Devil’s Wind

Writing New Novel: Devil's Wind...

Devil’s Wind

Writing New Novel: Devil's Wind...

Smoking Baboon Snippet: Character study, Percy Tuttle

The Adventures of Percy Tuttle...

      Tracking Percy Tuttle down was just as easy as Louie Tuccio had said it would be. He left a trail behind him like a herd of elephants trampling through Macy's china department. He had no reason to cover his tracks; nobody was looking for him. He was a flamboyant customer with plenty of money to spread around; and spread it he did.

      I found plenty of background on this bird in the archives of the London Daily Mirror, eye witness accounts and anecdotal gossip; quite an entertaining character, all in all.

      The Tuttle fortune had been amassed by Percy's antecedents starting back in the mid nineteenth century when ...Great Britain was busy pillaging and conquering most of what remained of the Known and Unknown World. Great Granddad Tuttle was a man of vision and ambition. With the help of the British Rahj, he managed to 'liberate' the bulk of the hemp and jute trade from indigenous merchants, thereby securing for himself a vast fortune in supplying Her Royal Majesty's Navy the necessary materials for rope making and gunny sacking in which the Empire's considerable plunder could  be contained and shipped back to Dear Old Blighty.

      The Family Tuttle carried on as canny businessmen forestalling future losses selling off the Fiber Empire before the collapse of colonial rule. The chain, however, was broken when Percy showed up.

      His father summed up rough on his heir apparent: "Bloody young fool. If brains were silk thread, he couldn't supply sufficient material to make a pair of knickers for a parakeet!" On the Old Man's passing, a generous trust fund and allowance were bequeathed Percy with the proviso, on pain of forfeiture of said inheritance, that Percy was never to venture closer than five statute miles to the corporate offices of J.J. Tuttle & Associates, London, SW1.

      Aside from managing his successful business empire, Tuttle Senior was a scholar, explorer, archaeologist and rugged outdoorsman; the total antithesis of Percy. In his latter years in Africa, J.J. Tuttle encountered a remarkable young shaman-in-training in the remote jungles of Quaasiland, Central Africa.

      Tukufu 'Reginald' Zambezi rescued J.J. from becoming the main course during an M'bogo family reunion. The young shaman was a most striking figure, not to be forgotten; a strapping six-foot five, blue-black frame surmounted by a well chiseled shaven head. His face bore ritual scarification marking him as 'shaman'; his eyes burned brightly in his shining, intelligent face. There had arisen a most unfortunate misunderstanding regarding Tuttle's eligibility to follow 'starters' when he was overheard to loudly exclaim, "JESUS, CHRIST!" when one of the members of his entourage poured five gallons of boiling water into the collapsible bath tub in which J.J. was soaking.

      In the considerable gastronomic expertise of the cannibalistic M'bogo, such ecclesiastic outbursts were a sure sign that the person making said noises was a member of the clergy and, therefore, edible. Young Tukufu interceded on Tuttle's (and the tribe's) behalf, pointing out that there had been a grave error made in their dietary choice; that they were, in fact, 'killing the goose that laid the Golden Egg', etc. The tribal elders quickly picked up on the situation and transmogrified J.J. Tuttle from entrée to Honorary Member of the M'bogo Diner's Club Society, with full membership privileges. With no hard feelings, the celebrations were resumed.  Stuffed cabbage was substituted for J.J. as entree du jour.

      Tuttle fully appreciated the young man's foresight and intelligence. As a reward for getting him off the menu, Tukufu was adopted on the spot as Tuttle's protégé. Neither party ever regretted the relationship in the passage of time. Tuttle groomed the up and coming prodigy as if he was his own son; Tukufu reciprocated by exceeding his benefactor's expectations. The young man was sent to England to receive a good formal education; law, economics, history, literature and business science were a mere walk in the park to his agile mind. The title 'Doctor' was added to his name on meritorious completion of his studies at Cambridge. He became Tuttle's personal secretary, eventually managing most of the Old Man's affairs. Succession to heading up J.J. Tuttle and Associates, London, SW1, seemed to be in the bag for the young man. There was, however, a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand…Percy.

