Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

I have, at long last, made the acquaintance of Sergeant Shelsky and found him and his stepfather (apparently so named because he keeps falling off steps) most agreeable company. It was a shame to leave them but the world outside the swamp is far too bright and dry, and the sky a somewhat disturbing blue colour. I can only take such surreal surroundings in small doses. Nonetheless, I hope one day to visit the Sergeant's abode in return, even though he says it's in America which is on the other side of the planet. I picture them all clinging for dear life to the underside of the world and wonder if I still have the strength in these old fingers to join them. One day I will put it to the test.

We visited the desirable residence above but did not approach because there is an immense hole in the ground all round the place. Moats are common features of UK castles but this castle's owner had, I think, turned moat-digging into a pathological fetish. It really doesn't need to be several hundred feet deep. Well, unless they had something much, much larger than the Slimy Swamp Thing to contend with. Rabid brachiosaurs, perhaps, or a deranged diplodocus. That would explain the moat.

We discussed many things and I have heeded the Sergeant's advice on book submission for good reason - he has books in print and I don't. There really is a catch-22 in publishing. Agents want authors with a proven record of publication, while many publishers want authors to work through agents. There is a way around this, in that many publishers will accept non-agented submissions so that might be a good place to start. With a few books placed, an agent will pay more attention to that opening letter. Apparently, including fresh meat products with the submission is not a good idea. Well, live and learn.

The other aspect the Sergeant explained is to write a lot of books. Money per book is small unless you get lucky and the book is taken up by a wood full of holly trees (I think that's what he said) and they make a film of it. I thought people made films but apparently the film industry is run by that holly wood. I learned much in the last 24 hours. The world is a truly bizarre place and I thank my lucky stars I live in the sanity of the swamp.

In return, I was able to explain much of British matters, including the life cycle of the traffic cone and the actual composition of haggis. On reflection, the latter might have been better left unsaid. We discussed stone circles and roundabouts and concluded that places like Stonehenge were early attempts at roundabouts. They fell into disuse because nobody had thought to invent the motor car at that time and because of Roman invasion. Romans built dead straight roads because they had no concept of steering and so would not have been able to deal with roundabouts.

I hope to repay the Sergeant's generosity at some time in the future. If his idea of moving to the UK comes to fruition, that might be sooner rather than later.

It's no surprise he wants to move to this side of the world. Hanging on underneath must get tiring after a while.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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Tomorrow (or rather, later today) I should, if all goes according to plan, meet Sergeant Shelsky in the unsuspecting town of Edinburgh. It does mean leaving the swamp, but it can't be helped.

On Wednesday he wants to photograph this place. Now, I'm not a big fan of exercise. I can watch weights all day but lifting them when they don't need to be moved seems silly. So does running when there's no pitchfork-waving mobs around. I will be photographing that handsome and desirable residence too, but I'm taking a long lens and tripod. I see no need to indulge in all that up-hill and down-dale stuff.

Since it's Edinburgh we meet in, and since it'll be an overnight stay, I will go prepared. I have a pack of pocket stakes in case of attack by the hordes of miniature vampires said to infest the area. You might not have heard about those. It's not in the tourist brochures. However, should you pick up a box of toothpicks and the shop assistant gives a knowing wink, buy them. Toothpicks to some, pocket stakes to those who know.

They could save your life. And you can even pick your teeth with them.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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There is a limit to the credibility you can put into a story. Unless you are writing absurdia, your reader expects, especially if they are paying, some modicum of logic in your tale.

On the other hand, if you're doing it for yourself or putting it out for free, you can let your imagination run wild.

Tonight I came across a writer with more imagination than you could shake a bag of spanners at.

Take a look, and just soak up the madness. It's good for you. In a wilted pocket-watch kind of way.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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 Death called in for a visit while I was putting the finishing touches to Senga's wedding veil. I had just welded down the visor in case of accidents. There was that terrible incident at Uncle Caligula's wedding where Aunt Bacteria's veil popped open, resulting in the spontaneous combustion of the priest, blinding of the organist and the growth of hair on the palms of every member of the choir, even the ones who weren't werewolves. I won't let my own festivities be spoiled by anything like that.

Well, Death settled himself into a chair and lit up his pipe. I placed Senga's veil to one side, determined to fit the head-bolts later, and waited for the inevitable. I knew why Death was here. He wanted an invite to the wedding, but he wasn't going to get one unless he promised to leave the other guests alone. Some of them are already dead and it'll be a poor turnout if they think they're going in Death's soul-bag.

