Announcing: my third annual contest. The winner will have a character named after him or her in my next novel.
For the chance to be immortalized — or perhaps mortalized — in the next Jo Beckett book:
In 200 words or less, explain what’s going on in the photo above.
Deadline: 11:59 p.m. GMT, Tuesday August 25th.
Brevity gets bonus points. Making me laugh gets bonus points. Referencing blog topics and my fiction gets bonus points. You may enter as often as you wish. Previous winners may enter, on the understanding that if they win (no guarantee, because I want to encourage new entries), they will nominate a friend or relative to become a character in the new novel.
My decision will be megalomaniacal, capricious, and final. Two runners-up will get signed Advance Reading Copies of either The Memory Collector, an Evan Delaney novel, or (if you’re willing to wait until next year) the new book.
Good luck.
lying for a living 
I’m wondering – is that staged, or just what Meg O’Death came across on the kitchen worktop when she came downstairs, this morning?
Recipes that come with pictures always turn out the best…
Once again, in way too much of a hurry, Madeline tripped, losing her shopping list and knowing immediately that today was going to be one heckuva Bad Tentacle Day.
I have nearly won already – I blogged about your competition! So now I just have to come up with the explanation.
Should I write it in a comment or mail it to you?
Dorte: Thanks for the blog mention. And you may either write your comment in an entry or email it, but I will post all entries here.
Meg O’Death reviews her packing list for the family summer vacation at SquidWorld, near Moscow.
No one leaves hungry from BBQs at the Gardiner household.
I never was any good at Ann (agrams).
Mustn’t forget to buy all this stuff to kill off that tentacle thing with.
I don’t have a website – I hope it isn’t necessary to have one, in order to take part in the competition?
I guess I better put this thingamabob on my shopping list since it’ll fit with what what I’m creating.
the thinking cap is on. while it germinates, can you clarify one thing – is shark repellent removed from the list because it has been picked up already, or because the decision was made to actually try and attract sharks??
And what was their dirty secret….?
Ultimate Warriors: Nuns vs. Nature
Pit bulls. Check. Sharks. Check.
Ginormous, minatory octupi. Check!
And with that, the four nuns went off to replace their pantyhose.
The ultimate treasure hunt where all the sex-banging, pot smoking grandmothers are found sliced, diced and stuffed into brand new pantyhose while the evildoer — probably a retired Mexican hat dancer instructor — is hiding in a giant squid submarine at Russian Lake in Siskiyou County.
“Aunt Flora, your never-fail recipe for Julienned Squid Flambe didn’t go over at all well at my bridge party last week.”
“Did you leave out the shark repellent again?”
Cindy Lou’s plan to destroy the giant squid threatening Whoville went tragically wrong when she miscalculated the number of pantihose required to immobilise a creature with 10 extremities.
I may enter as often as I wish? I’ll make you rue that rule!!
Entry #1: Having failed even the Fox News pre-employment tests, former Gov. Palin and the Ex-First Dude pack the snow machine for the trip across the Bering Strait for her new Moscow-based gig hosting “So You Think You Can Entertain, Comrade.” She plans to dress in worn-once-at-a-convention designer labels (purchased on e-Bay) and serve Giant Squid, Chain-Lube and Vodka Salsa flambé. As she leaves, she Tweets to her Twitter followers, “I can see the studio from my back deck! See you at the Emmy’s, Letterman!”
Dear Martha
Having a great time in Glover’s Harbour. Wish you were here. In fact, if you do come, could you bring me the stuff I stored at your house last winter? Drop them off at Ralph Putin’s house, second from the end facing the harbour. NOT his brother Xavier’s house, one street over. Oh, and you can keep the shark repellent. We don’t need it now that the town put up the new scareshark (PTO for picture).
Love,
Loretta Jean
“Hey kids: If you thought the Cobra Petting Zoo was cool, just wait ’til you see what I’m planning for us this time!”
Excellent entries, people. Excellent.
Vivan: Anybody may enter. You do not need to have your own website.
Cath: Regarding the shark repellant – you tell me why it’s been crossed off!
It is Jo Beckett’s list for the job she has to do and the photo shows her where she has to do it.
