Italy Fiction – The Grape Harvest Part 6

The Grape Harvest Part 6 is the continuation of my Italy Travel Fiction segment that I began in April. This is a 7-10 part series following Mike, a newly successful author along his travels in Italy. Do not let the innocuous description steer you away from this story of introspection, compulsion, and deviance. Here are links to the first 5 chapters.

Parts - One - Two - Three - Four - Five

Previously - Mike fired another round through the bridge of the German's nose and he died. At that moment the iPhone text tone sounded and the message said "have you finished your business Dad? ready for that walk?"

He stared at the message all too aware that Viola was wandering through the vineyards with the winemaker and waiting on him to join. 4 gunshots although muffled a bit by the thick walls and the annoying bathroom exhaust fan were more than a little obvious. In the quiet space that exists only in the most fleeting moments Mike knew he had to go. Viola would have to forgive her father again for an unannounced departure which gave him a sad pause.

Just as quickly as the quiet began it ended with the sounds of shouts from below. Mike's Italian was clouded and tone was all he could detect. Fear, confusion, and panic were pitching higher in the female shouts as he pushed open the blood-spattered windows and hopped down onto the ivy covered ledge below. Above all forms of literature he despised action thrillers the most. Everyday Joes succeeding at near impossible feats of will, intelligence, and agility while under pressure from extraordinary circumstances actually offended his sense of reality and pragmatism.

He tucked the .380 into his waist and enjoyed the curious cool steel along the upper initial separation of his ass crack. Gripping the terra-cotta tiles along the edge of the lower easement Mike scaled down the ivy much more adroitly than he believed was possible. Now, on the back of the villa Mike knew going for the car would be certain folly, so he made for the vineyard house where Roberto kept the Ape.

An Ape (ah-pay) is a 3 wheeled vehicle with a fully enclosed cab and a small bed like a pickup in the back, used for hauling. Every farmer in Italy owns at least one Ape (which means Bumblebee) and they can often be seen taking their wives on weekend dates into towns motoring at 20 miles per hour along wine roads, dirt roads, highways, and sidewalks.

An Author and an Ape

Mike reached the shed and slipped on a pair of Italian denim overalls covered in noxious sulfur powder. He did his best to dust them as he slid open the small barn door of the 15th century shrine, which had been at one time abandoned and was recently converted to a tool shed and storage for the Ape and other vineyard equipment. A statue of the Blessed Virgin hung above the sliding door and the light shown through the small cracks over her head. At that instant the desperate writer noticed the keys in the ignition, fired the Ape to the sound of a chorus of bees and sped away down the oldest wine road in Canale. It would not be unusual to see a man in overalls driving an Ape and while the neighbors would certainly know who it belonged to this was truffle season and lunches would be long and the roads empty

Viola stared at her phone as the desperate shouting reached she and Roberto down in the cellar. The magnum of 1990 Bruno Giacosa Barbaresco Riserva Red Label had only been opened for 5 minutes and the sanctum created was near Eucharistic levels just as the chaos began.

Viola (in Italian but translated here for ease to readers) - what happened?

Roberto - there has been a terrible tragedy

Hotel Desk Clerk - the German man is dead, he is dead! mother of God, mother of God!

Roberto - calm down, have you called the police?

HDC- no, we are looking for you

Roberto - good do not call! seal the doors and tell Eugenio to go to the road and not let anyone in or out. Most of the guests are in town?

HDC - only the very old man remains

Roberto - he could not have heard..leave him...rather, bring him his coffee at the normal time. Tell Elena to leave the room as it is and do nothing of it till I say. If any guests return have Eugenio tell them there has been a gas leak and the villa is off-limits. send them to town and call Maurizio at the bar and tell him all coffees are on me. Do this now and report to me.

Viola - it's my father?

Roberto - I am not sure.

Viola- what? is he OK?

Roberto - he is missing, so I can say he is maybe OK

Viola - what do we do?

Roberto - we have a glass of this sacred wine

Viola - now?

