Saturday, 17 August 2019

SERIAL PUBLICATION: The Recalcitrant P.I. ~ Chapter Twelve

THE RECALCITRANT P.I.


a Mac Armstrong mystery


 
by


T.F. Pruden


 
Copyright © 2018 by T.F. Pruden
 

All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author



Twelve


"Evening Ben," Jack nodded to the doorman holding a velvet rope in his veined hand, "is Mac up or down?"

Despite a ten-dollar cover charge on Thursday nights, a line-up waited at the club entrance, though it was not yet ten pm.

"And a good one to you too, Jack," Ben Newberg replied as he unhooked the rope to let him pass, ignoring the outraged pleas from those waiting in line, "you'll find your roomie upstairs."

Jack paused in the bright lit lobby to shake the doorman's hand, returning the powerful grip with a grimace in the shape of a smile.  Mac had roomed with the taciturn Ben, a sharp-witted fellow of prodigious strength despite average dimensions, for several years before marrying Toni.  The men remained close friends, with Newberg serving not only as best man at their wedding but also responsible for landing Armstrong a job at the club.

He was five years the elder of Mac at twenty-nine, a half dozen older than Jack.

"Can I check your coat?" he spoke in a diffident voice.

"Thanks again," Jack replied, "what's the cover?"

Ben handed Jack's coat to an attractive blonde waiting behind a counter.  She exchanged it for a numbered plastic disk.  Ben handed the yellow chip to Jack after shaking his head at the cashier, also waving his other hand to a pair of enormous doormen guarding the entrance to the club's interior.

"Nothing for friends of the house," Ben said, before lowering his voice as the two men turned to the entrance, "say hi to the wife for me and watch out for that shit Mac's smokin', it's badass!"

Jack laughed before answering, lowering his voice while leaning down a couple of inches to speak into Ben's ear.

"I tried it earlier," he said, "hada work the evening shift, gotta cash out in the morning I guess!"

Newberg chuckled in response.

"Hey Teddy," he spoke to the largest of the two men surrounding the club entrance, "can you escort Mr. Zandetzki upstairs to Mac's bar? Thanks again!"

"Yessir," the enormous man replied, "good to see you again Jack."

"Likewise, and thanks again Ted," Jack said, "you're looking sartorially resplendent as usual, I must say."

Theodore Aloysius Reynolds stood six feet tall in size thirteen feet.  Now three weeks into training camp, in the off-season he carried thirty pounds north of three hundred on the wide-bodied frame of a second-year Bison’s offensive lineman.  The comparison most often used when describing the fellow, was that of a coke machine equipped with a head.

Teddy while appreciating the resemblance didn't like it.  To find clothing suited to the extreme requirements of his physique however, presented a significant challenge.  In the routine elegance demonstrated by Jack Zandetzki; a man approximately half his weight though of similar height, he discovered a model after which to pattern his wardrobe.

Though so far, implementation of it showed few signs of success.

"You're keeping well yourself, Jack," the three-hundred-pounder answered with a grin, "love the blazer!"

"Keep up the good work big man," Jack spoke with well-feigned sincerity, "you're looking great!  I can find him on my own from here."

Teddy gave Jack a wink as he lifted the rope blocking a stairway leading to the yet closed upper level of the large night club.  The music pounded as Jack moved past him in semi-darkness, bounding up a pair of short flights to a seating area next to a dance floor.  A bright-lit bar occupied the lengthy back wall of the space, where Mac now readied for a shift soon underway.

Jack waved to him as he topped the stairs.

Mac nodded back.

"Gin and tonic?" he called, barely loud enough to be heard above the rising din.

Jack gave a thumb's up in reply, seating himself on a tall stool as Mac turned to ready his drink.  He noted, to himself with a smile of appreciation, Mac poured the large drink from a bottle taken off the mirrored glass shelf behind the bar.

The liquor gun, home to the cheap stuff, stayed in the rack.

"First one's on me," Mac spoke as he placed the drink onto a coaster in front of Jack with a flourish, "next one's on Leo.  You ready for a hoot?  Gonna open here in just a few, but I gotta get one into me.  Come on, join me for a quick one, your drink'll be waitin' when we get back."

Jack smacked his lips, sighing in relief after a long pull on the tall glass.

"Sounds good," he said, "lead on, bucko!"

Mac slapped him on the back as he moved past after striding with purpose from behind the bar.  His bartending partner Leo, carrying a cash tray in one hand, gave him a high-five with the other as they passed on the way around the dance floor.

