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rayasoIdol Mini-Season 2018-19
Week 17.5
Topic: Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life
THE LIT SQUAD
The Shakespeare Café looked warm and inviting through the fog. Tonight was its monthly Author’s Night, which featured an open mic for writers to read their works. The performances were uneven, ranging from the wooden to the brilliant, with a lot more wood than lightning. The café was packed when Rebecca entered.
“I’m hungry,” she thought as she pushed through the door. She immediately saw her target, sitting alone at the bar, waiting his turn. He was in his mid-twenties, not bad looking, and clutching a manuscript to keep his hands from shaking, with four empty shot glasses nearby.
She had gorgeous red hair, full lips, and a body barely contained by a short blue dress. She was clearly old enough to vote, and that was all the men wanted to know as they tried not to stare at her. Their appraisals didn’t bother her, only the poet at the mic, who was rambling on in free verse about his pet frog.
The stool next to the writer was empty, so she headed straight for it and sat down.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she said to Roger Michaels.
Roger was the next to read, and he was so nervous he barely heard her.
“Well then, can I buy you one?” she said, nodding to the bartender, who brought over the cheapest scotch in the house, plus the most expensive for Rebecca.
“On the house,” said the bartender.
Rebecca smiled. She was used to this.
Just then, it was Roger’s turn at the mic. Rebecca knew he’d be back.
He read one of his short stories. It was so powerful, gripping, and raw that the audience was silent, then erupted into the loudest applause of the night.
As he read, Rebecca could see a light shine from him, growing in intensity. She smiled and licked her lips.
“Feeding time,” she thought, her hunger growing.
Roger returned to the bar, hands still shaking. Rebecca gradually moved her stool closer. As they talked about his writing, thin needle-like protrusions extended from her fingertips. Smiling seductively, she jabbed him with her fingertips on his thigh. He felt a sting and pulled back. By then it was too late.
Rebecca had sucked all of Roger’s prodigious talent from him, satisfying her needs but withdrawing every creative impulse from him.
He would never write anything meaningful again. The intense desire to be a writer would still be there, but now there was no talent. It would be like doing his nightly homework back in school.
Her hunger satisfied for now, Rebecca left, adding the Shakespeare Café to her list of feeding grounds.
Meanwhile, across town, the Literary Crimes Unit of the FBI was trying to track Rebecca down, #4 on its own Ten Most Wanted List.
The Lit Squad consisted of Special Agent Marcus Johnson and whatever agent was unlucky enough to be assigned to him, currently Sylvia Klein. It was in the basement, next to the HVAC and as far from real agents as possible. Marcus had been allocated one room, two desks, and three battered filing cabinets. Most people didn’t know it existed, which was fine with him. It meant less interference.
“Just don’t embarrass the FBI,” the agent in charge had said when Marcus had first arrived. He’d mostly succeeded.
He’d been pleased when Sylvia had been assigned to him. Named for Sylvia Plath, both her parents were published writers of romance and crime novels, so she had understood the magnitude of Rebecca’s crimes.
Lit Squad was considered punishment and Sylvia had been no exception; she had mouthed off once too often about her inept supervisor. Marcus knew the guy and she was right.
“It looks like Rebecca’s in town,” said Marcus. “We just got a phone call from a confidential informant at the Shakespeare Café.”
Sylvia started to look at the thick file Marcus handed her. There were reports going back over fifty years and some grainy, unfocused photographs of her, making visual identification difficult.
“Rebecca’s a talent-sucker,” said Marcus, “kind of a reverse Muse. No one knows where they came from. They’re human, except for the need to feed on literary skill. They can sense it and then use their finger needles to draw it out, leaving their victims talentless. We don’t know how many – probably thousands – are scattered all over the world. Rebecca’s been working Los Angeles, but now she’s been spotted in San Francisco, which makes her our problem.”
“Is that why there are so many franchise movies, remakes, and reboots?” asked Sylvia.
“She’s sucked everything out of the scriptwriters,” said Marcus, “and now she’s here. Our job is to catch her and inject her with the serum.”
“What’s that?” said Sylvia.
“It eliminates her need to feed on creativity. It’s like taking the blood lust out of a vampire. It was invented by William Carlos Williams, who was a doctor as well as a poet, when a talent-sucker ruined his friend, Ezra Pound.
“I almost caught her once, at the start of my career. She got a high school kid named Steve Larkin over in Coalinga. Had all the talent in the world. Real pity.”
San Francisco had a lively arts scene, which made catching Rebecca more difficult. Marcus gave Sylvia the task of finding any event likely to draw writers, including book signings, even though Rebecca didn’t usually drain prominent authors – too risky. She sometimes cruised coffee shops looking for writer’s working at their lap tops, but most of her attacks occurred at larger events, like the Shakespeare Café.
Marcus was going to talk with his snitches, mostly bartenders or baristas, at the coffee shops and cafes that had a reputation in the literary underground, especially those near San Francisco State, which offered creative writings classes.
Sylvia started with the internet, and when that finally dried up, she visited the few bookstores still open, looking for fliers announcing readings or open mics, one of Rebecca’s favorites.