      The good Doctor T. Reginald Zambezi and J.J. Tuttle collided on one topic in particular; Tuttle's son, Percy. The good Doctor had watched Percy grow to manhood from an awkward, motherless toddler and loved him as a doting uncle. J.J., on the other hand, could not bear the sight of young Percy and avoided him at all costs. He considered Percy to be soft, weak-minded gumboil of the first water totally lacking in business skills – or any other redeeming qualities, for that matter. The final straw was dropped just after Percy's eighteenth birthday.

      The break between J.J. Tuttle and the Doctor came about over one of Percy's faux pas.  For the sixth time in three months, Percy had managed to set his bedclothes on fire when he fell asleep while smoking in bed. This time the conflagration had extended past the confines of Percy's bedroom, migrating to his father's study. The Fire Brigade was summoned, but the study and its contents were a total loss.

 

      "Blast and Damnation! Zambezi, fetch me twelve-bore! This is the frozen limit! Make sure it's charged up with double-ought buckshot…Hell's Bells!" This went on for a considerable length of time. In attempting to pour a little oil on troubled waters, the doctor only managed to feed the flames.

       "I say J.J.; steady on…This could have happened to anyone."

      "Not six bleeding times, it couldn't…Are you going to fetch my gun or not?"

      "Not. Take hold of yourself, J.J.; after all, he is your son. You can't just go round shooting chaps over trifles, can you now?"

      "Trifle…Can't…MY SON…? Bugger 'im! Never mind the twelve-bore…I want to throttle 'im with me own hands!" Apoplectic rage consumed the Old Man…there was no reasoning with him any more. "Takin' that blister's part then, are you? Well, you're welcome to him…From this day forth; I'm putting YOU in charge of 'im…YOUR full time job!" J.J. fell back into his thick Scottish burr, "Yer nae more me councilor, Councilor; I'll nae more ta du wi' yon Great Twit, nether…and nae wi' yew na'more, come this dae for'd. GAT OOT ME HOOS, THE PAIR O'YE!"

      Time and the shrewd council of Tuttle's solicitors cooled the Old Man down. J.J. and the Doctor eventually reconciled…but things were never quite the same as before. Zambezi became go-between for father and son.

      Over the next decade Zambezi shaped his charge and guided his pursuits. An appreciation for the finer things of life was cultivated in his young gentleman. Percy's interests ran to the serious collecting of the arts and hand crafts of exotic cultures round the world -- and travel; he could never get enough of either one.

      He had, with the ensuing years, acquired a degree of polish and sophistication that brought some measure of pride and satisfaction to the good Doctor. Although, in all honesty, Percy was still a hopeless, gullible twit and could not be trusted too far off the lead. For all that, he had a heart of gold and disposition to match.

            His great Achilles Heel: the female of the species. He had absolutely no immunity built up in his system against the ravages of insidious feminine charms. A pretty face would fell Percy like whooping cough. This was the one perplexing conundrum the good doctor could not get past with Percy. Time and again the boy narrowly escaped a near-fatal trip down the matrimonial aisle – only through the last minute machinations of the marvelous brain of Zambezi, was he able to roam the world a free man.

      As it turned out, I found Mr. Tuttle in New York City – pursuing his interests. The society column of the New York Times followed his movements with great interest. Despite his anemic mental capacity, Percy was considered a prize catch for any aspiring ingénue with a taste for the finer things in life, money in particular. Though his ears stuck out at right angles from his head, Percy was considered attractive. His hair, mousey brown; eyes, watery blue; he wore a vacant, pleasant visage as if he was about to smile or laugh. He was reasonably fit playing golf and tennis whenever possible, his lanky frame a bit clumsy. An amiable companion for mixed company in general. 

Smoking Baboon Snippet: Rosie in South America

      Rosie wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and settled back into the chair. She stared into the fire and collected her thoughts. After a few moments, she spoke, "After we split up in ..Colombia, Louie, things got tough," she paused to light another cigarette, "I barely made it outta there alive. First chance, I hopped a bus headed south. I switched buses four times just in case Pinto and his gang were still after me. Took ten days to get up into the mountains and finally arrive in Bogotá.

