Detective Mike Logan

TM 258: What words would you like to see added to/removed from common use?

2008-11-28T04:54:29Z

“It was amazing -” Tony Profaci began, but before he could finish, Mike cut him off.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Mike kicked back his scotch. “Ahhh-MAAHHH-zing – so you were amazed? You were stunned? You couldn’t move? Jesus, I’m sick of that word.”

“You get crankier every year, Logan,” said Profaci, “and that’s sayin’ something, ‘cause you started out as a serious asshole.”

“Whatever – and I’m sick a’ that, too.” Mike gestured to the bartender with his empty glass. “Whatever, whatever, whatever. People mean shut the fuck up, they should say shut the fuck up.”

Tony shook his head. Logan was usually pretty cranky around the holidays, but the guy was hitting an all-time-low. “Look,” he tried to change the subject, “You gonna invite Don Cragen to your house this year?”

“I dunno, but I’m sure as shit not gonna promise him an amazing time – or tell him it’ll be cool. Goddamn, I hate how everyone has to say things are “cool” – who the hell appointed your average asshole the arbiter of what’s cool or not? Like a Staten Island soccer mom would know “cool” if it bit her on the ass.”

“Mike, maybe you oughtta lay off the booze for tonight.” He’d seen Mike get mean drunk before, and this was exactly where the night was headed. “Come on, man, let me get you home.”

Surprisingly, Logan looked at his glass, emptied it, then threw down the cash for his tab. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. ‘s been a long day, that’s all.” He stood, a little unsteadily.

“It’s okay, Mike. It happens.”

“Yeah, yeah. “It happens,” “See ya,” “Time to go,” – those all still work for me.” Logan swayed a little as he put on his jacket, staring out into the winter night.

“It’ll be fine, Mike.”

“Yeah? You know what, Tony? That’s just another buncha words. I’m getting’ sick of all a’ ‘em. Sometimes, I’d just like to erase ‘em all. Think I’m gonna go to sleep, let it be quiet for a while.”

“You’ll see, Mike,” Tony said, even though he knew the cliché was a stale as they came; didn’t mean it wasn’t true, though. “Get some sleep – it’ll be better in the morning.”

TM 255 : BOO! How would you go about scaring someone?

2008-11-07T09:59:56Z

I'm great at scaring people. That's my assigned role - I'm the looming wall of doom that gets in your face when you've done the wrong thing. I can't be reasoned with, I can't be escaped, and I'm just not going to go away. I'm the end of the line.

I get to lay out the options for you - tell you how you can say it went down, maybe save yourself that way, maybe make it not so bad, but it's still bad. I tell you what the lawyers are going to do, what a jury's going to think, maybe what those animals down in holding or - god forbid - upstate are going to to when I throw you in with them. Maybe I bring up the needle; if you're in line for the hot shot out of this world, I'll make sure you know it.

The scariest thing about me, though, is that the entire time you're sweating out your sphincter-clenching panic, your mind scrabbling for hope like a trapped rat, the whole damn time from the moment you see my face and you know it's over - you know I love my job.

What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done while sober?

2008-10-11T02:28:07Z

Let’s get the standard things out of the way. I’ve tripped going down the subway stairs, going up the subway stairs, split my pants, dropped a hotdog on my tie, spit when I’ve talked, and of course, gotten shot down for using a bad come-on-line. There’ve been farts, sneezes, and I’ve shot every drink known to man out of my nose at one time or another (yeah. It’s a huge nose. It happens.) High school? I recall it as the days of whines and boners – my voice broke a LOT and even though I wasn’t happy to be there, it sure LOOKED that way a lot.

I’ve had sex to distract myself. When you look in the mirror the next day or even later that night? You bet it’s embarrassing. Even worse is when you ask for it, and they say “no.” Ouch. Here you thought your self-esteem was in the crapper already, and there it goes down the pipes and into the sewer. Oh, and let’s not forget last year, when I thought this cute young thing was giving me the eye – she thought I was a friend of her mom’s.

I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too – a lot of them. Most of them, when I try to control myself, I just end up blowing up later, and even if I turn it around, I think about how I almost fucked it up again and…you know what? You know what’s embarrassing? Talking to people about this. The things I regret, the things that really get to me aren’t fodder for some kind of party game. They’re not the sort of shit you mine for laughs – I’m not John Munch or Lennie Briscoe. So leave it be.

Oh, wait. I did use poison ivy as toilet paper the one and only time I ever went camping. That, I can laugh about – HEY! I didn’t say you could!

