Dr. Susan Applegate, M. D., sat behind her oak desk, staring her client in the eye. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm not Dan Lazar!" Daivad squawked, looking at her stapler.
"All right," Susan said. She put the stapler in the drawer. Too distracting.
"I'm not a helicopter, and I didn't fly in on some snazzy moonbeam, either," he croaked.
"So what is the problem?" she asked.
"I'm a reacher," he moaned. She arched an eyebrow. "I reach out and touch everything."
Lovely. An OCD griffin. And, as Special Counselor to Exotic Species, she was within claw reach. Oh, dear.
“Who’s Dan Lazar?”
“That’s helpful,” Jamie rolled her eyes. “Not a llama or unicorn or gin guzzling griffin?”
“He flies helicopters or some shit.” Doug was playing with Grandma’s reacher, squeezing the handles to grab at his thigh. “This thing’s snazzy. I wish I had shrunken arms and arthritis.”
Jamie stared into the night sky with teenage self-importance and annoyance – wondering what she’d done to deserve a brother – when suddenly a freak moonbeam aligned disastrously with the reflectors and lenses of Dr. Freundenheizer’s giant death ray, reversing it upon the hapless mad scientist. Small portions of Oklahoma survived.
What's the bad news?
Chapter 5- Crash Page 56
horrific crunching noise.
The twisted wreckage of the once snazzy helicopter settled into place like a large griffin tucking his wings awkwardly underneath him.
"Dan Lazar!?! Dan??" she cried out desperately. She heard soft moaning, and the pale light of a moonbeam glimmered in the dark abyss of her heart.
Hot tears burned her cheeks. She cursed; she always carried her reacher with her! And now, when her crippled lover needed her, she was without the tool that could free his bruised, muscular body from his prison of tangled steel.
Chapter 6 – Rescue
Not dead yet!...and "muscular"...woo hoo!
"Yes. I will be there. The helicopter is ready?" The phone crackled. "You're breaking up. Take care of Dan Lazar, Mr. Griffin. I have one more errand."
The man drove through the night and listened to gentle classical. He aimed for potholes and smiled each time he heard the package thud in the back.
He parked at a cliff atop a rocky shoreline and opened the trunk. The package laid still.
The man dragged it to the edge and rolled it off. His lips curled as the body fell, lit by a moonbeam. "Snazzy. Goodbye, Mr. Reacher."
I spot on guarantee you that Reacher not only survives the fall, he returns to return the favor.
When I left him in Mexico, I hadn't expected to see him again. But here he stood. Dan Lazar. And he didn't look pleased.
He stared. I stared. He said something I couldn't hear as a helicopter flew overhead. I wasn't sure I wanted to anyway. He always did have a foul mouth.
I hoped a giant moonbeam would zap down and pluck me up. Nothing quite so snazzy happened.
I pulled out my reacher to pick up trash. If nothing else, maybe it would protect me from this fire-breathing griffin who was about to unleash his fury.
I told you he was a survivor!
Dan Lazar tossed the Marymount Manhattan Griffin yearbook on the seat of the snazzy helicopter cockpit and picked up a Jack Reacher novel to read by the light of a moonbeam.
well, brevity is the soul of wit but this is only so brief as to be a halfwit.
dupe of 127 (which is a relief cause I was off on my numbering and this explains it).
MURDER AT THE AWP
Atlanta, Detective Reacher mused, is a Great Gatsby city: a moonbeam straining towards the sun, a country girl in Donna Karan. Snazzy as a helicopter whir, but about as elegant as a Dan Lazar rejection.
The perfect home for an overachieving serial killer.
Reacher could see why the Griffin had chosen it. A city full of unripe lives to pluck, dark and secret pasts to delve. And, of course, the AWP: the one place a pathos-ridden bibliophile could
become invisible. For the Griffin had murdered with literature before, and he would do it again.
Well, at least Dan is alive!
I like this one in addition to Dan not being dead.
Snazzy and Moonbeam spent all morning crunching numbers. There was just no getting around it. S & M High-Riders would have to close shop for good. Ironically, their alcoholic helicopter pilot wasn’t even the problem this time.
“We’ve been grounded,” Snazzy lamented, pulling his rising T-shirt back over his beer-gut so that its airbrushed griffin appeared menacing once more. “I don’t know who Dan Lazar thinks he is, but his lawsuit against us for false advertising is a real reacher, man.”
Moonbeam shook her matted dreadlocks and the two old hippies held each other, weeping the loss of their dream.
Brilliant. Plus, Dan isn't dead.
The forest trees shielded the moonbeams from providing sufficient light to land a helicopter. However, Griffin was an experienced fighter pilot. Though it was dark and it was a tight squeeze, he was able to find a clearing just a few feet from the rendezvous point.
“Snazzy landing” said Reacher as he adjusted his Night Vision Goggles to a sharper image.
“Sweet” agreed Dan Lazar as he did the same.
“Well, what can I say” Griffin replied quickly turning his attention to the dispatch call blaring through his headphones. Than he siad “Ready up Romeos Juliet awaits your arrival.”
Who knew Jack Reacher owned night vision goggles??
