WE NEED A HERO...TO STOP THE CANNIBALS

Hello my friends. With the September 28 deadline for submissions to my Kannibal Cookbook story anthology coming very soon, I thought it might be a good time to start throwing my opinions around the web like paternity tests in a Jerry Springer Green Room. From now until publication of the aforementioned opus, I will desperately try to link all posts here to the topic of cannibalism. You will be surprised by either my creative endeavors or by how disturbingly close we all are to eating each other.


I have really tried to like the show Ray Donovan. Liev Schreiber is a cool, gritty actor. He makes a hell of an anti-hero. Jon Voight is an even cooler and grittier actor. He makes a hell of an anti-hero. I love a good bad guy or a bad good guy. Some of my favorite movies are about damaged sociopaths who barely function in society and live outside the rules. Think anything directed by Scorsese or anything written by John D. MacDonald. Think Ken Bruen's damaged alcoholic from hell, Jack Taylor for Jaysus sakes.


What's the draw? They're human. They're mortal. They have just enough of a measure of decency to outweigh their indecent compulsions. They can save the day without having to adhere to a code. If the really, really bad guys need killing, the anti-hero can generally get away with killing them and not losing any sleep over it.






Why is Frank Castle the Punisher? Because there are some people that need punishing without using their sleazy lawyer to manipulate a damaged system of justice. Sometimes the sleazy lawyer gets punished for good measure.


So I watch Ray Donovan, "Hollywood Fixer," with some kernel of expectation building inside me through each episode. The little critic in my head screams, "here it comes...here it comes...here it...oh. Shit. What happened? Did the horse fall down in the middle of the track? Did the lava stop boiling before it reached the peak of the volcano? Did the dude pull out of the dame before he could...well, you get the picture.


There is always a great deal of suspense in Ray Donovan's world. There is darkness, corruption, murder, and mayhem. There's extortion and drug use, violence and nudity. There are smarmy elitist rich people getting punched in the face. There was even the murder of a filthy scumbag pedophile priest.


The show has everything a guy who loves the anti-hero could want...but it's missing that something that keeps it from being great. Last night, I think I put my finger on it. That is good and bad.


Good because I don't have to figure out what it is anymore. I can stop wasting my time on a show that just isn't going to satisfy. I have surrendered that hour of my week to loftier ambitions. Perhaps I will use the time to work on this blog that I have barely paid attention to in the past year. Seriously, my last post was October of 2013. This year I have fruit ripening in the garden and I need to pimp my wares by telling the world wide web what I think of duds like Donovan.


Okay, here is the bad news: Despite having a sweet deal with Showtime, moderately capable writers, and an excellent cast of actors, RD is missing one essential ingredient. I don't care about anybody on the show. Not one...little...bit.


And that is because not one single character in the series has any kind of redeeming value. Every major character on the show is so severely flawed that I am left with the feeling that they have gotten away with something they should not have gotten away with. They sulk through every scene with very big chips on their shoulders. They are all selfish, manipulative assholes who bring wreck and ruin to every other life they come in contact with on the show. I sit on my couch for an hour watching people that only try to rise out of the muck enough to fall into another shit hole.


I can't even bring myself to like these characters when they are giving each other their own medicine. Ray is a borderline alcoholic thug who cheats on his wife and manipulates his brothers, father, and even his own children. His wife is a feisty red head who looks the other way when cash and prizes are dangled in front of her. I want to feel good for her when she decides to give Ray a taste of his own medicine by cheating on him with a cop, but she does it at the cost of neglecting her own children when they are in the most desperate need of a sane parent in their lives.


Ray's son is a moody, rage driven teenager who gets off on pummeling other kids and throwing a rival down a stairwell at school. His daughter came the closest to grabbing a morsel of sympathy when she fell in love with a black rapper that her father forbade her to see. But last night she ruined it *SPOILER ALERT* when she lied to the cops about witnessing her boyfriend's inevitable murder (you knew the poor bastard didn't have a chance from the very first episode).


I could go on with a laundry list for each and every character on this show, but I would have to write a part II to this post and I simply can't spend anymore time with these people. There are no good guys here. There are no heroes. No one even comes close.


As some of you have probably guessed, I have revived the barely beating heart of this blog to begin pimping my upcoming anthology on cannibalism, The Kannibal Cookbook. At this point you're asking, "what the hell does Ray Donovan have to do with cannibalism?"


Well my friends, I am not one to switch and bait using the tantalizing palette tickling theme of anthropophagy. So here is a link to a video of Ray Donovan's Liev Schreiber saving a photographer from being eaten alive by a real life cannibal!!!!


