I don't like theatrics.

Happy Friday!

In contrast to Swinebread's My Top 10 Comic Book Movies post I give you My Bottom 10 Comic Book Movies.

10. Catwoman - Even the beautiful Halle Berry directly off an Oscar win couldn't save this by-the-numbers film.



9. Daredevil - I like Ben Afleck but he didn't have much to do here.



8. The Punisher (1989) - Dolph Lundgren's career couldn't end fast enough for me.



7. Barb Wire - Pamela Anderson can't act. For most guys her natural assets are more than enough to offset this lack of talent. Not for an hour and a half they're not.



6. Superman III - I love Christopher Reeve as Superman and I think Richard Pryor was a comedic genius but whichever executive got the bright idea that mixing these two together would be cinematic gold should've had their family jewels separated from their body and rocketed into the Forbidden Zone.



5. Batman and Robin - I know some fans see the Tim Burton films which preceded this monstrosity as heretical to Batman, but at least those films had Burton's surreal production designs and quirky, off-kilter vision. This film was just a mess.



4. The Hulk - Those like myself that were excited to see what Ang Lee would do with a comic franchise were disapointed that he decided to make every effort to try and put his audience to sleep with long scenes of exposition and little "Hulk smash."



3. Nick Fury: Agent of Shield - Okay, I'm cheating a bit by putting this on the list since it was a made for t.v. movie but it starred David "I'm drunk eating a hamburger" Hasselhoff for God's sakes.

2. The League of Extraordinary Gentleman - I want so much to like this movie, mostly because of Sean Connery. It's just impossible. Great special effects but no heart about sums it up.



1. Howard the Duck - The first sign of George Lucas' descent into dementia. So bad it's STILL not available on DVD and nye impossible on cassette. Lucas has a habit of trying to hide his mistakes.



UPDATE - Randal reminds me that Howard the Duck did have something going for it in the form of Lea Thompson. The scene below is the sole reason why a young Dean Wormer saw this movie more than once.

Who loves ya, baby?

Happy Friday! Grrr. Stupid work getting in the way of blogging.

The next chapter to my mystery. The end approaches...

Chapter Six: Gin and Catatonic.

"Step this way," said the bug-eyed Personal Assistant. "Miss Ponderosa will see you in the Catateria."

Detective O'Hallahan nodded and followed after the Marty Feldman lookalike through the ornate halls of the Ponderosa Mansion. His mind was a million million miles away; going over the details of the last few days.

Why had someone murdered Charisma Ponderosa's by sabotaging the flange on her belt? Why had that (he was guessing) murdered Doctor Ira Qwacken with poison sushi? How did the cat fit in to this? What the hell was a "Catateria?"

He was to find out as he followed Igor into an enormous hall adorned floor to ceiling with cats. Everywhere he looked cats were batting cat toys, wrestling with each other, napping and otherwise engaging themselves in feline behavior. Where there weren't real cats there were pictures of cats, statues of cats and carpets with Hello Kitty embroidered on them.

O'Hallahan's eyes immediately began to water and his throat to tighten. He silently cursed his allergy.

At the end of the hall pacing back and forth was Eunice Ponderosa, sole remaining heir to the Ponderosa Kitty Litter Company vast fortune. Ponderosa looked to be in her late 40s with a face that said she was used to getting her own way. She was energetically involved in a conversation via her Bluetooth. O'Hallahan couldn't help but think she really did look like a "cat lady" yelling to herself as she paced about the room.

"What do you mean a truck was stolen? What kind of truck?" She screamed. "A tanker full of fertilizer? Well, call the authorities."

She noticed O'Hallahan watching her intently.

"Never mind, I have the authorities here now." She hit the pushed a button on her headset and ended the call.

"Your name?" she asked.

"Detective O'Hallahan."

"O'Hallahan," Eunice said. "Here about the accidental death of my wonderful sister I suppose."

"Murder," he corrected her.

"If you say so," She said. "Walk with me."

She offered her hand to him palm down, as if she was Queen Elizabeth and he a member of her court. Inwardly he groaned. Loudly.


Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.
Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock.
Chapter Three: Usually it's the Usual Suspects.
Chapter Four: Death by Wasabi.
Chapter Five: Fugu About It.

