The Tyranny of Choice

My problem in starting up a blog won't be the lack of topics, it'll be that I'll have too many.  Since pitching the idea of monetizing my blog to my eager investors (myself), I've come up with at least the following ideas (at least meaning I've probably forgotten at least two ideas and probably will forget another couple - or add a couple - before even finishing this section):

• A post on the fundamentals of starting to monetize a blog.
• A primer on distributed systems for non-tech folk and why monetizing a blog at scale shouldn't be prohibitively expensive.
• A discourse on the benefits and ailments of socialism and capitalism (though the two aren't diametrically opposed, but in today's world they sure seem to be).
• How to travel virtually.
• Getting started playing guitar (this is actually something I've been meaning to write for a long time).
• What are the next big things that civilization should tackle and in what order?
• A short story on someone hanging out in the Roman Forum a few years after the collapse of the Roman Empire.
• What steps can we do to simplify our lives?  I have an aching feeling I've written on this before, but it's probably worth a longer refresh with a new perspective.

I haven't yet done much research on the number of topics a blog should cover, but if I were a betting man (and I'm not), I'd bet that the conventional wisdom would likely state that I should focus on one or two topics to ensure a core audience.

The problem with that is that I'm more of a renaissance type of individual.  Or, more aptly, a jack of all trades and master of none.  If writing may be my talent, it's not necessarily delving into a deep topic.

This is not to say that one cannot plumb the depths of a seemingly narrow topic if given the desire and the will.  One of the most powerful quotes (really paraphrases, because I've searched high and low for the source but can't find it, because I can neither remember the exact quote nor can I remember the exact book) that I'll remember for the rest of my lucid life found me while I was considering applying to grad school.

A friend of mine had a book about getting into grad school and all of the typical pitfalls that occur while applying and attending school.  He was kind enough to let me borrow it, so I thumbed through it to peruse various sections relevant to me.  I'd been thinking for some time about what I'd want to write my thesis on if I made it into grad school.  One of the supposedly daunting issues of writing a thesis is that the work you do needs to be original research - as in, no one else in the field has ever developed a solution for the problem you're addressing.  For the longest time, I always assumed this meant I had to come up with something on par with Newton's discovery of gravitational principles, Einstein's theories of relativity, or Shakespeare's masterful use of iambic pentameter.  The book addressed the topic of thesis selection in some depth before ultimately stating something along the following lines:

Don't worry about picking a topic or about how broad or deep your provisional research topic may be.  Once you find something you're marginally interested in, ask the instructor - assuming you've learned about the topic through the courses you're taking - if you can assist with their current efforts.  Humans are amazingly adept at taking a topic that's seemingly boring or of narrow scope and turning it into a flourishing endeavor.

I followed that advice, and shortly after finishing either my first or second class on state automata in computer science, I bounded up to the professor at the end of the lecture and asked if there's any topic I could be of assistance with as a new grad student.  Turns out there was.  Shortly thereafter I began my journey learning about cellular automata, heading toward the only "A-ha!" moment of my life (when I woke-up from a light afternoon nap on the couch and figured out the principal sticking point to the problem I was tasked with), performing the elusive original research, and getting published as an author in a couple of academic journals.

So, to recap, the problem won't be that I have too few topics to write about, it's that I may try to research the world or astound you with my own navel-gazing abilities.  To that end, I've now written approximately 3 posts in the past four days about thinking about getting serious about my blog.  Those posts are north of 3,000 words already with further depths to plumb on the topic, if I so choose.

Regardless of whether or not I think this particular exercise is useful, I guess it's more important to ask, if I'm even remotely interested in increasing readership - are you entertained?

What's My Motivation Again?

OK, I've now proven to myself that I can write (at least) 500 words about any topic that I haven't sufficiently planned for.  In fact, if I really think hard about it, I can write 32K and counting words on a topic that I haven't sufficiently planned for.  If I squint my eyes and think even harder, most of what I've written over the course of my life has been poorly researched, so I guess an inchoate blog is right up my alley.

Ok, so why do it?  Well, it certainly helps that I like to write.  I'm not certain that too many people are ever going to read this or any of my other posts, but it's not likely to stop me from writing - at least in fits and starts - here.  In fact, there are times where I don't necessarily want people to read what's here.  I want the therapy that comes along with jotting your thoughts down, and I don't necessarily want to do deal with all the scary people lurking on the internet.

