DENT: Prologue
Jan. 18th, 2009 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehefnerAt the encouragement of the wonderful ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
greedyslayer, I here present the prologue from the current draft of DENT (working title). At this stage, I'm experimenting with a bit of Cormac McCarthy style. Hopefully it works and isn't confusing, as I think it'll pay off in the bigger picture if done well.
But for now, here it is: a stand-alone chapter that can also operate as a teaser trailer for the ultimate finished book. Comments and criticisms are very welcome, but just be sure to treat this for the excerpt that it is. Hope you like it.
Half the time, I didn’t know what to make of my father.
Mom always brought out the best in him, but even still, I know she was torn. It’s one of the few things I remember about her. By everyone’s account, she was a saint, and some would say literally. She burned for that man. Deep down, under the love and obligation and politeness, I think she hated him.
No, wait, hate’s too strong a word. That wasn’t her. She just hated him when he wasn’t home. With us. Because that meant he was at the casino’s barroom, throwing down the family money. On the dice, on the rocks. But he always came home with at least a little more in his pockets than he took, so what could she say? Luck was on our side in those days. Most days.
It’s funny, y’know, they called him Double-Down Dent. Like he was a real tough-guy gangster. Christopher Dent was virtually a celebrity around Moroni’s. You know Moroni’s? Of course you do. I mean the original one, right on the edge of the Narrows. Right there on the cusp between the slums and uptown. I heard it was nice: a place where middle class rubes could feel like they’re splurging on opulence while dead crooners play overhead.
It was all bullshit, of course. A façade. These days, it’s still strictly VIP’s, no poseurs or narcs allowed, but they don’t even bother pretending anymore. Used to be you’d have to slip in through the back, or past a maze of halls and guarded doors to find a three-tired amphitheatre backed by a bar stretching a mile long. A big band and singer, usually a smoky-throated pale woman poured into velvet, keeping the rhythm going as men guffaw and sob and curse over the dealer’s tables.
The real Moroni’s. The joint looks like Heaven if Hell’s management took over.
And back then, the wiseguys loved Dad. He wasn’t in the life, but when he was riding high, he’d buy drinks all around: one for everyone, and two more for himself. All hail Double-Down Dent, Ruler of Roulette. King of Craps. Baron of Bunk.
In my job, I’ve met some of the used-up old guys who knew him, back in those glory days. When Dad’s the topic, the nostalgia high briefly overwhelms whatever’s coursing through their veins or brains or lungs, and they just light up. Like they were reminiscing about their oldest friend in the world.
They used to say that he could have entered politics. A Dent in public office. Crazy, right? Laughable. But they say Double-Down could have taken that entire room of mobsters, celebrities, politicians, and old money, and just wrapped them in his hand like a pair of dice.
Sometimes, I just wish I could have seen that side of him. Just once. Instead, all we ever saw was the aftermath.
I mean, sure, he’d come home some nights with the stink on him, but he wasn’t out of control. Not really. He’d always make sure to stumble back home so that when he’d pass out, it’d be in his own bed. And sure, it got worse once he stopped winning and started losing. Maybe fate or karma had come to collect on all the good luck he had. If you believe in that sort of thing. But at least he had her. She’s what kept him grounded. What kept him going.
And then, not long after my eighth birthday, she was gone. The cancer was quick, small blessings. Those days were hard and only getting harder, but at least we had each other. We always had each other.
Listen. Even when he blew all his cash the night before, he always, always made sure I never went hungry. There were several nights where he’d go without, just so I wouldn’t. You understand? No matter how far into the bottle he fell, no matter how… black his bitterness was, he wanted to make absolutely certain that I would be strong enough to live in this city. Because he knew that if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t even chew me up and spit me out. Gotham would swallow me whole.
So one night, a couple months after Mom died, we were sitting in the living room watching a Barry Hanson rerun. I was on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, fanning myself with a newspaper. The sweat on my palms turned black from the newsprint.
