Beware The Vengeance Of Angry Villagers

Small Village Holds Onto Centuries Old Grudge, Refuses To Listen To Reason

Edinburgh (Reuters) It has been three years since the death of actor Larry Hagman, whose iconic character J.R. Ewing caused trouble, stabbed people in the back, and generally made life hell for everyone on two incarnations of the series Dallas. The actor, who passed away from leukemia in 2012, was well liked personally, despite playing one of the small screen’s more vindictive, conniving, and compelling sort of villains- it depends on how you define a villain, after all; Dallas pretty much revolved around the character.

In 1980, the world seemingly was occupied with the mystery of who shot J.R., something that seems unthinkable now in a 500 channel fragmented television world where no single show will ever see those kind of ratings again. Seemingly, that is, because one village in the heart of the Scottish highlands went out of their way to express their disdain by ignoring the series entirely.

The village of MacDubh, with an estimated current population of 1200, is in a sleepy corner of the picturesque Scottish highlands. It’s not quite Brigadoon, but it would fit the stereotype- tartans, thick Scottish brogues, and haggis eaten every Robert Burns Day. Tourists often visit while in the area, finding welcoming Scottish pubs, old fashioned sensibilities, and stories of encounters with the Loch Ness monster.

There is one exception to their hospitality. Any single person who’s ever visited going by the initials of their first and middle names as J.R. is seen as an object of scorn, hostility, and derision. It doesn’t matter if one is Jonathan Ryan or June Rose. The hostility extends to a Joseph Roger or a Jane Roxanne. The antagonism remains the same. Hence in 1980, the villagers completely ignored a mystery unfolding on television that even enthralled the Queen Mother, to the point where she asked Hagman who had shot his character.

“Admittedly, to an outsider, it might seem ridiculous,” Colleen McTavish, a local Presbyterian minister admitted to this reporter. “Holding a grudge for centuries against anyone bearing the same initials as that.... that.... that... oh, hell with it! That underhanded cheating demonic conniving bastard Jack Robert McCullough!!!! A curse on him and his kin!”

Jack Robert McCullough, otherwise known as J.R. McCullough, lived in MacDubh in the late 1750s. A brigand, thief, scoundrel, cheater at card games, and occasional barrister, McCullough disappeared in 1759 after cheating the villagers out of their savings. After a few minutes of ranting and roaring about the “McCullough scum”, McTavish explained the story. “It was a prosperous village for the time. Now imagine a whole village losing nearly every spare cent they had. Taken by a swindling sneaky snake of a.... I’m getting worked up again, aren’t I? Anyway, as I said, taken by a swindler who lined his pockets and conned them all. The villagers were furious, as you can imagine.”

Furious enough to have torches and pitchforks at the ready in a village meeting, as it turns out. On the night of October 30^th, 1759, the villagers assembled, the truth about McCullough exposed, venting their fury and deciding to string McCullough up. As the story goes, they found no trace of him at his home- an open front door, signs of bags being packed, and no trace of the swindler. “It was as if he’d vanished in the night,” McTavish admitted with a sigh. “There were rumours in the weeks afterwards, sightings here and there in the Highlands. His family was questioned, but as far as we know, none of them ever heard from him again.”

This reporter posted the obvious question- could we, centuries later, just take the word of the villagers that McCullough had just vanished? What if one of them had killed him and hidden the body?

McTavish had to concede the point. “It’s a fair argument. That much anger from so many people. I mean, they were all ready to kill him anyway. I suppose it’s possible that one of them might have killed him instead of him escaping into the night. The problem is that the money he stole never turned up afterwards, so...”

But why hold onto a grudge all this time? It’s a perplexing question, particularly when the grudge is applied to people, real and fictional, who have no connection to McCullough. McTavish put that into context. “When it was apparent to the villagers that McCullough was gone, two things happened. First, they vented by burning his house down. Second, a blood oath of vengeance was taken, a Highland oath that no matter how long it would last, for the rest of time, J.R. McCullough and all who shared his initials would bear the contempt and scorn of the village. It’s a contempt and a hatred that has been passed down from generation to generation. From fathers to sons, mothers to daughters. No J.R. can ever, ever be trusted. All J.R.s must be treated as suspect. All J.R.s must be confronted with antagonism. And we’ve lived by that oath ever since.”

This explains at least one story from the late Hagman, who in an interview with Time in 1998 spoke about a vacation he took several years earlier in the Scottish Highlands. “My wife and I turned up in this village,” Hagman said at the time. “Lovely spot, really, beautiful mountains, rolling hills, idyllic. I walked into a crowded pub, looked around, and suddenly the conversation and music and everything else just stopped. Everyone stared at us. Stared at me, really. And it wasn’t the sort of stare of recognition you get from the fans who realize that hey, it’s that actor. It’s the kind of stare that it’s like daggers. I mean, I saw so much hostility in those eyes... I’ve never seen that in anyone. Long story short, my wife and I were running for our lives back to our car, with villagers on our heels screaming kill the bastard right behind us. The local police in the next village over apologized to us, said it was a cultural thing with that village. They just hated all J.R.s. I don’t know why... I mean, for one thing, it was just a character I played, and for another, who could possibly hate J.R. Ewing?”

