An Interview with Madd and Dog2020

Christmas in Linken Park Chicago

We interviewed the Dozen’s Players Madd and Dog2020 better known as Maddog 2020 aka MD2020 to learn more about this unique version of the classic Dickens A Christmas Carol.  We found them in a quiet cafe in the Bottoms on Rome Avenue away from the hustle and bustle of 125th Street and Obama Avenue.

We: It’s so nice to meet you two colorful characters.

MD2020: It would have been nicer to meet you if you had been Oprah. Our Agent said we was going to be on Oprah!

We: Well she couldn’t make it.

MD2020:  That’s all right. You got an Oprah sized check in your pocket?

We: I’m paying for dinner.

MD2020: In this greasy spoon dinner ain’t but five bucks all you can eat. Look a here, this chicken wing still got the feathers on it.

We: (Laughs) So tell our readers why The Bottoms is such a unique Christmas tale.

MD2020: Well it’s got us, the finest yo Mama smack talkin’ dozens players in the country.

We: That’s very unique indeed.  I don’t think the original story had any dozens players.

MD2020: But it also got the traditional Scrooge like character and a Bob Crutchet and them dreams. Them dreams are something else. Numbers Runners love them dreams.

We: I understand you two tell a story of almost getting lynched in a place called Mud Turtle Mississippi. Can you elaborate more on that? How does that fit into a Christmas story?

MD2020: It fits into a Black Folks Christmas story very nicely. Your stingy butt readers need to buy a copy.

We: Thank you so much Madd and Dog2020. This concludes our interview.

MD2020: Sure does. My drumstick just jumped off my plate is trying to start a fight with a catfish fillet.

Christmas In The Bottoms is coming soon. In the meantime check out these other stories for your Kindle, Nook, or Ipad.

Harvey's Website

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This favorite has been updated and made even funnier than ever...if that was possible

Christmas In The Bottoms 
(An Excerpt--Dickens'  A Christmas Carol with a Little Soul)

The Bottoms was so poor, they couldn’t even afford a Santa Claus. Once a year a mysterious man descended into the depths of the bottoms and hollered “Ho! Ho!” He was so ugly he frightened the possums to death. They really died. None of that playing dead like they liked to do in stew pots and then jumping out at your ass on the stove. Folk called the mysterious man Creature Claus. Some believed he was either connected with the Nutcracker or connected with Ebenezer’s Pawn shop. His pawn shop was another business Ebenezer ran out of the garage of Glad Wrappings. Folks in the Bottoms tried to pawn anything they could to make ends meet. One diabetic pawned his amputated leg. Ebenezer gave him a nickel a pound for the blackened limb. The next day the restaurant side of Glad Wrappings ran a blue plate special called blackened Lamb Bone Hocks and Sweet Chittlins. How the chitlins got sweet? Well the old Cook got the salt and sugar mixed up and poured a cup of sugar in them steaming funky things. Of course Ebenezer being ever so thrifty, ordered the cook to throw in some stale biscuits and called the dish Chitlin Cobbler. That dish went to the old folks home three days later and killed five seniors. And guess who got the bodies?

As the Christmas Eve day danced merrily around Glad Wrappings Funeral Home and Barbecue Shack, three men not too wise, from the Bottoms Charity and Welfare Committee came to see Ebenezer about a donation to help buy turkey necks and yams for the widows and orphans.

“What they been eatin before Christmas,” Ebenezer asked peering up at the men as he pried the gold out of some dentures.

“Grits and grease,” the men replied in unison.

“What they going to eat after Christmas?”

“Grease and grits.”

“Well for Christmas, they should have a second helping of grease and be quite satisfied. Now get your ass out of my shop, before I slather you in barbecue sauce and  throw you in that crematory.” The men rushed out in a huff. “You the fat one can stay if you like,” Ebenezer called after the one with the rhinoceros butt.

Coming soon to your favorite eReader

Harvey's Website

Another Installment from my upcoming novel THE ROAD TO ASTROWORLD

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Chapter 3

 Goose Steps

“Where you going, goose?”

