Prompt: How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?
All the time.
“Just let it slide. It was an accident.”
No.
“Calm down. I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.”
No.
“Look, it’s not worth getting arrested over.”
Who are you, my defense attorney? No!
“As your attorney, I recommend you plead guilty and ask the court for mercy.”
I didn’t do anything wrong! Or at least anything undeserved! So no!
“Can you assure this board that if we grant you parole, you won’t act in this way again?”
… Dammit!
Apparently, sometimes, in the course of seeking out and meting out justice, I am willing to compromise myself.
But honestly, wallowing in prison doesn’t exactly further my mission of swift and brutal justice, so is lying to a few people about my future conduct really a compromise?
And if people stop slighting me, no one gets hurt…
Yes, I did it. No, I don’t feel guilty. Now let me out!
Prompt: Who was your most influential teacher? Why?
Mrs. Granaham, my kindergarten teacher.
She taught me and my classmates that evil does indeed exist in the world.
If you’re familiar with the (world’s best) comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, and Calvin’s teacher, Miss Wormwood, you are familiar with a light and whimsical version of Mrs. Granaham.
As I recollect, her hatred of children was palpable. Always a sharp tone, always an angry glare, always a bitterly disappointed sigh after every interaction with us kids.
And the notes sent home with us to our parents! The never-ending stream of notes, on folder sheets, on the corners of our schoolwork sheets, etched into the backs of our hands with an XACTO-knife.
Complaining about our immaturity.
Bemoaning our illiteracy.
Disparaging our lack of respect for authority.
Railing against our inability to sit still and shut up while she carved notes onto the backs of our hands.
You may think this is the result of childhood exaggeration and distorted memory, but my parents must have seen it too. They pulled me out of the school after surviving that first year.
I think for them it was Mrs. Granaham’s arrest after the disappearance of three classmates.
They vanished during nap time, never to be seen again.
But I will say this: Now that I’m a parent and have raised kids through that age, I can see where she was coming from…
Class, Hide n’ Seek is over now. Come out, children, it’s time for your just desserts…
Prompt: What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?
I am known by many middle names.
Some forbidden to speak aloud after decades of depravity and violence having become indelibly associated with them.
Some so obscure and difficult to pronounce that uttering them is used as a form of capital punishment in eleven countries (eight Third World, one Second World, and two First World).
Some are so intertwined with moments of unparalleled bliss and intense pleasure that hearing them invariably evokes a robust audible response (usually breathy gasps of ecstacy). Rarely does this reaction not result in public obscenity charges.
But of all those powerful, de facto secret middle names, my favorite, due to its unassuming nature and humble origins, has to be Melvin.
An example of one of the many disturbing images that are evoked by my more esoteric middle names
Prompt: What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
“Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
I’m not an English major (just minored in it) and dammit, I don’t look anything like Romeo!
Completely ignoring the fact that he’s been dead for hundreds of years and may or may not have actually existed!
For the record (and I’ve printed up business cards to this effect that I carry with me and hand out every time I’m asked):
* I am not Romeo
* I’m not related to Romeo
* I want to be questioned and judged for who I am, not some wishy washy Lothario who does his thinking below the belt rather than being rational and loyal to his family
Prompt: What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
Stopping the genre-fication of our neighborhood.
This means weeks and weeks of going to planning commission meetings, registering my objections to their proposal to turn our community into a cozy mystery themed neighborhood.
Not to mention the endless days and hours meeting with and organizing my fellow community members.
And the lost weekends picketing outside City Hall.
They say genre-fication will bring money and jobs, breathe new life into our humble metropolis. That the cozy mystery theme will boost tourism.
The airbnb folks have certainly been vocal in their support of the plan…
But I can’t help but think about the impact.
The impact all the murders that will necessarily follow this cozy-fying of our streets will have on property values.
I mean, if we have to genre-fy, why not something more fun, like a Regency romance, or Sci-Fi?
(Speaking of which, my short story Malware touches on the impact of Sci-Fi genre-fication, among other things, if you’re interested.)
The solution this time is…it was me all along! I’m the killer! I busted a cap in his ass! And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for those nosy kids!
Prompt: Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.
A Spiderman camera.
If I recall correctly, that birthday party also featured a Batman cake.
I wanted a camera, and I was a huge Batman fan at the time.
Set me up for years of addiction to photography, that gift…
Honestly, I don’t know how my parents managed it.
I think what impresses me the most, looking back, is the thought and effort my parents had to put into things like this.
They had to find a birthday party within driving distance.
With enough kids that an extra could slip in unnoticed.
Where the birthday boy (or girl, I can’t remember that part for this particular gift) was a Batman fan.
And wanted a camera.
It’s so much easier today with my kids, where you can hack into the databases of cake shops and toy stores to see exactly what they bought, how many kids they’re expecting, and most importantly, their address.
My parents didn’t have that. It was more instinct. Educated guesswork.
Sheer raw talent.
“Wait for your moment, when everyone’s distracted by a party game or another gift being opened, then grab your camera and go,” Mom would whisper as she hugged me and sent me on my way.
And I did. For all ‘my’ birthday parties. I’d nonchalantly pick up the gift I wanted, stroll out the front door, and there they were, a block down the street, waiting in the car with its engine running.
“Did you have a good time,” Mom always asked as we sped away, only occasionally chased by an angry parent.
I did, I guess. The kids didn’t know me and mostly left me alone, but sometimes one kid, another social outcast who got invited out of politeness, recognized a kindred spirit and would talk to me.
That was always nice and made me hate having to leave, having to lie about my name, knowing I’d never see that person, that potential friend, ever again.
But I sure loved that Spiderman camera…
I felt like a hero using that camera. Only time I did…
ian m dudley 