Category Archives: Humor

Today is a milestone of sorts for my blog.  This is my 100th blog entry since starting in early January.  In that time I’ve had about 13,400 hits (an average of nearly 70 per day), people have left over 200 comments, and none of that takes into account the amount of traffic generated through Facebook’s NetworkedBlogs.  Not bad.  Wish the sales of my mystery novel Decisions were going nearly as well.

On Wednesday I presented an old piece I wrote for the now defunct El Paso Manuscript Club’s annual Christmas Writing Contest for the year 2000.  It was a poem written in the style of Edgar Allan Poe, and it told of the apparent murder of Lenore—a department store clerk—by an irate customer doing his Christmas shopping just a tad on the late side.

Today I present the companion piece (same contest, different category), the followup investigation of Lenore’s death as conducted by a character straight out of Mickey Spillane.  There is one inside joke that require some explanation.  The reference to the word count remaining to tell the story refers to the increase in length for that year’s contest over the year before.

A Spillane Interpretation
Of A Dickens Christmas

It was the best of times, Christmas.  It was the worst of crimes, murder.  She was a store clerk at the Old Curiosity Shoppe.  Her name was Lenore and she lay dead upon the floor, strangled with a ribbon of rain checks by an irate Christmas shopper.  The suspect’s name was Ollie, and I knew then that this murder had a twist.

It was time for the “bad cop” routine so I slipped into the role, not that it required much acting on my part.  “Okay, Ollie, what’s your last name?”

“Co . . . Co . . . Copperfield.”

“This your first offense, Copperfield?  Murder goes down easier if it’s a first offense.  You’ll probably be looking at two to ten.”

“Years?”

“Weeks.  Probation.  This is California, you know.  Now spill it.”

“I’ve never been in trouble before today.  Well . . . except for those two incidents, one in London and the other in Paris.”

“Just what I don’t need right now, a tale of two cities.  Let’s keep it simple, Copperfield.  Why’d you do it?  Passion?  Robbery?  Lust?”

I secretly hoped it was lust.  I’m kind of partial to lust.  Passion comes in a close second.

“No,” Copperfield whined.  “It wasn’t any of that.”

Rats, I thought.  Another long story with, like, no gratuitous . . . well, you get the picture.  “Start from the beginning,” I prodded.

Copperfield yelled in anguish.  I turned off the prod.  “Come on, spill it.”

“It was my son, Quasimodo.”

“Wrong author.  Save Dumas for next year’s contest.”

“Actually, that was Victor Hugo,” Copperfield corrected.

I shook my head impatiently.  “Never mind.  Go on.  We only have 1,242 words remaining to wrap this whole thing up.”

“And last year, you would’ve only had 742.”

I’d had enough of this.  I started to prod Copperfield for more information.

“Wait,” he yelled in anguish.  “I’ll talk.”

I put the prod back under my coat.  I yelled in anguish, then reached inside and turned it off.  It was a shocking miscalculation on my part and now I was really burned.  “No more stalling, Copperfield.”

“Quasimodo wanted this year’s hot toy . . . .”

“You mean the Super Fly-A-Saur?”

“You know it?”

“Know it.  Been trying to lay my hands on one of those damned, cursed, hellish things for three weeks.  I got a nephew in Newark who wants one.”

Copperfield’s face twisted in horror.  “Newark . . .  how awful.  Tough break.”

“Precisely.  Poor kid would’ve been better off as an orphan in London.  He should get whatever he wants.”

“Well,” Copperfield continued, “I didn’t even start looking for one until yesterday afternoon.”

I was incredulous.  “Let me get this straight . . . .  You didn’t start looking for the most popular toy of the year until Christmas Eve?”  I gave him a suspicion-filled glance.  “You settin’ up for an insanity plea?”

“No . . . .  It’s true.  I swear.”

“Quasimodo . . . he got any brothers or sisters?”

Copperfield nodded.  “He has a tiny brother named—“

“Let me guess.  Tim, right?”

