A thug’s life is hard. No doubt
about it. Todd Morr and I own the territory at the corner of Shank and Bitches
in the rough section of Malibu. Day after day, between the hours of noon and
four PM, we represent like no two dudes ever have. Old ladies cruise near us
and cross the street. They know better. Punk ass kids take the long way around.
Unless, you know, it’s like five PM or whatever.
Outside on the corner, the sunlight washes down harsh on the
concrete. Graffiti everywhere. And by graffiti I mean designer ads for places
which only offer platinum cards. Sea gulls circle overhead. Kind of like the Old
West with vultures, only these things poop more and dumpster-pick. Limos and
limited edition Italian cars drive by, tinted windows hiding their occupants
from the real world. Our world. Todd,
staring off in the distance, thoughtfully stroking his soul patch as I put my
pants back on.
“Dude, I asked you not to wear that T-shirt,” he says. “It
makes us look like morons.”
I
look down at the ratty old T, the only thing my father ever gave me. “I like
it. It’s part of me.”
“It
reads, More Penis, Please. Get something
else.”
“Oh
dad, always the jokester…” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
And
then, just like that, the shit hits the fan. Out of nowhere a Bentley Continental
GT V8 roars to life up Shank. Back window down, chromed-out barrel showing its
ugly face. Must be a rival gang, encroaching onto our turf. Todd and I go to dive down Bitches Avenue when
the thing lights up. I hear pop pop pop
and all I know is I piss myself.
Which,
actually, is an almost daily thing, but still. Some jack-fool is tryin’ to
whack me.
I
roll. Todd does as well. The Bentley rockets off into a sea of other pretty decent
cars. Nothing fancy, so I don’t think I could pick it out of a line-up or
anything.
“Dude,
you’re hit. You’re bleedin’, man.” Todd says, out of breath and looking at my
shoulder.
“I
ain’t got time to bleed,” I say, try to stand. It doesn’t work, and that’s not
good. I fall back down, and I ain’t got time to fall neither.
Todd
stares at me, waiting for me to quit the act and get up. Return to normal. When
I don’t, he just smiles. “Come on, bro. get up. Stop bleedin’.”
I
collapse, feel the pain. “I can’t bro. Not this time.”
“No.
Seriously. Get up. I can’t- I can’t live if living is without you.”
“I
know, Todd.” I say, grimacing. “But you’ve got to move on. Leave me here to…to
join my ancestors at the banquet tables of Valhalla.”
“But
you’re not a Viking.” Todd says. “You’re like, a quarter French and some other
pussy nationalities.”
“I’m
going to ignore that.”
“Here,”
Todd says, “I think I know what will help.”
Todd
stands, and reaches to his flavor saver. My hand shoots up, “No! Leave it!” I
say.
“I
can’t bro. Not with your life on the line.”
He
plucks a few hairs. A tear rolls down his cheek because, if you think about, it
actually hurts more to yank out a single hair or two than to just rip out a
clump.
He
kneels beside me, cradles my head. Carefully sprinkles the flavor saver hairs
into my wound. We lie there like that until the wound stops bleeding.
We
are so relieved we cry, cuddle. Promise each other all the important things
over and over again. The way thugs do. Turned over a new leaf, right there on
the sidewalk. Pool of blood under me, Todd over me. His head blotting out the
high sun, stroking my hair and singing songs to me.
It
was wonderful.
And
then the Bentley made a second pass and we both died. Assholes.
***
Define
noir for the masses, please.
It’s one of four French words I
know. Other than that, I suppose a noir story should have a bit of mean in it,
even the ‘good guy’ should not be all that good, and a legit sense that things
are not going to end well.
Where
does your grit come from?
Probably from a dark suppressed
corner of my subconscious that I prefer stay that way.
What
parts of Todd wind up in your stuff?
More than I should admit. My day job
is teaching music to kids and I write about a guy who would gleefully stomp a
man death. Unlike the people I write about I’m really a nice guy, which might
be why the characters I write are not.
Yeah,
right. “I’m a nice guy.” So am I, but parts of me still end up in my work. If
I remember correctly Captain Cooker is the first thing you've had published?
Ever? If that's accurate, how the hell did you go from nothing to a published
novel?
That is accurate, and it was not
exactly easy. Only took about a quarter of a century, though there were long
stretches where I did not do much writing.