Griffin's pissed: "you reckon you're Dan Lazar? You sell 'dogs, man, and not in Central Park!"
Reacher smiles, his chipped incisor escaping his lip. "I tell you, Griffin, I can do it for you. Trust me, here."
"All you need is a helicopter and a cloudy evening. And a snazzy moonbeam tool to write the message."
"Yeah, right! I want something permanent. How's Suze going to know I love her if it ain't permanent?"
"That, amigo, is 'your' problem. Take a photo or something. Now, are you buying the dog, or do I have to mug your pockets again?"
Reacher shifted uncomfortably in his helicopter jump seat. The moonbeam shining through the domed plexiglass reflected harshly off of Dan Lazar’s snazzy sequined suit.
“Dan,” can you shift a bit to the left, please?
“Sure,” he said, not moving an inch.
A winged shadow temporarily cut off the glare.
“Look! The griffin!” Reacher said.
Dan craned his neck uncomfortably to get a view. “Nah, it’s just Killer Yap out on Miss Snark’s broom again.”
Killer Yapp rides a swiffer. Customized of course.
A toddler's titter in the air announced the return of the reacher. Grandma's claw they called it. An old Featherlite--32" aluminum-frame--with a snazzy magnet on one of its jaws. There, near
where the moonbeam fell during the summer months (when grammy couldn't pull the curtain shut: no reacher), she raised it, pulled the trigger, and lacerated old stumpy.
Stumpy the griffin. 'It no griffin,' Vern said, 'it Dan Lazar's beast, sure, but no griffin.' Grammy spun around, reacher in her claws, twirled, helicopter blades and such. 'What it be then if no
'Snark!' grammy's chords screeched.
Oh great, now Miss Snark joins the ranks of the deceased!
Dan Lazar was worried. Maybe his wife was right, that his snazzy new helicopter “the Griffin,” was a bad business decision. They were now deeply in debt, and he’d just spent their last thousand dollars on an ad, but he knew it would pay for itself if he got just one celebrity rescue on LA’s TV news. He sighed and opened the last beer in the fridge when the phone rang. It was George Clooney, whose dog, Moonbeam, was stranded on a ledge over the Pacific. A storm was coming in fast, and he had only one hour to reacher.
Dan Lazar, hero!!!
“Can you reacher?”
The helicopter drifted across the sky.
“Don’t know,” Griffin said. “That’s a lengthy shot.”
The first man patted the steel tube. “Well, what you waiting on? Let’s test that snazzy new lazar out.”
“You gonna make fun of the way I talk or you gonna shoot that dan helicopter out of the sky?”
“Damned helicopter,” Griffin said as he aimed the laser and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
“Griffin, your dan lazar don’t even work. Jeez, I got a better chance of shooting a moonbeam out my ass.”
Despite the terrifying anatomical images, this is hilarious.
Jack Reacher walked along the shoulder of US-75, keeping a three-foot space between him and the passing traffic. Three feet was optimum for a hitchhiker; close enough to encourage rides, but still maintain a margin of safety.
A car stopped. Reacher saw a moonbeam glint against the griffin logo: a Saab.
“Ride?” the driver asked. “I’m Dan Lazar.”
Lazar was sociable, confiding he was an agent. “Doing my helicopter routine. In town to hover over a best-selling client.”
The agent paused, but Reacher didn’t fill the space with words.
“Your shoes sure are snazzy,” Lazar finally commented. “British, right?”
Good knowledge of the Reacher novels here! And GREAT use of helicopter!
The Griffin swooped down, the Lee Child novel clenched tightly in it’s beak. Dan Lazar freaked out; his last book. He’d never make it as a literary agent, not with that griffin flying away taking with her his only clue, his bible to the business. Without it, Dan wouldn’t be able to identify a good writer from A snazzy typewriter. What would Reacher do?
So Dan jumped in the helicopter. He ascended with the bright moonbeam in his eyes. Too late, the rotors caught the Griffin’s lion tail sending them all crashing in a mass of tangled metal and feathers.
He's better off dead I guess.
Dr. Lazar grabbed his reacher and sent it down my throat.
"Think of unicorns and moonbeams," he said, "and magical griffins."
"I just read a book about a stoic helicopter medic."
Soon my pabrums were qualibrating.
How disconcerting to receive mediaeval remedies in such snazzy office. Oh well, arthritis picked me, I didn't pick it. On the sonogram I could see my worm being removed. Soon a fresh one was plucked for imbibement.
"I'm going to name this one," I said. "Here's hoping he works harder than the last one."
"What's the name?"
Nice, nice, nice!
Moonbeams slipped through the window, the light softening the griffin tattoo on his wrist into the shape of a teddy bear. He tugged his cuff down to cover it. He was The Reacher, not a pre-school teacher. The teddy's ears poked out and he yanked the cuff harder. He dropped in and out of lives like the devil in a helicopter, taking away hope. The ears appeared again,
waggled slightly. Cute...Snazzy little thing... No! Stop! The shirt ripped at the shoulder, but the teddy was gone. He was Dan Lazar, Literary Agent and it was time for manuscript torching.
Dan Lazar has a teddy bear tattoo??
