As the Smoke Clears From the Battlefield That Was May, Let us Clear the Dead and Declare a Victor

Here in lovely, sweltering Decatur, Georgia, it is currently 11:59PM on May 31st, 2006, which means 3 things. 1) May is over and we're about to cross over into June, 2) rent is due, and 3) the May Literary Smackdown has drawn to a close. Time to announce the winner.

And the winner is, for the second month in a row...

Nathan Hines.

With his pleasingly noir crime story entitled, "Vegas By Day", not only did Hinesy win over the voters, he also proves that the Smackdown-runner does not always win first place the month they host. Congratulations. The deck of Monte Carlo playing cards will be in the mail before you know it. Ahem.

And here, just to make it official, are the tallies for our 3 entrants.

1) Nathan Hines: 7.49
2) Brian Crane: 7.05
3.) Mystery Writer: 5.5

Watch this website for next month's Literary Smackdown challenge.

Complete with Burglary, Trilling Wookies, and Delectable Collectibles, Mystery Writer's Written a Different Kind of Vegas Story

With just four days left in this month's competition, Mystery Writer returns to bring our entry tally to a grand total of three. (We'll get another, shant we?) Without further ado, MW gives the Smackdown a story of bumbling burglars who've seen maybe one too many episodes of Antiques Roadshow in a story called:

“In A Galaxy Far Far Away"
by Mystery Writer

“Have you ever seen a bigger goddamn lock?”

“Jeez, it’s the size of your head.”

“What the hell does Grandma have in here that’s so fuckin’ valuable she needs this mother on the back door?”

Leroy and Herman looked at each other and smiled. They knew what secrets the little shop held. “Gerty’s House of Delectable Collectables” had a mint collection of H & R Daniel tea cups and saucers circa 1825 with hand painted roses and a rare scroll pattern, absolutely pristine, no chips and no restorations and they could fetch between $400 and $600 per on eBay. How Leroy and Herman loved the internet and knew their tea cups.

“Gimme the bolt cutter. We’ll do this baby right,” Leroy said. The self-appointed head of this two-man crime family, Leroy held his hand out for the requested tool, still studying the huge lock.

Herman handed him the red rusted bolt cutter.

“I thought it was bigger,” Leroy said hefting it in one hand, weighing it visually against the bulk of he lock.

“Go ‘head, cut that mother off,” Herman said, encouraging his larger partner. Herman looked up to Leroy mainly from a physical standpoint, as he was only five foot six. Even with his steel toed work boots, with the extra thick soles and shoe lifts, Herman craned his neck when he talked to Leroy.

“Where did you get this rusted piece of crap?” Leroy said.

“Dad and I were building a shed, and we had this guy put some rebar in before we poured the cement floor and he left it. Never came back, so we kept it. Borrowed it from my Dad, to cut some barb wire fence. Had it since then.”

“He didn’t cut shit with this thing.” Leroy clamped the jaws of the bolt cutter around the hardened steel hasp and grunted as he applied pressure to the twin handles, one of which was missing the rubber grip.

“Arrrrgg,” he grunted, straining against the metal, his muscles bulging, but ineffective against the heavy lock. “Fuck this.” He slammed the tool against the wall. The thud broke off a piece of brick, splintering and hitting Herman in the leg.

“What now?” Herman asked helpfully.

The two collectable crooks stood silent in the dark alley. The glare of Vegas, visible from a space station, barely lit the narrow alley behind the small strip of specialty stores. Overhead a trio of search lights lit up the sky. They were from the new light show at Circus Circus, just a few blocks north, installed a month ago. Herman still had not seen the show and stood mesmerized looking at the bright lights occasionally spinning and dancing overhead.

“You’re going to have to go through the wall,” Leroy explained.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Herman said, his attention at least partially on the job at hand.

“You climb through this window and go through a vent or something and get the shit and come back again,” Leroy said, pointing to a small, dark, and dirty window in the wall of the shop next to Gerty’s.

“What do you think we’re in, a fucking movie?” Herman said. “A vent? I may be small but I ain’t that small. A frigging vent.”

“Just a thought.”

