Insert Chassis Albuquerque: 2018

19 April 2018

Chapter 2 - The Piano Salesman, "Beaumont's Pianos"

Image result for piano sales chartEven though I was running late, I still made it to work on time.
That’s the difference between being responsible and not.
As with most people my age, youth had left me brain damaged. Mild brain injuries - very pleasant sounding medically - had left me somehow incapacitated. Work, any work, I'm dead against it. You see those successful people on the TV - well, imagine the work that must go into it…!
So I didn’t want to work.
But I had to.
And it was a routine I was still struggling to get to grips with.

7 April 2018

Chapter 1 - The Piano Salesman, "The Short Skirt "

Related imageDowntown Tokyo, New York: Even in hell you can find happiness.
If you know where to look.
And that’s where I was: In hell.
Actually, I was scratching my balls and looking out the window of my very small, one bedroom apartment - there are two guys out there in the street fighting over a parking space. A woman pulled up on her little scooter and parked it in the space and then walked across the road to our building.
The two guys don't know what to do, so are leaving. They climb back into their beat-up cars and drive away in opposite directions. I watched the woman. She was taking her helmet off. Thick, beautiful blond hair tumbled out of it around her shoulders. This looked like trouble. She was full of what looked like female corruption. Part human, part myth, I'd never known a woman like this to exist...!

4 April 2018

The Sundial Salesman - A Chapter

Related imageOne's groundswell can quickly degrade to a slump.
"Where to...?" the taxi driver asked.
As soon as I said: "Tokyo," he looked apprehensive.
"Tokyo? I didn't know people lived out there any more - well, that'll cost extra," he said and got on the phone to his insurance company. "Is this it, the John - is that Lennon or Lemon? Real classy," the taxi-driver reads, straining his eyes when we pulled up outside the building, because years ago already someone's craftily made the effort to clamber up to the sign above the door and bother to alter the wording so that it reads: "The John `Lemon'" building.
Almost immediately a guy carrying a woman off his shoulder appeared and asked the taxi driver for a light. And as if she knew the taxi-driver was watching her dead body, she raised her disheveled, broken blonde head from off her man’s back. The cab driver couldn't see a cigarette anyplace on either of them and, on second thoughts, quickly checked with me in the back seat, just to be sure the three of us weren't in it together for some kind of hijack fuck-fest.

17 March 2018

Detective Wolffe Gunstormer - "The Butterfly Effect"

Chapter .1.
Outside, the weather looked okay.
Although sunshine with occasional Nazism was probably a more accurate description. But, despite small patches of terrorism, life continued.
Wolffe got out the cab.
He removed his hat and coat.
“You gonna be long, Detective…?” the cab driver wondered.
“Depends,” Wolffe said.
The cab driver didn’t say anything more and looked out the front windscreen instead, down the road. There was a man walking toward them, eating an ice-cream.
Wolffe had been observing the family for a few days now. Their home life was clearly Catholic, probably abusive, but on Fridays they always had fish - so that was dependable. The father had a high-powered job in the city and drove an expensive, imported family saloon. The wife was very pretty and on the social ladder attending galas and events, spending money to help ensure they remained on the top societal rungs. And the boy, he was a mean little bastard. So in all the usual ways they were a decent upper class American family instilled with all the expected decent virtues of any very successful American family. However, given the number of scumbags that had walked into his office over the years - the hoods, the thugs, the murderers - Wolffe was familiar with scum, he’d a pretty good feel for them: This family were scum.
The boy’s friends and him had singled out a young Japanese girl at their school and the bullying - mostly the usual ill-informed, prejudiced bullshit - had recently become physical and the Japanese girl had been attacked. Held down by his friends, the boy had shaved one side of her head with a goddamn razor.
The school wouldn’t pursue the matter - the boy’s family made weighty donations and, you know, for the right price, people were willing to overlook anything. One of the teachers Wolffe had done work for (he’d investigated the suspicious death of a relative in the military, “suspicious” in that the relative had been thrown from a helicopter) had reached out to Wolffe for help.
As the family were pulling into the drive and the father emerged from the car, Wolffe struck, hard. He didn’t say much, just kept beating the father - an inherently genetic quality, Wolffe had found the best way to get to the bottom of anything was always by force.
Or bribery.
Using bribery and other irregular means you could always shortcut the whole system, so whichever’s easiest; but bribery saved on the knuckle-work.
Several neighbor's appeared out on their similarly precision-trimmed lawns to see what all the commotion was about but none intervened or ventured to their neighbor’s assistance. Reserved in the way smart money often is, they’d held back.
That was another thing about money, sometimes money felt some principled entitlement and other times, sensibly, it was more reserved.
Wolffe said to the boy, pointing at the father (who lay mostly unconscious and bleeding generally from the face on the clean, expansive, precision-trimmed lawn while the mother fretted and screamed over him): “The Japanese girl, Aiko, anything happens to her I come back and do that to your father again, so badly this time you won’t be able to recognize his face through all the blood and broken bones - understand…?”
The boy nodded.
The boy was crying, but now he knew the score.
It was a fancy neighborhood and police always tended to respond more swiftly to money but there was no sign of them.
The neighbor's were waiting for Wolffe to leave so they could call the police and pretend they weren’t able to identify the attacker.
Occasionally Wolffe helped people out, pro bono. In the interest of fairness, Wolffe had investigated the Japanese family, too, by the way: They’d no money, the mother and father worked two menial shift jobs each to pay the private school fees. They’d practically no life to speak of; they just wanted their little girl to have the best life.
“See you around, kid,” Wolffe said to the boy.
Wolffe walked calmly back to the waiting taxi, got in and the taxi driver quickly sped off to Amazon so he could pick up a copy of "The Butterfly Effect" - click here: The Butterfly Effect

17 January 2018

The Missing Woman.

Related imageBack at her place, this is where the real trouble must've started.
There was nothing in it - no mirrors, no tables or dresser, no drawers with makeup and hairbrushes or cupboards of outfits and suits, no photos on shelves, family and friends, no photos taken in another world from another time when all she'd known was still alive.
There were no clues as to her past, which would've helped me find her now, in the present.