Page 117 - Student: dazed And Confused

He looked at me a bit too innocently - a sure sign of guilt in my game. "I ain't got
nothing'. Why would I have anything?" It was going to be a hell of a night. I had to tread
careful if I was going to get anything out of him - I'd forgotten that he probably had a dozen
stolen Amex cards in his pocket. "Nothing," he said again.
"Nice car you got over there." Guess small talk was for thieves too. "New?"
He shrugged and swirled the drink around his glass. We spoke for a few minutes
about regular stuff like the Yankees game last night. Things seemed a bit calmer and i
thought about asking him why I was here. Then it went off like a pinball machine. One of
the dealers decided the girls had said something he didn't like and crashed his chair to the
floor. He produced a baseball bat and smashed most of the furniture beyond recognition.

The mirror I'd been using to look up the blonde girls skirt shook so hard that the bigger
pieces fell from the wall. One man headed for the door while the others waded into the
fight, magically coming up with weapons from everywhere. The bar was filled with
screaming and shouting and grown men fighting over God knew what. It sure as hell wasn't
the hookers honour.
I turned back to resume my conversation but Macey had whippeted out of there like
he had a bee on his ass. Smart move.

(In the style of Raymond Chandler)

Pastiche notes

Hasn't worked, has it?
First off, I felt really guilty about doing pastiches at all as it felt a bit too close to ripping off a
style someone has worked hard to cultivate. So I don't think I'll be doing it again - at least
not by choice.
Although it was fairly easy to choose who to choose (Enid Blyton because I have been
reading her books since I was tiny, but both have clear styles) it was hard to get in the
mindset of writing like it isn't me. I suppose it's how a ghost-writer feels.
I dint think either piece can be believed to be by the respective author, particularly not to

the trained eye, but it's so hard for me to remove myself entirely from the piece. I think my
own voice flavoured the pieces somewhat, though I did go through each one with a fine
toothed comb to try and get rid of me.