But, if I can turn a "hobby" into something that can make me money, I guess it's worth it to go toe-to-toe with the comrade bots from time to time.  I'd also like to see if I can produce content that entertains, informs, or provokes people into thought.  I put "hobby" in quotes as I don't see writing as a fun past time that I may walk away from at some point.  I see it as a necessity.  I also do a fair amount of writing at work, so I'm not worried about the old adage of spoiling a hobby by turning it into a business, because it's already a part of my typical tedium.

Besides, the concept of "writing" (I'm big on quotes today) is such a varied concept that it's hard to say what part of it would be considered a hobby.  It's like saying "you'll hate speaking in English that much more once you have to do it for a living."  If I have to spend 1-2 hours a day writing 1000 - 2000 words and that becomes the principal activity in a new job, I should be able to cope.  If I can't, then I'm going to have a hard time with anything, because most careers require more than a couple hour commitment per day (except for millionaire trust fund baby).

Now, this, again, is assuming I don't have to research any pieces, but even that doesn't bother me.  Again, as an arbitrary guess, if I'm putting in 3 hours of research for every 1 hour of writing, that's still not a shabby proposition.  I don't intend to try my hand at journalism, where the time chasing down leads, double-checking them, and making sure you've satisfied at least one editor can be highly variable (and all while still on deadline - no wonder journalism has a higher level of sociopathy than most professions).  And, at this moment in our Summer of Corona, I'm lucky enough to have the luxury to experiment and see how things work out.

And, experimentation, even in the worst of times, is cheap.  As long as I have the internet and a laptop, content creation is a snap.  Now, I didn't say that good content creation is a snap, but again, we refrain to - I'm probably going to create content for myself whether or not I'm simply throwing it into the electronic void.  

If I'm lucky enough to be able to increase my reading base significantly and host my own site then according to this post (oh look, I did actually do some research - unverified, but research nevertheless.  I'm building some good habits early-on during this pleasant Saturday eve) the magic number is somewhere around 100,000 page views.  Per month.

In the realm of the tech world, that's an easy target to scale up to.  A fairly successful mid-size e-commerce company could see that kind of traffic in under 10 minutes.  In addition, they typically have more dynamic content, whereas my blog posts - if I'm really prolific - will change twice a day.  

Why is this important?  Well, it's not to you, but it is to me, because it means, should I become wildly successful, I won't have to spend an arm and a leg on infrastructure.  Hosting static content (that of the 2 updates at most per day variety) is pretty straightforward.

So, to round out this Medium-averse length blog post, here's why blogging makes sense, even if I'm never going to see my dream of owning a gold plated house come to fruition as a result of my authoring capabilities:

• I like to write.
• Writing for me is cathartic.
• Because writing is ingrained in what I do now, it's not likely to burn me out if this becomes a part-time business or a full-time business.
• Blogging is a low barrier to entry business.  Usually, this is bad, but because writers are uniquely stylized in their offerings, I'm not "competing" on price or feature set, I'm "competing" on content (again with the quotes).  I say "competing" because, while you only have a limited amount of time in your life (as do I).  However, if you read another blog (or novel or billboard ad), it doesn't mean that you, therefore can't read my blog.  The number of competitors I'm facing is highly fluid and extremely heterogenous, so blogging - as it stands today until TikTok and Insta kill the written word - isn't a zero-sum game.
• Even if I'm wildly successful, the cost to maintain a blogging business is extremely low (as opposed to maintaining an airplane manufacturer).

So, I don't really have much to lose by attempting to monetize my blog and pretty much everything to gain, even if it's not monetary gain.

Chapter 29 - Watch That First Step

Tannehill's response was flat. "I'm sorry, he did what?"

"Strangled himself."

"Where? How?"

Murphy flashed annoyance. "Like I said. In his cell."

Tannehill put his hands up pleadingly, "I know there's not a lot of real estate in a jail cell, but that's my point, there's not a lot of real estate. It's not easy to hang yourself. Did you think he was a suicide risk?"

Murphy's lips were pencil-thin. His stare fixed. "No."

Tannehill's conciliatory tone continued, "Look, I assume you didn't bring me down here just to respond with terse answers. You could've given me this information over the phone."

Murphy's stare remained in place. The fern straightened up slightly in response.

"Can you at least let me see the holding cell where it happened?"

Murphy sighed and the fern drooped, "you know what the holding area looks like CH."

"So, indulge me, Murph. This man killed my partner for God's sake, " he suppressed the urge to say "may have killed" in an effort not to press his luck too far, "And now he's dead? I'm a PI. This isn't going to sit well with me unless I get some sort of answer.  Let me just look at the area so I can set my own uneasy mind at rest."

