Subscribe: Smoking Lizard Poetry & Fiction
http://smokinglizardfiction.wordpress.com/feed/atom/
Added By: Feedage Forager Feedage Grade B rated
Language:
Tags:
Rate this Feed
Rate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feed
Rate this feed 1 starRate this feed 2 starRate this feed 3 starRate this feed 4 starRate this feed 5 star

Comments (0)

Feed Details and Statistics Feed Statistics
Preview: Smoking Lizard Poetry & Fiction

Smoking Lizard Poetry & Fiction



Poetry & Fiction



Updated: 2018-04-24T19:13:10Z

 



WordPress.comBlood & Ink Video

2017-03-31T01:31:46Z

Advertisements class='youtube-player' type='text/html' width='614' height='376' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/cjpu6vd_Lso?version=3&rel=1&fs=1&autohide=2&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&wmode=transparent' allowfullscreen='true' style='border:0;'>



The Widow Wayne

2017-03-31T01:31:18Z

Part 1 Rain and grey circumscribed Diana’s world holding a black umbrella to go with the borrowed black dress. She felt the glaring eyes of the others lined up a discreet distance from her place as the grieving widow. Some had treated Bruce like a temporary meal ticket; a few had thought themselves serious contenders. […]Part 1 Rain and grey circumscribed Diana’s world holding a black umbrella to go with the borrowed black dress. She felt the glaring eyes of the others lined up a discreet distance from her place as the grieving widow. Some had treated Bruce like a temporary meal ticket; a few had thought themselves serious contenders. Diana would watch these three, as much to weed out the feeling they came to see the casket to make sure Bruce had died as staying aware of any direct threats to Diana. Diana locked wet and welling up eyes with Selina Kyle, at the front of the section for the exes. The women had shared morning coffee the morning after the birdseed had stopped falling and reached detente. At least, Selina cried her dark eyes out with almost the same fervor as the newly minted Dowager Queen of Gotham. Diana trusting that Selina’s tears also flowed from the same deep wellspring of love and grief spent a long moment thinking nice thoughts at a woman no longer a rival. Now as the rain fell from the sky pattering onto polyester umbrellas it seemed appropriate to call upon every version of the Divine she’d ever heard of, even the curious hyper-male Patriarchy God, to wish Selina good fortune getting over the events of the past fortnight. Give the things you would wish for yourself, Diana thought. Wisdom. For her part, Selina Kyle felt many of the same emotions on this black day. Everybody in the know knew she didn’t naturally make the toe dance with convention like black dresses at funerals or no white or red dresses when attending weddings as a guest. Wow! To think Bruce could get me to pretend and like it, Selina thought. Who woulda thunk? Diana cried in the rain listening to Methodist Pastor Mike say the ritual words for disposing of a body that had once belonged to a loved one. Diana had to remind herself that normal people whose abilities and backstories precluded direct perception of the Divine needed the Patriarchy God, his odd Son and their sweet minion/spokesman to say such comforting words about ashes, dust and resurrection. Strangely, they also work on me and I know that Pastor Mike speaks a piece of the truth, Diana observed. Perhaps that’s a small reason why this Patriarchy Faith managed to blast Father and my aunts, uncles and half-siblings into the realm of Mostly Mythology? Diana watched, listened and cried fully aware that the Widow Wayne must define appropriate for many decades on a day like this. Locusts with cameras caught everything, thankfully relegated to their assigned area behind the burgundy velvet ropes. A few seemed genuinely sad, as if Gotham with Bruce Wayne in it was more of everything: kind, welcoming and survivable. Thinking about Bruce presently half lowered into the embrace of his parents, Thomas and Martha, brought the kind of tears that couldn’t define appropriate for more than five minutes, let alone posterity. Her shoulders heaved. Her ability to stay dry seemed in doubt. Thankfully, the second most important pair of arms in the whole Multiverse wrapped her up with one arm, while the other added his umbrella to her shelter. “Thank you, Alfred,” Diana said. “You became my daughter, Mistress Wayne,” Alfred Pennyworth said deflecting more than the minimum gratitude. “I serve him in serving you. Please stay dry.” Despite the support, Diana couldn’t help but wish for the presence of the most important pair of arms in the Multiverse. Mama, Diana cried out in her heart. Mama, I hurt! This plaintive wail had to wait for the end of the formalities. Alfred had used his sternest look to remind his de facto daughter-in-law that the tradition of close family members using shovels to close the hole was purely symbolic and she sho[...]