Ray Donovan saves woman from being eaten!


Until next time, here is a picture of Sean Bean dressed like a very scary woman. My next post will be about his show that does have a hero I can root for: TNT's Legends

This is my most recent publication from the Halloween submissions at Thrills, Kills, n' Chills. http://tknc.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/halloween-special-dripped-with-blood-by-dana-c-kabel/

I know my blog is in serious need of upkeep, updates and so forth. I've been away from the short form for a bit, working on the novel and some longer stories.
You may have noticed the absence of the short story links. A collection is in the works and I will give you news as I get the news.
Peace.

BLAME

BLAME is up at Yellow Mama, one of my favorite E-Zines. You can get it here: http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/id953.html

The White Van Challenge

OMINOUS IN WHITE

By Dana C. Kabel

 

            “Saddler, my office…please.”

            Tom looked up from his desk and saw his boss disappear behind the mahogany door. Patterson was undone; he never said please.

            Tom got up from his desk and followed.

            “Please…come over to the window and look at this.”

            Another “please,” Tom noted.

            The view was beautiful from four stories up. There was a park across the road with a jogging trail around a small lake, which meant plenty of women in spandex shorts bouncing around it.

            “There!” Patterson hissed, stabbing a finger against the glass.

            Tom followed the direction the finger was pointing in, to the dirty white utility van parked across the street.

            Tinted windows in front, no windows in the back, mud over the plate…a serial killer van.

            That was what they jokingly called them when he was a kid…stranger danger…look out for the serial killer van!

            “Y-you see it, don’t you?”

            If Tom hadn’t noticed it before, he certainly would have when the van suddenly peeled away from the curb and tore down the road, narrowly missing a crossing pedestrian.

            Patterson stumbled back with his hand on his chest like he had just been hit with something or was having a heart attack.

            “Jesus,” Tom said. “He almost killed that lady.”

            “What the hell am I going to do?” Patterson buried his face in his hands.

            “I…don’t know if there’s anything you can do at this point,” Tom said.

            “You idiot, you don’t understand…” Ah, this was the Patterson he was used to.

            “That van has been parked on my road every night for a week now. When I leave in the morning, he follows me. And now he’s stalking me here.”

            “Why don’t you call the cops?”

            Patterson laughed.

            “I called the cops. They can’t do anything about a van parked on a public street where parking is allowed. He tried to run me down a couple of days ago…came within an inch of me, I swear. When I called the cops again I found out why they won’t help me.”

            Tom raised his eyebrows waiting.

            “That little prick, Murphy…in accounting? His uncle is the head pig in the police department.”

             Murphy hated Patterson, just as everyone else on the floor did. Two days before Patterson announced that as a result of the faltering economy that raises and bonuses were indefinitely suspended, he went out and bought a brand new Lexus to replace the year-old Lexus he had been driving.

            The employees hated Tom too, because someone let it slip that he did, in fact, receive the yearly bonus and raise. Tom was the number two. He was the Smithers to Patterson’s Mr. Burns.

            “Still, if someone is threatening you…”

            “That’s the problem. This bastard hasn’t made an actual threat. Murphy’s uncle told me, you’re a fifty year old guy living alone with no children. A van parked outside your house just isn’t that sinister. Call me if they actually try something. Then he laughed at me.”

            “Man,” Tom said. “Well sir, I wish I could do something, but…”

            “That’s why I called you in here. You’re ex-military…fought in the war and all that…”

            “I didn’t really see a lot of action over…”

            “Don’t bullshit me, Saddler. I know you killed people over there.”

            “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Mr. Patterson, but I’m not going to kill a guy for sitting in a van across from your house.”

            “Jesus Christ, you sound like the cops.”

            Tom shook his head and started to walk. Patterson wouldn’t fire him. Nobody would put up with the shit that he put up with.

            “Wait, Tom…please…”

            The third please was almost sickening.

            “I’m not asking you to kill anyone. I just…I need protection. Could you just…help me, until I figure out what this fucker wants?”

            “I have a wife and kids at home and I already put in fifty plus hours a week here.”

            “I’ll pay you. A lot. And…and you can take a couple of weeks off when this is over. Go on a nice vacation with the family.”

            At quitting time, the other employees left with the usual dirty looks and smirks on their faces. There was kiss-ass Tom, staying late again. The only guy with his nose planted so firmly up the boss’s ass that he couldn’t see sideways.

            “See ya, dick,” the Murphy kid said.

            Tom glared at him until he was out the door.

            A half-hour later, Patterson emerged from his office. He was staggering and there was booze on his breath.

            “A productive day, sir?” Tom chided.

