Story Idea: Owen
Nov. 8th, 2010 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravensweptTrying to get back into the habit of at least writing on a Mon-Wed-Fri schedule, and drawing a blank as to anything of substance, I choose to reminisce about one of the few ideas I've worked/am working with that is not mine.
The idea, which I've decided to name Owen as it was never given a real title, working or not, was one of my best friends'. At the time he was big on mafia and crime stories, mainly movies like Lucky Number Slevin and Unleashed, and had a thought of a story he wanted to write. The problem being that he, er, has no writing talent. Not really. None. At least he's aware of this fact. But since I did (presumably), he asked that we work together; he would write out his initial idea for a few scenes, send them to me, and I would rewrite them into something more resembling a coherent story.
Now there are/were several problems with this. He wasn't one much to elaborate on ideas, so after receiving his portion, I was having to ask about details he doesn't mention. Also, as this was being written in short bursts, and he not having a totally thought out narration, things were going to happen that I had no idea about and so couldn't fully elaborate to. He would read what I wrote and then use that as the basis of going forward, but that meant that while I could affect how the story moved forward, I couldn't see how exactly it did because I was only doing rewrites and extensions.
But the overall idea was fun, taking what someone else has laid down and expanding it into something more than it is. I imagine this is somewhat what ghostwriting is like, only with less pan-flashed celebrities who think people actually want to know how they got to the point of writing a book about how they got to wherever they are. Somewhat annoying at times, but still fun.
These aren't the whole of what's been written so far, but an example of what I get versus what I make it into. The first, and in bold, is the original part I got from my friend, without any fixing. The following, and not bolded, is my handy work.
***
Sence driving up to a meat packing planet Owen is in a Black Benz
So here we are at davadon’s meat packin plant,
Not one worker speaks English, but to see Mr. Davadon you have to go around back and knock on the door three times not one, not four Three times, or your likely to end up in a hotdog.
Owen knocks on the door three times, door open and leads too a back room, more of a office setting nice black table with chairs around it, a lot of business is done in this room
Davadon: Ah my baboshka I heard yopu had some trouble, I hope that my package is still in route?
Owen: hee, well it’s funny that you should ask about your magic box because, I had a little run in with your favourt rivel Mr. Orasaki so I hide it and will have it for you at the end of the night uh Papa, (now I’m hoping that he will remember all the nice things I’ve done because I hate hotdogs and would hate to be one, might be a little sour, not too good on the taste buds)
Davadon:….Baboshka you have been a good boy for papa so I’ll give you till the end of the week but I need you to help Ivan get some informantion for me…can you do this or would you like me tocut 11th finger off?
Owen 11th finger well that clever, I think I go with ivan, and get your box.
Davadon; Good boy,
***
The drive is pretty short, being we stayed downtown. Trading office buildings and skyscrapers for pockets of ghetto and warehouses do nothing to relax me. At least at the offices you had honest crooks willing to call the police to distract from whatever petty white-collar snafu they were up to that quarter. Here, I’d be lucky to be described as a car backfire when (and if, I hate the ‘if’) police ever did the rounds.
The driver (who I decided I wanted to call Spooky) pulled up along a warehouse on the left, faded paint letters reading DAV DON’S MEAT PACK N P ANT over the small and equally faded, but still more readable OFFICES over the nondescript little door. Past the office windows, down the docks and Spooky pulls right up the loading ramps into the plant itself. Shit, I’m being left with no escape. Spooky is out and has my door open before I can even reach for the handle.
“So, things seem to be running smooth-like ‘round ‘ere quite nice,” I say, spinning around looking for gaps in this net. “Everyone’s buzzy little bees, yes sir." The workers are used to strange visits - that or well trained to ignore everything that‘s not their job - and Spooky here even more so. Nobody doesn’t not look up when a 120 kilo gorilla gets out of a car worth more than ten of their disability claims. Which scares the hell out me just a little more. “Right then, I’ll be leaving so’s not to ruin the steady rhythm you got yourself, eh?” He has me blocked with a hand that could crush brick. Doesn’t even say anything, just shakes his head and gives a nod behind me.
“Offices in the back, eh? Second on the right?”
A steady nod.
“No luck asking for a quick loo stop I reck’n?”
