harryhero

Harry Hero is a collaborative family writing project. He began as typing practice for author #6 in the mid-seventies. Authors M, 1, 4, 5, 7, spontaneously and sarcastically contributed until Harry took on a life and momentum of his own. He was reborn as a Christmas project in the early nineties and again as a web project in the new millennium. Once more Harry has risen from near tragic and certain literary deaths to live again as blog practice. Bulwer-Lytton judges take note.

About Me

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It seems I have suffered and survived a few insults and injuries to my cranium, thus my memory does not lend itself to one seamless life I could call my own. Instead, my life seems to be one dim episode after another documented by a random and rather odd conglomeration of assorted biographers who, for some bizarre reason, seem compelled to document my trials as if I were a remarkable hero. Heroism can take many forms. Perhaps it is finding fresh strawberries in November for the Manhattan socialite's crepes as she breaks her fast. Perhaps it is found in a multitude of skills, lucky breaks and death defying feats. It may be true that piloting my faithful rig, Betsy, through the Canadian Rockies is not for the weak of spirit, mind or body; I claim no special talents other than devoted love and endless hope. Love of a good truck, a good cup coffee and a good adventure. Hope of self-actualization and...Sophie? If you desire a chronological –not necessarily logical- plotline begin reading at the January 26 2006 post - The Not So Constant Gardener - and follow subsequent postings to present day.

Blog Archive

Friday, February 03, 2006

The beginning of a bad night.

“Take it easy there, Bud,” Harry snarled, as the cop twisted his arm higher behind his back. “I’m just here for the night, right?”
“Quiet punk! We know how to handle stumblebum Canucks like youse, here in Vegas,” the porculent flatfoot grunted in return, and gave an extra twist as they reached the cell block. Enraged, Harry threw the cop with a rolling hip lock, and attempted a cross-face chicken-wing. “Hah! I learnt that one from Charlie on the Mekong, punk,” sneered the blue nit, brandishing his sap. A ten megaton tactical thermonuclear device exploded on Harry’s bald spot, and he faded into the faux Navajo tile floor. As our hero’s consciousness faded he saw a size twelve spit-polished battleship approaching his mid-ships at ramming speed.



To be continued...
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