“No.  Pickwick.  Pickwick Chuzzlewit Copperfield.  We call him ‘Boz’ for short.”

“Of course you do.”  I was duly impressed.  A four-fer.  Very good.  Tim would’ve been too easy.

It was then that my partner, Nick Nickleby, entered the crime scene.  Nick was the consummate “good cop.”  He never prodded the suspect.  He immediately grabbed Copperfield by the lapels and propelled him into the nearest wall.  “Sing weasel, or you’ll be looking at hard times.”

I grabbed Nick’s arm.  “He’s singing already.  Relax, would you?”

Copperfield massaged his head.  “The chimes.  I’m hearing chimes.”

Nick laughed.  “You idiot.  You hit the wall of the cuckoo clock section.  Of course you hear chimes.”

“Oh, yeah.”  Copperfield straightened.  “Silly me.”  He brushed the cuckoo bird from his mouth, removed the chain from around his neck, the weight from his left nostril, and spit out a feather.  “I was in the middle of my confession.”

“Ah HA,” Nick crowed.  “Then you confess.”

“He just said that.  We’re way past that, Nick.  We’ve already established intent and opportunity.  We’re working on motive.  Now, go sit down before I prod you to do so.”

Nick’s eyes grew like saucers.  He quickly stepped back.  “Don’t mind me.  Just pretend I’m not even here.  I’ll just listen while you question our mutual friend.”

I nodded approval.  An obscure reference, but well placed by a relative novice.  I turned back to Copperfield.  “You were saying?”

“Well, this store clerk, Lenore Dorrit, led me to believe she had some Fly-A-Saurs in stock.  I mean, just look at the window.  They’ve got ads for it hanging all over the place.  I’d been to twenty-seven stores before this and I was desperate, even though their advertised price is 1,200% above the manufacturer’s suggested retail price.”

“So, you entered the store with great expectations.”

“Precisely . . .  only to have those expectations dashed upon the rocks like some sixteenth-century galleon caught in a South Pacific cyclone.”

“You’re losing focus again.  We did Robert Louis Stevens last year.”

“Defoe.  That was a Daniel Defoe reference.”

I started to prod, but Copperfield hastily continued.  “Anyway, she led me on.  She enticed me upstairs in the worst way.”

“In the worst way?”

“Yeah.  I mistakenly got on the down escalator.  Took me half an hour to make the trip.”

“Wow.  You were desperate.  Then what happened?”

Copperfield pointed to the raven-haired beauty.  “See those coupons?”

I nodded.  “Rain checks.”

“That’s what she had.”  He broke down sobbing.  “I went through hell, and all she had to offer was a rain check.  Can you imagine little Boz playing with a rain check on Christmas morning?”

Suddenly there was a commotion at the doorway.  A little, gray-haired old man burst through the tape and brushed past Nick.  Actually, the little squirt picked Nick up by the lapels and smashed him into the nearest wall.

“Get out of my way,” the old man yelled.

Nick rubbed his eyes.  “I’m seeing stars.”

I shook my head in disgust.  “Of course you are, you idiot.  You’re in the autographed celebrity pictures section.”

“I thought I was having a religious experience.”

“Get out from under that Madonna poster.”  I turned to the intruder.  “And you are . . . ?”

“Barnaby Rudge.  I got over here from Bleak House as soon as I heard.”

I nodded my approval.  I was wondering how in the world I was going to get those obscure works into this.  “What’s your connection to all this?”

He pointed to the body.  “My automated sales clerk.  She’s been destroyed.  Who did this?”

My jaw clenched.  I shook.  My knees went weak.  I reached inside my coat and switched off the prod again.  Damned faulty switch.  Someone was going to pay for this.  “You mean to tell me that thing’s a robot?”

“Yep.  Made for me by Dombey and Son.”

This guy was good.  Really good.  I’d have been lost without him.  I walked over to the body.  “Yeah . . .  now it all makes sense.”

