Brutus The Croc Gets A Proper Lunch

Three pieces of business to tend to before I get things started today. First, over at our group blog Writers of Mass Distraction, a few days ago I wrote a blog about characters changing priorities and taking things seriously during the course of a book or film. Have a look, and by all means, tell me what you think! 

Second, take a look over at Lyn Fuchs' Sacred Ground Travel Magazine blog, where today I'm writing about the Niagara Falls region. And leave a comment!

Finally, if you're not already following The Desert Rocks blog (and why aren't you?), go have a look there today for Norma's guest blog on technology and writing. You'll pick up a few things and have fun!

And with that, I return to several characters without a book who have appeared in these blogs from time to time. And they've been joined by another of their kind, poor wretches doomed to wander cyberspace forever without a book to call their own. They're all together, Down Under, taking a river cruise, out to see one of the local critters....

Australia; the Adelaide River. A riverboat works its way down the river in the early summer heat, the passengers aboard screened from the sun by a roof over their heads. The pilot is a local, an Aussie by the unusual name of Jake Chemiserouge. He's dressed casually- shorts and a ballcap- with a rather bright red t-shirt. His passengers are four in total today, here to come see a crocodile named Brutus, a three legged eighteen foot long brute of a croc who's become something of a tourist attraction. They're all dressed for the conditions, as casual as possible- though at least one of them seems uncomfortable. She'd much rather be doing something else, as it turns out. She's Mary Ducky, the financial guru and con artist who's wanted by Interpol for numerous scams and thefts of millions of dollars. These days she's lying low, trying to evade the authorities. With her is the demolitions expert Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna, all too often given to destroying things that she wasn't cleared to destroy. Also present is the perennial blowhard Keith Jarrett, the man who thinks he's the wisest of all human beings. The author of such dubious works such as I Know Everything So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, Gosh I'm So Smart, How To Cure Ebola, Mother Teresa: Tyrannical Despot of India, Bonaparte: A Man Of Humility and the forthcoming Keith Jarrett: Last Best Hope Of Earth seems to be full of himself, as usual. These three passengers know each other well. The fourth is known to Jarrett. Jerry Wallace, aka Jerry The Miser, is the author of Bargain Hunting And Other Pointless Pursuits. Chemiserouge turns to his passengers.


Chemiserouge: Isn't it lovely? Just the best stretch of river in the Territory, by crikey!

Mary: Must you speak with that accent?

Chemiserouge: What accent, Sheila?

Contessa: Now, Mary, be nice to the local man. I don't mind it myself. You know, when I was last here in Australia, my company was hired to do some work in Sydney. I thought at the time that we ought to get that unsightly Opera House out of the way, so I had my people set the charges, but as it turns out, the locals weren't all that enthusiastic about having it blown up. Oh, well, even if they have horrible tastes in architecture, there's nothing wrong with the accent.

Keith: So, Jake, tell us... that's a bit of an odd name.

Chemiserouge: My family name? By crikey, mate, it might be, but the Chemiserouge family come by it honestly. Not like we went and flogged it off some other family. No, my dad came in from France, mate. All the Chemiserouges come from there. By crikey, we've got some history, let me tell you. A Chemiserouge was the very first man to die back in the First World War. That was my great-great-great-great uncle Louis. And it was the same in the second one. First soldier to die in the French army in 1939 was my great-great-great uncle Pierre Chemiserouge. He was wearing his lucky red shirt, he was. Just like me. Oh, these things happen. Did you know there was a Chemiserouge in the crew on the Titanic? And the Lusitania? Come to think of it, one met his end on the Empress of Ireland too. And the Edmund Fitzgerald. And Pierre Chemiserouge did have a cousin, Fritz Chemiserouge, who was a crew member on the Hindenburg when it had that unfortunate accident. Just like the family tradition, he wore a lucky red shirt too.

Mary: Did it ever occur to any of them that those red shirts might not be so lucky? Maybe you should be wearing gold shirts. Or blue shirts.

Keith: You know, in chapter 743 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, I write what I think, in my usual humble way, is the definitive treatise on the subject of luck.

Jerry: Do you have to keep doing that?

Keith: Doing what?