The main reason is I suck at writing
short stories, even though I’m trying to improve. I tried for a while, thinking getting some
short stuff published would help get a novel published, which is probably why
they sucked, or at least one reason. Seriously,
I think I’ve written two decent ones, maybe three if we count a high school
English assignment. One is in Out
of the Gutter 8. I got some positive feedback on another and then
immediately rewrote it taking out all the good parts. I then modified it into a
chapter on a yet unpublished novel. The
high school one is long lost.
That is the long way of saying it
was probably going to be a novel or nothing, which is tough. Asking someone to read a novel from some dude
they have never heard of with absolutely no credentials what so ever is a hard
sell and I’m not much of a salesman. There was a long time when I honestly
wished someone would tell me my stuff sucked, since that would at least imply
they read some of it, instead of what I perceived as the “Why the fuck would I bother reading something from you?” response. Of course, if things
were reversed and I had a pile of stuff to read, I would have done the same
thing after reading some of my queries.
Does anyone enjoy writing query
letters? I sure as hell don’t and I’m not very good at it either.
I'd
love to know the origin of your book. How'd it come around?
Captain
Cooker is sort of a prequel to an unpublished novella, which without heavy
work will remain that way, so I already had the Cooke character and while the
novella has some serious flaws I really liked the character, so I wanted a
better story for him. Sadly, the idea of the two missing teenagers is based in
reality. I remember seeing the flyers posted everywhere and people talking
organizing searches, and the sad ending when they were actually found. Cooke, being who he is, would be a suspect in
such a thing, so I took it from there, going in another direction away from the
missing kids as I did not really want to do a Law and Order episode and
fictionalize a true story.
What
led you to Snubnose Press?
Google. I actually had another publisher, but just
after sending me a final edited manuscript for me to approve they went
under. Which is depressing, getting a novel published without any other
credits is a long shot and I felt at the time I would never do it twice, but I
started to sending it out again and really it worked out for the best. Snubnose is a better fit and clearly a better
operation. Looking at the other writers
on there and the level of their work I feel a little like “what the hell am I
doing here?” Actually I feel a lot like “what
the hell am I doing here,” which is a good thing; makes me want to work harder.
And
you should. You’re published alongside me, and that is an honor which must be
recognized by all men. Hear me Joe? *ahem* Tell me more about this...flavor
saver thing.
I thought we agreed that stuff was
off the record? I mean seriously dude, I have a family, I am not, I repeat, I
am not going to screw with Tupperware.
Tell me more? I’ve already said too much. Wait, did I seriously just say
‘screw with Tupperware’, that sounds kind of kinky and possibly painful. You can edit that out, right?
Yes,
I can edit it out, but my supreme sense of journalistic integrity forces me not
to. This isn’t some BS “newspaper” where
lowlife hopheads just make up the most ridiculous horseshit and call it news.
This is Out of the Gutter. C’mon, son. You play the guitar, surf, write novels
and worship me. Is there anything you don't do?
Well I don’t surf, I’ve tried it, and
it was ugly. I grew up in Colorado where
we have a serious lack of waves. I don’t
really make money either, just ask my wife.
I’m waiting for my Ryan worship royalty. Those beers don’t buy
themselves.
Wait
a second. You don’t surf? I must be following the wrong Todd Morr on Twitter.
Hmmm…if that’s right I should look differently at all of those tweets which
link to commercials for penis-enhancements which he sends out. What’s next,
writing-wise?
I’m nearly done with another Cooke
novel (never say book, ever) though depending on how things go “nearly done” is
a very relative term. A demented thought
or two is rolling around the brain as to what will be next after that. A science fiction novel sits on the laptop
half done, dying from neglect, which I should probably get back to.
I wrote myself into a corner just
this week but managed to find a way clear, which seems to be standard operating
procedure for me. I’ve never done an
outline and am sure if I did I would abandon it anyway, how much do you plan
before actually writing?
What
theme song would play as you enter a room?
Hocus Pocus by Focus, best yodeling
in a hard rock song ever, or for more solemn occasions ‘Little Wing’ the SRV
version.
***
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is
Todd Morr. Check out his book Captain
Cooker from Snubnose Press. The dude has an ear for dialogue that’s like
razors zipping back and forth.
Next go ‘round – We begin our
journey into the Femme Fatales of Noir. Sandra Ruttan, anyone?
