SOCIAL ZYMURGY: THE CULTURE OF BEER

Those Who Rule, Flash Fiction Friday cycle 44

2011-08-18T20:29:00.001-04:00

El Presidente stared across his expansive desk at the naked muzzle of the gun in Raoul's hand. "So it has come to this has it, Raoul, old friend. You, of all people, would turn on me? I am your President! But more than that, I am your friend, and now you lash out at me like a viper in the sugarcane. Why? Have we not grown up together, shared the same ideals, the same goals? Have we not weathered every storm together? Faced and conquered the challenges of running this country and kept it from falling into the hands of the rebels and extremists. How could you bring yourself to betray me like this?" He spread his hands in a pleading gesture.

Raoul cocked the pistol and aimed ever so carefully at El Presidente's heart. He adjusted the cheroot in his lips and looked the President in the eye before he spoke. "Do not think that I have arrived at this decision lightly Don Miguel. For years, I have championed our cause together. I have lead your troops against the rebels and rooted out dissidents and unrest where ever they have raised their ugly head. I have always been your biggest supporter but something has come to pass that has made me realize that I have misjudged you, and in so doing, I have wasted my life." Raoul sighed and took a long pull from his cheroot.

"What could I have possibly done that would make you turn traitor and murder me in cold blood? That is what you have in mind isn't it old friend?" Don Miguel asked.

"Oh yes. Make no mistake about it Don Miguel. You are going to die by my hand, and you are going to know what you are dying for. On Sunday last, you signed a death warrant. Just one of thousands that has crossed your desk. I have seen you scribbling furiously to get through a stack of them on a Friday afternoon so that you could leave early for the weekend. And if there is one thing that will be remembered about your administration Don Miguel, it is the efficiency of your Death Squads and Secret Police. They are quick and ruthless. The man on that warrant was caught and executed in the street within the hour, but then it isn't hard to find a priest on Sunday. Father Juan Maria Ramerez had his brains blown out in the town square after saying the morning mass. A mass in which he prayed that God would guide you in running our beloved homeland."

"I remember that case. He was blatantly providing aid to the Upsequa rebels. He deserved to die!" Don Miguel said with venom.

"He was giving first aid to a ten year old boy who had been shot by one of your soldiers while trying to keep his sister from being raped!" Raoul spat back, and he threw his cheroot into Don Miguel's face. "No matter," Raoul said, steadying his calm and his aim, "You will die just the same. Your country cries out in agony under your oppression. Instead of the peace and prosperity that you give lip service to, we have a country over run by kidnapping, rape and murder. While your countrymen struggle to put food into the mouths of their children, you have a fleet of armored limos and dine on steak and caviar here in the palace. Your police and troops number in the thousands but our streets aren't safe to walk because of them. The rebels fill the hills and jungles because that is the only place they can live without being under your boot heel. The farmers don't grow food anymore because the cartels insist they grow drugs instead. The one man who may have saved us all from spiraling into the pits of Hell had his head blown off and he died by the stroke of your pen. For all that, you must die Don Miguel." Raoul settled back into his chair and let his words sink in.

Don Miguel's face blanched white as he realized that his time had come. "Is there nothing I can say Raoul...nothing I can do? I have money," he offered weakly. Raoul shook his head no. "Well then, can I write a short note to my wife? It will only take a moment and it will mean so much to her."

Raoul considered this. "A very, very short note," he said with resolve. Don Miguel pulled open a drawer in his desk and shuffled past the blank death warrants looking for a pen. The click of the mechanism he triggered was almost silent. Suddenly Raoul gave a shout of pain and began to claw at his back, still trying desperately to hold the pistol on Don Miguel as he slumped forward and slid from the chair to his knees, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Don't worry old friend. The poison in the needle concealed in the chair works fast. You won't have any pain. Goodbye." Don Miguel smiled. Raoul spread out on the floor and with his last gasp uttered, "See you in Hell!" and with that, he died.

The soldier threw open the door to El Presidente's office brandishing his automatic weapon. "Sir, the alarm," he sputtered, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," Don Miguel reassured him. "Send someone to collect General Ortez here and bury him in an unmarked grave." The soldier saluted smartly and turned to go about his duty. "Oh, and one more thing soldier. Tell the Secret Police to track down and kill his family. Brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, anyone who would want revenge. He has a mother along the coast. Make sure she dies too." And with that, Don Miguel returned to the work of troop movements that would help him make his final push into the rebel strongholds.

Doc

F3, Cycle 38, The Unwanted Man

2011-07-06T00:27:00.007-04:00

"It's time for your medication Mr. Smith," the nurse intoned with as much of her sunny disposition as she could.

