Capture Me, Canuck (Working title)

Cronyism in the Camera Club

I take photos that are worth 338 words on the open market. What most folk don't realize, is that in a free market society, everyone eats healthy, has an abundance of fruits and veg to display upon their kitchen sideboard and can have rolls of film sent away and developed for next to nothing...actually so close to nothing that it is rubbing shoulders and pressing up against its thighs in a most uncomfortable and slightly embarrassing manner. From a distance (varying, depending on one's eyesight or how up-to-date their corrective lenses prescription is), it would seem that with both of them sitting side-by-side, they would indeed be one. And together, as this single, binding force of good and righteousness, it would seek out evil and cast it to the dungeons of defeat, callously stomping on it with heavy boots of lead me to the backwaters of Sarsaparilla Lake, my kind sir! For it is a dire thirst I must quench!

And so, it is probably here, at this point, that my story begins. However, we (me, the reader just after these words have been typed out on the ol' Hermes 3000 and you, the reader after the publishing house, its gregarious staff and the various other associated elements have thrashed me and my ego about, battling tooth and nail, truth will prevail, let us take sail against these corrections, edits, rewrites, archaic uses of a deleatur symbol, more rewrites, endless negotiations over author share of the enormous profits that will be made, including selling off rights to the Big Three movie industry moguls for a gigantic trilogy of film releases starring Kevin Bacon and Sissy Spacek as notorious fugitives on the run from the law and collecting Shasta soda cans wherever they can find them, which of course, leads them to a mysterious shack in the woods, which is a portal to a steamy, godforsaken netherworld being run by ᶓᶔϣ̈ȶ the Ȭچپand his henchman Tyler; played by Clint Eastwood's brother in-law and Damien Lewis respectively, the latter earning an Oscar nomination for his role, yet more rewrites, argy-bargy dele, stet, dele! Stet! I said Dele! Ya, well I say, STET!, editorial notes ending in the words "...or else", until finally, we wearily shake dirty and bloodied hands amidst the settling dust, agree to terms and party like it's 2020 when the book is released to the giant distributing chains across North America, with impending versions translated into Swahili, Mongolian (Khalkha dialect), Greek and fourteen other languages, which, with the exception of one, all sound Ngbee to me) are not really interested in such a boring retelling of origin and so it will be duly noted that a ship without a rudder may flounder upon the Rocks of Abandonment.

"True!" noted one of my esteemed colleagues at a recent luncheon for aspiring members of the Cameras of the World Club (CWCohwhattheheckW). Every Thursday of the first week of all the months of the year, except ones beginning with the letter 'J' or subsequently followed by a previous month that has no first letter at all; i.e. ovember, in a dimly-lit back room of the Frog Monstre Hotel in Devonshire, under a watchful eye, strict, tight control parameters and with up-to-date, security clearance credentials in hand, CWCohwhattheheckW meet for chit-chat about the proper fertilizer for begonias in a temperate climate, tips on displaying underwear (pants') labels in public whilst still maintaining the good graces of the Queen and poignant and heated battles over Nikon supremacy over all those young up-and-comers, who think they are just so it!