From: ewfox@deakin.edu.au (Evan William Fox)
Subject: New Author! Death of a B-grade Thug
Date: 27 Nov 1994 11:13:20 GMT

This is my first ever story posted to a newsgroup. It's not straight CP
but it fits within the CP ethos. Please let me know what you thought of it.
Clues on how to format these things for line length welcome. (DEC VT100)

Evan Fox 

DEATH OF A B-GRADE THUG copyright 1994 Evan Fox


	Ever put a gun to some mongrel's head?
	I call it my personal buffer. It gives me the ability to do my job 
without being affected by it. De-sensitization you might call it. I used 
to watch
horror movies as a kid. Once I knew how they did it, special effects and
all, it wasn't scary. Deconstructed, it became a curiosity rather than an
emotional experience. And when I give some meathead the cerebral lead ream
I don't feel anything. A strictly professional transaction. No elation, no
catharsis. Theatre minus mimesis.
	Ever inhaled the summer rain?
	Living in the wheatbelt as a child there was nothing more fantastic than
the thunderhead of the droughtbreaker, it's shale-grey promise of cool
relief, the flash and grumble of late afternoon as it rolled in, those
first electricity-singed drops pulling down the fresh summer rain, and the
smell of extinguished earth. We would all sit on the back verandah, just
letting the experience course over us.
	Experience. Not just a vicarious passivity, but the recalling of like
emotion. Mimesis.
	In the car waiting at the Disused Factory we get the call from Mr Winter.
Some cop/ family man / partner killed / wife raped / children kidnapped/ he
was framed / boss is corrupt / revenge / out for justice / law in his own
hands / insert your favourite scenario. I instruct my men to spread out,
and radio two other cars. High bodycount pre-requisite.
	Ever proposed in the back seat of a Volkswagen?
	I drove Janet to a quiet beach and we took her dog for a walk. Should have
noticed that we were the only ones there. Back in the car the moment seemed
right and I proposed, she accepted, and the dog vomited. There was the
probing flash of torchlight and a security guard told us we shouldn't have
been there, as it was a private beach. Then the car wouldn't start.
Romantic? Yeah, in a funny way. 
	Mr Winter is one of those blonde-haired, blue-eyed Aryans from the Old
School of one-dimensional villainhood. Strictly B-grade. At least we've
advanced from the days of Ethnic devils, but a foreign accent is still in
vogue. Rutger Hauer makes a killing at this sort of thing. 
	Ever read "Love in the time of cholera"?
	Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Reading passes the time on these hits. I have a
bent for the Postmodern, particularly Sartre, Vonnegut, Pynchon. The thing
I like is the realism; none of those Disney resolutions.        
	The mute rattle of automatic weapons announces the commencement of our
piece. I take up vantage behind the weeping hulk of a rusted cooling tank.
	Ever see Ridley Scott's version of Blade Runner?
	The audience at the test screening didn't like the original somewhat
ambiguous ending, so it was changed. Same with Fatal Attraction. Something
about the American psyche that can't handle the existensialist ethos.
Personally, I prefer the European pacing and style of film. I hate to think
what Hollywood would do to Betty Blue.
	Footsteps above me. On the catwalk. I guess I am expected to rush out and
take a potshot at him. Not likely. You are about to see what comes of that.
One of my men leaps out, spraying AK47 fire in a hopeless parabola. Bullets
ping and spark but fail to find home. Am I surprised? A deft shot from Our
Hero and he crumples inward.
	If there's one thing I hate about this business, it's being represented as
so much brainless cannon fodder. I don't want my existence iconised,
trivialised. This is real. I am real.
	My wife tries hard to be understanding, worries too much, every time I
call up and tell her I'll be away again. It's just as well she doesn't know
the true nature of business. She's the only person who can crack the shell.
I respect her for that. Not like these wheedling, whining scum that moan
and winge when they realise they are taking their last suck of life.    
	Can't you see I crave your mimesis?
	But for now my attention is required elsewhere. I can hear Our Hero
panting, not moving, must have been winged. Unaware of my presence. I edge
around the superstratum of the tank. He has his back to me, pressing into
the wall. I have a clear shot.

		Time for a pomo rewrite.

								
... this sanguine syrup, a lukewarm vagueness in my mouth,
fascinating as I watch it pooling and forming creeping rivulets that trace
the wrinkles of my palms, spreads in seeping welts across my Italian shirt
and splashes through the mesh floor. I dismay gravity and solid air flings
itself at me. 
	I have failed.
	But you'll never know any of this.
	You see:

MID SHOT: Our Hero leans exhausted behind a partition, his arm bleeding.
PULL FOCUS to reveal thug in background moving out from behind cooling
tank, gun poised.

EXTREME CLOSE UP: Gun hand. Our Hero senses danger and tenses trigger finger.

TWO SHOT: Our Hero turns and shoots thug.

ANGLE: Thug dies, falls over catwalk.

	
	2.5 seconds of existence that goes by way of the buffer.
	After all, what do you care for the life of a B-grade thug?