After a few days, they had their top possibilities: a poetry flash mob in front of a bookstore; an improv short story gathering at the college; a writer’s workshop, also at the college; the weekly writer’s discussion group at the No Poets Café; and the Shakespeare Café for the open mic. Plus the annual Poetry Festival in Salinas, which started today.
“It’s too far away,” said Marcus.
“Anything more than 30 minutes is too far for you,” said Sylvia. “It’s the only likely event for a week, and Rebecca’s fed in that area before. Didn’t she get that kid in Coalinga you told me about?”
“Larkin?” replied Marcus. “That was years ago, and she was probably just passing through.”
“We’re not doing anything tomorrow,” said Sylvia. “You’ll live.”
Marcus knew she was right.
“I’m driving,” he said, “and my music.”
The next day, they checked out two tranq guns loaded with the serum and a tranquilizer. It took more than two hours to get to Salinas; the traffic was worse than usual, and it was not a very pretty drive. They had no trouble finding Hiram Moore High School, home of the festival.
Bill Williams, the director of the event, handed them programs at the entrance to the gym.
“I’ll need to talk to him,” thought Marcus, as he scanned the program.
He was disturbed to see the name of Steve Larkin, Rebecca’s victim years ago.
“We need to be gone before he reads,” thought Marcus. “I’d hate to hear what he’s become compared to what he could have been. That kid was a genius.”
After talking with Williams, they were no better off. He’d never seen anyone like Rebecca at the festival, but he promised to let them know if a woman matching her description showed up.
Marcus and Sylvia wandered around, checking the crowd. No Rebecca.
“That doesn’t mean she won’t turn up later,” said Sylvia.
They agreed to leave after the crowning of the Poetry Queen, before Larkin was to read his poem.
The poetry they heard ranged from the bad to very good, but overall, they were impressed.
Finally, it was time for the Poetry Queen. Everyone knew it was Principal Stevenson’s daughter, again, but no one complained. She was a very pretty girl.
But Marcus wasn’t looking at the Queen, he was staring at her mother, who was standing off to one side, beaming at her daughter.
“That’s Rebecca!” he whispered to Sylvia.
Rebecca, or Principal Stevenson, was wearing a baggy, plain dress; her hair was in a bun, and she had on a pair of glasses. She looked nothing like the beauty that Marcus had described to Williams.
“Why go to San Francisco when you can have the food come to you?” whispered Sylvia.
They had to shoot her with the serum darts, but they couldn’t shoot her in front of a crowd. That would require explanations the agents didn’t want to give.
Marcus moved through the crowd, getting behind Rebecca, while Sylvia approached her from the side. They held their positions until after the ceremony, and when she headed down an empty hallway to leave, they followed, closing the door behind them, tranq guns at the ready.
“FBI, Rebecca!” shouted Marcus.
As soon as she turned around, they fired. The darts injected her with the serum and a tranquilizer, which knocked her out. Sylvia called for medical assistance, explaining only enough to ensure that Rebecca got proper care.
As soon as the ambulance crew arrived, the agents left. It had been a tough month, and they were eager to get home. Closing out Rebecca’s case could wait until tomorrow, when the Lit Squad would start on their next literary offender, a serial plagiarizer.
When Rebecca woke up at the hospital, the doctor told her that she passed out from dehydration and the excitement at the festival. They kept her overnight for observation, then released her the next morning.
Rebecca knew she’d been shot with the serum. Already, her needle claws were beginning to die. She no longer felt the hunger to steal the talent from victims, but she would always miss the wonderful sensation she got from it. Her anger slowly began to grow in her. She could barely control her rage.
She would live the life of Principal Andersen – she had no choice. She would also work hard to improve the poetry festival. It wasn’t for her, she’d had plenty of other sources. But her daughter would need it in a few years when she got her claws.
In the meantime, she would have to do something about Lit Squad.
She would see to it that San Francisco was drained of all creativity, turning it into a wasteland.
As to the agents, they would lose whatever was most dear to them.
“They’re not finished with me,” thought Rebecca, “until I’m finished with them!”
Revenge would fill the void caused by the agents, and no serum existed for that.
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no subject
Date: 2019-03-21 11:21 pm (UTC)I'd enjoy reading more about them and their further adventures with Rebecca and others!
no subject
Date: 2019-03-22 04:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-22 07:01 pm (UTC)The Lit Squad is inventive and vastly entertaining. LOL to remakes and reboots in Hollywood! Clever!
I hope we see more of Marcus and Syliva and that they aren't living in a tent in the Tenderloin!
no subject
Date: 2019-03-22 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-23 06:06 am (UTC)“Is that why there are so many franchise movies, remakes, and reboots?”
A fair point.
her daughter would need it in a few years when she got her claws.
Eeee!
rambling on in free verse about his pet frog.
That's the kind of thing I fear when I hear about poetry slams and open-mic readings. It was years ago, but I think Gary Larson summed it up pretty well in his "Cow poetry" cartoon. :D
no subject
Date: 2019-03-23 03:54 pm (UTC)Yes, it's hard to imagine poor Steve with talent, but this is what happens when you are the victim of Rebecca. You lose all your talent, but not the desire to write, so you keep on writing, but it's all garbage.
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Date: 2019-03-23 11:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-23 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-24 04:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-24 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-19 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-19 03:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-19 03:26 pm (UTC)