Nick rushed over.  “What?  What makes sense?”

I pointed to that irritating service smile locked on her lips, the one that just drives you nuts.  “She’s still smiling.  She looks like a damned Barbie doll.  I should have known.  And look at what she was ‘strangled’ with.  That roll of rain checks should’ve broken before she even started to turn pink.”  I turned back to Mr. Rudge.  “I’ve never seen one of these.”

“They’re brand new, different models for different occasions.  The ‘off/on’ switch is in the throat.  This one is the Carol model, specifically made for the holiday season.”

“Ah . . . .” I nodded knowingly.  “A Christmas Carol.  Tell me, why did you name her Lenore?”

“Why, that’s easy.  It’s the raven hair.”

I slapped my forehead.  “It’s so . . .  so . . .  obvious.”

I turned to Copperfield.  “You’re free to go, sir.  I won’t be prodding you for anymore answers tonight.”

“Thank God.”  He hurried off, lest I change my mind.

Nick clasped my shoulder.  “Come on, partner.  Let me buy you a drink.  Martini, right?”

“Yep.”

“Olive or twist?”

My eyes narrowed.  “Been there.  Done that.  Let’s go.”

Many long years ago I was a member of the El Paso Manuscript Club, in which I met a great group of outstanding people and fellow writers, many of whom remain close friends to this day.  Every December we held a holiday-themed writing contest with three categories—Articles, Stories, and Poems.  Back in 2000, I decided to tell the same “Christmas” tale two different ways—first as a poem with a distinctly Poe flavor, and then again as a story as told my Mickey Spillane.  Today and Friday I’ll be presenting both.

So, why Christmas-themed stories in July?  First, these stories are really about the humor rather than the season and, secondly, because it’s friggin’ hot out there.  So, to help you cool off, I present:

A Poe Christmas

Once upon a snowstorm dreary, through which I trudged all weak and weary,
Past many a quaint and curious number of advertisement lore
I saw the ad, above some wrapping; on the door I started tapping
At first it was a gentle tapping, tapping at the storefront door
I must gain entry to this store, as there was nothing then I wanted more

Searching for this and nothing more

The toy was here for which I search, leaving me in quite a lurch
Having waited far too long to shop for “The Super Fly-A-Saur”
Eagerly I watched the clerk, beckoning me not to shirk
I quickly entered, nearly berserk; “I must have it,” I said with a smirk
“Where, oh where, be that damned flying dinosaur?”

Quoth the clerk, “The second floor”

Up the escalator I ran, fighting against its downward span
I cursed its descending stairs as I glanced to the ascending flight before
Casually the clerk began her ascent, chuckling at my predicament
“I fear, sir, you shall be spent, before you reach the next department”
I ran, and ran, for far too long, fighting against this tiresome chore

Vowing “Not up the down escalator evermore”

I stopped, bent over double, breathing hard for all my trouble
Crying out with all my might, “Where is this cursed Fly-A-Saur?”
She smiled that stupid service smile, the one that sends me shaking
“Tis over here,” she said, “Right behind that great big door”
“Tis over there, I swear, or my name is not Lenore

“Tis what you seek and nothing more”

I pushed the double doors apart, what I saw gave me a start
“There’s nothing here, I’ve been tricked, where is this hellish dinosaur?”
She smirked again, mocking me, sending me quaking
I felt rage in the making, “Tis right there,” said this shrewish bore
“You see, we’re all out at this store; here’s your rain check, nothing more”

Thus I strangled the fair Lenore

This week I’ll be highlighting some of my writing and storytelling.  Let’s face it, I am an author, and this blog is my “business card” for those who might be interested in purchasing my novel Decisions, soon to be followed by three other novels—The Ian Drake Series.  So, this week we’re going to have some fun, and today’s humorous little story is the tale of Quasimodo‘s replacements—Bill & Bob . . . the Bellringer twins.

