I've got a beautiful new AUDIO edition of CRASHERS to give away. CRASHERS comes out tomorrow, and while you could read it yourself, you could also lie back in your hammock, plug in your ipod and have it read to you (peeled grapes not included.)
So, the contest:
Write a story, in 100 words or fewer, using the following words:
Lucky
Crash
Number
Oregano
Slevin
Bonus points if you can seamlessly incorporate:
Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars
Contest starts NOW (noon Monday) and runs through midnight Tuesday (ie 36 hours).
Post your entry in the comments column. Post as many as you like.
Prize is the unabridged, 10 CD audio edition of CRASHERS by Dana Haynes.
CONTEST NOW CLOSED. Winners to be announced in due course!
102 comments:
So I'm havin' lunch with Keith Kahla. Editor to the stars, right? He's tellin' me about the time Slevin crashed his lucky Corvette, and as he's describin' this, he mashes his fist into his pasta, splashin' parmesan and oregano everywhere, real gruesome shit. And I think. Is this my fate, schleppin' around with these big shot types who can't even keep from playin' with their food or fuckin' up a nice piece of machinery. So I just left. No card, no cash, no number, nothin'.
And I still ain't published.
"Is there oregano in this?"
Joe spat his scrambled eggs into his palm and poked at them. No evidence of herbs. He looked over at Slevin, saw only conceit in lucky snake skin boots.
"I asked you," Joe said. "You put something in this?"
"A number of things in there," Slevin said. "You come in, demand food. Take what you get."
"I tell you, I don't eat, blood sugar goes crash," Joe said. He hefted another forkful. "This is terrible."
Slevin shrugged. "Recipe is from online. Keith Kahla. Editor to the stars. He eats his eggs this way."
Criminal, the way Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars, flaunted his textuality.
Drove women to crash on couches, reading until daylight slithered across the floor.
Drove numbers of men to stop watching Lucky Number Slevin and pick up a book.
I didn’t find his body in a dumpster after he struck the name Oregano from the story.
Oregano wrapped her legs around that pole and
Leaned.
Way.
Back.
Hot. The author was so proud.
You’d think Keith wouldn’t be hard to find, with a face like that. But you’d be surprised what you find at the bottom of pulped slush.
“Nope, no cavities that I can see. I found a bit of something though.” The dentist held up his instrument, a moist black bit stuck to the point. “Bit of Oregano I’d say.” He gave it a sniff. “Yep. Oregano.” He looked at his patient. “Sorry, who did you say you are?”
“Keith Kahla, editor to the stars.”
“Oh? Do you edit movies then?” He pushed his fingers back in Keith’s mouth. “Lucky Number Slevin’s a good one. Do you read? I liked Crashers. It’s about people who investigate plane crashes. That’s a career I should’ve gotten into. You know?”
Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, was involved in a lucky crash this past Friday. His number two client, Oregano Slevin watched as the editor’s bicycle ran down hill out of control, at speeds topping twenty five miles per hour. Luckily for Kahla, Slevin’s Moped ran thirty. Someone thinks theirs a new top client in Kahla’s future. Great work Oregano
At first, I forgot the 100 word limit lol. Here is the 100 word version of the 400 word story...
Slevin and Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars, had dinner together to discuss Slevin’s future career. A loud crash in the kitchen signaled things weren’t going well on that end, and sure enough, Keith’s oregano chicken arrived undercooked. But it was the poison, not the undercooked chicken, that would kill Keith.
Slevin took a phone from his inside breast pocket, punched in a number, and hit send. “I’d like to report a murder.” Slevin picked chicken from between his teeth with his pinky fingernail. “About two minutes from now.”
Tonight was his lucky night. He was going to be famous.
He always takes random exits, forming reasons we should pause.
“Honey, we could find a cool trail off this exit. Or a farmer’s market to pick up basil and oregano to plant.”
“There would be a sign, Izaak.” I sigh, not bothering to look up from my book.
He pulls his trump card. “But it’s exit 34.”
I set my book down, understanding now. Seven is my lucky number. Three plus four. “Lucky Number Slevin!” We shout together, an odd ritual.
As the front wheels hit the slick pavement of the turn, I see it coming. The crash is inevitable.
28 words
Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, was watching the movie Lucky Number Slevin when he smoked weed, thinking it was oregano, and crashed for a couple of hours.
Yes, it is Monday and I am avoiding any attempt to figure out locum tenens billing rules for eleven different insurance companies. So I wrote this instead:
“I told you bringing dudes to the ranch was a bad idea,” my husband said, dialing our attorney’s number.
“I know.”
“Putting that east coast city slicker on Slevin was idiotic.”
“I know.”
“You should have given him Oregano. She’s too lazy to crash through fences.”
“I know.”
“You’re lucky he fell off before they hit full speed. We’d have been scraping up parts of him for days.”
“I know.”
“I guess you won’t be selling your book to the great Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars.”
“I know.”
At least, not until he was discharged from the hospital.
At seven there was a knock on my door. A pot of pasta was boiling and my apartment was redolent with the fragrance of oregano and tomato sauce. The smell wafted into the hallway as I opened up.
“Slevin, why are you here?” I gave him the once-over.
“I came to give you your winnings.” He looked at the floor sheepishly.
“My what?” I didn’t remember entering any contests.
“Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars, and I were at the track. I played your lucky number.”
I smiled. “Fine, but you’ll have to crash dinner.”
He looked up, smiling, “Gladly.”
Grace Nix said:
"Damn lucky thing for her she wasn't killed in the brawl."
"Luckier for us, Slevin. We got the scoop. Wonder what her fan base is going to think now?"
"Just what Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, wants them to think once he gets his hands on this message."
He watched her text, thumbs flying faster than his grandmother's knitting needles.
"It's important, Jance, to get the numbers right. Our reporting careers will crash if your fingers slip."
"Relax, we're as safe as chopped oregano. Four dead bodies at the scene. One bloody knife; on wacked out starlet."
Despite his Oregano allergy, Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars, numbered himself among the lucky. "It's not what you think," he told the EMTs pushing the crash cart. "In truth Slevin was so awful, I went ahead & helped myself to yet another bruschetta."