“Well, think again.” Herman looked at the window. It did look a lot easier to breach than the metal door with the padlock better suited to a national guard armory.

“Well, just get through the window and we’ll figure out what you do after you’re inside.”

Herman looked at the window; it still sounded a lot easier than it looked. “How long we been here?” he asked.

“You got a date?”

“No, wise-ass. The meter.”

“Meter?”

“The parking meter.” Herman was pleased, he had thought of something Leroy hadn’t.

“I thought you got it.”

“Nope, not me.”

“I told you to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, go feed the thing, last thing we need is a ticket.”

Herman felt in his pants. He wore them baggy and when he sunk his hand in they about came off his ass. He pulled them up while digging in his pockets. “All I got is a couple of those fake coins for the slots,” he said.

“Shit.”

The alley got quiet again.

“You know they should take chips.” Herman held the two five-dollar coins in his hand: a small reward for a slight-of-hand trick his father had taught him, and always good for some quick dinner money. He could barely read the name of the hotel he’d stolen them from.

“What?” Leroy asked.

“We’re in Vegas, right? The parking meters. They should take chips.”

Leroy’s night was not going well and he thought for a brief second how much better it might be if he could punch out Herman. “Piss on the meter,” Leroy said. “Get in the goddamn window.”

The alarms previously diverted, were still active having been bypassed by Leroy. His time in the Navy had been well spent, learning a lot about electronics and even more about alarms. The entire crew from the forward East Bay Number Two electronics shop on the Shiloe, a guided missile frigate commissioned during Clinton’s second term. Leroy had studied under a master, and all of them were making a passable living plying their well learned trade.

“I’m not going. You go this time.” Herman was taking a stand.

“I can’t fit through the window,” Leroy said, stating the obvious. His three hundred pounds of bulk filled most of the narrow alleyway. “You’re going to have to do it. Here, I’ll give you a boost,” he said bending over with the familiar “ommpf” he uttered for even the mildest exertions. He clasped his hands together to form a fleshy foothold.

“You know I can sound like Chewbacca,” Herman said, disregarding the schoolyard stance of his partner in crime.

“Who?” Leroy straightened, the “ommpf” a little less audible.

“Chewbacca from the Star Wars movie.”

“He the funny looking one that lives in a swamp?”

“No, that’s, Jar Jar Binks. Chewbacca’s the hairy one that rode around with Han Solo.”

“I liked that guy,” Leroy said. “But Solo never would have come back. Not in real life. That shit didn’t happen.” It was an authoritative statement.

“None of it happened, it was just a movie.”

“Yeah, but Solo never would have come back, he had the gold. Shit man, like the lottery. I hit the lottery, I am gone, color me green. And gone.”

“Chewbacca,” Herman returned to his subject, “was a Wookie. I can talk like a Wookie.”

“No shit,” Leroy was intrigued, “Go ahead, let’s hear.”

Herman reared back and took a deep breath.

“Hhrrrrrrrrrr. Gggrrrrhhhhhhh.. hhhrrr.. grbbblllllll..rrrrrrrr!”

“What was that?” Leroy said.

“Fuck, I don’t know. He’s angry as hell and killing storm troopers. It’s in the book, ‘Shadows of the Empire’.”

“You read that shit?”

“I got every book Chewbacca’s ever been in,” Herman announced proudly.

“Shit, that’s cool. Say something else. Say ... ‘fuck you’.”

“I can’t fucking say anything. Only Han Solo knew what the fuck Chewbacca was saying.”

“Go on. Say ‘fuck you’,” Leroy insisted

“Jjjrrrrrrbbbllllllll …. Hhhyytrrrrrlllllll,” Herman trilled.

“That’s fucking insane, you sound just like the guy.”

“He was a Wookie.”

“Whatever. Okay. Now get in the fucking window.”

“I want Chewbacca,” Herman said.

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“I go in the window but I want Chewbacca. Gerty’s got a never-opened Chewbacca with his plastic blaster. I want it.”

“What for?”

“For me.”

“You know the rules: nothing but what we came for. No money, no nothing, just the shit we got planned. It’s the rules.”

“I go in the window I get Chewbacca, that’s the deal.”