McTavish nodded when asked about that. “Yes, okay, it wasn’t our finest hour. It happened. We got carried away with ourselves. We chased this American actor out of the village, screamed bloody murder, all because we recognized him for playing a character named J.R. years ago. These things happen when you involve Highland curses. But there’s one thing I’d like to add. I never said kill the bastard while I was chasing Mr. Hagman.” She paused for a moment, looking grave.

“I might have said kill the mother****er. Wait, don’t quote me on that, I’m a minister.”

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

Some links before getting underway today. Norma wrote about captchas. Parsnip had a Square Dog Friday post. Eve has been carrying on with the A-Z Challenge. Krisztina had spring decorating ideas. Mark had thoughts on spring and a book announcement. And Lynn featured ducklings.

Today I feature something entirely different.

It was a dark and stormy night. Mostly because the writer knew he could never get away with using that as a first line in a proper book, given the fact that it has long since been considered a cheesy, bad opening line. At any rate, it was indeed a dark and stormy night in the skies over the capital of Canada. In his study at 24 Sussex Drive, the Prime Minister of the nation, Stephen Harper (Emperor Stephen the First, as he secretly planned to be called once he launched his plan to seize power for life) sat brooding. He often brooded, for his was a blackened soul devoid of humour and empathy, thinking only of vendettas, driven mad by power, yearning to destroy any who stood before him. It was said by many that the Prime Minister lacked the capacity to smile or laugh. Oh, yes, he would try from time to time, but an attempted smile always came out more like a glare of malevolence and disgust.

He was lost in thought, ignoring the lightning outside, thinking only of ways to manipulate the polls, to launch more attack ads at his opponents, to find ways to undermine them. It was, after all, his way. He had learned at the feet of the master, his old mentor, the Reform party founder Preston Manning. “Stephen,” Preston once said back in the day. “Above all else, democracy only works if we’re in power and doing everything we can to absolutely obliterate any dissent. You might say one thing. I mean, go on and on about transparency and accountability, but once you’re in power, dissent must be destroyed, and anyone asking questions must be silenced. Oh, and you have to do everything you can to pander to your base. They’d support you no matter what you do. Now, how about we have a corn roast? That plays well with the base.”

Time had passed- he came out of his musings, wondering about the hour, the quiet of the house. He looked up in the darkened room, and saw that he was not alone. Someone stood there in the shadows, barely perceptible in the gloom. How had he gotten in? Harper was certain, after all, that if anyone had come in, he would have noticed. The figure advanced, the lone light from the desk lamp starting to illuminate some of his features. The dark circles under the eyes, the severe looking face, the widow’s peak hairline, all of it familiar, all of it resonating with the Prime Minister. This was, after all, one of his influences- even if he could never actually admit it publicly.

It was Richard Nixon.

How was that possible? Had Richard Nixon not passed away in 1994? Twenty years after his fall from grace. Those pesky reporters, Harper had often thought, even from his youth, one of the many reasons he had ended up developing a profound loathing for the media. How dare they make trouble for a politician. Particularly one that I admire. If it had been up to Harper, Woodward and Bernstein would have been arrested for treason instead of admired for their role in exposing Watergate and ending up being played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffmann.  Of course, that was a different time, a different country, and one of the many reasons the Prime Minister would never acknowledge the existence of Robert Redford or the Sundance Festival. How is it possible? Richard Nixon is dead.

“Um... hello? Are you....?” Harper began.

“Hello, Mr. Prime Minister,” Nixon said in that familiar growl of his, a mixture of bemusement and contempt underlying his tone. “I am.”

“Hello, Mr. President,” Harper replied, rising. ‘This is... this is quite an honour. Of course. Though... I guess you’re not really here, are you?”

“No, I’m a ghost,” Nixon admitted.

“I see. Well. I must ask, why are you here?”

“I come as a warning, Stephen,” Nixon explained with a sigh. “It is too late for me. My fate was my own making, not that I could really admit that in life. My need to have enemy lists, to poke at old wounds, to cheat at any cost... it turned me into a shell of a man. It destroyed my own place in history. I often thought in the years after I left office that if only I had won the election in 1960, I might not have become this paranoid win at all costs ultra partisan figure of history. I might have been the better man for it. But no, America fell in love with that Marilyn Monroe screwing twit who couldn’t pronounce an R to save his life, I looked bad on television, and there went the whole election. Does that sound bitter? I’m never quite sure.”

“Not bitter at all!” Harper insisted.