Lucky had to crash. Oregano made him sleepy. His buddy Slevin threw him in bed and pulled the covers up, knocking a business card off the nightstand. "Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars," it said, with a 212 number. Slevin stuck it in his pocket and started to tiptoe out of the room. "Put that back," Lucky said. Slevin smothered him with a pillow. "Guess you're Unlucky now," he said.
The wife of Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, said her husband was lucky he didn't die in the crash that occurred Saturday after a truck transporting a load of oregano veered off Slevin Canyon Road and into the couple's southern California vacation home.
The driver told police he had not been drinking, but at least two witnesses said they saw the truck cross the center line a number of times before accident.
Slevin forgot the area code the first time he dialed.
"Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars," a man's voice said on the second ring.
"I'm calling to see if you got my manuscript," Slevin said.
"And you are?"
"Lucky. You gave me your card."
"I said 'Editor to the stars.' You're not one. Don't call this number again."
The crash of the receiver hurt Slevin's ear. "Go suck oregano, dickhead."
The wife of Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, said her husband was lucky he didn't die in the crash that occurred Saturday after a truck transporting a load of oregano veered off Slevin Canyon Road and into the couple's southern California vacation home.
The driver told police he had not been drinking, but at least two witnesses said they saw the truck cross the center line a number of times before accident.
Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars. What a joke. Deliberately, I crumpled the business card my seatmate had shoved at me when I got to seat A23. Lucky me. I was trapped in coach next to some bozo who wanted to crash the gay wedding between Mr. Goodkat and Slevin. Didn’t he know I was covering that for Gossip? No doubt Keith Whosis thought he could get a salacious book out of the number of shrimp and oregano canapés gobbled by the guests. Hah!
Surreptitiously, I texted my friend the on-board Air Marshal.
So much for the competition—and my almost-seatmate
“Hey, I need you to write something for me.”
“Write something?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It’s a story. A real quick thing.”
“Why the hell do you need me to write a story?”
“It’s for a competition.”
“Okay, but why me?”
“Because you’re good. It’s what you do.”
“Story competitions aren’t what I do.”
He ignored him. “Hundred words or less. Has to have Lucky, Crash, Number, Oregano, and Slevin.”
“What?”
“Those words have to be in it.”
“Sounds stupid. What’s the prize?”
“Audio book. Crashers.”
“I hate audio books. I’d rather read it.”
“I’ll buy you the book if you win.”
Keith Kahla heard the Lucky Number Slevin theme song ring on his cell phone when he answered a text message from an unfamiliar number. He read the message “Crash done. Meet me 4 pmt” without much thought, until he began to ponder its meaning. The number contained a local area code and Keith briefly contemplated finding out more before typing, “Good. Oregano & Things. 20 mins”. He sent the message. “Ok” popped up in response. He had no idea what he was getting into but he grabbed his jacket and was out the door before he even considered it.
Keith Kahla, one lucky Editor to the Stars, managed one more stroke of luck when he avoided a crash involving the Number 12 bus to Manhattan and the town car he normally rode to his office. Today, he chose to meet the author of the cookbook manuscript “1, 001 things to do with Oregano” in Soho instead of his office. That night as he cuddled his dog Slevin in bed watching the news when he saw a report of the accident on the news and thanked goodness he had missed the whole messy thing.
“Slevin o’clock,” Matthew muttered. “Where ya been? Somewhere fancy by the looks of hot little number you’re wearing.”
A pack of rolling papers sat next to a small bag on the coffee table. The redness of Matthew’s eyes made it clear the bag wasn’t full of sage, or even oregano for that matter. Jasmine reflected that Matthew’s life was going nowhere. He was lucky to have a big sister to let him crash on her sofa. She blamed herself for his lack of ambition. If only she hadn’t derailed his chance to intern with Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.
Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, and his sidekick Slevin, who loves oregano, got lucky when they avoided a crash after hitting the Number 2 car.
"Lucky," Amy said watching Marsha pick a number of oregano leaves from between her yellowing teeth.
She made sucking sounds to get that final bit before putting the butter knife back down on the table.
"Not really, I crashed on eight and this dweeb with Slevin written on his half stuck name badge won the biggest pot of the day."
“What kind of a name is Slevin?” Amy asked.
“Beats me. It sounds like a serial killer victim to me.” Marsha ran her finger along the edge of the steak knife.
“Are you serious?” Amy’s blue eyes widened.
Marsha smiled.
Slevin, who smoked Lucky Stripes, threw oregano into Keith Kahla’s eyes and made the editor to the stars crash into a number of trash cans before going off the pier and landing in the bay.
Redo. :-)
Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, celebrated the two-book sale at Chez Slevin. Before eating, he made Slevin swear there was no oregano in the marinated artichokes. He was allergic to oregano.
An hour later, as he fired up the engine on his Cessna 172 Skyhawk, he daydreamed about future sales and the money they would bring. If he was lucky, one of Slevin’s cookbooks would hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list.
Reaching six thousand feet, he felt his windpipe swell shut.
“Damn you, Slevin,” he thought, just before the crash.
“I want the Number 2 with extra oregano,” Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, told the waiter, Slevin. “And if you’re lucky, I won’t make you crash your car tonight as I’ve been hired to do.” “I hate killin’ people on a Sunday anyway.”
Dave tapped his watch, just realizing that the minute hand was stuck on the number four. “What time is it, Keith?”
“’Slevin,” slurred Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, as he checked the display on his iPhone. The fifth round was evident in his voice and posture, as he slumped forward with his elbows on the bar.
“I’m about to crash and we’ll be lucky if we don’t have wicked hangovers in the morning,” Dave said.
“Oregano have another round?” Keith asked.
“Let’s save the next round for the book signing party this weekend, ‘k?”
"Crash" did not seem like a very lucky nickname to driver number ten, but it was better than his real name, Slevin oregano. At least that is what Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, and his new agent, advised.
“Oh, he’s got your number alright.”
“You are a sloot,” Britt declared. “That really was him?”
“Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars.” Slevin’s voice dripped battery acid. “Think you’ll get lucky?”
“God, I hope so. I love him. I do.”
Slevin didn’t get the attraction. “Ghengis” Kahla. He’d been as subtle as a shark bite when he told Britt that her work “sickened him.” Likened to: Vampire-piloted airplane crash into Hogwarts. With fallen angels. And yet-
“I love him.”
His poor little oregano. “Britt, he’s the van der sloot of sloot. Pure evil.”
“Evil like frosted cupcakes,” she said dreamily.
Oh, they all said she was lucky. She’d rocket through the night and then some. Later on she would crash, but it was always a soft landing. They said you couldn’t trust her. She’d write down the wrong number. She’d sell you the bag with the oregano instead of the good stuff. All whiskeyed up, she’d purr like a kitten and slur out a wake-up call for “slevin.”
I told her I was Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars. She said, “Take me to the moon.”
And she’s the one who found me dead in the doorway at “slevin-thirty.”
“If you think for one minute, Slevin, that I’m going to believe what that asshat Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, says you’re crazy. I got your number. No more Mr. Lucky for you. You can take that oregano and shove it up your ass.”
“Oh. My. Gawd. Like isn’t that Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, the absolute dreamiest? Carrie got his number. She’s so lucky.”
“Can you pass the oregano?” Slevin said.
“Are you not hearing a thing I’m saying?” Annie asked. “I might as well go crash my car. Maybe that’ll get your attention.”
NOTE: This is too much fun. I'm thinking you are having a hoot today at your office. (Smiles)
Slevin and Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars, were lucky. They had survived the crash, along with a number of healthy oregano plants. Slevin's life as an herbalist was intact, as was his plan to be a published author, courtesy of an impromptu "if we survive this, I'll sign you" book deal made as the plane hit the ground.
Slevin chopped the fresh oregano, slamming the knife into the counter as leaves flew like grass from a lawnmower. He counted a number of things among his skills, but cooking wasn’t one of them. Why had he made such a rash promise? A full course homemade dinner? Serina was going to laugh.
No, he wasn’t that lucky. She’d be over polite, eat what he cooked, and never answer her phone again. He groaned as he heard a crash from inside the oven. He opened the door and there were globs of slimy substances everywhere. The soufflé had crashed. Now what?
I'm with Buffy. This is too much fun. I took all kinds of liberty with Slevin, but I see others did as well. :D I will have to think of another one.
I pushed the gold in-laid doorbell button. I fingered my Israeli 9mm with hollow points. Lucky ‘Oregano’ Slevin will never know what hit him when I crash this party. Surveillance in place, eyes and ears trained on the target. Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars will get his money’s worth when I put lead between this slime ball’s eyes.
The door opened.
“I’m here for the party.” I gripped my gun.
“No party here.”
I took the safety off. “Isn’t this number one oh eight?”
“No, This is one oh seven. That party is next door.”
I walked up to…
Slevin’s rumpled trench coat showed evidence of oregano pesto. It didn’t take a detective to see he’d had Italian for lunch. He’d been lucky and gotten a seat without a reservation by crashing his ex-partner’s date at their favorite eatery.
He pulled out his notebook as he wistfully thought of the bread and pasta left on his plate when the call had come in. At least he’d had half his lunch before duty called.
He squatted as he gingerly used a pencil tip to push the gun away from the body. Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars wasn’t so lucky.
The rotten log works like a drift fence, an animal highway directing creatures into the trap. I need a number of traps because time is running out. I lift the trap out of the leaf litter. The creature’s body crashes against the mesh. It must be my lucky day. I have been looking for the elusive Slevin’s skink forever. It’s the perfect addition to the terrarium. I can feed it the snails that have been killing mom’s oregano plants. I know our science fair judge (you probably know him as Keith Kahla, editor to the stars) will be impressed.
Slevin lit a Lucky Strike, and Googled Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars. His computer crashed the moment he clicked on the first link: “Kahla spotted at Oregano‘s Bistro with mysterious, teenage starlet“.
“Oh for Christ’s sweet sake,” Slevin said, convinced now that his laptop was in cahoots with, in fact had colluded with, his “mysterious” ex-wife to do a number on his career. More proof, he supposed, that fifty-five-year-old men had no business marrying a teenager, mysterious, or otherwise.
Getting even with ex-wife number seven would require patience and a diabolical plan.
I had some Oregano flavored Feta and saw my Number started feeling Lucky as Slevin. Then I Crashed into this blog that wanted me to mention Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars in my response and I won the beautiful new AUDIO edition of CRASHERS.
"Long shot Italian Spice to win by three lengths!" The announcer's voice reverberated inside his head. Slevin could barely believe his luck. Oregano was his favorite spice and two his lucky number. It had been easy to lay a hundred dollars to win on number two, Italian Spice.
He pulled the mutual ticket from his pocket where it had been keeping company with his Mercedes hood ornament - all he had left after the stock market crash.
Now, if he could just get his book about how to pick a winner into the hands of Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.
Officer Antony Slevin knew today was his lucky day. When he woke to the buzz of his cell phone on the nightstand he knew it would be big. They only call when it’s big. He dialed the number back; his flat oregano eyes beginning to glitter.
Two weeks ago Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, had been killed in his New York high rise. Days of pounding the pavement and secreting information from Mr. Kahla’s bookies had paid off. He’d found their man, and this morning they’d brought him in.
He adjusted his badge. Today he would become Detective Slevin.
OMG! I’m so lucky! I’m meeting, Keith Kahala, editor to the stars. I can’t crash and burn. I’m calling Slevin and asking him for some tips. Where’s his damn number?” I scramble around my desk. Paper falling, pencils rolling to the floor, and all I can find is this month’s New Yorker. I throw it across the room. It lands on the couch. The pages rest and I see an ad for a book entitled, 1,001 Uses for Oregano: Including an Elixir for Curing Stupidity. It must be a sign. Keith’s favorite herb is Oregano, and my book about Oregano!
The smell of oregano hit me first, then the blood. What the hell was Keith Kahla doing in Little Italy anyway? Guess the stars would need a new editor.
