This week, we're pleased to welcome author Larry Brill, whose novel, THE PATTERER, is set in 18th century London. Join us on Sunday, when the author will offer a free copy of The Patterer to a lucky blog visitor. Here's the blurb:
In 1765 London, Leeds Merriweather is scratching out a living as a common street performer, a patterer, using his wit and storytelling skills to draw crowds and sell newspapers. Although he aspires to be a respected journalist and start his own publishing house, Leeds is relegated to pattering by his handsome face, strong voice and straight teeth.
In 1765 London, Leeds Merriweather is scratching out a living as a common street performer, a patterer, using his wit and storytelling skills to draw crowds and sell newspapers. Although he aspires to be a respected journalist and start his own publishing house, Leeds is relegated to pattering by his handsome face, strong voice and straight teeth.
Inspired by a drunken
chance encounter with Benjamin Franklin, Leeds assembles a zany cast of
characters to become history’s first celebrity newscaster. But at the peak of
his meteoric rise to fame and fortune, Leeds risks it all for the love of a
conniving wench in this Dickensian comedy.
The Patterer is the first release in a trilogy.
**An
Excerpt from The Patterer**
Chapter 1
London-1765.
Blood and lust make the world go ‘round I say. You
may argue that it is money – the pound or the pence, the farthing, the bob, the
crown, gold or silver – that makes it spin. God knows money is good. I will
tell you straight away, I have personally found it quite handy when bartering
for a wench or wine in those rare exquisite moments of self-indulgence. But if
you believe that, you’d be as wrong as tits on a bull.
Ladies,
forgive me. A crude turn of phrase, that. Men, you expect it. But I will, for
the ladies sake, attempt to rein in the crude-osity of my tale. It won’t be
easy what with britches dropping nearly as often as your jaw. What I offer is a
tawdry tale of bullets flying and death-defying antics – but also a tale of
love. Man on woman. Man on man. Camel on…well, let’s have none of that here, shall
we?
Mostly,
this is a story about oral stimulation.
Wait!
Don’t run. No need to even blush. It’s not at all what you imagine. Although
your imagination did just have a go with you, now didn’t it? Cheeky devils.
Yes, you are my kind of crowd, and you have proven my point. Blood and lust
make the world go ‘round. Repeat it with me. That, in fact, is my world. And I
offer it for sale to you. Got two pence and a halfpenny? Then step up even
closer, and let’s have at it. You see I am a patterer. At your service.
That is my exceptional skill. It is
also my curse, as you will surely see.
Now the first rule of a good
patterer is to begin with the most titillating, scandalous or horrific story
you can find. Flesh it out whenever possible with references to bodily fluids,
and never, never let facts get in the
way.
Actually,
I have a saying, which I made up, entirely original, though you may steal it if
you wish: “If it bleeds, it...”
“Leeds!”
That’s
me. Leeds Merriweather. The roar of my name as it rolled like thunder through
the printer’s shoppe yanked me rudely from a dreamless sleep so deep it would
have awakened Shakespeare himself. And this just in: Shakespeare is still dead.
“Leeds
Merriweather, you lazy son of a twat! The ink’s dry an’a day’s a-wasting.”
Charles
McNabb owned the dusty print shoppe where this story begins. He added an
exclamation point to his roar with a kick to my ribs. I squinted up at him from
the corner of the pressroom where I had curled up for the night with a soft
pillow and a hard floor. It seemed as if I had only just closed my eyes before
being subjected to the indignity of McNabb’s boot. I know for a fact that it
was nearly dawn when, like a weary tomcat, I padded in and settled down with a
snout full of gin and a head full of stories I had collected from a long night
patronizing the public houses along Fleet Street.
“If’n
you’re not going to sell for me today, it’d be certain I have plenty like you
who will,” McNabb said. He carried a bundle of the day’s edition of his
broadsheet, the London Tattler-Tribune.
“Aw.