Dad was in his easy chair, a fresh whiskey and club soda—on the rocks—in his hand. Barry was defending a woman whose son, a boy about my age, had gone missing. She’d been falsely accused of foul play, and was being tormented by Barry’s nemesis, District Attorney Tallman. D.A.’s have never been the good guys in those stories. But of course, thanks to Barry playing both detective and defense attorney, the day was saved. Evil was punished, the D.A. was thwarted, and mother and son were tearfully reunited.
Wait, was it Barry Hanson? Maybe it was Badge of Honor. Or The Grey Ghost? Those were my favorites. Memory has a way of smearing into a blur, doesn’t it?
Anyway, the credits rolled. And then, the words spilled thoughtlessly out of my mouth:
I miss Mom.
I caught myself, but it was too late. Dad silently made it clear that discussion of her was off-limits. I looked at him now, my hand clasped over my mouth. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Would he yell? Would he cry, break down sobbing?
Still facing the television, he just lowered his eyes, tipping the whiskey and soda to his mouth.
Me too, he said.
I knew he wanted me to leave it at that, but the thought had been going around and around in my head like a carousel those past two months.
I said, It isn’t fair.
He gave me a funny look, then broke it off and turned away with a sigh. As if he knew this day would come. He rose, turned off the TV, sank back down, and took another sip. Always little sips.
Where do you think your mother is now, Harvey?
The answer was obvious. She’s with God.
No, he said, gently but firmly. She isn’t.
But… Mom always said…
Look, I loved Mom. I loved her lots and lots and lots. But she was wrong. There’s no God, Harvey. It’s very important for you to understand this. There’s no God, no Heaven, no Jesus, and no angels, just as there’s no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. There’s no Boogeyman, vampires, witches, or werewolves. There’s no Devil, and no Hell. You understand? There’s no one out there who’s gonna save you, just as there’re no monsters trying to get you. There’s just us.
Justice…?
No, Harvey, he snapped. He closed his eyes, cooled, and said, That’s exactly the point. There’s none of that either. Not for anyone. Life ain’t fair. All there is…
He considered for a moment.
Well. Here. I’ll show you.
He reached into his pocket and then pulled something out. I caught a glisten of silver peeking through the cracks between his fingers. He unfolded the fist, and there, in his leathery palm, was a coin. An old Peace Dollar. I reached for it like a talisman, drawing me in. But he pulled away and sealed his hand before I had a chance.
No, no, he said, with a strange edge to those words. This isn’t for you. This is your Daddy’s good luck charm.
Like Scrooge McDuck’s lucky dime?
Dad’s stone-face broke into warm chuckles, and he ruffled my hair with that massive paw of his. It wasn’t really that big, but to a child of seven, it was like the hand of a giant.
Something like that, he said, smiling. Now, we’re gonna play a little game. You like games?
Sure, yeah.
Course you do. Y’take after your old man. Now you pay attention. Y’gotta call it, heads or tails. What’s it gonna be?
I said tails. To this day, I don’t know why.
Good boy, he said, but his face hardened. As if in resignation. Yeah, good boy. All right. Tails you win, heads you lose.
What do I get if I win?
It’s not that kind of game, Harv. You’ll see.
He slipped his thumb under the coin, but hesitated. He looked at me seriously, one last time. Making certain that I understood.
It’s all just luck, y’see? That’s all. Just blind luck.
The coin rang out in a resounding ting as it spun through the air, straight up and curving in an arc before tumbling back down to earth. Within a second’s time, it landed flat in his palm with a soft fwap.
Heads.
I lost.
“And what happened then?” Doctor Cross asks, leaning forward on her desk.
The office is suddenly much darker than when I arrived. A whole hour, and already the session’s nearly over. There’s a low rumble from not too far off. When did it start raining? I was so absorbed that I hadn’t even noticed as the storm rolled in all around us.
“Harvey? Then what happened with your father?”
I think about Dad one more time. The warmth of his laugh, the clink of the ice cubes against glass. And those hands, those great giant’s hands, as his fingers closed around the coin, enshrouding its shining brilliance into darkness once more.