Roberto - these are the first moments of life for this very wise child. we cannot leave it here to share its knowledge with only the walls and the ghosts my dear. we will drink now, then you will go having never been here

Viola knew Roberto was "one of those guys" she knew that her father was "one of those guys". She felt the strongest urge to cry she had experienced in years. Instead she breathed deeply and watched as Roberto poured a splash of wine from the 1 and a half liter bottle into the first glass then rolled the goblet along the edge of the massive countertop. Seasoning the glass was something she learned before she could write and the calming image of orange tinged 25-year-old Barbaresco swirling in kaleidoscopic turns inside the dark and protected cellar gave her momentary serenity.

As they drank their first sips from the enormous hand-blown glasses a man with dark skin, thick hands, and a trucker hat moved down the stairs and handed Roberto a wadded brown paper sack then silently marched back up the stairs. Viola assumed it must have been a weapon of some kind and was relieved when the winemaker pulled warm, cracked, and salted chestnuts from the bag and offered them to her.

Roberto - eat this in remembrance of me

Viola - body of Christ?

Roberto - now taste the wine

Viola - blood?

Roberto - you see how they are at once different and then the same? you must see how even in life it is like this. now go in Peace, Franco is parked just outside and will deliver you to the station. I suggest the regional train to Genova...you will like it there

Viola - the sacrament?

Roberto - it is done, this is done...the last. peace be with you

Viola - thank you...you are a good man

Roberto - of this, I am not so sure.

.....to be continued

Italy Fiction – The Grape Harvest Part 7

An exploration of Italy Fiction - The Grape Harvest Part 7 is the story of a newly published author, his daughter, and their passion for Italian food, life, and danger.

The Grape Harvest

SCENE 1

Mike really enjoyed driving the Ape. As close to wine as he was he had never been a winemaker and the discomfort of the sulfured-overalls did not affect the joy he derived from the costume. Much like a play from his youth dressing the part somehow made him the character. This was a dress rehearsal for deception and Mike would have it no other way.

The miniature truck whined along the road towards Alba and the train station. Trains were slow in this part of the world but anonymity was worth the nuisance. There was a prevailing oncoming wind from the east and the Ape did not make good time under a patch of clouds. Along the wine roads there was not a car nor even an opposing work vehicle to be seen until Mike happened along a grove of trees at the apex of a hill. There was Pino the truffle hunter perfunctorily pointing out the secrets of fungus finding to the soon-to-be devastated German family. The boy was far more interested in the truffle-sniffing dog than the lecture and the little girl twirled at her department store scarf while the mom looked as though she might have felt a hint of moisture in the presence of the handsome Pino. The gun-toting author slowed the Ape to a crawl as he drove by. The little girl made eye contact with him and they gave each other a cutesy wave.

He called out to the family in Italian: “in boca al lupo Tedeschi!”, good luck Germans, as he twisted the handlebar accelerator and the bumblebee crawled back to top speed. Pino yelled out something profane and esoteric about the Teutonics as the writer disappeared down the back of the hill.

SCENE 2

When they pulled away from the villa Viola told Franco she would indeed go to Genova even though she knew she would be returning to Perugia. Her father had always been the most intriguing man she knew and while she had accepted long ago his heart was good, she finally allowed herself to consider it a good heart, inside a very bad guy.

She wondered if she might not ever see him again and that thought gave her a bit of comfort even as the tears formed in the back of her brow and the tingle of loss made its way to her stomach. “we were eating fucking Robiola!...there was going to be carne crudo with white truffle for lunch!...now I want to vomit” she thought as Franco took another corner way too fast for most of the 3 billion non-Italian drivers on earth.

Roberto had given them all time and while Mike could not have known this his leisurely drive in the Ape suggested he indeed expected the winemaker’s running of interference. What he also could not have known was that he would still enjoy a walk with his daughter on this day.

SCENE 3

Mike parked the Ape inconspicuously (for Italy) on the sidewalk behind the Alba train station. He tore away the overalls and left them in the cab along with a 50 euro bill to cover the gas. At a tourist shop on the main street he purchased an ITALIA football jersey and baseball cap from the Juventus Italian soccer club. One look in the bathroom mirror confirmed his suspicion that he would look like the biggest idiot first time Italy traveler on the train and it pained him almost as much as tossing his black V-Neck T into the restroom trash. Wet paper towel on the chest and armpits was a telling reminder of just where this day had gone and while he was happy to clear away the sweat, the residual aroma of sulfur disgusted him and he hoped no one would make the mistake of sitting close to him on the train.