Murphy sighed again and slowly pulled himself from the chair to his full height. The fern straightened a bit in imitation. "Let's go." The words were drawn out interminably into a mournful bellow.

They walked from the office further back into the bowels of the precinct. This being Capital City, everything was built on a hill, and the station was no exception. Even though the entrance was at street level and the stairs descended 15 feet to the holding cells, the labyrinthian architecture of the building allowed the prisoners the luxury of a small glimmer of sunlight puncturing an aperture in the brick wall.

Despite the sunlight on the split levels, the 15 feet of decline between them was nothing but precarious darkness. The pitch of each step was variable and the pine that composed the steps hadn't been replaced since the gold rush.

A single, unsecured incandescent bulb winked in its knowledge of the dangerous grounds it illuminated and many a prisoner unjudiciously ignored its omens while falling down the stairs to his peril - either of his own accord or pushed by a phantom hand in blue.

They appeared from the black maw of the stairwell back into the light. A short row of cells stood in front of them.

"Which one?" Tannehill asked.

Murphy gestured nonchalantly to the first cell on the left. Tannehill squared to face it.

He peered into the cell, light yellow paint flaking from the bars to expose their iron heart. The top bunk in the cell was perfectly made. The bottom, a disheveled pile of unmade sheets.

"Where? How?" Tannehill repeated the same questions he had upon learning of Beederman's demise.

"We found him with his back against the bars, legs splayed out in front of him."

"What did he hang himself with?"

"Bedsheet. He attached it above the crossbar here," Murphy gestured at the bar three feet above the floor bisecting the front of the cell.

"Can I see the body?"

"CH, you know I can't do that. It's against procedure. Even with your background and the special circumstances of the case, that'd be a stretch."

"You done here with the crime scene?"

"Yup. It was pretty open and shut."

Tannehill glanced back toward the dark stairwell and the open and shut cases it concealed of broken suspects' bones and bloodied faces over the years. "Mind if I take a look?" 

Murphy sighed, went over to the jailer at the far end of the corridor, asked for the keys, walked back, and extended an interminably long arm toward Tannehill with keys in hand. "As a favor to you," he pulled the keys back slightly, "this one time." 

Tannehill unlocked the cell, leaving the keys dangling from the door, and walked in. He became aware of the smell of bleach in the far corner by the bed - a smell that hadn't been so pungent when he stood outside the door. 

He moved to the bed and inspected the sheets.  Among the tangles, he spotted a couple of tightly wound peaks beginning to soften.  Reddish-brown spots dotted the bedscape in clusters.  

On his way out of the cell, he squatted at the crossbar.  The bar height matched the brim of his fedora.  He stood up, exited the cell, locked the door, and handed the keys back to the jailer, who'd walked down the corridor to observe the investigation.

"Satisfied?" Murphy cocked an eye.

"If you can call it that."  Tannehill chewed on his lower lip.  "Did you see the body?"

"Yup.  Like I said, he was jammed up against the bars, facing the back wall."

"Did you see the body?"  Tannehill squared himself to face the jailer.

"Wasn't my shift."  The jailer responded with such a lack of enthusiasm that Tannehill wondered how regular a suspect's suicide was within the dungeons of the precinct.

"Settles that, I suppose," Tannehill acknowledged begrudgingly.

"Yup," Murphy responded lackadaisically, eager to rejoin his fern in the office.

---

Tannehill stepped outside the station and cocked his fedora back on his head so his face could absorb the surprisingly bright early afternoon sun.

The botched coverup of Beederman-Bellucci's death didn't surprise him. The untimely demise of suspects and the half-hearted efforts to explain them away to a credulous public were standard operating procedures for the Capital City Police Department.

However, in this case, Tannehill couldn't discern a motive. Though the reasons may be scant - whether it was a black man looking at a white woman with the wrong level of interest in his eyes, a suspect who talked back to an arresting officer or a drunk who simply needed some minor assistance to show him the errors of his ways, there was always some reason, however tenuous, that led to motive. 

This one didn't make sense. Beederman-Bellucci surrendered quietly and had already willingly played the patsy for someone else's misdeed. It was possible that he was murdered to stay silent, but to what end? He'd already willingly confessed.

And the police wouldn't off him in revenge for Snell - Snell himself was grudgingly tolerated in the precinct, predominantly because he was lazy and incompetent and posed no threat to department's activities.  Tannehill's ex-communication from the department ensured no one would seek extra-judicial retribution on his behalf.

That left only one motive for Beederman-Bellucci's killing - greed. Given that this was Capital City, it left no shortage of suspects. 