A steady shake, and a nod to get me going.
“Right.” I sigh turn around and straighten myself. If I die, I die looking sharp.
When Davadon ‘bought’ the meat business back when he moved in on Poppa Gelli’s front, I heard he had some of the floor plan moved around to suit his tastes. I always wondered what’s what with that, and unfortunately found out. First, there’s only one way to his offices, and it ain’t through the door on the outside, right? No, no, you’re made to walk the walk through the plant, forced to attempt to keep your eyes off the hacking and slashing and the squishy, meaty sounds of a business at work. Which is not bad, except when you remember who you’re about to be dealing cards with, and then you lose your appetite for days. Davadon likes this; likes the intimidation, you see. And the sick bastard wasn’t all threats neither. Naw, then you came to the door.
The door, the only one to Davadon himself, is in the back past all the workers who won’t speak English for nothing until you take out a kneecap, placed snug-like between a rack of heifer carcasses and some large power saw I don’t even want to know about. A two-inch steel roller with two kinds of stains; rust, and what you hope is cow’s blood. And the only way to make this monster open is to knock. Three knocks, exactly, and steady ones; you miss a knock, stutter knock, or worse bang your fist against her instead of rap your knuckles - well, the saw is handy right next to you for a reason and then I have to avoid all meat products for a week. Make sure it works through the system all the way. Last thing I want to be doing is grabbing a footer down on Tenth and think I see it giving me a thumbs up, you know?
For being a Russian, this bastard was sharp on the up an’ up. No stupid little eye slot on the door, no point when to get this far you have to not be dead. But the door opens from the inside and a man who shouldn’t be wearing the uniform does and steps out I give Davadon credit. The room looks like a storage room used mostly for smoke breaks. Myself and Spooky there step inside and the door shuts with a rather ominous thud.
Now when I say the man shouldn’t be wearing the uniform is this; some people wear their clothes. It’s how they act, it’s the job, it’s just something about them that says they fit the pants. But you can’t take a hitman out of a suit and into bloodied aprons and call him a butcher. That and the pistol not exactly hidden behind the apron ties doesn’t settle too well either.
We get the once over from this master of subtly, get the required silent nod, and he knocks on the far wall three times. Like I said, I give credit for all this. The wall, shelving and all, slides on some rollers about 2 meters back, and Spooky gives me a little shove to start my feet. I’m almost glad, they aren’t feeling too up to taking my orders, why not his? We step out into a rather nice office and the wall/door shuts quickly after we’re out of the way.
Davadon’s sitting back in a large chair behind an impressive black stone table. How the bastard managed to get that thing in I don’t know, but then I don’t think him as a man to only give himself only one exit from any room. Spooky slides into the wallpaper, and for all intentions it’s just me and the middle aged mob man in front of me.
Who apparently is going deaf, I’ve been standing here for seven minutes already.
“Eh? Ah! Babushka, my friend!” Finally. “Have seat, eh? Seeli, Seeli get him drink.” He’s laughing and acting like I popped in like old friends, which I hate. Rather these wankers just start at the middle instead of these embarrassing we’re-friends-it’s-alright chum. Davadon’s not stupid by no means, but neither is he known for his quick wit.
Seeli, or just somebody who answers to that, steps from behind Davadon’s chair and pours me a water from some pitcher he has hidden beside him. Davadon’s all, “Sit, sit, we talk. Talk business, like business men,” and he chuckles at his own (stupid) joke.
“Davadon, my fellow, I was just thinking of seeing you,” I said, pulling the water closer. “Quite the pickle your man there pulled me from. Not that there was trouble or none, would’ve pulled meself out, but I thank ye for the speed up.”
“I not enjoying pickles, make bad sandwich. And was not worried for you, not my job you in for.” He settles back into his seat, clasping his hands over his chest. The swagger is gone, and so is any hint of friendliness. He snaps his hand and Seeli (was it Seeli? Was Seeli on his right or left?) places a foil wrapped tube next to Davadon. “Package is still good, no? Is going on route you say it go on?” Bite me if I don’t hate broken bloody English, worse enough than what Americans do to it.
“Yeah, the magic box; right, you know I’ve done good work for you right? Never lost no boxes, never told no stories to the wrong people, all that jazz?”