Mike Logan
Law & Order franchise
Word count: 391

Somebody's Smoking SOMETHING

2008-09-25T15:24:00Z

Your Personality Is Like Cocaine

You're dynamic, brilliant, and alluring to those who don't know you.
Hyper and full of energy, you're usually the last one to leave a party.
Sometimes your sharp mind gets the better of you... you're a bit paranoid!

At your best: You're confident, euphoric, and feel like you're on top of the world.

What people like about being around you: You're intense and overpowering.

What people dislike about being around you: You can be arrogant... and a bit of a jerk.

How addicted people get to you: You're incredibly addictive. And hanging around with you isn't cheap!

What Drug Is Your Personality Like?

TM #248 - Would you make a good spy?

2008-09-19T08:06:03Z

Look, I don't like feds, spooks or any other type of operative. That cloak and dagger business seems to attract the worst type of dickhead - even worse than the IAB, I swear.

Besides that, though, I'm no good at undercover work. I look like a cop, sound like a cop and move like a cop - some guys can do it, some can't, and I'm one of the ones who can't. I had one undercover assignment, and that did NOT go well, not at all.

I don't even try to do playacting anymore like some people on the job. The last time fell really flat - I lasted three lines before I gave up and pulled out the badge.

You know, that's the thing about this job. It's not just what I do, it's what I am. Somehow, even though I never wanted it, that's what ended up happening to me.

#244 "That's something I think is growing on me as I get older: happy endings." -- Alice Munro

2008-09-06T06:44:20Z

Mike Logan doesn't believe in happy endings. Ending? Yeah, he believes in those, but he's starting to think "happy" is a figment of other people's imaginations. He's seen too much on the job, too much in his own life.

Right now, though, as he stands in a hospital hallway, dialing an unfamiliar number, he's hoping that this can be an exception, that just this once, for a while, things can work out for the best. He's still hoping when he hangs up.

A little under an hour later, he hears a sound at the door and looks up to see an older woman. She stands there, tentatively, as if wondering if her daughter, the younger woman lying in the bed, will send her away, the same way she'd dismissed her months before. At first, her daughter looks away, jaw set, face tense. But then, her lip trembles, and as the first tear escapes, she holds out her hand for her mother's.

Mike knows it's time to leave. It's not really a happy ending, per se, and it's not really a new beginning, either. It's a moment of peace and reprieve, though, and a promise that things can continue, can get better, and that's happy enough.

TM #243 - If you could be in the Olympics ....

2008-08-09T04:01:27Z

Okay, so I've answered this question before - after all, it's one of the top ten barguments of all time. When I've got a beer in my hand, the answer's simple; the single luge. Seriously, it's just sledding! Yes, it's weird sledding, but the bobsled has too many guys crammed into a small space for me.
Curling is too much like bowling, and as for hockey, hey, I like boxing as much as the next guy, but add skates and sticks and it gets too gladiatorial.
Skiing? Yeah, strap two boards onto my feet and fall down a hill while dodging trees? NO THANKS. I was told the secret was to go downhill very fast, and if something got in your way, move, but fuck that noise.
I am far too straight to ice-skate.

Anyhow, the single-man luge seems like it'd be a plus to be a big guy, and possibly drunk, too. I've done stupider stunts while plastered- that sled looks like it takes bumps a lot better than your average trashcan lid. So, yeah, luge it is, until the Summer Olympics allows either the 500 yard perp-chase, the skel-drop, or a competitive cannonball event.

Anyhow, I don't need the Olympics - I've got a gold medal in holding this barstool down. Yeah, We Are The Champions, my friends.

You Say It's Your Birthday (TM Prompt 237)

2008-07-12T00:57:05Z

I hate my birthday. I know that's not original, but that's how it is. I usually go out, have a few drinks, have a few more, then...well, you see how that goes.

I think the worst one might have been my thirteenth. Yeah. Not thirty, thirty-five, forty or even this last one. Because every one of those, at least, were spent where I wanted to go, when,and how, even it was semi-miserable.

My thirteenth?
I went to Grand Central Station, and I sat there. Hours went by, the crowds came and went, and I sat there. I had a duffel bag with some clothes, all the cash I had in the world, and one of the blunt kitchen knives I'd boosted just in case. I stared at the departure boards until I realized I wasn't going to do it; I didn't have anywhere to go, and I couldn't manage to go anyway.

I went back to the subway and rode that, back and forth, through the boroughs almost all night. It was the same loop I was stuck in, out, around, and back to where I started.

It was nearly light again when I let myself back into the house. I wasn't worried about waking up my parents - I half-expected them to be out of their minds, my mother livid about me worrying her, my dad enraged at me for the same reason. If I'd gone, she'd have had one more nail for her cross, and that was one thing that made me glad I'd come back.

