Dan Leo's goddam blog...
My name (and don't we all have one?) is Livingston P. Lovechild. I ask you, dear reader, if you exist, what was I to do with my life, cursed with such an appellation? Let's face it, you hear a name like Livingston P. Lovechild, and the first thing you think is, "He must be a cunt." And pardon my language, but I am only trying to be truthful here. No one with a name like Livingston P. Lovechild…
"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?" Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you. Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain. "Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey…
"Are you enjoying your Chicken à la King, Mr. Peachman?" said Mrs. Lovechild. Harry's mouth was full, and so he chewed as quickly as he could. "I should think he is," said Ralston. "I love to see a man eat with gusto," said Gwendolyn. Harry swallowed, trying not to choke, and then he dabbed his lips with the damask napkin he had been supplied with. "Yes, Mrs. Lovechild, very much so," he finally…
Again Harry yanked on Livingston's arm. "Come on, Livingston, let's go." And again Livingston's small eyes opened. "Where are we going?" "Home," said Harry. "We're at your house." "Oh," said Livingston. He sat up straight, blinking. "Splendid. What do we owe you, my good man?" he said, addressing the driver. "Nothing," said the driver. "Your buddy already paid me." "Oh, thank you, Harry," said…
Slowly the cab forged through the blizzard. There were no pedestrians to be seen on the sidewalks. Who but madmen and cabdrivers would be out in this frozen chaos? At a red light the driver slid open the glass partition. "You all right back there?" "Yes," said Harry. "Thank you." "Your buddy still breathing?" "Yes, sleeping peacefully." "You think this is bad?" "What?" said Harry. " This ," said…
The cab ground to a halt, its motor humming through the falling snow. Its roof and hood were white with snow, and Harry could see the shadowed form of a driver behind the wheel. "Can you help me, sir?" he yelled. "My friend has fallen!" The driver didn't budge, so Harry trudged through the snow around the front of the car to the driver's window and knocked on the crusted glass with his cold bare…
Livingston P. Lovechild opened the door and beckoned, waving with a slight bow. "After you, good sir!" Despite the thick icy gusts of snow swirling through the doorway, Harry stepped through, and Livingston followed him, pulling the door closed behind him. Outside the bar darkness had fallen, and the snow had apparently never stopped falling, now lying at least a foot and a half deep on the…
Not surprisingly, Livingston P. Lovechild proved to be a crashing bore. Not to mention a fool, a madman, or some combination of the two. But on the other hand he insisted on buying every round, so who was Harry Beachcroft to be critical? Every nickel Harry saved on bock this present snowy evening was another bock he could drink at some future time, and bock was Harry's spiritual reward for his…
{Welcome to our new fortnightly serial epic, eventually to be merged with our immediately previous serial epic…} "You were wrong, Thad," said Martha. "You were wrong in Grosse Pointe and you were wrong in Gstaad." "But, dear –" "You were wrong in Palm Beach and you were wrong in Palm Springs, too." "I beg your pardon, I admit I may have been wrong in Palm Beach, but in Palm Springs –" "You were…
"Well, thank you, Jim," said Addison. "Yes, thank you," said Milford. "Oh, it was nothing," said Diamond Jim. "Just another pack of hyenas in the night, but stand up to them and they turn tail every time. Or nearly every time. And if they do try to gang up on you, that's when a good stout stick like this one comes in handy." He raised his cane and gave it a twirl. "Well, we appreciate it," said…
Neither Addison or Milford were used to not walking slowly, Addison because he was constitutionally languid and lazy, and Milford because as much as he never liked being where he was, he was never in a hurry to go someplace else. And yet, taking quick puffs from their cigarettes and coughing as they went, they did their best to keep up with Diamond Jim, who stomped forth holding his cane upright…
"Excuse me, gentlemen!" Addison and Milford turned as one to see an enormous portly man emerging from a dark adjoining corridor. The man wore a fur overcoat, and carried a cane, and on his head was a smart derby hat. In his mouth was a cigarette in a jet black holder, and he smiled in what seemed a friendly fashion. "I see you are having difficulties in igniting your cigarette," said the man.…