Lord, I hated working this part of town. Questioning the neighbors would only get me earfuls of gossip and mouthfuls of lasagna. Or cannoli. Like my weight needed more numbers. I should ask Captain Slevin for a transfer. Chinatown, maybe.
I figured I’d start next door, with unit 307. As I raised my hand to knock, I heard a crash, and then a scream. I rushed inside.
She stood there, splotches of red on her arms.
“You ok?”
“I dropped the lasagna!”
Well, hell. Today might be my lucky day.
Number 26 lit up. The elevator doors opened. I heard the crash of breaking glass.
“My lucky day.”
I walked down the hall toward the noise. The office door read, “Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars.” I let myself in.
Inside, the Oregano Boys were delivering a message. A goon named Slevin held the Editor by his tie, leaning him out the broken window.
“Am I interrupting?” I flashed my badge. Slevin pulled the Editor back in, dumped him into his chair. After the thugs left, I dropped my manuscript on Keith’s desk.
“Now, about these line edits.”
Keith sat on Slevin steel beam number 187 looking at the Oregano Sissies occupying the office built by him and union brother Kahla Editor. ”To the Stars, with you all” he thought, aiming his Crash rivet gun for one lucky shot.
Crash Kahla, self-appointed Editor to the Stars, noticed Keith. “That guy” he said to the small number lucky enough to be in his presence, “will never taste an Oregano Slevin, or buy an original Keith …”
Crash Kahla’s brain grew “number” as it turned to oregano when Keith’s lucky shot of Slevin steel sent the editor to the stars.
He had been there an hour playing the same slot machine and had lost over three hundred, when Keith Kahla walked by saying, “Doing any good Slevin?”
Slevin looked over his shoulder and said, “Well, if it isn’t the Editor to the Stars. Just what hell do you think?” Slevin pulled the slot machine off of its counter. The crash could be heard throughout the room.
Number 442 would not be played again. Slevin will be lucky if he doesn’t do time for that, even if he can convince the cops that bag in his pocket is oregano.
Jeremy Slevin was a veteran tin-kicker, but the latest crash disturbed him more than any other. Passengers and crew incinerated, along with the complete airframe.
Total number of human remains found: zero.
Survivors: one.
Standing before Slevin was the remaining soul from Flight 349. Unharmed. Unfazed. He shook Slevin’s hand. "Keith Kahla, editor to the stars."
"Again, you survived, how?"
"Undid my belt, and walked away."
Slevin raised an eyebrow. "You’re that lucky?"
"It’s the oregano, I tell you. Two caplets, daily. My brother’s got the distributorship in Tulsa." He leaned toward Slevin and lowered his voice. "Get you some."
Slevin and Oregano ran, muscles straining, bulging, stretching, reaching for racetrack, glued to each other like the numbers on their saddle towels, locked in a war of wills.
Rounding the las turn, they changed leads at exactly the same moment and as if they needed the incentive, they received slaps from the jockey's whips but nothing could be done to change the outcome.
With lucky number three on her bridle, Crash Test, her heart full of determination and grit, slipped through at the rail to win for her famous owner, Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars.
Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, said, "Paranoia. Computers crash. Watch a movie."
A certain minion used too much "oregano" in the brownie mix before she watched/recommended Lucky Number Slevin.
Three hours gone, poof like Houdini, and my email is still downloading.
I'm not paranoid, but there's a little yellow man in my head.
November 2005, Doing Lunch
Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, was going downtown to meet Perez Hilton, pest to the stars.
Bruce Willis and Josh Hartnett were filming a scene for "Lucky Number Slevin" and Park Avenue was a huge parking lot. Keith told the cab driver to take Broadway. The driver took a fast right off Park and Keith realized they were lucky they didn't crash.
Perez was waiting at the table. Keith sat down and when the waiter arrived Keith said, "I will have the strangozzi sage pasta. And easy on the oregano." Then, he began his spin.
When the slevin escaped, it ripped off both of my legs and did a number on my shoulder. The rest of my crew wasn’t so lucky.
Our producer Mack Hackney, the idiot who’d dangled the oregano in front of its cage in the first place, never made it out of the room. Rob Lunkvist, the craft’s pilot, got as far as the door. The other two tried hiding in the torpedo tubes, but the slevin crashed into the controls, rocketing Paul Dragen, Cameraman, and Keith Kahla, Editor, to the stars.
I was left to die. But I lived.
It was below zero when I posted the story, my screen rimed with frost, my fingers number than they'd ever been. I could barely tell what I'd typed. Only hours later, in my Portland hotel room, did I see the result of my frozen fumbling:
"Slevin Dead in Oregano Crash"
Honestly, I was lucky I'd even gotten three words right, but I knew it spelled the end of my career. From up-and-comer to has-been in a matter of seconds; an email confirmed it. The zero tolerance policy of Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, had claimed its latest victim.
“Crash…” the oregano fell from the shelf.
“Lucky you weren’t standing under it” muttered Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, as he impatiently checked his watch.
”Don’t worry,” mused Janet, “my number’s not up yet.” She eyed the tickets in his hand; “Lucky Number Slevin.” “Wasn’t that originally titled ‘The Wrong Man’?” she asked him, slipping on her coat.
”Yes, now let’s go, I’ll clean that up later.” He held the door open…
Entry #2. Yes, it's more than 100 words but I had to post it even if it doesn't qualify. I think I'm getting addicted to this contest.
“Hello?”
“Keith Kahla here.”
“Aren’t you that editor?”
“To the stars, baby. But now I’m ready for my directorial debut, and you’re gonna help make it happen.”
“I already told my agent that my book won’t translate to film.”
“Trust me, doll. Lucky Number Slevin is gonna be huge.”
“It’s huge now. As a book.”
“As a movie, it’ll be bigger than huge. We’ll get Aniston to play Baby Jane and Jolie for the role of the coat check girl. The audience will EAT IT UP.”
“You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”
“Only weed that passes these lips is oregano.”
“Oregano is an herb. Hey, you hear that sound?”
“What sound?”