We sat in silence for a while. Death puffed smoke rings through his eye sockets with a curious low whistle, which was unusual. He noticed my raised eyebrow at the sound.

"Terrible trouble with the sinuses lately," he said. "I don't suppose you have a bit of wire I could use to clear them out?"

"Would a welding rod do?" I passed one to him.

"Thanks." Death dug the rod into his nasal passages and scraped around.

"No problem," I said. "Anything for a friend."

"Indeed. Friend of the family, you might say. Going back to the very beginning of Dume, when old Victor changed his name and moved here." Death chuckled. "Didn't help. The monster he built found him in the end, but not before he had sired the start of your family."

I remained silent. Death tried to clear his throat, remembered he didn't have one and rubbed his vertebrae instead. It always fascinated me that his cervical vertebrae played a perfect five-note scale.

"I was at his wedding, you know?" Death removed the welding rod from his nose and shook off a blob of green ooze. (I had wondered where that had got to.) "Very nice it was. I picked Victor up at his son's wedding, some years later. Dume weddings have always been good to me, although I wasn't invited to your father's. How is he, by the way?"

"Still dead," I said. "He's not here at the moment." He never is when Death visits. My father was many things, but never stupid. I placed a jar over the ooze so it wouldn't escape again.

Death's white phalanges clicked against the shaft of his scythe. "Well, it would be good to see him again, you know? I have a special place reserved for him. It's warm and sulphurous. He'd like it."

"Sounds nice," I said. "But I don't think he'll be interested. He, like me, prefers cold and damp and not too much light." The place Death described might better suit Red Stan, who, I realised, was also likely to turn up and angle for an invite. Death, maybe. Red Stan, never. Too many flames with that guy.

"Well, anyway." Death blew a pair of smoke rings, this time with no sound. "So, how are things going with you? Not long to the wedding? How is the bride to be? As hideous as the usual Dume selection, I trust?"

"Formidably hideous." I showed him the veil. "Heavy gauge steel, no less, and welded down so there won't be any incidents this time."

"I'm impressed, but a little disappointed. It's not often I get a priest in the bag. Your Uncle Caligula earned a special place in Hell for that one." Death shifted in his seat. "You know, it's a sort of tradition for me to be there to, you know, clear up afterwards as it were. Your father broke with that tradition and there was something of a mess afterwards, as I recall."

I grimaced at the stories I'd heard about the aftermath of the Cutting of the Cook. Perhaps it would be best if Death were there after all. There had to be conditions though.

"I would prefer it if my wedding were fully traditional, but there's a problem."

"Your father." Death nodded.

"Yes. He won't come if he knows you're there, Neither will some of the other guests. On the other hand, I won't want to leave out the ceremony of the Cutting of the Cook, but I won't want the cook causing trouble afterwards. They do tend to get a bit miffed about it, I hear."

Death tilted his head back and puffed a pair of smoke-rings straight up. "Some people have no respect for tradition. So what do you propose?"

"You can have the cook and any other accidental losses, but you have to swear to leave alone anyone who turns up already dead." It was asking a lot, but I had the upper hand in the end. If he refused, they'd all get away and he'd spend centuries tracking them down.

Death clacked his teeth. "This applies only for the duration of the wedding?"

"For the day. Midnight to midnight. It's only fair to give them a head start after the ceremony. Once that bell tolls twelve, they're on their own."

Death took a few more puffs on his pipe while he thought about it. "Agreed. Anyone who dies on the day is mine, anyone who's already dead is safe until midnight. Then they're mine."

"If you can catch them." I'd have a word with Father later and make sure he left in plenty of time.

"Okay." Death rose from his seat. "So, I can expect a proper invitation this time? I was upset at your father's snub. It still rankles and he won't even speak to me now."

"A return to tradition. With conditions." I held out my hand. Death ignored it.

"Tradition with conditions. I don't think I like that, but it's better than no tradition at all." Death walked to the door. "I'll see you on the day then. Give my best wishes to your horrific spouse-to-be, and if that veil were to slip I'd consider it a bonus." He walked straight through the door and disappeared.

I lifted Senga's veil and considered releasing the welds, but decided against it. Instead, I determined to fit extra head-bolts and lose the key.

I know, it's selfish, but Death would only have to look at her for one day.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

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