Go easy if you please, sir,” I said. My ribs where McNabb’s boot struck ached,
but, oh, how my head throbbed even more. February had just given way to March,
and the light from the window danced with particles of dust creating a veil of
sorts before my eyes. I sniffed. Oil and ink, parchment and stain. The aroma of
the printing press, of literature freshly baked. And turpentine. I love the
smell of turpentine in the morning.
McNabb
slapped the back of his hand on the broadsheets. “Cannibalism,” he cried.
“Adultery and ravishing of maidens.”
I love
the ravishing of maidens. It sells newspapers.
The
publisher was a short Scot with a gunpowder temperament, and that morning
something put a spark to his britches. “’Tis death on the high seas. By God, I
am good.”
I
asked, “Good for what?”
He
aimed his next kick at my privates; I raised a knee just in time. “Don’t you be
insolent, y’ragged lump of gutter waste. If this story d’nnot draw a decent
income today then we have no business doing business in this business.”
I
used the brick wall behind me as a brace for my back as I inched up – slowly,
very, very slowly – to a standing
position. War drums were beating in my noggin, and the battle for a clear head
was most definitely in doubt. Too much gin last night, for certain. I took the
broadsheet McNabb forced upon me and glanced over the all-important lead story
beneath the Tattler-Tribune banner.
Spank
me senseless! “Lord Howell’s shipwreck? What the bloody hell is this?” I
demanded.
“A
fine bit of writing, if I say so myself.”
“A
fine bit thievery, I say.” That weasel McNabb had attached his name to the
story – my story! I was the one who mined the details of the
shipwreck over a bottle of rum from a Portuguese captain whose ship happened
upon an uncharted island. The crew was taking on fresh water when they
discovered what was left of a tourist yacht in the lagoon and the remains of
the rich nobleman, his wife, and the others who perished with him.
“What
is this dung you’ve printed here? What happened to what I wrote?” I wanted to
rip that newspaper and wave the tatters in McNabb’s ferret face. I had only
turned the details over to McNabb on the promise that I could print and sell
the story under my name. All I had to do was raise a couple of quid to cover
the cost of printing. All the right elements of a great story were there, not
the least of which was potential for profit. McNabb understood that. He held
out his palm, and the way he rubbed two fingers against this thumb said it all:
Show me the money.
I
shook my head. “Soon.”
“And
what of yesterday’s sales? D’ya drink it all away as usual last night?”
“’Course
not,” I lied. Yes, I was penniless again. Even McNabb could read that much in
my bloodshot eyes.
“It’s
a fine story, lad, and I couldn’t let it waste away a-waiting for you.” That
bugger, McNabb, knew a golden story when he saw one.
All
they found were the bones of the good Lord Thurston and those six who were
shipwrecked with him. The evidence of the extreme hedonistic life they lived
and left behind created a tale so repulsive and so enchanting in one, that it
was sure to shock and awe and produce profits. More important, this was a story
to be told and re-told and remembered for generations. And it was mine to tell
first.
“Lad,
‘tis a sin to give stock to such profound pride. Be prudent,” McNabb said. “You’re
a better man for surrendering it to me, and the story is better for it; that is
my duty as editor. Now run. Run and patter. Patter and run, whichever it is
that you do.” He waved me off, dismissing me as one might shoo a cat from the
supper table.
“Leave
the wordsmithing to McNabb,” he said. “You have every chance to patter your
version on the street. You have a handsome face, a strong voice and straight
teeth. You were made to patter, not to publish. That is your proper lot in
life. Accept it.”
I
looked down at McNabb. He was barely as tall as my shoulder. My left hand
clenched, balling up a corner of the Tattler-Tribune I held. I snapped at him. “This
was mine. You said it was a story beneath you.”
“She
rose to the occasion,” he said with a smirk. McNabb handed the broadsheets to
me. “Do you want them or shall I find another patterer today?”
I
moved to the window and bent at the waist enough to peek at the sky above the
roofs of Fleet Street. The clouds were grey but not dismal. More distressing
was the odor of the fish market carried on the wind. Whitefish today, and not a
fresh catch apparently. Strong enough to blow down from Billingsgate, the wind
would invariably carry my voice away from the crowds I hoped to capture. Bloody
hell it was, this would be a difficult day.