       I hooked up with an old American guy named Jerry de Vrees, from White Plains, driving a supply truck down to the Rio Negro; he let me hitch a ride. That took another two weeks – jeez, my kidneys are still bouncing around from that trip – he talked to the research guys he worked for and got me a spot on their boat, but no free ride; I had to work for passage. Two months of cooking, cleaning fish and doing laundry – in the stinkin' river, no less – until we reached the port town of Macapa, on the Amazon. That was one hot, miserable, rainy, buggy trip...

      Ernie and Juan, the research guys on the river boat, set me up with a berth on the tanker, Lao Tsing, sailing to Rio de Janeiro. Good thing they did, too; I found out later that there was a real healthy 'white slave' trade going on down at the docks with about half the freighter captains in on the action – those two guys were life savers. Finally made it to Rio two weeks later.

      I was flat broke, so I went to work…doing one of the things I know how to do best. Got a job pole dancing at the Crazy Horse Brasilia, not a bad gig; I had some money in my pocket and a place I shared with one of the other dancers, Julietta; another Italian.

      I was looking to do something meaningful with my time besides stripping. I found out through talk with some of the 'regulars', at the club, that there was a pretty scary illegal trade going on in capuchin monkeys. These little guys are almost extinct in the wild now due to poaching; they're much too valuable to research labs and training to care for quadriplegics to be left alone. The dealers can get anything they want for these monkeys. You know me, I just couldn't let that go…I asked some questions, took a few pictures…poked around some."

      Rosie finished her beer and lit up another French Oval. "So, now I got Raul Souto breathing down my neck; King of Endangered Species, Brazil. He's even worse than Pinto in Cartagena. More money involved than with the parrot trade; this guy wants me dead just 'cause I asked a few questions.

      In Rio and some of the other big cities in Brazil, there are bands of street kids called Pajaro Frutero, six – seven years old, who will do anything for a few pennies. They kill just to earn the right to live on the streets…they make their 'bones' and nobody messes with 'em. Souto sicked 'em on me right away. I had a hundred of the blood-thirsty little bastards after me one night. One more place I had to get out of in a hurry.

      My room mate, Julietta, had a cousin, Paulo, on the container ship, El Gatto, headed for Africa. She sweet talked him and got me aboard. I was headed for South Africa…and a job, maybe, on a wildlife preserve. Wound up doing a year with the Afrikaners rescuing rhinos and elephants from poachers and black marketeers.  Life was too boring and normal on the wildlife sanctuary, though. Like working a nine-to-five job. I had to get back into some meaningful action."

      

  

  

   

      

  

  

     

     

      

  

  

  

  

      

  

  

     

     

     

     

 

     

     

Smoking Baboon Snippet: Rosie in South America

      Rosie wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and settled back into the chair. She stared into the fire and collected her thoughts. After a few moments, she spoke, "After we split up in ..Colombia, Louie, things got tough," she paused to light another cigarette, "I barely made it outta there alive. First chance, I hopped a bus headed south. I switched buses four times just in case Pinto and his gang were still after me. Took ten days to get up into the mountains and finally arrive in Bogotá.

       I hooked up with an old American guy named Jerry de Vrees, from White Plains, driving a supply truck down to the Rio Negro; he let me hitch a ride. That took another two weeks – jeez, my kidneys are still bouncing around from that trip – he talked to the research guys he worked for and got me a spot on their boat, but no free ride; I had to work for passage. Two months of cooking, cleaning fish and doing laundry – in the stinkin' river, no less – until we reached the port town of Macapa, on the Amazon. That was one hot, miserable, rainy, buggy trip...

      Ernie and Juan, the research guys on the river boat, set me up with a berth on the tanker, Lao Tsing, sailing to Rio de Janeiro. Good thing they did, too; I found out later that there was a real healthy 'white slave' trade going on down at the docks with about half the freighter captains in on the action – those two guys were life savers. Finally made it to Rio two weeks later.

      I was flat broke, so I went to work…doing one of the things I know how to do best. Got a job pole dancing at the Crazy Horse Brasilia, not a bad gig; I had some money in my pocket and a place I shared with one of the other dancers, Julietta; another Italian.