"B-bugger off! And my name isn't S-smith. S-stop calling me that." Smith returned to staring out the window, searching the horizon, always searching. He couldn't say what it was that he was looking for but he kept hoping that something would pop up and he would suddenly be gifted with everything he had lost.

The nurse handed him his little white tablet and held out the tumbler of water. "Well what would you like to be called then? Somehow being refered to as a surly pain in the ass doesn't have quite the same ring to it now does it?" Her frosty smile at her own sense of humor rubbed Smith the wrong way but he gulped down the pill and the water if for no other reason than it would send her on her way all the faster. She turned on her heel and left the room to finish her rounds of pill pushing to the drooling imbeciles on the ward. She met the doctor at the door. "Be careful with him today Dr. Kroger. He's in a right state," she warned. Dr. Kroger nodded and gave a knowing smile. He sat down in a chair next to Smith and opened a file, uncapped his pen and looked Smith over with a critical eye.

Smith was of an average height and build with sandy blonde hair. No tattoos or obvious scars other than the small, pink pucker at his right temple where the bullet had entered his head a year and a half ago. He had been found in an alleyway, shot, presumably mugged since no wallet, watch or phone had been found on him. The surgeon who had removed the slug had said it was a tricky business but Smith had quickly regained his strength, but not his memory. The surgeon swore that it would return in time but all Smith could recall for certain was a few dirty words in French and the phone number of a pizza place two blocks from where he had been found. His fingerprints weren't on file anywhere and posters in the neighborhood had turned up zilch. They had only taken to calling him Smith as they needed something for the forms. "Good morning Mr. Smith," Dr. Kroger began.

"Oh, h-hello Doc. I didn't notice you come in. I-I was hoping you'd be by. I was kinda looking forward to a cig-cigarette. Have ya got one?" Smith's eyes brightened at the prospect. He knew he could only smoke under supervision and the nurses just didn't have the time nor inclination. Dr. Kroger shook two from the pack and lit them both. Smith inhaled deeply and closed his eyes at the rapture of the nicotine. "Ah, now," he grinned, "what did y-you want to talk about today?" Try as he might, Smith just couldn't lose the stutter. The surgeon didn't think he ever would.

"Well, I just wanted to check in. You know, to see if you had remembered anything new. Something that we could use to track down your friends or family. You've been with us here at Shady Acres for some time now Smith and I'm sure you are eager to return to your life." Dr. Kroger took a puff of his own cigarette and tried not to think about the fact that funding for keeping Smith had run out two months ago and it was only his stalling and reshuffling of paperwork that had kept Smith from being turned out on the street.

Smith grinned as he examined the lengthening ash on his cigarette, "N-now that you mention it Doc, something occurred to me yesterday."

"Anything would help," Dr. Kroger encouraged, "What was it?"

Smith snickered, "Y-yesterday Nurse Kelly dropped my anti-depression pill on the floor and as she bent over to pick it up, I recalled that I was more of an ass man than a big tit man. I-if that's of any use, please put it down in my f-file."

Dr. Kroger made a big show of putting a large check-mark in the folder. "Well we know you are heterosexual which I guess is something. I'll write it in next to the fact that you are right handed," Dr. Kroger chuckled. "On a more serious note, I have someone who wants to see you." Dr. Kroger noticed how Smith stiffened with fear at the prospect. "It's all right. It will only take a moment. It's a long shot, but she is the only one to have answered our ad so far. Be brave Smith, and come on." Smith stubbed out his smoke in an empty coffee cup and rose slowly to his feet. Dr. Kroger noticed the sweat that beaded his forehead and upper lip as he slowly followed him to the door. "Sweet Jesus," the doctor prayed, "let this be the one." He lead Smith to the visitor room and ushered him in.

Smith seated himself at the stainless steel table on a chair that was bolted to the floor. "I....I'm ready" he mumbled. Dr. Kroger opened the other door on the far side of the room and a woman walked in. She nervously crossed the room and sat in the only other chair. Her eyes never left Smith. They stared at each other for a full minute before Dr. Kroger broke the silence. "Smith, this is Ellie Griffin. Ms. Griffin, this is Mr. Smith."

Ellie fumbled in her purse and produced a tissue to dab at the single tear that slid from her eye. "It's Mrs. Griffin actually. And your name isn't Smith. It's Gary Oscar Griffin. Your buddies at the department store call you Merv as a nickname. Your birthday is October seventeenth and your favorite food is your mother's meatloaf but you always say that mine is almost as good. At Christmas, you always play Santa. You like to garden and raise tomatoes but you hate ketchup. You vote in every election but always vote out the incumbant. You hate sports but always watch the Olympics. You cry at movies and blame it on alleregies that you don't have. You love dirty jokes and you can translate them into the little bit of French you learned in high school. You...oh God, at last I've found you!" She covered her face and wept. Smith reached out and took her hand and she clutched it with all of her strength.

