Thursday, August 15, 2013

DIAL M.W. FOR MURDER--A Really Good Bladder Press


It's been a long time since I wrote a chapter of my continuing, shaggy dog/pulp fiction/detective novel Dial M.W. for Murder, but the disappearance of Avril Cadavril has been haunting me, so I decided to find out what happened to her. Those who want to start from the beginning can go to my Compost Heap (in the left hand column) and read the previous nine chapters of Dial M.W. that lead up to this. Some babes worth looking at! I made a silly attempt at a recap in the first paragraph, but, as regular readers know, plot isn't the strong point anyway.


A HOSEMASTER OF WINE™ PULP FICTION CLASSIC

Chapter 10 A Really Good Bladder Press

Here it is Chapter Ten and I hadn’t had sex with a woman yet. Oh, there were plenty of babes around, they kept showing up at my door like horny Jehovah’s Witnesses asking me if I’d found Jesus, which I had, he was outside Home Depot waiting to get a paying gig. Only the first bombshell, Crystal Geyser, was dead, plugged by an unknown M.W. candidate in drag. Not Jancis Robinson, though he was still on my suspect list. The love of my life, Avril Cadavril, was missing, and every clue I had to her disappearance led down a blind alley. I was getting really tired of blind alleys. Just once I wanted to be led down a Wine Spectator alley, you know, an alley that’s supposedly blind but isn’t really. Only I might run into James Laube in that alley digging through dumpsters looking for his reputation. I’d also been instantly attracted to Mallory O’Lactic, though that may have been because she was wearing Avril’s bracelet, the one I’d given Avril, the one that had been left on my desk after Mallory, and the guy who’d thrown her unconscious into my office and minutes later clubbed me into a coma, had also vanished. And now I had yet another damsel in distress, Biola Dynamic, in my office, her slight lisp somehow sexy, every syllable sibilantly escaping her lips like the slow leak of hot air from Harvey Steiman, or the warning hiss of an angry snake, if there’s a difference, with an interesting story of being asked by some unnamed M.W.’s to kill Mallory O’Lactic. I needed a vacation. Two weeks in Avril, wet bar included, the HoseMaster bedroom—sweet.

While I was summarizing this so-called plot in my head, Biola was killing the time looking at the photos on my desk. There aren’t that many. I’m not really a sentimental guy. There’s my autographed photo of Rudy Kurniawan, signed with his usual tagline, “Things go better with Koch.” And a very rare and collectible photograph of Nicolas Joly with his mouth shut. But Biola was staring at my photograph of Avril Cadavril.

“Who is this?” she wanted to know.

“That’s Savanna Samson, a former porn actress who makes Brunello. Spends three years with wood. So does the wine,” I lied. “I met her at a wine judging. Man, can she gargle.”

“No,” Biola said quietly, “who is she? I know her. I was just in a limo with her. She’s beautiful, and she smells like Chuck Roast. Chuck Roast, M.W. You know him?”

“Beefy guy?”

It seemed everyone who’d been in that limo had been in my office the last couple of days. Crystal, Avril,
Avril Cadavril and Chuck Roast
Mallory, and now Biola. I needed to find out who everyone was in that limo, and who’d rented it. But there are more limousines in wine country than there are Republican winery owners—both are hard to see through, but when you do, all you see is sex, money, and soundproof glass to keep out the chattering of the 99 Percent. And I also needed to track down Tiny, find out what he’d taken from Avril’s office when I’d found him there going through her papers. Somehow, Tiny was in on all this. He’d do anything for money, and anything else for Nacho Cheese Doritos. But I also needed to make sure that Biola didn’t disappear from my life like Avril, Crystal, Mallory and self-respect had.

“No, not really. He’s kind of skinny. Chuck Roast! Surely, you’ve heard of him. The first American to earn both an M.W. and a Tony Award?”

Of course, I’d heard of Chuck Roast M.W. And, damn, was he good in “La Cage aux Folles.” He created the character of Blanche. Sort of dull, but that’s what you’d expect from “Folles” Blanche. But there was something about Biola Dynamic I didn’t trust. Maybe it was the lisp. It seemed fake, like the bubbles in Sofia sparkling wine, or like Obama giving Rush Limbaugh an award—two ways of introducing gas. But I needed Biola, I needed her to lead me to Avril, and I needed her to help me find out who was killing M.W. candidates, and why. And I sure as hell needed a woman to have sex with by Chapter Fifteen, and the pickin’s were getting slim.

“Is he the guy who wants you to kill Mallory O’Lactic?”

Biola went silent. She turned her back to me, still holding the photograph of Avril, staring down at it. It sounded like she was weeping. I took the opportunity to look her up and down. From behind, she reminded me of Napa Valley. The seams of her black nylons running parallel up her legs like Highway 29 and the Silverado Trail, smooth and straight most of the way, but then getting bumpy. Might be the ass fault. Her skirt covered the valley between her lush Spring Mountain and her slightly more exposed Howell Mountain, and I knew I’d happily dedicate a lifetime trying to grasp each of them, until I knew from the very first whiff their distinct terroir. But the further I went, the more I could feel the chill of Carneros, and I began to feel guilty for seeing Biola as just another sexual appellation for me to learn the boundaries, began to feel that, like the wines of Carneros, I was just another brut dying to be disgorged.

I walked over to Biola and put my hands on her shoulders. Her silky smooth hair had the texture of Dehlinger Pinot Noir, and I detected the slight aroma of her perfume, Savannah-Chanelle No. 5. Pretty cheap crap for a budding M.W. to wear, I thought.

