ernest Hemingway's house and all of his old papers.
Hemingway beat Castro once in a fishing contest, and Castro has been mad ever since.
Even still, Hemingway willed away his famous home at Finca Vigia and all of its contents to the Cuban government when he killed himself in 1961 after leaving for Idaho as a result of Castro's revolution. The Cuban government has been holding these properties hostage, claiming that they do not have the money to keep the house in good repair or to analyze, restore, digitize, and collate his old manuscripts. Yet, the Cubans have been unwilling to turn the papers over to those who can take care of them.
Among Hemingway's final papers are:
1). A rejected epilogue to "For Whom the Bell Tolls!"
2). His personal screenplay for "The Old Man and the Sea!"
3). Coded letters about hunting for U-boats off the coast of Cuba during World War 2!
4). Over 3000 other documents and letters, probably including love letters to Marlene Dietrich and letters to F. Scott Fitzgerald apologizing for "that whole 'Moveable Feast' scene."
After Maxwell Perkins' granddaughter went down to Cuba and saw that Hemingway's house and the documents were falling apart due to neglect, a joint U.S. / Cuban task force went in and restored things to keep them from disappearing forever. American writers, actors, and politicians from both parties joined in the fund-raising to show their support for The Man with the Beard who Wrote True Things.
Now, next week, the Cuban government is planning on releasing these papers online.
However, these documents -- though digital -- will not be available for free.
Doesn't this run counter to both the spirit of a free, democratic society and the spirit of a controlled, anticapitalist commune?
There is a rationale behind this mercenary decision: Cuba wants to make money from American tourism, but the American government won't allow this because it doesn't want hard currency flowing into a country without free speech and which brutally represses dissent. So Cuba is trying to get money from American universities by making Hemingway's documents only available through an expensive subscription.
President Obama! Supposedly "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is your favorite book! Don't you want to know how it REALLY ends? Your first bold stroke of presidential foreign-policy genius ought to be the following gambit: you should temporarily allow Americans to visit Hemingway's house by declaring it a joint American-Cuban landmark, but only if Cuba makes Hemingway's documents available for free, so that every man, woman, and child in the world can read them at their leisure.
Let's have lunch together, Cuba. Just lunch. JUST LUNCH.
And then we'll see where this whole thing goes.
We're NOT getting back together. But wear that red dress; the one with the sequins; the one you wore that night; that night we gambled, danced, and swore till dawn...
Posted by miracle on Mon, 05 Jan 2009 09:21:21 -0500 -- permanent link
| NEW STORY: "Like Leaves of Trees in the Summer Breeze," by Joseph Modugnoby Miracle Jones |
Why, that means it is time to join with friends and acquaintances and celebrate the year's turning by attending a cheerful, festive, contained gathering!
Or perhaps you are planning a party of your own?
Joseph Modugno's short story "Likes Leaves of Trees in the Summer Breeze" teaches us that a good party is difficult to pull off. There must be the right balance between restraint and excess, and the right sorts of people must attend in order to keep things both civil and interesting. People must feel comfortable, but not so comfortable that they might as well be at home.
There will always be some cads and jokers, but their presence must be expected, and they must be encouraged to amuse themselves at their own expense instead of at the expense of others. No matter what goes wrong, you must maintain your poise.
From "THE MANNERS OF A HOSTESS," by Emily Post (1922):
First of all, a hostess must show each of her guests equal and impartial attention. Also, although engrossed in the person she is talking to, she must be able to notice anything amiss that may occur. The more competent her servants, the less she need be aware of details herself, but the hostess giving a formal dinner with uncertain dining-room efficiency has a far from smooth path before her. No matter what happens, if all the china in the pantry falls with a crash, she must not appear to have heard it. No matter what goes wrong she must cover it as best she may, and at the same time cover the fact that she is covering it. To give hectic directions, merely accentuates the awkwardness. If a dish appears that is unpresentable, she as quietly as possible orders the next one to be brought in. If a guest knocks over a glass and breaks it, even though the glass be a piece of genuine Steigel, her only concern must seemingly be that her guest's place has been made uncomfortable. She says, "I am so sorry, but I will have it fixed at once!" The broken glass is nothing! And she has a fresh glass brought (even though it doesn't match) and dismisses all thought of the matter.