"I-I've missed you Ellie," was all he could manage to say. She looked up at him and smiled as if the light in her life had been ignited again. Dr. Kroger counted that moment as one of the most rewarding of his career. He was even a little choked up himself.

Dr. Kroger waived from the front steps of the sanitarium as the cab pulled away and Mr. and Mrs. Griffin waved back. Gary settled back in the seat and said, "I can't wait to see our home. Y-you say we've got a garden? Oh that will be nice," his eyes drifted to her's and his grin betrayed the extremity of his joy.

"Oh well," she thought to herself, "at least this Mr. Griffin will be better than the last one. I can train him to be the husband I want and not the drunken lout that had the good sense to get himself lost at sea on a fishing trip. Besides," she reasoned, "this one might be good in bed."

Jackie Boy - Flash Fiction Friday; Cycle 31

2011-05-19T13:25:00.002-04:00

Jackie looked down at the shiny, black .38 in his lap. The weight of it seem to hold him in his chair. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his stomach tightened into knots. "What's this for George? What do I need a gun for?"

George settled back into his seat and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Jackie boy, you are going to do a job for me. A simple little job, but it is one that has to be done, and you are the man to do it." George smiled like he had a chicken bone caught in his throat. It was his way of trying to be charming.

"But George, I'm just a nickel and dime man. You need someone hustled for a few hundred bucks or a pawn shop busted into, I'm your guy, but I don't want no truck with guns. If they even catch me toting this thing around, I'll go up for a stretch. We go back a long way, you and me, clear back to the ol' street gang, and you know I don't do muscle work. No knives, no guns, no fires. You got guys for that kind of gig, so why shove it off on me?"

"Because Jackie boy, if I use one of my regular boys, it'll lead straight back to me. You know I don't wear no prison orange, and that's because I'm smart an' careful. No Jackie boy, you are the man for the job. Everyone knows you are small time. Everyone, and that's why no one is going to look for you. Now tonight you are going to a little bar on Lamont and you are going to show up right before closing time. There is a little old man who owns the place who just can't seem to get it through his thick skull that our protection is worth paying for. He is starting to rile up our other clients and that just won't do. So, you air him out and the rest fall back into line. Simple. I'll meet you back here at 2:30, you can tell me how it went and I'll dispose of the gun. In a week, you'll have your money." George smiled a little wider as if he was trying to rearrange the bone in his throat.

Jackie picked up the pistol off of his lap and held it as if it was roadkill. The revolver weighed a hundred pounds in his hand. Its cold heft made him shudder a bit. He tried to hand it back. "Naw George. You know me. I don't have the guts for this sort of thing. I'm tender hearted. I couldn't hurt a flea. You want me to scam the old buzzard for everything in the register, sure. You want me to break in after hours and bust up the joint, swipe his liquor, and crap on the bar, Hell I'd even consider that. But to walk in and shoot a man in cold blood, naw George, you got the wrong guy. Find somebody else."

George shook his head no. "If it's about the money Jackie boy, you know you will be well compensated. I have always been more than generous in the past and you will be paid what it's worth. So shut up and take the gun!"

Jackie blinked as a bead of sweat from his wet forehead dripped into his eye. He set the gun away from him on the coffee table and with a trembling hand, slid it to George. "I can't do it George. I'm a chickenshit. I cry at the fuckin' movies for fuck's sake George!" he pleaded.

George shook his head no. He picked it up and shoved it into Jackie's chest, hard. "You can and you will do this Jackie boy, cause this is only going down one of two ways!" he screamed. "You off this guy tonight or I come and off you! Cause I ain't going to have you squeal and cop a bargain the next time you get busted. No. Come two-thirty, I'm going to be back and one of you is going to be dead. Get me?"

Jackie took the heavy black lump off of his chest and stared at it. Jackie was stunned at how lethal it looked, as if it had an innate menace to it. He looked up to George's snake-like eyes. They had the same menace too. Jackie knew George would carry through, he would kill him. "W-what if I miss? What if I just wing him? I'm no crack shot. I've never even fired a BB gun!" his voice wavered.

"Just get in close, like this. Then just aim for the eyes. If you can get behind him, put it right behind his ear and pull the trigger. One shot to kill him and one more to make sure. Simple, Jackie boy, simple." George pasted on his chicken bone smile.

