Hey Hollywood!

Deep down inside everyone – I’m making sweeping generalizations for the sake of my argument, here – lurks an idea for a movie they would kill to see become reality. I am no exception to this rule. If you know me well, you’re probably already sick to death of hearing about this plot. If you don’t, well, hold on to your butts, because have I got a pitch for you.

It is called, quite simply, Three Creepers And A Chica.

Alan Rickman, Jeremy Irons, and Tim Curry are flatmates in, oh, let’s say New York City (that is where these movies tend to occur). Much to their collective theatrical chagrin, they awake one morning to find a baby girl in a basket on their doorstep. The sensible one (Rickman) wants to do the sane thing and call the po-po. The party animal, however (Curry), strongly suspects the kid may be his and insists they keep her until things are sorted, despite the fact that none of them have any sort of child-rearing experience (that’s rearing, not sneering). Can they keep the adorable tyke’s existence a secret from their nosy landlord (Steve Buscemi)? What happens when two Child Protective Services agents (John Malkovich and Kevin Spacey) get thrown into the mix?

Three Creepers And A Chica. Make it happen, Internet. Spread the word.


The old man sits on his porch facing the sea, an oyster-shucking knife clutched in one barnacle-chewed hand. It’s not much of a weapon – the blade is thick and stubby, made more for prying than anything else – but, as some salts are fond of saying, it ain’t the length of a thing matters, just what you do with it. Captain Avery knows goddamned well what he’s going to do with his little sharpened bit of steel, knows he should have done it years ago. The entire town is to blame, really, but the time for sticking blame to things is done and gone. Vanished into the Atlantic, like the children and grandchildren and every blessed tot from ages four to fifteen. Even the tourist brats, not that there were a lot of them hanging around here in October. They usually only showed in July, lining up with their parents along Main Street to gawk and squawk as the annual roundup brought a wave of flashing manes and tide-slicked hides down the thoroughfare. Hooves clattering like tossed bones on the oystershell. Yellowed teeth and yellowed eyes peering out from beneath matted forelocks, tracking the chubby fingers outstretched to stroke. Ave feels a little queasy thinking about it.

He watches the whitecaps with his own rheumy eyes, heart thrumming. Occasionally a ray of light from Assateague Lighthouse cuts through the evening mist, there and gone again, there and gone again.

He too is waiting for the ponies to arrive.