Hey, you know you're kind of a handsome man.

Happy Friday!

Regarding Tweety's new hair color...

I want you to find a body!

Happy Friday! The mystery continues...

Chapter Five: Fugu About It.

Sean O'Hallahan sat down at his desk, pushed aside the large stack of files on unresolved murder cases he'd been assigned, and opened the toxicology report on Doctor Qwacken.

Qwacken was murdered. He'd known that the first time he'd seen Qwacken's lifeless body up to his neck in a toilet in the stall of the Men's Room at Sushiworld. Accidental death was improbable and suicide extremely unlikely. Doctors never committed suicide by cranial toilet immersion. Attorneys; maybe. But doctor's; never.

The toxicology report told him what he'd suspected: there were lethal levels of Fugu in Qwacken's blood. So much so that O'Hallahan was surprised the doctor had been able to make it as far as the bathroom. The blowfish was the fatal blow.

So it was simply a matter of who killed the doctor. And why. Okay, maybe it wasn't that simple.O'Hallahan had ruled out the wife almost immediately. Qwacken's life insurance was minimal which immediately eliminated that as a motive for her to have killed the doctor. She was better off with him alive.

He supposed there could have been another motive for her to off Qwacken but that would've probably been something like an affair with his receptionist or with that young, strapping Hispanic boy that worked at the car wash on Elm who always wore a shimmel shirt and a blue bandanna and who got so very wet and sweaty when he was washing your Taurus, with the water and sweat running down his thighs in little silver beadlets...

O'Hallahan realized he'd let his mind wander. Focus man. Focus.

No, it couldn't have been the wife. If she had killed Qwacken it would've been a crime of passion. This was a crime of blowfish. It had been meticulously planned. In O'Hallahan's experience when a woman wanted to kill her husband she either did it quickly with a gun or slowly through alimony.

Then there was the cat. What was it's name? Snowhell. It was the thread running through this whole thing he was sure of it. There was just too much coincidence between the death of Charisma Ponderosa and the man who bought her stupid show-cat. Ponderosa's husband had said her sister Eunice had wanted the cat for some time.

It was time to pay a visit to Eunice Ponderosa.

Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.
Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock.
Chapter Three: Usually it's the Usual Suspects.
Chapter Four: Death by Wasabi.

I'll position myself in the book depository and we'll triangulate that evil genius to kingdom come.

Happy Friday! I'm going to take a week off from my mystery but I'd like to leave you with an entire episode of Bruce Campbell's Jack of All Trades instead (with limited commercial interuption.)

I'm always amazed at Campbell's ability to rival the BBC in terms of historical accuracy. All the events depicted surrounding Louisiana and Napoleon, right down to the medals on Napoleon's uniform, are accurate as far as I can determine.

I am an imbecile. I see only half of the picture.

Happy Friday! Here's another chapter of my mystery.

Chapter Four: Death by Wasabi


Doctor Ira Qwacken realized he had a problem. In fact; as he chewed and chewed on the piece of octopus in his mouth he realized that he had two problems to be exact. The first was that he hated sushi. Absolutely despised it. Especially sushi of the variety of the piece of octopus in his mouth at this exact moment.

His other problem was that his cell phone was buzzing, and he was almost positive it was the hospital. He’d promised Gina that he was off tonight and they could enjoy a romantic, if nauseating dinner together. She wouldn’t be happy to find out he’d lied. It was own stupid fault for playing the odds that no one would need a new heart while he enjoyed a bite.

He decided he could take care of both problems in the bathroom and quickly excused himself.

As he walked to the bathroom he thought about Gina and realized he really couldn't blame her. He hadn’t been much of a boyfriend and was hardly ever around. Almost every waking moment was spent at work. Not to mention the moments when he wasn’t awake.

As one of the foremost emergency cardiac surgeons in the country he couldn't count the number of times he’d had to walk out of a movie or a friend’s wedding because he was called in to throw a new pumper in somebody's chest. Gina would look hurt, then angry and ultimately take an emotional stab at him with "Fine, go save the little girl's life. Give her a new Bread Basket or a Charley Horse. See if I care."