Moreover, your guests will need entertainment:
Posted by miracle on Tue, 30 Dec 2008 23:38:55 -0500 -- permanent link
| Hell at Sea, Volume Eight: "The Ionian Mission"by Miracle Jones |
The captains of these vessels slowly lose their minds as their vices and weaknesses are magnified by the stress of repetition. Jack Aubrey's vice is mass murder; Stephen Maturin's vice is assassination. With these two jokers on board, watching the French from land is like sitting underneath a beehive with a canvas sack, waiting for the hive to fall in order to capture all of the delicious honey, slowly losing all your fear of bees, wanting them to sting your eyes blind just to break up the monotony.
You beat the tree with the biggest stick you can find, but that just makes the hive pulsate and quiver. Oh fuck, oh hell, oh land.
Jack sails the "HMS Worcester," a ship called one of the "Forty Thieves": British-made ships-of the-line that are falling apart, badly-constructed, and rotting from the inside out due to graft and corruption in the War Department. His superior at the blockade is Admiral John Thornton, a man who is literally dying from boredom according to Dr. Maturin's diagnosis. He's been at this blockade for a year doing nothing but writing memos and pacing his own deck. You don't even get fresh crosswords!
When Admiral Thornton's health finally craps out after a few wearisome false darts at blockade runners, Jack and Stephen suddenly find themselves under the command of Rear Admiral Harte, a vindictive man whose wife used to find her leaks by running Jack Aubrey's sail under her hull. The "Worcester" is traded for the "Surprise" and sent on a mission to North Africa, a mission deliberately designed to overwhelm Jack Aubrey's meager diplomatic resources.
Their mission is to visit three competing North African warlords and find the one who stands the best chance of capturing a French port from land with the aid of British cannons. Suddenly "Hell at Sea" becomes Arthurian legend! The Evil Wizard sends the Hero and his Faithful Companion out on a Doomed Journey to find the Magic Spell that will restore the Dying King!
The three Islamic warlords with whom they must negotiate represent three rough stereotypes: the dainty aristocrat, the fierce generalissimo, and the old, enervated fox. Jack has to navigate Muslim politics in order to get the cannons in the hands of the right person, drawing upon Maturin's spy networks and his Full Complement of Good Hearty British Handshakes.
The usual stuff all happens. There is a pitched battle and the book ends with one of your favorite characters getting stabbed in the face with a saber.
Who will live? Who will get promoted? It's a cliffhanger!
Back at home Diana Maturin fucks everyone with a pretty face while Stephen is away, and Stephen doesn't much care, knowing that an arrangement is an arrangement. Sophie continues to raise Jack's children and fight lawyers, smiling the same dead, disaffected smile that Jack smiles while he is cutting people's heads off with a boarding axe.
They both wear pigtails, too.
***
This particular volume is definitely slower than the others, but this makes room for a few rum-soaked biscuits of moody rumination on the prospects of the rank and file versus the prospects of officers. It is often damned, damned unfair: the children of the gentry are earmarked for advancement over those who are more heroic, more seamanlike, and more qualified.
Say, do you you know old your average British Midshipman is? What were you doing when you were in grammar school? Were you killing people with swords on a boat?
***
Let's say you are sitting at home in Gibraltar -- drunk as a firehose with each arm around a saucy, plump prostitute that you are keeping in shape at a reduced "friend" rate -- when a nine year old boy storms into your quarters wearing the full dress uniform of a British navy officer.
"Right! Drop them ta-ta's and show us yer forearm, manjack!" squeaks the pube, standing at attention with his nose running and a rash spreading along his neck from the starch in his shirt. "The HMS Hyperion is leaving as soon as the tide changes, and I got my orders and my quota."
The lovely ladies giggle at the sight of this young whelp playing dress-up so convincingly and they wonder out loud to whom he belongs. Is he the charming son of Annie Charming, sent over to earn himself a toffee and get him out of the house for a few hours? Or perhaps he's one of Betsy Bigguns' cousins -- one of that pack that pimp for her and steal sailors' wallets while they snore and bluster?
You stand up, put your hat in your hands, and slump your shoulders.