[Author's Note: It's not Medium worthy at only 1108 words, but it's still not too shabby.  The story length is now clocking in at 31624 words.] 

Forced Musings

For reasons that I'll elaborate on in a future blog post, I'm interested to see how much I can write on a given topic with little notice and whether or not the post is more than an incoherent mess.  For this exercise, I'd like to see how easy it is to hammer out 500 words on the topic of, well, blog post length.

My reasons are likely transparent already - I'm interested in generating more content for my blog and, if the gods of capitalism and ad revenue shine on me, possibly even making money from the content.

Let's start with the things I have going for me that could make this venture successful:

1. I write consistently.  My formal academic training is in mechanical engineering and computer science, and I've spent the better part of my career as a software engineer or manager of software engineers.  One would think that people in these fields aren't prone to writing, and one would be right.  If brevity is the soul of wit (huh, this is the second straight blog post I've quoted Polonius from Hamlet), then terseness is the corporate motto.  People don't like reading "long" emails (typically defined as 1000 words or more by the number of groans emitted in proximity when said email reaches co-workers' inboxes), much less writing them.  If people can't be bothered to take 4 minutes to digest something, they sure aren't going to spend 30 minutes - 1 hour to compose their thoughts.  Why write when everything can be solved by a meeting?

I'll leave my rant against meetings and their general uselessness for another day, but, needless to say, I think writing has its place in the breakneck bureaucracy of the modern workplace.  By spending time to compose your thoughts, you're forced to analyze what your exact point is.  Even a furious response to a perceived email slight will make you pause and check a few points of grammar or points of emphasis before shipment - "Should I simply respond with fuck you to indicate I don't care that much?  Should I be more formal and capitalize it (Fuck you) to demonstrate I'm serious about my intent?  Should I use all caps to show my passion?"  In cases where you may simply blurt out something that may or may not be an untruth - I won't call it a lie, as it may be something you mostly think is true but are either too lazy or intimidated to follow up on at the given moment, a common method for kickstarting projects in a corporate environment - you're more likely to fact check yourself (or at least spend the time to find sources that reinforce your bias) when you're writing.

As a reader, I'm much happier with written communication in almost all cases than I am with a meeting.  I can spend more time digesting the writer's intent, I can do it on my own terms at my own speed, and I can do some follow up research independently for points I'm unfamiliar with.  If someone barks at me "What's the ETA on the EKS upgrade and what version are we moving to and why?" I only have scant precious moments to come up with a solid answer or, more likely, lightly prevaricate to fill in the gaps.  This response makes neither party happy.

(By the way the above section - at least in first draft form - is 532 words after about 25 minutes of writing).

2. I've been trained to write.  Despite my STEM education, which is great for a lot of opportunities, but not so much for writing, I also had a strong liberal arts education in high school by being fortunate to participate in the International Baccalaureate program. As an example - I recall being assigned a 500-word assignment in our world history class our senior year every week.  This was something I'd crank out every Sunday afternoon as the clock crept towards 4 PM, and wasn't something I sweated.  In fact, it probably took me about the same amount of time to complete the paper as it did to crank out the first 500 words of this blog post.  At a high school friend's wedding last year I heard a fellow graduate of high professional standing (she's an MD in a research field who has to crank out grants) extoll the virtues of our shared educational background.  She exclaimed that it was relatively easy for those of us who went through the IB program to write, because we had to write with frequency for just about every class.  Until she'd mentioned that, I'd never thought about why writing came so easily to me.  I'd assumed that most people of a certain educational level (certainly research-oriented MDs) could write fluidly.  This is apparently not always the case.  So, cheers to my word-heavy high school education.

3. I like to write.  I mean, hell, I've been writing this blog (among sundry various other works) for a while now.  When I put the right phrase together, it's like solving a puzzle.  When I can reach someone through my (usually) thoughtful communication and have them understand my point of view or get them to think, I get the same fuzzy feeling as a warm fire in a deep-woods setting on a snowy January night.  And yes, that last statement was nothing more than word porn.  But, hey, it's my blog, so I can word porn away.

Why I'd fail at this venture:

1. I have a full-time job and a list of hobbies that keep me from writing consistently.  If you're paying attention to the posts of this blog, you'll notice that I'm 2/3 of a way through a (hopefully) 50,000-word novel.  That novel should be wrapping up right about...oh....now.  That novel will likely wrap up sometime around...oh...now...plus another year.  Still, the fact that I've been able to get this far is something I should give myself credit for.  But I still need to finish.

