OH! Come on!

The brave and dashing Sir Jamerson smiles victoriously each time his sword rings after striking the scales of the fire-breathing dragon. The dragon is holding the fair princess Lola captive until her father, the king, surrenders his kingdom. Sir Jamerson has vowed to slay the beast in exchange for her hand in marriage, so he is fighting fearlessly. 

Jamerson feels he is being roasted alive with each blast of flames. While ignoring the pain, he pushes his scorch shield forward and attacks. Jamerson lifts his shield high and rushes beneath the monster. Thrusting his blade to the hilt, he pierces the monster’s heart. The ground shakes as the vanquished creature falls. Sir Jamerson staggers back, raises his sword, and cheers, “Huzzah!” 

Jamerson rips the golden key from the dead dragon’s neck and races to the fortress where the beautiful princess is being held. Sprinting up the tower steps two at a time, his footsteps echo off the walls. Finally, he reaches the iron cell door and unlocks it. 

Fearing who this stranger might be, the princess swoons in the corner of her cell like a violet withering in spring. She casts her eyes to the rough stone wall and presses her full red ruby lips to the back of her wrist. Her sumptuous breasts heave and tremble. Sir Jamerson removes his helmet, allowing his curly blond locks to cascade over his shoulders. His manly jaw tightens as he bows his knee. “I’ve come to take you home to your father, the King.” 

 Surprised, the Princess leaps to her feet. “Good knight! Pray, what is your name?”

Jamerson stands towering over her. “ Edward Jamerson, knight of the king’s court of Valimire.”  

The princess glides closer to Sir Jamerson and places her hands on his blood-stained breastplate. Looking up with seductive eyes, she purrs, “How can I repay you, Sir Knight? Just ask, for I am yours.” Jamerson looks down into those deep blue pools and leans in close to take a kiss.

Suddenly, everything stops. The princess in his arms appears to be little more than a paper doll! Glancing around, he notices that everything is one-dimensional.  “What the devil is going on?” he wonders.  Then he hears a sound. A soft muttering sound, as if someone is mumbling to themselves. Jamerson closes his eyes tightly and strains to hear. “It can’t be? That sounds like my voice!” 

Maximilian Bromly is the author of dozens of action-adventure books. However, he is having trouble finding the right tone for his latest one. “Nah, I don’t think so. It seems too childish to be taken seriously. Perhaps if Jamerson were a private eye in, say, Chicago! That might work!”

In Washington Heights, Chicago Detective Eddy Jamerson leans back in his squeaky wooden chair. He’s in a run-down brick office building beside a trash-strewn vacant lot. Eddy opens the bottom desk drawer, taking out two glasses and a bottle of Night Train. He pours one for the lady and one for himself.  After shooting down his drink, he scratches his two-day-old beard. “So, how can I help you, Miss…?” She’s a long-legged African American dame. Packed together nice and tight, just the way Eddy likes them. With a coy smile, she whispers, “Mrs.- Mrs. Jones.”  Eddy cocks an eyebrow as he lights a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray.  “Okay, Mrs. Jones. What can I help you with?” 

“I want you to follow my husband this Thursday night.”

“And why would I do that?”

Pouting, Mrs. Jones places her ample derriere upon the corner of Jamerson’s desk. “Because I suspect he is having an affair with a dance hall girl at the Palladium theater. I need you to confirm my suspicions.”

Eddy looks her up and down. She’s dressed to kill in expensive clothes and swimming in plenty of QVC’s diamonque. They aren’t real diamonds, but they aren’t cheap either. “It will run you seventy-five bucks a night.” 

She rolls her eyes and reaches out a hand to rub her long red fingernails across Eddy’s beard. It makes a rasping noise. “That sounds a bit high," she croons. “ After all, it is just one night.”

 Eddy counters, “I know it don’t look it, but I pay rent on this dump.”

She gives him a little side glance. “ Let’s make it fifty, and if you do a good job, who knows, there might be a tip in it- if you know what a mean.” 