She is doing research on a Russian doll collector who died in Joshua Tree National Park.
He lived in a cottage just beside Vladimir Putin’s American holiday house in the park. She thinks it has something to do with the Russian mafia and smuggling drugs in Russian dolls and Russian made sculptures.
The octopus sculpture was a gift from Putin to Arnold Schwarzenegger but Jo has a feeling that it hides something.
So she has to watch the sculpture for some time to see if anybody is coming. While she waits she eats chips and salsa because it is easily done in a car with the lights off. And when the coast is clear she can use the 4 pair of panty hoses to get to the top of the octopus. Then she can cut the sculpture in half using the chainsaw and the gasoline and see what it hides.
She crossed out the shark repellant because she did not have to swim in the lake and Jo has a phobia about sharks.
A chip-lovin’ squid from Vancouver
With tentacles wide as a Hoover
Was washed up on shore, on a map-reading tour
(Though a study of sharks was his oeuvre).
Nobody’s disPUTIN’, that a fiend put the boot in
But at least panty-hose added allure!
I posted my 200-word-answer here:
http://djskrimiblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/question-and-answer.html
Who KNEW that shark repellent was in fact a Squid aphrodisiac?
I’d remove “shark repellant,” too, if I were editing this list!
“Julia and Meg Cookbook,” volume 1. “Recipes de la Mer.” A work in progress.
Four pairs of pantyhose. Eight legs. Giant squids had eight legs, right? Or was that just Octopuses?
Octopi?
Mmm… Octopie.
Where was she? Oh yes, no need for the shark repellent. Megashark was long gone – Hollywood beckoned apparently.
Now, chainsaw? Check. Gasoline? Check.
Hopefully nobody would invite Putin. The man always insisted on making the worst potato salad, and Meg wanted this to be the best family BBQ yet.
Hey! Sharon used poetry. Is that allowed?
On her way out the door to Ferd’s Holloween party she was having second thoughts about the squid costume, sure it was a great way to escape from gun smuggling fat prison escapies just thru the bay to the station,but she did look like a giant beenie baby and is the shark repellent enough to keep Mr.Peeples from humping her tenticule?
Oh well I have dip and a skillet good enough.
Dorte’s entry, reposted from DJS krimiblog:
Squidomania.
Squidders Calamari shuddered at the sight of her sqiddly legs, sporting a sadly laddered pair of pantyhose. Today, of all days, when she was off to a Gasoline concert, the squidgyest Danish rock band ever, in “The Submarine”. It must be that chain swordfish she ran into down “The Ink Sac”.
“Me love cuttle fish” the pushy Scandinavian said, whatever that meant. All she knew was she couldn´t stomach him.
Well, there was nothing for it than a squickie, a brief shopping spree in the local Fish and Cheap Store on her way. She tried a clumsy salsa; shopping was soooo liquefying! Elevated, she squirted herself generously with “Squidoo´s Best Shark´n´Swordfish Repellant,” set her OPS, Ocean Positioning System, and swannied off.
Squidders was squarely tempted to squeeze into Putrid´s House, the squalid Bone Meal King en route, but resisted. Squealing with delight she squashed herself into the store just before closing time. Gasoline, here I come!
After a brief calculation of her extremities she tentacly asked for roughly four pairs of pantyhose.
“Would that be ordinary, fireman or cephalopod hose?”
Disconcerted, Squidders uttered a chilling squelch as she realized she would have to consult M.S. Gardiner´s FreeGidaria® once again!
Constantly showing his chest, Vladimir Putin believed he was a Russian God. In private, his human suit itched and he resented having to hide his true form. So, alone in the Kremlin, he wiggled out of the confining skin and stretched his squiddy legs. He raised his large body and peered over the edge of the world, keeping tabs on that clever girl, Sarah Palin–damn that bitch! If not for her, he would take over America!
Oozing squid snot, his large aquatic peepers filmed-over and his rage flared. He reached with a squirmy appendage and grabbed up a chip that he delicately dipped into his salsa and stuffed into his beakish maw.