But instead of walking into the Passion Play of Lily Logan, I opened the door into darkness. Nothing. Nobody. Some snores from their bedroom and a few empty bottles meant business as usual at our house. They hadn't even noticed I was gone. Happy freaking birthday.

If I could celebrate my birthday doing anything, anything at all? I'd go back to that day, back to Grand Central and tell that kid, "Run. It doesn't matter where or for how long, as long as you're gone. Just go. Do that one thing for yourself." Because that's the one thing it took me too long to figure out - now, when I pick up that first glass of scotch on that particular day, it's because I'm alone, where I wanted to be.

TM Prompt 235: Show Us Where You Live

2008-06-22T10:01:35Z

I moved to Manhattan when I was seventeen. Back then – nevermind what year it was, okay? – the Village wasn’t nice, safe clean and all full of chain stores. The building I ended up in was full of junkies, a fair amount of what we called “sexual deviants” when we were feeling charitable, struggling artistes, a range of kids trying to choose between being any or all of those, and other social misfits of persuasions too numerous to list. Now? If it hadn’t gone co-op right at the moment I was able to sell my parent’s house, I wouldn’t be able to afford my wannabe walkup (the elevators in this place are and always have been mainly for show – they only work on federal holidays on alternate years.)

Back then, the big excitement was you might see Dee Dee Ramone scoring junk somewhere in the back of a club. Now? You can’t spit without seeing a “somebody” around here; it’s gentrification gone nuts. With the a-b-c and d- listers trying to maintain their lifestyles comes a raft of upscale joints where they can buy the food, clothes and accessories with the brand names they crave, driving up the price of real estate rental, making it hard for the thrift shops, porn stores and greasy spoons we no-listers frequent to stay open.

Sometimes, though, especially later at night, when the tourists clear out, and the nice upper-upper-middle class people clear out, the bones of the neighborhood show. It’s still New York, it’s still the Village, it’s still gritty, gross and real. It’s still home.

Have You Ever or Are You Now? (RP with Detective_Bear)

2008-06-20T18:52:36Z

Mike leaned next to the snack machines, staring off into the Major Case squad room as he drank his morning coffee. Funny how even Major Case NYPD coffee tastes like crap, he thought. Ah, the NYPD special blend.

Goren was back. There he was, at his desk, a little grayer, a little chunkier, and looking stunned. More stunned than usual, actually. Not that Mike knew how the Great Genius of One Police Plaza normally composed himself - he rolled his eyes involuntarily - but the big guy looked wrecked.

Listening to a dull burr of conversation behind him, Mike wondered whether the last few months had sunk Goren. He knew what the bottom looked like - been there a few times himself, and you never got used to that.

Suddenly, the words "rat" and a few unpleasant laughs broke through his thoughts. He turned to the small knot of guys, some of them, he realized with shock, the same ones who'd been so sympathetic to him when he'd shot that poor kid.

For a second, his mouth just hung slightly open, then he narrowed his eyes. The conversation died out under his glare, the other detectives realizing Mike wasn't in on the joke. "Hey, Logan," someone began weakly, before Mike turned and lumbered back to his own desk.

Royally pissed, he started his computer, even glaring at his own reflection. He wasn't sure he was going to make it the rest of the day without taking a swing at someone. Now he felt like shit, too.

He hunched forward, calling out to the figure a few desks away. "Goren. Hey - "

Words of Wisdom

2008-06-12T06:45:17Z

For some reason, I thought of this today:
"Apes don't read Nietzsche."
"Yes they do, Otto, they just don't understand it.

later

"Let me correct you on a few things; Aristotle was not Belgian! The central message of Buddhism is not "Every man for himself!" And the London Underground is not a political movement! Those are all mistakes. I looked them up."
- A Fish Called Wanda

I think the job is getting to me.

detmike_logan @ 2008-05-22T10:08:00

2008-05-22T14:09:47Z

There's something about Danny Ross that reminds me of the guy who falls asleep first at a party - well, let's face it, if you're getting someone drunk, you're probably drunk yourself, and some things SEEM like a funny prank at the time.... I'm fairly sure I can still see the sharpie goatees he's had put on his face in the past. If I got him drunk, I might be tempted to fix the hair issue, too, you know, cover up the gray with shocking pink or something like that. I'm fairly sure I'd have to cross him off the list for that reason alone.

Other than that? Er, squadmates? No. Partner? Yeah, she's a little testy when she's had a few...oh, come on, there must be someone!

I'm trying to think, but the sad fact is, I'm a little hungover. In fact, I really think that the honest answer to that question right now is ME. A little hair of the dog would really do the trick right now. If I got me drunk, it would fix my headache, improve my singing voice, and enable some honest conversation with people I'm a little annoyed with, or a lot annoyed with, or just met, that sort of thing. In fact, that's who I'm gonna go with - pass the bottle and clear the way.