"You cashed in?" the slender Leo asked.

"Good to go," Mac replied, "just goin' fer a quick hoot with Jack.  Cya in ten."

"Outstanding," Leo's answer was delivered with a knowing wink, "but I hope you'll save one for after shift."

"Me got you covered, bro!" Mac's reply came with a thumb pointed skyward as he continued around the semi-circular dance floor.

"Hi Jack," the bartender nodded to the roommate, "good to see you."

"Good to see you too Leo," Jack said, "an' it's my gin and tonic behind the bar."

"Got it!" Leonardo answered, "cya wen'ya get back."

The roommates continued past the dance floor, moving in the direction of a DJ booth overlooking the lower floor of the cavernous space.  A second bar, this one proclaiming via neon sign the exclusive sale of shooters, occupied the corner opposite.  A tall brunette, preparing to open it, waved to the men as they passed.

The roommates acknowledged her with matching waves but didn't stop.

Tables with padded chairs surrounding them bracketed the upper dance floor, while booths equipped with benches lined the walls, like upholstered gargoyles in the dim.  Movement in places aside from the dance floor could be accomplished only with difficulty, despite a seeming abundance of square footage.

Mac led Jack down a short hallway behind the DJ booth.  Above a closed door waiting at the end of it a neon sign read 'VIP Room'.  Yet another large doorman stood guarding the entrance.

Mac nodded to the enormous fellow before turning left into a near unlit hallway several steps before reaching him.  Jack followed close behind as only a few paces later he opened an unseen door.

The men stepped out of the club's virtual darkness into a well-lit hallway, empty but for an exit sign at its far-off end.  After closing the door behind him, Jack hurried to catch up as Mac made for the distant sign at going-to-the-pub speed.  Upon reaching it, the men took two flights of stairs to next emerge into a vestibule at the rear entrance of the building.

 Here a young doorman waited in lonely solitude for a door bell’s ring.  When rung by those holding VIP cards, entrance into the club bypassing the line-up out front was assured.  The cover charge remained in effect to those extended this courtesy.  By routine, it was provided to only the biggest spenders.

A single large man, reliably bored while by routine frustrated, from Thursday through Saturday nights would be here positioned.  His task was securing the many hundreds of dollars exchanged for an opportunity to join a party to which he could only listen.

 "Howzit' goin', Cal?" Mac asked the curly headed fellow seated next to the locked steel door.

"Not too shabby, Mac," the two-hundred-eighty pounder, a college-aged power lifter with a face as round as his belly, spoke in a jovial voice, "good to see you too, Jack."

"Goin' fer a hoot Cal," Mac said, "you comin'?"

"No fuckin' way!" Cal replied, "But I'll sure take one after work if you got it."

"Count on it bro," Mac's reply came with a wink.

A moment later, he walked with Jack down the lane a few paces away from the club's back entrance.  Mac lit a fat joint, inhaling deeply before passing it to his roommate.  He coughed lustily before Jack handed the joint back, again tugging greedily on the resinous weed without hesitation.

Jack erupted in a fit of hacking next to him after exhaling a billowing grey cloud into the falling darkness.  After sucking on the doobie, Mac passed it back to his roommate while he recovered from a fit of near doubled-over retching.

A similar routine repeated until the joint was finished.

"That's badass!" Jack spoke first.

"Totally!" Mac replied.

"Can we go in the front?" Jack asked, "I forgot to mention to Ben my date was meeting me here."

"Nah," Mac answered his roommate with a red-eyed grin, "we'll get Cal to radio Teddy at the front, it'll impress her when the lads escort her to meet you at my bar.  Did you tell her to ask for you at the door?"

Mac now leaned his head back to squeeze drops into both eyes.  As he shook them clear he handed the little bottle to Jack.

Jack laughed in delight.

"That’s a hell of a plan bucko!" he said, "and yes, I sure did!"

Jack tended to his eyes before handing the drops back to his roommate.

"Good," Mac replied with eyes now glassy but clear, "let's get back, Leo's probably gettin' swamped upstairs."

After confirming the not unusual plan with Cal, the roommates headed up the back stairs of the club to make their return.  As predicted by Mac, his partner Leo now struggled to keep up with demand caused by opening of the nightclub’s upper level. 

Mac moved with practiced ease through the pressing crowd, heading for the back of the bar while Jack took a seat in front of it.  Jack smiled a moment later when his drink reappeared before him.