Pondering his night maneuvers, he knew he would need to be clever– the gasoline, the chainsaw and his control top pantyhose all were weapons in his arsenal to defeat those dastardly Deadliest Catch dudes. Burn the boats, cut holes in their sides or seduce their testosterone-addled minds with his mermaid-like visage, he would do whatever it took to wipe-out these rough and tumble men who set the traps that he stubbed his suckers on as he slowly made his way to China Lake.
Cecil Squiddlepot, roustabout and flim flam cephalopod, packed his bags and headed for the nearest testicle feed to retrieve his balls.
During the last running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, Cecil got caught up in the excitement of the day and had tied a jaunty red bandanna around his thick squid neck. Laughing and joking with the locals, he bought one of their Star Maps and took the tour, gorged himself on chips and salsa, slathered himself in shark repellant and lounged by the pool where he foolishly drank liquor that turned out to be gasoline. Before he passed out, he was sure he heard the vroom, vroom, vroom of a chain saw.
When he woke up, he had varicose vein pantyhose on each of his legs and a note was pinned to him saying, “You better get to a hospital. We have taken your balls and you will bleed to death–soon.”
“What a waste of squid meat,” Jo Beckett forensic psychiatrist said, as she leaned over the shriveled John Doe body and read the word “oysters” written in squid ink high on the upper 6th thigh.
oh dana jean, that is … wow. i am speechless. (grins) …
🙂 brevity? No. No I’m not a brief girl.
Dana Jean, me either. I’m a boxers guy.
And, I’m considering the gauntlet to have been thrown down and the bar raised by your posts.
That’s just crazee talk Ron. 😉
Japanese marketers were distressed when the mock-up of their new feminine hygiene product escaped corporate headquarters and washed up on a California beach. Vacationers up and down the coastline ran to try and roll the tentacled tampon back into the ocean. Crying and cooing words of encouragement to the item, they sloshed water up onto its sides and moistened it with shark repellant. The rescuers tugged and pushed and pulled until they managed to get it back in the water where it lay lethargically, swollen and sluggish. The crowd cheered and then broke-up to quick-step across the hot sand, back to their beach towels to enjoy their lunches of chips and salsa. Some wandered off with maps in hand, pulling out their evening clothes from their beach bags, shaking the sand and shells from their pantyhose before dressing for the evening and bidding the floating rescuee adieu.
As the sun set, the tampon rolled and toss against the shore and in the morning, when it had doubled in size, the city council doused it with gasoline and set it ablaze. When this did not clear up the carcass, they called in lumberjacks to discreetly hack it to bits
Brevity is hard.
Entry #2 (according to MS Word, exactly 200 words): Evan skidded the Explorer to a stop, engine burbling like an Aston-Martin DB-9. Shit. She’d read about giant squid off San Diego. But the storm had washed a giant wooden squid onto the beach outside Jesse’s house.
Tension balled in her stomach like – well, a big tension ball. She felt she was trapped in a glass box like the mime she was before she became a lawyer who became a writer. She cranked the CD volume. Marcel Marceau’s Greatest Hits pulsed through the Explorer’s speakers.
Their much-delayed wedding was this afternoon, with the reception following on this beach.
“Don’t panic, Delaney,” Jesse said, as she brushed a lock of hair out of his face. “Oh, and stop messing with my hair, Evan. Really. It’s annoying. My hands work fine.”
Evan brought in her dress and dictated a list. “Stop at Von’s for pantyhose for me and the bridesmaids, and have them add chips and salsa to the catering order. Borrow Helen Pott’s chain saw and gas for Inky outside. And remember to get Cousin Tater.” For Evan’s libidinous cousin, Jesse wrote “shark repellant” and something about Tater’s latest sexual conquest, a Russian émigré Jesse called “Putin.”
Evan wasn’t amused.
Cousin Tater’s French Tickler business was so lucrative, Lyudmilla Putin called her personally from Russia to order a case of the rubbery toys. What they lacked in aesthetics, they made up for in performance.
Once word got out that she was tickling “heads” of state, her parties were standing room only. Until “The Incident.”
The lingerie was selling like hot cakes, and her kitten thigh highs with the built-in elastic legs were fast movers. Occasionally she sold her Shark Repellant lubricant for those particularly adventuresome couples doing the Helen Keller in the waves. A bag of stale chips and watery salsa accompaniment was all she had to provide to keep the party going. She was golden.