2. I have a current readership of 1.  You know who you are.  And I hate marketing my skills.  I guess what I'm doing with this post could be considered marketing, but to me it falls more into the camp of self-affirmation, because I don't have any readers.  But, give me a straw boater and tell me I need to sing my own praises at the carnival, and I'd as soon jump in the nearest lake.  If I can't figure out how to comfortably reach a broad audience, I can't really do this as something other than a mildly voyeuristic diary.

3. You hate my writing.  Or are indifferent to it.  Writing - as we know it - isn't usually a career that many people consider stable. Good writers are almost literally a dime a dozen.  And I mean literally in the old-fashioned sense, not in the new, anything-goes literally sense.  And, that's assuming I'm a good writer. 

Even if I'm a good writer, I still need to be a popular enough writer.  I'm not a fan of some of the greatest writers in the last several hundred years (James Joyce, I'm looking at you).  And, I'm a little too old to buy into the starving artist myth, so I need to convince enough of you current non-readers that I'm worth reading.

(Another 25ish minutes, another 599 words - Dr. Downey really did train me well)

So, what's the conclusion? It's readily apparent that I can crank out 500 words on a topic that I wasn't certain I could crank out 500 words on. 

According to this blog post (and similar ones echoing the same finding), Medium has suggested that a blog post of about 1600 words hits the SEO sweet spot, which is likely to maximize revenue.  People tend to prefer shorter posts (sometimes around 300 words) but are more likely to post an interesting entry on the Twitter or the Zuckerberg Diaries if the piece is longer.  That's a bit of contradiction, but I guess it means there's room for both long-form and short-form posts.

OK, so as I wrap this up, it's taken me about one hour to write this post over two sittings in one day.  I haven't yet edited it, but that's usually another 15-30 minutes (finishing one pass of editing here - the most I'll do for this post - it did indeed take me about 20 minutes).  So, if the less sensationalistic articles are to be believed, then a consistently cultivated blog can make (let's be conservative but in a still outrageous way) $6000/month.  That's $6000/month while putting in 8 hours of work a week (1 1/2 hours x 5 days - this is writing class, not math class.  Keep up).  That's pretty good.  Even taking researched topics into account and assuming I need to spend 2 1/2 hours researching for every 1 1/2 hours writing (this is an arbitrary statement, but, meh) the workweek expands to 20 hours/per week.  Still not bad.  

Now, I don't know what the administrative side of a blogging business requires (maybe it's an additional 30 hours, at which this whole thing falls apart), but the opening proposition is at least intriguing and not nearly as daunting (nor as fantastically easy) as I'd first assumed.  

Even at a "paltry" $1000/month for about 40 hours per month, the rate is still $25 - not a horrible side gig.  

Maybe it's worth a shot.

(My total here, pre-edit is 532 + 599 + 290 words or 1,421 total.  Not bad for roughly an hour's effort.)

(1,587 words after editing - Medium would be so proud.)

The Mask

So, this isn't another chapter in my novel (though I've started the next one for those who are waiting and still anticipate a release date before the end of the month), but an attempt to just write more in general.  I don't know that I'm going to develop any theme for this blog yet - outside of the novel - but what are most blogs if not random thoughts generated by one individual to be read by three other people before the whole concept is abandoned?

Today I'm asking why people refuse to wear a mask during the most pervasive pandemic since the Spanish Flu.  I know the ostensible reason: it's a violation of individual rights that Americans hold so dear.  The fear is that if we give into this one thing for the government, the slope will become ever more slippery.  

The problem with that argument is that we've already yielded our specific individual rights for a collective society that functions relatively well.  You can't simply speed through select traffic lights of your choice all the while screaming "Don't tread on me!" out the stuck window of your 4Runner.  Only the most hardcore libertarian would make that argument (and I've heard them do so). 

That's also a massive problem I have with extremist philosophies (of which libertarianism is one, as is, even though I lean relatively far left, communism).  While it's good to identify how things may devolve if we don't keep our eye on the ball, it's a big stretch to assume that as soon as you're required to put on a mask, we'll time warp back to 1984.

So, why do people fight it?  Fear.  Not of their rights but of an invisible disease over which we have no control.  If it's labeled a hoax or overblown or a conspiracy, people have a greater sense of control - something with intelligence is pulling the strings, so it can be solved and defeated.  It allows people to ignore the truth of what's happening in the world right now and taps them into the sense that they - and they alone - "really know what's going on, not like the other sheeple."

