since at least three of us claimed to be good writers yesterday, this occurred to me.
I have a small excerpt from my novel, for your perusal.
................
The characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
A ROYAL CARNAGE DINNER PARTY
Birkenau sat at the head of the table, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I’m fed up with Austria, the unfriendly people, the overcommercialization, the exploitation of tourists, the dull entertainment.”
"And what's it with them and Mozart?" he asked rhetorically.
MajestikMoose could no longer restrain himself; he had suddenly had enough of this man and his views and his smug superiority. “Mozart was an Austrian, and they are proud of him!”
“So was Waldheim, and he was a Nazi, said the doctor, irritated by the interruption, "But no matter where you go, it's Mozart. If it isn't the name of a restaurant, they play his music on street corners.”
His music is very nice, Birkenau!” said Maren two chairs away, soothingly.
“So is Abba’s, until you’re heard it for the third time,” said Birkenau.
MajestikMoose heard a dull, crimson roaring building in his ears. The dueling scar across his left cheek began to throb.
“At the end of the day, it all sounds the same. And there is no intellectual depth to his music. Compare The Barber of Seville with any of Wagner’s works…”
"The Barber was Rossini," said MajestikMoose, his voice a finely honed blade. "Mozart wrote The Marriage of Figaro, A sequel to The Barber.”
“Nonsense,” said Birkenau.
"It's true," said Mr. Sirloin, from the other side of the table.
“It still doesn’t give it more intellectual depth. It’s still musical candyfloss.”
“Bullshit,” said MajestikMoose, loudly and clearly and agrily, and even the waiters came to a halt.
'Watch Your language!" said Birkenau.
'Fuck you," said MajestikMoose.
'What does a Canadian know about music?” asked Birkenau, red in the face, eyes widened.
"As much as an Australian about intellectual depth, you cunt.”
“’Moose!" It was Maren's voice, urgent, pleading, but it made no difference.
“You nazi,” said Birkenau, halfway up, his napkin falling off his lap.
MajestikMoose hit him as he rose, right fist against the head, a glancing blow, not a direct hit. For a moment the Australian was off-balance, but he recovered quickly, and he swung toward MajestikMoose, who was ready and hit him again, Radiobabe shrieking and holding her head as she cowered between them. He struck Birkenau full on the nose with a right, hit again, against the mouth, felt teeth breaking, more women screaming, Maren's "No, no, no" shrill and high and despairing. Birkenau staggered back against the wall, his foot hooked onto the chair, ‘Moose over him, lifting his arm for the last blow, white with anger, but then someone held his arm, a calm, coaxing voice behind him. "Steady on, slowly now," murmured the the calm, taciturn Markgugs, exhibiting his customary restraint 'Moose still pulled against the man's firm grip, looked down at the bloody lace below him, the glassy eyes. "Slowly now," Markgugs repeated softly.
MajestikMoose relaxed. Deadly silence. He dropped his arm, moved his foot to regain his balance, looked up.
At the head of the table, almost upright, stood Tila Tequila, an expression of complete sexual arousal on her face. "Take me, 'Moose...right here on this table."
I have a small excerpt from my novel, for your perusal.
................
The characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
A ROYAL CARNAGE DINNER PARTY
Birkenau sat at the head of the table, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I’m fed up with Austria, the unfriendly people, the overcommercialization, the exploitation of tourists, the dull entertainment.”
"And what's it with them and Mozart?" he asked rhetorically.
MajestikMoose could no longer restrain himself; he had suddenly had enough of this man and his views and his smug superiority. “Mozart was an Austrian, and they are proud of him!”
“So was Waldheim, and he was a Nazi, said the doctor, irritated by the interruption, "But no matter where you go, it's Mozart. If it isn't the name of a restaurant, they play his music on street corners.”
His music is very nice, Birkenau!” said Maren two chairs away, soothingly.
“So is Abba’s, until you’re heard it for the third time,” said Birkenau.
MajestikMoose heard a dull, crimson roaring building in his ears. The dueling scar across his left cheek began to throb.
“At the end of the day, it all sounds the same. And there is no intellectual depth to his music. Compare The Barber of Seville with any of Wagner’s works…”
"The Barber was Rossini," said MajestikMoose, his voice a finely honed blade. "Mozart wrote The Marriage of Figaro, A sequel to The Barber.”
“Nonsense,” said Birkenau.
"It's true," said Mr. Sirloin, from the other side of the table.
“It still doesn’t give it more intellectual depth. It’s still musical candyfloss.”
“Bullshit,” said MajestikMoose, loudly and clearly and agrily, and even the waiters came to a halt.
'Watch Your language!" said Birkenau.
'Fuck you," said MajestikMoose.
'What does a Canadian know about music?” asked Birkenau, red in the face, eyes widened.
"As much as an Australian about intellectual depth, you cunt.”
“’Moose!" It was Maren's voice, urgent, pleading, but it made no difference.
“You nazi,” said Birkenau, halfway up, his napkin falling off his lap.
MajestikMoose hit him as he rose, right fist against the head, a glancing blow, not a direct hit. For a moment the Australian was off-balance, but he recovered quickly, and he swung toward MajestikMoose, who was ready and hit him again, Radiobabe shrieking and holding her head as she cowered between them. He struck Birkenau full on the nose with a right, hit again, against the mouth, felt teeth breaking, more women screaming, Maren's "No, no, no" shrill and high and despairing. Birkenau staggered back against the wall, his foot hooked onto the chair, ‘Moose over him, lifting his arm for the last blow, white with anger, but then someone held his arm, a calm, coaxing voice behind him. "Steady on, slowly now," murmured the the calm, taciturn Markgugs, exhibiting his customary restraint 'Moose still pulled against the man's firm grip, looked down at the bloody lace below him, the glassy eyes. "Slowly now," Markgugs repeated softly.
MajestikMoose relaxed. Deadly silence. He dropped his arm, moved his foot to regain his balance, looked up.
At the head of the table, almost upright, stood Tila Tequila, an expression of complete sexual arousal on her face. "Take me, 'Moose...right here on this table."