Unfortunately, when one of her customers tried to shoplift a bushel of ticklers and passed out behind the bathroom door, stuffed to the gills, the homeowner had to gas-up his chainsaw and take the door down.
Dana Jean, when you use the term French Tickler, you do refer to Marcel Marceau, right?
Ferd Bismuth crossed off his list the Shark repellent in his cart, and headed for the pantyhose aisle. He contemplated his luck in snagging the plum job with Cousteau’s shop just as Compurama downsized, laying him off just as his house-sitting gig ended. He just had a few items to pick up before heading to New Zealand on his mission to capture proof of the giant squid—eight legs secured in nylon! Thank God Meg Gardiner’s blog steered him to the right spot back in April! Oh! He had forgotten to put the monkey chow on his list! “Sorry, Mr. Peebles, “ he muttered to himself as he threw the bag in his cart and headed to the power tool department. “I’ll buy you another Beanie Baby to make up for it.” The only hitch in his plan: the frozen monster had washed up on the beach right next to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideaway. He would need all his Spidey skills for this one! !” He knew that winning proof of the fabled Giant Squid would finally win Jo Beckett’s heart. “Soon you’ll be mine, my Seven of Jo!” Ferd sighed, stuffing another tortilla chip with salsa in his mouth.
Sure Ron, we’ll go with that. haohaohaoha!
Okay, Meg had nailed down the villain for the first book of her new series featuring Marina Umlaut, Aquarium Psychiatrist and Rogue Grammarian. Now for the weapons in the opening action scene….
Gasoline, chainsaw, salsa…. all good. Shark repellent, not so good. She’d save it for the underwater love scene.
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I nearly forgot to tell YOU I had posted a second entry:
Gardiner: Thriller than Ever.
Squidders yelled until a smart woman opened the door. “And what do you think you are doing in Meg´s fridge? You eh… centipede?”
“Miss Octopus to you, sister.” Squidders kept the torn pantyhose well away, and tried to show the rest of her legs off to their best advantage. “Just drifting about a bit I was.” No need to admit the truth.
“Jo Beckett. Pleased to meet you. But why would anyone choose to stay in a fridge?” She shuddered involuntarily. “And Meg´s fridge – can´t exactly be healthy for you.”
“Well, the famous Ms Gardiner wanted me for dinner,” Squidders boasted.
“You … for dinner? Good grief, can anyone be so daft?”
Squidders wriggled angrily. Daft – as if she could help it. Her folks sent her off to a school of fish, but she never passed the entrance exam.
“Quick! There she is – knived! Squidaddle! “ Beckett spun around. “Oh, … hi Meg.”
“Jo! Great you could make it. Now, where did I put …” Absent-mindedly she waved the knife.
“Oh, that old squid – gone off, I´d say. Been on the shelf too long.”
When Squidders was apprehended after having strangled both women with a pair of pantyhose, she pleaded non-complimented.
Mac had a secret, it wasn’t a dirty one or anything like that, it was just that he had a deep and abiding fondness for Black Sea squid. He would go to any lengths to get his hands on this delicacy, even to the point of flying to Odessa to fish for them himself. Mac also was extremely forgetful and couldn’t survive without countless lists to jog his memory. He was a collector of notepads of all shapes and sizes on which he wrote his lists. Planning his latest trip to Odessa required the obligatory list as follows:
Gasoline – for the chainsaw.
Chainsaw – for cutting through the ice.
Chips and salsa – to sustain him and warm him up inside during the long hours waiting for a squid strike.
Map – important to prevent blundering onto some politician’s dacha. Putin’s was marked by a large X
4 pairs of pantyhose – pantyhose made the best nets for catching the small shrimp which he used as bait. Black Sea squid fed almost exclusively on these tiny creatures.
He was ready to roll if only he could remember where he’d put the plane tickets.
Evan & Jo: The Early Years
Evan approached stealthily. Having followed the map given her by insider Rich Klinzman, with the big hint to avoid the Putin townhouse, to this year’s contest site, Jericho Point, she glanced side to side for her constant competitor. Evan represented China Lake High School against worthy adversary Jo Beckett from Mission Canyon High. This year, the site of the competition, chosen as capriciously as a Meg Gardiner decision, featured the freshest squid in years already on shore thereby negating the need for shark repellant needed to fend off any predator that wanted a taste before the contest even began.