He took a long sip, his mouth pasty from the weed.

Jack looked up, a little dazed, to see his roommate smiling at him across the bar.

"You ok?" Mac asked, near shouting to be heard above the increasing volume of the music pounding from the twin dance floors.

Jack grinned back.

"Better!"

Mac winked at him, nodding slightly.

Jack sipped again from the tall glass, staring into the mirror behind the bar with blurred vision.  His date should soon arrive.  The escort was sure to impress her. 

Jack watched his private investigator roommate with casual ease imitate the professional behavior of a nightclub bartender.  It seemed those who worked with him here must be unaware of Mac's day job.

Either that, or they didn't understand the work he did.

Jack understood it too well.

Mac could only be a liability to all who knew him now.  The only one who seemed not to grasp this fact was his roommate.  Poor old clueless Mac, once again the last guy to figure out the pool was empty despite being the first to jump into it.

It seemed to Jack some people were indeed too smart to see a forest despite the presence of many trees.  It could be his old friend Mac, despite an abundance of opportunities to learn otherwise, would prove one of them.

If it should turn out to be so, Mac would need a friend.  Jack decided long ago that come what may, so long as he was around, Mac could count on having at least one.

The way things lately appeared, it seemed inevitable he might soon need it.

He watched in the mirror as Teddy led his date to the bar through the crowded night club, effortlessly clearing people from before them.  Jack nodded to Mac as he slid from his chair to greet the divorcee, at once setting aside the maudlin thoughts.

Everything might go to hell tomorrow, Jack reminded himself with a grin, but shit was happening tonight.

Monday, 27 May 2019

The Twelve Rules For Writing Literature


The Twelve Rules For Writing Literature

By

T.F. Pruden
1. Literature must provide questions, not answers.

The writer's job is sharing experiences, not telling readers what to think about them.  As the fundamental responsibility of art, music and literature is illuminating the condition of society, neither personal opinions nor rhetorical positions are acceptable for inclusion within literary work.  Specifically, the writer must share a story, while keeping both opinions and answers out of it.

2. Literature must be known by experience, not reported as bystander.

A writer may factually document only that which individual temporal experience personally reveals.  Specifically, third-party information must be identified in first-person narratives, with omniscient narration based on science, observed, or related behavior employed only when or if judged necessary to best serve the story.

3. Literature must respect the rules of grammar, not serve them.

The writer must demonstrate mastery of the craft.  As such, basic guidelines of mid-twentieth century English grammar are to be observed, aside from within dialogue.  While splitting the infinitive for reasons of style is approved meanwhile, use of the vernacular must always be limited to either first-person narratives or dialogue.  Specifically, this rule prohibits sentences from ending with prepositions, while those begun with prepositional phrases require use of a comma. 


4. Literature must provide only facts, not beliefs.

As science is fact while history but opinion, so genre fiction is entertainment and not to be confused with literature.  For a work to be literary, the facts of temporal reality must compose and provide the entirety of theme, plot and characterization.  Specifically, this rule identifies that while opinions are certainly as common as assholes, they have no place in literature.

5. Literature must be written individually, not by committee.

A writer must work alone, from a project's start to its completion. The writer's work is not finished when either draft or manuscript is completed. While editorial feedback is encouraged prior to engaging the revision process, neither line editing nor collaboration of any kind is allowed at any time. Specifically, this rule approves the use of word processing and editing software but limits third-party assistance to feedback, proofreading and copy editing.

6. Literature must provide historical perspective, not timely reportage.

Experience while most often the best teacher, must be allowed the benefit of time's perspective to be appreciated. The writer must not allow emotions or desire for timeliness to limit the perspective achieved only by distance and time. Specifically, this rule prevents the damning of a work to either period or emotional influence by requiring writing driven by fashions, fads or favorites be avoided.

7. Literature must be grammatically constrained, not mutilated.

While appropriate for the writer to incorporate specific language constraints to demonstrate literary mastery, such constraints must always be near invisible to the reader and incorporated throughout a work.  Specifically, this rule identifies either loss of grammatical consistency or stylistic readability in support of constraint as not acceptable.

8. Literature must be thematically defined, not limited.

While multiple thematic elements are acceptable within a single work, each must be effectively represented within its context.  Specifically, this rule recognizes broad implementation of either symbolism or metaphor as suitable but requires single-sentence thematic statements provided in explanation for a work be suggested within the text.