“Yes, well, however it happened, it happened,” Nixon told the Prime Minister. “I lost in 1960, came back years later, won, but was so cynical, distrusting, and vindictive that I was willing to do anything and screw anyone over just to get elected.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harper noted with a shrug.

“It’s a terrible thing!” Nixon countered.

“But why?”

Nixon shook his head. “Stephen, you must listen to me. When I met my end, and went to that awful infernal place, it was explained to me that I had been the most vindictive politician yet to have walked the earth. But that was not to last. One day, north of the border, there would come a politician whose vindictiveness and need to destroy his political enemies would exceed even my own. Stephen, it is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, now come on, is this a joke?” Harper asked with a sigh of dismay.

“It’s no joke, Stephen,” Nixon warned. “You have come too far down this road of vindictiveness. You have silenced anyone in the public service who can speak out against you. You have taken steps to cripple your political rivals. You have spent millions upon millions of dollars toasting yourself. You have secret plans already set to remove basic rights from your citizens. I’m just surprised you haven’t bugged your rival’s campaign offices.”

“Yes, well, I have time before the election to get to that,” Harper replied in a self-satisfied way.

“Stephen!!!” Nixon shouted in an outraged way. “That’s what did me in!”

Harper nodded. “Yes, well, your guys were third rate burglars. I’ve got much better and more discreet guys at my disposal.”

Nixon sighed and rolled his eyes. “I see it is entirely too late to reason with you. You are on the path you have chosen, and nothing will remove you from it. Where you will go from here is a disaster of your own making. I would have thought my bad example would have been enough to drive you from that path. I was wrong. About a great many things.”

“Never say that!” Harper insisted. “True conservatives like us are never wrong. I mean, come on, this can’t be you. Richard Nixon would never admit he was wrong. Why would you say such things to me?”

“Death changes a man, Stephen,” Nixon admitted.

“This has got to be a dream,” Harper told himself. “I’m dreaming. Why aren’t I dreaming of my political foes in the stocks in the shadow of the Peace Tower? That’s a good dream. Not to mention that’s where I’ll have them sooner or later for daring to defy me and demand accountability and good order in my government. How dare they question me!”

Nixon shook his head in a sad way. “Oh, sure, Stephen, go ahead, tell yourself it’s a dream. Tell yourself that this isn’t happening. Perhaps these are all the musings of a writer who really dislikes you and looks forward to the day when you’re voted out of office. Perhaps he is using this as a way to amuse his readers.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Harper objected.

“Such things rarely do,” Nixon informed him.

Harper shook his head. “A dream. That’s all it is. My hero, Richard Nixon, would never say such things to me. This is nothing more than a bit of undigested steak acting up. Yes, that’s it. A very Dickensian trick, I would say, like that Christmas Carol thing. That’s about all I remember of that story. Aside from thinking that the moral to the story was really badly thought out. Why that book is considered a classic is beyond me.”

“You are aware that the writer once put you in the Scrooge role in a Christmas Carol parody?” Nixon asked.

“Rubbish!” Harper declared. “My minions would have told me if anyone was disrespecting me in such a fashion.”

Nixon looked up at the ceiling and sighed again. “Don’t say I didn’t at least give it a try.”

The spectral presence faded. Harper sat down at his desk once more. He shook his head. No, he decided. It couldn’t have been. If Richard Nixon had really been here, he would have also brought my other personal heroes. Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and Ayn Rand. He smiled to himself- as much as his limited facial expressions and bitter soul would allow a smile, and went back to work, plotting the next intricate phase of how to annihilate his enemies in the coming election.

And somewhere else, in an infernal and hot place, Richard Nixon rested content, knowing that sooner or later he would be remembered merely as the second most vindictive politician in history.

Death And Other Tragedies

Some links to see to first off before we get started. Yesterday was a Snippet Sunday, so Norma posted a short piece from one of her old books. In addition, at our joint blog, we had a Snippet set up. 

In the past I have posted eulogies gone awry for mock funerals. You can find them here, here, and here. While you're at it, check out Rowan Atkinson giving a eulogy. It seemed about time to mess around with the funeral tradition once again. 

"Thank you, Reverend Mitchell, for that stirring introduction. Ladies and gentlemen, for those who don't know me, I was Richard's friend from our days in university. It might seem strange that someone who hasn't seen that much of him in twenty years would be asked to give a eulogy, but then again, most of his friends and family are suspects in his unfortunate passing, and as I understand it have been advised by their lawyers not to say a word to anyone about anything. And so it falls to me to bid him farewell.