The rules are simple; each contestant carrying their own chainsaw and gasoline split 4 pair of pantyhose to harvest the tentacles and drag them to a waiting hibachi. Evan knew this year her slicing technique would be a new and improved Crosscut to sever the tasty limbs. Speed is of the essence. But what was that Jo was carrying? Oh no! Jo hefted the brand new Kill Chain (patent pending) chainsaw with special serrated links.
This year’s Free Range Squid Cook Off and Calamari Queen Contest was going to be as evenly matched as ever. Chips and salsa served as dessert.
Sorry, I have always wanted to be able to use the phrase “Deus Ex Machina” for myself. :>)
This may or may not actually qualify as an entry.
Entry #3: Sung to the tune of “My Favorite Things” from “The Sound of Music”
News items that are bizarre or outlandish
Novels that thrill us by not being blandish
Finding old friends who would mime, act and sing
These are a few of Meg’s favorite things
Pairing a list with a photo squidilliant
Gas, chainsaw, chips, salsa, crossed-out repellant
X marks a Putin and hose for eight legs
These things make sense only in minds of Megs
Brevity, laughter and blog topics help me
Read her books and then refer to them oftly
Cite, here, of Daggers and Edgars and more
Then perhaps I will tempt Meg to adore
I like Evan
She is heaven
I can’t wait for Jo
If I win this contest, I’ll do a back flip
And then I’ll give Meg more lip
Entry #4 (Shorter. Sweeter?): As outlines for Frankenstories go, Meg figured this wasn’t bad. Writing with Stephen King would be fun. She figured he’d remember that 1) a lit cigarette won’t light a fire, even in a gasoline tank, 2) that giant squid, like those in San Diego and memorialized in Newfoundland, had chainsaw teeth, 3) and that Vlad Putin was capable of tranquilizing tigers like Steve and Meg. Did he know her belief that people like their carnage raw, especially with salsa? Or, particularly, that she knew about his habit of writing in a pair of control tops, which he changed every 40 words or so?
I like Ron’s 2nd entry:
“Tension balled in her stomach like – well, a big tension ball.” is a classic line!
And I liked the reference to the nuptials of Jesse and Evan – c’mon, Jessie – whadya waitin’ for?
From Sharon who seems to lapsed into quaintly inappropriate phonetic American!
Well, thankee there, Shar’n. My heart’s all swole up like – well, a big ol’ swelled heart!
Entry #3:
Marilyn, the newest cheerleader applicant at Spongebob University, completely misses her mark and ends up outside the comfort zone.
Meg glared at the shopping list. Snark repellent!! Was some wiseacre in her household being, uh, snarky? After her painful experience of giving up Snarkiness for Lent a few years ago, she’d vowed never again to modify her naturally effervescent personality.
She snatched up her trusty Uni-ball fine-point micro and dashed a sharp, focused, clear line through the offending item.
Oh wait…. was that an “n” or an “h”?
Never mind.
Which is why the Gardiner/Shreve Family Homestead, in later years, became mysteriously shark invested, despite being 30 km inland.
creativity. waning. competition. too. steep.
This entry benefits by me standing atop the extremely broad shoulders of the authors of other entries. (Feel free to sue me for $1 Trillion.)
Entry #5: The Glovers Harbour Herald: Our annual charity scavenger hunt is usually not the stuff of an “Ultimate Warrior” episode nor a Meg Gardiner thriller. But the presence of V. Putin, Russia’s PM and noted tranquilizer-dart marksman, as a holiday time-share resident in our fair Newfoundland town had participants wondering if they’d end up collecting more memories than stuff…
Curiously, although Joyce was a natural at playing Twister, she felt that the Pilates class would never be her forte.
Man, do I need to get a life.
Entry #6: July 17, 2009. While Meg pens funny lines about today’s blog topic (Jumbo Squid in San Diego), she stumbles upon a list of the “serious girl tech” items used to achieve the perfect look for emceeing last night’s Dagger Awards. (Not shown, the decision to wear a dress made from recently-replaced Gardiner-household curtains. Nor that idea’s inspiration.)