The other tenuous argument I hear about this is that if people choose not to wear a mask, they should stay home, because they have the right to do so without infringing on the liberties of others. I'd flip the argument though.  A mask protects other people, not you, so you're being a selfish prick not paying attention to the well-being of others in your freedom-loving society if you don't wear a mask, so shouldn't you have the right to stay home if you don't want to wear a mask.

The bitter irony here is that, according to well-established science, if we'd all mildly restricted our liberty for about 8 weeks, this wouldn't be a debate now.  We may still need to wear masks, but we also still need to wear pants, so I'm not really sure what the logical contention is.  It's a small price to pay to literally save the world (and I don't even mean the death toll, I mean the societal costs that add up during times of massive uncertainty and leads to small fractures in our normal routines).  If you're one of the idiots that questions the "well-established science" and is about to deep state me with some mindblowing argument from a sibling blog as prestigious as this one, well, then I ask - at what point will you ever change your mind?  Your news sources likely just reinforce your own thinking, which isn't a healthy way to live.  Fox News tells you all the Cheetoh diet is healthy?  You may like hearing it, but it'll kill you way quicker than that vaccine you refuse to get.  A little skepticism and a healthy counter-argument are good for the soul and the intellect.

I was skeptical at first, too.  It's no secret the press likes to make mountains out of molehills and this looked like other localized diseases where we've been warned to batten down the hatches but that turned out to be all for naught.  But at some point the evidence became obvious.  And, at some point, you have to believe someone.  Or you don't.  But if you don't, you'll just wind up being some rambling redneck, getting drunk in your garage lamenting the good ol' days when you only declared bankruptcy every 14 years instead of every 7.

So, think of what would've happened if we all just would've followed medically approved advice for a brief period of time rather than acting like spoiled children with loaded assault rifles - we would've had a recovery like Europe - scary and isolating for 6-8 weeks but then a summer where we could feel more confident about the economy and with some further minimal (and, yes, I'll admit) state-sanctioned prophylactics we'd be able to live relatively normal lives until a vaccine's available.  

Instead, we still insist on our emphatic right to die (or, realistically, let someone else die without realizing that "someone" could be ourselves, but we're smarter and more invincible than that, right, Nabokov?) and inflict more self-harm on our nation than a horny teenager with a razor blade stuffed in his right hand.  

Chapter 28 - A Quiet Night

Politicians took notice of Spinoza's campaign against corruption. Tired of looking like fools -they took notice that they'd been caught in their half-hearted attempts to hide the most brazen corruption, but failed to notice they'd also been skewered because they were too incompetent to manage the city properly - they implemented institutional changes to burnish their image.

Their most prominent change was the replacement of the existing police commissioner.  

The city's keepers were keenly aware that the cost in violence for their ignorance of prohibition laws and norms was becoming tiresome to the electorate.  From their gilded offices, they unceremoniously dumped the current commissioner (and unceremoniously thanked him for his service by installing him as the new commissioner of the streets and sanitation department, where he could manage his organized crime ties with less visibility and new-found freedom).  In his stead, they installed "The Mad Hungarian."

"The Mad Hungarian" was neither mad nor Hungarian.  He was born William T. Buttons of Edinburgh and affected a mildly German accent while fighting in World War I for reasons known only to The Mad Hungarian.  The German accent layered on top of his Scottish burr provided those not paying enough attention reasonable cause to create a backstory to fit the role they wanted him to play.

While not mad, his methods were ruthless and exaggerated. He took the city's "War on Prohibition" slogan to heart and drastically changed the rules of engagement between cops and bootleggers.

Previously, the two would wink and nod cheerfully at each other while exchanging bulky envelopes or glasses of bathtub gin.

Under the Mad Hungarian's direction, officers were expected to find any charge, however small, to arrest a scofflaw. If the suspect resisted, officers were encouraged to escalate their use of force to exceed the assailant's level of resistance.

Given the city's general historic enthusiasm for embracing modern (read knee-jerk changes following the political winds) tactics, it wasn't long before interactions between police and hoodlums varied somewhere between mild armed skirmishes at best and block to block battles lasting into the wee hours of the morning at worst.

Inevitably, there was the occasional collateral damage - a luckless dog walker here, a misplaced tourist there. Citizens understood that sacrifices were part of a greater cause and first took the effort in stride.

However, when the casualty numbers for non-combatants began to exceed those of combatants, public opinion changed.

City managers and police brass felt they were over a barrel. They only believed they had two options - allow the criminals to run awash over the city and attempt to ameliorate the rampant crime by setting up a stable system of graft to keep the violent crime hidden, but risk excoriation by the press. Or keep up a relentless paramilitary campaign that harmed the populace disproportionately but could be touted as a devoted law and order decision. And be excoriated by the press. 