Gina never really did understand his work.

Now here he was hiding from her and sitting in a stall in the Men’s Room returning the call from the hospital like some teenager peeking at the bra section in a Sears catalog. Did they still do that, he wondered? These days they probably use the Internet for their visual stimulation. This led to a series of thoughts about the difficulty of fitting one's computer into a bathroom ending with Ira finally understanding the concept of a laptop.

He dialed his answering service with a mixture of dread and resignation.

"This is Chief Surgeon Qwacken. What do you have for me?"

"Dr. Qwacken, your lawyer called," droned the voice on the other end of the line. "He said to let you know he was able to procure the cat and it will in your possession tomorrow."

Ira closed his cell phone, leaned back and smiled.

There were only a couple of things he'd had on his personal bucket list for most of his life. One was to win "American Cardiac Surgeon of the Year." He'd accomplished that. Twice.

The other was win the New York Greater Municipal Cat Fancier's Association Cat of the Year Show just once in his life. The only problem he faced there was that he didn't have a cat but, more importantly, he didn't have time to train a champion.

That's where Snowbell, the reigning champion three years running, came in. He may not be able to train a champion but he could buy one. Hell, it worked for the Yankees. Most of the time.

Unfortunately Ira had been frustrated when Snowbell's odious owner refused all his offers to buy her cat. Neither reason or money would move Charisma Ponderosa into parting with her beloved feline. He'd just about given up when he'd heard the good news this morning that she'd died in some freak accident at a party at her home. Ira felt very, very lucky at the moment.

Ira felt a gurgle in his stomach and quickly tried to remember if he'd actually swallowed any of the sushi Gina had been dangling in his face with her chopsticks.

The gurgle quickly turned to searing pain, Ira doubled over. He crawled off the toilet and spun around expecting to be quickly revisiting his recently eaten dinner shortly. As he hung over the toilet bowl it briefly crossed his mind that he hadn't been in this position since college. It was that happy memory that was the last thought to ever cross Ira Qwacken's mind because first he fainted.

Then he drowned.



Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.
Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock.
Chapter Three: Usually it's the Usual Suspects.

There are still some gaps to be filled, but all in all, things are becoming a little clearer.

Happy Friday!

Chapter Three: Usually it's the Usual Suspects.

O'Hallahan was staring at the fattest, meanest looking Siamese cat he'd ever seen. The cat was staring back.

He was sitting alone in the personal office of the recently deceased Charisma Ponderosa waiting to interview her husband and taking in the room with an eye developed over years of being an investigator. Judging by the expensive artwork, fancy oak desk and antiques spread about the room he could tell she had liked the finer things. Judging by the cat he could tell she liked cats.

O'Hallahan, on the other hand, hated cats. He absolutely despised them. To begin with he was allergic. Even being in proximity to the plump white hairball on the desk would probably make him break out in hives later.

Then there was their attitude; aloof and superior. It seemed to him a definite luck of the genetic draw that the domestic housecat hadn't evolved into a creature ten times as big as it is now. He was certain without a doubt that being the case we would be on the menu. He believed that when a cat rubbed up against your leg it wasn’t showing affection. It was doing a little pre-meal tenderizing.

This cat in particular had real malice in its eyes. For a second he flashed on the faces of both of his ex-wives. A shiver ran down his spine.

The door to the office swung open and a mustache walked in.

It was one of those giant, brown bushy mustaches of the Wyatt Earp variety. O’Hallahan supposed there was man under the mustache but it was difficult to tell. It had legs and wore a suit. But all he could see was the giant, handlebar mustache.

“George Howell.” said the mustache, “Please have a seat.”

As he watched the mustache move over to the bar and pour itself a scotch, O’Hallahan could just make out the shape of a chubby pink face under the hair.

“Scotch?” Asked the mustache.

O’Hallahan shook his head. “On duty.”

O’Hallahan had nothing against the occasional spirit, mind you. It was just that the history of alcoholism in his family made him particularly careful to limit his drinking to special occasions. Like birthdays or when Ryan Seacrest was on the t.v.

The mustache spotted the giant blob of cat on the desk.

“Snowbell!” he roared. “Get the hell off of there!”