“You’ll get us caught.”

“No, I won’t, I’m not going to sell it.”

“What the fuck you want it for then?”

“It talks.”

“So what are you going to do, have a conversation with a doll?”

Herman just looked at the ground.

“I don’t fucking care,” Leroy said. “Get your Chewbacca. Just get in the fucking window.”

“Give me a boost.”

A few minutes later Leroy stood patiently in the still deserted ally. He could hear Herman through the open window and saw a brief flash of his flashlight as Herman searched for a way to break into the adjoining shop.

“You see anything?”

“Jrrrrrrrbbbblllll…. Hhhhrrlllkk…hhhllllll… hhhtteelllllllrrrrrrr.”

“Yeah, okay, get me the Han Solo doll.”

“Jjrrrrlll.”

“But make sure the fucking thing talks.”

A Story About a Girl With a Pretty Face and a Black Heart. You know, one of those heart-warming dealies.

Here we go with the second entry in the May Smackdown, a story written by me, Brian Crane. Hopefully this won't be the last entry this month, but only time will tell. Mine just squeaks under the maximum word count, so I'll let you get right to it.

The Girl Who Won Big on the Yahtzee Slots
by Brian Crane

When she finally came out she was alone. She stopped in front of the entrance, her sun-browned shoulders hunched forward protectively as she rooted in her blue cloth purse. She looked up a few times while she searched, her dark eyes wary of something. Himself, he guessed. Even from this distance, he was struck once more by how pretty she was. Since the last time he’d seen her she’d pulled her long hair into a ponytail. Some of her hair had begun to pull free from the band – the sun glinted off of the wiry strands. Her tan legs, capped by a short denim skirt, shone thrillingly in the sunlight, but this time he was able to quash his desire. Now that he knew what kind of woman she was, he recognized her easy beauty as just another tool she used to her own advantage.

Once she’d found what she was after, a pair of enormous sunglasses, she put them on her face and started walking east towards the Paris casino. Towards him. Quickly, he slipped his quarter-back into his back jeans pocket (a sci-fi novel called Jupiter he’d picked up at the airport), and stared meaningfully into the baroque-style fountain he was standing in front of, feigning interest in the way a particular arc of water splashed into the penny-strewn pool. A moment passed, and she passed right by him. He waited a beat or two, and then followed.

As they walked down the strip, jostling shoulder to shoulder with a throng of tourists cooking beneath the sun together, he realized his next move was absolutely the wrong one. He couldn’t just surprise her with a firm hand on her elbow and compel her to talk to him, as he’d planned. All she had to do was scream and the prospect of any civilized discussion would go right out the window.

Before a sensible alternative plan occured to him, he noticed she’d stopped and was speaking to the hostess of an outdoor café attached to the casino. It didn’t look busy. He stopped and patted the front of his jeans looking for his cell. He took it out, flipped it open, and spoke into it. Some fifty or so yards away, the one-third scale replica of the Eiffel Tower loomed above them, a vast and rusted monster, one massive leg arcing down in front of the casino’s front entrance, looking as if it might suddenly tense and then lift to take another step.

He glanced over at his quarry. The hostess was leading her through the café and into the dark interior of the restaurant.

This, he knew, was his one and only play.

He stood next to the hostess’s lectern until she returned. “One,” he said. “Inside, please.”

Once inside he cursed silently. His eyes hadn’t adjusted from the bright sunlight; it was too dark to spot her. All he could do was hope she hadn’t noticed him. As soon as he was seated, he picked up the menu and held it in front of his face. The hostess was saying something to him about who his waitress would be but he ignored her. When his eyes were adjusted, he slowly lowered his menu and scanned the restaurant’s interior over the top of the pleasingly-yellowed parchment paper menu.

Across the room. Long brown hair, yellow blouse. Blue purse. Her back faced him.

He inhaled, exhaled, stood up, and walked to her table. He was seated across from her before she’d noticed anything had happened. She’d been airily perusing the choices when she looked up and saw him. She recognized him at once and opened her mouth, perhaps to scream, but he shook his head urgently and she was silent. “Do not scream,” he said, quietly. “Beneath the table.” She closed her mouth and her eyes flicked to the wooden tabletop. He nodded at her, but did not smile. “Yeah,” he said. “But I just want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said. Starting to look around the restaurant. No one was coming their way. “I don’t even know you.”

He snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s just you and me. There’s no casino security guys around for you to lie to.”

She looked at him now, her eyes bouncing back and forth as their focus shifted slightly from his right eye to his left and back again. “I’m supposed to believe you didn’t bring some kind of tape recorder?”

“I said all I want to do is talk, and I meant it.”

“So you didn’t bring a tape recorder, but you did bring a gun?” She wasn’t smiling when she said this, but the possibility of her smiling seemed far less remote now than it did when he first sat down. She wasn’t scared anymore, if she’d ever been.

He straightened in his seat. “Yes,” he said, unable to keep a note of falsity out of his voice. The fact of his lie seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment, and then he took hold of his cold, thick-handled salad fork, (but did not pick it up), and shook his head. “I do have one,” he said.

“No you don’t.”

He sat motionless for a moment, watching her, weighing whether to keep up the bluff or let it go, and finally he sat back in his chair. “Okay. Fine.”

Her expression was unreadable. Was she figuring her next play, or waiting for him to say what he was going to say?

“Are you going to scream, or can we talk?” he said.

“Go ahead,” she said, affecting a bored tone of voice. “Talk.”

He leaned forward. “I want the thousand you promised me,” he said.

“No.” Her expression was defiant now. Ugly. The opposite of how she’d looked when they’d been sitting together in front of the Yahtzee slots. She’d been beautiful then. Radiant. You could almost have believed she’d felt something for him.

“You were broke. I gave you a twenty and you promised if you won the jackpot, which we both assumed you wouldn’t, you’d give me one thousand. Against all odds, you won. That’s it. Fair is fair.”

She did an extended eye roll and sighed petulantly. “Do you have something in writing?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Than what is there to talk about?”

He clenched his fists tightly beneath the table. “You won four. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. All I’m asking for is the one thousand you promised me.”

“You know. I think I will scream.”

He shook his head and looked away from her. “No, no, no, no,” he said. “Keep your grand.” He knew she wasn’t going to scream, not now, but the threat of embarassment and forcible ejection wasn’t what was distressing him at the moment. He hadn’t expected it to go this way. He really thought he could shame her into doing the right thing. How stupid. He looked at her now. “Can I have my twenty back?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. She looked disappointed. “What do you think?”

He took a breath and stood up. She struck the table with an open hand but did not look up at him. “Sit down,” she said. After a moment’s deliberation, he did. “I’ve been playing those fucking slots for six years, every weekend thinking this is going to be the one. Never was. And even though I figured it out, you know, the whole con? I still kept coming in. Someone told me the slots were looser at Circus Circus, so I go to that awful fucking place and drop quarter after quarter into their filthy machines, breathing all of that goddamn smoke, listening to all of those crying wetback kids waiting to see the fucking clown. Last weekend I was in Primm Valley, getting hit on by fat old bastards with BO sour enough to knock you on your ass. But I was just as nice as could be. And they’d give me money. Made ‘em feel good. Whatever I have to do to work those slots for another half hour. So you come along today, think some pretty girl’s into you, give her a twenty probably thinking you’ll get it back some other way, and I win. I win?” She sounded strangely offended by her improbable victory over bad luck. “For the first fucking time since I moved here I win some real goddamn money and you want me to be fair?”

The waitress was standing next to her now, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. Just came to get your drink orders.”

“Diet Coke,” she said. “He’s fine with water.” The waitress was already rushing away.

She pulled her purse onto the table and started rooting around in it again. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you your twenty back, but only if you promise to stand up, walk out of here, and never talk to me again. What do you say?” She flung a crumpled twenty onto the table. It landed next to the centerpiece, some plastic thing filled with lace and ugly white flowers.

He picked it up, stood up, and put the bill into his pocket. “You are not a good person,” he said, and, at that moment, he felt like it was the worst thing he’d ever said to anyone.

As he walked past, she dropped her purse onto the carpet next to her. “Yeah,” she said, calling after him loudly. “But now I’m rich. What do you think counts for more in this place?"