The Interview

2009-03-04T00:29:46Z

© 2009 G.N. Jacobs               “If you’re going to claim illegal interview tactics, you’ll have to tell me what happened,” my attorney says. “The cops typically tape these things so they’re getting smarter in the box.”             My hands shake rattling the handcuffs looped around a bar on the table. Pigs must think I’m […] © 2009 G.N. Jacobs               “If you’re going to claim illegal interview tactics, you’ll have to tell me what happened,” my attorney says. “The cops typically tape these things so they’re getting smarter in the box.”             My hands shake rattling the handcuffs looped around a bar on the table. Pigs must think I’m going to strangle their kids. At the moment, they’re right.             I look my lawyer over. He’s the sort Central Casting sends when the script calls for an expensive California lawyer. At six feet, one eighty five, surfer blond hair and perfect teeth, John Willis just reeks of the sort of TV lawyer who’d throw down with officemates over the corner office.             He shows more humanity than you’d expect from a five hundred dollar an hour shyster reaching across the table to take my hand. The hand feels a tiny bit cold, but not ice cold like you see with some thyroid patients. Man, the guy smells of bronzing makeup and sunscreen.             “You won’t believe me,” I say.             “Mr. Vinson, even at the pay cut I’m taking through the Court’s pro bono program, I’m still making more per hour than you did on your first stickup,” John says. “When it’s the County’s money, I encourage my clients to tell me long and unbelievable stories at this stage. It put my kids through college. Such stories are also more entertaining than the usual blubbering ‘I didn’t mean to do it’ crap that I mostly get from men in your position.”             “You don’t look old enough to have more than one kid in the ninth grade, let alone college,” I say.             The man squeezes my hand tight. I would rather a pretty girl do this part of the scene, but beggars can’t be choosers. However, it is reassuring.             “Thank you, Joe,” John says. “But, we live in Los Angeles, the land of on-demand plastic surgery.”             “They threatened me with a vampire,” I hear myself saying. “Fucking pigs brought a vampire into this very room.”             Mr. Willis raises an eyebrow like Spock and gets busy making his pen work.               Ten hours ago, I heard the ratchet of handcuffs again as the dicks tied me down to the table. And then they got down to the questions.             “We have you cold, Vinson,” Detective Harry Saunders said. “This is just a courtesy scratch to let you have the soapbox. The last statement of Joe Vinson before the civilized world buries him, either in the ground or a concrete cage.”             Saunders and his partner, Detective Molly Fleming, dressed in their drabbest suits. She would look great in a bikini and a smile, but so would Sarah Palin. I fought to keep my chubby out of my pants. Little Joe only gets me out of trouble when the solution is a smile on a girl’s face.             “You have shit,” I said. “I have an alibi.”             Fleming raised an eyebrow at that one. I had a librarian/dominatrix fantasy and got the chubby back. It’s those glasses.             “So you weren’t the dumb asshole who robbed the liquor store last night?” Fleming asked. “You can ask for a lawyer at any time.”             “I didn’t rob the store,” I said. “I don’t need a lawyer.”             Saunders touched a button on a TV remote. Two things happened, the TV lit up and played the cued up security tapes. I watched a man wearing the same clothes in whic[...]