He unwraps the foil, exposing the end of a hotdog. “Yes, is why I like you. Why you here now. I trust.”
“Then trust that when Mr. Orosaki comes calling, I protect what’s not his.”
“’Saki is looking in my things?”
“I don’t know, don’t want to know, and didn’t find out. The box is...uh...stalled, shall we say for the moment?”
He takes the hotdog away from his mouth. “Stalled? Not found?”
“Not found, nope.” Please let this fly, I’d enjoy not tainting the next batch of footers.
His face breaks a wide smile, and he takes a bite. “Is good then! Baboshka is good boy, I trust you do good for me. Orosaki, he is -” and he rattles off some foul sounding strings in Russian “- but all is good. Box is good. Is alright, you have till end of week.”
Did I just get an extension? No boss I’ve worked for has ever extended a job. I don’t want an extension! Extension bad!
“Um...thanks mate?”
“Is no problem. But you make up to me, settle debt even. I send you to Ivan, help with small word problem I having and all is good.”
And there drops the boot. “Go? With Ivan, where with Ivan, I’m gonna take right care of your magic box.”
“Is alright, no problem,” waving me off, “Help Ivan, helping me, you get until end of week.” He shrugs. “If prefer, you get to me box in one hour, or I take box and eleventh finger. Either good.” He takes another bit of the hotdog, staring at me while he chews. Ha, ha, eleventh finger I’m tickled by his wit.
I stand up, getting quick reactions from the two guys behind the chair. “Well, then, losing sunlight and all. Let’s see Mr. Ivan and see what little snafu can’t be worked out quick like. Spooky” I snap my fingers at the bald driver, “let’s move it along quick, I’m a busy lad.” Davadon breaks into loud laughter, salutes his hotdog to me, then waves me out. Spooky nods and opens the wall-door, standing aside until I go first and not taking his hand from inside his jacket until I’m out of Davadon’s line of sight. I make it to the car before I let go a long breath I had been keeping in.
***
And there ya go. The full section of what I've written can be found right here. There's not a whole lot more, mainly just the introduction part. As fun as it was, my friend hasn't yet gotten back to me with any more of the story, and as this isn't my idea I wouldn't know where to go with it.
The idea, which I've decided to name Owen as it was never given a real title, working or not, was one of my best friends'. At the time he was big on mafia and crime stories, mainly movies like Lucky Number Slevin and Unleashed, and had a thought of a story he wanted to write. The problem being that he, er, has no writing talent. Not really. None. At least he's aware of this fact. But since I did (presumably), he asked that we work together; he would write out his initial idea for a few scenes, send them to me, and I would rewrite them into something more resembling a coherent story.
Now there are/were several problems with this. He wasn't one much to elaborate on ideas, so after receiving his portion, I was having to ask about details he doesn't mention. Also, as this was being written in short bursts, and he not having a totally thought out narration, things were going to happen that I had no idea about and so couldn't fully elaborate to. He would read what I wrote and then use that as the basis of going forward, but that meant that while I could affect how the story moved forward, I couldn't see how exactly it did because I was only doing rewrites and extensions.
But the overall idea was fun, taking what someone else has laid down and expanding it into something more than it is. I imagine this is somewhat what ghostwriting is like, only with less pan-flashed celebrities who think people actually want to know how they got to the point of writing a book about how they got to wherever they are. Somewhat annoying at times, but still fun.
These aren't the whole of what's been written so far, but an example of what I get versus what I make it into. The first, and in bold, is the original part I got from my friend, without any fixing. The following, and not bolded, is my handy work.
***
Sence driving up to a meat packing planet Owen is in a Black Benz
So here we are at davadon’s meat packin plant,
Not one worker speaks English, but to see Mr. Davadon you have to go around back and knock on the door three times not one, not four Three times, or your likely to end up in a hotdog.
Owen knocks on the door three times, door open and leads too a back room, more of a office setting nice black table with chairs around it, a lot of business is done in this room
Davadon: Ah my baboshka I heard yopu had some trouble, I hope that my package is still in route?