Richard was the sort of guy who liked being the center of attention. He was the captain of the rugby team, and that got him a lot of attention from the ladies. He always had four or five of them in his life at any given time. Not that they knew anything about each other. I see four of them here today, as a matter of fact. Alicia, did you know Richard was fooling around with Rebecca, Morgan, and Elizabeth while you two were dating? Oh, by the look on your face, I can see you didn't. Maybe I shouldn't have said that out loud. Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. Richard had a healthy appetite for the company of women. He kept that up for years on end all through university. It amazed some of us that he'd be in shape for a game the next day after being up all night banging girls in rapid succession. Oh, I see by Reverend Mitchell's expression that I ought to be careful what I say. My apologies, Reverend... I forgot I was in a church for a moment.

As I understand it, from our occasional chats, Richard never really got past that habit of seeing other women on the side. I know this would come as a great shock to his lovely wife Portia, or to his other lovely wife Alexandra, both of whom I see in attendance here today. Ladies, it must have been a shock to you to find out he was a bigamist after he passed. I don't know how you'll sort out the life insurance thing between you. I suppose it depends on if either of you get charged with first degree murder. 

Well, ladies, I'd like to apologize to both of you. You see, I was aware that Richard had gotten himself into that state of bigamy. I suppose I could have tried to reason with him. I suppose I could have reminded him that he was playing with the lives and emotions of two women who loved him. But I just felt that, well, Richard was the sort of man who'd go off and do what he wanted anyway. He tended to let a part of his anatomy that wasn't his brain do all the thinking, if you know what I mean. Which explains how he always had at least a half dozen mistresses on the side. Some of whom I see here today. Hello, ladies.

We can't really blame Richard for that, can we? After all, he was blessed with good looks that the women found so appealing. Until the last moment of his life when one of the many bullets that riddled his body damaged his face. Yes, Richard went through life with all the luck with the ladies. Unlike his brother Tom, who ended up with the sort of face that makes you think he was hit by an ugly stick. It didn't help that Tom was a sullen drunkard with a bitter streak a mile wide... oh, hello, Tom! Tell us, did your bitterness perhaps lead you to want your more successful and luckier with the ladies brother dead? Because if so, I'm sure the detectives from Scotland Yard would love to have a word with you.

Richard had his friends. And he had his enemies. You know, when he was a boy, he told on a boy who'd shoplifted a candy bar. Mick was his name, Mick Albertson. On the street they called Mick by the name Mugsy. Probably because he was a mugger, a leg breaker, the sort of hired muscle you'd enlist to help you settle a score. It seems Mugsy's whole life went downhill from that incident being ratted out for shoplifting. One criminal charge after another, until finally he was doing ten years for armed robbery. He got out two weeks ago, and according to the police, well, Mugsy blamed the whole state of his life on that rotten Richard Covington when he got out, and swore that Richard would get what was coming to him. In retrospect, that seems ominous, doesn't it?

There were others who didn't much care for Richard. I remember him once remarking to me about his idiot brother-in-law George. He told me that George was the sort of person you'd move out of the country to never see again. An entirely unpleasant, rotten to the core, buffoonish dolt with an appalling lack of intellect. Obviously they didn't get along. Oh, don't look at me like that, George. Everyone knows you're the stupidest person in this sanctuary. Even the minister is nodding, you halfwitted moronic git. So was it you, George? Are you the one who got pushed over the line because you knew he was smarter?

Or was it someone else? Richard went to work as an investment banker. And he was good at what he did. At least that's what we all thought. It's only come out in the last few days that he managed to defraud and rob scores of investors of millions. They trusted him. They believed he was taking care of their money. And he was. He was helping himself to it. Squirreling it away God knows where. I know if I lost my life savings to an investment banker, I'd be ready to pick up a gun or a knife and finish him off.

I suppose there's a benefit to not being in touch with Richard that much in the years since. At least I was wise enough not to invest my earnings with him. That means unlike the people who are only now realizing how much money they've lost, my retirement someday is comfortably taken care of. Those of you who were closer to him, well, you trusted him and he let you down. You couldn't have known he was pulling a Madoff and making off with over a hundred million pounds stirling of your money. And it wouldn't have been that hard for one of you to decide to get a little revenge, isn't it? You must have thought he more than had it coming. Maybe he did.

Well, I don't envy the police on this. They have more than enough suspects. Could it be the bitter and resentful relatives? The friends and clients he screwed out of their money? One of his many mistresses? Or the two women he promised to love, cherish, and honour... never letting either of them know that he was married to someone else? It's a riddle, wrapped inside a puzzle, and packed with an enigma.

At least the police and I know that I've got a rock solid alibi for the time Richard got riddled with forty seven bullets. I was in Australia, getting a full body massage from a really hot Swedish masseuse named Asta. So to those of you still on the suspect list, I can only say, nyah nyah nyah nyah!"

Vengeance Of The Dark Cabal

A link for you to look at before we get things started today. Take a look at Norma's blog, where for some reason my partner in crime takes exception to that lovely of loveliest seasons, winter. 

Today I'm doing one of those did I actually write that blogs....