Word Count: 224

TM 224 – Mad

2008-04-10T08:23:52Z

I don’t pretend things don’t get me mad. That’s just pointless now; I’ve played off the rage-aholic cop thing since before they coined the phrase. With murders and violent crimes, someone has to be angry. I know enough to be clear and dispassionate when I’m dealing with the facts, sure, but when I face off against suspects, I don’t like pretending I understand. I don’t.

I understand the impulse, don’t get me wrong. I’ve come so close to it myself, I could taste it. But there’re the ones who do it in cold blood, who do what they do out of selfishness, and that – that’s not something I’m going to bother hiding my contempt for.

That’s another reason why I’m not good at playacting to get information. When I get stonewalled, I get pissed, and I don’t care who knows it. I want what I need to catch my doer, and if you’re not helping, you’re in my way, so to hell with you.

That brings me to the prosecutors, who take what we give them, drop the ball, and then come back to us, crying about the case. I’m not going to even start on defense attorneys. I think a law degree comes with a common-sense-ectomy.

You put that all together, add the Brass, whose main occupation seems to be finding ways to make the situation worse, and who wouldn’t be pissed? Christ, I need some antacids even thinking about it. Mad? Me? If I wasn’t mad, I’d be crazy, and at least I’m not nuts – yet.

TBS 2.8 3G "Sarcasm"

2008-04-10T08:04:42Z

Sometimes, I think my partner – well, my latest in the string of them – doesn’t know what to make of me. It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. Major Case is made up of cops from different departments; Vice, Narco, White Collar – we get all kinds of cases, so I suppose it makes sense to have all kinds of cops. Still, being the murder cop in the room has its drawbacks. I’m not exactly cuddly, or friendly, or even approachable, according to her.

It’s probably my fault. I could tell when we met that she was a little put off that I didn’t want to heart-to-heart with her. I don’t like change, even though I’ve gone through my share of it. Old friend of mine, (old boss, too) once said, “It’s not always love at first sight with you,” and that was back when I was just on homicide, dealing with guys who knew the routine. One look at her face that afternoon, and I knew that didn’t sit too well with her. I didn’t care. Either we were gonna gel, or we weren’t, and to hell with it.

The problem is, the kid wants a father figure, and that’s not me. Selfish? Maybe. But what happens if I do that, and then something happens? I get clipped, I retire on my feet or in a box, and she’s stuck with worse than losing a partner. I know how that is. When Phil Cerreta told me he was done, hot on the heels of losing Max, that was rough. I knew in my head that it made sense, that his wife was scared after his close call, but in my gut? I felt sucker-punched. Do I want to get that attached again, or let someone else attach to me? Never.

So I keep putting her off, not inviting her in, but she keeps it up, because she’s eager to please. And despite myself, I like her. She may not be a murder cop by background, but she’s getting as pushy and cynical as one. I can see it in the captain’s eyes every time she pushes the envelope, and hear it in every smartass comment she throws my way. When she made a crack about my “hooker intuition,” I figured I’d keep her.

I still call her my driver, once in a while, just to keep her on her toes. But that’s just sarcasm as a secret language between two people – she’s in on the joke now.

But I Would Not Be Convicted By a Jury of My Peers

2008-04-01T08:16:42Z

I still haven't gotten used to the transfer, if I'm being honest. Back in the day, we had the peeling paint, the cage where we could see it, and were working with antiques. They still are, back at the two-seven, but here I am, in this techno-hell.

My partner and Simmons keep trying to get me acclimated to this stuff, but I'm just not adaptable, I guess.(Still Crazy, After All These Years)

Hard at Work? No, Hardly Working

2008-03-17T05:33:48Z

So, an old drinking buddy of mine showed me a website...geez, these things are dumb. First, it makes me take this test
then, it calls me a "Hummingbirdwhacker Slutmonkey,"and "緑川大輝" - Midorikawa Taiki (translated to: Green River Large Radiance) - like I'm some bad chopsocky movie.

For a kicker, it added this assessment of me:

What you people see in this junk is beyond me. But knock yourselves out - go ahead and vote. (And you're correct if you think I had to post this because I lost a bet.)

What kind of looter am I? You decide!

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!

Recipe for disaster (TBS 2.6)

2008-03-12T08:13:15Z

Basic ingredients: You. Cash. A Bar.

