The Death of L____ D______

By Smashwords

A comedic murder mystery. Startling satire. Cruel parody. A mocking look at the wealthy who pollute our culture. A famous writer dies, and the investigation uncovers a trove of the foibles and behaviours of the rich, famous, awful, and the awfully famous. Is it ironic? You decide!

"You can always tell a murder author by his fancy prose style."

#TRIGGERWARNING Contains comedy, satire, cruelty, death, mockery. A comedic murder mystery with little comedy and only one murder. A scathing examination of The Way We Live Now. 'Who Done It?' or more accurately, 'Why'd They Do It?' A hypothetical scenario about the potential death of a hypocrite. With jokes.

"The Meanest Comic Novel of this, or any, century." —Evelyn Waugh's Ghost

A bright youngish thing, on the cusp of failure when her teevee show ends, encounters a series of unfortunate incidents, ending with a short walk off a high building. Jump, Slip, or Push? The Detective, long coat whipping in the wind (even when there is no wind), interviews a cast of "only in New York" characters to solve the crime, or determine if a crime has been committed at all. At worst, there was and this is a Crime against Art.

"I thought I had the pen of an angel and the heart of a cad." —Simon Raven (allegedly)

"I roared with laughter! But if they ever catch "Anonymous", they'll hang him!" —Barrack Saddam O'Bama

"World Ends—Women, Minorities Hit Hardest" —Apocryphal New York Paper of Record Headline

"Haters Gonna Hate" —Colloquial American Saying

"Like going after George Clooney with a chainsaw. Which, come to think of it, wouldn't be a bad idea." —Bespoiled Hatcheck Girl, Hollywood, Calif.

"Its intricacy and elaborate plot defy any real classification, yet it has become the uncontested "black humor" classic of our generation. "It is easier to nail a blob of mercury than to describe this novel by Thomas Pynchon." —Saturday Review, on the novel V.

"Of all of the novels we chose not to read this year, this is the finest." —Chicago Review of Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smashwords
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370101528

Book preview

Blurbs / Pull Quotes

The Meanest Comic Novel of this, or any, century. —Evelyn Waugh's Ghost

"I thought I had the pen of an angel and the heart of a cad." —Simon Raven (allegedly)

I roared with laughter! But if they ever catch Anonymous, they'll hang him! —Barrack Saddam O'Bama

World Ends—Women, Minorities Hit Hardest —Apocryphal New York Paper of Record Headline

Haters Gonna Hate —Colloquial American Saying

Like going after George Clooney with a chainsaw. Which, come to think of it, wouldn't be a bad idea. —Bespoiled Hatcheck Girl, Hollywood, Calif.

Its intricacy and elaborate plot defy any real classification, yet it has become the uncontested black humor classic of our generation. It is easier to nail a blob of mercury than to describe this novel by Thomas Pynchon." —Saturday Review, on the novel V.

Of all of the novels we chose not to read this year, this is the finest. —Chicago Review of Books

Put an amazing Charles Willeford quote here. Oh fuck it, Google him yourself.

The Death of L____ D______

A Novel

by

Anonymous

Copyright 2017 by Anonymous.

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any person, persons, organization, thing, event, incident, or place in the past, present, or future is completely coincidental.

This is a work of parody and/or satire, using hyperbolic and untrue characterizations and exaggerations for comedic effect. So eat a dick.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form, especially not by mimeograph, nor by any other means (invented or as yet undiscovered) whether electronic, physical, or ethereal, without the express written consent of the author. This book cannot be transmitted physically or electronically without full payment or the express written consent of the author, or the Commissioner of Baseball, or former Vice-President Dick Cheney.

Death and the King's Horseman by Wole Soyinka, Winner of the 1986 Nobel Prize for Literature, was not used due to a lack of permission. A delightful parody is used instead.

Some rap lyrics made up. The Ballard quote is used without permission or apology.

All trademarks belong to their rightful and respective and respectful owners. No offense intended.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Honestly, wasn't that hard. And while you're buying a copy for each friend who has read it, be sure and buy a unicorn too. 'Cause that's about as likely.

All rights reserved.  A. A. Anonymous (2017)

With cases involving outrageous parody and satire, the path of least resistance has been to find the ‘speech’ non-defamatory as a matter of law. The rationale used to justify this conclusion is that no reasonable reader could understand the publication as an assertion of fact. The presumption is that satire is so outrageous as to preclude belief is incapable of harming reputation. – From Constitutional Law –Satire, Defamation, and the Believability Rule as a Bar To Recovery – Falwell v. Flynt by Kevin M. Smith

WRITTEN IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Awarded 0 out of 5 on the Bechdel Scale

For Mother

Prologue

On a sunny bright warm autumn afternoon, a beam of perfect sunlight seemingly designed by The Lord God in Heaven Above to illuminate adorable sleepy kittens, instead found a snoring woman, open-mouthed and sprawled out like an overturned basket of laundry. The Artist would have slept away the entire day in her overpriced yet trendy brownstone until an incessant electronic buzzing awoke her at the crack of two-forty-five in the afternoon. It was her Code Red ringtone, no messing around: awake awake! She fumbled for her cell phone, her mouth slimy, her head groggy, and the back of her neck sweaty—What? huh? she slurred. The Artist was not well, still hung over from a night of late drinking and Hectoring, her usually pale indoor intellectual pallor now the color of old guacamole in the discount case at a local deli: Chthonic green and corpse gray.

