PRE-HOLIDAY SALE -- ALL 9 BRETT BOOKS -- only 99 CENTS each. . .

. . .which means that, for under $10.00, you can have the ENTIRE SERIES (all 9 books) on your KINDLE -- within minutes !!!


Caution: Reading one Brett book after another may be hazardous to your mental health !!!


Disclaimer: The author refuses to accept responsibility for any unscrupulous-bastard type of behavior the reader may begin to exhibit after reading a single Brett Cornell comedy-mystery !!!

TRAILER for "BRETT CORNELL, UNSCRUPULOUS"

Check out this brief trailer for the proposed TV-pilot "BRETT CORNELL, UNSCRUPULOUS" -- based on "The Supreme Unscrupulous Bastard" himself.

The film itself was actually written and directed by my cousin Darlene, and the lead-up to the Brett Cornell series involves a true incident wherein the unedited manuscript for "BEACH BUM BRETT" accidentally wound up on the front desk of her BOSS at work.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKZvzfB5M3c


Unfortunately, neither HBO, Starz, Cinemax, or Showtime appear to be interested in picking up the series for next season's line-up.


As Brett would put it: "It must suck to be THEM !!!"

BRETT ARGUES CULTURE with LOLA BUCHANAN

In this brief exchange from "IT'S ALL BRETT'S FAULT" (Brett Cornell Mystery #7), Brett tries to convince his current girlfriend (Lola Buchanan) that he knows more about CULTURE than she does!

 “I’ll have you know, baby-doll, that when it comes to culture, you’re looking at the guy who could write a whole freakin’ book on the subject, if he really wanted to.”

 

 “Oh, please!” she began, even going so far as to accompany the words with a rather sarcastic laugh.

 

 “I’ll bet you didn’t know that, when I was in high school, the teacher took us on a field trip to one of them fancy auditoriums in downtown Providence which, as everyone knows, is the freakin’ hub of civilization, right? – My old lady even paid good money and signed the little permission slip thingy so I could go, too – and I sat through a whole performance of Porky and Bess—and without even falling asleep, neither! How’s that for culture, baby?”

 

Whereupon Little Lola – or should I call her Little Miss I-Know-More-About-Culture-Than-Anybody-Else? – drew herself up, pursed her cute little rose-colored lips, and retorted,

 

 “Porky and Bess, huh? Well, in case you’re interested –“

 

“Which I ain’t, but I suppose you’re gonna tell me anyways –“

 

“The name of the work in question is Porgy and Bess – not Porky!”

 

“And how would you know what show I went to see, huh? You weren’t even there!” I shot right back at her, not to be outdone by a girl who wasn’t even in the same league as me when it came to sharp-witted banter and the like.

 

 

 

 

 

MORAL OF THE STORY: Never argue with an UNSCRUPULOUS BASTARD. You can't possibly win, since the rules are slanted in the unscrupulous bastard's favor !!!

BRETT'S PHILOSOPHY ON LIFE (Does he even HAVE one???)

Contrary to what many people may think, it isn't always easy for good old Brett to lead the life of an unscrupulous bastard par excellence.

On the other hand, since Brett himself has honed the required skills all through the years -- ever since he was just a little tadpole of five or six years old -- it's not as difficult as one might think.

And so, here's Brett's (so-called) Philosophy on Life, as related by him in the opening chapter of "IT'S ALL BRETT'S FAULT" (Brett Cornell Mystery #7):