I apologize in advance. I’ll show myself out now.
“Right out of the back of one of them thar huntin’ and fishin’ magazines–that’s where I found this little beauty,” said Billy Jo Bucky to his companion. He held up one of those rubbery bait things that looked all squiddified. The glow of the fire softened their features and they smiled just the shyest of smiles at each other. Bathed in romantic, flickering colors, Billy Jo Bucky hand-fed a chip with salsa on it to his lover–it rolled onto the lips and down the chin.
“Come here baby” said Billy Jo Bucky and he slowly licked the tomato-y goodness away.
Pausing, he reached behind him and dug his backpack out from under the chainsaw and reached inside. He pulled out his gift, the pantyhose that smelled a little bit like fish eggs and gasoline. “These are for later sugarplum.” He blushed and giggled. The air was thick with the odor of sexual tension and the spilled shark repellant.
Their passion peaking, they grabbed furiously at each other and Billy Jo Bucky roughly flipped his partner out of his wheelchair and onto his stomach where “X” marked the spot. “Jesse, I sure wish I knew how to quit ya!”
(Noticing the deafening silence in the room, Dana Jean’s blog pal Ron stepped in to make a few good-natured wise cracks to lighten things up.)
Hey, Dana Jean… clap. clap. clap. clap.
Hey, Dana Jean, you know that bar I said you raised? It just came clattering down. The casualties are still being determined.
Hey, Dana Jean, thanks for the clarification. I thought the list referred to Putin. But apparently is says, “put in.”
Hey, Dana Jean, I think you telegraphed the ending by having the theme from “Deliverance” playing in the background.
Hey, Dana Jean, pretty doggone funny!!!
Dammit Ron, you’re making me look bad. I can do that all by myself thank you very much.
😉
Have you ever seen the movie, “Creepshow”? Well, Adrienne Barbeau plays a character on there who likes to be called “Billy.”
I think I’m Meg’s Billy. People smile at me and then wander away with punch cup in hand.
ouch.
Looking through the contents of Jo’s file folder, Gabe realised he shouldn’t have left the wedding planning solely up to her.
Entry #2:
“Do you have everything?”
“Check”
“What are we going to do with that thing?”
“Let’s just leave it there.”
“Are you sure?”
“We have all we need for the throw down.”
“I’m glad we don’t have to go down to the shore.”
“It would have been cool to see the reaction, but the revised plan will work much better.”
“At least you won’t constantly trip over it.”
“Yeah and that’s a good thing,” fingering the scar.
From the future…
Entry #7: New York Times Review of Books, July 10, 2010:… third novel in the Jo Beckett series, the scintillating Secret Memories of the Dirty Prime Minister’s Club… …Gardiner crosses into Tom Clancy territory, adding high-stakes Russo-American politics… …borrows from real headlines… …Obama’s beer summit, this clandestine rendezvous in Newfoundland… …Secretary Clinton serves Putin chips and salsa… …when Jo’s rappelling with a coaxial cable causes sparks that set off a (spoiler alert) gasoline inferno… …learns the advantages of pantyhose for rappelling… …tension so thick, you couldn’t cut it with a chainsaw… …why this novel has been on our bestseller list for 23 weeks!
Like the loch ness monster, the giant squid known to have washed up on the shores or Newfoundland, has an unstoppable appetite. The inhabitants of the small town in northern Newfoundland had all the trappings for making money. On the back of all their table place mats in the local establishments is a list of things rumored to have been found in the bowels of this giant arthropod. Missing and most notable is the hand from local fish and game warden, Mike Grovener, one of Evan Delaney’s long lost quirky relatives. Year after year, patrons go on scavenger hunts to find the items listed. Some never return. Or perhaps it’s just a ploy by the giant squid to get enough pantyhose for her next date.
Here is Cousin Tater sunbathing outside Putin house, with 4 panty hoses beside her while the rest of her luggage is being air mailed.
With some gasoline, a chain saw lying around, some chips+salsa, and a dose of botox, here is the almighty Cousin Tater.
P.S. Delaney to the rescue, armed with a truckload of shark repellant.