The father and daughter met at the electronic ticket kiosk. Viola completely ignored Mike’s existence not recognizing him in the slightest. He knew her immediately and thought how he might simply walk away, but fortune favored the brave and he spoke:

Mike: (in midwest USA accent) do you know where I can get a ticket for Rome?
Viola: (brushing off the question) non parlo Inglese!
Mike: hai capito stavo parlando in Inglese, ma non ti parli Inglese?
Viola: fuck off old man, not the time or day for bullshit!
Mike: Viola (removing the accent and the hat revealing his wiry hair and grey streak)
Viola: Dad! (loud then whispering) dad..what the fuck?
Mike: where you headed?
Viola: where do you think?
Mike: company?
Viola: you buying?
Mike: do I have a choice?
Viola: you never have
Mike: truer words…..

The two purchased first class tickets to Perugia and made their way to the regional train for Milano Centrale station. Of course there was no first class car for the local train and the two sat quietly among elderly men and women on their way to the city to see loved ones who had migrated to the factories and shops of Italy’s ugliest city.

Scene 4

Mike explained what had happened with the German and how he had narrowly escaped death. Viola questioned him incessantly as to the whats and whys with only vague answers and non-sequiturs in return. This was not going to be the day when it all came to light, not yet.

Mike was enamored with his daughter’s mind and her patterns of speech which mirrored his in so many ways. He had always assumed genetics was a bit of bullshit and at the same time he was very clearly created from the molds of his own father and his late grandfather. Complexities of human interaction were the principal studies of his characters when he wrote, and he had learned long ago that the best information comes from the most open and vaguely leading interaction.

While it was true he had killed someone that morning, he knew intimately the details of that chapter and preferred to satisfy his curiosity questioning his daughter. What was her story? What had she seen? Assuming she was not a very good girl, he wondered where she might have broken bad.

As they chewed on breaded chicken sandwiches from the Chef Express just outside track 11 at Milano Centrale he quickly knew he would not be disappointed….

To be continued.

IMO Thursday – My Most Difficult Job: Writing

First of all let me apologize for my long summer absence. After my return from Italy and the TBEX bloggers conference I felt truly overloaded. Too much impetus, too fast, and the bug of introspection set itself firmly in my mind.

This is where the difficulty comes in writing dear followers of bliss. I began to allow my introspection into my prose and my poetry. I finally, after many years of holding back began to share with a strange new world the inner workings of my head. I loved the feedback and the give and take. Wordpress in many ways was my writers forum, a place to practice a craft and to experiment with style and sharing.
I believed the WP.com community to be a place of safety. At the same time, we all have an audience and a voice our readers are accustomed to hearing. The morose side of TBA was a bit much for some of my readers and a very dear friend and fellow blogger let me know as much.

I would guess that no other blogger has influenced me more than this brilliant person and telling me to get myself together and save my introspection for other venues made me believe that WP was no longer a safe place for experimentation and was simply another tangential world with expectations so lofty I could only post when I was “ON”.

This is where it is dear readers. This is why I have been missing. Yes, I posted a few pieces since that day and I am proud of them. Yet, I no longer felt this was my place of joy, and my outlet for pain was suddenly missing. Yes, I overreacted and took it too literally. I know this. This is I, an entertainer, the one who delivers above expectations and when that becomes impossible to achieve 100% of the time I am the one who collapses into self-doubt and disappointment.

I know my work is good and sometimes excellent. I know I see things in ways that are unique. I know I have talent in every pore of me and at the same time I am completely prone to freezing, to fleeing, and to failing.

Every prior job in life before writing allowed me room to coast. I could achieve and then rest, regroup, and begin a new project. Writing is not about coasting to me, and I had found it about the journey. My experimentation and the responses from readers made me so happy and gave me insight into not only my style, it elucidated my dreams.

