Just another note; while I'm on exegesises (exegesi?) while writing this story I've been listening to the scores for the films Kick-Ass and Requiem for a Dream (totally not for the easily disturbed). Two completely different films, and scores, but both equally effective at really stimulating the story to move. If anyone is actually going to check them out in relation to this story, I'd recommend listening to "Big Daddy Kills" from the Kick-Ass soundtack, it was a massive motivator for Ray's action style (along with the corresponding scene in the movie.)
Also on the note of music, another quirky find was the song Kryptonite by the band Three Doors Down. I never got into the band and this is the only song of theirs that I know but I found the lyrics pretty interesting and the idea that a person that people see as a superhero-type character can be insecure. I use that song when thinking about the relationship between Ray and Rachel as they both judge his actions (past and present) in different ways and how they both sort of see him as an occasional superhero/anti-hero.
Well enough chat, first the exegesis-
Exegesis
Ray Douglas is genre fiction. He is Philip Marlowe from Raymond Chandler's “The Big Sleep”, but more violent. He is Jason Bourne from Robert Ludlum's “Bourne Trilogy,” except he remembers his past. Ray Douglas is a comic book hero, a walking cliché similar to the heroes in Frank Miller's “Sin City.” Initially inspired by Mark Millar's comic book; “Kick-Ass,” and the violent character Big Daddy, Ray Douglas emerged from a need to create a flawed hero. A hero so beat and broken, like Rambo from David Morell's “First Blood,” that he sees himself as irredeemable. Unlike Rambo however, Ray Douglas is today's broken man; living in today's world, fighting today's wars and dying tomorrow.
Choosing to write a genre fiction piece was the easy part. Choosing to make it a modern pulp crime story was also easy. Deciding how to write it was the hard part. Originally the character appeared in a weekly serial form, kicking-ass and getting cornered by the villains at the end of each page. This lasted three weeks before I had to get serious. Ray Douglas evolved from there, his past was inspired by David Simon's television series “The Wire,” with equal parts “Generation Kill” thrown in for good measure. “The Wire” is a show that follows the stories of many characters and each of the five seasons provides a systemic analysis of a specific area of Baltimore. Ray Douglas needed this audience objectivity, we weren't reading Ray's thoughts, we needed to read what happened to Ray. From a third-person perspective Ray's actions could be seen and judged. By the end of the proposed novel, the audience should be able to make up their own minds whether or not he is irredeemable.
Original drafts of irredeemable were punchy and fast paced. The first draft of the chapter here was initially eight hundred words. Even without the flashback sequence, that moves fairly quickly from start to finish. I found myself reading each sentence then immediately filling in the blanks in my head. I needed to slow Ray down, let him take his time in some parts and let him begin to remember his past,which plays an important role in the overall plot. For a thriller, setting up signs early on is a key strategy. The mystery and the thrills have to be planned and methodical, not relying on deus ex machina to save the day. Building the story from the ground up was the biggest challenge in writing Ray Douglas.
Pulp noir and crime has moved from bus station book racks and airport gift shops into the gritty and vivid lairs of comic book stores and video games. Miller's “Sin City” is a prime example along with characters like chain-smoking John Constantine in the “Hellblazer” series and the star of the self-titled video games series “Max Payne.” These are today's heroes, these are the Philip Marlowes and Sam Spades for Generation Y. The same generation who is facing the new century with apathetic stares and awkward, aimless shuffling. Ray Douglas is an escape from drudgery. His gritty corrupt world mirrors our own, but Ray does what he wants as he unravels the mystery.
- 2 -
Part 3 of 4
Taking a heavy drag from his cigarette as he pulled a U-turn, Ray made a right and pulled the Cadillac up in front of a three-storey red-brick warehouse. The grimy brickwork was familiar although the signs had changed since he last saw the place, five years ago. 'Self Storage!' was emblazoned across the doors, 'We sell boxes and packing supplies,' scrawled across the wall. Ray knew they hadn't gone out of business because he kept getting the monthly rent on his storage unit sent to him in Ottawa. Before leaving the car, Ray opened the glove compartment and pulled a grey, dusty wallet out from beneath empty cigarette packets and unopened packets of chewing gum. He pulled the brown leather wallet from his back pocket and made the switch.
Ray took a moment to inspect the street around him as he finished his cigarette, standing outside the glass double doors that led into the warehouse. As he squashed the cigarette butt under his shoe he got a sudden jolt and rushed back to the caddy. Reaching back into the glove compartment, from the passenger side, Ray pulled a dusty pair of reading glasses out, blew on them and wiped them on his shirt.
Putting the glasses on as he entered the Self Storage office and approached the counter, where a young teenage boy with a lip piercing and blonde hair swept over his eyes sat fidgeting with his cell phone, his white trainers resting on the counter.
“Hey, I'd like to go get some stuff from my storage unit,” Ray smiled at the boy who looked vaguely aware anyone was standing there.