Eddy swallows hard. “So, how will I recognize Mr. Jones when I see him?” 

 She tilts her chin, “He’s big and black.” 

Eddy raises his eyebrows. “I hate to say this, Mrs. Jones, but that description fits quite a few gentlemen here. Perhaps there is a distinguishing mark I could go by?”

“OH, sure, sure.” she coos.  “A scar runs from the corner of his left eye to his chin.  A knife fight.”

“Interesting.” Eddy nods. “Who did he get in the fight with?”

 Mrs. Jones stands and reaches into her purse. Taking out the money, she drops it on Eddy’s desk. “Me. See you Friday night, Mr. Jamerson. Don’t disappoint me.”

Friday evening, Eddy’s office door swings open. In strolls Mrs. Jones wearing skin-tight designer jeans and a halter top that doesn’t seem to be doing much halting.  “Tell me, Mr. Jamerson, did you manage to pay your rent?”  

Reaching down, Eddy responds, “Nah, I upgraded my liquor cabinet instead.” Opening his desk, he retrieves a bottle of Cutty Shark and two glasses. 

Mrs. Jones smiles, “Ooh! How very nice. We’ll use it to celebrate the good work you’ve done. I think you’ve earned that tip!”  Mrs. Jones leans over Eddy’s desk and puckers up when-there it is again! That mumbling sound. “Aw shit!” Eddy exclaims. “What is it this time? I am so sick of this guy!” He listens and hears Max waffling again. “Oh, come on!” Eddy groans. “I’m going to teach this guy a lesson right now!”

Max interlaces his fingers behind his head and leans back in his computer chair. “This is good, but I think something with a little more punch would work better.” Suddenly, a voice booms in the room. “Bullshit!” Max nearly topples over in his chair. He spins wildly around, trying to locate the speaker. Eyes as large as dinner plates, he scans the room. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

From the darkest corner of the room strides forth Detective Eddy Jamerson. “What’s the matter? You don’t recognize me? I’m Eddy Jamerson, or perhaps you know me as Sir Edward Jamerson or any of the thousands of other names you have given me over time.”

Max pales as he slips out of his chair onto the floor. Eddy grabs Max by the front of his shirt and lifts him up like a ragdoll. “Now you listen to me, you two-bit word hack! I’ve had it with you constantly changing your mind in the middle of a story. And it always happens just before I get the girl! This is my life that you’re screwing with.  You think it is only with this story, but I tell you, it’s been every story! Why do you think you’ve only written two lousy hundred-and-fifty-page novels in a year? It’s because you can never, ever make up your stinking mind! Well, that stops now. I’m taking over!” 

Eyebrows high on his forehead and mouth agape, Max stammers, “W-What do y-you mean? I-I-I don’t understand!”

                                                                    …

It’s a cold and stormy night. Maximilian Bromly’s car skids off the wet road and runs into a tree. Dazed, Max is aware of his horn blasting and feels blood trickling down his face. But being his usual indecisive self, the asshole just sits there. The back road is deserted, except for an old run-down mansion.  As Max wipes the blood from his eye, he sees the front door open and hears someone call. “ Are you hurt?” It appears to be a sweet little old lady holding a candle. “If you can reach my house, perhaps I can help you.” 

Max‘s fingers tremble as he tries starting the car again but to no avail. He thinks he might be hallucinating, for he keeps hearing someone laughing. Max gets out of the car and stands in the rain. 

 Waving her hand, the old woman encourages Max, “Come on, sweety, I won’t hurt you, she calls while holding a large kitchen knife behind her back.  Eddy laughs loud enough for Max to hear. “This will be fun! But then again, I might change my mind! You know, you could end up in someplace like a dungeon! Yeah, that’s the ticket, a dungeon!”

Max screams in a high falsetto voice and tries to run, only to find himself chained to a hard cold stone wall, listening to mad, incessant laughter.