9. Literature must respect tradition, not deny it.

Defending traditional literary forms requires an understanding of the difference between influence and respect.  Those either hidebound by conformity or blindly devoted to innovation miss the point of not only literature, but also music and art.  The timeless secrets of form and function valuable to writers from all ages meanwhile, are most reliably discovered within classical works.  Specifically, this rule confirms those who don't read good books suffer a far greater loss than they who can't and requires the writer to read and implement the lessons found there.

10. Literature must be stylistically consistent, not obtrusive.

No matter what is being written, literature must incorporate a narrative voice appropriate to the writer's taste, not that of either desired audience or treasured results. Consistency of literary style builds trust between reader and writer, and from that rises verisimilitude. Specifically, this rule identifies the intellectual and emotional bond created by consistent and unobtrusive style as necessary to a believable and lasting literary experience.

11. Literature must serve the story, not its writer.

The point of writing novels is neither enriching nor ennobling writers but documenting the ever-evolving conditions of life on earth.  As talking about and promoting the work might damage or affect its process, a writer must avoid intrusions related to fame, fortune and notoriety.  Specifically, to achieve success a writer must choose to write, not speak.

12. The writer must write, not make excuses for it.

As a wise man said long ago, to be, one must do.  Thus, to earn the authentic title of writer requires the act of writing be an undeniable and lifelong habit bordering on obsessive compulsion.  To those who must, the work produced should then and ever be allowed to speak for itself.  Specifically, this rule prohibits the writer from either written response to critics and criticism or seeking of awards and plaudits.

 

T.F. Pruden

Thorsby, Alberta, Canada

2014

 

“Do not seek perfection, which is death.  Let it seek you.” ~ William Saroyan, 1908-1981

 

Thursday, 21 March 2019

Cards on the table.


Because it needs doing, this writer does it.

A fellow somewhat renowned for lack of ambition, were someone else tending to it, you may rest assured a man would not persist with effort both thankless and difficult.

For to this writer, the well of whatever from which the words spring has ever been both mystery and necessity.  A man was also forced, long ago, to accept that a life-long struggle learning to master and control what ~ from the outside ~ amounts to little more than angst-ridden neuroses propped up by emotional immaturity, could lead to neither popularity nor riches.

Despite this knowledge and with serious intent, the writer kept the business to himself through what was a lengthy and often public life.  Not because he wanted to, but as result of knowing it should not be managed by any other means.

For to know, there is but a single way.  One must be.  This according to a man reckoned wise by minds brighter than this, who is claimed to have once said ~ paraphrased here ~ that to be, one must do.

Long ago, in a land far away, this writer drank of that beverage.

Everything since was as result.

To make sense of it, one must first accept that playing a part, like an actor, is not a substitute for living life.  Nor is reporting of its events, from any perspective, be it live or from a historical viewpoint, considered here a realistic documentation of facts suitable for fictional history.  For by now, we should all know most of the stuff that fills our textbooks, web searches and news sources was written by peons at work on behalf of history’s winners.

The paradox and failure of most writer’s work, after all, is a need to report third-hand information as first-hand knowledge.

So it is, and so it shall remain.

For this writer, even second-hand information is much like moral authority, a necessary evil considered best practiced by others.  In these parts, the job is telling the facts of how it was for a participant, not telling you what to think, believe or feel about it.

Like it or not, life remains short, brutal and dumb.  The long-term danger of whitewashing both history and diversity, though often convenient, has rarely been more apparent in western democracy than it is just now.  A society spoon-fed single-viewpoints in search of homogeneity without acknowledging the sometimes-bitter facts regarding alternative lifestyles or differing perspectives, eventually leads to repressive and stunted political regimes marked by divisive populism and tyranny of the masses.

These are facts of early twenty-first century life.

The challenge to writers and artists in all disciplines, everywhere but here in the west particularly, is responding to the times in which we live and create history together.

As the next man, this writer leaves the crumbs he can produce to mark a trail for those who might seek to find them.

That’s part of what it means to be a responsible individual around here.

As required by such a philosophy, the writer works to record what happened, not as observer, but as participant.  In each case, with a first goal of telling how it was.  That means including the hard stuff, and not dressing up or rationalizing any of it.

How it went, is all that’s been told.

The characters you meet in this writer’s work may not be beautiful or famous, but they reflect a shared time and common experiences lived not so long ago.  A man is also comfortable saying that like many of us, most of them do the best they can to get by, and that’s about all that can be asked of anyone.  Thus, though like a mirror easily distorted, literature provides a lingering reminder of the endlessly confounding and multi-dimensional nature of our shared temporal existence.  Able only to reflect that which might pass before it, the looking-glass yet reveals secrets we find near impossible to either resist or deny.

In that way, this writer’s work seeks to provide a reflection of the singular experience of a markedly small and decidedly underrepresented group of people from within the cultural and historical mosaic that composes life in modern Canada.  The goal is to create a recording of a rarely-told individual history, written neither from a need for apology nor desire for reconciliation, but rather as an unvarnished and uniquely Canadian history that reveals the facts of life in post-colonial society.

For here, just as people do everywhere, we recreate each other using images distorted by perspective, for better and for worse.  This writer’s sole purpose and art’s real societal value ~ the raison d’etre for each ~ is achieved only by revealing that fact.

To this writer, there can be nothing more.

As the reader, everything else is up to you.

Thanks for being here and thanks for sharing the blog.

 

  • TFP
    March 21, 2019
     

Monday, 11 February 2019

RIP Mr. Koko Pruden, December 5, 2002 - February 11, 2019

After a brief illness, with great sadness I must report the passing of my adorable, Mr. Koko Pruden.
The resolute dog has left the building.
A little man in a hair suit made completely of love, Mr. Koko was my best friend, ever and always. The last of the actual road dogs, Mr. Koko stood guard for Harwill at over 1500 show stops and traveled more than a million kilometers from coast-to-coast and throughout North America. We spent the best days of our lives together and my baby boy gave love to the end before passing away in the arms of his papa.
Beloved by all before circumstance brought him to live with me at age two, throughout his life Mr. Koko also found great joy loving and caring for his original and extended families. For the life we shared and all I learned from him, there can be no recompense other than to report he taught me how to live. The subject of 2015 #1 hit song 'I love my dog (the ballad of Mr. Koko)' on the US Americana charts, there never was, nor could there ever be, another like him.
Though our tears must fall, the love and wisdom of his teachings lives in our hearts forever.
So long pard, it's been good to know you.


- TFP
   Feb 11, 2019

Sunday, 3 February 2019

Age vs. Wisdom


I’m a recluse, not a hermit.

To confirm this fact, simply look up the Webster’s dictionary definition of each or a little not-so-well-known history.  Soon enough, what’s revealed is that by this time, I’ve lived a long and quite public life.  That a fellow surviving such adventures might occasionally want the curtain pulled should be no surprise.

What ought to shock, is interest in prolonging said travail.

Yet even now, having lived this life so long, a man discovers want for more of it!

Or perhaps, and more likely in fact, the veil of ignorance is lifted last for those gifted with a fool’s nature.  In either case, a man’s none the wiser and better off to appreciate the news for what it’s worth.

For there are secrets not only there, but many stories yet to be discovered.

On that basis alone, for the writer, a misery is worth its continuance.

Those of certain experience know well of what I speak.  For the rest, warnings are plentiful regarding the dangers of venturing down an uncharted path.  To any pursuing such knowledge, however, they must accept the reticent sharing of caring forebears most as desire for these appreciations to be their own, un-poisoned by inevitable cynicism.

Rather than a result of fearful indecision, understood only by those old enough to know and forced to live with it.  For that which we accept as the arrow of time itself demands an inviable fact must ever remain; the more one knows, the more one must appreciate how little it is possible to understand.

As result, the experts upon whom the world of every age depends multiply with the requisite exponential scale of the population, rendering factual appreciation of the simplest of daily experiences more insensible as time passes.  For example, consider no less than the conundrum of early 21st century society, wherein the planet literally drowns in terabytes of so-called ‘data’, but remains functionally illiterate to the assorted realities of modern life itself.

Without a ‘guy’, a video or a search engine to answer questions, as the years pass the functional distance between life elemental and the individual does also increase on a seeming exponential basis.  It must also be noted as fact however, that whatever existential discomfort such thought might expose pales in comparison to its recompense upon the daily temporal experience of an individual.

Welcome to the party ~ did anyone mention we’re soaking in it?

However, at this point I must digress, as by now it’s far too late to close that particular door, for either reader or writer.  It’s also not why you’re here, and we both know that.  Welcome to you and here’s hoping it’s worth your effort.

As the writer, I’ve also searched for an elusive something, far longer now than reason might defend according to the calendar.  Like most everyone else, at one time or another I’ve decided I’d found whatever it was for which I believed I’d searched.  Again, like those with a taste for the facts, only time would eventually reveal my mistake.

