A few years ago, I self-published a satire thriller called No Rhyme Goes Unpunished under the pen name Quentin Banks. It’s about how someone is killing the worst poets in L.A. and homicide detective Henry Cake is trying to stop them — even though nobody wants him to.
Here’s a quick outtake. Cake goes undercover as an emo poet to catch the killer at a poetry venue. Here he is delivering his first poem. Beside him is a goth girl he’s falling for.
Uh…
It was dark that night
We found the dead woman
Lying on the street
With her eyes open
Staring…at…the stars
She had lines on her arms
And bruises on her legs
I wondered if she’d had
Any family
A home
What her name was
But we never knew
What the heck happened
Just that someone
Probably didn’t pay
The piper on time
Meaning
The pipe person
You know
The guy who sells
Illegal stuff no one should
Be smoking
He gave them all a stern look, realized he’d just totally fallen out of character, and then slipped back into his fugue.
Uh…
Except cool people of course
Don’t get me wrong
And this woman paid all right
Paid with her life
One less star in the sky
One less light at night
Fallen from above
Lying on the ground
Like litter.
He paused, wincing at the truth of what he was saying, then added:
I’ve seen too much trash.
He put the microphone back on the stand and strode off the stage as the coffee crowd went bananas. Loud “Yeeeeaahs!” soared through the cloud of noise. All Cake saw was the look on Fuchsia’s face as he approached the couch: sheer surprise widened her eyes, her mouth slightly agape. It was the look that perps sometimes had when they realized they’d been caught fair and square while they were being handcuffed.
“How’d I do?” he asked quietly.
“Did you just make that up?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow!” She planted a kiss on his cheek.
He grinned. The pink-haired girl was still looking at him. Crap! Did she recognize him? This was not good. He averted his eyes and flattened his smile until her coffee house fervor was re-ignited and she turned her attention fully to the roster at hand. They heard one poet after another — mostly bad although occasionally someone crept up to the microphone and read something that made Cake’s skin tingle. His hand moved closer to Fuchsia’s until he clasped it. Her delicate fingers clapsed back. He felt foolish worrying about whether or not a woman who’d tied him up and had sex with him twice liked him but he’d never met anyone like her before. Most women he’d dated were a bit passive, wanting an alpha male, which Cake wasn’t. Fuchsia’s general forthrightness turned him on.