Contessa: Passing yourself off as a guru.

Keith: But I am a guru. A genius. People adore listening to me talk. Besides, you continue to spend your time telling people you're a Contessa, and insisting they first address you by all sorts of names.

Contessa: I am a Contessa, and you will address me properly as Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna.

Chemiserouge: Look, by crikey, no need to big-note, blue, or burl. No spitting the dummy or giving a gobful.

Jerry: What does that even mean?

Mary: He's using Australian slang.

Chemiserouge: Well, I am Australian, Sheila.

Mary: My name isn't Sheila, so stop saying that. Why did I agree to come on this trip?

Contessa: You're hiding out from the arrest warrants in place against you, that's why.

Mary: Yes, yes. I know. Honestly, you steal a few million dollars here and there from unsuspecting dupes and marks who deserve to get taken for everything you can get, and all of a sudden, you're being called a criminal.

Jerry: I'm just glad that someone else paid. Otherwise, I'd have refused to come. Or I might have hidden myself in one of the wheelwells of the plane. It's only an eighteen hour flight. Surely a human being can survive exposure at thirty five thousand feet for that long? I've done that with my in-laws to save money on a cross country flight. Granted, it wasn't easy to explain that to my wife when her mom and dad were pulled out of the wheel well, frozen to death. Still, saving hundreds of dollars is worth the risk.

Mary: How is it that anyone wanted to marry you?

Jerry: Look, I'll have you know that living cheap is a good thing, from time to time. It saves lots and lots of money, which you can bank away, and continue to live cheaply...

Mary: My point, sir, is that you're living like such a cheapskate that you don't enjoy life. You killed your in-laws by being cheap, and while I suppose I can appreciate the notion of killing in-laws if they're idiots, ending their lives because you're too cheap to buy their air fare is really, really bad form. I'm assuming you gave them a cheap funeral too.

Jerry: Cardboard boxes. No headstone. Those things are just extravagances, after all, and it's not like they care.

Mary: You're an idiot.

Chemiserouge: If we're all done throwing a wobbly?

Contessa: Throwing a what?

Keith: He means getting mad. In chapter 6789 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So...

Mary: Oh, will you shut up?

Chemiserouge: I was just going to say that Brutus ought to be hereabouts. I'm going to put some kangaroo meat out on the line and feed the croc, by crikey! This is what you all paid to come out to see, after all.

Chemiserouge turns off the boat engine and starts to rig a pole with meat from a bucket.

Contessa: That used to be a kangaroo?

Chemiserouge: Yes, until he went walkabout and ran right into the front end of a truck, by crikey!

He holds the pole out over the water.

Chemiserouge: Here, Brutus! Come get your lunch, boy! Here, Brutus!

Suddenly the water beside the boat erupts, and the top half of a two ton three legged croc bursts out of nowhere. Chemiserouge yells in panic, and Brutus drags him under, into the depths of the river. Everyone is silent for a long time. Finally, Mary Ducky speaks.

Mary: I told him red shirts aren't lucky.

The Contessa And The Blowhard Take The Knickers Challenge

You might recall my taking that underwear challenge thing earlier in the month. Well, I'm doing the same thing again, in the first of two blogs, but this time it's the characters who are answering the questions. For this one, I'm going with two characters who are among those who live only here in the blogosphere, and not in a book. Lars Ulrich would have come, but he was too busy beating the hell out of an entertainment reporter.

I've selected Keith Jarrett, the blowhard author of I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover, The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, How To Cure Ebola, Gosh, I'm So Smart, and Mother Teresa: Tyranical Despot of India. He's being joined today by Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna, the explosives loving engineer who very nearly destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge.

***

All right, you two... behave yourselves. That means I don't want to hear about your latest book, Keith. Or I don't want you going around blowing up the Alexandria Bridge, Miss Divinna.

Contessa: That's Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna. You may call me Contessa.

Keith: But I'm really excited by my new memoir Keith Jarrett: Last Best Hope Of Earth...

Quiet, you. All right, you're supposed to answer a series of questions, to the best of your abilities, and really, Keith, do try to keep to the subject instead of going on and on about how brilliant you think you are. Here we go.

