xxxxxxxxxxxx Plaintiffs xxxxxxxxx :
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx :
vs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx : CASE NO: ZZ9-PLRL-Z-LPH
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx :
DAN BROWN, et al. his novels, xxx :
particularly ANGELS AND DEMONS, x :
xxxxxxxxxxxx Defendants xxxxxxxxx :


DATE x: December 5th, 2009 xxxxxxxxx
Place : Courtroom No. 2, 9th Floor x
Manila Building xxxx
228 Hazelnut Avenuex
Volcano Headquarters


xx For - Plaintiffs
xx For - Defendants
THE COURT: I know this is going to be a very difficult, even painfully
challenging experience for us all, but I'm afraid there are procedures
which must be followed in court. Mr. Knoetz, you failed to correctly
read in your first piece of evidence yesterday. You can't go blurting
out quotes in a state of desperation. Things will degenerate into a
farce. I am striking Prosecution Evidence #1 from the record, and I
advise the jury to disregard it when the time comes to deliberate.
THE COURT: I guess that means you'll have to forget about any failures
of characterization regarding the protagonist, Robert Langdon, yes?
MR. KNOETZ: In fact, your honor, I feel we will be able to satisfy the
court on that count, repeatedly. In fact, as detailing every example of
poor characterisation would render this courtcase interminable, I will
restrict this evidence to moments of first encounter with characters.
THE COURT: This case already seems to have gone on far too long, but I
suyppose the less reading I have to do the better. Continue.
MR. KNOETZ: Then with your permission I will read the following into
the record as Prosecution Evidence #2, regarding Vittoria Vetra, who
is the main female character of the accused document.
Decending from the chopper in her khaki shorts and white sleeveless 
top, Vittoria Vetra looked nothing like the bookish physicist he had 
expected. Lithe and graceful, she was tall with chestnut skin and
long black hair that swirled in the back wind of the rotors. Her face
was unmistakably Italian - not overly beautiful, but possessing full, 
earthy features that even at twenty yards seemed to exude a raw 
sensuality. As the air currents buffetted her body, her clothes clung,
accentuating her slender torso and small breasts.
Langdon watched Vittoria approach. She had obviously been crying, her
deep sable eyes filled with emotions Langdon could not place. Still,
she moved towards them with fire and command. Her limbs were strong
and toned, radiating the healthy luminescence of Mediterranean flesh
that had enjoyed long hours in the sun.
MR.KNOETZ: As is clear, Mr. Brown is pitifully out of his depth when
required to present a female character as other than typical of hotel
room soft-core pornography. It should be noted that the "chopper"
which she dismounts in the first paragraph was a helicopter.
THE COURT: As opposed to a motorcycle, understood.
MR. KNOETZ: Er... yes. In any case, in Brown's pseudo-fiction a woman
seems to be chiefly characterised by her sexual qualities and/or
appearence. When expressing emotions Brown immediately struggles and
only attempts to do so via the mask of third-person interpretation,
deflecting his shocking lack of human empathy onto the character of
Langdon, who is unable to decipher the emotions active in the close
relative of a murder victim who has recently been weeping.
THE COURT: Disturbing.
MR. KNOETZ: Very. More so because, as is clear in The Da Vinci Code,
Robert Langdon seems to show a rather predatory sexual interest in
young women mourning the violent loss of a father-figure. But Langdon
connot be held responsible for Brown's choice of descriptors. I draw
attention to the phrase "she moved towards them with fire and command",
shortly after we are told she has two black eyes, and invite the Court
to speculate about what the hell Brown thinks he's talking about.
MR. NASGUN: Objection!
THE COURT: Objectionable, certainly. Is that it, Mr. Knoetz?
MR. KNOETZ: Hardly. If I may introduce Prosecution Evidence #3,
describing central character Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca?
He looked to be in his late-thirties, indeed a child by Vatican
standards. He had a surprisingly handsome face, a swirl of course
brown hair, and almost radient green eyes that shone as if they
were somehow fueled by the mysteries of the universe.
THE COURT: Radiant eyes, luminescent thighs - strong theme of
radioactivity in this thing, is there?
MR. KNOETZ: Inasmuch as there are any strong themes, sir. However,
when required to describe strength itself as a characteristic Brown
has a tendency to go "a little overboard". Like Robert Maxwell.
When the commander finally clicked off his phone and approached
across the room, he seemed to grow with each step. Langdon was tall
himself and not used to looking up at many people, but Commander
Olivetti demanded it. Langdon sensed immediately that the commander
was a man who had weathered tempests, his face hale and steeled.
His dark hair was cropped in a military buzz cut, and his eyes
burned with the kind of hardened determination only attainable
through years of intense training. He moved with ramrod exactness...
THE COURT: I'm afraid that reference doesn't really carry to a non-
English audience, Mr. Knoetz.
MR. KNOETZ: I apologise, your Honor - but Brown's clumsily excessive
descriptors are surely evident here: hale, steeled, hardened; ramrod
exactness, whatever that might signify. If this was any thicker, he
wouldn't be able to pour it on at all. Not to mention that he seems
unclear on the functioning of perspective.
THE COURT: Where are you going with this, Mr. Knoetz?
MR. KNOETZ: Just establishing that, when presenting any alleged
character, Brown demonstrates limitations inconsistant with "good
writing". Specifically, he shows a worrying reliance on anatomy:
Langdon noted a man in a wheelchair exiting the building. He looked
to be in his early sixties. Gaunt and totally bald with a sternly
set jaw, he wore a white lab coat and dress shoes propped firmly on
the wheelchair's footrest. Even at a distance his eyes looked
lifeless - like two gray stones.
MR. KNOETZ: In fact, your Honor, you might say that my main point
of criticism here is in the character-eyes-ation. Hem hem.
MR. NASGUN: Ob-jection!
THE COURT: Sus-tained, my God. Consider yourself held in contempt,
Mr. Knoetz. Any more punmenship like that and it won't matter if I
find for the prosecution or not, you'll never be found again. Think
you can give us anything that doesn't hinge totally on looks?
MR. KNOETZ: Just one, your Honor.
Captain Rocher stepped forward in his red beret. Vittoria thought he
looked more human somehow than the other guards - stern but not so
rigid. Rocher's voice was emotional and crystalline, like a violin.
MR. KNOETZ: A crystal violin, presumably.
THE COURT: Good grief. I suppose you rest your case, then?
MR. KNOETZ: Far from it, your Honor.
THE COURT: Pity. Well I at least need a break. Reconvene after a
suitable recovery period, shall we?