Las Vegas at Night? Who Cares? It's Been Done. With Cold, World-Weary Eyes, Hinesy Takes a Hard Look at "Vegas By Day"

The Smackdown's founder, Nathan Hines, has roused his burly, literate creation from its 18-day coma by injecting 300 CCs of pure Story Goodness into its IV drip. Daddy couldn't let anyone call his baby a "dead blog", now could he? So, with his bid for May Smackdown glory, and a deck of Monte Carlo playing cards, Hinesy submits to you, the Smackdown reader/contributor, a story of family, crime, and terminal diseases called "Vegas By Day". It's a good read, so I'll let all of you get right to it. Let's get into it, folks. Those turnbuckles aren't going to leap from themselves!

Vegas By Day
by
Nathan Hines

Sunlight has no love for Las Vegas. At night, it is hidden. Shrouded in flashing lights and glitter. But in the glare of early afternoon, you can’t hide the cracked, cheap plaster and grime. The backdrop of dead, brown hills remind you that you’re not in a place made for men. This is the land of coyotes and lizards; and even they don’t come out in the day. They say that the casinos have no windows so the marks won't have any feeling of time and will dole their dollars out to the slots for a while longer.

I think it's so people will forget where they are. Where they've spent their fleeting time and hard-earned money to travel to.

I didn't come to Vegas to catch the shows, hoping that Lady Luck might blow me a kiss. I came here to hide. A city that only lived at night seemed like the perfect place to quietly slip into the crowd and go float along for awhile, unseen. But here I was, standing in the parking lot of Circus Circus, with my father's man in front of me.

I was just unlocking my car door when he walked up. For months now, I’d wondered what it was going to be like when I was finally found. Words like “Shock", “Terror", and “Flee” came to mind. Dynamic words. The kind you often see followed by one or two “!". After all, you don’t get caught stealing from my father and expect the experience to be pleasant. No, not my father.

But, when the moment arrived, all that came to mind was, “Oh, well,”.

“Don’t worry, Junior. I’m not here to…you know. Your pop needs your help.” my father’s man said.

He has a name, and if I thought moderately hard I might be able to remember it, but it’s not worth the effort. He doesn’t deserve a name. He’s just my father’s man.

He quickly and bluntly explained the situation and then waited as I let it sink in.

After, I’m not sure how long, I said, “So, how long has he known where I was?”

“All along,” my father’s man said.

“And I’m just seeing you now?”

“He said to let you go. Not to lift a finger. But you’re cut-off. Disowned.”

“That’s pretty generous of him,” I said.

“Yes. He always had a soft spot for you.”

I snorted at this, even though I knew it was true. My father’s soft spots were still pretty hard.

I moved some gravel around with the tip of my shoe.

“Leukemia, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” my father’s man said. His voice seemed sorry. His eyes did not.

“How long does he have?”

“Depends on you. With a bone marrow transplant, or a few, he could beat it. If not…a few months, maybe.”

The thought of a needle digging through my flesh, and then through my bone to get right to it’s center made me quiver. Sure, they would numb the area. Dope me up so I wouldn’t feel a thing, but ideas are worse than reality. And the idea that I would go through that for him made my stomach turn.

“And if I agree?” I said.

“Then you’re not cut off anymore. The bit about the money is forgotten and you’ll inherit when he finally goes,” he said, and then added, “But, you know, hopefully that will be a long time away.”

“There’s nobody else?”

“Nope. You’re the only family he’s got, kid. And his blood type ain’t so common.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then, I guess I would be here for…you know...after all.”

Oh well…ran through my mind again. It had been fun. I wouldn’t be able to make it out of this if I wanted to.

“Job,” I muttered.

“Whas that?” my father’s man said.

“I’m like Job. You know, cursed.”

“Why don’t ya keep your Bible to yourself, kid,” he said, “So, what’s it gonna be? You can’t hate him more than you’d hate a bullet in your head.”

“You know, even though I’m his kid, there’s still a chance that we’re not a match. I mean if our blood type is off, I can’t do it. So, then what?”

My father’s man shrugged as if he hadn’t thought of this, nor cared enough to do so now.

