January 9, 2010
I've been known to write a book or ten and so I thought what more perfect spot that one's own blog to post an excerpt from one of these bad boys? The bad boy I'm talking about in this case is my humorous mystery entitled, KILL-TV where I, basically, use the backdrop of a television studio, create characters that are an amalgam of those with which I really worked back in the day and then, systematically kill off some characters. Talk about your cheap therapy?!
Anyway, this book is available through Amazon (or me), so I hope you enjoy this snippet.
http://www.amazon.com/Kill-TV-Diane-Dean-Epps/dp/0981482902
Bon Appetit!
KILL-TV
By: Diane Dean-Epps
Chapter 1
“Something to Talk About.” Bonnie Raitt
Omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod. No one is ever going to believe I didn’t kill him. Instead of KQPT-TV’s, “Where the news comes first” tag line it would now be using, “Where murder comes first.”
Look at him. Even in death he’s ruining my life. I just came in to get the “big rig” fire videotape I needed for tomorrow’s newscast and I was almost home free too when it dawned on me that something wasn't right. I had to go and find him. Catching a glimpse of his inert frame, I had jumped so far that I had banged my shin on one of the swivel chairs. I rubbed my shin as I looked over at KQPT-TV’s head honcho and waited for him to pounce on me yelling, “Aha! Caught you trying to remove station property from the premises.” No dice though. No pounce, just jump—from me.
I glanced over at Lincoln Bradbury Delaware III again, inching my way toward him crab-like, quietly, in case he was sleeping. I was now no more than a foot from him. Nope. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Certainly not a regular nap. More like a dirt nap. Shouldn’t there be some sort of R.E.M. movement, twitching, or general air flow? I had never quite seen that set to his face. He looked so—lifeless—which gave rise to my hysteria. “Shit!” I yelled and then I clapped my hand over my mouth. I was scared spitless.
Before I could think I continued my tenuous journey toward him, but then at the last moment I veered toward the exit sign. Where were rubber gloves when you needed them? Wait a minute. I wasn’t raised that way. The Lloyds are a wonderful people. My people help. We are helpmates. We even used Hamburger Helper we’re so damned help-conscious. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. Should I look for a mirror? No. Wait. Be logical. How would that help him? I could see if he was breathing, but what I really needed to do was check for a pulse. I looked around in a panic, seeking a quick exit. I couldn’t just leave. That would be so wrong. So, I’m on a tax deadline, having a marital crisis and in a sticky situation. Hey, wait why is this floor sticky? Never mind for now. What, is this predicament inconveniencing me because I‘m almost late—again—with my taxes? Yes, goddamn it!, the bad angel on my left shoulder answered. It’s tax day and if you don’t get your ass out the door in twenty minutes you can say hello to late fees and good-bye to any prayer of a good night‘s sleep. Remember that you hate this guy and nothing good can come from you being in this room right now. As always happens, the good angel chimed in, Oh, yeah, like she’s really going to sleep tonight after this. Get real! That good angel. She’s a spunky one.
Reason kicked in, followed by a spurt of clarity. For a moment I got a whiff of my own bravery. I needed to lend a hand. This is a human being. Granted, he’s been masquerading as our resident prick of a boss, but he is a human being. All right. Breathe. Focus. Sympathy. Death. April 15th—Tax Day. Death. Taxes. I wondered if my earlier fiddling around with the electronic on-line tax filing program could have possibly put me in the clear with a successful filing? What was I saying? I just found the body of my boss. Death trumps taxes, right Mr. IRS Guy?
This would go down in the book of, Worst Days Experienced by Human Beings, as THE worst day ever. My boss looked dead. Let’s say he is dead. That would be enough excitement, but let’s add more drama. It’s tax day. I owe money to the IRS. And that rat-bastard husband of mine, Bob, dumped me because he needed to “find himself.” I had wanted the authorities to find him and all parts of “himself” all over the city. I guess you could say I’m a bit bitter. One of these occurrences would have sufficed as punishment for my thoughts of revenge against Bob, but all of them?