The cat stood, hissed at the mustache, jumped off of the desk and slunk off into the corner.

“Mr. Howell, I won't take up much of your time.” O’Hallahan said. “Do you know of anyone that had a problem with your wife at tonight’s party?”

An amused laugh came from the vicinity of the mustache.

“Problem?” giggled the mustache. “You’d be hard pressed to find one here tonight that liked my wife.”

O’Hallahan leaned forward in his chair.

“Does that include you?”

“Why not?” said the mustache. “This hasn’t been a marriage in years. About the only thing Charisma loved these days was her money and that damned cat over there.”

As if on cue Snowball looked up and hissed at the mustache.

“Back at ya you little fucker.” Spat the mustache. “I can’t wait until the Doctor picks you up tomorrow.”

“You’re getting rid of her cat?” asked O’Hallahan?

“Sold him. Got twenty grand for the nasty little bugger from some Surgeon in the city.”

O’Hallahan whistled. “Seems like a lot of cash for a cat.”

“It’s a show-cat, a champion.” The mustache replied. “He’s probably worth twice that but I don’t care. I hate the damn thing and can’t wait to see it gone.”

O’Hallahan quickly scribbled a couple of notes.

“Besides yourself is there anyone else we should suspect might have something to do with your wife’s ‘accident’ tonight?” he asked.

The mustache took a swig of scotch.

“I dunno.” He said. “Maybe her sister Eunice. She showed cats, same as Charisma. Charisma’s bastard kitty always cleaned her cat's clock. They hated each other. That's why the only thing Charisma had in her will about that cat was 'Eunice doesn't get him.'"

O'Hallahan stood and tucked his pad into his trenchcoat.

"I'll chat with her, then." He said. "Thanks."

As he walked back out to the ballroom he reflected on how hated these heiress murder cases. Heiresses as a rule always had tons of enemies which made fingering the person who actually murdered them complicated. He shuddered at the thought of the mess facing the poor detective assigned the case should somebody ever off Paris Hilton.

What often made it even worse in these cases was that the more he found out about the victim, the more he sympathized with the killer. Heiresses just weren't very likable.

He thought about just saying "screw it" and fingering the Butler again this time. He'd done that on the last three cases. It was always an easy answer and saved him a ton of work.

Although he couldn't shake the feeling that he just might be able to actually solve this case. The answer was right there. He could feel it.


Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.

Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock.

I see you are familiar with the falling-down-on-the-floor ploy.

Happy Friday! Here's the second chapter of my murder mystery--

Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock

Homicide Detective Sean O’Hallahan was staring at the weirdest crime scene he’d ever seen.

An hour ago he was blissfully asleep. He’d been enjoying a particularly pleasurable dream in which Katherine McPhee was feeding him grapes when his ringing cell phone rudely dragged him into consciousness. The last thing he remembered thinking to himself as he watched McPhee fade out of his vision was “what kind of idiot has a job which would call you at three in the morning?”

He was that idiot.

What made it even worse is that it couldn’t have been the desk sergeant or dispatch but had to be Captain Chancey himself on the other end of the line. Captain Chancey only had one mode of communicating: yelling. He yelled at his boss. He yelled at his subordinates. He yelled at his wife, kids and goldfish. Now he was yelling at O’Hallahan.

“I need you to get your ass out to the Ponderosa estate!” he screamed. “Dead heiress. You're up!”

“Who tagged it homicide?” O’Hallahan asked.

“McGrue,” replied Chancey. “Now get your ass down there now!”

O’Hallahan sighed. Officer Mike McGrue was actually nicknamed “Officer Magoo” by the rest of the cops. He was unquestionably the worst policeman on the force. Magoo was notorious for an off-duty incident in which he completed a personal deposit during an armed bank robbery without noticing anything irregular, least of all the three guys waving Uzis around the place. It was only when he walked out the front door and into a ring of squad cars and shotguns pointed at him that he realized something wasn’t quite right.

Now Magoo was the reason O’Hallahan was standing in an enormous foyer staring at this bizarre death scene and wishing he was still in bed. There was no justice in the world.

