I went to sleep last night after waiting up past eleven for Bryan (my personal Starbucks Shift Manager) to bring me a grande java chip frappucino. He had asked me if Laura wanted something before she went to bed, and had offered to bring her old mother one as well -- nice kid. So I said yes, and then started the clock. I won't say yes next time. It was a great and wonderful (as well as generous) offer, but waiting up to drink a fatty caffeinated drink may have led to this extremely interesting dream and I'm not really sure I'm cut out to be a detective novelist.
The Notorious Nick Posh appeared prominently in my slumber. I'll consider this writing proof of my copyrights, and therefore if anyone comes along and steals my idea I'll sic Posh on them immediately. Posh, in his day, had been credited with killing upward of 10 people over the past 12-15 years. He was hard to pin down has he'd been laying low after the Maguire brothers beat him senseless for the attempted rape of their sister Kate. That had been over 30 months, and since no brutal mutilations had taken place in Chicago's east side that could be nailed to Posh, the detectives of the XX precinct were all but convinced the brothers had scared the polecat into hiding for good, or maybe he was still floating somewhere on the banks of the Michigan looking like fish bait.
Here's the deal; Posh had an MO. After reading about a bloke in Guthrie, Oklahoma back in the early part of the century (20th)who had been shot during a bumbled bank robbery and having been over processed with the undertakers formaldehyde, Posh cooked the idea to intentionally use the stuff to stiffen up the stiff so tight he couldn't break, but he could be cut up cleanly enough. Posh then took several of the pieces that could be recognized, the head, the hands, and even the belly and mailed them to himself outside of Chicago -- to post boxes in post offices all around the area like parcels. From there he'd chop the pieces up using difference wood choppers that he borrowed or rented from locals. He even went so far as to go to Gary, Indiana once to borrow a farmer's combine tools to destroy evidence. Who cared if the other parts were found right, in 1939 it wasn't like those forensic experts of the future were going to catch Posh. He had it made.
Without more than a few words Detective Tom "Buzz" Irwin found himself back at work. Retirement wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and California's Malibu beaches wasn't any place for a Chicago native cop to hide out anyway. The chill of a hard Chicago winter hadn't gripped Buzz in two years but with Posh making a possible return, this time in the uppity Gold Coast, there was no one else qualified to go on the hunt. Chicago had a way of always seducing him. Always bringing him home.
That's when it happened -- I woke up. DAMMIT, I woke up. Now I have to sit down and write out some cheesy old period 20th Century serial killer novel with bad plots and sleazy evil characters oozing from the pages. It's either the Sherlock Holmes shorts I've been reading or my love for a hot, middle aged, raspy voiced, square-jawed detective that gives me this push - - can't simply be the frappucino. Wait, I hadn't actually described Buzz to you - - had I? OOPS, my bad.
That's my dream. It had all sorts of other details, places, people, action -- shouldn't take me too long to write it. I love writing in overt simple terms that can be read out loud and made fun of. Think Dragnet meets Dick Tracy meets me at the airport after too many cups of coffee. Should be fun.