Plop yourself down at a stool. Proceed to order booze. When it arrives, drink it. Repeat until ceiling moves, you fall off bar stool, or you are 86'd by the bartender. Pass a Gray's Papaya, buy three hot dogs. If you keep them down, proceed to next bar and repeat. If you puke up the hot dogs, walk three blocks and try again. Continue until unconsciousness or morning.

If you're feeling adventurous, try one of these:

Snakebite
One half-pintglass hard cider
One half pint-glass lager
Take one good hard drink, then top off with vodka.

Ira Cocktail

1 oz Bailey's® Irish cream
1 1/2 oz Irish whiskey

Add ingredients to ice-filled old-fashioned glass. Stir. To make it a Carbomb, make it shot-sized instead, then drop it into a pint of lager and drink.

The next day, make sure you have dry toast, water and aspirin on hand - as a cautionary note, remember that chili-fries may be good going down with it, but are not quite the same on the way back up.

Oh, and for the food-minded, a decent Bailey's shake is one shot per two scoops of ice cream.

Lies, Justice, Ice and Chaser

2008-03-12T07:41:57Z

My mother believed the Church was the answer to everything. It could solve your problems, save your soul, and repair your life – unless you wouldn’t let it. If you were a sinner, if you didn’t repent, then to hell with you in every sense of the phrase. That’s what she said, anyway, but unless there’s a patron saint at the bottom of a bottle, she never found the one true savior she was looking for. Not that anybody who really knew her thought she wanted to be saved. Every week, she’d go in and confess – I have no fucking idea what she thought it accomplished, because she wasn’t sorry for a damn thing she did, not then, not ever. She could cry with the best of them, sob out apologies, but by the first time I stepped in to mumble a lie to a priest about sins I didn’t repent, I knew exactly how much that crap was worth.

As for beating the fear of God into me, that didn’t work either. I have no idea why – trust me, I didn’t like bouncing off the walls or meeting the back of her hand. Hell, I think she started my hair thinning, the way she used to haul me up by the roots of it. Maybe she was right, and the devil had hold of me, but I doubt it. That came later, thanks to her.

When she was really blasted, she’d cry. She’d say I wanted her dead, that I hated her, my own mother. I think I was supposed to react like my dad did – he’d break down, even if he’d just given her the backhand, sobbing like she’d cut his heart out, even if she’d been clawing at his eyes and damning him seconds before. Me? The taste of blood in my mouth made it impossible for me to do much more than mumble a few pathetic denials, and if she hadn’t been blind drunk on booze and self pity, she’d have heard the hate under them. I know she did, somehow, because the next time she was into a bottle, at the start of another round, I’d see it in the glint of her eyes, right before she took the first swing.

She was right; I wanted to kill her. I really did. I never took the swing, never looked for my dad’s gun – turns out he had a sense of self-preservation; it stayed safe in the station – I even bought her her precious fucking booze on demand, knowing what she’d be like after a few. Turns out the one thing I did for her ended up killing her – and when she laid in that hospital bed, her liver rotted out, we both knew it. Am I sorry? She used to say if there was any justice in the world, she wouldn't be stuck with us - I guess her God finally heard her. When I said she tore my dad's heart out? That's what finally did him, years after she went. I'd laugh, but it's not even close to funny, especially when I've had a few, and it tastes more bitter than usual. Justice doesn't add to the flavor, and there sure isn't any mercy in the bottom of the glass; not for her, not for him, not for me.

Seduction

2008-02-04T09:33:35Z

Asking me about seduction? Look, that’s a loaded question – it’s all semantics. I’ve put the moves on plenty of women, and I’ve had the moves put on me, too. I remember the first time THAT happened, and no, I sure as hell don’t want to talk about it. I can bottle it up for another 38 years, thanks, and a few hang-ups and the occasional nightmare works for me.

That aside, seduction? It’s a game, and it’s one you play on yourself, because it’s you that lets it happen. You can always remember the time you fell the hardest, can’t you?

I have a picture of her and me. I think it’s actually hard to tell who’s fooling who. I know what was there, what we took from each other though. It’s a bright, sunny day, and that’s the last time I looked like that, the last time I leaned against someone with that easy smile on my face, my eyes closed, totally relaxed. It’s the last time I let someone hold me, prop me up, it was goodbye to the last chance to trust someone.

I got her good, too. That’s the last time she’d hold her hand that steady, be so sure, stare so straight. If she cut me, it was the last time she was able to be sure about holding a knife, so to speak. Sure, she’d be confident, that was her front, but she and I both knew it was a new, brittle version of that girl who couldn’t miss.

I think we both seduced ourselves with the idea that we could be young forever, that we could float along and be good enough, that I could trust, that she could be sure, and that would work. We were wrong, we were blind, we’d been tricked by our own hopes, and in the end, we walked away with nothing but what we’d cut out of each other and pictures that show more than we wanted them to.