A dimly lit chamber, in a bunker deep beneath the Hollywood sign. A large round table, set with twelve chairs, dominated the room. Overhead, a stylized microphone was carved into the ceiling. One by one, eleven people, in hooded cloaks, walked in, each taking a place at the table. At last, in came the final member of the group. She stood at her chair, her eyes gazing out from beneath the hood of her cloak, and began to speak.

“All hail the Dark Cabal of the Infernal Gossip,” she called out, her voice strangely familiar. Years of being on television left that impression.

“All hail, Supreme Majesty!” everyone else said in unison.

“Sisters and brothers, our time is at hand,” the Supreme Majesty declared. “Since the days of old, when our founder Antonio Paparazzo created the Cabal, we have worked carefully for the day when we would be in place. When we would come to dominate the world. The signs have all aligned. Our seers and sages believe the prophecies point to our present day. As do I. Long ago, when the great Antonio spent his time reviewing the plays of his day and writing gossip columns, he could have felt ashamed when William Shakespeare told him he was a halfwit who would never be remembered for anything. Instead, he vowed that he would be remembered long after Shakespeare was forgotten in the dustbins of history. After all, what did Shakespeare know about writing?”

“Nothing!” the rest of the Cabal agreed.

“Exactly,” the Supreme Majesty said with a smile. “The great Antonio dedicated himself to ensuring that one day, those just like him would come to achieve the ultimate power over all life on Earth. That there would come a day when gossips would be running everything. Antonio could not have foreseen the advances of technology, that our guild would become journalists, highly respected journalists, despite what those hacks who win Pulitzers and awards might say about us. That we would be hosting television shows, reporting on everything that famous people do, even those famous for being famous. That there would come a day when the single status and barren womb of the goddess Jennifer Aniston would be more important than climate change or wars in a foreign country or the state of the economy. That was not his concern. For reporting on all matters entertainment was always meant to be our facade, while we worked behind the scenes to consolidate our dark power and wield our rightful destiny as masters and mistresses of the world.”

One of the cloaked men blurted out in a panicked voice, “They’re all watching us! Out there! Beyond the Fourth Wall! They’re wondering what on Earth the writer’s thinking! And we’re using too much expository dialogue!”

The woman at his side reached out. “Brother Leonard, what do you mean?”

“You’ll have to forgive Brother Leonard,” the Supreme Majesty told her. “He has never been the same since that buffoon Ebert told him he isn’t a real movie reviewer.”

“Yes,” the man to her side remarked. “Brother Leonard of the Maltins seems to have gone slightly bonkers. Our therapists suggest he believes that none of this is happening, that we are nothing more than fictional variations of real people out beyond this Fourth Wall. Clearly, the effects of that mind shattering put down have had a long term effect on Brother Leonard’s emotional well being. Be at peace, Brother Leonard. Let me play you some of my soothing music when we’re done here.”

“Very well, Brother John,” the Supreme Majesty told him. “Sisters and brothers, the time is at hand. For it was foretold by the great Antonio that when our time would be at hand, our greatest enemy, the only one able to stop us, would make himself known. Antonio wrote of the man of justice, a man in red serge often mistaken for a deaf musician. He called him the rider on a white horse, and the man’s name was death. He might have been borrowing liberally from the Bible, but hey, who cares about plagiarism? Two centuries ago, the Cabal thought the prophecy might refer to Beethoven, so we scoured the world for a man with the same name who wore red serge. Alas, it was to no avail. For our enemy was not of that time.”

“You’re doing it again! Expository dialogue!” Brother Leonard blurted out.

“Brother Leonard, be at peace,” the Supreme Majesty said. “All of our seers and sages agree. Our most hated enemy, the only one who stands in our way, is the Mountie, Lars Ulrich.” An image of Inspector Lars Ulrich appeared on a viewscreen on one wall. Boos and hisses resounded through the chamber. As did one wolf whistle. The Supreme Majesty called out, “Who did that?”

“It was I,” the woman beside Brother Leonard admitted. “Well, I mean, come on, the guy’s hot.”

“That’s not in dispute, Sister Leeza, but he is our most hated foe,” the Supreme Majesty insisted. “And we cannot lust after our adversary. We have cast our minions upon the Ulrich time and again, the rank and file of our industry, those who have no idea that the Cabal even exists, with the mere objective of annoying him endlessly. We have even sent a woman from those ranks to flirt and tease him last New Year’s, only to pull the rug from under him by revealing what she does for a living. I would have loved to see the look on his face. All of this is a wise thing. It keeps him off his game. It keeps him from discovering who we really are. For each time one of our minions asks a question about Metallica, it only infuriates him all the more and keeps him permanently distracted.”

“He’s going to Russia, I understand,” Brother John noted.

“Yes, as security for the Canadian Olympic team,” another man affirmed.

