The Daily Dahlia

Following James Elroy’s wondeful study of a gruesome murder in 50s L.A., The Black Dahlia, crime hackette Lynda La Plante has written a money-spinning rip-off called The Red Dahlia, set fifty years after the first murder, timed to coincide with the release of the Scarlett Johansen movie and plagiarising large portions of its illustrious predecessor (I’ve not read the book, I’m just assuming this). However, La Plante has missed out a key part of Elroy’s fiction, which is slight references to a recognisable and real popular character involved on the peripheries of the plot, and also a touch of corrupted authority. Which is why I present to you this day this exclusive excerpt from my forthcoming novellete / vpdodcast / mystery play “Joseph And The Amazing Technicolour Dahlia”;

Joseph enters the room. His shaggy knuckles are pulling together his shabby multicoloured coat of dreams and he’s obviously drunk; stumbling, mumbling, filthy. He could even be a journalist.

Joseph: “A crash of drums, ugh, dum-de-dum, a flash of li-ur-hic, I need a shite, yarr, balls.”
Joseph collapses in a corner, his brothers sell his sleeping body to slave traders, he travels to Egypt where he narrowly avoids being blown up by Arab extremists / Israeli pre-emptive surprise airstrikes / errant Western Cruise Missiles and becomes advisor to the democratically elected Pharoah Godking III The Shit, before being reconciled to his randy father and brothers in a touching scene (Warning: no touching). Whilst Joseph is dozing one day, his wife sells his magic hair to a passing salesperson/genie/disguised grand vizier, removing the gift of hard-drinking that has allowed him to charm/booze his way to success in the court of The Shit. After disgracing himself at a state banquet, he is expelled and narrowly avoids becoming a lion’s dinner in the arena by showing off his excellent manicure skills, before wandering out onto the streets, drunken, where he is accosted in exactly the same manner as before by a passing flowerseller. She reaches out to the erstwhile bigwig’s drunken figure, holding in her hand a bushy tuberous perennial which she hopes to exchange for goods or indeed services.

Passing Flower Salesperson “Excuse me sir, would you like a flower?”
Joseph proceeds to vomit copiously over the poor flowerseller’s bloom, turning it a variety of shades depending on which course of his fantastic banquet he is regurgitating. It is hence technicolour and also amazing so our story can
End.

I expect this to sell millions.

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GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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