Most often, when confronted by the consequences of them the response here has not been gracious.

To a man’s great good fortune, it turns out there’s no one of any consequence keeping score aside from the fellow living within an individual’s mind.  Despite assurances from the latest ‘secure’ technologies and the relentless mining of ‘private’ personal information by social media, it’s also objectively clear utopia won’t be found by subjectively responding to society’s ills with more of it.

Of course, you’re likely wise to those facts or why would you still be here?

Much like myself, you made it here seeking an answer.  To what or how you arrived makes no difference.  By now, the search is either something of which you’re oblivious or serve as slave to obsession, though in many cases it’s an often-frustrating mix of both.

If we share nothing else, this writer bets a desire to be rid of it spars with the love for its blessing within you, perhaps daily.  Of certain value, you must also beware bets placed here are most often upon the writer than a favorite.  Let there be no doubt, that’s result of an ignorant man’s bliss.

For quoted odds rely upon the irrefutable science of mathematics for their predictions, making betting against them the futile act of a senseless gambler.  Those who would do so repeatedly, by and for whatever excuse or explanation, can therefore make no objective claim to either wisdom or sanity.

Let alone coach you with claims of existential insight or profound enlightenment.

For the answer accepted here is as horribly clear as that we most certainly dread.  The more you know, the less you can.  Like the speed at which moves light, beyond that is only darkness.

Unfortunately, the only experience known to our kind that does not end, is change.  Thus, change itself is the experience feared most.  Leaving those such as you and me here, relentlessly seeking an alternative to a hopelessly foregone conclusion despite claiming an existential acceptance for a temporal plane of existence.

My answer to this miserable but fact-bound circumstance was, is and ever shall be revealed only in my writing.  To put it succinctly, if not written by my own hand, it’s not a fact of either how I lived nor what I thought, believed or desired to communicate, and must be disregarded.  The analog to the speed at which light moves here, is beyond that which I have written is only bullshit.

For the writer worked as this man lived, by a code of his own design.

Science now teaches us a black hole of uncertain but immense dimension lies at the centre of our universe, much like a distant analog to the fearful blackness underlying the concept of mortality for our kind.  In each case, individual awareness of the facts makes little subjective difference to the experience of either.

Whether good fortune or bad, that also seems a reliable feature of temporal reality.

To those wanting more, my latest novel ‘The Recalcitrant P.I.’ is now available most everywhere on Amazon.

Thanks for being here and thanks for sharing.

 

  • TFP
    February 3, 2019
     

Thursday, 24 January 2019

Literary Notions



As the responsible individual can only know that believed to be factual, the value of a personal library is considered beyond measure in these parts. While most humble, the shelves here make room only for those works considered worth reading again. To a child of the book, from this and little more is happiness composed.
As a writer since early in my youth, I've always done plenty of reading. Despite or perhaps due to advancing years, I consider time spent with most any book wisely invested. I also admit to being a library card holder & the buyer of many a used volume. Those not returned to the library or finding a home on one of my shelves, are donated to the local Salvation Army. Because no matter how many times a book is read, to every reader its words are new.
I love books. Always have & ever will. To me they're like magic, reliably opening doors unimagined & imagining doors previously believed closed. If an opened mind is what you seek, I recommend reading as many of them as you can find.
As contempt prior to investigation is a bar against all knowledge, reading & books are some of the only safeguards against the scourge of ignorance & intolerance. The world being what it is, these few tools are all that stands between modern society & a return to the bigotted, racist & homophobic inequities of the past. While only those aware of the delicate veil from which civilization is constructed seem cognizant of these facts, we're all best-served to beware of them.
For those living outside the top levels of society however, the veneer of civilization remains little more than worn cheesecloth. From my Aboriginal cousins living without safe drinking water in Canada to refugees fleeing violent conflicts abroad, those with the least continue to suffer the most everywhere. People with sense enough to notice or non-white themselves meanwhile, don't miss the outsized role skin color plays in these economic divides. For like most everything else found on earth, racism breeds racism. Neither ignoring the facts nor spouting rhetoric changes any of it.
That concept provides the basis for The Mac Armstrong mysteries & the plot of my latest novel. The Recalcitrant P.I. is available now on Amazon most anywhere. If you're a person with interest in such things, it's likely worth a look.
Thanks for being here. Enjoy the read & love your life.


- TFP
  Jan 24, 2019