Nou Menon, ANY, ONE
Official Court Reporter


The foregoing certificalation of this tranyscript does not appley to any
reproduction by any means useless under the dialect control hand/eye
supervision of the certifycating reporter.

…the undisciplined rush by the choking, coughing mob forced Egan against the railing. Suddenly, a heavy man with red hair and a moustache that stretched across his cheeks to his sideburns emerged from the human surge and the distant past and tried to snatch Egan’s leather case from his hands. Initially stunned, the engineer managed to hold on to the case in a death grip and refused to release it until it was dead.

In horror, Kelly watched the struggle between the two men. An officer with an immaculate …nah, “immaculate” just isn’t enough: and unwrinkled uniform stood watching with what seemed total indifference. He was a black man with a face of hardened obsidian, his features chiselled and sharp. That’s right: “Obsidian”, “chiselled” – Na-il-dit.

“Do something!” Kelly screamed at him. “Don’t stand there! Help my father!”

But the black officer simply ignored her, stepped forward and, to Kelly’s astonishment, began to help the red-haired man in his struggle for the leather case.

Seconds later Egan plunges over the rail, the case hanging limply in his hand, and Kelly sees him smash into the water below. The black officer tries to strangle her, the red-head tries to grab her, but she too escapes over the edge. She swims to her father’s side, but his back is broken and his last wish is that she take his case and live on. She tries to keep both dead parent and murdered luggage afloat, but then a flying teenager knees her in the back of the head and she loses consciousness. I’m not joking.