Old Acquaintances

2008-02-04T07:45:52Z

I know why people don’t like the holidays, at least in this city. It’s grey, it’s shitty, and if you’re alone, damn, it’s even colder than it looks. That’s why I usually try to work; after all,crime goes up when people get distressed, but even holiday shifts end, and sooner or later, they send me home, or wherever else I choose to go.

Cop bars suck more – the depressed, the drunks and the divorced congregate to cry in their beer and the tinsel does nothing for the crappy atmosphere except make a weird glare on the pinball machine.

“Mike,” a voice made me tilt out my game. The tinsel gave Don’s bald dome a weird glare, too. “Good to see you around.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while. Your phone die?” I scanned the bar to see if any of his squad were there. Most of them gave me the serious creeps – okay, most of them could be considered serious creeps. Nope, just him, sighing and looking ancient.

“It’s been crazy. The brass, the job. Your Major Case phone got disconnected, too?” I shook my head. “Or are you just avoiding me because I’m the captain of the “sensitive squad?”"

That hurt. Maybe I did throw some insults like that around, but dammit, he had his pick of assignments, and he had to go somewhere he couldn't take me – or more precisely, where he knew I’d never follow him.

“I’ve got…stuff.” I looked back at the pool table. Maybe I could distract him.

“You always did. Mike…”

“Don.” If this was roll-call, I could play, too. I could tell when he gave up.

“I called Marie – guess you’re not going by this year.”

I never knew he knew. “I…yeah. She moved upstate this summer. I guess she told you that, too.” He just nodded.

“Elaine tells me that you managed to get another lasagna out of her, though.”

“What the hell – are you following me?” This was getting creepy.

“No, Mike. Since Marge died, I’m in the same boat as you – well, maybe not with the little-boy-lost act - but still, people feel the need to call up and see if I’m eating at this time of year.” Ah, geez. I’d forgotten. “And with it, I get a healthy dose of gossip. Apparently, you don’t change.”

“Yeah, well, apparently, neither do you. Quit riding my butt.” This time, I motioned towards the pool table to include him. “Anyway, there’s one place I didn’t go. Lennie Briscoe specifically told me to stay away from any women he knew.”

Finally, Don cracked a smile, “Yeah, but he didn’t tell me that, or John Munch.”

“Oh, geez, that’s gross. Stop there. Hey, you know I saw Tony and Shirley? That kid’s getting BIG. Got Tony’s gut, too…”

As we set up the game, it seemed a little less cold and grey (well, not counting Don’s fringe, which is as grey as it gets) and it wasn’t so much that we’d lost some guys as much as they’d passed through on the way, if it makes any sense. Eh, holidays. There’s a reason that song says to drink, right?

Four

2007-12-28T09:43:51Z

Four
One: Sight Out of Context

She didn’t belong in my neighborhood. Wait – that wasn’t fair. I was drunk, and I’d stumbled past my usual stops, into a bodega on the far end of the Village, so maybe I was in her neighborhood. It didn’t matter did it? She was there, where I didn’t expect her.

I’d seen her before in controlled circumstances – just around, at work, in the elevator, on a scene, around. Here, though, it was different. She looked different. As I leaned on the shelves full of overpriced booze, clutching the bottle I planned to take home, I watched her shop and got angry. It wasn’t fair, was it? That crappy little selection of meals-in-a-can she was going to heat up, the bits and pieces she was assembling to take home to eat by herself, it told me that she was going home in the dark like me, down a sidewalk full of other people who didn’t give a shit, up the stairs to nothing but a tv or maybe a magazine, only to pass out and start it all over again tomorrow. I knew that story from living it.
That was it, really, the unfairness of it, that made me speak up. “Buy you a drink?” I asked, waving the bottle. It startled her for a moment, and I could see that flash of annoyance before she recognized me, and even a moment after. Then she looked down at the basket full of lonely, hesitated and looked back, “Sure.” When I offered to make it a dinner, she threw in a smile.
It actually felt like we weren’t faking anything in the cramped little Chinese place. If you were passing by, you might have mistaken it for a regular date, what with talking and laughing, and only the occasional awkward moment. It wasn’t, though – between her and me, there was something off, which might have explained why we both took it for granted we were going back to my place and the whole premise of watching a movie was a lie. We never even turned on the television.