While the lovely ladies giggle and point, your blood runs cold, because you know better.
"Aw, now, young sir," you say. "Ye've got the wrong fellow. Why, I've never been to sea in my life and wouldn't know a focsle from a spanker. I'm pure landsman. I wouldn't know the first thing about any bleeding sea-going vessels, trestles, pestles, wheezles, or measles. Don't be a prat, young gallant. I'm trying to enjoy a quiet seaside retirement."
"Show us your bleedin' arm, mate!" shrieks the squirt. "I'm an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy, and you are a British citizen, and I will have you hanged for insubordination!"
You reluctantly roll up your sleeve and reveal the fading blue anchor tattooed along the rough blue veins of your forearm. The child starts laughing and claps his hands at such a neat game of show and tell. Only four years ago, he was playing peekaboo, and now he's been tasked by his Captain to press sailors at foreign ports in order replace those who lost their mess number in an engagement with a prize privateer in the Mediterranean.
"I knew it!" says the child, looking at your tattoo. "An able sailor. You are coming with us, sailor. No time to say goodbye or get your end in."
You luff up and shorten your tack.
"Right then, you little shit-eating pegboy," you say. "I'll tear your scrawny legs off and use your face as a drum if you come near me. It's no place of yours whether I'm an able sailor or a clockwork ballerina. Your place is bringing me hot towels to clean my marbles after I'm done fucking your mother back in Bristol; not bossing me around like you was sharing a cradle with the blessed savior. I'll pound your bottom with the fat end of a cat o' nine, and then I'll turn the lashes on you until you learn to respect your elders, young Prince Nobody."
You hover over the boy like the shadow of a mountain darkening every house in the village of a valley. Your fists clench at your sides, and the lovely ladies gather their things behind you whispering to each other that they've seen nothing and know nothing.
The young Midshipman cowers before you -- surprised and sullen -- and then suddenly he bursts into tears. You don't know what to do. You kneel and offer him your shirtsleeve to wipe his nose. Then, hearing their commander's cries, two Royal Marines run in with their rifles drawn and their redcoats flapping. They level their guns and pin your arms back.
"The first thing we'll do is press you for a decade," squeaks the Midshipman, sniffling. "And then we'll see about your insults and your jibes. We'll see who's the clockwork ballerina."
"Do you think this war is fought by pinchbeck volunteers and whistling dicks?" says the Marine to your left. "No, it's fought by prisoners chained to the cannon, the capstan, the noose, and the battery. You want to be hiding in some Turkish harem when the armies of Bonaparte march over the globe and turn us all into skirt-wearing musketeers with flowers in our buttonholes? Or do you want to go down -- blackened, cackling, bloody, and righteous -- deep in the belly of a fine British ship-of-the-line?"
The Midshipman hiccups away his last tear and punches you in your thigh.
"Now take him away and make sure he ain't walking when he gets aboard but that he can still row!" he says.
The Marines drag you away to the ship in port. Once you are aboard, your options will be to work, to be hanged, or to dive overboard and take your chances with sharks and the frozen depths. This child will have the power of life and death over you at every waking moment by virtue of his being born into a different caste with different opportunities and different lessons to learn. He must learn to remorselessly send better men to their deaths as fast as you must learn to go there.
YOU ARE IN THE KING'S NAVY NOW, MATE.
***
The drizzled, poxy DNA of a Lord's son is still a Lord's son at sea, and every plank under the Union Jack is British soil, as long as the pumps keep pumping and the spars hold. British soil means kneeling to birth and privilege, and even Jack Aubrey can't send every child out on suicide missions in the dark, although in "The Ionian Mission" he does manage to leave a few behind in dark, lawless ports; where the men with big molars come round, punching their paws and flashing their knives as they circle round for sport.
"Jack! Jack! What happened to my child? Where is my youngest son?"
"Which one was he again?"
"Young Wilkins."
"Ah, yes. Regrettably, we had to leave him behind in Morocco. We sent him out to press sailors, but we had our orders and we had to leave with the weather-gauge behind us."
"How was he at sums?"
"Adequate. He showed -- uh -- promise as a sailor."
"My boy!"
Posted by miracle on Sun, 28 Dec 2008 05:24:16 -0500 -- permanent link
