Entry #3: Blood Writers
The ongoing serial follows Duke, a down-and-out screenwriter in Hollywood, who does the unthinkable to see his name in lights...
Nobody knows when the society started.
Some thought it was hatched by a group of disgruntled Communist writers back in the 1950s. Not everyone wrote from the shadows like Trumbo. Most, the real majority, were kicked to the curb, out of work, and publicly shamed. They say a desperate gentleman will do whatever it takes to make it back to the promise land, and it’s true.
Story has it — from the mouth of Didi — that these black-listed writers would gather together on a famous studio lot, after-hours. That they made a pact, sealed in blood, to never have to struggle ever again. A secret covenant. Apparently, Hitchcock was watching dailies of Rear Window while they were cutting themselves with a dull dagger. Again, this was the story most commonly believed.
Others, the more evangelical members of the society, thought the Devil himself founded the Blood Writers, long before the advent of the movie. Long before libraries were around. But who were the devil’s disciples, without movies to write, or books to stack on shelves? The first writers, of course. The ones who used their hands and tools to carve tales on stone tablets.
What he was telling me sounded like a load of horseshit covered in dog shit. I was beginning to think Didi was actually weaving it together on the spot. He wasn’t a terrible storyteller either. A solid orator. Kind of made me jealous.
“So it was either started by cavemen or communists? That’s what you’re telling me?”
Did squeezed a little too much ketchup onto his eggs.
“No. Just that, nobody knows the club’s origins.”
I didn’t like that answer. I was on my third cup of coffee now, and the sun was just making an appearance. I opened another sugar packet, and dumped it my coffee. Then some cream. It was unlike me to use any of the white devils, let alone both. Cream and sugar. My vices to block out the events from the prior evening (which felt like a century ago now).
“Even if someone were to discover how the society was started, they’d keep it to themselves. That’s what’s so ironic about our group.”
“That’s writers for you,” I added. “A selfish breed.”
“A self-sabotaging breed,” Didi tucked a napkin into the collar of that obnoxiously red shirt.
I wasn’t selfish when it came to money. Although, I certainly wouldn’t turn down a free meal, or a comped hotel room. But I was a greedy S.O.B. when it came to writing opportunities. I had friends over the years who tried writing and asked if I’d help them get their scripts out. I didn’t return their calls. I even had a cousin who wrote a novella and his parents (my Aunt and Uncle) asked if I could help him get it adapted. I said I didn’t know anyone in the book world. I was stingy like that. Can you blame me? What if I gave my one-shot away to my friend? Or my cousin? Then I’d resent them my whole life. Better this way.
“My dad is one of the founders now.”
“So you must know who started it…”
Didi went on to tell me that while his father was on top of the food chain, he was unsure who promoted him to the role, and who the founders were of the previous generation. I questioned this contradiction. Did had answer for everything.:
There was a middle-man. And who hired the middle-man? Another one. Everything about this society was muddled in secrecy. I was getting nowhere. The Blood Writers would remain a mystery, that I had peaked in on briefly.
Didi also let on what his father’s name was. I knew the name. He had written some of my favorite movies — proof that the club worked wonders. I did find myself momentarily distracted, and even asked a couple of fan-boy questions about how he came up with such a brilliant idea. I’ll admit, I forgot about the night before for a bit. It was nice, talking shop. Didi and Duke. From the outside, we almost looked like friends. But then, I caught a glimpse of some red soap still under the nail of my thumb, and sobered up.
I wiped the blood off with a napkin.
“Why would you betray them all… for me?”
“They’d betray me, if it came to it. Which eventually, it will. I’ve been distancing myself slowly, but I sense they can feel my hesitancy.”
“And your dad?”
“That’s the nature of writers, remember? Backstab anyone for a deal. Even family.”
I took this in. It seemed genuine. But the stakes were too high to trust anyone now. Especially the man with sweat-stained red-shirt.
“Didi, I may not have a lot of experience in this town. But I know when a deal is too good to be true. And this one, is.”
The waitress came by and leaned over our booth with a fresh pot. She had white hair, and spectacles on a neck strap. Her name-tag said: “Randy”.
Didi was one of her regulars. Randy knew just about everyone in the entire diner, by name and order. Everyone but me. I didn’t like standing out. I didn’t like telling her my name either. But I did. When she asked if I wanted more coffee, I let her refill my cup, even though I had no intention of drinking anymore. I was wired, anxious, and ready to run somewhere. Far away.
Randy moved on to the next table, and I whispered to Didi what was on my mind, but I’d been too afraid to say out loud. Not out of fear of anyone hearing (our booth was in the way-way back), but out of admitting that I'd been a bi-stander in a cold-blooded murder.
“Why’d they kill that old man?”
“Sacrifices are required,” he said, hushing me.
“Couldn’t it have been a pig or something?”
“If it was a pig, everyone would be a rich and famous writer. We kill thousands of pigs every second, in slaughter houses all across this country. Those farmers remain penniless, with dreams lost in the ether.”
“They fucking murdered him, and I watched.”
He hushed me again, but I didn’t quiet.
“Why’d you stop me from calling the police?”
“Because… This has happened many times before.”
Didi said the ritual took place once every four years, like it was the Summer Olympics or something. By that account, if the society started in the early fifties, 18 old men had been senselessly killed. With a knife, as memory served me, with each member thrusting a blade into his fragile body. I didn’t know what pigs screaming sounded like, but I knew how an old man sounded. The gag did nothing.
“Who was he?” I asked, jittery.
“Not here.”
“I’m not going anywhere else with you. When the check comes, I’m going to confess what I saw, and be done with this. Even if I go to jail.”
“Do you really think you’re the first to defect from the group?”
This made me swallow funny, and I had to cough a few times to get a piece of rye bread down my throat. I stared at Didi, and he pushed his plate aside.
“They have a plan in place for those who get cold-feet. You can try to call the cops again, but you’ll just end up like the old man you saw last night… Dead and forgotten.”
Didi stuck his hand in his water cup, and put an ice cube in his mouth. He chewed it down and waived the waitress over. He paid for the check with all cash. I threw a twenty on the table after Randy returned with the receipt. Didi gave my money back to me, and put a crisp Benjamin Franklin down instead. There are no free lunches. I can’t remember who told me that, but they knew what I was still yet to find out.
I scooted out from the booth, and followed Didi to the front exit. I could’ve sworn the whole diner got quiet, as we did. Like someone had a remote, and muted everyone’s conversations. I had the unmistakable feeling that people were staring at me. I was a nobody. I glanced back and the conversations returned to their normal volume. The paranoia was strong in me this morning. I pushed through the revolving door, and I saw Randy in the back, whispering to one of the waiters.
Her eyes and mine met, and she averted her gaze, a little too quickly.
And then, we were gone, and onto the next stop. A place Didi assured me would give me more clarity, and perhaps, even some answers. He waved down a cab, and we set off to the old-town cemetery.