“Crash. That’s what my career will do if I say yes. So try this sound instead.”
Click.
Misty pushed through the crowd around the roulette table. Where the hell was he? The punk band’s deafening crash made her wince. There. On the other side of the table, of course.
She shoved her way around to Keith. “What are you doing?” she shouted.
Bleary eyed, he shouted back, “Whass it look like? Bettin lucky number slevin!” His breath stank. Please, let it be oregano. Not another Phoenix.
Teeth gritted, Misty drug him across the gym to the table under the sign that read, ‘Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars’. “No more book signings at proms,” she muttered.
Max Slevin was a lucky boy. He was about to meet Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, for lunch. Max would have been here sooner but the crash on Lincoln Avenue held him up. He tapped his fingers on the stained menu, waiting patiently. His mother told him not to order the mashed potatoes because the oregano stuck to his braces. He wiped crumbs off the table and sat down his proposal. Perhaps he should call the number Mr. Kahla left with his mother. Hmm. Max heard footsteps and turned to see a man in a fancy suit walk in.
Oregano tried to wiggle away from the pot to sprawl. Crash! One of the things he did not like about himself. If he could change things, he wanted his name to be Slevin or Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars. He had no idea what kind of herbs they were. He only heard the names so many times from his gardener. Maybe, he’ll get lucky. But he was just an oregano and could be no more than two feet tall. At least he was number one in his gardener’s list. And this he didn’t want to change at all.
Today is my lucky day, Keith Kahla editor to the stars, said to himself. Buying the California Lotto ticket had been a whim to impress the hot night clerk. No Slevin Kelevan, he wasn’t without charm with the ladies. Or the men; he found people fascinating, the more exotic the better. And St Martins had just published another sizzling gay novel; number three in a popular series. Screw the SF Examiner and anyone else who read that review. He picked up the Oregano, snatched his ticket off the counter, and decided to crash the publicity party after all.
My entry:
"What about Keith Slevin?" I asked the editor.
"Stupid name, Mr. Kahla. See, it's got to grab the reader and say, 'Hey, I'll take you to the stars!" he threw his hands like orchestrating.
I had a flash of brilliance, "Lucky Oregano!"
"If your not going to take this serious," he started.
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. We can use any number of words or names. I don't care anymore. Can you please just hear my query?" I begged.
He stood and left, leaving a note.
I opened it: "It's not right for me at this time."
THE END
You didn't say we had to use them in order, so I took some liberty...
Draven Ames
Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars had a stack of orange 500 dollar bills in front of him. Today was his lucky day. If his race car could pass go without a crash he would collect $200. With a roll of the dice he landed on Baltic Avenue. Oregano Slevin, the meticulous banker carefully counted out 20 ten dollar bills. Janet Reid collected the rent and tucked it under the monopoly board. Twenty hours later, pushing her number one wheelbarrow Janet won the game, although she gained an enemy. Keith would not forget her treachery.
You think it's easy being Keith Kahla, editor to the stars?
My desk is like a car crash and I get more crap in my inbox every week.
No one follows the guidelines. Like today, I got an email from this schmuck Slevin. Says his new book is called Lucky Oregano, but what’s it about? No synopsis, nothing. So I hit delete - his number was up.
They called him Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars until the crash, then he was nothing more than a corpse with a number on a toe tag. Some thought him lucky. But not Dana Haynes the pizza delivery boy, whose car reeked of oregano. His car was one of the crashers but he survived.
Haynes wrote a book about it. On the way to meet his agent, Janet Reid, his plane went down. Haynes wore a toe tag too. Maybe he should have written a book about that, oh wait, he did.
"You hear about the crash? Sambo smacked his El Camino into Big Deuce’s Caddy yesterday, ripped on Fuzzy Navels. Guy’s toast.”
“He holdin’?”
“Hell, yeah. Mary-Jane baggies smashed all over the road. Cop says, “Hey, Sammie, you cookin’ eye-talian again?”
“What Sambo say?”
“He tries to act all cool. ‘Yo, ’snot oregano, it’s catnip’.”
“The cop laughed. ‘How many cats you got?’”
“Slevin.”
“Oh man.”
“Cop asks for his license. Sammie pulls out his fake I.D.”
“Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars? Right. It’s my lucky day, Sammie. Number three DUI means you’re goin’ in.”
“I’ll be lucky if I don’t crash on the way home, I’m so tired.” Carey picked up her purse, happy to be done with the project that had kept the whole staff working until midnight. “If Slevin complains about the presentation tomorrow, just mention that Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, freelanced on it,” she instructed her secretary. “That should shut him up.”
Kim’s answering smile faded as she shook out her jacket, and cat hair rained down. “Oregano must have taken a nap in my cubicle again.”
Her boss grinned. “He’s got your number, animal lover. See you tomorrow!”
He walked in. slid his card across the desk. “Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.” Yeah, right.
“Got your number from Rankin,” he said.
“Ian?”
“Slevin.”
Shit. Slevin Rankin, serial killer and expert on Beethoven’s late quartets.
“You ghost-wrote his PhD. He says you make narrative gold out of crap.”
“I get lucky sometimes.”
“Rankin’s autobiography. Where he crash-lands in Latvia. Eats the pilot and his dog. Narrative’s stale, needs something.”
I nodded.
”Sautéed them in corn oil, right?”
“Yep.”
“Add some oregano.”
“Think that’ll do it?”
“Always works for me.”
He smiled, put $2.75 on the desk and left.
Oregano “Crash” Spumanti was known for being more lucky than good. But he certainly wasn’t smart. In attempt to shed his dreadful nickname, the racer copied the playbook of other famous athletes by having his name legally changed to match the numerals that identified him. It wasn’t until after the four-time winner had applied to become “Number Seven” that he realized his stupid mistake. Now known as “Number Slevin” by the courts, he’s lost sponsors as well as fans. But Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, stood by the eccentric car driver knowing there was a story to be told.
Stephanie blew a wisp of hair from her face and sprinkled some more oregano into the sauce. She glanced at the door - if she was lucky, Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, would come crashing through it in half an hour. She adjusted the tablecloth and made sure her manuscript was still clean.
