Even among loyal fans, after only four or five Kicking Dogs chapters and a few SIDECARS, interest in this project has waned. Fizzled away to fuck all, in fact.
The last bit is classic Leary alliteration, though he’d never say “fuck.”
Leary habitually seasoned his conversation with “gosh” and “darn.” Gosh was salt, and darn was pepper. Sometimes, if a communication required a bit of mustard, he might go so far as to say “frigging.” That’s how I knew the coffee Lek spilled in his lap wasn’t too hot. Otherwise he would have almost certainly described it as “friggin’ hot,” and maybe even asked Lek if she wasn’t a friggin’ spastic, as well, taking care to direct an apologetic “gosh” towards Eddie at the same time.
I had it on good advice—no less an authority than Eddie’s Lek—Leary’s language used to be rather more pungent still. In fact, he reportedly could use linguistic condiments so exotic even his associates on the oil rigs had been known to blush as brightly as young maidens at a panty raid. Lek had told me it was Nancy who was responsible for Leary’s retreat to this blander salt-and-pepper vocabulary, with occasional lashings of mustard. But of course that couldn’t be so, because Leary always said that a woman’s place was two meters behind her man, preferably with an armload of groceries and a sock in her mouth. You knew that Leary wasn’t ever going to take any guff from any broad, no sir. That’s right. Gosh.
Leary recurs as a supporting character in four of my novels — he’s a 40-something-year-old in Bangkok Knights, a 50-year-old in Yawn, and a 113-year-old in MOM and Genesis 2.0
That was a spot of promotion for my books, in case you hadn’t noticed. Not that there’s anyone out there who’s looking.
Sales of my books remain constant at close to nil. Meanwhile the Muse has lit out for parts unknown. Any actual wordsmithery, these days, has been mostly limited to comments on social media. And obmutescence might serve my project just as well.
Obmutescence rools, OK! Our word du jour.
I cast my literary pearls before an uncaring world. (I do not use the word “swine.”)
I’ve received a postcard from my Muse, who says that’s the last straw, and I can expect no further communications from that quarter. She forgot to include a return address.
She’s probably kicking back within the same Void that accommodates my many fans, including multitudes of groupies.
“You really do have a flair for fiction, don’t you?” So says Sara, who’s never qualified even as Assistant Muse.
“The world should only thank me,” she says, possessed, it seems, by an acerbic New York Jew who thinks he’s funny.
“And you wonder why no one ever visits your website,” she adds.