      I was looking to do something meaningful with my time besides stripping. I found out through talk with some of the 'regulars', at the club, that there was a pretty scary illegal trade going on in capuchin monkeys. These little guys are almost extinct in the wild now due to poaching; they're much too valuable to research labs and training to care for quadriplegics to be left alone. The dealers can get anything they want for these monkeys. You know me, I just couldn't let that go…I asked some questions, took a few pictures…poked around some."

      Rosie finished her beer and lit up another French Oval. "So, now I got Raul Souto breathing down my neck; King of Endangered Species, Brazil. He's even worse than Pinto in Cartagena. More money involved than with the parrot trade; this guy wants me dead just 'cause I asked a few questions.

      In Rio and some of the other big cities in Brazil, there are bands of street kids called Pajaro Frutero, six – seven years old, who will do anything for a few pennies. They kill just to earn the right to live on the streets…they make their 'bones' and nobody messes with 'em. Souto sicked 'em on me right away. I had a hundred of the blood-thirsty little bastards after me one night. One more place I had to get out of in a hurry.

      My room mate, Julietta, had a cousin, Paulo, on the container ship, El Gatto, headed for Africa. She sweet talked him and got me aboard. I was headed for South Africa…and a job, maybe, on a wildlife preserve. Wound up doing a year with the Afrikaners rescuing rhinos and elephants from poachers and black marketeers.  Life was too boring and normal on the wildlife sanctuary, though. Like working a nine-to-five job. I had to get back into some meaningful action."

      

  

  

   

      

  

  

     

     

      

  

  

  

  

      

  

  

     

     

     

     

 

     

     

Smoking Baboon Snippet: Rosie in South America

      Rosie wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and settled back into the chair. She stared into the fire and collected her thoughts. After a few moments, she spoke, "After we split up in ..Colombia, Louie, things got tough," she paused to light another cigarette, "I barely made it outta there alive. First chance, I hopped a bus headed south. I switched buses four times just in case Pinto and his gang were still after me. Took ten days to get up into the mountains and finally arrive in Bogotá.

       I hooked up with an old American guy named Jerry de Vrees, from White Plains, driving a supply truck down to the Rio Negro; he let me hitch a ride. That took another two weeks – jeez, my kidneys are still bouncing around from that trip – he talked to the research guys he worked for and got me a spot on their boat, but no free ride; I had to work for passage. Two months of cooking, cleaning fish and doing laundry – in the stinkin' river, no less – until we reached the port town of Macapa, on the Amazon. That was one hot, miserable, rainy, buggy trip...

      Ernie and Juan, the research guys on the river boat, set me up with a berth on the tanker, Lao Tsing, sailing to Rio de Janeiro. Good thing they did, too; I found out later that there was a real healthy 'white slave' trade going on down at the docks with about half the freighter captains in on the action – those two guys were life savers. Finally made it to Rio two weeks later.

      I was flat broke, so I went to work…doing one of the things I know how to do best. Got a job pole dancing at the Crazy Horse Brasilia, not a bad gig; I had some money in my pocket and a place I shared with one of the other dancers, Julietta; another Italian.

      I was looking to do something meaningful with my time besides stripping. I found out through talk with some of the 'regulars', at the club, that there was a pretty scary illegal trade going on in capuchin monkeys. These little guys are almost extinct in the wild now due to poaching; they're much too valuable to research labs and training to care for quadriplegics to be left alone. The dealers can get anything they want for these monkeys. You know me, I just couldn't let that go…I asked some questions, took a few pictures…poked around some."

      Rosie finished her beer and lit up another French Oval. "So, now I got Raul Souto breathing down my neck; King of Endangered Species, Brazil. He's even worse than Pinto in Cartagena. More money involved than with the parrot trade; this guy wants me dead just 'cause I asked a few questions.

      In Rio and some of the other big cities in Brazil, there are bands of street kids called Pajaro Frutero, six – seven years old, who will do anything for a few pennies. They kill just to earn the right to live on the streets…they make their 'bones' and nobody messes with 'em. Souto sicked 'em on me right away. I had a hundred of the blood-thirsty little bastards after me one night. One more place I had to get out of in a hurry.