Now hear me friends. Do not dismiss my fellow blogger as being too brazen or envious or anything other than the loving person I have come to adore. It is me that is the issue here. I take criticism badly, I always have. Typically this is because I am more critical of myself than anyone is of me so it tends to add insult to injury. In this case, I think my friend was right about me finding some direction but wrong about curbing my need to share in this public forum.

I know we are public figures and we are perceived in ways that our words, images, and style dictate. I get it, and at the same time I have spent most of my life trying to model the big brother, the eldest son, the doting husband, and the excellent student. Here, I want a safe space to be just a writer with hopes that what I create will express myself artistically. Is this the space? For the past 2 months I have questioned my very existence. I have wondered if I should go back to wine full-time. I have wondered whether or not I am cut out to be a writer. Each of those questions was met with nausea, anger, and frustration I had not really known previously. My distinguished mentor says in regards to the path of life,

“You enter the forest
at the darkest point,
where there is no path.

Where there is a way or path,
it is someone else's path.

You are not on your own path.

If you follow someone else's way,
you are not going to realize
your potential.”

In these two months I have come to realize I have no choice, God, the universe, fate, and my sanity have all convened and they will no longer let me run from what I was birthed to this planet to do. I have strong opinions and I am certain that the world would be deeper in darkness had no one had the conviction to share thoughts that were antithetical to common beliefs. I have often in my life followed the counsel of others and it has led me to victory and defeat with a level of parity akin to coin tossing. The surest best advice I have ever received is that which aligns itself with the intentions of my heart. This happened to me this morning when one of the most respected bloggers I know found me on Facebook (a favorite hiding place) and let me know her thoughts and those words  spoke directly to every part of my being.

Yes, this is a romantic notion and I am a romantic person. I do my best to balance the Quixotic with the nihilistic as both are extreme. This is why I create. Why I cry at the works of Still, Hemingway, and Sorkin. These artists marry the abstract to the real and demonstrate the beautiful absurdity of life in the most serious of moments. The sharks may eat away my big fish but I will continue to go out in the deep water and haul in another one. This must be my safe space. This was the place that I felt in love with life for the first time in years and I know it remains so. I am the only thing that has changed and now I know I can and MUST return.

This is my most difficult job because this is one I cannot quit. I have tried for the past 2 months and most of the previous 40 years to do it and yet it continues to pull me once again into the fray.

I will not go gently into that good night or unto the breach in any capacity other than as a writer of things that matter to me. Will it resonate with all of you? Sometimes yes, sometimes it will be Beethoven’s 5th loved by all. Sometimes it will appeal like Romeo and Juliet to a crowd from every avenue of life. Perhaps it will be set to music like Westside Story. However, sometimes it will be Hudson Hawk, Harlem Nights, or Pericles. My work may sometimes be Salieri with Mozart laughing from afar. Sometimes I will be Ahab and the game will be my undoing. The Academic and the base will argue my merits only sometimes, while mostly they will go ignored with only the cognoscenti and compatriot spirits in praise of something perhaps a bit obtuse or sickeningly self serving.

I do not see life in shades of banality. I see verve and zest, and more silly words that we use to describe the moments when mundane is all around us, yet simply not an option. I am happiest in the company of words and the musical way in which they line up and drizzle off my images forming a world that I devise. I cannot quit something in which I am the integral component. In essence, I am a tree of my own planting. I knew as a child playing dominoes with Odie and making up stories on cassette recorders that I was wired to share. Eat or do not of this fruit my friends. My guess is that many of you wrestle with these self-same maladies. I am grateful for the criticism and the love. I have passed another grueling test and here I am once again at the helm in this ocean of words.

This was the summer of my discontent and I return from this anew today. Stay tuned for what comes over the hill, as it may be a snowball headed for hell and coming aboard is far better than being at the bottom.

IMO Thursday - Vanessa Trevino Boyd is a Wine Star!

