Blog me deadly, p.1
Blog Me Deadly, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Ebook Copyright Page
Epigraph
Dedication
Half-Title
The Postman Always Sings Nice The Drive
The Job
The Aftermath
Blog Me Deadly 9:15 a.m. September 12
4:20 p.m. September 13
9:00 a.m. September 14
11:23 a.m. September 14
2:30 p.m. September 14
9:10 a.m. September 15
11:45 a.m. September 15
2:23 p.m. September 15
4:00 p.m. September 15
7:30 p.m. September 15
9:15 a.m. September 16
11:25 a.m. September 16
1:30 p.m. September 16
9:35 a.m. September 17
3:00 p.m. September 17
4:05 p.m. September 17
8:55 a.m. September 18
10:15 a.m. September 18
10:15 a.m. September 19
11:00 a.m. September 19
12:15 p.m. September 19
Dark Township
Humor in the Field
The Miner Bank Heist Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Dial "M" for Virtue Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Save the Date
Trouble is My Side Business Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
The Up-Set
The Glass Mortality
The King in Benzymidazolone Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
My Lovely Fair Well
No Dice, Lacroix 1
No Dice, Lacroix 2
The Frame Job Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgements
Feedback
About the Author
Other Books By D. H. McKee
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BLOG ME DEADLY
Zack Virtue Stories
D. H. McKee
Copyright ©2024 by D. H. McKee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Produced by D. H. McKee at ZuckerLoft Books
14 Peltz Ave., Kitchener, ON, CA, N2H 6A5
books@zuckerloft.com
Blog Me Deadly: Zack Virtue Stories
Ebook Version 1.0
Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book. However, if you downloaded this or received it from a friend, remember that the author has received no compensation for it. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—it’s very affordable. It should be available from all major outlets. Thanks for supporting writers.
This collection contains references which may be triggering and/or objectionable to some readers. These include references to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder issues, sexuality, rape, suicide, and violent acts.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7750893-0-8
All that evil requires is an absence of virtue, where somebody didn't make a stand.
—Terry Darlington
For Roy. May there be hot coffee forever.
Blog Me Deadly:
Zack Virtue Stories
THE POSTMAN ALWAYS SINGS NICE
THE DRIVE
“I’M NOT SURE if I can do this.”
“You’ll be fine. Five minutes of work.”
I turned my gaze towards Erica Strong, the bailiff who was driving us to the job. She drove with a calm confidence, as if this was just another assignment for her. As if she was just going to the store for more cigarettes. The cab of her Ford F-150 was comfortable, but stank of smoke. Erica was one of those 35 people left in the world who still smoked, and riding with her was as unpleasant as being crop-dusted by Philip Morris. I figured I’d need to wash my clothes when I got home.
Still, it was nice to have a ride, especially since I didn’t currently own a car, and rentals were getting expensive.
“I’m not even sure if I’m dressed properly.”
“Yeah, I was going to say something. What’s with the tactical turtleneck and black cargo pants? What are you, a covert operative?”
“I thought we’d be repossessing a car or something.”
“And that’s what you’d wear to repossess a car?”
“I, uh …” I looked at my clothes and shrugged.
“Well, what do you wear normally?”
“T-shirt, torn jeans. Flannel, sometimes.”
“How very Canadian of you,” she said. “That would have been perfect.”
Erica Strong looked and sounded like her name. She was an enormous woman. Tall, yes, but also broad shouldered, broad hipped, and had broad, meaty hands the size of dinner plates. I wasn’t a small guy, but Erica Strong was an Amazonian.
And yet, when it came to her job as a bailiff, some people didn’t take her seriously. Despite her intimidating physique, there were still those who stubbornly saw only a woman, oblivious to the looming danger that her size suggested. As if a woman wouldn’t kick your ass up and down the street. Honestly, even I was a little skeptical, but all the way in the other direction. She was intimidating, yes. And I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with her. But her cartoonish level of thuggery made it tough to see her as a real person. Imagine being intimidated by that villainous boxer from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Erica Strong kind of looked like him, if you squinted. But, don’t tell her I said that.
She gave me a last-minute pep talk before the gig.
“Seriously, Virtue, we’re not stealing jewels from a museum. We’re repossessing shitty cars from shitty people. You might dress like you fit in.”