“Don’t worry, Biola,” I told her, “I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.” There he was, that stupid knight in shining armor who showed up whenever a babe with long legs and a nice set of lung balloons needed assistance. I snuggled up as close as I could behind Biola, my arms wrapped around her waist, my body pressed against hers as she continued to quietly sob. Sometimes the best thing for a gentle crush, I thought, is a bladder press.

And the next thing I knew, it was Chapter Fifteen.


20 comments:

David Pierson said...

Nice stuff Ron.. I'm so jealous, like all us hacks with a novel in the drawer.. you know us bullies who can dish it out but can't take it..

Ron Washam, HMW said...

David,
My wife has been after me to write more of Dial MW for Murder. She finally got to me. Made me worry about Avril Cadavril, my all-time favorite Babe. And, it turns out, I miss this stupid, faux Noir, Voice. These are fun to write, and are very much improvisation.

As for Blinky calling me a bully over at STEVE!, I always simply choose to ignore everything he says. Like everyone else.

Andy Perdue said...

Thanks, HoseBully of Wine.

I love this! I'm glad your wife was bugging you. Smart gal. Not sure about her taste in men, but that goes for the entire female of the species.

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Andy,
I've always said I have the perfect wife--beautiful, talented, funny, brilliant, sexy, and no taste in men. We were meant to be together.

It's fun to be back writing the HoseMaster Pulp Fiction Classic. I almost began a new one, but I had to work out the Avril Cadavril disappearance or my wife will kill me. Each chapter is fun to write, and I never know the end until I get there. Sort of like life itself.

Thomas said...

Who called you a bully? I'll have him knock the stick off my shoulder if he says that again.

In any case, my reaction to all the puns and one-liners: g-r-o-a-n to most; laughs to a few.

For what it's worth, this series ain't my favorite and believe me, I know exactly what my opinion is worth around here.

Your'e a freakin' bully!

Thomas said...

oops--you're a, but you know what I ment...

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Thomas,
For what it's worth, it ain't my favorite bit either. But, then, I hate 'em all.

David Pierson said...

Ron, glad Blinky's comment didn't faze you.. I thought it was stupid too.. but equally ludicrous was Steve's proclamation the bloggers were jealous of the paid writers, I wrote, ah the jealousy canard.. I once wrote a column aimed at those assholes who go around wrecking parties with their acoustic guitars.. you're jealous if you don't love their musical ability, or complete lack thereof..
No, I'm not jealous, I just don't want to hear your godawful music.. just like I don't want to read ludicrous wine tasting notes about the snow leopard or with just a hint of asparagus, whether paid or not..
PS... can we expect another 8,000 emails in our inbox telling us about how wonderful your novel is??

Ron Washam, HMW said...

David,
Always best to unsubscribe from the comments. You'll be less jealous of my overwhelming success.

No one's comments faze me. If you dish it out, and I dish it out more than anyone, you have to take it. I've received gigabytes of hate mail in my HoseMaster tenure. To me, and I've said this a million times, it only means I'm doing it right.

Charlie Olken said...

Your wife is right. Unfinished business. Hope we do not have to wait years for the next chapter. Too much fun to be had.

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Charlie,
With any luck, I'll write a chapter a month. Until I get bored with it again. It's a weird piece, and I think it mostly gets tuned out by my readers, but, as I said, when I'm in that voice, it's a helluva good time for me as a writer.

And it makes my wife happy. I always need more marks in that column.

bungsniffer said...

I like the M.W. for murder pieces. You have a way with comparing women's bodies to appellations. My favorite line though was "just another brut dying to be disgorged."

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Bungsniffer,
Thank you. I hear Mickey Spillane in my head when I write Dial MW. He was, possibly, the worst writer of sex scenes in the history of sex scenes. I haven't read Spillane in 40 years, but I think I'm still scarred from his stuff.

Dean Tudor said...

When do we see the pix of Gnat MacLean's hair????

It is just ripe for a roman noir aka pinot noir...or is that penis noir? Talk about French letters!!

Marcia Macomber said...

I'm late! Sorry, my first chance in 2+ days. It's a guilty pleasure/reward for finishing other work.

It is very Mickey Spillane! I'll never be able to drive up and down 29 and the Silverado Trail again without the HoseMaster's metaphor running through my head. Priceless.

Hope you don't have to wait for chapter 20...with your wife... now that you got this chapter filed away.

Marcia Macomber said...

Dang! Correction: "without the HoseMaster's *simile*" about 29 and Silverado running through my head.

Ron Washam, HMW said...

Dean,
I just saw Nat interviewing some poor sommelier in a web video on her site. I'm guessing she won't be calling me for an interview. If she does, I'll be buying one of her wigs to wear during it.

Marcia Love,
Oh, I missed you, Beautiful, but I knew you'd eventually show up. Some things are worth waiting for.

As for Chapter 20, well, it seems the HoseMaster was his usual premature and never even made it to Chapter 15. Seems (seams?) the ride up 29 and the Trail was a bit overstimulating...

george kaplan said...

Avril Cadavril, Chuck Roast and a sharp knife. The possibilities!

Ron Washam, HMW said...

George,
Sorry. Blogger thought you were a spammer. I just now saw your comment(s). Thank you.

Yesterday, I wrote the next Dial MW chapter. Stay tuned. Revelations about Tiny...and, of course, the aftermath of the HoseMaster's fling with Biola Dynamic.

george kaplan said...

I'm touched.