Feeling the helicopter touch down, Dan Lazar shook his head as he glanced at the snazzy masks worn by the other passengers; Moonbeam and Reacher. The masks and nicknames were requirements of the bride. Dan was calling himself Griffin. Stepping out while ducking under the still whirling blades, he saw the unfairly suave groom in the distance, the only one without a mask. Even the bride would be wearing one.
The bride. . . . Dan still couldn't believe it.
Clooney marrying Miss Snark. . . . Dan shook his head again, fearing the apocalypse that couldn't be far behind.
Bring it on!
A sexy man, his charms enticing like Kama Sutra bonbons. “Writer’s House welcomes new blood.”
“Which writer’s home?” I ask. “Maybe Lee Childs? I love Jack Reacher.”
“Reacher might be there now. I’ll take you in my helicopter.” A moonbeam yellows Dan Lazar’s teeth. He isn’t quite as sexy anymore.
“Say, you aren’t thinking of throwing me off the ‘copter, are you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“My personal griffin says not to trust you.”
“Sign with me, and I’ll buy you a snazzy new one with George's Clooney's head instead of a lion’s.”
I thought about it.
The pleasant spring breeze coming through Dan Lazar's office window became a violent tempest and the slush pile erupted. The helicopter was back, and this time with a floodlight. Dan forced deep breaths into his panicked body and tried to imagine the swirling pages as dust
motes in a moonbeam.
Petulant whines breached the pandemonium, "THINK SPACE ARK MEETS KIPLING'S KIM! A 19th CENTURY GRIFFIN IN INDIA TRANSPORTED ACROSS THE UNIVERSE! I EVEN HAVE A SNAZZY BINDING!"
Dan stuck a reacher out the window and snatched the manuscript.
"S.A.S.E.?" he screamed over the noise.
The megaphone spluttered, "WAIT! THAT'S $35.00!!!!"
Excellent use of Blog rants for material!
Dan Lazar had made a snazzy getaway as his helicopter sashayed over head. It would take a moonbeam to take him down now.
If only I had been more prepared and brought my reacher, I could have grabbed onto the bottom of the helicopter before it flew away. Now here I was alone on this island with nothing but a half-empty bottle of tequila.
As my despair set in, I took a swig of the tequila and heard a rustling in the bushes. I turned to see a giant griffin staring back at me.
The helicopter was ready. Unfortunately, three different agencies couldn't tell him where to go. So he was sitting in the dirt in a shack outside Pune. His snazzy uniform was getting dirty. He would tell them all where to go later. The Reacher sat facing him, eyes closed, in a trance. Horseshit. Someone was Googling by moonbeam on a wind-up computer and passing her answers. This was taking too long.
Her eyes opened. An insult.
"A name. Please."
He shot her twice, stepping over her as he left.
"Dan Lazar. Thank you."
Well, at least Dan't not the dead one this time!!
When Hunter sold the “big house” he sighed. Not because he'd miss the snazzy griffin beside the gilded front door, or the phallus shaped junipers flanking the portico. The Macmansion had swallowed funds for five years, but he'd attained his objective: a condo in fashionable Moonbeam Grant sub-division with no mortgage. He'd always been a reacher; pigeonholing long-term goals. With money inherited from his grandfather, agent Dan Lazar, Hunter had purchased the Macmansion with a small down payment and a colossal mortgage one month after landing his first job as co-pilot for a helicopter transport.
"Someone killed Dan Lazar in a contest entry," said Zeus. "He's in Hades, and I need him out to represent GRIFFIN REPORT: HELICOPTER SCANDALS."
"That's Orpheus' job."
"His voice hasn't been the same since Selene demoted him from moonshine to moonbeam. Turns out the alcohol fumes were what sent everyone into a trance."
"Masters, I is saving him."
"What are you?"
"Reacher, a temple-elf."
"Aren't you from Harry Potter?"
"No, that's copyright. You needs a snazzy lawyer for that. But I is close enough to use Charm."
Reacher smiled proudly. "I gets Master Lazar out on the Space Ark!"
oh dear dog, another stogie gone, Grandmother Snark calling for oxygen and Miss Snark herself requiring new drawers.
"Griffin watched as the maple seed spiraled like a helicopter gently to the moss covered ground. She sighed.
Yesterday, Reacher had come to her for the last time. She remembered how they made love here, urgent yet satisfying; their skin illuminated by a moonbeam.
“Will you forget me?” she had asked him.
She did not remember his answer today. It had been snazzy yet evasive. She had laughed and cried at the same time. Then he had gone."
Laughing, Dan Lazer forwarded the story to his closest friends and reached for drink. Lee won the April Fool’s prize, again.
Reacher's really getting around!
Once upon a twilight time in a thatched village, an old man was sitting on the back porch with his griffin.
"That moonbeam's a reacher," Dan Lazar said. "See, it's almost touching the bay."
The griffin snored.
"Wake up!" cried Dan, for at that very moment a silhouette was flying through the moonlight, getting larger and larger. "Wake up!"
The griffin awoke for a moment, looked up at the moon, then promptly fell asleep again.
"I bet it's a snazzy helicopter, whirling lights and all," Dan said. "Or the aliens, coming to getcha." And he was right.