“Brother Ryan of Seacrest speaks truth,” the Supreme Majesty said. “The Ulrich was in Vancouver last week when Godzilla surfaced. All it took was one good hard glare from the Ulrich, and the monstrous beast fled back into the ocean. That, sisters and brothers, the ability to turn a hundred foot tall monster into a whiny little coward, is the mark of a very dangerous man.”

“Could we get the Russians to see to it that he meets with an unfortunate accident?” another woman asked.

“Unlikely, Sister Nancy of O’Dell,” Brother John said. “President Putin would view us as competition for his own world domination schemes if we would make the request, and is unlikely to ever do us a favour. We can count on no help from those quarters in ridding us of the Ulrich.”

“It shall be left to us then?” Brother Ryan asked.

“Yes,” Brother John replied. “Patience. We will deal with him in time. We will imprison him, and I will play endless amounts of my music until he weeps for death. For it is said that the Ulrich can’t stand my endless keyboard feel good music. For some reason I can’t quite understand, there are many people who dislike my music.”

The Supreme Majesty nodded. “I don’t understand it either, Brother John of Tesh, but such is life. And when we take command of the world, your music will be required listening for every last person on Earth. When the Ulrich weeps for death, we shall give it to him. We shall set the Ulrich on the block, and sever his head from his body. With a rusty axe. After that, the world will be ours. As it was foretold in the days of old. And I, Mary of Hart, will be Empress over all the world. And I will get even with everyone who ever called me a lightweight or rolled their eyes when my name was mentioned.”

“Bravo, Supreme Majesty,” one of the women called.

“Thank you, Sister Maria of the Menounos. The time is at hand, sisters and brothers. Now then, we are adjourned. We shall go to the antechambers to sacrifice an intern and commence the orgy.”

“The orgy is my favourite part,” Sister Maria declared with enthusiasm.

The Cabal rose from their chairs. Brother Leonard cried out, “Don’t you see? He’s making fun of all of us! He doesn’t think we’re real journalists, and he’s making fun of us! And it’s not as if he’s even going to write the orgy, he’s just leaving it out there as a punchline!” Brother Leonard glared up at the ceiling. “I know you’re out there, Writer! Out there beyond that Fourth Wall! I know what you’re doing! And one day you’ll pay for your sins!”

Sister Leeza took him by the arm, leading him out of the room with the rest of the Cabal. “Brother Leonard, perhaps you need more therapy. There is no such thing as a Fourth Wall. Now come on, a good orgy and a ritual intern sacrifice will have you feeling better in no time.”

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat... I Mean, Bigger Book

"...The idea was, shark come to the nearest man, that man he starts poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark will go away. But sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that shark he looks right into ya. Right into your eyes. And you know, the thing about a shark... he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be living... until he bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white and then... ah then you hear that high pitched screamin'. The ocean turns red, and despite all the poundin' and hollerin' they all come in and they... rip you to pieces. You know by the end of that first dawn, lost a hundred men. I don't know how many sharks. Maybe a thousand. I know how many men. They averaged six men an hour. I know, 'cause they came after me after four o'clock that day. The shark come up and bit me in two, and I bled out to death. What, you didn't know I was a ghost, fellas? Well I am, and let me tell ya... oh, come on, Steven! Let me improvise the line! Actors all like to improvise! Besides, this version works better! What do you mean, you have to talk to Benchley? Who cares what he thinks? He's only the writer! Hell, that didn't stop you from removin' that sex scene between Brody's wife and Hooper that was in the book!" ~ Robert Shaw, on the set of Jaws

In case you're thinking this is another shark blog, it's not... just my way of messing with your heads a bit. I was thinking of a title for this one, and well, once I had that title, I just had to play around with a bit of dialogue.

Anyway, the point to today's blog... a book that we all need.

Usually numerous volumes so that we can fill it up.

Rumor has it Gandhi had forty eight volumes filled with names.

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado....

Six Feet Of The Devil And A Hundred Eighty Pounds Of Hell

"The Hatfield-McCoy War has broken out fresh in the newspapers. The Hatfields and McCoys, however, know nothing about it." ~ Logan County Banner, 1894

Last year I wrote a humorous blog on vendettas, specifically on the story of the Hatfields and McCoys. I thought I'd revisit that somewhat today, as the story of the Hatfields and McCoys has come back along as of late. A miniseries on the feud has aired recently, and a fresh book on the story has recently been published. I thought I'd take a look at both, review each in turn.

Hatfields & McCoys is the recent miniseries, headlined by Kevin Costner and Bill Paxton as the patriarchs of the two clans, telling the story of the vendetta from the end of the Civil War to its conclusion in 1891. The two start out as young men, and we follow them through to old age in the series, along with their families and the various people who played a part in the events of the vendetta.