"Addison," said Milford, after a good ten minutes of wandering in alternating near to total but now only partial darkness, "I'm getting tired of this." "I confess so also I," said Addison, "even I who hardly ever gets tired of anything." "What?" said Milford. He stopped while he dug out his pack of Husky Boys, and Addison did the same. "I said so also am I getting tired, just a trifle mind you."…
"I'm sorry," said Addison, "what?" "Did I mumble?" said Punch. "Well, it sounded like you said you wanted our immortal souls." "So I wasn't mumbling," said the little man. "Oh," said Addison. "Okay," said Milford, "you know what? The hell with this madman. Let's go, Addison." "Where are you going?" said Punch. "Anywhere but here," said Milford. "You'll never find the Hideaway on your own," said…
Milford closed the door firmly behind him. "So, once again," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, and speaking in his best George Sanders voice, "the question is, 'Whither now?'" Milford looked to the right and to the left, a dim and dingy hallway fading into darkness in both directions. He sighed and took out his Husky Boys. Was this his twelve-thousandth and thirty-sixth sigh since…
But before he could put the glass to his lips Milford paused and remembered, again, that he was an alcoholic, and that he shouldn't drink, or at any rate he shouldn't drink alcoholic beverages. He put the glass back down. "Wait a minute," he said. "But you know who I really fucking hate?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Everybody," said Mr. Bogman. "Yes, of course, but do you know who I really fucking…
"Oh, by the way, Pedro," called Mr. Bormanshire, to the thin man with the tray, who stopped and turned. "Yeah, Mr. Bormanshire?" "Better bring us another round of Rob Roys while you're at it." "Four more Rob Roys?" "Yes, please." "Comin' right up, Mr. Bormanshire." Milford said nothing. What was the use? Just because they were bringing him another Rob Roy didn't mean he had to drink it. The thin…
Suddenly Milford remembered that fat hand-rolled cigarette he had shared with Addison not so long ago, and this on top of the supposedly sacred mushrooms of the American Indians he had eaten earlier in the evening, and also the other reefers, and the hashish, and the wine and bourbon and beer, he must have been insane, or at the very least lacking in all self-control, to thus make himself more…
"Look," said Milford, "I don't want to seem unappreciative, but can't we just wait by the door here for a little while until those douchebags have passed, and then we'll just leave?" "You want to 'leave'?" said Mr. Bogman. "Yes," said Milford, "I mean, when it's safe, you know –" "When it's 'safe'." "Yes," said Milford. "And do you, Mr. Addleton," said Mr. Bogman, addressing Addison, "do you also…
It was a tavern, a saloon, yet another one, dark and choked with smoke, packed with people sitting at tables and booths and at a long bar. There was no music to be heard, only a dull babble of voices. Addison and Milford turned and watched the little fat bald bearded man turning the button of a deadlock, thrusting home the bolt of a barrel lock and then securing a chain lock above it. He then…
They ran until they came to a turning of the dim hallway, to the right, and this passage led into an unlighted section through which they stumbled, bumping into one another and almost falling several times until they came to another turn, this time to the left, a long stretch of narrow corridor lighted by widely and irregularly spaced dim bulbs, and on they staggered, still hearing the shouting…
A minute passed. "Maybe you should press the button again," said Addison. "I would, but I'm afraid of upsetting that John Henry fellow," said Milford. "Oh, right," said Addison. "We wouldn't want to do that." "We're lucky he let us in there at all." "No, yes, you're entirely correct." "How about if we wait another minute, just in case he didn't hear the bell, and then we'll press the button…
"Now when you say you are an angel," said Addison, who was still very much under the influence of Jelly Roll's fat hand-rolled cigarette, "are we to understand that you speak metaphorically?" "No, you ass," said Bert. "Like the immortal Popeye, I means what I says and I says what I means. I am indeed an angel, sub-category 'Guardian Angel', proudly serving the district of the lower Bowery, for,…