This week's IMO Thursday - Vanessa Trevino Boyd is wine star and Beverage Director at Philippe Restaurant + Lounge in Houston, TX. She oversees one of the city's most thoughtful wine lists and this past April she was awarded ‘Best New Sommelier’ by Food & Wine magazine. So why then am I lauding this young woman when she clearly has plenty of allies? Because she is a dear friend and she goes about it the right way. At the end of the day choosing wines for a restaurant is no different from choosing great ingredients for the establishment's kitchen. One must trust the supplier and sample the goods. I have seen Vanessa meticulously smell and taste limes before making a margarita. I have watched her cut tomatoes and inspect their every nuance before placing in a salad. In June of this year when she came to Colorado to work the Aspen Food and Wine Festival we sat down for lunch at one of the most recognized restaurants in the area and within minutes the sommelier on duty (also the GM of the place) was asking Vanessa's opinion on a myriad of wine related subjects because she remarked on the quality of the wine and the provenance of some of the produce. 

Vanessa is not a self promoter. She is not flamboyant or overt in her style. She is in every sense a quality maven. Quietly and without much fanfare she moved from NYC where she excelled at Michelin lauded Alain Ducasse at the St. Regis with an 1800-selection list to manage the wine program at my former employer The Tasting Room and Max's Wine Dive. We met at a friend's birthday party and were fast friends. We had actually met briefly once before in NYC and I enjoy recalling how I met this very serious wine pro who honestly intimidated me a bit at the time. Intimidating is likely the last word I would use to describe Vanessa person to person. She asks great questions of her guests and when she delivers a new wine experience to clients and they are wringing wet with childlike smiles of new discovery she simply goes about her work and the customers keep coming back to Vanessa.

Quality of service, passion for excellence, and belief that doing a job better every day are the principles that I admire most in a professional. In the information age our natural human tendencies towards fleeting glory are exacerbated by social media and our attention spans are snipped daily by a different variety of carrot. Vanessa carries a torch of consistency promoting wines of place, great acid, and balance with the foods of her talented chef employer. Wine and food in their purist form are always about great ingredients first, execution second, and polished service. No amount of flash can replace substance.

My friend and colleague embodies substance and longevity. She won the best "New Sommelier" award 13 years into her career. There was nothing new about her, sometimes the glass is really deep and takes awhile for the cream to rise to the top. Vanessa is a star in an increasingly crowded and clouded sky of wine talent. If you happen to be in Houston I urge you to dine with her at Philippe Restaurant and Lounge, enjoy some killer Frites with Harissa Ketchup and a bottle of one of her wonderful grower champagnes. Juliet and I experienced several of our favorite date nights with Vanessa at the helm and I think you will too.

I am here today also to share a link to a local Houston Publication called "My Table Magazine". These guys recognize excellence in Houston's dining scene and they have now become aware of the talent in their backyard and nominated Vanessa and her wine program for 2 awards. The vote is open to readers (public) and fans of excellence and I encourage you all to take 2 minutes and vote for Vanessa and Philippe Restaurant. You may vote in the other categories or not as the ballot does not have to be complete.

CLICK HERE and then choose VOTE

4. OUTSTANDING WINE SERVICE
Philippe Restaurant + Lounge

7. SERVICE PERSON OF THE YEAR
Vanessa Trevino Boyd (Philippe)

The Grape Harvest Part 5 - Piedmont Travel Fiction

The Grape Harvest Part 5 is the continuation of my Italy Travel Fiction segment that I began in April. This is a 7-10 part series following Mike, a newly successful author along his travels in Italy. Do not let the banal description steer you away from this story of introspection, compulsion, and deviance. Here are links to the first 4 chapters.

Mike: (to Viola) you knew that Roberto had truffles today didn't you?

Viola: I AM my father's daughter

Mike: he still gets these via trade; his guy told him that he could get $1500 each for the small fist truffles but that because the winery had been so good to him in the lean years that there would never be any wavering in the agreement which dated back 22 years to the first November after Roberto's father fell ill.

Viola: Roberto's poem on the winery wall?

Mike: yeah, perhaps the most compelling argument that life and our direction is not nearly so neat as we would like to make it. Roberto was a successful man, but family....

Viola: I love you Dad

Mike: are you sure?

Viola: you silly, silly man, with the big dangerous imagination...you know I am not going to repeat myself

Mike: so, a walk in the vineyards before lunch?