* * *
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all!”
“Here,” he held out a bottle of cheap shiraz, “it’s not much, but it’s the best they had down at the ‘slevin...”
“At the where?”
“Seven-eleven. That’s what we called it growing up.”
“It’s perfect – I’ll get some glasses.”
Story of my life – bad timing. Just when my three kids and dog are blowing chow all over the house some over-caffeinated, Prada-wearing super agent runs a contest destined to make me literary legend. Write a story with some dumb-ass words in it? Piece of fruitcake. I’d start it like this: Lucky for Slevin she didn’t crash her Caddy into any number of oregano eatin’ goombahs walking the streets.
Tell me you can’t sell that to Mr. Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars!
Ah, screw it. She can keep the damn prize. My CD player is broken anyways.
Trouble arrived when he walked into my office. Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, didn’t make house calls to see chumps like me.
The nameplate on my desk reads “Slevin”. That’s me. Oregano Slevin. My fat, alcoholic mom named me after her favorite spice, the one she laced with drugs to seduce my scumbag father. Ya, lucky me.
But I’m not bitter. The number at my side keeps me sane, clinging to my belt like a cheap call girl, eager to please. I hoped I wouldn’t need it, but this wasn’t the first time Keith chose to crash my party.
“What’s that jerk’s name?”
“Who?”
“That dude who’s editor to the stars.”
Oh, him. Name’s Keith Kahla. I heard he was in a crash recently. Got lucky. The guy who hit him, Slevin Potter, died.”
“Guess his number was up.”
“Yeah. Cops said they found a shitload of oregano in Potter’s trunk.”
“What the hell was he doing with oregano?”
“Who knows. The guy always was an asshat. Serves him right.”
“Christ. That dude Slevin sold me oregano. How stupid does that asshat think I am? Where the hell did I put his number?”
I picked up the morning paper to see if the card with his number on it was underneath. That’s when I saw the top headline: Manchester man killed in I-83 crash.
Slevin Potter of Manchester was killed Monday when the Mustang he was driving crossed the median strip and hit a car driven by Keith Kahla, editor to the stars. Kahla was lucky and escaped with minor injuries. Police found what they thought was a trunk full of marijuana in Potter’s car but it turned out to be bags of oregano.
Slevin was down to his last $2. He sagged on the track rail, his untucked T-shirt flapping. The breeze was colder now. He started to grab his shirt when he saw a folded-over newspaper at his feet. The word ‘horse’ was in large type.
He bent down.
A tiny face -- Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars -- stared out of the newsprint.
The headline read: ‘Horse saves owner in crash.’ Kahla raved about his horse.
Its name was Lucky Oregano.
It was Number 7 in the 10th race.
The odds were 100-1.
Slevin had just enough time to bet.
“Sleven Brides for Slevin Brothers? What are you? Dyslexic?”
“No moron,” I said to my numbingly successful brother, the self-proclaimed Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars. “It’s my satirical take-off on an oregano growing family lucky to be alive after a plane crash in Northern Idaho. Destined to be a number one.”
“Smells more like number two,” he said as he grabbed my manuscript.
He read the first few pages and I waited. Like a condemned prisoner in front of a firing squad.
“Hmm,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
And I think I pissed myself a little.
Keith Kahla might be editor to the stars but he can’t braise worth crap. John Green is julienning circles around his ass. If it weren’t for this boom mic in my hands, I might flash John a thumbs-up. Literary Chef is no 30 Rock, but it’s been a lucky break. It’s steady, might get me onto some movie sets eventually, trumping the days when I used to crash ‘em. Sure, Slevin is a diva producer and number two on my shitlist, but whatever. For now, that oregano smells fine and there are worse things than John Green in an apron.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bleary eyed and numb from alcohol, Dana stumbled to the door.
Flinging the door open Dana challenged, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
The stained clothes and stench caused Keith to choke, “Slevin…uh, seven.”
“Sorry to crash in unannounced. My name is Keith Kahla…”
“Editor to the stars!” Dana finished. His shriek went supersonic. Lucky, Dana’s dog barked at the noise.
“I’m your biggest fan,” he said pulling Keith inside. “Would you like an oregano brownie?”
Keith saw the sledgehammer and restraints. The click of the lock echoing through the room.
Keith Gulped. “Ok.”
After whiskey number five he called Khalua and Cream Keith Kahla.
Ignoring the $500.00 an ounce "Oregano" sitting before him, he tried to read the business card on the mirror: srats eht ot rotidE.
Leaning a smidge too far and crash: Sleven yerz bhd luky.
“I just don’t understand the advice I got from the Query Shark,” the author complained. “I mean ‘Slevin Your Oregano’? What is it? Some kind of coded message?”
“It’s an anagram, although an unintended one,” Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, replied. “Janet’s computer suffered quite a crash. It did a real number on the Query Shark. The shark is lucky to have survived, albeit with British spellings.”
Keith smiled at the befuddled author. “What the shark is telling you is that now you have a shark-approved letter, you must take time to ‘Organise Your Novel’ with the same care.”
Keith Hakla braked behind a slow-moving semi, slid out into the fast lane. He steadied the wheel with his knee, thumbed a number into his phone.
A woman answered. ‘Don’t forget the oregano, asshole.’
‘Excuse me.’
‘Oh fuck. I mean, oh sorry. I thought you were Lucky.’
‘I am. But—’
‘He’s my husband.’ Her voice brightened. ‘Anyway, Slevin’s Print. How can I help you?’
‘You printed Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars on my cards.’ Where was he? He had to get off at Exit 21. ‘Spelt K-a-h-l-a.’ Shit. 22. He wrenched the wheel. ‘It should be—’
Crash.
My name's Catherine, and I've got a problem. This is my third entry to this contest...
“Why if it isn’t Keith Kahla. How you doin’, you ol’ SOB?”
“Fine.”
“Still working that agent gig?”
“Editor.”
“To the stars, that’s right. Still getting lucky with that one?”
“Hardly.”
“Heard something about your career taking a dive after you were busted with a nickel bag of—“
“More like a crash. And it was oregano in the bag.”
