Adding humor


Nearly every one of my favorite authors is a master at adding humor to a narrative, Terry Pratchet is the acknowledged pinnacle of the art and the numerous adaptations of his Diskworld novels add proof of that. With imitation being the height of flattery, I decided to follow the master and steal from the writer of the Dirty Harry movie.

In his first Vimes story, Pratchet has Commander Vimes of the Ankh Morpork Watch hold a swamp dragon before a mob and threaten them with an adapted version of the, do you feel lucky, punk speech. It not only worked, but it triumphed. Right, so on to Tony Mandolin and his gay blade partner Frankie the reformed drag queen;

The sequence here is placed about a quarter of the way into One Last Quiche. Tony, Franky and Tony’s new squeeze Alcina are confronted by a mugger in a San Francisco alley. Got it? Ok, here is the part that had me giggling like a schoolgirl as I wrote it:

“A gun, he’s got a gun,” Frankie whimpered. “Tony, what do
we do?”

The guy holding the gun backed through a light patch, but
the hood he was wearing hid his face. “Come on, come on. All right, stop
there.”

“We don’t have any money,” Alcina sounded awfully calm in
the face of that huge muzzle pointing our way.

“She right,” I said, “All we’ve got is plastic.”

The gun shook as the guy snarled, “Too bad for you then.
Empty your pockets!”

I pulled out my wallet and handed it over. I wasn’t lying;
the only thing in my wallet was some lint, my id, my PI license and a debit
card.

Alcina’s purse held similar disappointments.

“What is this crap?” The guy screeched. “I can’t use this!
Where’s my money?” The hammer on the gun clicked.

“It ain’t your money.”

That was Frankie. I looked over at him. He had this weird
expression on his face. His eyes were narrowed into a squint and he was
fingering something in his coat pocket.

“Frankie…” I said, “What are you doing?”

The guy with the gun shifted his aim to cover Frankie,
“What’d you say?”

Frankie growled, “I said,” There was something about the
voice Frankie was using, something I recognized, “That it ain’t your money,
punk.”

“What? Back off, I’ll shoot,” The guy snarled as Frankie
advanced on him, his hand still in his coat pocket. “What’s that? You got a
gat? You’re a dead man!” The gun’s aim raised.

Frankie’s hand left his pocket. He was holding a couple of
red balls. “Now I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said, “does he have the balls
or doesn’t he? Well, in all the confusion, I don’t know myself, but seein’ that
these are TufStuf handballs, the most powerful handball in the world and will
take your head clean off, you have to ask yourself, do you feel lucky. Well, do
you…punk?” He bounced one of the balls in his hand.

“You’re nuts!” The guy cried, “Nuts!” The gun wavered,
lowering slightly.

Frankie stepped closer, growling, “Nuts am I? Go ahead,
punk, make my day.”

His arm blurred. There was a wet sounding smack! And the guy
toppled backwards like he’d been hit with a bat.

Alcina exclaimed, Wow!”

I turned and looked at Frankie, and said, with an odd
combination of exasperation and awe, “Eastwood!?”

See what I mean?

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About robertleebeers

Author, Illustrator, Artist, Musician, and (sorry) politician.
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