“So, what’s he gonna do? Make me come alive?” said Reginald McDawson III, completely off plot. “Pu-lease! He hasn’t got the talent. He hasn’t got the disciple”
So, Dianna VerSlenda had to reprimand him; remind him of his place in the limited left vault of Dick Viceroy’s brain. “Reggie!” She said, “He’ll kill you, and you’ll be dead. How can you say something like that about him who made you up and gave you such a strong masculine jaw and other strong, strong, strong masculine things? He’s our supreme cream, and he will kill you off like a spider over a pit in a wild west extravaganza. And it will be the end of a dynasty. And what will I do then? Oh, What will I do!?
She said it with a sort of wonderful, pathological breathlessness that Dick Viceroy was especially noted for. She even wore the tattered skirt and peasant blouse—off the left shoulder, no bra. As usual, she filled the blouse well and the tattered skirt shaped curves that only Dick Viceroy could describe. In the previous novel, Rage of Discovery, she had been rescued from a life of misery in a Red Bluff, Montana, bordello by Reginald McDawson, II, a prospector who found the mother lode in Norris, Montana. A rescue that fortuitously did not occur before many steamy and nearly chaste encounters with cowboys and sheepherders and miners and vigilantes and highway men who were to eventually be hanged confessing that their greatest sin was besmirching chastity of the gentle Dianna Verslenda. In the novel before that, The Place for a Virgin, she had run off with Reginald McDawson, Senior, to settle, as his third wife in Rigby, Idaho, but not before there was a great deal of steamy interaction with Reginald, his oldest son, and his future fourth or fifth wife. She had not changed much in either of these manifestations, she was always just plain little heart-headed, honey-haired, blue eyed Dianna with a bare left shoulder.
“We are all extras in that lousy little migraine pudding that Dick Viceroy calls a brain.”
“O, Reggie,” Dianna exclaimed, “O, poor deluded old Reggie.” On cue, she began to weep voluptuously. The peasant blouse heaved provocatively, and slipped fractionally but revealingly down the heroine’s left arm. It was, of course, a blue blouse that had been worn since The Place for a Virgin.
Dick Viceroy’s current effort was entitled A Pearl for Victory, and takes place in the fall of 1941. According to the sales pitch sent to the editor, it begins, innocently enough with Reginald McDawson, III, working on a Texas oil rig and migrates through Las Vegas, with a quick, mostly chaste encountered between Dianna and Howard Hughes, and ends emphatically in Hawii on the morning of December 7th with Reginald McDawson, III, discharging his duty, etc. and Dianna VerSlenda losing her virginity again, etc.
“Have you even read this plot,” McDawson, III, said. He slapped the thin sheaf of paper. “When Gods give us such lives of naked left shoulders and ennui, what kind of plot is that?”
“But, it’s the plot,” Dianna squealed as if maligning Dick Viceroy’s plan for them was a disaster beyond earthquake, flood, or California Fire. She could not contain herself. Nor could her blue blouse.
“Plot, Schmot. . . .” McDawson, III, started to say.
Then the supreme cream separated him from a fiction of naked left shoulders and ennui like chaff from the harvest, and deposited him in a “pearl-for-vic-outtakes.doc” that would eventually find its way onto the thumb drive of oblivion.
The plot thickened appropriately.
“Dianna,” Admiral Halsey thundered like a battleship salvo, “You’re out of uniform. And, I might add, hotter’n a Hellcat Fighter on patrol.”
“O, Bull,” Dianna simpered. She wore a virginal, blue negligee, that covered just about nothing. one fragile strap of which had slipped negligently off her shoulder “You are such a masculine, masculine, masculine—Bull.” [note to proof reader: which shoulder do you think? Maybe right because it is the right thing to do? haven’t we Used left a few too many times?]