“Then he broke my jaw.”
greedyslayer, I here present the prologue from the current draft of DENT (working title). At this stage, I'm experimenting with a bit of Cormac McCarthy style. Hopefully it works and isn't confusing, as I think it'll pay off in the bigger picture if done well. But for now, here it is: a stand-alone chapter that can also operate as a teaser trailer for the ultimate finished book. Comments and criticisms are very welcome, but just be sure to treat this for the excerpt that it is. Hope you like it.
Half the time, I didn’t know what to make of my father.
Mom always brought out the best in him, but even still, I know she was torn. It’s one of the few things I remember about her. By everyone’s account, she was a saint, and some would say literally. She burned for that man. Deep down, under the love and obligation and politeness, I think she hated him.
No, wait, hate’s too strong a word. That wasn’t her. She just hated him when he wasn’t home. With us. Because that meant he was at the casino’s barroom, throwing down the family money. On the dice, on the rocks. But he always came home with at least a little more in his pockets than he took, so what could she say? Luck was on our side in those days. Most days.
It’s funny, y’know, they called him Double-Down Dent. Like he was a real tough-guy gangster. Christopher Dent was virtually a celebrity around Moroni’s. You know Moroni’s? Of course you do. I mean the original one, right on the edge of the Narrows. Right there on the cusp between the slums and uptown. I heard it was nice: a place where middle class rubes could feel like they’re splurging on opulence while dead crooners play overhead.
It was all bullshit, of course. A façade. These days, it’s still strictly VIP’s, no poseurs or narcs allowed, but they don’t even bother pretending anymore. Used to be you’d have to slip in through the back, or past a maze of halls and guarded doors to find a three-tired amphitheatre backed by a bar stretching a mile long. A big band and singer, usually a smoky-throated pale woman poured into velvet, keeping the rhythm going as men guffaw and sob and curse over the dealer’s tables.
The real Moroni’s. The joint looks like Heaven if Hell’s management took over.
And back then, the wiseguys loved Dad. He wasn’t in the life, but when he was riding high, he’d buy drinks all around: one for everyone, and two more for himself. All hail Double-Down Dent, Ruler of Roulette. King of Craps. Baron of Bunk.
In my job, I’ve met some of the used-up old guys who knew him, back in those glory days. When Dad’s the topic, the nostalgia high briefly overwhelms whatever’s coursing through their veins or brains or lungs, and they just light up. Like they were reminiscing about their oldest friend in the world.
They used to say that he could have entered politics. A Dent in public office. Crazy, right? Laughable. But they say Double-Down could have taken that entire room of mobsters, celebrities, politicians, and old money, and just wrapped them in his hand like a pair of dice.
Sometimes, I just wish I could have seen that side of him. Just once. Instead, all we ever saw was the aftermath.
I mean, sure, he’d come home some nights with the stink on him, but he wasn’t out of control. Not really. He’d always make sure to stumble back home so that when he’d pass out, it’d be in his own bed. And sure, it got worse once he stopped winning and started losing. Maybe fate or karma had come to collect on all the good luck he had. If you believe in that sort of thing. But at least he had her. She’s what kept him grounded. What kept him going.
And then, not long after my eighth birthday, she was gone. The cancer was quick, small blessings. Those days were hard and only getting harder, but at least we had each other. We always had each other.
Listen. Even when he blew all his cash the night before, he always, always made sure I never went hungry. There were several nights where he’d go without, just so I wouldn’t. You understand? No matter how far into the bottle he fell, no matter how… black his bitterness was, he wanted to make absolutely certain that I would be strong enough to live in this city. Because he knew that if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t even chew me up and spit me out. Gotham would swallow me whole.
So one night, a couple months after Mom died, we were sitting in the living room watching a Barry Hanson rerun. I was on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, fanning myself with a newspaper. The sweat on my palms turned black from the newsprint.