“Trumped up charges, huh?”
“Someone pointed the cops my way, never figured out who.”
“Sorry to hear that, Kahla. Well, see ya around.”
I dialed her number. “Slevin here. Yeah, sap’s still hurting. Good call Ms. Reid. How’d you find out he had a deal with Poelle, anyway?”
"Really? You need me to pick Mom up from the airport because you crashed your car? What happened?"
"I was turning left when I saw Keith Kahla."
"The editor to the stars?"
"Yes. I looked too long and hit the median."
"That's hilarious."
"Will you pick up Mom? Her flight number is 127."
"Did you say 'Slevin'?"
"No, seven."
"But I'm making my lucky pasta sauce."
"What's lucky about it?"
"Whenever I make it I meet a great guy, like Bob."
"The Bob who stalked you?"
"Well, he started nice. Oh damn, I'm out of oregano. Yeah, I'll get her."
Officer Slevin thinks, 'Luck be a lady tonight!" as he saunters up to the silver Mercedes.
"License and Registration," he commands.
The driver, Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, reeked of booze, pot and had a stoned, half-naked teenager beside him.
"Occifer," he slurs, "thas jus oregano in the baggie and I'm givin' my niece a ride 'cause she was 'bout ta crash. Can't we work somethin' out?"
"Every cop in the Hollywood PD has a story to sell. I'm no exception. Give me your number and I'll make this arrest disappear. Presto chango! You'll be hearing from me."
They called him Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars until the crash, then he was nothing more than a corpse with a number on a toe tag.
Some thought him lucky. But not pizza delivery boy Dana Haynes, whose car reeked of oregano. He was one of the crashers but he survived.
Haynes wrote a book about it. On the way to meet his agent, Janet Reid, the plane went down. Haynes wore a toe tag too, number Slevin, or number, sicks or ate, can‘t remember. Maybe he should have written a book about that, oh wait, he did.
Keith Kahla, Editor the stars had a problem, and it wasn't the canister of oregano a (now unemployed) gopher mistook for a homegrown glaucoma remedy.
No, his problem was of the feline variety. A well meaning, possibly hateful, ex-gopher gave Kahla a cat named Slevin. At first the arrangement worked beauifully. Then the lucky kitty hit a growth spurt and his stripes took on an alarming new shape: the number thirteen.
"Crash" became the unoffical office anthem until Kahla found himself a herpat-American assistant with a unique and fool-proof solution.
It started with the oregano and ended with a "burp".
Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, was one lucky son-of-a-gun. When his private plane crash-landed on highway number fifty-six, his oregano pasta spilt over his lap, but he stepped out of the wreckage with only minor scratches. His pilot, an unfortunate soul by the name of George Slevin, died on impact. Keith walked along the highway, leaving behind the acrid smell of burning fuel, to find the nearest phone. A sleek limosuine pulled up alongside him. A tinted window rolled down.
"Jump in," came a seductive voice.
Keith smiled. He really was one lucky man.
It’s Monday. I have a 9:00 meeting with Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.
Although it’s more of an appointment to show up and play secretary for the agency’s VP, whose “woodsy” cologne really smells like stale oregano.
VP was so excited Kahla called us about a possible marketing gig that he ordered every damned Joseph Finder book he could find on Amazon. Not to read them, but to display them in his office for Kahla’s tour.
How’s he the VP? You’d think he's Lucky Number Slevin until you figure out his dad owns the agency.
Vordak the Incomprehensible turned the crusty doorknob and shuddered. The gas station bathroom off of Interstate 95 looked like a nightmare.
This whole evening was a disaster. Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars, didn't meet him at the restaurant. He didn't get a chance to pitch his story idea, Lucky Number Slevin meets Machiavelli. His dinner, pizza with extra oregano, had tasted fishy. Vordak tried to calm his lurching stomach. Someone seemed determined to ruin his plans for fame, wealth and world domination.
Vordak's shoulders slumped. Crash. His heinous helmet skidded across the grimy tile floor. The Query Shark!
“Is that Peter Slevin?”
“Who?”
“Don’t you know who Peter Slevin is?” She shook her head looking uncomfortable. “What about Keith Kahla…Editor to the stars…?”
“Um...I’ve heard the name? How do you know them?”
“If I didn’t know who they were my career would crash and burn.” She looked at him blankly, apparently confused by the thought of having a career, then looked at her food.
“Eeeww. What’s that green thing on my food?”
“Oregano, babe. It makes it taste good.” She sure was hot, but maybe not relationship material. Maybe he could get the number of that waitress.
Informed about the impending crash of an unstoppable, planet killing asteroid President Barak Obama gives up positive control over his give-a-hoot filter. Weeks later his dour demeanor and complete lack of action signal the end of days. Having decided not to inform anyone else, Obama started smoking oregano doped dope along with his usual Marlboros. A number of his closest aids, and the omnipresent Keith Kahla now consider themselves lucky to seize these last damned days or as they say on Garanga Slevin, Slevin Slu. Unfortunately, at five past midnight tonight the Garangans and everyone else will cease to be.
The End
Slevin glared at Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars. The memo on the table between them was still damp and – Slevin was sure – not mistranslated.
“Can't be 'vituperative yeowoman',” Slevin said, “'indefatigable sub-troglodyte', more like. And Number Five won't like it. Means he's the wrong man.”
The Editor said, “Oregano will. And she isn't dead.”
Slevin forced himself not to flinch. Lucky Oregano. And he'd been counting on Five to back him up. Crash and burn is coming if he can't get this right.
“I'll run it through again. Sir.”
“Keith Kahla, ‘editor to the stars’,” Margo hissed, oregano stuck in her front teeth.
I look.
“Don’t. He’ll see us!”
I sigh.
“He walked into my joint last week, shakin’ tail feathers, sayin’ it’s his lucky day.”
I shift my eyeballs sideways until they ache. Looks like a normal guy.
“10 minutes later – he tries a slevin, countin’ cards. Had to go ninja on him. Told him if he showed up again, he better bring a crash cart ‘cause he was goin’ down.”