I am known, by most people who have had the fortune or misfortune of crossing my path, as an unscrupulous bastard, and if anybody wants to make a stink about it, I’ll gladly arrange to meet them some place and straighten them out, Cornell-style, which ain’t gonna be pretty, let me tell you. What’s funny, though, is that those who complain about it the loudest are usually the ones who get the shit kicked out of them in real life, either literally or figuratively. I’m sure everyone’s familiar with the old adage “Nice guys finish last”; well, I’m the man that’s out to prove that the expression “Unscrupulous bastards finish first” is even more valid in today’s anything-goes, I’ll-step-on-your-toes type of world. In all thirty-seven years of my existence, I’ve never run across a guy with scruples who could honestly call himself a happy man. How can you be happy when you go to bed every night worrying whether you did something wrong or not, or whether you may have somehow offended somebody, or whether so-and-so will still like you the next day after you did this, that, and the other thing during the course of your daily activities? For my own part, I went to bed every night focused in my mind on two things and two things only: how much money can I cram into my bank account, and how many gorgeous babes can I sweet-talk into sharing their sex lives with me in the days and years ahead. Once I get my hands on every buck I can, I’ll be able to lie back and savor the fruits of life to the fullest without having to bust my butt every single day like other people and try to make an honest living, because truth to tell, I ain’t like other people. I’m a big lug who’d just as soon smash you to the ground than have to deal with you in any way, especially if I can’t use you in a way that’ll get me closer to either more tail or more money. Also, truth to tell, I don’t need nobody’s help in getting tail, either, since most of the time I’ve got enough on hand to keep me pretty well satisfied. It’s that way now, and it’s been that way, too, ever since I was in junior high school, when even the high school chicks were tearing each other’s eyeballs out of their sockets just to be the next one in line to enjoy the honor of being one of my next daily dalliances, as I would often fondly refer to them.

  I’ve been a private detective for a few years now, and while it’s not always an honest living the way being a politician would be (yeah, right!), I can at least say I’ve got my own office and an apartment that’s got running water and electricity, provided I can talk some sweet young thing into paying a few of my bills for me. That’s more than most other guys can say, I bet. And when I turn forty, I’ll be moving out of my comfortable little apartment and moving on down to Easy Street where the babes can take turns seeing which of them could keep me going strong the longest, while I’d just be lying back feeding the old belly, drinking one Heineken after another, and smoking the choicest tobaccos known to man.

     Every once in a while, as I struggled with the weights on that hot Friday afternoon, I’d call that fancy dream of mine to mind, and believe it or not, I’d be able to summon forth that extra strength and push that sucker up from my chest with comparative ease. Nothing like the thought of a juicy piece of ass or a thirst-quenching beer to get the old adrenaline going, right?

     But I was a long way from Easy Street, let me tell you, and a lot closer to Skid Row. And that’s why being an unscrupulous bastard was not only quite natural to me, but also an essential ingredient of my character if I expected to achieve my goals. It was kind of like the professional wrestling shows I used to watch on T. V. when I was a just a little tadpole of five or six years old, you know, with the bad guy getting away with all kinds of nastiness and still emerging as the victor, while the referee just stood there playing with himself and not noticing a damned thing that was going on in the ring.

    

Well, if Brett really has it all figured out, folks, then WHY DOES HE NEARLY GET HIMSELF KILLED in every novel he's appeared in so far???

Answer? -- Self-explanatory !!!

MY 5-STAR REVIEW for "FADING EMPIRES" (volume 1) by IAN KANE

Every so often, I take a break from my writing (I guess you could call it a much-needed "Brett Break") and take on the challenge of acquainting myself with a new author, i.e. one that I'm totally unfamiliar with.

On one such occasion, I dove right into Ian Kane's novel "FADING EMPIRES" (Volume 1) and, even though it was outside my usual genre, I was totally blown away by it and anxiously look forward to future volumes in the series.

Here's what I wrote as a review of the novel, awarding it a much-deserved 5-Star rating:

"If subsequent novels in this series are as good as this initial entry, then it's safe to say that Ian Kane has a sure winner on his hands!

Expertly written in such a way that it successfully captures and holds onto the reader's attention from start to finish, this book vividly conjures up a world that is often quite nightmarish, especially in the sense that a future of this nature is not exactly out of the question, considering the often unpredictable tide of global events.