Bloody Con

2009-02-25T08:40:02Z

© 2008 G.N. Jacobs               Klingons, Cardassians, Jedi Knights, Sith Lords and even a few Transformers waited expectantly behind the yellow tape. David Kinsella smiled grimly over the body that had been stabbed multiple times. His partner, Emily Reardon, gently put an ungloved hand on his shoulder.             Tom Kragenberry had clearly attended his […] © 2008 G.N. Jacobs               Klingons, Cardassians, Jedi Knights, Sith Lords and even a few Transformers waited expectantly behind the yellow tape. David Kinsella smiled grimly over the body that had been stabbed multiple times. His partner, Emily Reardon, gently put an ungloved hand on his shoulder.             Tom Kragenberry had clearly attended his last science fiction convention. He lay splayed out across the remains of a Transformers promotional display impaled with a letter opener through the heart. David recognized the weapon as a scaled down Klingon D’Tagh. So far, Emily had been the only one allowed to meet his inner Sci-Fi geek and he didn’t feel like explaining to the assembled officers how he’d acquired his suddenly useful knowledge.             David and Emily wore calf-length overcoats, despite the heat of high summer in Los Angeles. They had been on their way to this very convention when the call came in. It may be cool to arrive at an off-duty recreational event dressed as Starfleet officers from the original series, but LAPD detectives just can’t work a homicide that way. So far, no one noticed their boots.             David enjoyed his partner’s light touch for a moment and wanted to apologize to her. He’d bent considerable effort towards initiating her into one of his great enthusiasms as a way of helping her after their recent experience with a cannibalistic murderess. Emily had shivered and started awake every night. He felt blessed to be able to hold her as she slept, but he’d hit on the idea of dressing up for the Con as a way to get her outside of her own pain.             Her resistance had been great until she’d gotten hold of the pattern for the Little Red Star Trek Dress. As the best-dressed officer in the whole department, Emily had taken to making her own clothes as both a sanity check and budget saver. She’d thrown herself into the costume with a will and then put even more time into her hair trying to mimic those impossible structures made of hairspray and bobbie pins that the Yeoman always wore to the dangerous planet.             In the car, David had given her thigh a squeeze as she pulled the pins out. She seemed just on the verge of crying. He guessed that Emily was planning some Captain and Yeoman sex games for later. Truth be told, he liked Emily’s long crimson hair just the way it was without the beehive. And then they were all business as they entered the Convention Center.             “So Dave, you’re the expert here, who killed our boy?” Emily asked in a half-whisper. “Transformers? Darth Vader? Hewy, Dewey and Louie?”             “Em, on the last one, if you mean the three robots from Silent Running you’re truly the Queen of Outer Space,” David said softly. “If you mean the Disney Ducks be gone Witch.”             Emily snapped on her gloves in her deliberately sexy manner and smiled invitingly. So far they hadn’t explored any latex kinks beyond the standard protection, a discussion for another time.             “I’m already your Space Queen, Dave,” Emily said. “But, getting back to business, does this scene tell you anything?’             “Are you asking if a man found dead among a scattering of Transformers toys, but killed with a Klingon-style letter opener is an indication of any deeper meaning among the Initiated?” David asked cheerfully.             “Well, yes.”             “In the absence of the v[...]