As she spotted the picture and list that her husband left on the counter, she said, “I told him not to go fishing. He better not expect me to cook it!”
Jo Beckett shook her in mild annoyance at herself. Sure, maybe in a small sense, she owed Mr. Peebles a favor. However, “deadshrinking” a suicidal squid seemed a bit more than what was called for. Mr. Peebles knew her from “back in the day” when he was ringmaster at the Aqua Carnival. Shirley The Squid was, as one would expect, the juggler.
Now, all Jo had to work with was what seemed to be the final thoughts of a sad and confused circus performer.
First off, if the chainsaw were to be a new juggling tool, then Shirley had a lot more to learn. Where was the 3 cycle engine oil for it? Gasoline was not enough. The pantyhose made sense, every girl wants to go out looking her best. And binging on comfort food like chips and salsa wouldn’t add pounds to her sleek figure like an overdose of chocolates. Obviously the map was to a rendezvous point, Putin or no Putin.
But the crosssing out of the shark repellant was the tell tale point. Whatever had gone wrong with her affair with Mack The Knife had been forgiven by her. (Cue mood music, Bobby Darin crooning “Oh the shark babe, has such teeth…”)
from my twisted mind (and meg’s archives) …
Suze knew in her heart the rumours were false; that the photo was doctored – her partner would never submit to “squid recruitment dynamics” and train squid-terrorists. Syd had been set up and Suze couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave her behind. The first obstacle to saving Syd had been the sharks; thankfully, the Malibu Squid Squad had eliminated the sharp-toothed enemies, making the repellent unnecessary. Gasoline and Chainsaw – the best undercover squids in the program – were confident the map was accurate. And, while she would avoid the house, she wasn’t concerned about the sole inhabitant. The evildoer who had had Syd putin the training camp was zoned, thanks to the drugged chips & salsa Suze had snuck into his grocery cart as she stood behind him waiting to pay for the four pairs of pantyhose. Her plan was daring and dangerous – but so was she. Once she accessed the camp, every action was crucial – one mistake would have them both served up, calamari-style, to the very people they had vowed to bring to justice. Suze checked all 8 of her synchronized watches, took a deep breath, said a prayer that her pantyhose ropes would hold, let go and rappelled into the camp …
(to be continued)
Entry #… oh hell, even I’ve lost track.
Entry #8: With the deadline looming, Meg had little time to think about the “manuscript completed” party. But as The Husband and children rushed to put the English Channel between themselves and manic mommy, she slid a photo and list under the office door.
The aroma of Tennessee sour mash, Junior Mints and rancid sweat socks stung her eyes as Meg slurred to them, “…I mean LOTS of calamari! And the GOOD Russian vodka.”
Which was all well and good. But they thought carving a bust of her editor into the old stump out back, only to burn it in effigy at the soiree, was a bit eccentric. Even for their famously-quirky Mom O’Death.
Some great entries – good luck everyone!
Thanks, Officer Paterson.
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Thank you Ma’am – a bit of respect from someone, at last. It’s sometimes diffcult for us baby-faced African-Americans…
…his co-workers thought him an oddball. They assumed, wrongly, that he was a weak good for nothing drifter. Drifter he was, though unbeknown to them, and him actually, he could have outrun, out-fought, and out shot all of them. It was time to move on, she wasn’t here in this town.
He’d been searching for almost eight years for Jennifer Kendricks. He didn’t know exactly why. It was the only name he remembered. Other than that his memory was completely blank. He hoped she had some answers…
…and after eight years he still couldn’t make head nor tail of the strange phot and list that he’d found pinned to his jacket when he woke up in a dumpster behind Sanchez Marks, who he thought were a firm of lawyers. He ran from there as fast as he could. He’s been running ever since, but he doesn’t really know who he is hiding from.
“Am I a good guy, or am I what? I think someone is chasing me, I’ve felt it for all this time. But who? Who am I running from? I must find Jennifer.” He noted that he had just referred to her as Jennifer, not using her surname. ‘Do I know her?’ he thought to himself…
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…and so the competition was over. Some woman won it. He didn’t know her, but he wondered…could she be Jennifer Kendricks? He’ll keep searching.
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