Strangle vs. Choke

A murder yoga hobbyist weighs in.

A strangle incapacitates the victim by denying blood to the brain, usually by cutting off the carotid arteries on either side of the neck. The victim goes out.

A strangle:

Once homegirl squeezes her shoulder blades together, G.I. Ginger's going night-night.

A choke deprives the victim of oxygen to the lungs and eventually to the rest of the body only because it crushes the wind pipe, or trachea.

A choke:

Homer has been choking Bart for thirty-four years. That's why he hasn't been able to kill him. If he learned how to get the carotid arteries involved, we could finally say bye-bye to “Cawabunga” and ollies off of church railings. Marge usually comes in to save her son’s neck. Moms.

This is not the fussiness of a forensic pathologist. It is that of a jiu-jitsu practitioner. Strangles are better than chokes because they serve as ‘off’ switches against hulking behemoths or folks too stubborn to go out. Strangles make for cleaner finishes. Chokes involve more pain and are sometimes even labeled neck cranks.

And that's how I ended up with the title of my forthcoming novel Crushed Trachea Blues. After Coach Cho had us drilling the most painful submission, a trachea-crush guillotine, or the old Gracie guillotine, I walked around for two days with a sore throat. I had the Crushed Trachea Blues.

The title also alludes to protagonist Paisley’s alcohol abuse. Correction: responsible alcohol abuse. Such conceits enable our hero to engage in just the right amount of self-loathing and romantic hope for humanity.

The famous Rear-Naked Choke (RNC) is almost always a strangle. For a martial art emphasizing precision, these loose terms are disheartening.

(The Disheartening—a Lifetime movie not about an event that results in a slump in enthusiasm, but a detailed, bloody procedure enacted by a Mayan ruler atop a pyramid.)

Was the Boston Strangler in actuality the Boston Choker? Within the heat of committing his heinous crimes, he probably was both. We'll stick with the traditional moniker. The Boston Choker doesn't roll off the lolling tongue. It sounds less like a serial killer and more like a trinket worn around the neck of a New England socialite.

Such finicky nuances figure into the novel's plot.

Suicide by Jiu-Jitsu?

Maybe. Maybe not. It's as much a whydunnit as it is a whodunnit.

You don't have to know or even like jiu-jitsu to get Crushed Trachea Blues. Hell, you don't have to be in the life-taking business either. Most readers of mystery/detective novels don't go in for homicide. You simply have to have a liking for snarky narrators, vegan crime bosses, nerd assassins, and AI Charles Manson.

Here's the cover:

The aesthetic captures the mood of the narrative voice. The stark colors of modern-day Los Angeles contrast with the Old Hollywood sensibility of the black-and-white. The elegant cursive offsets the grim subtext put forth by the shot glass on top of the blotter.

The shot glass looks empty. Has a shot already been taken? Or is it about to be? There's nothing in it. Not yet, anyway. Or not anymore.

Crushed Trachea Blues will be available this Friday.

Peace.

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