Hello.

Uh-hello?

Hi. This is Grayson? From The Campaign? a California lilt at the end of the sentences. These were not questions, they were declarative sentences. And the capital T and C were audible over the phone.

Grayson, yes, hello! now bolt upright.

Are you free this evening?

I am!

Great. The Candidate will be in Connecticut tonight, could you get up here for a quick meeting?

She wants to meet with me?

In person! a smile in the voice. A salesman's smile. You've won a cruise.

Er, yes. Will there... The Artist looked down at herself, the bedroom, the mess, the world, trying to orient herself. Will there be a car?

No. Sorrow indicated. "She wants to see you informally, but urgently, you know how it is. Her plans changed, she is in the area, next stop Atlanta! but this gives her a chance to see some dear friends pass the hat. Oh, but this isn't that. This isn't a shakedown. She is fundraising, but with you, it is more strategy and role. Plans and thoughts. The future."

Wow. Nervous excitement and grandiose plans raced through The Artist's head: Expanded role? Media Coördination? Strategy? Speeches? SPOKESPERSON?!?!? She started to twitch nervously with anticipation.

Wow indeed. How about 8 pm? On the plane. We are at a smaller airstrip, I'll text you the deets.

She laughed. "Deets? You should be working on the youth vote!" she brown-nosed. Silence.

OK, I'll get a car, I can be there. Bring anything? Dress?

Working professional. You won't be on teevee, sorry. But it IS the next President of the United States, so no sweats, no flip flops. You know the drill. And ideas, if you have any! Click. Silence.

A rushed sweaty confusion. A quick shower, a showercap like a 50s housewife, clothes clothes clothes. The perfect combination, a funky colorful top and those pants she liked so much. Nothing with Her name, no slogans, nothing too frilly, too dour. Jacket? Yes. Trendy and fresh. Makeup? She cringed. Yes, makeup, a little.

* * *

The Artist sat, alone, on The Plane. It was twenty-seven after eight, which was just on time for the Busiest Woman in the World. The Artist was sitting in an ordinary airline seat, near the middle of the plane on the aisle. Waiting. Small breaths to remain calm. Seated forward, awaiting a take-off that wouldn't happen. She was in the unimproved cabin area, with seats and tray tables and everything the same as any normal airliner. Behind her stood an improvised gray dividing wall, no doubt it hid a world with desks and satellite phones and a bed and giant screens and computers... her mind wandered. She had seen that movie set on The Official Plane. She had seen several. She wished there was a Big Seal with an eagle, arrows in its talon, but even so this whole space was still humming with potential power. Everything was vaguely reassuringly real and familiar and that was mildly unsettling. There was no press, they had all been shepherded to the speech that was the ostensible reason for this visit. Locking up support from a few recalcitrant babies in New England was another reason. A secret fifteen million dollar fundraiser from a few foreign—sorry, Global—leaders was another reason.

Everything was just a little rattier than she imagined. She expected a modern shining world, all slick clear touch screens and AppleStore white surfaces. This was beige and gray and flat. A little beat. Approaching run down, maybe just well used. Smudges on the handles of the overhead bins and loose stitching on the seatbacks and a smell of ... stink. Unwashed masses. Dirty reporters. Half eaten burritos. She inhaled in deeply; it smelled real. The Artist picked at the arm rest. Mild elation swirled with boredom and klung.

A few aides, wearing black&white professional work clothes scurried by. None made eye contact, or if they did, they forced a tight-lipped smile, looked down, moved on. Busy busy.

The Candidate will see you now.

The Artist looked up, her face a glowing smile. She felt this to the tips of her toes. Her! She and Her! Wow!

She got up and followed the leading back towards the back. A door, people on phones, another door. A small office. And then Her! Sitting in her 'casual media' face, not yet ready to be primped to perfection, but calm and focused in case a camera or cell phone caught The Candidate At Thought. Her hair was that magnificent blonde! She was conferring with an old man in an old man's suit. They murmured. The Candidate looked up. A small smile.

You can leave us for a few minutes.

The aide who had brought her and the old man exited, closed the door. The Candidate got up from her seat, stretched slightly. She walked around the table. Her blonde hair was perfect. The Artist extended her hand – handshake, or half hug? She prayed for a half hug.

The Candidate slapped her across the face, a full piercing echoing smack. The Artist's head whipped right. Tears welled up. Her hand flew to cover the reddening welt. The crack seemed to echo forever. Copper in the mouth.

Sit. Down.

Her knees buckled, the edge of her butt felt the bench behind her, she slid onto in down, stunned. Mouth agape. Silenced. Her. She had been slapped by Her!

