All this talk about BSP reminded of a little story I wrote for no particular reason. I have decided to share it for no particular reason. I put one disclaimer on it. I have no issue with cozies, quite popular I understand. So read it if you want and feel free to make any comments. I'll just ignore the ones I don't like.


“That book’s not very good.”

I set down my copy of my favorite author's latest work, autographed just five minutes before, on the single clean section of the bar and turned to look at him.

“It’s a pale comparison to other books in the genre and grammatically, it is jagged and incoherent.”

A sneer appeared on my face as I stared at him.

“Now this is an excellent book”. He then reached into his bag, produced a book and handed it to me.

“I’m sure you recognize me. I write the ‘Talbot McDonald’ mystery series. He is a butler who, with the gardener Regan Shamus, solve crimes that the police can’t figure out.”

“It is the sixth one in the series”. He proudly said.

I took it and glanced at the back cover plot synopsis. Typical faire: Missing kid, incompetent police, only the butler can figure it out.

Unimpressed, I set it down in front of me.

I turned back to the bar and took three long sips of my drink, stopping after each to look as if I was going to speak but then returned to the drink. Once the glass was empty, I looked back at him.

The self-satisfied smirk had disappeared from his face.

“I need that back.” He said as he reached for the book.

I returned it to him and he put it back in his bag.

“But you can have a bookmark.” He pulled out a huge stack of bookmarks with a fat red elastic band surrounding them, pulled one out and it handed it to me. I looked at it, both sides covered with lavish praise from other people I had never heard of as well.

I put the bookmark on the bar, ordered another Boilermaker and opened my book back to where I left off. I hoped that my lack of interest in him would encourage him to leave.

But no such luck.

“Don’t you think there are too many police procedures out there today?”

I continued to stare at the pages, hoping he would get the hint. I had waited over a year for this book and was not interested in his commentary.

“Over the past five years, it seems every where I turn I see police procedures and nasty hard boiled books. Whatever happened to amateur sleuth? This was a cornerstone of mystery literature for years.”

He paused as the bartender walked by.

“Excuse me.” He leaned slightly forward. “You still have not brought my Martini yet. Don’t you realize who I am?”

The bartender looked at him disinterestedly.

“Sorry, should I?”

He reached in his bag and pulled out his book. He held it up like a one of those product models posing with the latest drain cleaner.

“It is the sixth one in the series”. He proudly said.

“How interesting.” The bartender said sounding completely disinterested as he prepared the drink.

“Oh yes, I like it shaken, not stirred.” He said as he put the book back in the bag.

The bartender slid the drink over to him. “Here you go, Mr. Bond. That will be four eighty five.”

He pulled out a five and slapped it on the bar in front of the bartender.

“Keep the change.”

He turned and looked back at me as the bartender gave him a ‘you cheap little prick’ look. I was convinced this guy was not trying to make friends.

“So, are you at the conference too or did you just come for the signing?”

I realized that ignoring this guy was not going work, so more drastic measures were going to be necessary. I closed my book, turned and looked intently at him.

“Then you must have seen me at my panel. It was in the big room, you know.” He said smugly.

When I failed to respond, he continued.

“It was the panel to see. I was with some of the biggest names in the industry discussing the future of the mystery genre.”

I began to intensify the stare.

“So what are you doing here?“ His eyes lit up and he started to reach into his bag. “If you’re a reviewer or interviewer, then you are in luck. I have an ARC of my next book and I’m told I give great interviews.”

I shook my head.

This appeared to really disappoint him and he set his bag down on the floor. He returned to his drink and swallowed it in a single gulp. He motioned to the bartender for another, but it appeared he was being ignored.

“I don’t get me started on these hard-boiled books. What’s the appeal with graphic and casual violence?”

I then stood up and set down a twenty to cover the bill. I began to walk by, but then turned and slammed his head into the bar. He fell off his stool and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

“How that for casual violence, you moron” I said and walked out of the bar.

Views: 11


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Comment by Miss DaMeaner on April 6, 2007 at 2:37pm
I like the last part.
Comment by Russel McLean on April 2, 2007 at 11:39am
Ahhh, you put it into words what some of us only dream (not about cosies, per-se, but BSPers...)...

I thank you, sir!
Comment by Donna Moore on April 1, 2007 at 4:22pm
Nice story! I know that guy by the way... I was nodding so hard my head nearly fell off.

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