It’s not an orgasm until the fat lady sings.
An idea. A pornographic sports mystery series. Satyrical. Second person. For title, use that name Rob Strasser gave him: HOSEMASTER.
Opening line: “You fucked her ’til smoke poured out of her ears.”
No, that’s no good.
Maybe, “She fucked you until smoke poured out of your ears.”
Confuse the sexists.
Or “Fucked her until smoke billowed from her small pink ears. You hadn’t noticed her ears.”
Yeah, he liked that better. Good springboard. But do you really want an F-bomb in the opening line?
Problem was Barker had never really felt confident using certain vernacular. He was sensitive to negative criticism. Hell, he was sensitive to positive criticism. But fuck he used the word almost daily, but no worse than Showtime or HBO.
Another idea. More vigilante fiction. Seems every time I turn around Mom is telling me another story about another contractor/financial adviser/door-to-door salesman/telemarketer who has approached her – Mom, that is – with another get-rich scheme, flim-flam, con game. Trying to take advantage of the elderly.
$250 to trim the orange tree and he doesn’t do it. Paint jobs that wash away in the first good rain.
Yes, Ma’m. Twelve windows at twenty dollars a window, that’s… let’s see, that’s three-hundred and sixty dollars. Of course, we’ll take a check. Thank you. Have a nice day.
His mother had actually shown him the receipt. 20 x 12 = $360. Just math.
Thinking for a title, he could use The Carpenter.
See, he does good honest work at a fair price by day, while at night – with his saws and nailgun – he fights crime.
Think Jesus and Batman. With tool belts.
And big hammers.