In that instant, a glimmer of light brown hair caught Pitt®‘s eye, spread on the blue-green water like lace filaments on a satin sheet. The face could not be seen, but a hand made a slight gesture, as if trying to paddle through the water, or was it simply movement caused by the waves? Pitt® ran twenty feet down the deck for a closer look, hoping against hope that the woman – the hair had to be that of a woman he told himself, feeling oddly nervous at the thought of the alternative, but also strangely excited by the possibility of new experience – had not drowned. The head rose slightly above the water, far enough for him to see two large beautiful blue eyes that appeared languid and dazed. Please, he thought, troubled by these confusing new emotions, let it be a woman…

Oh fuck no, he’s going to do it. This is it – Dirk Pitt® is about to die.

Without another second’s hesitation, Pitt® climbed up on top of the railing, balanced for a moment and then dove into the water. He did not immediately rise to the surface but stroked mightily Clive? underwater oh, like an Olympic swimmer after leaping from a platform. As his hands and head broke clear he barely spotted the head sinking below the surface. Twenty feet and he was there, pulling her head from under the water by her hair. Despite her drowned-rat appearance yikes, he could see that she was a very attractive young woman. Ah, sexual predation in a crisis situation: he’s a man in her father’s mould, and you know what that’s going to mean.

Kelly refuses to release the body of her father’s briefcase and Pitt® is forced to tow both of them back to the Deep Encounter. When he learns it contains her father’s life’s work he looks at the case “with new respect”, then she descends into the ship.

Whoa. He made it! Man, that whole sequence was so tense I started sweating like a cornered virgin. Anyway, that’s Rescue One, and not a bad effort, I’d say. Not enough to be expecting her to hump his leg on the spot, but not bad.  One thing I can tell you, though: Dirk Pitt® isn’t the type to pull up short, that’s for sure – or for shore! Hmm. Sorry. I’ll not do that again.

So, how is our gracefully ageing aquatic superman going to properly loosen those silky thighs? With the help of his gorgeous red-headed assistant. I shall provide appropriate stage directions.

“What do you want?” she whispered fearfully.

“Your father’s case,” he answered in a deep, quiet voice. “You won’t be hurt if you hand it over. Otherwise, I will have to kill you.”

Villain to lower cape and twirl moustache menacingly.

She felt panic stab her, and started to back away from him. He moved towards her and she could see the white teeth beneath the red moustache as his lips widened in a malevolent grin. His eyes had the smug gleam of an animal who had his quarry trapped and helpless. Is smugness really an animalistic trait? Her panic turned to terror, her heart began to pound, her breath to come in gasps. Her legs felt weak and they tottered beneath her. Her long hair streaked across her eyes and face, and the tears involuntarily began to flow. Oh, man up, for fuck’s sake. Jesus. Have you no self-respect, woman?  If anyone deserved what she got, it was… well, “a woman”.

Crowd to boo. Villain to SHAKE FIST at them.

“Yes,” he said, in a voice that was hard and indifferent. “Scream all you wish. No one can hear you above the storm outside. I like it when a woman screams. I find it exhilarating. A woo-hoo, and a whaa-haa-haa-haaah, while I’m at it.

Crowd to boo. Villain to BARE TEETH at them.

He lifted her off the floor as if she weighed no more than a mannequin stuffed with foam. Then he pinned her against a bulkhead and his hands began to move over her body, crudely, roughly, bruising her skin. Numb with terror, Kelly went limp and cried the age-old woman’s cry. Oh, this should be good.

“Please, you’re hurting me.” Yep. There it is, the battle cry of the bra set.

Crowd to chorus "He's behind you!"

Then a voice behind him said, “Your technique for romancing women leaves a lot to be desired.”

Crowd to cheer.
And me to scream, "Fuck no! Dirk Pitt® is about to die! Again!"

