Torpedo Juice

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THEY FOUND THE body crucified upside down on the side of the bat tower.

“Cut! Cut!” said a man in a director’s chair.

“What’s the matter?” asked someone holding a script.

“It’s starting to rain. Cover the equipment.”

HOWDY. I’M YOUR NARRATOR.

In literary classes, I’m what’s referred to as the “omniscient narrator.” Yeah, right. Truth is, I’ve been drinking. We were supposed to start this book several hours ago, except the weather’s been cruddy. All the big stars are back in their trailers eating catered food. But does the narrator get a trailer? What do you think?

I’ve been waiting it out in the No Name Pub. That’s on Big Pine Key, two hours south of Miami. Actually not all the stars are snooty. Coleman’s been here awhile. Whoops, I wasn’t supposed to say anything…. Screw it. You’ll find out soon enough. Yes, Coleman’s back. Remember the big supporting player a few books ago? He went and pulled a McLean Stevenson and left the series when he thought he had this big movie career. Then Hollywood put that notion out like a cheap cigar, and he came back around begging for work. But his character had already been killed off. What were they going to do? I’ll tell you what they did. They hatched some crazy gimmick to resurrect him, a stupid idea if you ask me, but nobody ever does. That’s typical. I’ve been loyal through seven books, dropping polite hints about a little on-screen time. Nothing big, just a few lines. But no, I’m “far too valuable in my current role.” Then the prodigal boob comes home and they fall all over themselves writing him back in…. I shouldn’t blame Coleman. It’s not his fault. It’s “The Suits.”… So Coleman’s here with me, and this is the thing about Coleman: You can’t just be sociable and party a little bit with him.

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