Two: Touch in the Dark

I was almost afraid to ask why she was doing this. I knew why I was – I’d been at it long enough to know my damage, and even if I hadn’t, I’d had my faults shrieked out at me by women on their way out the door plenty of times. Mr. Fun-for-now, that’s me, with a need to please until I want you to leave. Her? She needed…something, and I was worried it was just what I could give her. I didn’t want to be the lit cigarette, the point of the knife, the scarring edge pressed hard to the flesh, but I did, oh, I did. I asked all the right questions, and I made believe I was in control, then we played out the same old story on my sheets, full of some kind of desire to feel something, anything, to be needed, to fill some nameless missing thing in the heart of us. Well, that, and get off, which was also the goal.
Later that night, when I was sleeping next to her, I thought maybe I turned to her again, out of some kind of late-night desperation to cling to someone, pretending I had that right. Maybe it was a dream, maybe not, but if it was, in the dream, she let me, and this time, it was like we knew each other, like we were keeping the dark and the cold away.

Three: Sounds Like Goodbye

She was trying to be quiet about leaving, but it didn’t work. I heard the sound of her clothes, and the soft Spanish curse when she fumbled with her shoe. “If you wait,” I mumbled, “I’ll get you some coffee.” She couldn’t look me in the eyes at first, until I told her it was okay. How could I not? I’ve snuck out of enough places to know it’s not personal most of the time. This time wasn’t, she said, and it was just that she had somewhere to go, and this was good, we should do it again, and she’d call me, or I’d call her.
I agreed to all of that; no sense making it more awkward than I had to. Besides, I really wanted to see her again, and that meant that shutting my mouth and making the coffee was really my best bet. I look like shit in the mornings, anyway.
She drank her coffee, kissed me on the cheek and shut the door really softly, so softly I almost didn’t realize she was gone for a second.

Four: Taste – Bitter, Black and Done

I finshed my coffee alone on the couch while I looked out the window. I really like New York, but the gray sky was starting to get to me this year, making me think my age was affecting me at last. Things were starting to taste funny, too – yesterday, the coffee was fine.

TM Prompt 207 - Control

2007-12-06T07:05:27Z

Megan stood at the break room sink, quickly washing out the communal coffee pot. She looked at the purple Princess mug, which was perched on the edge of the sink. Narrowing her eyes, she 'accidentally' elbowed the mug. She smirked as the mug crashed to the ground, breaking into pieces. Aloud, her voice sarcastic, she said, "Ooops."

She hadn't seen Mike Logan in the doorway, but his voice alerted her to his presence. "Oops," he echoed, just as sarcastically.

Megan froze, then turned slowly, the smirk still frozen on her face. "You didn't see that."

"I saw an accident," he shrugged. "Now, it looked an awful lot like one of those on-purpose accidents, but you know how my memory gets when I'm all doped up on coffee and donuts."
His gaze wandered meaningfully to the empty donut box by the coffeemaker. He'd gotten in late this morning, apparently, and Goren and Ross had probably eaten the prime pastries.

"Yeah," Megan said. "I know." She grabbed the dustpan and started sweeping up the fragmented cup. "Princess my ass," she muttered as she dumped the mug in the trash.

"Tsk, tsk, Wheeler. You've really gotta control that temper of yours, or else I'm gonna gain some serious weight with all the free food I’ll extort out of you.. Hey, did you forget how I like my coffee?" Mike grinned and ducked as Wheeler tossed a roll of paper towels at his head.
"That's all you got?" he laughed.

She raised her brows. "You wanna take this outside?"
Logan just leaned against the doorframe, and watched her. "Do you want me to forget what I saw or not?"
"Who's gonna believe you over me?" she asked, challenging, but not in a serious manner.
He was unphased. "Me. I have no motive to lie - I don't care about who calls herself a pretty pretty princess."
"Yeah but you don't get along with her," Wheeler said.

With a shrug, he answered, "I fake it really well."
"I'll bet." Megan's voice was dry.
"Oh, come on," he snorted. "You never fake it, Wheeler?
Megan smirked. "You'll never know."
"Another thing I can be grateful for," he gave the donut box another look. "And go to the good place, willya? If you hurry, you could even make the Donut Factory."
"Don't push it," Megan said.
"Sorry, Wheeler. In this case, the line between cop and criminal has become blurred."

"Excuse me?" She said, "Are you telling me that getting rid of that piece of crap mug was a crime?"
"You're acting guilty."
"No I'm not," Wheeler glared.
"And now, I have an edge." He grinned wider than he had in a long time. "Give it up, Wheeler. I'm back in control."

"You--" She jabbed her finger in his direction, her cheeks flushing slightly.
“Yep, me," Logan was still smiling, despite Megan’s ferocious look. “Did I say “welcome back” yet?"

