About Citizen Dick
For Dick, boredom soon sets in, so he writes farcical press releases—to pass the time and for the enjoyment of his co-workers—about outrageous, bogus product offerings CommGlobalTeleVista has in the works.
But when one of the press releases gets leaked to the press, Wall Street responds favorably to the moribund corporation for the first time in several years. And when Noble Tud, the sleazy, hirsute, golf- and prison-obsessed CEO discovers Dick is uncannily lucky—he’s had fourteen holes-in-one—he decides to carry out the press release’s claims that CommGlobalTeleVista is about to take over a large meat company. And if doing so edges their stock price north of $75/share, Tud will receive a $100M bonus.
About Richard Arneson
Richard Arneson’s thirteen years
working in corporate America drove him up a tree—literally. Once he
escaped the telecommunications industry after ten years of service, he
built a tree house—ostensibly for his two young sons—installed
electricity and cable TV, and set out to fix himself, deciding that
dealing with the memories of working in the goofy-as-hell world of
corporate America could only be accomplished by getting them down on
paper. Citizen Dick is the result.Arneson is currently working on his next novel, The Tree House, which, ironically, is not being written in his tree house but in the cab of his 1950 Chevy pickup truck. He lives in Dallas, Texas with his wife and their two sons. He has plans to build a second story on his tree house in early 2010, one large enough to accommodate a baby grand piano and two dental chairs.
Visit his website at: CitizenDick.com
Read an Excerpt
After his closing prayer, Noble, a devilish grin on his face,
sauntered over to Comstock. It was the first night Comstock had attended
the meeting, and the first time Noble had worked up his awe-struck
nerves to converse with somebody other than Kent, Tony, an effeminate
youth minister from the Vacquelvail Bible Church, or the two guards who
told each other bawdy, Catholic jokes in the back of the room.
“So…Milo…what are you in here for?” asked Noble with a slight warble in his voice.
“It’s Comstock.”
Noble scanned Comstock from head to toe and shook his head. “They really wrap you boys up, don’t they? Are the long sleeves for the visitors?”
“No, we always wear— ”
“To cover up the tattoos, I bet,” said Noble, beaming.
“I don’t have any tattoos.”
“You in a gang, Milo?”
“My name’s not—”
“Did you say you don’t have any tattoos?” Noble couldn’t mask his disappointment.
Comstock shook his head.
Noble scratched the bridge of his nose. “But what about the tattoo guns—”
“What about them?”
“How do you get tattoos in here?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any tattoos,” said Comstock, calmly. “They wouldn’t really…work for me on the outside.”
Noble frowned, but quickly retrieved his diabolical grin. “What kind of weapons you see in here, Milo?”
“It’s Comstock—”
“Shanks?” queried Noble excitedly.
“Shanks?”
“Shivs,” offered Noble.
“Excuse me?” said Comstock, offended.
Noble was getting impatient. His eyes widened. “Zip guns?”
“I have a Ph.D. in finance, sir,” snapped Comstock. “I was the president of a bank.”
Noble did a slow burn, then scurried across the room, grabbed Kent’s arm, and yanked him from his conversation with Tony. “What kind of prison is this? There are no shanks, shivs, or zip guns. No tattoo guns. No tattoos, Kent! Hell, Milo over there is the president of a bank!”
“It’s a minimum security prison, Mr. Tud,” said Tony, sheepishly.
Noble fumed. “Is this true, Battdarfen?”
Kent nodded nervously any time Noble called him by his last name.
Noble kicked the leg of an old, pale wood table. “I’ve gotta come to a bank president jail every month? I can find those guys at the club!”
“It’s only temporary,” said Kent, reassuringly. “Only until word gets out that you’re not a, well…”
Tony pointed at a tall, lean, gray-haired, dignified-looking man in his early sixties. “That’s my father, Mr. Tud.”
Noble studied Tony’s father and noticed his white, prison-issue outfit.
“He’s in here?” Noble sounded vaguely encouraged.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he in for?” asked Noble.
Tony grimaced. “He didn’t file taxes for a stretch there.”
“Taxes, eh?” Noble rocked on his feet. “How much time did he get?”
“Sixty days.”
Noble turned to Kent and pointed at Tony’s father. “I could take him.”
“Damn straight you could,” assured Kent.
“So…Milo…what are you in here for?” asked Noble with a slight warble in his voice.
“It’s Comstock.”
Noble scanned Comstock from head to toe and shook his head. “They really wrap you boys up, don’t they? Are the long sleeves for the visitors?”
“No, we always wear— ”
“To cover up the tattoos, I bet,” said Noble, beaming.
“I don’t have any tattoos.”
“You in a gang, Milo?”
“My name’s not—”
“Did you say you don’t have any tattoos?” Noble couldn’t mask his disappointment.
Comstock shook his head.
Noble scratched the bridge of his nose. “But what about the tattoo guns—”
“What about them?”
“How do you get tattoos in here?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any tattoos,” said Comstock, calmly. “They wouldn’t really…work for me on the outside.”
Noble frowned, but quickly retrieved his diabolical grin. “What kind of weapons you see in here, Milo?”
“It’s Comstock—”
“Shanks?” queried Noble excitedly.
“Shanks?”
“Shivs,” offered Noble.
“Excuse me?” said Comstock, offended.
Noble was getting impatient. His eyes widened. “Zip guns?”
“I have a Ph.D. in finance, sir,” snapped Comstock. “I was the president of a bank.”
Noble did a slow burn, then scurried across the room, grabbed Kent’s arm, and yanked him from his conversation with Tony. “What kind of prison is this? There are no shanks, shivs, or zip guns. No tattoo guns. No tattoos, Kent! Hell, Milo over there is the president of a bank!”
“It’s a minimum security prison, Mr. Tud,” said Tony, sheepishly.
Noble fumed. “Is this true, Battdarfen?”
Kent nodded nervously any time Noble called him by his last name.
Noble kicked the leg of an old, pale wood table. “I’ve gotta come to a bank president jail every month? I can find those guys at the club!”
“It’s only temporary,” said Kent, reassuringly. “Only until word gets out that you’re not a, well…”
Tony pointed at a tall, lean, gray-haired, dignified-looking man in his early sixties. “That’s my father, Mr. Tud.”
Noble studied Tony’s father and noticed his white, prison-issue outfit.
“He’s in here?” Noble sounded vaguely encouraged.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he in for?” asked Noble.
Tony grimaced. “He didn’t file taxes for a stretch there.”
“Taxes, eh?” Noble rocked on his feet. “How much time did he get?”
“Sixty days.”
Noble turned to Kent and pointed at Tony’s father. “I could take him.”
“Damn straight you could,” assured Kent.
My Thoughts:
Okay - I didn't finish this one. I don't know if it was me or not. I honestly thought this book would be a good fit for me. I like sarcastic, I like witty. Citizen Dick is both of these, but unfortunately for me after about 100 pages it still wasn't coming together for me. I was laughing and rolling my eyes at the insane (yet real) characters and their antics through everything I read, but the story wasn't happening for me. I think if I had kept reading it probably would have come together. But I had enough.
If you like stories that jump around then this is for you. I do sometimes, but not at the moment. I will be giving this one a go at a later date - so I'm not just chunking it - that should say something. I really enjoyed the author's wit and think his characters were good, it's just a timing thing for me I guess.
So please, visit some of the other tour stops - see how others feel. Hopefully I will get through this in the near future and then I will post a review.
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