And yet, despite the creepiness, it's re-assuring to note that characters like Kilbane and (especially) Lita are able to retain their sense of humanity and compassion, rendering the events of this novel all the more life-like. Contrast is provided, of course, in characters like Pike (my favorite), whose bullying nature emerges as all the more dangerous, considering his powerful physique.

Zigzagging back and forth from one scene to another, the narrative is often episodic in nature, but this technique only serves to enhance the tension that is created in the mind and mood of the reader.

I can easily picture this as a Showtime or HBO series, and in the best of all possible worlds, it would surely be considered highly competitive.

Needless to say, I'll probably be investing a good deal of my time in reading future volumes of this series."

Check it out!

DAVE

POOR BRETT !!

It appears more and more obvious, as time goes on, that leading the life of a SUPREME UNSCRUPULOUS BASTARD has its definite disadvantages!


Several months ago, a gentleman who had just finished reading "BRETT GETS HAMMERED" told me in a private e-mail that, at one point in the novel, Brett made him so angry that he felt like punching him right in the face !!!


Now -- in this recent review of "WEDDING BELLS FOR BRETT" -- a young woman makes this statement at the end of her review:


"I really liked this book, as it was filled with humour, and had me laughing right till the end. I'd like to wring Brett's neck and bring him down a peg or two!"   (Italics mine.)


Poor, poor Brett! One person wants to punch him right in the face, while another person would like to wring his neck!

And to think:   I created this monster!


Brett's response: "What do I care, when it's just so great, being me!"

DOUG PETRIE LOSES IT IN BRETT'S OFFICE (from "Brett Enters the Square Circle")

Here's the 2nd half of Chapter 23 of "BRETT ENTERS THE SQUARE CIRCLE" (Brett Cornell Mystery #5), in which Brett delivers the report to his client (Doug Petrie) regarding the missing girl he's been hired to locate.

The paragraphs below (as usual) are told in the first-person, from Brett's point of view:

     And so, after arriving back home to shower and trim the old mustache, muss up the curls a little bit to give them that natural, unruly look, and everything else that needed to be done before leaving the apartment, I got back in the car and drove on over to my private office downtown. Then, upon getting my fine derriere ensconced in the old swivel-chair, I leaned back in utter comfort and relaxation, held the phone to my ear, and soon found myself speaking to good old Doug Petrie.

    “You’re back? Already?” the man exclaimed, quite astonished when he heard my voice and I told him that our “mission” had been accomplished.

     “Why act surprised, little guy?” I retorted. “This is Brett Cornell you’re dealing with here, not some two-bit private eye who don’t know his ass from his donkey.”

     “So? What – what can you tell me?” he said, and I could tell immediately that “nerved-up” was to be the emotion of the day, as usual, for Officer Petrie. Whereupon I told him to calm down, take a chill pill, and come on over to my office, so I could deliver my official report to him in person.

     “Well, can you at least tell me –“

     “Woops, gotta hang up! The two F.B.I. agents I contacted last week are on their way into my office right now to consult me on a top-secret government assignment we’ve recently been collaborating on, so give me another hour or so, then come on down.” And I dropped the receiver onto its hook, then straightened out the hairs of my mustache as I complimented myself on my ability to lie so convincingly and on the spur of the moment, too. Of course, in dealing with gullible saps like Doug Petrie, it was a lot easier to do than usual.

     And so, almost sixty minutes later on the dot, Petrie poked his head in, gave me a weak smile, and waited for me to finish blowing out just one more smoke ring before mashing out my cigarette, then I motioned him to come in and even invited him to take a seat.

     “That’s O.K., Brett, I’ll remain standing,” he said, twisting his cap nervously about between the fingers of both hands in front of him. (What else was new?) “I’m kind of – anxious – even worried about what you’re about to tell me – you know – about Stacey.”

     “Fine, just stand there then,” I told him,” but if I see piss start rolling down the side of your leg and out the cuff of your pants, I’m gonna make you lick it up off the floor before I let you leave this office.”