Crispy Critter

2009-02-25T08:37:51Z

 2008 G.N. Jacobs               “Now I’m sure that the universe hates us,” Detective Emily Reardon said, her face turning green. “I could’ve gone a million years and not seen this.”             She lost her lunch, giving enough warning with lurches and false starts that Detective David Kinsella, her partner in all senses of the […]  2008 G.N. Jacobs               “Now I’m sure that the universe hates us,” Detective Emily Reardon said, her face turning green. “I could’ve gone a million years and not seen this.”             She lost her lunch, giving enough warning with lurches and false starts that Detective David Kinsella, her partner in all senses of the word, could provide an unused evidence bag in time. The bag may have been about protecting the crime scene inside the yellow tape, but holding her long copper hair out of the way was a kindness that went above and beyond. Emily resolved to be even more trampy in the sack, if that was possible.             Emily wiped her mouth and changed into an avenging fury. “Let’s go meet our suspects,” she said.             “Suspect, Em,” David corrected gently. “The unis have the guy. Caught running from the scene.”             “Suspects, Dave,” Emily said. “I have a feeling.”               The feeling panned out into an interview with the wife and her lawyer. Emily sat in the bare concrete room experiencing déja vu, just eight weeks before another celebrity wife had entered this place and dared Emily and David to fit the pieces together. This spouse appeared more stupid than the first.             “Mrs. Ryder, you’re here because you killed your husband,” Emily declared. “Now tell us why.”             “I didn’t kill my husband,” Melishta Ryder said, turning on the waterworks. “You have the man that butchered my Henry. If he’s telling you that I put him up to it, he’s lying through the teeth.”             “Your hatchet man is still sedated at the hospital,” Emily said coldly. “Apparently, the drug cocktail he took to get in a state where this murder becomes possible will take several more days to flush from his body.”             “Then you have nothing, Detectives,” Melishta said. “May I leave?”             The woman smiled at David. Even with the scar on his face, women liked him. The funny thing, usually he played along, but today he was a mask of stone. Emily wondered how close he’d come to puking himself.             “No, Mrs. Ryder, you stay,” David said. “Your status is detained for questioning. You should have volunteered six hours ago.”             The suspect blew a stray brunette hair out of her eye and settled in for a long afternoon. Emily watched the woman’s Eurasian features and hated her even beyond suspicion of murder. They were the girls that competed to be captain of the cheerleading squad and sabotaged the other’s prom dress with pepper spray. David had seen most of Emily’s bad moods, even the snow jobs, and this rage took the cake.             “I think you must have found the life insurance policy,” Melishta said. “Now, I’ll admit that a million dollars plus Henry’s estate is a motive for some other wife to kill her husband. Not me. And I think that mythical wife wouldn’t stand for witnessing what happened.” Emily watched apparently genuine disgust cross the woman’s face followed by more tears. Exotic Melishta from some Indian city where Henry Ryder had once boxed did have a point, the method of death had been spectacularly over the top for the usual insurance killing. But, the woman was wrong somehow.  “You might not have intended all of the results,” Emily said. “But, you benef[...]



Tube Thieves

2009-02-25T08:33:28Z

© 2008 G.N. Jacobs               David Kinsella and Emily Reardon arrived at the scene demonstrating one of the wrinkles to getting laid at work. On the clock, David had to restrain his natural impulse to open doors for Emily. The only one who noticed was their supervisor Sergeant Althea Walker so no harm no […] © 2008 G.N. Jacobs               David Kinsella and Emily Reardon arrived at the scene demonstrating one of the wrinkles to getting laid at work. On the clock, David had to restrain his natural impulse to open doors for Emily. The only one who noticed was their supervisor Sergeant Althea Walker so no harm no foul.             Althea cut an impressive figure with a Creole look that was a little bit of everything. She’d considered moving David to another shift of LAPD Homicide to make herself available to him, but that was three years ago. Now, David and Emily’s close rate had spoiled her, so she became complicit in their cover up.             A patrol officer checked their badges and lifted the yellow tape. Althea took a regretful look and David as he strode up the driveway. At six-two, one ninety and built like a swimmer or a cyclist, David Kinsella turned heads. Even the scar that graced his throat and chin helped this process, making him look mysterious.             Althea nodded her respects to Emily, a glorious redhead given to making her own clothes to save money. Althea let the relationship go, also because Emily was so dreadfully perfect for David and they were happy. Today, Emily had masterfully touched up her charcoal skirt suit with orange fabric practically stolen from an African tribal dance. She was good at being a fashion plate.             David and Emily gloved up as they walked, so they greeted their Sergeant with air shakes.             “So, Al, why did you call the Commander and have us skip to the top of the catch pile today?” David asked.             “Because your streak continues, Dave,” Althea explained. “It’s a TV job and you’ve closed four and a half like it.”             David and Emily rolled their eyes. They took a moment to enjoy the view of the Vincent Thomas Bridge that connected San Pedro with Long Beach. Off in the distance, a container ship sailed under the bridge and blew its horn.             “Al, all we see is a modest middle class home with a nice lawn,” Emily said. “How is it a TV job?”             Althea led them into the house to the body. Someone had emptied the house all they way down to the baseboards. They had beaten the crap out of the drywall at the usual places for the wall safe. The thieves had found the safe over the mantelpiece and used crowbars to get it out of the wall.             Below this, a body lay in the fireplace with the head on the log rack. David and Emily automatically took note of the victim: male, Caucasian, medium everything, brown hair and blue eyes. The man had been shot in the back of the head.             “I know this guy,” David said at last. “Jimmy Taulus, I spent three years in Burglary trying to fit him for B and E or Possession of Swag, but all we ever had on him was the say so of snitches. Maybe seven years ago he just dropped off our radar. I got friendly with his family and until now I took it as an article of faith that he’d gone straight. His family won’t like hearing about his relapse.”             “It may not be a relapse, Dave,” Althea said. “One of the uniforms recognized him too. He’s the co-host of Tube Thieves, a show where two reformed thieves break into houses with permission and give security tips.”             David and Emily shared a shrug that surprised Althea. They had developed the TV-watching date into high art, because they would be seen almost everywhere by th[...]