1. What do you call your underwear/undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them?

Keith: I call them boxers, because that's what I wear them for. And speaking of boxers, I've been thinking of writing the definitive biography of one of the biggest names in the sport. How does Mike Tyson: Gentle As A Puppy grab you as a title?

Contessa: Panties, of course. Though when I'm out in the field as a demolitions engineer, I have been known to call them knickers. In fact, last week I was all set to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge when I got a call from the city instructing me not to...

Is there a point to this?

Contessa: Yes, I was just getting to it...

Let's move onto the next question, shall we?

2. Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in only your underwear?

Contessa: Oh, certainly. I dreamed just the other night of being in Athens, setting charges in that unsightly pile of rocks they call the Parthenon, set to blow it up. For some reason, I was only wearing my polka dot panties and bra while working with the C4. Can you tell me what that dream means?

Keith: Certainly. In chapter 458 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, I delve into the subject of the meaning of dreams...

Keith, stick to the subject. What's your answer?

Keith: Of course, yes. I've had that dream. I was standing in the United Nations General Assembly, making a speech on just how brilliant I am, and the whole audience was enraptured by what I was saying. Audiences just love to hear me talk, by the way. They recognize pure genius when they see it. Anyway, to make a long story short, in the dream, I gave the whole speech while wearing speedos.

3. What is the worst thing you can think of to make underwear out of?

Contessa: Poison ivy.

Keith: I can't argue that. Poison ivy would be horrible for underwear. Which reminds me, I once wrote the definitive work on poison ivy...

Not now. Let's just get through these questions, shall we?

4. If you were a pair of panties, what colour would you be?

Contessa: Orange and red, just like the colour of an explosion.

Keith: Plaid, and in the clan colours of the Clan Jarrett. We've even got our own family crest, all the way back to Glasgow, long history of Highlanders there. In fact, the Jarretts rode with William Wallace at Stirling...

Will you shut up?

Keith: Can I help it if people are naturally fascinated by me?

5. Have you ever thrown your underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) WOULD you throw your underwear at, given the opportunity?

Keith: No, I haven't thrown them at anyone. Though I did once write an article for the New Yorker on the phenomenon of knickers being tossed at bands on stage. Perhaps you read it?

Contessa: Only once, and it wasn't a rock star. It was a comedian. Carrot Top. I'll thank you not to dwell on it.

Carrot Top? Are you serious?

Contessa: What did I say about not dwelling on it? I'm a Contessa, and I insist we not talk about such things.

Can I see any proof of your Contessaness?

Contessa: You'll have to take my word for it. 

6. You're out of clean underwear. What do you do?

Contessa: Do the laundry, of course. You know, that's a funny thing to bring up. Last winter, I was down in New Orleans. My demolitions company was working on repairing the levees, and it turns out that local officials weren't all that fond of my plan to blow up the levees. Something about putting the city at risk or something... I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention. Anyway, so there we were arguing, and some of the charges went off. I assure you, the mayor had to change his underwear. Honestly, all I did was put a few tonnes of C4 into the levees...

Keith: Is this a trick question?

You're not going to answer this?

Keith: Not until I know if it's a trick question.

Never mind, let's move on.

7. Are you old enough to remember Underroos? If so, did you have any? Which ones?

Contessa: Do you honestly think a Contessa will admit to ever having an item called an Underroo?

Keith: Yes, I did. I had Napoleon underroos. Mom and Dad must have seen that just like him, I was destined for great things. I think it really had an influence on me. I'm thinking of writing a biography of the Emperor. How does Bonaparte: A Man Of Humility sound?

8. If you could have any message printed on your underwear, what would it be?

Keith: I have a message on the underwear I'm wearing right now. Keith Jarrett, super-genius.

Contessa: Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.

9. How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat?

Contessa: Look, I suppose you think such a question has some inherent amusement value, but I don't find it funny. A Contessa like me would never, ever spend anytime around a lowly creature like a goat, let alone dress it in panties. What kind of question is this?

It's supposed to get an honest answer out of you. Something to throw you off track.

Keith: That's an interesting question, and before I answer it, I thought I'd talk a bit about an essay I once wrote, called Goats: What Are They Good For? Absolutely Nothing. You know, the average goat really is a buffoonish sort of animal, something of a cross between a beaver and a duck...