It never occurred to them that they could champion legal reform and lead - with the knowledge that leadership meant potential career suicide for a greater good - thus finding a saner, more humane path that would leave the city in much better shape. They instead continued to follow the law and order path.

It was under these conditions that Tannehill was redeployed from desk duty to lead raids against bootleggers. The department heads felt safe in their self-assurance that having one of their heroes lead efforts against prohibition bootleggers would strike the balance between the public's need for peace and safety, the public's demand for liquor, and the equally important requirement to ensure things ran as before so they, and their political bosses, could continue to profit appropriately from their devotion to public service. 

Tannehill's raids were largely devoid of bloody confrontation.  Rather than utilize a massive show of force parading through streets with an ominous "thump-thump-thump" of municipality-issued boots that struck a note of dread in the hearts of both criminals as well as civilians (and also giving their adversaries advance warning and a chance to prepare for battle) he chose smaller, more nimble squads.  

He often used a small squad of 5-10 uniformed officers to lead the raid with another 5-10 plainclothes officers to scout the raids and confuse the targets.  Mobsters often complained that the plainclothed officers were "un-sportsmanlike" because they didn't provide highly visible targets during battle and could be mistaken for their comrades in the booze trade, thus making shootouts much less straightforward.

In Tannehill's raids, an exchange of gunfire wasn't a forgone conclusion, but there were still occasions where someone from either side may wind up in the hospital. Or the morgue. So, Tannehill always approached each raid with an abundance of caution and a sense of apprehension.

This particular night's raid was no different. The streets just outside of the tony back bay neighborhood were slick with recent heavy rain, dampening low-level background noise and accentuating the benign punctuations of sharp, random outbursts common to any city. The rain kept people indoors and cooled the air, which reduced the officers' baseline stress levels. 

The operation they were raiding was as straightforward as anyone they'd had in weeks - a cousin of a cousin of someone connected was permitted to make a bourbon barrel or two per week for easy profit with low risk - don't get busted, no problem. Get busted, no problem, it's small potatoes.

From the department's standpoint, the payoff was likely good too - low production meant low security and low likelihood of bloodshed. A successful raid was always a great public relations win, no matter how small. It could be spun as nipping a burgeoning operation in the bud before it grew into something more difficult to exterminate. The bonus of no violence also highlighted the success of modern police methods and meticulous preparation. 

The men made their way among the muted, refreshed tones of the city - only the crunch of their soles on the pavement seemed to offer any cadence to the otherwise silent night.  They moved from alley to alley, efficiently securing the area and ensuring no bootleggers were waiting in ambush to confound them from their night's duty.

They approached the final alley before the makeshift still that was to be the target of their raid.  Alone at the front of the alley stood a single, brand new trashcan - seemingly emanating light through the cloud-covered night. Without warning, the lid clattered cacophonously to the ground.  The can followed immediately thereafter, briefly filling the air with an incredible and confusing din.

Tannehill, pistol already primed for the raid, turned in the direction of the garbage can and fired down the alley.  Twice.

[Author's Note:  So I didn't manage to get a second installment out before the end of May, but with June, I bring an additional 1102 words and a new milestone - 30516 words total.]

Chapter 27 - Reach Out and Touch Someone

"Did you try the storage locker?" Spinoza's voice sounded tinny from the other end of the line.

"There was no storage locker attached to the building."

"But you were by the loading docks? The place where literally tons of goods are loaded, unloaded, and..." Pause. "... stored every day?" Spinoza had framed his response as a question, though it was rhetorical to its very heart.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean every rented business on the waterfront receives free storage." Tannehill was beginning to regret recounting the day's events to his friend.

"No, you're right, but a few extra minutes of detective work is probably worth the effort, isn't it?"

"Yes." Tannehill was growing peevish at the journalist's less-than-subtle recommendations about his chosen profession.  The interaction began to dredge up painful experiences the two of them faced in the still not-too-distant past.

Spinoza may have sensed this as well by the curtness of Tannehill's reply.  "Look," his tone was more reconciled now, "my workload isn't as cumbersome as I originally expected it to be yesterday. I can meet you later this afternoon. We'll go back to the bakery and see if..." - he paused looking for a less accusatory phrase than "there's something you missed" - "... see if there's another clue or two."

Tannehill tried to curtail some of the relief in his voice for fear of sounding desperate. "Thanks. I'll wait for you at The Happy Hour." He hung up.