Promise stopped.  She had run through the gates of Paradise Gardens and was walking briskly down Lyons Avenue with her head outstretched. Her Uncle Bobo and other men loitered on the porch of a shotgun shack. The porch sagged like the inside of a boat. Two columns that held up the porch’s roof leaned together. Her uncle rested on his elbows between the posts stroking his chin with one hand as he eyed Promise. He held a Styrofoam cup in his other hand. His pals in frumpy church clothes gathered around him grinning at her. One fellow wore a bus driver’s black coat. His silver badge gleamed like a razor blade.  A bright green bottle sat on the banister shining under the sun’s rays like a jade offering. The men had filled their cups from the bottle. Their eyes were bright and lustful. Promise put her foot on the bottom step. The air was scented with rain, sweat, and the ripe fruity aroma that drifted out of the bottle. She looked at the grinning men and felt big inside. She put her hands on her hips and looked her uncle straight in his reddish eyes.

The Road to Astroworld (an excerpt)

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The following is an excerpt from my novel in progress THE ROAD TO ASTROWORLD. In this letter, the main character Promise is recalling the time when she and her childhood girlfriend played husband and wife in the kitchen on a rainy day. The rain has always played a role, good or bad, in Promise's life.

The Road To Astroworld....

Dear LaKeisha Ann:

Do you remember that rainy day, when the rain trapped you in my house, (when the rain was to me like Christmas tinsel and not razor blades), and we played husband and wife?  Do you remember that day?  My Big Mama dozed in front of the TV as Another World flickered in front of her closed eyes. Eric snoozed on his sickbed. The sheets formed a tent from his erection. We watched that tent rise and fall in time with his breathing. You wanted to touch it, but I wouldn’t let you. I didn't know then, but now I know why we all of a sudden wanted to play husband and wife. The rain fills people with romantic notions.  That's why I can forgive a certain bus driver.

We argued over who was going to be the husband coming home from working hard on the job. You won when you said the husband had to be a boy. Why I thought a girl could be a husband, I don't know. I knew I didn’t want to be no boy.

The Butterfly Killer (Short Story Version)

This short story serves as the introduction to the novel Butterfly Killer

Elliot Cross is the Butterfly Killer. He targets anyone with dreams and aspirations. In this short story we are introduced to his cunning ways. He stops at nothing to gain his victim's confidence. If you have a dream,he's ready to make sure you don't live to achieve it. It doesn't matter how simple or elaborate. As you see in this introductory short subtitled The Driving Lesson, the dream can be as simple as a teen boy anticipating passing his driver's test. It can be as large and complex as a Mother about to give birth to a baby after many failed attempts. Whatever your hope or ambition, Elliot waits until you're at the threshold and snuffs the dream. 
He invokes God as the justification for his crime. In his mind, he says he is doing the work of the Lord. God is jealous because the victims care more about their aspirations than they care about him. God is using him enforce his first commandment: "Thou shall have no other Gods before me" to show his power and how little he cares about people's "foolish follies."
Included is an excerpt from a scene further into the novel. For now relax and enjoy this free short if you can indeed relax. 

The Driving Lesson (The Butterfly Killer)

Timmy thought it was odd that Carrie’s Father didn’t want anyone to know about the Sunday driving lesson. He churned it over and over in his head, Mister. Cross’s reasoning for the secrecy.

“Your friends will be as mad as wet hens if they fail to pass and they find out you passed because you had an extra lesson. I can just hear my Carrie, ‘But Dad, you gave Timmy private lessons, but not your own Daughter?’ Whoo! That gal can be jealous. But you know her. You and her are tight like a drum aren’t you?”

That explanation sounded reasonable to Timmy. Kids at South High tended to act like crabs in a barrel. If half of Mister Smith’s Trig Class was failing, they all had to fail. Shining stars weren’t tolerated. And Mister Cross was right about his daughter Carrie. Most kids shied away from Carrie, partly because of him and his crazy love for chasing butterflies all over the neighborhood. But she also had a jealous streak that was about as green as her hair. Girls didn’t stay friends with her very long. Even other lesbian girls fell victim to her rants and arm twisting because she had caught them talking to boys or other girls. But Mr. Cross had put his hand on his shoulder in a most fatherly way. Or was that creepy, Timmy wondered?  The hand lingered a moment longer than it should and squeezed harder than it should have, as if it was a massage.