“Should I go back and change?”
“We’re not repossessing anything today. You need a tow truck for that. Besides—” she said, a hint of a smile crawling across her broad face, “—I’ve got an outfit all ready for you.”
“You do? I don’t like the sound of this.”
“It’ll be perfect for this job.”
THE JOB
“I CAN’T WEAR this.”
“I think you look great. Very sexy.”
I shuddered a little. It’s not that Erica Strong wasn’t attractive. She wasn’t. She was an ogre. But that’s not why I shuddered.
I looked ridiculous in the outfit she picked. For starters, it was a little small on me. It made me look like a teenager in a child’s Halloween costume.
Also, it looked like a child’s Halloween costume.
“I can’t wear this. I look like Sergeant Pepper’s Red Army Chorus. Or a male stripper. Was Michael Jackson the Postmaster General?”
“You’re just delivering some mail. You’re a mail stripper. Try to get into character.”
The outfit was baby blue satin, with gold stripes on the pant seams, and a double-breasted jacket. A mockery of 1950s postal carriers’ outfits.
“Don’t forget your hat.” She gave me a bright blue, gold-brimmed hat that looked like something a marching band leader might wear at a high school homecoming parade.
“At least it’s not a pillbox hat,” I said, strapping the thing on my head, pulling the elastic under my chin. “So, what’s the purpose of this?”
“Misdirection, hon. Do this as fast as you can, and you’ll catch him off guard. We’ve tried to get this guy three times already. It’s a matter of pride. We’re not even getting paid for this anymore.”
“Will I still get paid?”
“Sure, hon.”
“Okay, but this had better be some kind of embarrassing initiation ritual that all bailiffs have to go through.”
Erica Strong smiled and winked at me. “Give him the personal service.”
As I set off down the broken sidewalk, she stopped me and handed me a clipboard and a package wrapped in craft paper and string. “Oh, and don’t forget your props.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Break a leg!”
“Har har.”
I hurried down a cracked and weathered fifty-year-old sidewalk towards a d
I approached the front door, remembering Erica’s advice: “If he pulls out a gun, run away in a zig-zag route.” There was no doorbell. No door knocker, either. Just a torn screen door, half off its hinges. I opened it, and it came fully off its hinges with a creak. I cautiously moved it to the side as delicately as I could with one hand.
The inner door looked much more solid. This one looked like it would withstand the first week of a zombie apocalypse.
I knocked on the door. No response. So I made a fist and slammed at it with the heel of my hand.
The door opened a crack and a guy a little bigger than Erica Strong looked through the crack.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“Special delivery!” I sang.
“Special what?”
“Delivery?” I said, showing him the clipboard and package.
The door opened a little further, and he showed himself. He was definitely bigger than me, and being up a step only exaggerated his presence. Otherwise, he didn’t give off the impression of being overly muscular. I think I could take him in a fight.
“What kind of delivery?” he asked.
“Your kind of delivery, sir!” I said, and, looking at the clipboard, sang the words on the paper:
Now this is a story ‘bout a man named Ned
Poor deadbeat dad couldn’t keep his family fed.
Then one day, he was ordered by the Crown
To pay child support and stay outta town
Ta-da!
I smiled at him and gave a little jazz hands as a flourish. He just stared at me, mouth agape.
“Wait, you are Ned Sanderson, aren’t you?” I said, quickly, looking at the clipboard and handing him the package.
“Yeah,” he said, turning the package around.
“Great! You’ve been served.”
The big guy’s eyes went wide, and he lunged at me.
THE AFTERMATH
THE DRIVE BACK was a little tense. I was nursing a black eye. But I got in a few good punches of my own.
Erica Strong whistled nervously as she drove. She avoided looking at me.
Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“I didn’t think you’d actually break his leg.”
“It was an accident. There was so much crap on his lawn. Plus, the plan was confusing.” I turned to look at her. “Is this how process serving is done?”
She cracked a smile, then gulped it back down. “Not usually.”
After a couple of minutes of silence, she stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a Bic lighter. She exhaled a long plume of smoke, which caressed the windshield and filled the cab with a wind from Flavor Country. And, if, by Flavor Country, you’re thinking Alberta Tar Sands, you’d be correct.