      “And? So?” Officer Petrie prodded me, uttering each word in a soft, but shaky voice.

      “In a word –“ I said to him, and then paused for sweeping dramatic effect, “ – I’ve found Stacey Ashton for you!”

      Instantly, instead of revealing an increase of nerves, the guy stiffened up, and he stared at me in disbelief – or so it seemed to me at the time.

      “You found her!” he finally blurted out. “You found her? Where? Where did you find her?”

      “Why, in Philadelphia, you stupid little Dumbelina!” I told him with a sharp, brittle laugh. “That’s where she told Melanie she’d be, and that’s where she told the old biddy she worked with she’d be, and sure enough, that’s where I found her.”

      “But how – that is, how could you possibly have known where to look for her?” the guy wanted to know, his brows knit but his hands holding tightly onto his cap without twisting it around in his fingers.

     “Well, this is the thing, man,” I replied with a slight shrug of my shoulders. “From the very beginning of this whole business, I got the impression that you and your slut sister never really had enough confidence in my abilities as a private detective. Am I right, or am I right?” I naturally didn’t give him time to answer that, neither was I the least bit curious as to how he’d respond to the question, anyways. “You just paid me a fair amount of money to go to Philly and locate this gal, I did just as you asked, and now you’re finding it hard to believe, ‘cause you don’t see how I could have possibly done it?” Then, without giving him any time at all to consider that question either, I took the photograph of Stacey Ashton out of my shirt pocket and tossed it across the room in his direction, knowing damned well that he’d reach down and pick it up from the floor as soon as he saw it land there. “There you have it, man. There’s a photograph of the gal in question.”

     Petrie, upon bringing the photograph closer so as to examine it as completely as he needed to, slowly ended up lowering it back down and, looking across at me with utter seriousness, he said to me,

     “Where did you get this?”

     “Is it her?” I shot back at him, just to avoid answering his question a little longer, thus increasing the odds of his actually wetting his pants while I did that.

      “Yes, it’s her – but that doesn’t answer the question: Where did you get this?”

      “It don’t matter where I got it. It’s her, right? Of course it is. You just admitted it.” Then I shifted my weight around slightly in my swivel-chair and smiled quite broadly at him. “But it don’t matter, either, if I tell you where I got it.” The guy seemed to perk up on the spot, so I told him,” I got it from her cousin.”

      “Her cousin?”

      “Don’t stand there, looking like such a damned idiot!” I couldn’t help saying to him. “Yeah, I got it from her cousin Vera, who lives in Philadelphia. I spoke to Vera, and I spoke to Stacey – and that’s about the size of it.”

     “And – Stacey’s all right? Nothing’s happened to her?” the guy asked me, and there was a slight glimmer of hope starting to come into his eyes right then and there.

     “She’s fine, man, and as loose as a goose in a noose – in a manner of speaking, of course,” I assured him. “The only thing is: She says she ain’t ever coming back here to Rhode Island.”

      Almost as though he hadn’t really heard what I’d just told him – or possibly it hadn’t really penetrated his thick skull, the man bit his lip for a moment, then smiled a bit weakly, and said to me,

     “So, she’s all right, you say. Nothing’s happened to her, right?”

      “Uh, I’m sorry I neglected to get her to sign a sworn affidavit to that effect, pal,” I retorted, starting to grow tired and impatient with this whole scene that was being enacted in front of me.  “You should be happy, though, knowing that she’s fine and nothing’s happened to her. Right?”

      Then, after a brief pause during which time Petrie didn’t seem to have the nerve to actually look me in the eye, he gradually put a smile on his face, agreed with me that he now had every reason to be happy, and then turned and went out the door.

      Feeling a bit exhausted, but slightly amused by the way the guy continued to carry on every time he stood in front of me in my office, I almost absent-mindedly took out another Marlboro, and then a match to light it with –

     -- and then Doug Petrie suddenly came storming back into my office.

