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 !!!