Owen: hee, well it’s funny that you should ask about your magic box because, I had a little run in with your favourt rivel Mr. Orasaki so I hide it and will have it for you at the end of the night uh Papa, (now I’m hoping that he will remember all the nice things I’ve done because I hate hotdogs and would hate to be one, might be a little sour, not too good on the taste buds)
Davadon:….Baboshka you have been a good boy for papa so I’ll give you till the end of the week but I need you to help Ivan get some informantion for me…can you do this or would you like me tocut 11th finger off?
Owen 11th finger well that clever, I think I go with ivan, and get your box.
Davadon; Good boy,
***
The drive is pretty short, being we stayed downtown. Trading office buildings and skyscrapers for pockets of ghetto and warehouses do nothing to relax me. At least at the offices you had honest crooks willing to call the police to distract from whatever petty white-collar snafu they were up to that quarter. Here, I’d be lucky to be described as a car backfire when (and if, I hate the ‘if’) police ever did the rounds.
The driver (who I decided I wanted to call Spooky) pulled up along a warehouse on the left, faded paint letters reading DAV DON’S MEAT PACK N P ANT over the small and equally faded, but still more readable OFFICES over the nondescript little door. Past the office windows, down the docks and Spooky pulls right up the loading ramps into the plant itself. Shit, I’m being left with no escape. Spooky is out and has my door open before I can even reach for the handle.
“So, things seem to be running smooth-like ‘round ‘ere quite nice,” I say, spinning around looking for gaps in this net. “Everyone’s buzzy little bees, yes sir." The workers are used to strange visits - that or well trained to ignore everything that‘s not their job - and Spooky here even more so. Nobody doesn’t not look up when a 120 kilo gorilla gets out of a car worth more than ten of their disability claims. Which scares the hell out me just a little more. “Right then, I’ll be leaving so’s not to ruin the steady rhythm you got yourself, eh?” He has me blocked with a hand that could crush brick. Doesn’t even say anything, just shakes his head and gives a nod behind me.
“Offices in the back, eh? Second on the right?”
A steady nod.
“No luck asking for a quick loo stop I reck’n?”
A steady shake, and a nod to get me going.
“Right.” I sigh turn around and straighten myself. If I die, I die looking sharp.
When Davadon ‘bought’ the meat business back when he moved in on Poppa Gelli’s front, I heard he had some of the floor plan moved around to suit his tastes. I always wondered what’s what with that, and unfortunately found out. First, there’s only one way to his offices, and it ain’t through the door on the outside, right? No, no, you’re made to walk the walk through the plant, forced to attempt to keep your eyes off the hacking and slashing and the squishy, meaty sounds of a business at work. Which is not bad, except when you remember who you’re about to be dealing cards with, and then you lose your appetite for days. Davadon likes this; likes the intimidation, you see. And the sick bastard wasn’t all threats neither. Naw, then you came to the door.
The door, the only one to Davadon himself, is in the back past all the workers who won’t speak English for nothing until you take out a kneecap, placed snug-like between a rack of heifer carcasses and some large power saw I don’t even want to know about. A two-inch steel roller with two kinds of stains; rust, and what you hope is cow’s blood. And the only way to make this monster open is to knock. Three knocks, exactly, and steady ones; you miss a knock, stutter knock, or worse bang your fist against her instead of rap your knuckles - well, the saw is handy right next to you for a reason and then I have to avoid all meat products for a week. Make sure it works through the system all the way. Last thing I want to be doing is grabbing a footer down on Tenth and think I see it giving me a thumbs up, you know?
For being a Russian, this bastard was sharp on the up an’ up. No stupid little eye slot on the door, no point when to get this far you have to not be dead. But the door opens from the inside and a man who shouldn’t be wearing the uniform does and steps out I give Davadon credit. The room looks like a storage room used mostly for smoke breaks. Myself and Spooky there step inside and the door shuts with a rather ominous thud.
Now when I say the man shouldn’t be wearing the uniform is this; some people wear their clothes. It’s how they act, it’s the job, it’s just something about them that says they fit the pants. But you can’t take a hitman out of a suit and into bloodied aprons and call him a butcher. That and the pistol not exactly hidden behind the apron ties doesn’t settle too well either.
We get the once over from this master of subtly, get the required silent nod, and he knocks on the far wall three times. Like I said, I give credit for all this. The wall, shelving and all, slides on some rollers about 2 meters back, and Spooky gives me a little shove to start my feet. I’m almost glad, they aren’t feeling too up to taking my orders, why not his? We step out into a rather nice office and the wall/door shuts quickly after we’re out of the way.