Dad was in his easy chair, a fresh whiskey and club soda—on the rocks—in his hand. Barry was defending a woman whose son, a boy about my age, had gone missing. She’d been falsely accused of foul play, and was being tormented by Barry’s nemesis, District Attorney Tallman. D.A.’s have never been the good guys in those stories. But of course, thanks to Barry playing both detective and defense attorney, the day was saved. Evil was punished, the D.A. was thwarted, and mother and son were tearfully reunited.
Wait, was it Barry Hanson? Maybe it was Badge of Honor. Or The Grey Ghost? Those were my favorites. Memory has a way of smearing into a blur, doesn’t it?
Anyway, the credits rolled. And then, the words spilled thoughtlessly out of my mouth:
I miss Mom.
I caught myself, but it was too late. Dad silently made it clear that discussion of her was off-limits. I looked at him now, my hand clasped over my mouth. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Would he yell? Would he cry, break down sobbing?
Still facing the television, he just lowered his eyes, tipping the whiskey and soda to his mouth.
Me too, he said.
I knew he wanted me to leave it at that, but the thought had been going around and around in my head like a carousel those past two months.
I said, It isn’t fair.
He gave me a funny look, then broke it off and turned away with a sigh. As if he knew this day would come. He rose, turned off the TV, sank back down, and took another sip. Always little sips.
Where do you think your mother is now, Harvey?
The answer was obvious. She’s with God.
No, he said, gently but firmly. She isn’t.
But… Mom always said…
Look, I loved Mom. I loved her lots and lots and lots. But she was wrong. There’s no God, Harvey. It’s very important for you to understand this. There’s no God, no Heaven, no Jesus, and no angels, just as there’s no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. There’s no Boogeyman, vampires, witches, or werewolves. There’s no Devil, and no Hell. You understand? There’s no one out there who’s gonna save you, just as there’re no monsters trying to get you. There’s just us.
Justice…?
No, Harvey, he snapped. He closed his eyes, cooled, and said, That’s exactly the point. There’s none of that either. Not for anyone. Life ain’t fair. All there is…
He considered for a moment.
Well. Here. I’ll show you.
He reached into his pocket and then pulled something out. I caught a glisten of silver peeking through the cracks between his fingers. He unfolded the fist, and there, in his leathery palm, was a coin. An old Peace Dollar. I reached for it like a talisman, drawing me in. But he pulled away and sealed his hand before I had a chance.
No, no, he said, with a strange edge to those words. This isn’t for you. This is your Daddy’s good luck charm.
Like Scrooge McDuck’s lucky dime?
Dad’s stone-face broke into warm chuckles, and he ruffled my hair with that massive paw of his. It wasn’t really that big, but to a child of seven, it was like the hand of a giant.
Something like that, he said, smiling. Now, we’re gonna play a little game. You like games?
Sure, yeah.
Course you do. Y’take after your old man. Now you pay attention. Y’gotta call it, heads or tails. What’s it gonna be?
I said tails. To this day, I don’t know why.
Good boy, he said, but his face hardened. As if in resignation. Yeah, good boy. All right. Tails you win, heads you lose.
What do I get if I win?
It’s not that kind of game, Harv. You’ll see.
He slipped his thumb under the coin, but hesitated. He looked at me seriously, one last time. Making certain that I understood.
It’s all just luck, y’see? That’s all. Just blind luck.
The coin rang out in a resounding ting as it spun through the air, straight up and curving in an arc before tumbling back down to earth. Within a second’s time, it landed flat in his palm with a soft fwap.
Heads.
I lost.
“And what happened then?” Doctor Cross asks, leaning forward on her desk.
The office is suddenly much darker than when I arrived. A whole hour, and already the session’s nearly over. There’s a low rumble from not too far off. When did it start raining? I was so absorbed that I hadn’t even noticed as the storm rolled in all around us.
“Harvey? Then what happened with your father?”
I think about Dad one more time. The warmth of his laugh, the clink of the ice cubes against glass. And those hands, those great giant’s hands, as his fingers closed around the coin, enshrouding its shining brilliance into darkness once more.
“Then he broke my jaw.”