      My room mate, Julietta, had a cousin, Paulo, on the container ship, El Gatto, headed for Africa. She sweet talked him and got me aboard. I was headed for South Africa…and a job, maybe, on a wildlife preserve. Wound up doing a year with the Afrikaners rescuing rhinos and elephants from poachers and black marketeers.  Life was too boring and normal on the wildlife sanctuary, though. Like working a nine-to-five job. I had to get back into some meaningful action."

      

  

  

   

      

  

  

     

     

      

  

  

  

  

      

  

  

     

     

     

     

 

     

     

Notes on postings : Smoking Baboon Snippets...

      All of the postings that are made from my Novel, 'Smoking Baboon' are rough cuts, that for various reasons, did not make it into the finished version in the form I am presenting here. I thought, perhaps that these 'snippets' may be of interest, standing on their own merits.

      As I have six months of my life tied up in completion of this project, I will only post items that I do not intend for publication in the future.

I greatly appreciate requests to read the finished manuscript, however, I regretably must decline those requests. Hopefully, on publication you will be able to read the Novel in its entirety.

Thank you for your interest!

Art

    

Snippet from my new novel, ’Smoking Baboon’

      "We stepped inside the building and into the living area behind the shop.  I could see that Max was already beginning to drool over Rosie in her next-to-naked outfit. Ooboli was smart enough to know bad news when he saw it and wanted no part of Rosie, the baboon or whatever 'trouble' she was in.

      By this time Walter, the baboon, was beginning to take an interest in his new surroundings; the beer in particular." A wave of pain and disgust washed over Louie's face. "That friggin' little bastard baboon!"

      "Ooboli attended to the fireplace before he left us for the night and set us up with a nice little blaze; it gets cold in the desert at night. I pulled the curtains closed over the windows on a hunch that Rosie's paranoia was probably justified. We pulled our chairs up in front of the fire and got down to business."

      'So, what have you done now, Rosie? Who did you piss off this time and why? No, wait; lemme guess, it's got something to do with your little friend, Walter, here, right?'

      'Jeez, Louie; you should go into show business – you're so funny…" She was getting a little steamed with me. "Yeah, that's about the size of it. Wanna hear about it?'

      'Might as well find out why I'm gonna be takin' another sleigh ride to hell with you. Fire away, I'm all ears!'

      Rosie settled in front of the fire, wrapping Max's jacket around her. After a few moments, she spoke, 'Things are a little messy right now. I got a job belly dancing for this guy, Benny Joseph. What? You know him, Louie?'

      'Yeah everybody knows him! The Turk; aka: Benny the Ball. His real name is Aziz ibn Yusuf. How'd you manage to hook up with that sleaze-o?'

      'When I blew into town, I was broke. I needed cash and a place to stay. He ran an ad in the Sirocco Times; said he was looking for dancers and entertainers.'

      'You? A belly dancer?'

      'New York City College; I took a class. Used to do a belly dancing routine when I worked the Crazy Horse Brasilia, in Rio de Janeiro. The tourists ate it up. Got me outta the six inch stripper-heels; I could work bare foot.'

      'Rio?'

      'We'll do the catching up later, OK? Let's just get current. You got anything to warm me up? It's too cold to drink beer.' She handed her bottle to Walter, then she lit two cigarettes; one for her, one for the baboon. 'He can't be trusted with matches, so I gotta light his smokes.' Walter curled up in front of her chair by the fire blowing smoke rings and sipping his beer contentedly.

      'All we got is brandy, OK?' She got back to her story once more after a shot straight from the bottle. A real lady.'

      'So, this guy, Benny, specializes in doing the entertainment for private parties; you know -- high rollers, big shots, politicos. Dancers, musicians, animal acts, magicians, fire eaters, sword swallowers; we were a regular carnie side show. The Berbers love this kinda stuff.

      This was my third week with the troupe.  We musta done two dozen shows in that time. The pay was good. I got myself a flat in the hotel near the bus station in Marrakech.

      Then…there was the party tonight,' she took a big pull on the bottle, 'for this creepy guy named Tariq. I could see that Benny was really scared of him, he told us to give the show everything we got.

