Some snippets from the fourth draft of my novel, THAT'S SHOW BIZ. Wheezy Gibson is an obnoxious, sadistic comedian.
Wheezy in Greenwich Village:
Wheezy cynically observed the ‘artist
types’ (not necessarily artists, he thought) splashing black paint on
huge sheets of paper, soaking themselves as well. It wasn’t calligraphy;
what the hell was it? He was flabbergasted that such types were also
just as attached to the Old Masters as he was.
Looking at a bookshelf, Wheezy said, “What? You like Tintoretto too?”
“Sure, man. He’s a master; any reason I shouldn’t like him?”
“No…but why do you do the kind of work you do?”
“It all adds up together, man. We live in an Art World.”
Wheezy felt ill equipped to argue.
Wheezy in prison:
Days in solitary passed. As was the prison’s
intent, days nor even hours existed for Wheezy. Just time, the end of
which he’d never be told. Wheezy tried not to allow any thoughts about
“show biz” to enter his thoughts. He thought of patterns of wood grains
in trees, textures of stones, shapes of clouds, anything that had no
meaning to his old lifestyle at all. He recalled his favorite classical
pieces and “played” them over in his head. He remembered the Renaissance
paintings he had such respect for, and “examined” them in his mind,
brushstroke by brushstroke. He wasn’t happier. But he wasn’t wasting
time, either. There was nothing else to do.
After Wheezy "services" a masochistic "patroness":
Kitty got up on
her hands and knees, crawled to Wheezy’s feet, and fervently threw her
arms around his ankles, and kissed his shoes passionately and
repeatedly. “Wheezy…I knew you’d do it for me. I deserved it…every bit
Wheezy asked, “WHY do you think you deserve it, lady?”
“Because I’m rich.”
Wheezy did a double take.
“Your kind", Kitty whimpered, "…you suffer so while people like my kind
suck you dry. Don’t you get pleasure from getting even?”
actually, no, Lady. Why don’t you give your earthly possessions to the
Army-Navy store or something? This makes no sense.”
COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT