Autistic vs NT descriptions of conversations in writing

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GGPViper
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23 Jun 2021, 9:22 am

It had been 3 years now, and Joe still never spoke more than a few syllables to her. Always just "I'm fine." and "Gotta go". And as the elevator doors closed in front of her, Jozef "Joe" Kosobucki dissapeared from Amy's view and began the familiar descent towards the lower floors and lives of New York City.

Other than Amy, few would likely miss him; the 700 feet above street level afforded the Cornells, Browns and Yales of the 57th floor much-desired distance from people like Joe. An Ivory Tower for the Ivy League.

"You're a real man in an unreal place, Joe", Amy had once told him as to make him feel more at ease in this place. But trite platitudes would never make a mouse feel welcome in a viper's nest, especially when spoken by the most venomous one. These days, however, they needed someone like Joe. Someone who could deal with the dead guy.

The self-defenestrating suicidal Manhattan stock brokers were just rumors, but the guy down the hall was real enough. So was the contents of his skull, courtesy of a .38 to the forehead, arranged all over Cézanne's Les joueurs de cartes on the office back wall - an intimately personal interpretation of the Chrysler building's Art Deco design. Amy had bought it for him. The painting, not the gun.

The company got a cleaning crew to handle the physical mess, and Joe to handle the legal one, since ex-cops were often better and cheaper at corporate damage control than lawyers. To be fair, though, their very best lawyer, Irwin F. Lancaster, could probably handle such a case better than Joe Kosobucki.

But Irwin was indisposed, as he happened to be the unfortunate recipient of the .38 to the forehead. Amy made it look like suicide. Just like 3 years ago. That was when Joe stopped talking, started drinking and stopped caring.



Last edited by GGPViper on 23 Jun 2021, 9:56 am, edited 1 time in total.

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23 Jun 2021, 9:32 am

Image


:D ... and then?


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23 Jun 2021, 3:06 pm

GGPViper wrote:
It had been 3 years now, and Joe still never spoke more than a few syllables to her. Always just "I'm fine." and "Gotta go". And as the elevator doors closed in front of her, Jozef "Joe" Kosobucki dissapeared from Amy's view and began the familiar descent towards the lower floors and lives of New York City.

Other than Amy, few would likely miss him; the 700 feet above street level afforded the Cornells, Browns and Yales of the 57th floor much-desired distance from people like Joe. An Ivory Tower for the Ivy League.

"You're a real man in an unreal place, Joe", Amy had once told him as to make him feel more at ease in this place. But trite platitudes would never make a mouse feel welcome in a viper's nest, especially when spoken by the most venomous one. These days, however, they needed someone like Joe. Someone who could deal with the dead guy.

The self-defenestrating suicidal Manhattan stock brokers were just rumors, but the guy down the hall was real enough. So was the contents of his skull, courtesy of a .38 to the forehead, arranged all over Cézanne's Les joueurs de cartes on the office back wall - an intimately personal interpretation of the Chrysler building's Art Deco design. Amy had bought it for him. The painting, not the gun.

The company got a cleaning crew to handle the physical mess, and Joe to handle the legal one, since ex-cops were often better and cheaper at corporate damage control than lawyers. To be fair, though, their very best lawyer, Irwin F. Lancaster, could probably handle such a case better than Joe Kosobucki.

But Irwin was indisposed, as he happened to be the unfortunate recipient of the .38 to the forehead. Amy made it look like suicide. Just like 3 years ago. That was when Joe stopped talking, started drinking and stopped caring.


Please, finish the story, and get it published!


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23 Jun 2021, 3:57 pm

GGPViper wrote:
It had been 3 years now, and Joe still never spoke more than a few syllables to her. Always just "I'm fine." and "Gotta go". And as the elevator doors closed in front of her, Jozef "Joe" Kosobucki dissapeared from Amy's view and began the familiar descent towards the lower floors and lives of New York City.

Other than Amy, few would likely miss him; the 700 feet above street level afforded the Cornells, Browns and Yales of the 57th floor much-desired distance from people like Joe. An Ivory Tower for the Ivy League.

"You're a real man in an unreal place, Joe", Amy had once told him as to make him feel more at ease in this place. But trite platitudes would never make a mouse feel welcome in a viper's nest, especially when spoken by the most venomous one. These days, however, they needed someone like Joe. Someone who could deal with the dead guy.

The self-defenestrating suicidal Manhattan stock brokers were just rumors, but the guy down the hall was real enough. So was the contents of his skull, courtesy of a .38 to the forehead, arranged all over Cézanne's Les joueurs de cartes on the office back wall - an intimately personal interpretation of the Chrysler building's Art Deco design. Amy had bought it for him. The painting, not the gun.