Davadon’s sitting back in a large chair behind an impressive black stone table. How the bastard managed to get that thing in I don’t know, but then I don’t think him as a man to only give himself only one exit from any room. Spooky slides into the wallpaper, and for all intentions it’s just me and the middle aged mob man in front of me.
Who apparently is going deaf, I’ve been standing here for seven minutes already.
“Eh? Ah! Babushka, my friend!” Finally. “Have seat, eh? Seeli, Seeli get him drink.” He’s laughing and acting like I popped in like old friends, which I hate. Rather these wankers just start at the middle instead of these embarrassing we’re-friends-it’s-alright chum. Davadon’s not stupid by no means, but neither is he known for his quick wit.
Seeli, or just somebody who answers to that, steps from behind Davadon’s chair and pours me a water from some pitcher he has hidden beside him. Davadon’s all, “Sit, sit, we talk. Talk business, like business men,” and he chuckles at his own (stupid) joke.
“Davadon, my fellow, I was just thinking of seeing you,” I said, pulling the water closer. “Quite the pickle your man there pulled me from. Not that there was trouble or none, would’ve pulled meself out, but I thank ye for the speed up.”
“I not enjoying pickles, make bad sandwich. And was not worried for you, not my job you in for.” He settles back into his seat, clasping his hands over his chest. The swagger is gone, and so is any hint of friendliness. He snaps his hand and Seeli (was it Seeli? Was Seeli on his right or left?) places a foil wrapped tube next to Davadon. “Package is still good, no? Is going on route you say it go on?” Bite me if I don’t hate broken bloody English, worse enough than what Americans do to it.
“Yeah, the magic box; right, you know I’ve done good work for you right? Never lost no boxes, never told no stories to the wrong people, all that jazz?”
He unwraps the foil, exposing the end of a hotdog. “Yes, is why I like you. Why you here now. I trust.”
“Then trust that when Mr. Orosaki comes calling, I protect what’s not his.”
“’Saki is looking in my things?”
“I don’t know, don’t want to know, and didn’t find out. The box is...uh...stalled, shall we say for the moment?”
He takes the hotdog away from his mouth. “Stalled? Not found?”
“Not found, nope.” Please let this fly, I’d enjoy not tainting the next batch of footers.
His face breaks a wide smile, and he takes a bite. “Is good then! Baboshka is good boy, I trust you do good for me. Orosaki, he is -” and he rattles off some foul sounding strings in Russian “- but all is good. Box is good. Is alright, you have till end of week.”
Did I just get an extension? No boss I’ve worked for has ever extended a job. I don’t want an extension! Extension bad!
“Um...thanks mate?”
“Is no problem. But you make up to me, settle debt even. I send you to Ivan, help with small word problem I having and all is good.”
And there drops the boot. “Go? With Ivan, where with Ivan, I’m gonna take right care of your magic box.”
“Is alright, no problem,” waving me off, “Help Ivan, helping me, you get until end of week.” He shrugs. “If prefer, you get to me box in one hour, or I take box and eleventh finger. Either good.” He takes another bit of the hotdog, staring at me while he chews. Ha, ha, eleventh finger I’m tickled by his wit.
I stand up, getting quick reactions from the two guys behind the chair. “Well, then, losing sunlight and all. Let’s see Mr. Ivan and see what little snafu can’t be worked out quick like. Spooky” I snap my fingers at the bald driver, “let’s move it along quick, I’m a busy lad.” Davadon breaks into loud laughter, salutes his hotdog to me, then waves me out. Spooky nods and opens the wall-door, standing aside until I go first and not taking his hand from inside his jacket until I’m out of Davadon’s line of sight. I make it to the car before I let go a long breath I had been keeping in.
***
And there ya go. The full section of what I've written can be found right here. There's not a whole lot more, mainly just the introduction part. As fun as it was, my friend hasn't yet gotten back to me with any more of the story, and as this isn't my idea I wouldn't know where to go with it.
no subject
on 2010-11-10 05:42 am (UTC)I still maintain that the donut thing was not my fault, it was in the intial draft, I am innocent.