Can't be soon enough!
Dan Lazar fell. Not just any fall, off a chair or down the stairs or some such. Dan began a thousand-foot plummet. Why had he jumped out of the helicopter? He immediately regretted it, twisting about and extending an arm back toward the woman he called Reacher, since she reached out in a futile attempt to save him. Dan had no crazy, drug-induced delusions about riding snazzy moonbeams or mythical griffins back to the ground. Death would snare him after these interminable seconds in freefall. Unless
The bungee cord about his ankles finally tightened, offering relief and salvation.
Dan Lazar, bungee jumper!
Dan Lazar had to hold on to the wall to keep her balance. Tatters of her jumpsuit were all that remained, strategically placed for a PG-13 world. Perhaps the outfit had been snazzy once, before jumping from the helicopter trying to re-capture Reacher. Wings spread in a moonbeam, the griffin taunted her, holding his leash out and then flying away like the petulant child he was. The fall had broken more than her pride, but she’d never really needed her third leg anyway. With a sharp twist, she ripped it off and threw it at her pet. She missed.
Surreal in so many ways.
A heavy stuttering sound pulsed rhythmically through the night, beating against Sky-Reacher's sensitive ears. He circled in the air, curious about the strange creature slicing through the moonbeams below. It rose, coming closer and closer—too close for Sky-Reacher's comfort. Screaming, the griffin dove.
"What was that?" Jim looked up at the helicopter's ceiling.
"Dunno." Matt continued reading his magazine. "Pretty good thump though. Blades might of hit an owl or something."
Jim nodded slowly. "Yeah, maybe."
"Hey." Matt held up the magazine. "Pretty snazzy car, huh?"
"Yeah. What are you reading?"
"Article about some dude named Dan Lazar."
Nifty trick doing a POV change in fewer than 100 words!
You slide into a booth at Griffin Diner and bark at the waitress, "Get Dan Lazar on the phone, right now!" She rolls her eyes because she doesn't know who Dan Lazar is, but she knows you, or someone just like you. The type to come floating in on a moonbeam, or dropped from a helicopter. She doesn't understand. You're a reacher.
She brings you coffee and you tell her, "You're looking snazzy tonight." She gives you a finger, and not the chicken kind. You like it. You like it so much, you bite it off. Now she understands.
Tales from the bright lights in the big city!
The Reacher was sometimes rude, but was always considered odd. To arrange oneself so that anytime you need to pick something up you must reach for it, with arms spread as the wings of a griffin, IS odd.
The reaching took its toll, especially constantly trying to goose the quick Dan Lazar. Reacher's arms drug about behind him.
Some LSD and a helicopter ride make a good gift. However reaching for moonbeams, with the door open, was a surprise. Whoever finds his arm will have questions. I feel it would make a snazzy boa, covered with colored feathers and de-boned.
given the insanity of 100 words in less than 24 hours, I planned to go easy on the ones that just puzzled me, but there is only one thing to say to this one:
The gate to hell was locked. Terror rose within her as the Reacher forced her soul into a perpetual game of torment and longing. There must be a key.
Charred images of dying dreams fought against her resolve as she slid her hands against the cold steel. Nausea swept through her, a pulsating rush like snazzy helicopter blades were spinning within each cell of her frail, neglected body.
Moonbeam, she was named, as though the word itself was protection from the harshness of life. Her scream signalled surrender as she forfeited her agent, Dan Lazar, to the demon griffins within.
Miss Snark heard a desperate yelp and staggered to her bedroom window. Pulling the drape, she was alarmed to see Moonbeam, Killer Yap’s illegitimate offspring, being carried away via helicopter by that snazzy dresser, Dan Lazar.
She met the cold eyes of the kidnapper as he dangled the terrified pooch by some geriatric's Reacher and thought, ‘He assumes he can get away with this because he’s so damned good-looking.”
“Killer Yap!” she said, pointing out the window. “Fetch!”
Killer Yap knew what to do. He spun around three times and took his true form as LEOGLE, the heroic griffin ...
Dan Lazar, dognapper!
The phone rang. Dan Lazar opened the blinds in his snazzy corner office. As a New York agent, he had the perfect cover. No one suspected that he had been an MP in Vietnam. He had always identified with the fictional detective Jack Reacher, another MP in 'Nam. But unlike Reacher, Dan was five foot six, not six foot five, and couldn't bench press more than fifty pounds.
"Moonbeam," the voice said. "We're here."
Dan heard the whirling of the helicopter, his family crest, a scarlet griffin, emblazoned on the side. He packed his double-action revolver. Dan was ready.
All literary agents can not only bench press 50 pounds, they can haul it up and down subway stairs, and hold it on line at the post office.
The machine griffin lay preening her titanium feathers. A newcomer from the desert approached.
“I’ve come for training,” said the robed stranger. “I reach for the power of the vehicle-beasts.”
“A reacher?” muttered the griffin. “How snazzy.”
The man stepped forward, cast pale in the path of a moonbeam. “I was once a lowly author. Now I am a bringer of death.”
“Black-belt, I see,” said the griffin. “Which Dan?”