Two for One on a once-only deal

2007-11-27T05:10:29Z

Staring at my inbox, I realized that this had all gotten out of hand. But then again, what kind of jerk plays with other people's stuff and then doesn't let them use his.
I decided just to post both of those chain-letter things at once. If I win the lottery, though, I thought, as I hit "enter" I'm keeping it all. AND I'm going on that vacation.

So here, you can do BOTH! Rejoice! Celebrate! Thrill! Change your pants when you're done!

First -
Comment and:
1. I'll respond with something random about you
2. I'll challenge you to try something
3. I'll pick a color that I associate with you
4. I'll tell you something I like about you
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of
7. I'll ask you something I've always wanted to ask you

THEN -

1. Ask me three questions you want to know the truth to.
2. I will pick two of them to answer.
3. One I will tell the truth about.
4. One I will lie about.
5. The last you have to try to answer for me.

ROTM Prompts 1.82.1E and 1.83.1C

2007-11-17T09:36:26Z

Sit back, folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride!

The note on my door ended with a quote from a song:

"Now I've seen, tonight, how could I waste my time?
and I'll be on my way, and I won't be back
Because I've seen, tonight, what I've been warned about
You're just a boy, not a man, and I'm not coming back"

I’d been dumped via crappy song lyric? Holy shit. I thought that went out in the eighties. Hell, the last time I dumped someone by mix tape was…well, I don’t even think that people dumping people via mp3 were born yet, let’s put it that way.

The sad part is, I’d been considerate and dodged her phone calls for weeks. We were already broken up, as far as I was concerned. We didn’t have to have the talk – goddamn, I hate the talk – or the little confrontation – I hate that worse. But no, she had to get in the last word, even on paper, and punctuate it with this melodramatic crap, complete with – oh hell, she stole my cd.

Scanning the note again, I saw it was true, and she’d even noted that I’d miss the disc more than her. I don’t agree that it was pathetic, by the way. After I cleaned out my tequila, I wouldn’t miss either of them tonight, anyhow.

Glasses? I don’t need no steenkin’ glasses, I thought. What I need is to make a run to the liquor store. It was the last of my booze, so it was either go out or drink to the worm – which gave me another reason not to miss her, because “spineless worm” is just lazy writing.

I actually don’t like tequila, especially not straight, but it was leftover from a party or something, and I was fresh out of mixers. Luckily, I have a secret strategy for cases like these; I upended the bottle and took the longest, fastest drink I could. It tasted like ass, which I expected, so I drank another one, hoping to get my mind as far away from my skull as I could. I chased that shot of hell down with another, not stopping until I realized I was almost drowning and swallowed, coughing and gagging more out of hope that I could puke the sense of taste back into my mouth. No go, but I did start to feel a pleasant buzz in my head, and a stupid grin forming on my face, which lasted until I looked at my feet and realized they were coming up to meet me – fast.

later...

I enjoyed my ride on the carpet, but an unpleasant thought managed to swim up through the tequila. If I didn’t pull it together and get down to the bodega for beer, I was going to lose my buzz. Unacceptable. I was going to handle this like a man; an Irish man, with booze, poetry and self-pity, possibly with some loud singing for effect.

It made sense at the time.

I would like to point out to the jerks in my neighborhood that a classical education is never wasted. Also, Keats was clearly under the impression that Byron was Irish when he said: “how sweetly sad thy melody!/Attuning still the soul to tenderness, /As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, /Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.” – and it’s not my damn fault the mutts around here bark when they hear a fine sad song.

“O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow….”
I was even quoting that when the goddamn yuppies that cruise the village these days got a uniform to tug on my sleeve. Imagine – calling art a disturbance!

“Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.”
Yeah, well, not in my local bodega if you want to get sold to. No singing or no beer, apparently. I had no choice but to still the waters of poetry to get the water of life – and I really thought about leaving some other water on his alley wall, let me tell you! I can’t stand a guy with no poetry in his damn soul, but then I got a 5% heartbreak discount, so we were good. The muse speaks to us all in different ways.

"The worst of madmen is a saint run mad"

2007-11-13T08:22:38Z

You know which cases make me cold inside? The ones with the self-righteous doers. The ones who tell us they did it for someone else - maybe for the good of everyone, maybe for the good of just one person. Sure, they say they did it for whoever they choose to fill in the blanks, but they did it for themselves, just like any other criminal who steps over the line.

They put themselves up as the guardians of the good, and what they really want is what? Love, money, power, respect, the same thing as almost all these other people who fell from grace and dragged others screaming down with them.

It's the way they wrap the righteousness around themselves as they go down that pisses me off. The others, they cry, they try to cling to what they stole, or they relent, or they spit at the people who wounded them. Not the saints, not the martyrs...not the righteous, so damn them just the same.