      The show was going like clockwork…this Tariq dude was laughing it up with his buddies, having a great time. Then, disaster. The magician, The Amazing Yaqub, was doing his one-on-one with Tariq and Walter. You know, Yaqub and Walter pick the guy's pockets while distracting him with card tricks? For some reason, Walter took off with the guy's Rolex in stead of giving it back at the end of the act. Tariq's bodyguards chased Walter all over the banquet hall, finally into the men's room. He flipped the goons the bird and flushed the 25K Rolex down the toilet. They caught Walter and brought him back to their boss, with the bad news about the watch.

     Tariq came dressed for the party like he was a Bedouin Sheik out of Lawrence of Arabia, he's so pissed, he draws this big ass sword. He's gonna cut Walter in half, then he's gonna do the Amazing Yaqub, too.

      I couldn't just stand there and watch. In a split second, the fire eater and me went into action. He created a diversion by setting one of the bodyguards on fire. I grabbed Walter, kicked Tariq in the jewels and hopped out the window with Yaqub close behind us. He's half way to Casablanca by now. My buddy, Abdullah, was waiting outside. He gave us a ride out here in the back of his truck. So, here I am."

      I butted in at this point, 'This is important, Rosie…the guy's name wasn't Gibar ibn Tariq, was it?'

      'Yeah, that was it! Benny couldn't stop jabbering about him. That's the guy!'

      'Great, the Rock of Gibraltar; that's what they call him. We're all gonna die. Hey, how did you know you'd find me here?'

      'You're not the only one with connections, Louie. I got my own network.  I been following your movements for over a year. Only time I lost track of you was when you went into the jungle in Quaasiland.'

      'Fat lot of good that's gonna do us now. Like I said, we're all dead. This character Tariq is The Enforcer of Marrakech. Nothing goes down, nothing moves unless he knows about it. You don't do business or even say boo unless he gets his cut first. He's a real magician; makes people disappear all the time, permanently. Gets away with it, too. His friends go all the way up to the top of the ladder here. That's who you kicked in the cohones.

      Oh, well, let's just call it a night. I'm too tired to even think straight now. Try to get some shut eye, Kid. I'll send Ooboli round to your place to pick up your things in the morning. He knows the concierge. He can get in and out without attracting attention.'

      "Needless to say, Hugo; we were up Shit Creek." Louie signaled another round – about time, too. He continued: "Next morning, I sniffed the air to see if Tariq had made the connection between Rosie and me. So far, so good. Nothing at all. I decided to push my luck and carry on business as usual. Word on the street from Ooboli, when he got back from town: Tariq's goons were looking for an American chic with a monkey and he'll pay big bucks to find her. Not so good."

( Nowhere...NOW HERE...Nowhere )

First...we are Nowhere...next, we are NOW HERE...in the end we are, once again...Nowhere...

What are YOU doing to make NOW HERE count?

I Create in Ceramics; whether you Dig what I do or not, some vestage of what I create...with My Mark on it...will Survive until this Third Stone from the Sun has 'ceased upon the 'morrow.'

Make a Mark...at the very least, leave a stubborn stain behind.

Gimme some Input HERE!

Hand-Made Manifesto

 

This is an attempt to get you guys out from in front of your PCs & DOING SOMETHING CREATIVE!

The World needs this; take a look at the News fer Chrissakes! If not for 'The World', do it to annoy someone else. Provoke some 'thoughts'...if it itches, SCRATCH IT!

Part of what I do is an attempt to engage my audience...to see things from an unexpected angle. Humour is a tool that I like to work with to provoke that response. Humour can be any number of things; it can be suppressed rage, the ID let out of the box...or it can be simply the Joy of Life. I digress...

The point I'm trying to get across is that people are getting further & further away from the physical manifestation of what's in their Heads & Hearts.

Write a song, paint a picture, write, play in the mud like I do...DO SOMETHING! It's theraputic...loaded with vitamins & fiber...good for you & it tastes good, too!

I'm not screwin' around here...this is Serious! I wanna see Results. Give me Pictures & Words to show that you are INVOLVED...