            “Fuck you, Saddler. Let’s go.”

            Tom shut his computer off and got up. He had the whole afternoon to realize that Patterson had no intention of following through on his promises. He would talk his way out of floating anything more than a mere pittance to Tom and indefinitely put off the two weeks’ vacation he was promised.

            “Here,” Patterson said when they got in the elevator. He pushed a brown bag into Tom’s hands. There was a gun in the bag, and some loose bullets rattling around.

            “What the fuck! I don’t need this.”

            “Yes you do. Now make sure it’s loaded!”

            It was dark outside. Patterson was holding onto the side of the building when the van screeched to a halt on the sidewalk. The side panel door slid open. Patterson screamed shrilly.

            Tom turned around and smashed him in the face with the butt of the .38. Patterson fell to his knees trying to hold in the blood that was spraying out of his broken nose.

            “You fucker, Saddler!”

            Tom heeled back and kicked him in the ribs.

            “Hurry up,” he shouted.

            The Murphy kid jumped out of the van and grabbed one end. Tom grabbed the legs and they threw him into the van like a sack of shit.

            “You’ll make things right when you get his job?” Murphy asked.

            “Yeah,” Tom said, handing him the .38. “Here’s your first bonus.”

 

Buy it Before You Try It!

My next piece of twisted writing can be found in an anthology from Gutter Books called Out of the Gutter 8. The story is called You Oughtta be in Pictures that I should have been pimping in time for Valentine's day. It's a rather romantic little piece of flash about sex and porno and snuff...er, I mean stuff.

Anyway, as much as I would love to put up a link where you can read it for free, you have to BUY it! Moohoohaha (evil laugh). It is my second story in one of the Out of the Gutter print offerings and you can purchase it here in solid form or for your lovely electronic reading device. I prefer Kindle...when you get tired of reading, you can watch porn on it. Or Netflix.  Here's the link for purchasing OOTG 8 http://www.amazon.com/Out-Gutter-8-Matthew-Louis/dp/0982688792/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1361600936&sr=1-1&keywords=out+of+the+gutter

As well as a lovely picture...



Yep, that's my name on the cover. Yep, I'm bragging about that. bitch.

Crystal Freaking Meth Baby

Okay, I really can't believe I forgot to put this one up. My friend from across the pond, David Barber, gave this story that I had so much fun writing, a home at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers. Despite my various sultry dalliances with every brand of alcohol under the sun...including Listerine and rubbing alcohol, I have never taken methamphetamine. Met lots of folks who have. Such a fun drug...for other people to take. I guess the closest I have come to that kind of sick high is drinking lethal doses of lethally strong coffee. Oh well, if any authentic meth heads have a problem with the real feel of the story, drop me a line. I'm not in the book, so you'll have to try every variation of every ten digit sequence of numbers you can list and systematically eliminate everyone who answers the phone that isn't me. It won't take you long...if you're a real meth head. Or you can read and comment here http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2012-10-07T12:33:00%2B01:00&max-results=10&start=8&by-date=false

The Bad Blogger

I admit it...I am bad. In my forty-three years on this earth, there have been many things that
I have been bad at. At various times in my life I have been a bad student, a bad athlete, a bad musician, a bad friend, father, husband, worker...etcettera etcettera, blah-blah-blah. Never mind all of that, I did not intend this to be a post on self-degredation and self-loathing. Nay, my ego demands that I brag from time to time about all of the things that I am good at.

For instance, you will never hear me admit that I am a bad writer. My writing is something that I have been complemented on since I was a small boy, and I have had nothing but time to improve upon it.

Having said that, a good writer does not a good blogger make. My entries are few and far between. The only time I pay attention to this ethereal little corner of the Internet that I can kind of claim as my own, is when I have a story appearing somewhere in print or evailable online.

This serves as an attempt to plug my product and archive a new published story. However, in light of the recent geographical changes in my life, I seem to have forgotten this dark little hideout entirely.

The greatest part of this sin is that I have had work published that I have plugged on facebook and have not archived or plugged here in six months. I was almost afraid that when I tried to log on, I would find virtual yellow police tape roping off entrance to my own crime scene.

So to begin mending this grievous error, I am announcing that way back on December 10, 2012, Court Merrigan published one of my favorite stories in the Bareknuckles Pulp online magazine over at Out of the Gutter. Calling Home is featured in issue no. 20, and you can find it here http://www.outofthegutteronline.com/2012/12/bareknuckles-pulp-no-20-calling-home.html as well as on the link to the left along with all of my other published works. Thanks Court. Next time I won't drop the ball on timely pimping.