After Quasimodo’s unfortunate and rather sad ending, the Archbishop of Paris sent forth throughout the lands a proclamation advertising for a replacement bell ringer for his beloved Notre Dame Cathedral.  But the Archbishop was a busy man, so he handed off the task of conducting the job interviews to the least senior priest, Father Barclay “Bat” Belfry.

Unfortunately, the Archbishop was notoriously cheap, and the advertised salary did little to attract qualified candidates, so the requirement for an MA in bell ringing had to be waived for the sole applicant for the job, a man known only a Bob . . .  Bob the Bell Ringer.  But there was a problem far beyond Bob’s lack of a college degree in bell ringing.  He lacked something else even more important, at least in the eyes of Father Bat Belfry.  For, you see, Bob had neither hands nor arms, and how does one pull on the bell ropes without the prerequisite “tools” for the job?  To put it bluntly, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . just wasn’t handy enough for the task.  And it was precisely on this point that Father Bat initially declined to hire Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.

But Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . was both persistent and persuasive in getting Father Bat to test his bell ringing skills.  And so it was, with some trepidation, that Father Bat and Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer, made the trek to the belfry of Notre Dame for the audition.

Reaching his favorite architectural feature, the belfry, Father Bat pointed to the main bell and said, “Okay, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . here’s your chance.  Show me what you’ve got.”

So, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . stepped all the way back to the precipice, lowered his head, and took off at a full run for the bell.  He struck the bell full-force directly with his face, and the bell responded with what was perhaps the most pleasing sound Father Bat had ever heard.  It was positively beautiful, and far richer than that achieved through the bell’s clapper alone.

Unfortunately, Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . was so stunned by the impact that he stumbled backward and fell to his death in the streets below.

A group of Parisians started gathering around the body.  Two of the bystanders, who happend to go by the typical French names of Louis and Crabbe, were looking down at the body and just shaking their heads.  Suddenly, Crabbe pointed down at the body and said to Louis, “Hey!  Isn’t that . . . isn’t that Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer?”

Louis shrugged and said, “The name’s not familiar, but the face sure rings a bell.”

But wait.  That’s not all.

The next day Father Bat was surprised by the early morning visit of a man who looked just like the hapless Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  And just like Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . this young man also had no college degree, no hands, and no arms.

The stranger explained, “My name is Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer.  I’m Bob’s . . . Bob the Bell Ringer’s . . . twin brother, and I’m here to restore the family honor by taking up where my brother fell short.”

Father Bat replied, “Your brother Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer . . . did not fall short.  He fell all the way to the street.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer.

Regardless of what Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . meant, Father Bat was adamant that the horrors of the day before would not be repeated.  He was already in deep trouble with the Archbishop for being stupid enough to audition Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  There was no way he wanted to repeat that error.

But after hours of begging and pleading, Father Bat found himself leading the way back into the belfry with Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . in tow.  Reaching the top, Bill repeated his brother’s performance by backing up and launching himself full-force and full-face directly into the fabled main bell.  And once again the bell let loose with the most beautiful sound Father Bat had ever heard, even more beautiful than that from the day before.

Unfortunately, Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . proved no less susceptible to the rigors of ringing a bell with his face than had his brother Bob . . . Bob the Bell Ringer.  And so it was with horror that Father Bat watched as the stunned Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer . . . took the same path to glory as that of his brother, plunging into the streets below.

Once again, in the streets of Paris, and for the second day in a row, a crowd of Parisians gathered around yet another fallen bell ringer.  In the crowd, just as they were before, were the two friends, Crabbe and Louis.

And just like the day before, Crabbe pointed to the lifeless body and said to Louis, “Hey!  Isn’t that . . . isn’t that Bill . . . Bill the Bell Ringer?”

Louis rubbed his jaw thoughtfully before replying, “You know, I’m not really sure.  But I know one thing.”

“What’s that?” Crabbe asked

“This guy’s a dead ringer for the guy who was here yesterday.”