Another week of shenanigans in New Orleans

Today, our story has 769 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through Twitter and Facebook.

Now, let’s recap the week. DJ Ponchatoula and Kat LeRouge are taking New Orleans, but they have no idea what’s in store for them as Bobby Grim gets closer to the city. The impending collision is one you won’t want to miss.

DJ punched the accelerator and passed the bus on the left. "Hey, look, some old guy's waving at us."

"Ugly tie, briefcase, some lawyer, money, but too lazy to drive. Pull over."

"No way, we're in enough shit already."

"Pull over, now, or next cop we pass, I scream rape and blame all this on you."

DJ stopped near the curve.

Kat opened the door, and the white-haired lawyer said, “I’m late for a meeting. I just need to go about a block and a half.”

"Oh, we'll take you,” Kat said, "Climb on. Sharing and caring, right?”

The lawyer stepped down into the cab and sat his leather bag between his body and Kat's. "Thank you. I should have be there 5 minutes ago."

DJ pulled the car away from the curve. Grinning, Kat moved the leather bag to the floorboard and scooted close to the lawyer.

"How about a better idea?" She touched his chin with the barrel of the cab driver's thirty-eight. "Ever play a game called gimme?"

"My wallet's in my coat. Sixty bucks and some credit cards."

"How do you know I want money, maybe I want your body, maybe I'm old school, into that retro shit?"

The taxi jolted, and Kat said, "Damn it, DJ, you want this gun to go off in grandpa's face? Stay from behind that friggin bus."

The car whipped left. The lawyer gasped as something exploded.

When Kat came to, no lawyer, just DJ hunched over the wheel, and the cab on fire, jammed under the axle of a Community Coffee truck.

Kat frowned at the crowd peeking through the cracked windshield spotted with blood. "It's all that freaking lawyer's fault."

The back door creaked as she climbed out, sirens echoed from three directions. Opening the driver's side, she gave DJ a tit-twister through his T-shirt.

"Wake-up, Dildo, cops are coming, and I can't carry your scrawny ass."

Minutes later, she staggered back down Canal Street, a groggy DJ on one arm, the lawyer's leather bag on the other with the cab driver’s .38 tucked inside. By St. Charles Avenue, DJ had his bearings. Kat tossed a wad of bloody Kleenex into a trashcan and covered DJ's wound with his cap, as two NOLA patrol cars passed, sirens screaming, blue lights blinding.

Kat and DJ climbed on a streetcar headed south. "I could go for some beignets," she said.

"Those uppers or downers?"

"They're like donuts, Dumb Ass."

An hour later, in a pastry shop called the Loup Garou. Kat ate, played with the laptop she'd found in the layer's bag. DJ watched cable.

"What are you looking for?" Kat asked, as he scanned the channels.

"They've got cameras all over these days. I wanted to see if they got us on the news."

"I hope not. I'll have to dye my hair again."

"What's with the computer?"

"I figured we'd pawn it or something, then I got bored and tried to surf. He doesn't even have wireless on this thing."

"Hah!" DJ found them on the TV, just after the taxi crash. "That's not a very good likeness, too far away and grainy. You can't even see my Saints hat."

"Trust me, Dildo, that's a good thing." Kat kept browsing files on the laptop. "This guy was into some boring shit, no porn or anything."

"Look, he's on TV." DJ glanced up to see the white-haired man interviewed, describing them. Under his face, a name: Congressman Rube Rarick.

"Oh, no," DJ said, "We're screwed now."

"Don't think so." Kat was looking at the laptop again. "I found something worth selling back to Congressman Rube Rarick."

"You sure he'll pay?"

"Pay us or get life in Angola. Which would you do?"

For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posting less than 140 characters per day. (Yea, I know I posted extra on Friday, but I couldn’t wait!)

As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp.

Our plot:  When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.

Next installments on Twitter and Facebook tomorrow.

Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. Message me or tweet your ideas to everyone. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way.