Viola: I have all day

Mike: I need to go to the room a bit

Viola: missing something?

Mike: the opposite

Viola: gross

Mike: have another coffee

Viola: then it would be my turn

Mike: dai! (come on)

Viola: have fun

Mike loved being anal retentive. In all the therapy from the divorce, the sessions in prison, and the countless scheduled interruptions Mike never admitted any frustration with his need to control his bathroom moments. The paid agreements with 3 cellmates over the 6 year sentence were an easy sacrifice for privacy. Larry, deuce, and Milwaukee all happily accepted payments to take morning rec shifts so that the author could experience consistent defecation time. Even the guards were known to have avoided Mike's cage during the 8am hour and he could not help but feel a bit of joy knowing that the very funds that put him in federal prison were the same monies he used to buy this modicum of contemplative release.

As Viola disappeared from view the feeling intensified as if something in need of air to breathe wanted to leave his body. The wine-stained book on the nightstand was the only thought keeping his pant's dry and as he pulled tightly on his abdomen he let his mind drift for all of a moment to the firearm tucked into his trousers. The misery clothing weighed down by the Beretta was not part of the plan. A proper shit was unencumbered by weight although the tightness of dress pants, particularly these Hugo Boss pants, was essential around the shins as the push would be beautiful. Of course there were times when sickness forced a nude release but this was not one of those days. This was a perfect day for a perfect BM, the name Mike's family used during his potty training.

Mike opened the door to the room and locked it behind him. As he breathed in deeply for the final hold he flicked on the bathroom light and the very rarely seen, Italian exhaust fan. The soothing white noise filled the room as Mike carefully took off his black T-Shirt and dusted the shoulders with the back of his right hand. He smiled quickly to himself in the dressing mirror as he pulled the pistol from his pants and set it down on the dresser. The image of his bare chest and the firearm in the mirror compelled him to grab the iPhone for a self-portrait.

Mike: (to himself in breathy mumbles) fuck...this is stupid...I mean it would be a good shot but my belly is fucking bloated from the gluten...ugh...fading..fading....OK...

He left the camera beside the gun and adjusted his hair, flicked away the imaginary flakes from his neck and upper back just before he entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him. As he unfastened his belt he remembered the book was still on the dresser.

Mike: (much louder to self) goddamnit you stupid moron!

With his belt undone, he flung open the door of the bathroom and saw the German father from breakfast pulling himself up from under the bed. The two men lunged for the gun on the dresser and the force of their mutual arrival left them both on the floor and several feet from the weapon. The muted thud of their falls barely audible to the combatants shook both bed and dresser as Mike's iPhone fell to the ground. In the dreamlike stoppage of time that occurs in moments of greatest tension Mike knew he had let his guard down. An :I love you moment" and his passion for a good morning crap had clouded the memory of the mystery note from before breakfast. Now, the creepy father with the molester mustache was there to write Mike's last chapter.

The German knew Mike's habits, and that he would be unarmed and vulnerable during his ritual evacuation. The hit-man hun had never expected Mike to make a hasty restroom retreat for requisite reading material so he had taken his time exiting his pillowy hiding spot. Now, rather than a convenient murder staged as suicide he was going to have to battle the anal author to the death.

Both men stumbled to their feet suggesting neither was nimble as they perceived themselves to be. As they met once again at the dresser the two grappled. The author and the alpine fashion-plate tugged and pulled at one another like little boys fighting to play with a new train set. The brawlers fell to the floor in a heap and the German managed to squeeze Mike into a headlock. Mike's left arm was the only barrier between the assailant's grip and his own neck.

Mike: you motherfucking Kraut fuck!

German: keep screaming maybe zay will heah you

Mike: you're not very good at this Hans

German: I know, but you ahhh tereeble...so day send me on my holiday to finish you

Mike: day..? day send you? (making fun of his accent)

German: go fuck you self small little man with small career...dis is why it end fo you heah..agreement ahr agreement

Mike was beginning to fade and at the same time his anger was mounting just as it had all those years before. He always hated dangerous animals and did his best to avoid camping with bears, swimming with sharks, or going on safari with lions. In essence, the idea of a lower life form taking his life was simply unacceptable. Now, a 2 dollar gun for hire with a million dollar mustache was about to do the job.