     “You’re a goddamned liar!” he shouted at me, and then he rushed right up to my desk and flung the photo of Stacey Ashton on top of it. “I don’t trust you, man! And I don’t believe you! You’re just telling me all this, just to get me out of your hair!”

     “Get the –“ I started to tell him, without even raising my voice or getting the least bit perturbed.

     “She’s not in Philadelphia!” he then cried out, raising his voice in such a way that it went off-pitch and sounded almost strangulated. “She’s in Manhattan – visiting her father! She’s there, I just know it! – And I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to go there and find her and bring her back! A thousand dollars, Brett! Just think what you could do with all that money!”

       “Get out of my office,” was all I could think of to say to him. Well, on second thought, I toyed with the idea of suggesting that he find himself a good shrink who might be able to help him find his way back down to Planet Earth, but in all honesty, the guy was starting to creep me out.

       As it happened, though, I didn’t have to repeat my request that he leave my office. In fact, I didn’t really get a chance to speak another word to him, as he suddenly got a blank look on his face, and then he started backing away from my desk. Then, looking right at me but without really seeing me – or so it seemed – he kept backing away and said to me,

      “Just stay away from me from now on. I don’t trust you. I – I’m afraid of you -- and I’m afraid of what you might do to me –“

       Then he shut his lips tightly together, got a kind of stoned look on his face, and turned around to sort of stumble his way out of my office.

       I deliberately allowed a full sixty seconds to pass by without even making another move, in the event that he should suddenly decide to come back inside my office and launch another verbal attack against me --and if that were to happen, I’d immediately and personally put in the necessary call to the nearest psych ward and have them send somebody on over to take him away.

       But the sixty seconds passed, and I finally struck a match and lit the cigarette I’d placed between my lips when Petrie had left my office the first time around. Then, with my surroundings perfectly still and quiet, I smoked my butt in peace.

       But I certainly wasn’t at ease, as it slowly was beginning to dawn on me that I might never be able to put this whole affair behind me, since it was becoming more and more apparent that I might never figure out where Stacey Ashton’s body had been stashed.

       And yet – standing in the April sunlight a few months later – I realized that I should have known. I should have figured it out a lot sooner than I actually ended up doing.

Ciao for now, folks!

DAVE

BRETT/GINGER CONFRONTATION (from "DON'T MESS WITH BRETT")

Since serious moments hardly ever take place in the various comedy-mysteries that comprise the Brett Cornell Series -- and comic moments abound, certainly! -- I thought I'd highlight an unusually dramatic scene from DON'T MESS WITH BRETT (the last completed Brett book, so far).

After not having come face to face with each other after the moment, several months back, when he told her he hated her more than anyone else in his entire life, Brett and Ginger finally come face to face, when she appears unexpectedly in his private office.

As always, the writing is in the first-person (Brett's point of view).

It goes like this:

    She looked the same as ever – yet different, insofar as her hair was pulled back instead of hanging loosely the way I was used to seeing it. Her face looked whiter than usual, and there was hardly any make-up on it – not that she ever overdid the mascara and rouge and all that other crap, since she never needed to do that, given the fact that she possessed a natural beauty that never failed to take my breath away, whenever the moment would seize me – unexpectedly – and I’d realize that I was in the presence of one of the most beautiful creatures I’d ever laid eyes on. And I had even come to regard her as a woman who was much too good for a lousy unscrupulous bastard like me, a woman who deserved a guy who would treat her like the golden beauty she actually happened to be – until Bailey’s words shattered that whole image on me and sent my spirits crashing down, down, down as far as they could go.

    I expected her eyes to convey the deep sadness and hurt that I’d been told she had experienced after my words of hate and rejection had cut deep into her very soul – but instead, I saw that those same dark eyes were alive with emotion. Could it be anger? Possibly even contempt? In any case, I still let slip out from between my lips the words that were the only ones I could utter just then.