The guy walks toward us. He’s carrying nunchucks.
It’s my turn to hiss. “Margo, run.”
Informed about the impending crash of an unstoppable, planet killing asteroid President Barak Obama gave up positive control over his give-a-hoot filter. Weeks later his dour demeanor and complete lack of action signaled the end of days. Having decided not to inform anyone besides the omnipresent Keith Kahla, Obama started smoking oregano doped dope along with his usual Marlboros. Keith Kahla now considers himself lucky to have seized these last damned days or as they say on Garanga, “Slevin, Slevin Slu.” Unfortunately, at five past midnight tonight the Garangans and everyone else will cease to be.
~Edited
Posting again in such a way that my name will not appear as "blog" and giving up entirely on OpenID!
Here's the story:
Slevin glared at Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars. The memo on the table between them was still damp and – Slevin was sure – not mistranslated.
“Can't be 'vituperative yeowoman',” Slevin said, “'indefatigable sub-troglodyte', more like. And Number Five won't like it. Means he's the wrong man.”
The Editor said, “Oregano will. And she isn't dead.”
Slevin forced himself not to flinch. Lucky Oregano. And he'd been counting on Five to back him up. Crash and burn is coming if he can't get this right.
“I'll run it through again. Sir.”
I added more oregano to the sauce as I thought about the plan crash. It had only been three days and I was still trying to figure out why I was the only survivor. My cell phone rang, again. I looked at my caller ID. It was my sister, Sarah Slevin. It was call number seventeen from her. I ignored it and almost didn’t bother looking when it immediately rang again. But I answered that call. It was Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.
“You’re the luckiest one-hit wonder I’ve ever seen. I think it’s time you write a book.”
"Hey, you hear about Slevin? He was fired by Keith Kahla."
"No way. You mean the editor to the stars?"
"The very one. Poor Slevin, crash and burn, ya know?"
"Guess it wasn't his lucky day."
"Nope, but it's mine."
"Why's that?"
"He's moving back home and I get his apartment, number 22 at Oregano and Vine. Even comes with parking."
"Sweet. How'd you score that?"
"Right place, right time, man, and that's all I'm going to say."
Red was in trouble. Since the crash a year back he messed up words, been hit in the head too many times, was all. Now he had to show this trooper that he wasn't drunk, just a lousy talker. The cop stood next to the car window as Jack fumbled with his wallet and looked up.
"Oregano..." Damn. Red swallowed. "I reckon... I wasn't goin' too fast, sir."
County says this is the seventh time you've been stopped for speedin' in the last 12 months."
Red grinned as best he could.
"Slevin, officer, is my lucky number."
My wife looked up from her laptop. “Did you know oregano could be used to treat fungal infections?”
“Lucky for me I’m fungi-free,” I said as I skimmed a manuscript.
“Very funny, Mr. Keith Kahla, Editor to the Stars.”
“I hate that name. Only Reid calls me that and it wasn’t funny the first fifty times.”
“What’s the old shark up to these days?”
“Toothless and reeking of gin. And not sending me number ones,” I said with a sigh. “Slevin Magpie, Private Eye – The Case of the Missing Crash Test Dummy.”
“She’s lost it, hasn’t she?”
I didn’t disagree.
One more before I hit the sack. This is so addicting, Janet. Seriously, it's be way fun. Pure awesomeness.
So Slevin. Thought you were going to get lucky tonight. Thought I gave you my number because I wanted you to crash at my place. NOT. I wouldn’t want you anymore than I’d want that jerktoid Keith Kahla, editor to the stars. He’s about as spicy as year-old oregano.
Day number 476.
I’m lucky the lamp didn’t crash into my face; a bruised face is hardest to hide.
The kitchen smells of the oregano I’d chopped before Steven came home screaming.
I force myself up and head for Mattie’s room—I have to leave.
Mattie smiles as I lift him from his cradle.
“Slevin,” he says. He hasn’t quite got the hang of words yet.
“Shh,” I say, his tiny chin resting on my shoulder.
“Slevin,” he says again, reaching for something behind my back.
I freeze.
“Slevin,” Mattie says.
I whirl around. “Steven!”
But it’s too late.
“Lucky Number Slevin!”
The words echoed down the long hallway, bouncing off the pale yellow tiles that were supposed to be soothing but instead just reminded you that you were in a hospital.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Keith Kahla, former Editor to the Stars,” replied Linda, my pretty nurse escort.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Oregano!”
“Dr. Haynes says he entered one too many contests off Janet Reid’s blog, and just snapped one day. Now he shouts the same five words, over and over and over.”
“Crash!”
Linda gestured towards an open door. “Your room is right this way, sir.”
“Lucky’s writing a tell-all,” Bryan states.
I’m not impressed.
“Why? She’s a B-lister, whose claim to fame is getting into a crash with Lindsay Lohan.”
“She got Lindsay high,” he offers.
“No way. Lucky wouldn’t know the difference between weed and oregano. How do you know this? Have you called her?”
“No- lost her number. It’s in Variety. She’s working with ‘Keith Kahla, editor to the stars.’”
Insult to injury. Mr. Kahla rejected every project I’ve submitted him. Now he’s working with Lucky Slevin, my slut sister and the only reason I came to Hell.A.
“Janet, Slevin’s not a normal dog. Look what he did to the impostor at the door.”
“That nut job deserved it. The nerve. Pretending to be Keith Kahla, Editor to the stars.”
There was a crash from the living room. Slevin had a pot from an oregano plant stuck on his muzzle. He wiggled the stump of his tail.
Suzie shook a finger at her dog. “Lucky Number Slevin, good thing I.... Janet, that’s it! Slevin’s like those dogs that say I love you. I’m trying him with another query.”
Suzie finished reading. Janet waited.
“No thank you,” said Slevin.
His name is Slevin. Russian I think. Always smells like oregano. Lucky you, he said he's gonna crash on your couch tonight. It's best not to argue with him. I've lost a number of friends that way. Keith Kahla, editor to the stars was the last one. Some people just don't listen. In fact, it'd probably be best if you slept out on your hammock.
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