Tannehill surveyed his office. The smell of bleach had faded significantly in the last few days adding a strange sense of normalcy to the underlying one of recent tragedy. The silence of the room wasn't out of the ordinary, since Snell seldom visited the office in life. Tannehill snorted in response half-bemused that, in an ironic twist, this was where Snell died.

The sharp ring of the phone broke the silence. Something about its shrill sense of urgency signaled more bad news. "Hello?" Tannehill spoke warily.

"Can you come down to the precinct today?" Lt. Murphy's voice was measured, but there was a sense of purpose behind it.

"I'm not under arrest am I?"

Murphy sighed in response to Tannehill's standard sarcastic retort, "No Tannehill, you're not under arrest. There have been some...developments in the case."

"Some...developments" was never a positive sign. No one ever indicated that "some...developments" occurred before announcing the case had been cracked. "Yes," the resignation in Tannehill's voice was apparent, "I can make it.  When?"

"1 PM."

"OK." The two men hung up simultaneously.

---

"I need to make a brief call, Shorty." Another day another interaction with the desk sergeant.

"Is it local?"

"Yes it's local. I need to let someone know I won't be able to make an appointment since I'm, well, here.."

"It's not long-distance?"

"Unless local and long-distance can coexist peacefully in space and time, no."

Shorty pushed the phone reluctantly toward Tannehill. Tannehill rang through to Spinoza's extension at the paper. Ring. Ring. No answer.

"Shit." Tannehill muttered quietly, silenced the receiver, and paused briefly with his finger on the lever. He then placed a call to the Happy Hour. Shorty stared at him, eyes bulging.

"Hello," the voice was tired, thick, and confused on the other end.

"Hello. I'd like to leave a message for Vera."

"Vera ain't here. She works a split shift and gets in at two." Tannehill recognized the other conversant by the voice and the proclivity to give out slightly too much information. It was Flo, the waitress he'd encountered when Vera was off the other day.

"Yes, I know. I'd like to leave a message for her." Shorty tapped his wrist with his right index finger. Tannehill turned away from him.

"OK." Prolonged, unintelligible pseudo-silence punctuated by the occasional rasp of drawn breath followed on the other end of the line.

"Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"To take a message." There was an interminable wait for the discovery of a writing instrument on the other end of the line. Tannehill had turned back toward Shorty, whose eyes continued to bulge in impatience. Tannehill turned away again.

"OK," Flo coughed, "ready."

"Please tell Vera that Tannehill won't be able to make it. If she sees a tall, thin man with dark hair who looks a little like William Powell and answers to Spinoza, then she should accompany him to the bakery."

"OK, but there's no one here who looks like William Powell."

Dealing with this woman would infinitely expand the bounds of anyone's patience. "I understand." Each word was measured. "But he'll show up soon. I just need her to get the message."

"OK." The scribbling that persisted seemed to last for ten minutes, "which bakery?"

"It doesn't matter" - words still measured - "she'll know which bakery."

"Right," pause and more writing, "got it." Tannehill very much doubted that fact but had no other options.

"Thank you." They hung up.

"You said one phone call."

"I did," Lt. Murphy emerged from the door to the precinct's back office to retrieve Tannehill, "but I realized I needed to make an emergency call to Hong Kong."

Tannehill disappeared behind the door catch a glimpse of Shorty's mouth framed in a perfect 'O' of shock before collapsing into a line of annoyance.

Murphy led Tannehill back to his office and motioned for him to sit. The office fern drooped solemnly in Tannehill's direction acknowledging his arrival.

Murphy rounded his desk and descended in his chair, cheeks placed squarely between his hands. His eyes fixed on Tannehill. "How are things, CH?"

"Find," Tannehill drawled, "considering the present-day circumstances."

"Good to hear," Murphy placed one hand on the desk, and absent-mindedly began drumming with his fingertips, "good to hear."

"Is there something you wanted to tell me Murph?"

"Yeah," the drumming stopped briefly before resuming at a more rapid pace. "Remember the suspect we brought in for Snell's murder?  Beederman?" The drumming stopped again in anticipation.

Tannehill's response crawled at a snail's pace. "What about him?"

Murphy flattened his palm on the desk, looked briefly at the fern for reassurance, and then back down at his palm. "We found him this morning in his cell."

Tannehill stared at Murphy waiting for the next sentence, though he had a good idea about what was coming.

Murphy exhaled sharply. "He strangled himself overnight. He's dead."

[Author's Note: The first edition of May is a respectable 1047 words. With any luck, even though there are only a few days left, it won't be the last edition of May.  The running total for the novel is 29414 words.]