The boy looked up at Ray and blinked. “Sure,” he mumbled and went right on playing with his phone.
Ray looked around and cleared his throat. “Don't I need to sign something... or show some I.D?”
“Nope,” the boy said without looking up, “self-storage...” He shrugged and continued to fiddle with the phone.
Ray stood silently watching the boy, holding his gaze. “Hah, alright.” Ray sighed, taking the glasses off and heading over to the elevator.
In the elevator, Ray pulled the grey wallet from his pocket and flipped open the I.D compartment. He looked at the photo on the New York driver's licence. It was himself, only five years thinner and decidedly more alert than he felt right now. The glasses he was wearing in the photo were now old and dusty. The name on the licence read Anthony Thompson. Ray put the wallet away and held his hand to his forehead where beads of sweat had began to form. His eyes darted to the warning signs on the elevator control panel; 'No Smoking!' and 'In case of fire do not use!' His fingers twirling his lighter and a loose cigarette in his pocket.
When the elevator door slid open on the third floor, Ray stepped out into the hallway, lined with red roller doors, numbered in white. He scanned the ceiling for smoke detectors before lighting up. Ray noticed the security camera in the corner of the hall but gave it the finger and preceded down to Anthony Thompson's storage unit. Pulling the key out from a pocket in the grey wallet, Ray unlocked the padlock on Unit 3-12's roller door.
The rush of dust hit Ray square in the lungs as he yanked the red roller skywards. The tiny storage space contained some old furniture and two piles of cardboard packing boxes. The units were supposed to be climate controlled and dust-proof, but Ray knew they weren't meant to be left untouched for five years as he staggered into the space, wheezing. He flipped the light switch on and crumpled onto the stained and battered armchair wedged near the door. Coughing and choking Ray felt the mangled hand clawing at his throat, just as he had earlier today standing over the police officer. He leaned over and grabbed the strap dangling from the roller door and dragged it down, sealing himself in the unit with the dust.
Part 4 of 4
The dry air was the first thing he felt as he stepped through the door of the Boeing and onto the rickety steel stairs that had been pushed up to the side of the plane. The second thing was the heat, so tangible, so real... So fucking hot.
Before he had even finished descending the stairs, (the stairs to hell, he thought), he had already polished off the remaining bourbon from his hip-flask.
“Fuck me,” Ray exclaimed, looking around the military airfield in disgust. While soldiers were running around into formation, Ray watched as a black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of him.
The door swung open and a chill of air-conditioned luxury wafted over him and evaporated into his white surroundings.
“Hop in, Ray.” Ash Idris said as he slid over to the other side of the car, offering Ray the seat he had just occupied. Picking up on the split-second moment of hesitation on Ray's part, Idris patted the seat gently with his hand.
Ray slid into the Mercedes, his duffel bag resting on his lap.
“There's a good boy,” Ash Idris said. “Let's go,” he added, to the driver, his eyes fixed on Ray, his grin set permanently on his face.
“So glad you could join us Ray,” Ash said, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm along the back of the car seat, his body angled unnaturally towards Ray, who sat still facing forwards.
“How was the flight, Ray? Turbulent?” Idris inquired.
“Would'a preferred Business Class, but hey,” Ray shrugged and turned to Idris, who was gazing at him intently.
“Oh, I know what you mean! I know exactly what you mean. But we got a pretty good deal getting you on a military flight... I pulled a few strings.” Idris giggled and he angled his head downwards as if he'd done something naughty.
“But still, we're sooo much closer to HQ here. Ready to get to work, Ray? I doubt you'll have trouble fitting in with the other boys.” Idris raised his eyebrows and added; “we've got a few drinkers like you, Ray.” Turning his head forward, Ash Idris squinted is eyes to see where they were through the windshield. “You should get along just fine,” he mumbled almost to himself as he searched for any signs of life.
Ray's eyes shot open for the second time that day. Again, his first visible image was that of a loaded gun clasped firmly in his hands. He quickly checked his watch and was relieved again to find he had only been out for a few minutes. The cigarette still smoking between his lips should have given it away, but that was pretty standard for Ray Douglas.
He stood up and rested the gun on the armchair, surveying his unit. Stepping over to a large bookcase, he smiled as he realised that he didn't remember how he got it into the tiny area. It was a mahogany bookcase with a cupboard making up the bottom third. Ray opened the cupboard doors in what limited space he had available and felt around inside. Popping a false bottom out of the cupboard Ray pulled a small crumpled brown paper bag from the enclave.
The bag contained about eighty thousand dollars in cash, bundled into piles of ten thousand dollars each. Ray counted out five bundles and pocketed them, then drew a few hundred dollar notes out of another pile and pocketed them as well.
After replacing the rest of the money and closing the cupboard Ray set the alarm on his watch for six o'clock that night and curled up on the tiny armchair.
Within a minute Ray Douglas was asleep, for the first time in over two days.
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