Quickly, the killer whipped into a martial-arts position, his hands poised in the air, and launched his foot at the intruder. Don’t ask me. Maybe it’s a wooden one.

Unknown to the killer and Kelly, Pitt® had heard the screams and silently opened the door, then stood there for a few brief seconds, appraising the situation and devising contingency plans contingency plans? She’s being rape-murdered, get your act together!

He immediately sensed this was a dangerous man who was no stranger to killing so Sherlock here removed his deerstalker and tossed aside his fiddle before adopting the Queensbury stance. Men such as this had to have a concrete reason for coldly murdering a defenceless woman. Is there any other kind? He braced himself for the attack he knew would come. Clive, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he “launch” his foot a paragraph ago? Where’s the killer standing, on the Dingo’s Kidneys? Oh, wait: I think I see it. There… there. Look:

In a violent corkscrew motion which Pitt* had learned during a youth spent on the interpretive dance circuit , he twisted out of the doorway into the passageway as the killer’s leg and foot parted the clouds and sliced through the air trailing smoke and flame. The intended blow missed Pitt®‘s head by an inch and impacted on the frame of the door. The ankle bone broke cleanly with an audible crack. Ah well. He’s not going to be clipping THAT back on. Fight over then, eh?

Any other man would have writhed in agony. Not this one, this hunk thick with muscle and trained to ignore pain. The killer glanced up and down the passageway to make sure Pitt® was alone and had no help, and then he came forward, arms and hands moving rhythmically in martial-arts motions. Then he leaped towards his prey, hands chopping the air like axes.

It didn’t take a wizard’s grey matter what an eloquent turn of phrase for Pitt® to realise that he was no match for a highly trained killer with a body like a demolition ball on a crane. Whoa, dude. Is he checking out that guy’s package?

He’s not dead yet! Let us take a break here, as Cussler does, to underline the fact that split-second contingency planner Dirk Pitt® “had never taken a martial-arts course in his life”, but “had boxed during his years at the Air Force Academy” (presumably thirty years previously) when “his wins usually equalled his losses”. What he did know was the bar-room brawl “tactics of free-for-all fighting”, namely stay well back and throw whatever you can lay your hands on. What a hero, you might say: a bottle thrower. Well, rest assured that Dirk Pitt® never throws anything into the fray – except himself.

Crowd to cheer.

Now it was his turn to attack. He sprinted forward and leaped on the back of the killer I’ve never felt so proud. It was a brutal football tackle, using the combined impetus of both their bodies to bring the runner the one-legged “runner” down from behind indeed, falling with all his weight on the other’s body while ramming his face and head into the deck. My Hero.

Pitt® heard his attacker’s that’s a bit rich head hit the thinly carpeted steel deck with a sickening thump and a crack and felt the body go limp. Quick, kick ‘im while ‘e’s down! If not a fracture, the skull must have suffered a concussion, he thought. Not the brain, but the skull? Is that how concussions work?

Crowd to turn down their thumbs and bay for blood.

It was then he noticed the killer’s head was twisted in an unnatural position and his eyes were open and unseeing … All Pitt® knew for certain was that he happened to walk onto the scene of an attempted murder of a woman he had rescued from drowning that’s right, another vital recap of an event which took place on the previously turned page. Cussler has spent so much time in the company of fish he must be over used to a thirty second memory span. Now he was sitting there on his victim’s back staring at a total stranger he had accidentally murdered. He looked into the man’s unseeing eyes wow, that neck really was “unnaturally twisted” and murmured to himself, “I’m as rotten as you are.”

Yes. Yes, you are. You’re such a horrible example of humanity that you should bloody well keel-haul yourself to death right now. Please. Or, to put it another way: HOORAY, Rescue Two! Bet that little chickadee will be all over him like anemone on coral now! That’s right, all you got to do to get a girl into Pitt®‘s bed is save her life twice – and if he can only find her again, I bet that’s exactly what he’ll do…