Bob had always been a man behind his times, his departure spiel harkening straight out of the seventies as he told me he needed “room to grow” and “space to breathe.” I had not been exactly surprised that a slug-like guy like Bob used references that could be applied to plant life, but Bob was a habit. My habit. I had spent five years of my life with him and he was broken in like a comfortable, but slightly rundown sofa. I had been with him, in the main, because he was stable. He was so there, never possessing enough energy to grapple for the remote control that was his birthright, let alone the energy to leave me. But leave me he did, the son of a bitch. He walked in trailing promises and ambled out trailing those son-of-a-bitching sunflower seeds he was so fond of.
My higher power has a great sense of humor. I specifically remember asking that Bob turn up dead by some horrifying means. Not Lincoln. I hadn’t liked either of them, but at least I hadn't been filing a joint income tax return with Lincoln, just resentments.
Oh, crap. Lincoln. Lincoln looked decidedly unlively. I must be in shock, standing here in “whoa-is-me” mode, putting off confirmation of his death. Not the reaction one would expect. I ran over to Lincoln, overcame my revulsion, jumped in his lap and started beating on his chest in some semblance of CPR I had seen on ER at one time or another. Or was it Scrubs? I’m not particularly medical, but I do enjoy a good humorous send-up, so Scrubs was more likely. And if I didn’t do something real quick here I’d be sent up the river for murder if anyone saw me on top of him, attempting to get a pulse. It looked like I was attempting to get something, all right.
I listened for breathing. There was none. Same for the pulse. Nothing was moving, pulsing, dripping or oozing either, the latter two being of the good news variety. Maybe I’m just inept at this checking vital signs thing. Was that someone walking by, outside the control room? Reinforcements. Good stuff. The only problem was I seemed to be entangled in Lincoln’s goddamned tie clasp. Oh, for pete’s sake. My knitted shirt had seemed like a good idea this morning when I put it on, all smart and stylish. Now it was all tangled and stuck on Lincoln. How was I supposed to know that some simple fibers could hook onto a tie clip tighter than abalone on shale?
I rocked in and out, attempting to get myself off the hook, as it were. I looked up in the midst of my impalement and met the eyes of a potential supporter. Uh-oh.
Judging by the lascivious smile on station manager Jim Daly’s face he could most definitely see me through the tinted glass of the control room. And then it dawned on me. This was a lot of dawning for one day. He thought I was screwing the boss. From his viewpoint I was in the boss’ lap, looking for all intents and purposes as though I were riding a sexual carousel for all I was worth. While the real action was decidedly up north from where it appeared I was working, it didn’t matter. Television is a “never say it, if you can show it” kind of business and, evidently, Jim got the story on this one. Why else would I be on Lincoln’s lap? Oh, right, determining if he was alive, right after I disengaged my designer clothing from his equally chic tie clip. It was so obvious?!
Jim just kept right on walking as I kept right on rocking. I finally ripped the blasted shirt off of the tie clasp and jumped off of Lincoln. Where was I going? I gritted my teeth and swiveled back around to look at him more closely. Throughout all of my – efforts – there had been no movement on his part at all. Yuck! Gross.
I needed to get help, but help just kept on walking. Wait a minute. Let me think. If I could just explain things to Jim I’m sure he would understand. Right. I’m alone in the control room, it’s almost midnight and I’m on Lincoln’s lap, riding him like Seabiscuit. Some definite understanding would occur there, wouldn’t it?
I stepped over and in, really looking into Lincoln’s face. One thing was for sure. My boss was not breathing and, now that I had been up close and personal, he had gone decidedly Sara Lee on me, being devoid of heat. As if that wasn’t problematic enough, there was now a witness who had gone away thinking that it was promotion time again at the Okay Television Corral and I was bucking for a big one – raise that is.
Should I run after Jim for help? Who cares how this looks. Something is horribly wrong and I am not going to take the fall for this. And that’s when it happened. That’s when I fell. Blacked out. Out like a light. Lights out. Goodnight Irene. For this I shaved my legs?!