Devil Anse (Kevin Costner) and Levicy Hatfield (Sarah Parish)

Sarah (Mare Winningham) and Randall McCoy (Bill Paxton)

Devil Anse Hatfield (Costner) and Randolph McCoy (Paxton) are both soldiers in the Confederate army until Hatfield abandons the field to go home to the borderlands of Kentucky and West Virginia, to his wife Levicy (Sarah Parish). McCoy comes home to his wife Sarah "Sally" McCoy (Mare Winningham) at war's end to a world changed, where his brother Harmon has been killed by Jim Vance (Tom Berenger), an uncle to Devil Anse. This is what most consider to be the beginning of the feud, an act of anger over Harmon McCoy having had served as a Union Soldier.

The years go on. While the Hatfields seem to prosper with timbering in the area, Randall McCoy and his relations fall behind, and the unresolved death of one of their own festers in the McCoys. The theft of a pig and subsequent trial of a Hatfield more than a decade later creates more tensions between the families. The relationship of two of the children, Johnse Hatfield (Matt Barr) and Roseanna McCoy (Lindsay Pulsipher) makes things worse. Where Randall tries to use the law to air his grievances, Devil Anse is more likely to take the law into his own hands. On both sides, the tensions deepen, fighting breaks out, lives are broken, and people are killed as revenge becomes absolute. By the end of the feud, two families have been hit hard, the story has made national headlines, and two hardened enemies find themselves at a crossroads.

The Hatfields

The McCoys

The miniseries does justice to the story, particularly with respect to what I've later read about the feud. It tries to be historically accurate, much more so than previous film or television versions of the story, which veered wildly off the rail. There are a few glitches- the historical record, for instance, is uncertain as to if Randall McCoy even fought in the Confederate Army, Costner and Paxton are roughly around the same age and in reality, Randall was older than Devil Anse, Roseanna McCoy was a blonde- but these are relatively minor. The filmmakers wanted to keep as close to the original narrative of history where possible, and the production values really pay attention to the finer details, in costuming, music, sets. While the filming itself was done in eastern Europe, the setting in the film ends up feeling very much like a place in the backwoods of America, like the Kentucky and West Virginia borderland must have been like.

The pacing of the story works well. It slowly builds up the tensions, conveying the events as they go along, bringing the feud to a boil, to the point where it finally explodes. We, the audience, can believe the animosity that we've seen growing in these characters. The casting, for the most part, works well. The exception would have to be Matt Barr and Lindsay Pulsipher, neither of whom have much in the way of gravitas for the parts. There are some who look at the story of these two as a Romeo and Juliet sort of story; I didn't sense that. To begin, there were already a number of Hatfields and McCoys marrying. And it felt more like Johnse Hatfield was an irresponsible, womanizing drunkard who threw away what might have been a good thing just by being himself. Barr doesn't bring much weight to the role, and seems more like he's channeling Ryan Gosling (a bad thing, since in my opinion, Gosling sleepwalks his way through every role he takes). Pulsipher as Roseanna is more or less the tragic character, doomed to a bad end, but she just doesn't feel like we should take her seriously.

Roseanna McCoy (Lindsay Pulsipher)

Johnse Hatfield (Matt Barr)

Okay, that's the bad casting choices out of the way. Now the good, and there are a number of standout performances. Boyd Holbrook plays Cap Hatfield, another of Devil Anse's sons, and he gives the part a vindictive, ruthless streak, much like the original man might well have possessed. Jim Vance is the sort of sadistic, vicious pitbull that history seems to suggest he is, and Berenger perfectly plays those qualities. Powers Boothe, playing "Wall" Hatfield, an elder brother, gives the role a certain dignity and strength throughout. He's the voice of reason, reluctant to get involved in the feud, though the feud leads him to a bad end anyway. Andrew Howard plays a man named Bad Frank Phillips, a gun for hire brought in by the McCoys to go after the Hatfields, and though he's older than the actual man himself was, he plays the role with a vicious rattlesnake sort of quality, a thoroughly dangerous man.

Cap Hatfield (Boyd Holbrook)

Jim Vance (Tom Berenger)

Wall Hatfield (Powers Boothe)

Frank Phillps (Andrew Howard)

There are several women in the cast who stand out. Jena Malone, who's been acting since childhood, plays a McCoy cousin, Nancy, who gets involved with Johnse after the breakdown of the relationship with her cousin. She brings a conniving, manipulative quality to the role, effectively playing both sides against each other, though her loyalties remain to her family. Sarah Parish as Devil Anse's wife Levicy is a voice of reason, drowned out by violence, watching her family tear itself apart for the sake of retribution. And Mare Winningham plays Sarah McCoy, one of the more tragic characters of the story, who loses most of her family, and ends up broken emotionally and physically. She too watches her family implode from within, her husband becoming increasingly bitter, and the performance is haunting.

