Ever notice how a new WIP is a lot like pregnancy?
The initial discovery is a mix of excitement and panic.
This is going to be so great!
Oh my God, can I even do this?
I’m a horrible human being for bringing it into this world.
No. Breathe, you idiot. It’s here, so you might as well just do what you can.
Anyway, like those couples who wait until they’re at least 20 weeks along to make the announcement, I’m now confident enough in the plot and characters to share this new WIP with you. It’s tentatively titled, ANTIHERO. In a nutshell, it’s Scarface meets Scooby-Doo with super powers.
Here’s a little taste:
When Laslo offered a ride to Warren’s place, Dwight did not expect to be climbing into the back of a refurbished ice cream truck.
“The coolers are permanently turned off,” Laslo said, “So it’s not like you’ll freeze to death back there.”
Bomb pop and ice cream sandwich wrappers littered the floor. Naomi slid onto the bench next to him; Ben rode with Elvis in his impala. There was no divider between the front two seats and the cooler area, so Dwight was able to see out the windshield as they drove. A short trip down the highway brought them to a city called Woodbury.
“Rich-people-ville,” Naomi said.
Dwight smirked. “So, Laslo, I have to know…”
“Why the ice cream truck?” He peered back at Dwight through the rearview mirror. “Childhood dream, my friend. My brothers wanted Porsches and shit… I wanted an ice cream truck. No other vehicle brings more joy than this one.” He hit a switch and “Pop Goes the Weasel” started playing. “All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the… Oh, look, we’re here.”
Dwight peered out the windshield at an impossibly huge house. He whistled. “It’s a fucking castle.”
Naomi tapped his shoulder and nodded to the left. “That’s nothing. Look down.”
They approached the gates at a crawl, which parted with an ominous clanking. Across the threshold, Dwight saw it.
She shrugged. “Rich person paranoia at its finest.”
Laslo snickered. “Wait until he meets Warren.”
The long, winding driveway led up to an arched doorway with stone griffons perched on either side. Veering to the right, beneath the long overhang of expensively trimmed trees, Laslo parked the ice cream truck. “Pop Goes The Weasel” faded sadly when he cut the ignition.
Elvis’ impala pulled up shortly behind. Dwight hadn’t noticed earlier how new the thing looked. He didn’t know cars, but the sleek design and flawless paint job suggested it couldn’t be more than a year old.
Climbing out of the back of Laslo’s truck, Dwight nudged Naomi. “What does Elvis do for a living?”
“Janitor.” She twirled her fingers in the air. “Dust, ya know.”
Ben slid from the passenger seat of the impala, wearing the same pained expression he’d worn at IHOP.
Laslo shook his head. “Poor kid is going to need therapy.” He hooked his arm around Ben’s neck and led him to the door. “Think of it this way, you ever get upset over a dude who stands on the train tracks and just, like, begs to get turned into human chewys?”
Elvis approached Dwight and Naomi, comb tracks stiffened into his hair like he’d stuck his head in rubber cement before grooming. At some point he’d changed his shirt, too. A black button-down replaced the Captain America T-shirt he’d worn earlier.
Elvis must have noticed Dwight’s appraisal. “Gotta look good for this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Dwight asked.
“Just stand back and watch. Everything you need to know about our operation you’ll learn here.”
As the three hiked up the half-flight of stairs to the door, Dwight couldn’t help but notice how Elvis continually bumped his hand into Naomi’s. Her face betrayed no emotion, but that didn’t stop Dwight’s imagination from concocting kinky situations between her and Elvis involving capes and whips, igniting a jealousy fire in his belly.
Laslo met Elvis’ eye and stepped back to let him through. Elvis fingered the doorbell.
“Is that the Superman theme song?” Dwight asked.
Elvis shushed him.