Thursday, November 30, 2006

The Fat Man Cometh

This entry of bad writing frightens me. I think it reads like some bizarre French existential comedy that no one would pay to go see, unless their first name was Raul and they didn’t know the difference between a croissant and a bagel. See?
Anyway...look below this posting for links to other people who sent in some BAD ASSIGNMENTS

THE FAT MAN COMETH


The holidays were no fun for someone with holes in his pockets. The holes in his gut and stomach didn’t help either. The fat man lay there, draining an assortment of bodily fluids into the gutter.

“Another Santa?” asked Detective Juarez, jaw rugged enough for three cops and a gay cowboy.

“Guess someone rang his Kringle Bell,” Sgt. Macino’s attempt at flippancy fell as flat as roadkill.

“This could spell trouble,” said Juarez.

“My wife left me today,” said Macino. The two men stared at one another.

“Okay.”

Juarez took a cab back to the office, a bad and sat down at a desk messy enough to blind a mole. He reached over and sipped from a cup of frigid joe, following that with a bite from an old doughnut someone had left there as a tithe.

The chief, a tallish man with a short temper came by.

“I heard you got Santa Number Five.”

“Gut shot in the stomach,” said Juarez. “If the coroner gives me what I want, we’ll find the bullet’s trajectory indicates that the gun was fired up at a forty-five degree angle.”

“So the shooter was short.”

“He was a short shooter shamefully pumping shells to turn a shirt shades of maroon.”

“Simply put?”

“Elf.”

Juarez thought about his childhood and all the good times he didn’t remember because.

“An elf, you say?” said the Chief.

“Either that or not.”

“Motivation?”

“Take your pick. Disgruntled employee. Mother complex. Too much caffeine.”

“Elves. I hate them.”

“Did you hear Macino’s wife left him?”

Juarez headed downtown to reclaim his car, stopping first to see a dame. Her name was Bettie, and she was. He smiled and patted the side of her face, but missed and got something else instead.

“You heard Macino’s wife left him?” she asked.

“That’s what I heard.”

“Go figure. Something like that.”

“We found another Santa today.”

“That five?”

”Yep.”

Talking to Bettie always gave him a sense of clarity. He slipped her a bill and went to find the car. He found Mancino instead.

“Why’d you do it, Mancino?”

The cop looked up at him. A shy expression turned into a sly one, which shifted into a confused one, and then didn’t.

“How’d you know?”

“Bettie. Name mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it.”

“She knew about your wife.”

“She always did. What was my downfall.”

“Hiring the midget to off the fat man. I had to ask myself why was someone trying to nix all the Santas in town. That’s when it occurred to me. They obviously couldn’t see Kringle’s face to tell which santa to plug so they planned on killing all the Nicks. Next time you wanna kill someone, hire someone your own size.”

“Smart, real smart.”

"Yeah."

11 comments:

SQT said...

OMG! I'm cracking up! That's so bad it's hilarious.

Clearly you have seen enough bad writing to master the art. That's fantastic.

miller580 said...

I could barely finish this. I hated it. But I was supposed to right?

"“Guess someone rang his Kringle Bell,” Sgt. Macino’s attempt at flippancy fell as flat as roadkill."

Stop please, don't go any further than this.

lee said...

"draining an assortment of bodily fluids" -NICE, especially just before going to eat lunch ;).

Susan Miller said...

Bad, bad, bad. I can just imagine you grinning the whole time you were writing it!

Charles Gramlich said...

My mind reels like a broken fishing rod. I feel the sickly whispering touch of death's sagging knockers on my hairy shoulders. What evil verbiage is this? How can I live with such writing in the world? I must end it now! End it now! But alas my delete key is non-functional.

Avery DeBow said...

I felt like I was in some abstract art gallery; the more I stared, the less sense it made. And still I found my appreciation for it growing.

It's so awful, it's perfect.

Jon said...

I've read worse. I've written worse. How's that for damning with faint praise?
Hell, I thought it was funny! I loved it!

Stewart Sternberg said...

Thank you all..I couldn't have been this bad without your help and support. Avery, welcome back.

Pythia3 said...

Peeeeyewww! That was bad, Stewart! I mean bad enough not to be mediocre!

It reminded me of a warped Dragnet episode.

HaHaHa.

Pythia3 said...

Stewart, you already know you have tagged! Go to my blog for instructions.

Vwriter said...

Bravo.

This is some of your best work, Stewart. It is the apex of what Jean-Paul Satre was striving for in his much misunderstood work "Nausea."

While cleaning the inside of my vents this morning, dressed safely in a Tyvek suit and breathing from a Self Contained Breathing Apparatus, I was struck by a bolt of epiphanous lightening and realized that "The Fat Man Cometh" was indeed who Rosencrantz and Guilderstein were waiting for in Beckett's play. It was not Godot after all. It was the Fat Man.

Never mind O'Neill. He was, after all, a doubtful weather reporter and a rather a poor hand at plays.