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 06:12 am (UTC)*clapclapclapclap*
Date: 2009-01-19 12:58 am (UTC)By the way, the guy who produced my family's CDs is in the publishing business. You want I hook you up with him, to chat business?
Re: *clapclapclapclap*
Date: 2009-01-20 06:15 am (UTC)Ooh, um... well, hm, you don't mean for this, do you? Because really, the only way I can really go through with this is through DC, or maybe Warner Books or something. But if you mean Hefner Monologues stuff or that sort of thing, I won't have full book material for a little while. I think the next time I'll have a publishable book of Monologues, it'll be a collection of expanded scripts for my shows, and I'd like to get at least one more written and performed before then. Otherwise, while I'd love to chat business, I'm not sure there's anything at present to chat about!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 05:47 am (UTC)Thank you very much for your interest! As I said, this was but the teaser trailer, and thus it'll be a little while before I'm ready to put this out for mass consumption. Several months at least. Hope you'll check it out when it's finally ready!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 05:44 am (UTC)As for Bruce, I definitely play up both, rest assured. They're both essential.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 03:28 am (UTC)And are Harvey's parents mentioned much in comics? I'm still pretty new and haven't read too many Dent stories yet.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 06:18 am (UTC)Harvey's mother has pretty much never been mentioned, but the father has been, at least since the late 80's. He doesn't get discussed openly too often, which is both good and bad. Good because it'd be so very easy for hack or lesser writers to make it a typically lame cliche, the "abusive alcoholic father made me evil" trope. But bad because... well, as you might tell, I think when done well, it's absolutely essential to Harvey's character.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 06:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 06:19 am (UTC)Another inappropiated long response...
Date: 2009-01-19 06:59 am (UTC)I'm not exactly, anything really and my opinion is of little importance. I'm a crazy fangirl, my interest on this matter is high now but i don't know for how long. also I have a lot of time so my comments can be a little over the top
I really enjoyed this. True I go for the p0rn but I'm really getting into Harvey and getting to know him further thanks in great part because of you and your carefully commented scans, the way that you answer my comments. Also the discussion about the character within and beyond Nolanverse (I'm not sure if you agree with that definition.)
I have no idea who Cormac McCarthy is, but i didn't find it confusing at all. On my first read I really enjoyed what seemed an internal monologue and yet at some point i sort of sniffed out the fact that Harvey was taking to someone, yes a shrink and I think that's very valid even if my personal opinion on the matter, well, no matter. Such a candid confession, stream of conciousness, right? what's expected on teraphy. the first paragraph talking about Mother and the fact that she is torn. There are so many things that can go with that detail; some concern Harvey and others don't. What is it with parents, that they choose each other to have kids, to be together?
Such pretty things : A big band and singer, usually a smoky-throated pale woman poured into velvet, keeping the rhythm going as men guffaw and sob and curse over the dealer’s tables. and about father:In my job, I’ve met some of the used-up old guys who knew him, back in those glory days. The shine, then the aftermath. Once upon a time I read on a magazine about an artist whose father was crazy(well, you know, mentally ill); when the Dad had his crazy spells he would leave and then come back (and the mom was in on it). The artist went crazy as well, and when it started he would just scream: not like my dad, not like my dad. I suppose one could argue that it could be also the case with Christopher Dent.
Even when he blew all his cash the night before, he always, always made sure I never went hungry. but it's not only food that is required for nourishment, do that make sense? But we have to say that things to ourselves, to be fair, dude i feel like crying.
That thing about Barry Hanson, Badge of Honor (from L.A Confidential?) The Grey Ghost I do recognize from the animated series; that's pretty cool. I have to wonder about Mr. Dent, was that exactly what he was waiting for? sometimes it just arises and have to be dealt with sometimes you are just waiting for it, anything to snap.The scene works so good, being interrupted by the doctor (who probably will forget all about it the following session and "strongly suggest" medication). But enough about myself.
I really liked it, the way it's written, the short paragraphs, the first person, that descriptions that give so much with so little.
Like Scrooge McDuck’s lucky dime? just killed me; and the last line.