    “You look – absolutely beautiful,” I said to her, forgetting for that one moment in time that I was the guy whose every feeling of any value had always remained buried so deep inside of me, that I never even knew such a one existed. But then – based on what happened after those words slipped out – I began to regret ever having betrayed my innermost convictions by expressing how I actually felt upon seeing her for the first time after all those months had passed by us.

    “I know I’m supposed to keep out of your sight – forever, as you put it,” she said to me, her voice sounding louder than mine had been when I told her how beautiful she looked. “And I know that you hate me more than anyone else you’ve ever hated in your entire life – which must be quite a lot, considering your shitty attitude towards everyone you ever meet –“

    “Ginger –“ That’s all I had a chance to say.

    “But that’s neither here nor there,” she continued. “Since you already hate me so much, I figured I’d might as well come over here this morning and tell you exactly how I’m feeling right now.”

    “I feel bad, too – “ And again, she interrupted me!

    “Oh, I don’t feel bad at all,” she came back with,” not nearly as bad as I did these past several months. No, Brett, darling, what I’m feeling right now is a combination of anger, scorn, and sheer indignation over the thought that you could have been so horribly STUPID as to believe what that animal told you when he had you up against the ropes at the end of the second round of that boxing match you had that afternoon.” I guess I looked like I was about to say something, because she immediately raised her voice at me and yelled,” Yeah! Stupid! You actually believed that grade-A piece of crap when he told you that he and I were having sex – Instead of trusting me and believing in what we had together, you immediately jumped to the conclusion that the words coming out of that stinking mouth of his were true – Instead of having faith in me, you were willing to put all of your trust in the words of a man you knew to be despicable, evil, and rotten to the core! I always knew that you could be headstrong and stubborn and downright impossible to deal with on many levels and on many, many an occasion, but I never thought you could be so incredibly STUPID!”

    “Hey, babe, what else could I think when he –“ (Yeah, I know, I got interrupted once again and probably deserved it.)

    “What else could you think?” she argued, and then she actually smiled; but it was an evil, gloating type of smile that churned my stomach when I saw it on her, of all people! “What else could you think, when you knew – when I told you – when I thought that there couldn’t be any doubt in your mind whatsoever that I was completely in love with you, as you were with me, as well?”

    I had no chance to be interrupted, because I was temporarily speechless.

    “That’s right, Brett. Don’t deny it. You were just as much in love with me as I was with you. I could feel it in the warmth of your embrace, in the touch of your hand upon mine, in the way you held me close to you after we’d solidified our passion for each other countless times in the privacy of our bedroom. But most of all, I saw it in your eyes every time I stepped into your line of vision. I saw and was moved by the expression of child-like delight that radiated from your eyes every time my eyes met yours. I knew you loved me, even though you wouldn’t say it and wouldn’t even admit to yourself that you loved me every bit as much as I loved you.

    “But you were willing to throw it all away,” she went on after a pause during which I said nothing, and we both turned away from each other. “You told me you hated me, and you never wanted to see me again, and I guess I’ll never forget that moment in time when the man I loved with my total soul directed those blistering words of hatred at me, and without even giving me the opportunity to find out what it was I was supposed to have done, let alone the chance to defend myself or tell my side of the story. You threw it all away – like it was all expendable, like it was utterly meaningless – what we had – together.”

    Was she crying? I looked back in her direction, but I remembered one of the things about Ginger that made her so different from Lola and most other women in my life: Ginger didn’t cry. Or, at least, she would only let the tears show visibly on ultra-rare occasions – like the time she first told me that she was in love with me.

    “And so today I finally learned what it was that I supposedly had done, that had earned me so much hatred from you,” she eventually continued, but unlike me, she refused to return her gaze in my own direction. “And besides the anger I initially felt over how stupid and foolish you were to have such little faith in me, I also felt tremendous sorrow over the fact that, because of it, we both have lost so much – so much that was so very, very precious – to the two of us -- Brett.”