Chip’s Revenge

2009-01-19T11:56:44Z

© 2009 G.N. Jacobs               Greg Teller felt at home the minute he shook Manny Richards’ hand. The gruff man with the handlebar mustache proved to be nearly identical to his screen image and surprisingly warm off camera. The hazel eyes behind the wire-frame glasses showed a little bloodshot, but Greg had been told […] © 2009 G.N. Jacobs               Greg Teller felt at home the minute he shook Manny Richards’ hand. The gruff man with the handlebar mustache proved to be nearly identical to his screen image and surprisingly warm off camera. The hazel eyes behind the wire-frame glasses showed a little bloodshot, but Greg had been told the reason why.             John Forman, the personality Greg would replace, had gotten bad news from the doctor. Depending on his treatment, John would need time away from the Legend Testers show either to heal or to put his affairs in order before going off to die somewhere fun. Greg vacillated between the opportunity of a lifetime and sorrow that it would always appear he’d knifed John to get the job.             Greg used the long uncomfortable silence caused by that very elephant in the room to study Manny’s office. He sat in the only uncluttered part of a rabbit warren of past triumphs and abject failures. That Greg could name the episode in which each had occurred said much about his inner geek, though his similar ability with Star Trek said more.             The centerpiece of the desk was of course the head belonging to Chip 1.0. Greg got silent permission from Manny to pick the plastic head up and look at it more closely. Once upon a time, Chip 1.0 had been a fully functioning crash test dummy. Now, only the head remained, a battered, maimed and mangled head.             “Alas, poor Yorick…” Greg murmured to himself.             This broke the ice and Manny’s warmth returned. “You know, Chip 1.0’s head serves to tell me a lot about the people who sit there. Half do Hamlet, which tells me you’re more than an engineer. The other half does C-3PO, which tells me other things.”             “May I ask what John did?” Greg asked. “If that isn’t an impertinent question.”             “He did both,” Manny said. “He did a Robin Williams style channel surfing bit where he switched back and forth between the two. He was special, but you already guessed that.”             “And how does a product safety engineer with limited experience in special effects get invited to be Sidekick 2.0?” Greg asked.             “Your experience is not that limited,” Manny said. “I kept hearing about this dirt farmer technician from San Diego who never got paid more than $200 for making film students look good on a budget.”             “I used fake names to avoid having that blowback onto my straight gig,” Greg said.             “A couple of the guys you helped made the leap from backyard movies to the Show here in Los Angeles,” Manny said. “They talked about you when asked. The other reason is that you are the single most prolific poster on our boards. And I saw your Halloween costume.”             Greg nodded and patted Chip 1.0 on the forehead.             “Since you are the outsider,” Manny continued. “The audience might see you as less of the conniving backstabber who stomped all over the great John Forman. If I reached out for someone from Skywalker Ranch or another large house, we could lose viewers. So I went for the fanboy. And eight years in, we may have to do product testing as a sideline to fill air.”             “Neither your viewers nor your research staff have failed you in coming up with ideas for shows,” Greg said.             “Call it paranoia,” Manny said. [...]