You wrote this is a teaser trailer and works great for what it is; sure I would like more but perhaps you'll need to find a more educated audience (I'm speaking only for myself here; because even if I enjoyed this a lot i`m not a critic, only a fan (not a serious one) and maybe my opinions can be misguided because of my current lust).
I know you are aiming high on this one,I truly hope it makes it; but even if it doesn't work, you know there's people over here that are sure to enjoy your hard work.
Thank you so much!
Re: Another inappropiated long response...
Date: 2009-01-20 06:11 am (UTC)I don't understand, though, what definition is it that I might or might not agree with?
Oh, Cormac McCarthy is the author of NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, ALL THE PRETTY HORSES, and THE ROAD. He writes in a very sparse manner with no quotation marks for dialogue, and--as far as I can tell--no exclamation points. Very sober, haunting, deadpan. His are not happy books.
"But it's not only food that is required for nourishment, do that make sense?" It makes absolute sense. It's funny, I never really thought about it that way, even though I suppose I realized what I was writing on a subconscious level. Heh, confidentially, that line was actually co-opted from Christopher Titus' stand-up routine, which is one of my idolized performance pieces. I suppose it's not surprising one would bleed in to the other, when you think about it.
Ha! You caught the L.A. CONFIDENTIAL nod! You win a cookie!
Don't worry too much about the doctor, she isn't that bad. But the same can't be said for other doctors, such as the ones at Arkham...
Thank you again. I am indeed aiming high with this, as high as one can probably aim, and while I'm pessimistic I am going to try my damnedest once it's in tip-top shape (hopefully in the next draft or two, once I get it beta'd by some non-Harvey non-comic readers). But I am gratified to know--and truly see here--that, if nothing else, I absolutely do have people here to read it and bring it to life. Which is really the main goal in the long run. Who knows, if I can play it right as a viral thing, maybe it'll get more readers than if it were actually published?
Re: Another inappropiated long response...
Date: 2009-01-20 10:47 pm (UTC)Nolanverse; but now that I think about it; it may sounds a bit pretentious but it only refers to the movies directed and written by Nolan. I'm not sure if serious fans like that definition or not perhaps it is me who dislikes the definition because it has been "abused" (in my opinion) by some fangirls that declare:"i only write Joker in Nolanverse" and such.
"He writes in a very sparse manner with no quotation marks for dialogue, and--as far as I can tell--no exclamation points." I don't mind, but i'm not educated so I don't know what can be behind that for some one that really speaks English, but as I pointed out there was no confusion for me."Very sober, haunting, deadpan." Hey, just like you.
I won a cookie!
"...once I get it beta'd by some non-Harvey non-comic readers..." Exactly.
Whatever happens in the long run, you know we are here.
Thank you.
'What do I get if I win?'
Date: 2009-01-19 07:15 am (UTC)Very solid prologue. Would have me hooked even if I didn't know you or the character.
Re: 'What do I get if I win?'
Date: 2009-01-20 05:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 09:17 am (UTC)Poor Harvey. It makes me feel even more like he's some weird distant friend I've known my whole life.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 05:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 06:20 am (UTC)Man oh man, I can't wait for your thoughts for the rest of it. I've been pondering what you said about Gilda ever since.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 10:21 pm (UTC)I...gyah, I want to have an opinion on the next bit so I can flail at you some more, but I'm waiting anxiously for Captain to get caught up so we can read it together. I didn't realize how badly I wanted to finish it until I was denied the option.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 09:41 pm (UTC)I have all kinds of things to talk about, which I swear I will do at a later date, when I have the material in front of me. (And here's hoping my lappy doesn't go through with its threats of suicide before then.)
For now, have a thumbs up.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:16 am (UTC)(Out loud together? Doing voices and whatnot? Good lord, I'm honored, disturbed, and amused all at once! Most fanfic I'd want to purposely not read out loud so I can blaze through it all the more quickly!)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 05:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-28 09:43 pm (UTC)Taking as long as I did I'm not even sure whether specific comments would be useful. I'd be happy to be on that draft-reading list if you wish me to.