“Not my business,” he said.

A glimmer of hope ran through me. It was just a glimmer, but it was enough to make me wish I could grin.

“Ok, how about this. I’ll go back with you, and we draw up the will first thing. Then we go take a blood test to see if I can even do this at all. If so, then ok we’ll do it. But if not, then I stay with the old man and take care of him for the remainder. No matter how long it takes, I’ll take care of him and make him comfortable. Keep him company and all that.”

“I can’t make that deal,” he said.

“No shit. Why don’t you hop on the phone and talk to someone who can?” I said, more like I was his boss than his potential victim.

My father’s man pulled out his cell phone and was muttered into it for a minute. Then he snapped it shut and gave me a nod.

“You got it, kid. But it’s gonna be writ in the will that if, you know, you guys don’t match then you gotta stay until the end. Otherwise ya get nothin.”

This time I did grin. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. I knew the chance of me being a donor match was next to none.

About a year before, as my mother lay dying in a gutter-slum apartment, with needle tracks in her arms and filth in her bed, she told me a secret. That when she was a show-girl beauty (before my father got tired of looking at the deepening wrinkles creeping outwards around her eyes, and kicked her to the curb) that she was “admired.” That was the word she used, and her eyes seemed to mist as she said it.

She was “admired” by a great many men and apparently there was one, in particular, who she “admired” back. In fact she admired this mystery man so much that I was born, looking quite a bit like him, nine months later. So, there was a very good chance that my father wasn’t so much my father after all. This had always suited me fine, but never as much as it did just then.

There would be no match, and I would get to watch the old man die. But with a bit of luck, first I would get to watch him whither.

"Oh don't worry," I said, "I'll be there until the very last second."

Vegas Abides all Kinds of Sin: Gambling, Whoring, Crooning. But Vegas Will NOT Abide Bad Writing. Your Work, Smackdowners, Is Cut Out For You.

As we kick off the new and fabulous month of May in the year 2006, let us congratulate Nathan Hines of Taiwan for his April Smackdown victory. Enjoy those wasabi peanuts friend 0' friends. Enjoy them well because they are your due. (And enjoy the money you saved by not having to send them to far-off lands like, say, Decatur, Georgia.) And also, thanks go to our six April entrants in the Smackdown, and all of those who offered their measured and insightful opinions regarding those entries. Your time was well-spent, and much appreciated.

So let us clear the sodden battlefield of these dead stories of hamsters and lawyers, tales of spineless men and coming storms, and let's make war anew under the azure skies of May, each armed only with a wild tale of a desert city called Las Vegas.

All right. Let's get into it.

THE LITERARY SMACKDOWN CHALLENGE FOR THE MONTH OF MAY IS:

"Write a short prose story set in Las Vegas, NV. The story must be dialogue-heavy, must include reference to an actual book (which you must mention by title), must include the words "Circus Circus" and "slots", and, finally, the story must center around, or feature in some way, the striking of a deal (by which I mean an arrangement, not a dealing of cards.)"

And by dialogue-heavy I mean at least a 1:1 ratio of narration to dialogue. Ths rule is not hard and fast -- if tons of dialogue doesn't work for your story, don't use it, but some dialogue is required. Other guidelines. Minimum word length: 400 words. Maximum word length: 1,600 words. Deadline for submission is 11:59 PM EST on Tuesday, May 30th. Wednesday, May 31st will be devoted to last-minute votes, averaging scores, and the announcing of a winner. Voting deadline is 11:59PM on May 31st.

Additionally, if it is at all possible, I request a photo of the author along with the submission of a story, (unless, of course, the writer wishes to remain anonymous). If you cannot include a photo of yourself, please send along an image that you think is appropriate to include with your story. If not inclined to do either, I'll come up with something.

(For your edification, I am also including a photo (pictured above) of Circus Circus, (known to some as Crickus Crickus), just so you know what you'll be referencing.)

Please send all entries to either literarysmackdown@gmail.com or to judgeholden0211@aol.com. The prize this month is a deck of playing cards from the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino! Yaayy!

Enough of this loghorrea. Time to write. Who among you dares enter first?!