You do realize you're talking about a platypus.

Keith: A what?

A platypus.

Keith: What's a platypus?

An Australian mammal that's a a strange critter, mix of duck and beaver. Looks like something made out of spare parts. A goat is an entirely different kind of animal altogether.

Keith: You're sure?

Yes, I'm sure.

Contessa: This explains why you got laughed out of the Sierra Club, doesn't it?

Keith: No, that was an entirely different matter altogether.

Contessa: Are we done with these questions?

Yes, I'd say we are.

Contessa: Good. Because I have to go explain myself to the city of Paris as to why my company blew up a bridge over the Seine. Honestly, it was there for hundreds of years! Who cares about something that old?

Keith: Curious of you to mention that. I was thinking I ought to write the definitive history of Paris. How does the title Backwater Of The Cultural World sound?

Paris isn't a backwater. It's a cultural gem.

Keith: It is?

Wait, We Weren't Supposed To Blow Up The Brooklyn Bridge?

The following blog springs out of recent events. Like the three preceeding blogs, this one is a character blog for a character without a book. She's based on a real person, of course, in this instance. The theme of burning bridges has been playing around in my head recently, after the person in question did a rather spectacular job of blowing up bridges, friendships, and writing prospects with some rather questionable and juvenile decisions and actions. And so without further ado, I give you..... a new character, the Contessa.

Well, first of all, I'd like to thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen of the press. I'd like to take this opportunity to disprove any of the recent unpleasant allegations against myself and my company.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna. When you're filing your stories, kindly use my full name and grant me the audience that I so rightfully deserve. And while you're at it, do be so kind as to list my profession in front of my name. I'm an engineer, so it ought to be Engineer Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna. And make sure you put my full name in italics, just to emphasize it. No, I'm not being fussy, so don't even ask that question.

Now then, to the matter at hand. Two days ago, I received a call from the city while my crews were out on the Brooklyn Bridge doing some repair work. Apparently they expressed serious reservations about all of the dynamite my crew were placing on the bridge.

You know, my family has been in the explosives business for a long time. My great-great grandfather blew up tunnels in the Sierra Nevada for that nice railroad they built there in the 19th century. My great-grandfather started off a domino effect that inadvertantly set off the Halifax Explosion of 1917. Very long story, and we're still not supposed to go into detail. And Daddy loved nothing more then to go fishing with dynamite. You really do catch more fish that way. Oh... perhaps I should have asked if any of you fine reporters are with the Sierra Club or an animal rights group before I mentioned that.

Getting back to what I'm here to talk about. Yes, my crew did have a lot of explosives on the bridge. As Daddy used to say, there's no problem in the world that can't be solved with a stick of dynamite. Or two sticks. Three sticks in a pinch. And maybe some C4.

You know, that bridge has been there a long time, and when we at Divinna Engineering undertake a project, we like to start with a clean slate. So blowing up whatever came before is typical. We're not really into the whole renovating thing. Maybe we should have made that clear during contract negotiations. I'll have to bring that up with the lawyers. Lord knows they're working overtime at the moment.

You know, it's strange. I've been accused of many things in the last couple of days. Of having a runaway ego, of impatience, of ill considered thoughtlessness. How dare they! Don't they know I'm Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna? Are you making sure you're italicizing my name? Good.

Anyway, to make a long story short, yes, the city forced my workers to disarm the explosives. Something about the Brooklyn Bridge being a priceless treasure to the city and the nation, an irreplaceable icon of architecture and heritage. Those were their words, not mine. I think it's just a pile of steel and brick. See if I offer my exceptional services to New York City ever again.

You know, you try to be nice, hold people up to your own demanding standards, and before you know it, they're coming at you with a cease and desist order, threatening you with multi-million dollar lawsuits. 

Next time instead of sending out burly workers who can be seen by anyone who's not half blind, I'll use squirrels for my explosives crews...

Obviously, if you're with the Sierra Club, forget I said that.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the whole company, I'm Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna, and dynamite should never be used as a substitute for a flashlight. That's how Uncle Jerry met his end back in '73. They were picking his parts up all over Kansas for three weeks....