“Dan Lazar. I seek the Dan Quasar.”
At this the griffin unfolded her wings and started her engines, rotor-blades spinning in the night. “Then prepare to experience the Mythical Helicopter.”
This is hilarious!
Bringer of death indeed!
“Monsieur!” the guide called, but he had spotted it as well. A cave, sunk high into the hillside. He shivered and not just from the malaria. He swung the wheel of the Reacher, burying the prow into the Niger’s muddy bank.
“Go Moonbeam!” The guide took the snazzy package and scampered up the cliff on all fours, reminding him of the beast in that Griffin Dunne movie. Moonbeam dissapeared inside for only seconds, before his body helicoptered from the sky, and smashed into the deck. He read the words carved in the dead man’s breast:
“NO UNSOLICTED MATERIAL. Dan Lazar.”
Dan Lazar's weekend house is in Timbukto? Who knew?
see it now?”
It’s a bird, then?
“It’s all about theme.”
Jack the teacher, the always reacher, directs his moonbeam,
and Dan Lazar gilds the account with the molten wash
of his baritone wave.
Snazzy! A griffin!
Beneath, the body shifts;
I feel feline muscles, restrained power.
I become the wind against a breast of fur and feathers,
even here in this airless space,
on this helicopter ride,
from star to
“Crap! My arm’s not long enough. Hand me that snazzy Thinga-Ma-Reacher.”
“Stealing Federal mail is a crime,” Dan Lazar said dolefully.
“I’m not stealing. I’m the moron who put it in this box.”
“You should have made sure the SASE was included before you let go.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Any more scintillating observations?”
Chopper blades cut the moonbeam I was angling by. I recognized the merciless griffin on the aircraft’s underbelly.
“It’s the AAR!” I gasped.
“You should have put the SASE--”
“No way! You turned me in!”
He shrugged. “It’s not just the writing.”
Captain Obvious!! Oh dog this made me laugh!
Kate always had a plan of the day. Today, it turned out, had a plan for her.
In the morning she planted a snazzy Moonbeam Coreopsis in her beloved garden.
She’d been languishing over whether to send her book query to Dan Lazar and finally hit “send.”
After finishing Griffin’s latest novel, she settled into a nap.
Kate awoke with a jolt. A helicopter hovered overhead. Something fell from the chopper and landed, with a thud, on her new plantings.
She felt like a character in a Jack Reacher novel — but this was real, and the story had just begun.
I hate prologues!
As the nitwit army advanced, Killer Yap, eyes glistening in the moonbeams and curly coat flowing like a regal griffin's mane, beckoned Dan Lazar to reload the snazzy, fully-automatic clue gun mounted in the back of the Reacher 760, Yap's state-of-the-art helicopter
Lazar preferred to sip his gin.
Moonbeam leaned across the table.
"Don't be a reacher, squirt!" Griffin exploded. "You want the salt, ask for it." Moonbeam glared, her irises whirling in the ceiling fan's reflection like helicopter rotors.
"I'm no beggar," she hissed. She turned to Dan. "Lazar gets anything he wants, thinks he's in charge. Not any more." Her .38 cracked twice, and both Dan and Griffin lay dead. Avoiding the diseased blood pooling on the snazzy carpet, she calmly salted her fries and left.
Geeze louise, he's dead again.
Hoboken Haiku: R&R
"Jack Reacher or John Rain, who'd win?
"Just tell me about the job Gus."
I teach poetry at Hoboken Community College. Working extra for Gus supplements my income.
Gus described the job. I took it.
I leaned into the open car window, "Snazzy tattoos. A griffin and helicopter?"
He was still looking down my blouse when I jammed the syringe into his arm.
Just another needle mark among many. The coroner would figure overdose.
Job's done. Haiku isn't. Dan Lazar passed on ' Moonshadows.' Reacher vs Rain? Heh. They aren't real.
I closed my laptop and went to get laid.
Reacher, Rain, and Joe Pike. For that I'd buy a tv and get cable and watch the WWF.
“Come on, Dan! What do you want to pack?” Nathan opened his backpack and made room for Dan’s unopened Christmas present - a Snazzy Shooter helicopter.
“Where’s your Griffin shirt?” Nathan rummaged around the floor of the closet, and finally found Dan’s favorite sweatshirt. He started to pack it, then changed his mind and pulled it over his sweater.
“We’ll bring this too.” Nathan gently removed Dan’s ‘Reacher’ award from under a pile of papers: High Flying Reader, Dan Lazar.
Nathan closed his brother’s door. “Let’s go.”
A moonbeam slanted through the window, and landed on Dan’s obituary.
yikes!!!!!! Not only dead but doing an Alice Sebold number it looks like.
“We’re taking fire!”
Dan Lazar banked the helicopter hard to the right. An RPG shot past the aircraft, roaring like some mythological beast come to life, a griffon trailing smoke and fire into the night.
Next to him, Ronald Massey whistled. "That’s some snazzy flyin’.” He reached up, flipping a switch on the overhead console. Massey was always reaching to flip a switch, turn a knob, press a button. If questioned, he’d only shrug. “What can I say? I’m a natural born reacher.”