She looked over again. “Look, I’ll level with you. The whole process-serving bit you see on TV isn’t entirely real. Truth is, as long as you can confirm the identity of the person, you can just drop it in front of them and walk away. In fact,” she said, “if you can confirm he’s got a valid address, you can usually drop it in the mail, or leave it by his door.”
“What? You mean I didn’t have to do all that song and dance?”
“Well, yes and no. The property wasn’t in his name; it’s his brother’s place. We got a tip that he’d be there. Still, what you did was hilarious! Plus, it drew him out. The upside is now we’re both witnesses that the order was properly served to him in person.”
“So?”
“So, you get your fifty bucks.”
“Oh, well, I guess that’s pretty good.”
“But …” she said, smiling. “That costume’s a rental. And you’ve ruined it.”
“Oh, no you didn’t.”
Erica Strong laughed and slapped the steering wheel. It sounded like a manatee’s mating call. “I’m just pulling your chain! No hard feelings?”
I laughed. The monstrous laugh was contagious. “It’s cool. I’ve been hit harder!”
“Yeah, you have!” And, with a closed fist, she swung out and smashed me in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me. “Oh my God, are you okay, Virtue?!”
I gulped and breathed out slowly. “Fine,” I whispered.
“Maybe this kind of work isn’t for you,” she mumbled, rolling her cigarette to the other side of her mouth.
“… Maybe,” I said. Not gonna lie—there were tears in my eyes. Probably from all the smoke.
BLOG ME DEADLY
9:15 A.M. SEPTEMBER 12
HI THERE. MY name is Zack Virtue. Yes, that’s my real name. It’s Scottish, I think. I’ve never really looked into it.
This isn’t going to work.
Okay, okay. Let’s at least give it a try.
My name is Zack Virtue.
The problems began earlier this year. I got out of a bad relationship. Bullets were involved. I met someone new. It was nice for a while. Then more bullets were involved. We both got better, but it was too much of a shock to our relationship, so she said goodbye, and I haven’t heard from her since.
The summer dragged on, and the art commissions were drying up. I was assembling some submissions when other problems came forward. The stress of it was affecting my personal and business relationships, and I needed to find something to distract me. I also needed some fast money, so Vijay tossed me a couple of jobs. One involved bailiff work. One involved working security. Both were a little annoying.
Bullets were involved.
I’m writing this from my balcony, overlooking Victoria Park in Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario. My neighbor across the street is out on his own balcony. Right now he’s looking at me suspiciously. I smiled and waved at him, but he gave me the finger. I wonder how long before he calls the cops. None of us need that kind of hassle. The cops, especially. Probably, they’d just send over Lacroix, and I’m getting sick of looking at him. He’ll want to come over and play video games, or something. Drink some Red Bull. Yeesh.
For reference, Lacroix is a buddy of mine. And a cop. I think. He doesn’t act much like a cop. He’s rude and childish, and … well, I don’t want to offend any cops who might be reading this, so I’ll just stop.
The park looks nice today. It’s sunny out, a little cool. The leaves on the trees are finally turning that yellow and orange that they do. I’ll bet it’s beautiful up north. If you’re ever in Canada, visit during the fall. Right around Thanksgiving. Canadian Thanksgiving. It’s in October.
I’m writing a blog. A seven-day intensive journal, she called it. My therapist said it might be a good way for me to visualize my inner monologue. That’s what she said. Like I’m some kind of narrator.
Oooh, four paragraphs in, and already I’m breaking the fourth wall.
Seriously though, it’s either write a few blog entries or go on some kind of mini-vacation at the local psych ward. Maybe I should get a new therapist.
I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. Why can’t I just talk out my problems like everyone else? Apparently, I don’t enjoy talking about my problems in front of a shrink.
Well, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself.
I’m an artist. Sort of. I like to pretend I’m an artist, but I don’t make a lot of money at it. I did for a while, but the well dried up. Not many people buying paintings these days. And when I do sell a painting, something invariably goes wrong with the sale. Maybe the customer changes their mind before it gets delivered; maybe they don’t have enough money for the sale; or maybe they get murdered before they can take possession of the painting, and their children try to block the sale. You know how it is.