By the looks of things Mrs. Ponderosa had taken quite a fall down the bulk of the long stairway and landed squarely on top of the baby grand piano at the foot of the stairs. The impact of her fall had crushed the piano with the piano returning the favor.

O’Hallahan couldn’t help but darkly observe that with her large polka-dotted feet sticking out of the wrecked piano it reminded him of the Wizard of Oz only this time the Wicked Witch of the East fell on Dorothy’s house and not the other way around.

The bespectacled officer Magoo was on the other of the piano standing next to a statue of Venus. O’Hallahan wondered if Magoo didn’t realize it wasn’t real and was trying to chat her up. Might as well get this over with. He shambled over to Magoo.

“Mike,” muttered O’Hallahan. “Whataya got?”

Magoo snapped to attention, startled. “Just a second, baby,” he whispered to the statue. He grabbed O’Hallahan’s arm and led him closer to the body of dumpy heiress.

“Notice anything funny about the belt?” he asked O’Hallahan.

O’Hallahan immediately felt himself turning red. He knew it. He’d been dragged down here in the middle of the night for some bullshit reason. Of course this was lost on Magoo, who continued babbling out his theory.

“The belt. It’s a Sashay but the print is all wrong,” said Magoo. “They don’t do a zebra-skin.”

O’Hallahan realized there was a whole hell of a lot he didn’t know about Magoo and for that he was thankful.

“Not only that, but check out the flange on the buckle. It’s aluminum, which is ridiculous on this style, and it’s been bent.”

O’Hallahan looked closely at the belt. He may not understand fashion as well as Magoo but he did get an "A" in metal shop in high school. Sure enough the buckle was discolored and bent in an unnatural fashion.

“Are you saying somebody tampered with her belt?” O’Hallahan asked.

Magoo was triumphant. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. This woman was murdered.”

It dawned on O’Hallahan as he watched Magoo move back over to the statue of Venus and sheepishly put his arm around it that, for the first time in his career as a police officer, Magoo may actually be right about something.

Charisma Ponderosa, heiress to the Ponderosa Kitty Litter Corporation fortune, had been murdered.


Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.

I hope you're not letting yourself be influenced by the guns these pocket edition desperados are waving around.

Happy Friday! I'm writing a murder mystery. What do you think? Be honest. I consider this my Magnum Opus.

Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor

To say Charisma Ponderosa "appeared" at the top of the Grand Staircase wouldn't be entirely accurate. She didn’t so much appear as she faded slowly into focus in much the same manner as the bartender’s face fades slowly into focus once you’ve fallen off your barstool and flat on your ass after your seventh Tequila Popper.

Atop her poorly bleached hair sat a tiara adorned with enormous faux diamonds. She wore a red sequined gown that she’d been poured into… out of a Soft Serve ice-cream machine. The sequins had the appearance of scales making her look like some gigantic red iguana which had escaped from a fifties horror film by way of "Saturday Night Fever."

Draped around her hips was a loose, zebra-skinned sashay belt which hung just above her thighs. Her large feet were stuffed sausage-like into a pair of expensive polka-dotted designer shoes. You could see the perfume she’d applied generously about her form from the ballroom floor.

Charisma was a vision. A peyote-induced vision, but a vision nevertheless.

She waved. It was the wave rodeo princesses’ use in backwater Fourth of July parades. A slow back and fourth, elbow firmly planted in mid-air. It was the wave of royalty. It was the wave of dismissal.

Charisma began to slowly sashay down the stairs with the intent of making a big entrance. She had no idea that she would accomplish that goal in spades. As she stepped down the stairs her belt suddenly slipped loose and dropped down to around her feet.

She staggered to maintain her balance, but her feet were hopelessly entangled in five-hundred dollars of zebra-skinned doom. Time briefly froze as the crowd at the bottom of the stairs gasped in unison. That is except Charisma’s sister Eunice who was snickering to herself in the corner.

Gravity quickly slapped the lot of them back into reality as Charisma started to tumble down the marble stairs head over heels, a pinwheel of red sequins bouncing with ever increasing velocity. Diamonds, zebra-skin, polka-dots, diamonds, zebra-skin, CRASH!

The coroner’s initial report was simple and concise. "Death by sashay, sashay."