Beneath them, the desert stretched across horizon, a sea of sand lit by moonbeams and stars.
Griffon is a dog, not a griffin. DQ'ed for word violation.
Daniel Lazar sighed, reaching for the next slush manuscript. Reading was a
low priority, but it must be done. The thin sheaf of onionskin was mounted in a snazzy purple leather binder, emblazoned with the Griffin family crest.
Tempted to reject on format alone, he forced himself to read the first
“Miss Reacher,” he screamed to his assistant. “I need a helicopter!.”
Lazar rushed aboard, clutching the cover page, as the beating blades cleared
traffic in front of the brownstone.
Pointing to the address, he yelled, “Take me to her!” as they rose through the
I believe this is actually how Dan does sign his clients.
Literary wunderkind Dan Lazar arranged the midnight reception at the House of Seven Gables. In conversational knots, authors surrendered to the otherworldliness of the colonial milieu. Grimoires. Griffin. Spooks. Satan. We inspired sycophants silently spun plots like helicopter blades. Later, I found Dan stoking kitchen hearth coals with an antique iron reacher.
“Snazzy blazer, pal,” I said, despite that it was not. Without acknowledgement, Dan turned
and dashed outside, me right behind.
“There is no Pyncheon elm!” he cried. Awash in moonbeam, edged in shadow, sober as Hawthorne’s portrait, he wandered to a blighted chestnut, to stand against the day.
"In Bed with Dan Lazare"
Dan Lazare--not Dan Lazar--loves his last name. Letters mostly common and soft, but for that sharp "z", like a griffin's beak surrounded by feathers, or the moonbeam couched in diffuse light that shot through the tiny hole of a window above his bed. The window had been an impulse decision, which seemed snazzy at the time, but now was rather silly and useless and annoying and required a special reacher to close the tiny blinds. Lying on his back in his bed, he stares at the window and cringes. In the distance, a helicopter is heard.
this has a certain unexplainable charm.
Plus, Dan's not dead.
He was a tall man, dressed in the latest snazzy style. He boarded the helicopter as he had done a hundred times before, confident and deliberate in every movement.
They took off and flew to the west. He looked out the window as they passed his building and saw the beak of a griffin reflecting a moonbeam.
“There in twenty minutes, Mr. Child.”
“That’s fine. Dan Lazer should be there by then.”
He leaned back and picked up a book, his latest in the Reacher series. He paged to the inscription.
“To my new agent, Fondly, Lee.”
uh oh, now I'll have Emma on my ass too. Great.
A thin pale light lay across the bloodied face of my old friend Dan Lazar. More accustomed to streetlamps than moonbeams, I crouched down to get a better look.
“How did you find him, Snaz?”
Snazzy Griffin rubbed her eyes. Her voice was thick.
“I… I heard a helicopter, flying low, and I went outside to see who it was,” she said. A soft night breeze caught her loose cotton dress, swirling it around her bare legs. It teased my nose with hints of spring, of coconut lotion, of the metallic tang of fresh blood. “Reacher, I saw him fall.”
Snap! Moonbeam's snazzy hit the target like a fork of lightning. Hidden under the purplish bulbao stones, Koyla felt his blood drain to his toes. He became a black-eyed wraith with death ten minutes away, as he watched the snazzy's webbed layers wrap, then tighten, around the prize. It was all over for the helicopter.
"Oye, Puds!" Moonbeam called, "Where dat dan lazar?"
"Ah dinno," Puddlestump shouted back, "Wayt, wayt, hah, dar iss she!"
Puds lifted a tri-part leg over the griffin, stretched, and failed.
"Urggh, EmBe, ah caint reacher!" she gurgled.
I'm gurgling too.
Dan Lazar looked up from the manuscript as the Author dropped her snazzy jacket and bolted across the darkened yard.
“If she makes it, you buy this thing. That’s the deal.”
The Publisher just nodded.
As the clouds parted, a stray moonbeam illuminated the great golden mane of the griffin crouched and waiting under the starless sky.
“Here we go again,” Lazar sighed, throwing the manuscript on the bloodied pile.
“You don’ know Jack,” said the Publisher. “She’ll make it if she kin reacher’ helicopter in time.”
oddly compelling, and clearly the sort of thing authors imagine happen ALL the time.
A helicopter circled overhead, cutting the moonbeams with shadow. Dan Lazar cursed the blinking tracker strapped to his left ankle. Today had gone to hell.
"Mr. Lazar!" boomed a magnified voice. "The stairwell to the roof has been blocked. There's nowhere for you to go!"
"Of course there is-down!"
Dan leaped from the high-rise. "Reacher!"
His nagging mother told him how stupid a name this was for a rescue griffin. Dan thought it was rather snazzy. True to its name, Reacher zoomed toward him and extended a taloned foreleg.
Dan jerked upward as the griffin took hold. "Thanks."
Dan Lazar, superhero!
Snazzy climbed into her helicopter and dropped the crumpled letter onto the seat. "Take your time, Griffin. I'm not in a hurry."
They rose into the night sky. Snazzy's vision blurred with unshed tears.
Your prose is an embarrassment. Don't query me again.
The letter was signed by the man himself. Dan Lazar. The man would edit Jack Reacher.