"Do not cry. I don't have time to deal with your tears or your scenes, and you are walking off this plane in ten minutes and I will never see you again for the rest of my life. I will not have you photographed sobbing leaving My Plane. Suck. It. Up." The accent was slipping between honking nasal Chicago and media plain-speak. The Candidate eased back to her desk. She pointedly did not offer a tissue.

The Artist felt her very power of speech had been slapped out of her. Wha wha why? She did not snivel. She did sniffle.

The Candidate smiled, that tight, cruel smile that came out when the whip did. The smile that hundreds of photographers had surreptitiously captured then deleted, no way that shot would be ever used by their editors. The blessed and chosen candidate needed to look tough but fair, not like a She Wolf of the SS. Oh, I don't know, let me think. She took the papers from her desk and raised them. She recited in a little girl voice: "I think white men should die off. I don't mean we should kill them off, I just think straight, cis-normal, white fuckbois should go extinct. I mean, evolution is real, right? So let's just accelerate the process, White. Men. Should. Go. Extinct."

Silence. Shock and Awe.

It might come as a shock to you, but the Straight While Male vote might just possibly prove to be important in this election. More, I would sense, than the delightfully diverse and energetic yet missing Brooklyn Youth Vote. The last three words were fired like bullets from the tight, pursed lips.

"Nothing to say? Well, let me just say this then. I grant the position of Youth Social Media Coordinator was ill-defined. But sometimes, people given a little freedom come up with good ideas. They innovate. They push the envelope. (Was that a Southern drawl peaking though?) I am struggling to think of a single thing you have done, other than churn out this (papers raised in left hand) garbage that turns off 10,000 voters a week. I might lose the Youth Vote. I Might Lose the Youth Vote. You and your cohorts are disengaging in droves. Droves." A pause, a slug of what was probably not water from a plastic cup.

The Artist rubbed her cheek. She would not cry she would not cry. She bit her lip, first lightly, then hard, on the inside, where it wouldn't show.

The Candidate sighed. She tossed the papers into the trash. Done.

I didn't know what to expect. Or what I even expected. God knows, no one on my stuff understands this staff. Having a Face page is like inventing fire for them. 'Tweet something clever!' A sneer. "Meanwhile, a million fucks are creating little cartoons of some gosh D frog smoking crack and they are getting traction! And you, you, you're not using your little cluster of creatives to make little cartoons, or funny videos, or viralsongs. You are just pissing me off. And my supporters. And half the country. Nice job."

Silence. Aftershock. The Candidate looked The Artist up and down, shook her head just a little, took a last slug of what was definitely not water from the plastic cup. She stood.

OK, I need to go and spend another 30 minutes getting spray painted so I can end this 16 hours day in wherever the fuck we are dancing for dollars. Go back to Brooklyn. Not a word, no media. Please, no more media. No Statements. Ever. Just disappear. We are done. And The Candidate got up and walked from the room, leaving The Artist alone.

Eventually, a million years later, she got up. She resisted the urge to look at her red cheek in any and every reflective surface she passed. Shuffled to the door, descended some stairs alone, somehow got home. She had had a million thoughts between the door of the plane and the door of her childhood bedroom, but nothing worth repeating. Just one more humiliation of one whose grasp continually exceeded her reach.

Chapter 1. Begin to Begin

Boredom: the desire for desires. ― Count Leo Tolstoi

Epic. That is the only word to describe the rooftop party, and God knows how she feels about rooftop parties. And rooftop bars. Even though that hack cliché word rang false, she knew, Artist that she was, that sometimes clichés rang true, that sometimes the audience cheers when the boy gets the girl (or the boy, she selfcorrected), that sometimes a moment can simply be epic. This was an amazing future memory in her life, and she looked around and savored it and looked around again. Epic. Perfectly Totally Epic. She breathed in heavily through her nose and smiled.

The sun was setting to the West, behind Manhattan, giving a perfect magic hour glow to herself and the people around her, hundreds of party goers: hipsters, trustfundistas, slackers, clackers, chatterers, Twitterers, anyone who was Anybody or wanted to be Somebody all sitting standing leaning over every inch of this trendy new joint in the quasi-fictional neighborhood of MacAdams. MacAdams wasn't really real, of course, it was just the new trendy name for an old, dilapidated place, a buzz word, a ring the bell and say ‘Henry sent me’ secret handshake for those in the know. And these people were desperately in the know.

A few thousand square feet of previously unused and seemingly unusable rooftop was now a place to see and be seen, or rather, tweet and be tweeted, a playground of the young and underemployed. A heat map of social media usage would show this rooftop glowing white hot as the sun, with rays tracing out around the world, to connections in Hoxton, Barranco, The Island Central District, Stumptown's Alphabet Blocks, West Ocean's South Bay, anywhere art districts sprang up, lively ethnically diverse rich&thin people lived downtown, and $15 cocktails were poured.

Later, a foot-by-foot survey of this wonderland may be provided for the pedants, the long history of this ancient brick building detailed, the biographies of