It's the two leads in the cast that make it come together. They carry the weight of the series, and they do not disappoint. Bill Paxton is one of those actors who just gets better with age. He plays McCoy's gradual decline from a reasonable man into bitter anger, finally into a state where he's shattered by all that has happened to him. Randall McCoy spent the rest of his life in complaint, never really getting over the feud, the anger still festering in him, and Paxton perfectly conveys that. He's a man whose eyes are very expressive, and two emotions that come across that way throughout are pain and the notion of being haunted. He moves from being a man who believes in God and the law to becoming a man who has lost all that matters to him in the end, leaving him unhinged, deeply bitter, and cynical. Not unlike the real McCoy, who by all accounts came apart after the feud.

Costner too is an actor who, given the right role, really can shine. He plays mean and cruel very well, and Devil Anse certainly qualifies. There's a ruthless, calculating streak to the character, a stubborn quality that's not willing to let go of an argument. He also feels plausible as the leader of a large extended family, though the man himself was not the eldest in the clan; Costner carries enough dramatic weight that the audience can believe people around him would follow him. I was reminded of my favourite Costner film Wyatt Earp, where he plays the lawman as the driving force of a family, similarly moved to wage a personal war against people he deems the enemy. In Wyatt and in Devil Anse, there's something of the same mean streak. There's a darkness that particularly comes out at times in this series, to the point where he's willing to take extreme action against a member of his own family he thinks may have betrayed him.

There's a moment, late in the series, when the two come face to face again. It's a confrontation that's not quite what it seems. Costner and Paxton spar with each other in that scene, which really comes across as a crossroads. It also brings into question the issue of mental stability, but it perfectly conveys just how deeply the loathing had cut into both men. It might well be the pivotal moment of the entire series.

The series leaves us with questions. Are there any of these people we should feel sympathetic about? Yes. The women are, for the most part, more sympathetic than the men, which I think transfers as well over to the real story. They watched as their families destroyed themselves, as their men went to war with each other, as stubbornness and hatred dominated their actions. And they paid dearly for it. The series sheds light on this chapter in American history, reminding us of just how badly anger can dominate, can get out of control, and how hard the consequences of that can be. And in the end, it's compelling and entertaining... and dark.

The writer Lisa Alther has recently released Blood Feud, a new look at the facts of the vendetta. Alther counts among her ancestors a McCoy family member, a forebear who refused to take part in the feuds. Alther, who comes from a background as a novelist, brings that quality to the narrative of history, laying out the story of the feud. She acknowledges a problem in telling the story straight off; the poorly kept records and contradictory accounts of the events in question from previous books make it difficult to determine at times what really happened. Earlier books were written by family members on both sides, collecting the accounts of their relations and told in such a way to deflect responsibility for crimes and to cast themselves in a positive light. The truth, she stresses, must lie in between, and through the book she often notes of an incident having more than one version, either in the drafts or the narrative itself. Another thing she stresses is that many of the people taking part in the fight weren't members of the families, but were tied to the clans by friendship or employment; indeed, there were more than a few Hatfields and McCoys who refused to take part in the vendetta.

Alther lays out the background of the families and the region first, exploring things like why vigilante justice might appeal to such people, to the family hierarchy of the day. In large extended families, for example, one might have cousins sharing the same name, since the habit of the time was to name a son after a father, or an uncle or brother. This is the case with Devil Anse, who shared his proper name William Anderson Hatfield with a cousin. The tendency of the time was to nickname children, often based on personality at some point; while the cousin ended up being referred to as Preacher Anse, and Devil Anse... obviously got it for other reasons. Alther gives several explanations for the nickname (as is the case of so much in the story, there are conflicting reasons); I rather prefer Randall McCoy's take on the name, that Devil Anse was "six feet of the Devil and a hundred eighty pounds of Hell."

Devil Anse Hatfield and Randall McCoy

The chronology of the feud is laid out in detail, the crimes, the killings, and the underlying factors driving hostilities. Where there are conflicting accounts of what actually happened, Alther points them out, using her skill as a novelist to keep the pacing of the narrative going. With the end of hostilities, she turns somewhat to discuss other items, putting the story into a greater context. Underlying cultural, physical, and social elements that might have played a role in the way the feud developed are explored. Other feuds in the region- some of which lasted longer and resulted in much higher death tolls- are detailed. And the aftermath and legacy of the feud itself, particularly in how it lingers in our collective memory in a way that other feuds have never achieved, are examined.

I cannot understate the value of Alther's background as a novelist in writing this book. It gives her the ability to breathe life into the story in a way that some historians might be lacking in (believe me, I've read more than enough historian's tomes that serve as a good cure for insomnia... Eric Hobsbawm, I'm looking at you). She has the right touch in keeping the reader's attention, and she brings balance to the story; she places the responsibility for the feud on both sides. She even brings a sense of humor to the table, which I obviously appreciate.

If you've found yourself curious about the real story after watching the miniseries, get hold of Blood Feud. You'll find yourself enlightened.