"All men are pricks!" The pilot turned his head. "Not you Griffin."
Snazzy opened the door. The Statue of Liberty slid gracefully past.
Griffin snatched at her wrist.
Snazzy flipped off her Prada's and took a swan dive through a moonbeam.
Well, at least it's not Dan who's dead but really y'all, I'm getting a trifle worried by your obsessions here.
Striking was the woman who flicked filth from beneath her fingernails, watching the helicopter speed away with the meddlesome Detective Reacher. He would die mid-flight from the poison so daintily slipped into his scotch. Such an uncouth drink; nothing like gin.
Of course, his death was more artful than the first. The bludgeoning of Dan Lazar bordered on crass, not to mention unsightly. She shook her head – a snazzy pair of stilettos ruined.
A stone griffin lurked in the shadows, a moonbeam in its knowing eye. She winked at it.
Mr. Clooney would be next. Rejection had its price.
Heresy!!! Mr. Clooney has never rejected Miss Snark! He just hasn't excercised his option yet!!!
Dan Lazar had one dream: to become a Snazzy Moonbeam. Ken Reacher, the band's slide whistler, was a god among Lilliputians. Griffin Tides played the recorder with an alacrity only known in textbooks. John Snees, well, he was John Snees.
They were the real deal -- they toured. Lazar had all five of their mp3s and knew he was a perfect addition.
They were slated to blast Skokie into the stratosphere on Tuesday morning. One song and two Aquafinas in, Lazar jumped onstage with his signature move -- hands rhythmically beating his chest like a helicopter.
Snazzy Moonbeam played on.
Dan Lazar, rock god!
"Any last words?"
"Dan Lazar." The prisoner's words came out like a curse.
The executioner nodded once before finishing his job. Turning, his mind already on the paperwork before him, he noticed Snazzy running toward him. The Griffin helicopter was still waiting on the edge of the cliff, the rest of the team inside. No one had wanted to witness the execution.
"We were wrong," Snazzy said. "He wasn't the Moonbeam Reacher…did he say anything?"
"He must've known the Moonbeam Reacher's identity. Now we'll never know. Are you coming, Lazar?"
The executioner nodded, his face firm. "Count me in."
ohhh, not only not dead, but not dead due to evil evil evil ways!
Griffin Reacher busted out the jalopy’s headlights with a baseball bat. He pulled at the exposed lights, grasping the bulbs by the neck, drawing them carefully out of the sockets. A moonbeam spotlighted his creations that hung like a Halloween ghoul’s dangling eyeballs. Thoughts spun around his head; his ears vibrated with the imagined noise of helicopter propellers. The last step was rubbing, dripping, and splattering blood red paint on the body of the vehicle as though it was a Jackson Pollock painting. Griffin pushed the snazzy clunker into Dan Lazar’s yard. His rejection letter was under the wiper blade.
Dan Lazar has a yard?
Captain Dan Lazar stood on the wet tarmac under a full moon and admired the sleek black beast. The Griffin Attack Helicopter was a marvel of efficiency and technology. It looked vicious even sitting still and quiet, a sallow moonbeam reflecting off its snazzy carapacian hide. The Griffin seemed nothing more than a malevolent, greedy insect – no mind, no mercy, no qualms about murder. Well, it'd get its wish for blood tonite, even if he was already sick to his stomach with the thought of this nasty mission.
"Fire her up, Lieutenant Reacher," Lazar said, "its time to go..."
Captain Dan Lazar! I wonder if he's related to Captain Underpants?
Dan Lazar stapled the last of his signs to the post.
Lost Dog. Wearing snazzy red collar. Name: Reacher.
He thought of his bad black lab, gone for two days, probably filthy from getting in trashcans, eating whatever he could find, but rolling in it first. Taunting traffic. Dan pictured the dog at night, dancing in a moonbeam, fighting a griffin only he could see, chasing his tail, helicopter ears spinning out.
Miss Snark of course, is anti-sweet.
The thought of touching even a skin cell of a germ-ridden literary agent unnerved Howie Mandel, which is why he rammed his snazzy extendable reacher into Dan Lazar’s face to wake him. Even through a headache that screamed like a griffin drowning in battery acid, Dan knew he was in a helicopter.
“I have 26 parachutes,” Mandel said, gesturing toward a gaggle of knapsack-sporting fashion models illuminated by a moonbeam reflecting off the game show host’s head. “But only one works. Or, you could just represent my mysophobia-erotica novel. Deal or no deal?”
Dan surrendered. “How about ‘no whammies’?”
I had to look up mysophobia but it turned out to be germane.
Dan Lazar & Reacher: An Interview
Interviewer: Nice snazzy designer label suit…
DL: Thanks. Lunch meetings all day today.
R: Joe’s suit. Don’t ask.
Interviewer: Did you know the guy who fell off the Helicopter?
DL: Read about him.
R: Yes. Just got one thing to say: You do not mess with the Special Investigators.
Interviewer: What do you think of when you hear the word griffin?
DL: An eagle and a lion.
R: The desert.
Interviewer: Ok. Thank you.
DL: No trouble.
R: Yeah, just call.