    As weird as this may sound, I really needed a cigarette just then. I mean, my whole body was yearning for that nicotine fix which I erroneously believed would somehow alleviate the tension I was feeling at that time.

    But most of all? I needed to walk over to her and hold her in my arms and tell her I loved her.

    No! There was a good chance that I’d end up regretting such an action – big time! And besides, I’d be revealing a part of me that I’d vowed would always remain hidden, ever since I was just a little tadpole. . .

    But then the mood got broken when Ginger suddenly threw her head back and laughed with a mixture of contempt and insanity.

    “So, today was the day I finally found out why the supreme unscrupulous bastard of them all decided to ruin my whole life!” she exclaimed, and her eyes seemed to dance with a kind of demonic frenzy. “Today was the day a young cop by the name of Wes Lomax dropped in to see me – actually, to flirt with me while I was at work at the old dress shop not far from here – and when I rejected his amateurish advances, he came out with the horrible insinuation that I was known by most of the cops on the force as being free and easy, so why was I acting like such a damned prude, right? ‘Everyone knows you let Gil Bailey bang you the whole time you were going out with Brett Cornell,’ he says to me – and then, little by little, I get to learn the particulars about how you supposedly didn’t know anything about it, but how Bailey blurted it out during that fight, and that’s why you lost your cool and ended up attacking the referee and – “

    “Wes Lomax?” I snarled, and I came out from behind my desk.

    I must have looked pretty damned threatening just then, on account of Ginger backed away from me and put her arms out as if to shield herself from my imminent attack. So, I brought myself to a halt a few feet opposite her, but the anger and adrenaline were pulsating in every vein of my body the whole time I stood there opposite her.

    “Wes Lomax told you all that? And he tried making a pass at you?”

    “Oh, my God!” Ginger retorted, and again, there was something sinister about the way she suddenly broke out in laughter right after she said that. “Why should you be upset over that young cop making a pass at me? You were quick to believe that Bailey and I were having an affair –“

    “Wes Lomax is dead meat!” I told her, and I raised my right fist in front of me and then shook it practically right in her face. “I swear, I’m gonna kill that mother –“

    “That’s it!” Ginger railed at me, and then she actually pushed my fist back and away from her with a lot more force than I would have imagined her to be capable of using. “Get angry! Get mad, and take it out on Wes Lomax! Show me how much you care about me, Brett – how much you care about me and my honor and what we once had – But it’s too late, Brett! It’s too little too late!”

    “Ginger, I don’t care what you –“

    “That’s right! You think I don’t know that? You don’t care – about anything except your stupid anger, your stupid revenge, your stupid macho pride – You care about everything, don’t you, except the damage you’ve done to me and to what we once had!”

    “Ginger, no! I –“

    “It’s too late!” And now she was crying. For real! “It’s too late – I’m still hurting – and I don’t think I could ever love you or anybody else ever again –“

    “Ginger, listen!” I told her, but when I reached out with both hands so I could hold her and somehow stop her body from shaking with sobs just then, she let out a sharp cry and darted away from me as if being touched by me would be instantly toxic for her; and seconds later, she was out the door.

    I didn’t realize at first that she was really gone, and that she had actually left the entire building in the space of the next couple of minutes. All I was aware of was that both my hands were shaking – partly from anger, but also partly from an emotion I couldn’t really accurately categorize – and I needed a cigarette even more urgently than ever. So, I went back to my desk and plopped my weight down in the swivel-chair, hoping that my heart would soon stop pounding and I could return to a state of normalcy.

    I took out that cigarette, but my hand was shaking so much when I went to strike a match to light it with, that I gave up the whole idea of smoking, for the time being, at least.

    Then it hit me, when I raised my head and looked around the empty spaces of my private office and saw that Ginger was gone.

    Not only that, but also that I might never see her ever again.

Comments are most welcome!

Thanks!

DAVE