Although Mike's right hand was free and he was steadily bringing the full force of his medium build upon the nose and eyes of the Teutonic titan the damage he was inflicting could do nothing to break the hold of the hun.

German: I did not expect you to come out so uhrly from de bahthroom...you like to take you time, read zeh books zat you could never vrite youself..

Mike: you fucked up my shit schedule..I was about to read the chapter on the indigenous varieties of red grapes here in Canale

German: instead I catch you wit deh pants down...ahhahahah!

Mike hated that the sweaty man was touching his bare skin. He had always considered a plethora of ways he could go out, and being iced was always a possibility considering his own past. He knew though that when it was time it would feel easier, the struggle would not exist. Now, all he could feel was a warming moist sensation on the back and the painful prod of an iron chin on the top of his head. He loathed clamminess on his skin and likened it to a woman touching his arm after she had been washing dishes. Dying was bad enough, losing to this low rent assassin was worse, and having the willies was simply too much to take.

The choking continued and as the dappled sun was getting spotty and the smells and sounds lesser by the second Mike heard a familiar tune. It was the Ligabue song - Le donne lo sanno - his iPhone ring! The fading writer scooped at the phone with his right foot and he could sense the German was attempting to squeeze harder.

Mike managed to get the phone to his fingertips on his free hand while he forced one last push against the chokehold with his occupied arm.

Mike: hey...hey! hey!

German: vaht? can't you see I'm trying to kill someone?

Mike: (grabbing the iPhone fully) I think it's for YOU!!

Mike leveled the iPhone in the hard plastic case directly into the right eye of the attacker. The German's grip loosened just enough for  Mike to spin clockwise and rattle the iPhone into the assaulter's adam's apple. The men separated and although free, Mike remained dazed and dizzily collapsed when he tried to get to his feet. The dumbfounded dad audibly choking now and grasping at his throat got to his knees and made for the dresser.

Mike spun on his back like an 80s break dancer and kicked the Bavarian bandit with both feet glancing his neck and eyes. The indirect blow slowed the German blitz long enough for Mike to get to his knees and rip his loosened belt from his pants. The simple silver buckle made a punchy thwack as it broke the German's lip apart and it sounded even more menacing as it landed twice again on the eyebrow and tip of the attacker's nose.

After the third belt strike Mike jumped to his feet and grabbed the pistol behind him. The German lunged forward as the first bullet tore open the left side of his neck and he twisted violently into the row of windows along the wall behind the bed.

Mike fired a second and third round quickly into the hun's abdomen felling him in a heap on the floor under the windows. The German indeed slid down the wall smearing blood like some scene from Japanimation and the author noted this with a curious grin.

Mike: you sonofabitch! you fucked up my shit schedule!

German: don't let my family see me like ziss

Mike: where are they?

German: zay went on zeh twuffehl hike

Mike: of course they did....man, you choked me really good..you almost got me

German: your fucking iPhone..why do you have it in zhat case?

Mike: mostly because I am clumsy and drop the thing all the time..you know, i threw it off a concrete embankment once when this fucking dentist tore my face apart trying to drain an infection. It literally went about 200 feet in the air and down on the street....not a scratch...can't really say the same for you. I would love to call an ambulance, but you know I can't do that

German: I know...

Mike: besides, now I am going to be constipated for a week...holding cells, questioning, Amanda Knox references...you fucking asshole!

Mike no longer had the urge to shit and it felt like there was a reptile in his stomach that had crawled up from his anus filling his bowel canal and preventing release. The discomfort in his gut only exacerbated his misery as he pulled and wiped at the attacker's sweat on his back and kidney area.

Mike: man, you sweaty fuck...uhhhh! I am gross...nasty fat fuck!

German: ziss won't be zeh end

Mike: I'm sure.....

Mike fired another round through the bridge of the German's nose and he died. At that moment the iPhone text tone sounded and the message said "have you finished your business Dad? ready for that walk?"

...to be continued