Interviewer: But you don’t have a phone…
R: Bad luck.
Someone has read the book!!
Dan Lazar is the final obstacle between Reacher and publication. The former cop had faced dangerous opponents before, how tough could one literary agent be? He checks the clip of his automatic as he manoeuvers the helicopter toward Manhattan. Within minutes, Reacher bursts through the snazzy doors of Writer’s House demanding to see the agent.
“No,” the nightwatchman roars, the griffin on his baton glinting in the ray of a moonbeam.
Reacher fires his weapon and the guard falls. Racing past the inner doors, Reacher is knocked unconscious by the wily agent.
“That’s how tough,” Lazar sneers.
yea!!!!!!! Dan Lazar kicks ass (finally!)
All the signs were there. The body, sprawled beneath the lazy whoosh of helicopter blades. A stray moonbeam illuminated the head, face up, a snidely derisive look still upon it. The tang of decaying manuscripts whispered through the darkness.
“Poor Dan. I warned him, If you’re going to give writers brutal feedback, hide your identity.”
“That’s Dan Lazar?” The kid gulped, his greenish pallor clashing with his snazzy puce tie.
“How’d you know it was Reacher?”
“See the griffin graffiti? That’s Reacher’s query. In a world that can envision an griffin, he’s miffed he can’t get published.”
I love the smell of decaying manuscripts in the morning!
“Thet-thar nucular Reacher am gonna blow, jess like Three Mile Island!”
Portia adjusted her rhinestone #1 Bitch pin, as if wanting to look snazzy for the occasion.
“Whut brand o’ moonbeam beverage you imbibin’ Portia?”
The fuzzy pooch in her purse groaned.
“Aw Dan, lazar the damn thing with yer fancy-ass machine quick-like. Don’t yew smell that? It’s gonna blow!”
If he played along...Dan snuggled closer.
“Hel, i’ copter feel, Griffin!” Portia reflexively squeezed the dog.
Griffin yelped, farted, then grinned with relief.
“Dammit, tew late,” said Portia, breathing through her red painted mouth.
“Some veterinarian yew are.”
I'm a double-agent. Literary by daylight, secret by moonbeam. The name's Dan Lazar, but call me 'Griffin.' The Russians already do. Oh, in the end I pledge allegiance to no one but myself, but at the moment, the GRU has my bank account number and undivided attention. In a few moments, a helicopter will take me and ten years of secrets to Moscow, then on to ritzy houses, snazzy women, and suitably aloof French waiters. It's a reacher to assume no one will be suspicious—a literary agent making millions?—but in the Riviera, no one asks questions.
Gainsville Regional Utilities need a secret agent?
Dan Lazar pulled out his Jack Reacher novel and began to read while the helicoptor lifted into the night air. This annoyed Miss Snark, who'd been waiting impatiently all evening for a critique of her snazzy new outfit.
She flicked the offending novel from his fingers. It sailed through the open door, its flapping pages caught in the light of a moonbeam. With the ferocity of a griffin, she growled, "Pay attention to me, dammit."
Her manicured fingers curled around his linen collar, and she pulled the surprised agent to her, giving him a passionate kiss.
AAAAAAKKKKKKKKK!!!!!! Miss Snark kisses editorial ass, not AGENTS!!!
There once was the creature with frightening feature.
Teacher, called The Reacher.
He flew his helicopter.
Risk was his adopter.
He laughed in the face of fear.
He was snazzy,
His jeans so jazzy.
His grin, a dream, like the cat with cream.
It would seem, he's not part of a team.
Flying solo along the moonbeam,
with his companion, Jim Beam.
He penned his life's story, all guts and glory.
Queried Dan Lazar, words cut like a laser
Dan's sidekick, old Griffin saw his jaw bristle and stiffen,
as The Reacher's creature was featured.
“Snazzy,” Dan Lazar murmured. “No author’s taken me for a helicopter ride among the moonbeams.” His leg pressed against Reacher’s. The small hairs on Reacher’s neck stood up; was this how agents did foreplay?
“Have you considered writing a memoirs? A novel? I bet you have a great mcgriffin.” Lazar’s words slurred.
“Eight thousand feet,” the pilot said over his shoulder.
Reacher leaned across Lazar to throw back the cargo door. Artic wind slapped both men’s faces.
Reacher wrenched the agent from his seat. “Tess O’Brien doesn’t like the deal on her last book. Too bad your contract’s iron-clad. She said this was the only way out.” Reacher gave a great heave and watched Lazar spiral away.
I told you to put those 30 day notices in your contract Dan!!!!!
The writer’s conference was over, but wanna-bes still circled like a helicopter over a car crash. The query letter boot camp was not a success. His snazzy shoes and painfully honest critiques had angered the so-called writers in Denver. Unfortunately, a griffin with a thick manuscript pointed to him. Dan Lazar glanced around for an exit. He made a desperate wish and a gossamer moonbeam descended from the Heavens. Dan stepped towards it, longing for escape. Alas, his Cole Haan caught a seam in the carpet. Dan stumbled and became a reacher, not a teacher. He fell. The mob applauded.
Mob indeed. Y'all are just blood thirsty!