"You, fucker," replied Fighter Jock Itch.

Aircraft Carrier, Mini-Sub, Delta Farce and Dumb Bomb looked up from their literary near-beer and laughed like witless idiots, their fat bellies and jelly jowls heaving with doltish merriment.

"Fuh-nee, especially coming from an action author whose shit books are mostly crude four-letter word dialog and whose characters are all loutish, epicene, Irish morons."

"So what? Everybody knows the US government is run by fat, drunken Irish guys who curse like stevedores -- like in real life. For example, we got President O'Bama, right? He's Irish, ain’t he?"

"Yeah, you got a point," Aircraft Carrier agreed. “But we're here to talk about taking care of our arch enemy, Dave." "Right," seconded Mini-Sub. “That’s what we came here for. Dave makes me want to fire my torpedo, and just feel it explode in the enemy’s rear....

Mini-Sub fell silent with reddening cheeks as his companions stared at him.

Delta Farce broke the embarrassed silence –- simultaneously breaking wind.

He said: "Here's a guy who thinks he's another Ian Fleming. I mean, plot, careful attention to detail, dedication, craftsmanship, action, fast cars, spies, weapons, global locales, high-concept plotting, sex with beautiful women --

" -- Yee-ukkk!"

"Right. The guy's obviously a fraud. Otherwise there'd be less of the sexy stuff and more scenes featuring manly men sniffing each others' jock straps. You know, good solid action shit like that. The kind our agents like to see from us."

"You mean our wives and rich family connections who can pull strings, and who we've traded favors with and bribed in order to advance our fraudulently obtained careers, don't you?"

"Of course. I was just engaging in a little euphemism there by calling our wives and patrician families ‘agents.’ Naturally if all we had to rely on is our talent and professionalism, like Dave, we'd never have gotten anywhere."

"You can say that again."

Of course, I was just engaging in a little -- "

"No, not literally, dork."

Again, an abashed Mini-Sub hung his head with reddened cheeks.

"I suggest we write that Irish guy, O’bama, suggesting that Dave be permanently barred from the White House, where he obviously has some informants giving him a lot of inside information we don't get and have to make up out of our asses."

"Good damn idea!"

Even as their plan was hatched, fear suddenly gripped the conclave of anti-Dave plotters as a strange and portentous sound was heard.

"Wait. What was that? I heard something very creepy. Like an old grocery bag being ripped into toilet paper, " ejaculated Aircraft Carrier.

"Must have been your Muse," snickered Mini-Sub.

"You mean smell something, don’cha? Pee-yooo!" Tank Tracks put in.

"Yeah, what is that foul odor. It's like ... stale prose that's been moldering for fifty years between two pasteboard covers."

"That can only mean one thing," exclaimed Fighter Jock Itch -- the Shade of Ludlum approaches!"

As if one cue, a limp gray vapor had begun to coagulate in the close air of the room. The Shade of Ludlum had begun to materialize.

Still more amazingly, a Truman Capote-like voice twittered vapidly as the door opened and a newcomer entered the Secret Planning Chamber of the Anti-Dave Action Authors -- but it wasn't Capote, it was the Truman Capote look-alike, military fiction author Kim Junk Ilness.

"I, Kim Junk Ilness, have conjured the Shade of Ludlum. Together we'll wipe the floor with the self-styled King of Action-Adventure, our common foe, the nefarious Dave."

"Just a minute -- I think we should channel a ghost writer instead of the ghost of a writer, especially Robert Ludlum, arguably the most boring, stupid hack in the entire history of literature.”

Special Farces paused to reflect, then continued: “That way we can get somebody to make up some half-decent plots for us."

"I, Kim Junk Ilness say shut up, pest. I went to a lot of trouble and expense to summon the Shade of Ludlum. Besides, Ludlum's exactly what we need to bring the Breath of Boredom out of the depths of hell so we can defeat our hated enemy, Dave."

Turning to the Shade of Ludlum hovering in the air, Ilness lisped, "Give the boys a little demonstration, Luddie."

The ghost writer puffed up his scrawny chest and summoned his paltry creative powers from the great beyond. Then he spoke.

"There. Now. Here. Look. Danger! Danger everywhere ! Bourne lashed out -- out -- again and again! A score of killers fell -- he ran -- ran -- ran and ran -- into the crazed, mocking darkn -- "

"Okay, enough already," groaned Kim Junk Ilness. "Anyway, you guys get the picture. That was enough crappy prose to anesthetize a freshman class in Greek theater."

"Wait -- what's that? Don't tell me it's another ghost?" Aircraft Carrier cried out.

"No -- it sounds like ... pages being turned so rapidly and so forcefully that it’s almost like gunfire. And … and … yes, it’s the continuous cadence of the clicking of a ballpoint pen, so loud it’s like a shotgun being cocked for firing.

The lights flickered and died and a clear, masculine voice rang out in the darkness.

"Yes, the sounds that justly fill your evil hearts with fear are the flicking of my Bic and the flipping of the pages in my writer’s notebook, you pusillanimous pack of paunchy pretenders to the pen -- as I jot down some notes that will spell your imminent dooms -- excuse the pun. Dave has come, vini, vinci, venditi, so prepare to meet your makers."

Wearing his trusty night vision goggles, and armed with his ever-sharp ballpoint , Dave began writing amid the total darkness of the room.

A muscular paragraph full of blazing naval action shot into the darkness and a falsetto scream marked the end of Kim Junk Ilness. Another bold paragraph, white-hot with commando derring-do, shot out next, lighting up the darkness like tracer bullets, and Delta Farce fell immobilized. Yet another paragraph spelled doom for Mini-Sub.

One by one, in rapid succession, like Odysseus slaying the craven suitors of Penelope, Dave's blazing action writing felled his bloated, turgid, bombast-filled antagonists, every one of them no-talent pretenders who had invaded the palace of the King of Action and the Master of Intrigue.

And the Shade of Ludlum? What was the pale ghost’s final fate?

In his own words: "He ran ... ran! Danger! Doom! Pursued by flaming paragraphs. In mortal terror! Fled. Into the night! Into the crazed, teeming darkness!" the Shade of Ludlum was heard to whine as he vanished in a stale puff of smoke, hopefully forever.

And so ended the dastardly plans of the League of Anti-Dave Action Authors and their scheme to do away with the only action writer who can actually write.

May they never return! ]]>http://www.davidalexanderbooks.com/dave's_competitors_hatch_plot.htmFri, 2 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0600