The company got a cleaning crew to handle the physical mess, and Joe to handle the legal one, since ex-cops were often better and cheaper at corporate damage control than lawyers. To be fair, though, their very best lawyer, Irwin F. Lancaster, could probably handle such a case better than Joe Kosobucki.

But Irwin was indisposed, as he happened to be the unfortunate recipient of the .38 to the forehead. Amy made it look like suicide. Just like 3 years ago. That was when Joe stopped talking, started drinking and stopped caring.


The only thing missing is the soundtrack music:



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25 Jun 2021, 4:05 pm

It had been 3 weeks since the Lancaster case, and Joe hadn't heard from Amy since then. There was nothing in the papers about a suicide in the Chrysler building. But he did find a notice about the company "restructuring its activities" in a financial magazine, right next to an intriguing piece about the virtues of owning multiple New England mansions in order to accommodate a family of four.

But someone had found out about Joe's involvement, and they sent a crew to settle scores a few days ago. They also knew where Joe spent his Friday evenings trying to embalm his liver, so he had to get them off Ludlow Street.

Sure, the bartender was a jackass who watered down Joe's drinks. But that didn't justify getting the whole place shot to pieces (again) just one year after Prohibition ended. And as Joe saw his assailants coming when he approached the bar, he quickly opted for a change in travel itinerary. He went for a nearby alley further down the street, and they of course took pursuit. Their bullets were meant for Joe, and not the watered-down Bourbon. The world could easier do without the former, anyway.

With a busted knee, plenty of extra pounds around the waist and an ongoing 3 year drinking competition with Dionysus, forty three year old ex-cop Jozef Kosobucki was in anything but top fighting shape these days. But he knew how to make the best of a bad situation, and found a suitable, but less than glamorous, position behind a dumpster with his M1911 in hand.

And as the three goons rushed into the alley - eager to claim their prey before sunset so they could party until sunrise - they might as well have been up against twenty one year old lance corporal Jozef Kosobucki, credited with distinction for five kills at the Battle of Masaya in 1912. That battle took less than half an hour. This would be over much faster.

One got off a shot which strafed his knee - the bad one, thankfully - but when the dust settled and Joe's ears stopped ringing, all three men lay dead and done before him, their bravado cut short by an alcoholic middle-aged man proficient in the elusive art of aiming before shooting. To call them men was perhaps a stretch. They all looked younger than he had been in 1912.

From this point on, Joe was on the offensive. A quick search through pockets, blood and dirt yielded a few receipts, licenses and even an address. He made a few phone calls, called in a few favours, and by Monday morning, Joe had the identity of all three. They were nobodies, of course, but he already knew that. A somebody had paid them, and that somebody had to pay.

Joe - no longer the lance corporal, but again the ex-cop - wasn't bound by the confines of law any more. And a deep psychological need for bloody revenge was a perfectly valid response in light of recent events. After all, his Friday night had just been interrupted by a trashy trio too inept to make a decent living. The good folk around these parts would just stick to pimping, shaking down local businessmen and mugging old ladies.

As Joe set off to find his nemesis, he found himself surprisingly at ease. Invigorated, even. This was his game; all those years on the force hadn't been lost to the drink, despite his best attempts. But he also felt a question growing in the back of his mind; the most obvious of questions which would soon find an answer, one way or the other.

Was it Amy who sent these men? Joe knew she would use anyone, including him, to get to the top; and once she got there, what use would she have for him? Perhaps Joe had become disposable, just like the boys in the alley.



JustFoundHere
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16 Jul 2021, 3:56 pm

Understanding subtleties, nuances, etc. in conversations is often difficult regarding the Autism Spectrum. Putting conversations into writing (and maintaining continuity) can prove most difficult.

This story might be of interest (moderate length): Writing When on the Autism Spectrum:
https://www.theopennotebook.com/2018/10 ... -spectrum/



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13 Aug 2021, 4:02 pm

JustFoundHere wrote:
Understanding subtleties, nuances, etc. in conversations is often difficult regarding the Autism Spectrum. Putting conversations into writing (and maintaining continuity) can prove most difficult.

This story might be of interest (moderate length): Writing When on the Autism Spectrum:
https://www.theopennotebook.com/2018/10 ... -spectrum/


ADDENDUM: It can be difficult with High Functioning Autism (HFA) to follow story-lines of characters interacting - let alone attempting to write such examples. Hence, people on the Autism Spectrum often gravitate towards, factual, abstract, objective content.

See RELATED WP Disc. Thread: 'Study - Differences On How NT And AS Minds/Eyes View Films.' It's likely that strikingly similar parallels may also apply on how people on the Autism Spectrum would interpret stories in print content.

RELATED: WP Disc. Thread: 'Study - Differences On How NT And AS Minds/Eyes View Films.'
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