If only he could see better, Timmy thought to himself as he looked deep into his blue eyes while he brushed his teeth. He knew he needed glasses. That’s why he squinted and held books far from his face as he read. He heard his Mother cough. He listened as she hacked and gasped for air. Then there was silence. Timmy’s toothbrush rested against his left molar. He was about to yank the brush out of his mouth and run to his Mother’s room, but she cleared her throat. He continued brushing. “Another false alarm,” he said to himself. He didn’t want to bother her about his eyes. Lord knows she had had enough problems of her own with a breathing disorder so bad it had placed her in a scooter. Money was tight. He had to pass his driving test. She had scrimped and saved the one hundred and seventy-five dollars in a pickle jar for him to take Driver’s Education. He had to do all he could to keep from failing. But as much as he wanted to be a man at that moment, he also knew his Mother insisted on knowing his goings and comings. Even at sixteen, she warned him as if he was six, about getting into stranger’s cars. But Mister Elliot Cross was no stranger and he wasn’t like Mister Slaughter who lived in the pinkish house two doors down from him. Carrie’s dad chased butterflies, not boys.

“Maybe I should tell Mom,” Timmy thought, as he stood in front of her closed door. He had his hand on the knob when he heard her begging his Aunt Peggy for a ride to the grocery store. Timmy turned, grabbed his jacket and cellphone, and headed out the door to meet Mister Cross.

The Thing

Sample from THE THING

The Cardinal arrived at the base arrayed in a fine peacock headdress. His robes shimmered as if they were a golden heat mirage one might see in the desert. His black leather pumps outshined any General’s polished hooves. He leaned on a staff of gleaming emeralds. At the crown of his staff was a four headed python. Inscribed in Latin on this pole were the words, “The Eyes of Man.” A young boy in white robes carried a cross and walked in front of the cardinal. The Cardinal stopped and kneeled next to the granite typewriter-shaped monument dedicated to “POETS WHO SPEAK AS INSTRUCTED.” He touched the ground with his forehead and the boy marked the spot with his cross. The priest led the commanders and their men in prayer.

“Oh God, strike dead our eyeless enemy. Rent them from your earth. Confuse their sexuality. Make their men lust after their own sons and their Mothers eat her daughters. Pour bitter sugar down their throats and make their gears grind to a halt. Scud their missiles and make them blow up in their homes. They are dogs! Yes, yes, yes, strike dead our eyeless carrion eaters. May their head Mullah pop his cork. This is our prayer. Your humble servant, your peace loving vicar of the Godful people of this land. Amen.”

After this prayer was uttered and the Cardinal sprinkled the crowd with holy tomato juice, the events that followed made the biblical Day of Pentecost seem like a meeting of stamp collectors.


Charles Harvey on the Web
The Thing Free on Smashwords
Amazon Author Page
Bedroom Tales on Amazon

Writing Tip 9 The Value of Editing

I'm not an Editor nor do I play on on TV. However, as a writer I  see the tremendous value in editing. I highly recommend people hire and develop a close relationship with an Editor. They can do so much to help shape your book and your writing. In my opinion, a good Editor doesn't rewrite your book. They help YOU write it better. Your unique dialog, characters, plot, settings, voice, and narrative are what you are bringing to the table. An Editor helps by getting rid of the "clunkiness" that plops up in all of our writing. You should be catching most spelling errors and some grammar errors with your word processor's spell check and grammar check. An Editor shouldn't have to waste time correcting spelling and grammar errors--at least not the easy to catch things. Of course these tools aren't perfect and another set of eyes are helpful to catch words like "united" that get written as "untied." I made such a boo boo once in a fund raising letter I had written for an organization. I didn't catch it until weeks later after dozens of letters had gone out. Software has its limitations.