Jackie never heard the sound of the shot that made a ragged hole in George's forehead. He just felt the recoil, saw the flash. And from the other side of a puff of smoke, Jackie watched George's corpse settle back in the into recliner among the remnants of what had at one time been the back of his skull. George still wore that sickening grin and cigarette smoke trailed from it."I ain't doing your dirty work," Jackie spat, "and quit calling me Jackie boy!"

Doc

"Scornful Dogs Will Eat Dirty Puddings" - Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 29

2011-05-04T23:48:00.001-04:00

"Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings." - In emergency men will do many things they would scorn to do in easy circumstances.

Iberia, in the year of our Lord, 1645

Rodrigo crawled through the underbrush on his belly, swatting mosquitoes and praying to God that he wouldn't die tonight with a brigand's blade in his back. He followed the shallow ditch full of brackish water and tried to move as silently as he could but briers tugged at his clothing while nettles stung his face and hands. He could see a pale window of moonlight through the brush and made for it. Here the ditch emptied into the river and would provide him with some means of escaping the bandits that had his ancestral home surrounded.

He eased himself into the cool waters of the river and tried very hard not to make a ripple as he made for the other side. The sound of the water dripping from his wet clothes seemed like a raging surf in his ears as he emerged on the other side and climbed the steep bank. As he crested the bank, he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse on the far side. At this, he threw all caution to the wind and bolted into the trees. His heart pounded in his throat and his legs pumped with all the fury of a charging bull. He ran as far and as fast as he could but with no moonlight to guide his way in the thick forest, his progress was arrested when he ran full speed into an unyielding tree.

How long he lay flat on his back unconscious, Rodrigo couldn't really say but the sun was dappling the forest floor as he rose on unsteady feet. He touched his sore, disjointed nose and looked around but every way was simply more trees. "God's eyes!" he swore, "I've gone and gotten myself lost!" and not knowing what else to do, he trudged on.

Rodrigo couldn't remember ever feeling more low. His fine clothes were now wet, muddy rags. One of his boots had lost it's heel and was raising a grape sized blister. His mouth was dry and his belly grumbled, not to mention the odd crunching noise his sore nose made when he touched it. "At this rate," he thought, "I'll be dead by nightfall. I would have been better to have stayed at the keep and face the bandits. At least I would have had an honorable death instead of perishing from hunger lost in the woods."

Rodrigo pushed through a thicket and entered a clearing and there was a log hut. At it's door stood a friar holding a leather tankard with a puzzled look on his face. "Please dear brother, some succor for a fellow Christian who has lost his way," Rodrigo pleaded. The friar shrugged and beckoned him inside. Rodrigo slumped on the only stool, took the mug the friar offered him and gulped it down. "I have seen some sights in my day boy," the friar began, "but I ain't never seen anything like you stumble out of the woods. I've seen beggars who were less the worse for wear. How came you to be in such a state?"

At this, Rodrigo poured forth his awful tale. He explained how his father, Count Alvarez, had taken the men of the valley and marched off to fight the King's war and had left him in charge of the family lands and keep. He told the friar about the brigands who had shown up the day before and how they had only managed to bolt the door in time to keep them from charging right in. With no way to get in, they simply set up camp around the keep and waited. Since the men of the valley were gone, the crops hadn't been harvested yet and the larder was nigh empty. So with no other recourse, Rodrigo slipped out through the waste water ditch and ran to find whatever help he could, only to break his nose in the dark. At the end of the tale, the friar nodded.

"You're not going to like this boy but you will thank me later. Now hold still a moment," the friar said, and with that his hand shot out and gave Rodrigo's nose a mighty tug. Rodrigo swore he heard an audible snap as his nose fell somewhat back into place.

"God's eyes, that hurts!" he exclaimed as he struggled to see through his own tears.

"Now don't touch it," the friar admonished. "I expect you will be wanting something to eat after your ordeal." Rodrigo smiled at the mention of food. "Well I was just sitting down to break my fast when I heard you rustling through the brush. Here, eat mine." The friar passed him a wooden trencher and a sea shell for a spoon. Rodrigo looked down at the mottled mash before him and his empty stomach turned.

"I can't eat this," he exclaimed, "It has got maggots in it!"

"Those are not maggots," the friar scowled, "Those are wood grubs and berries steeped in bark tea. It is perfectly healthy. I eat it all the time. Besides, even scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings if need be. Now eat up, we've a long walk ahead of us as I know how to save your keep." Rodrigo grimaced, closed his eyes and scooped some into his mouth. It had a sweet, earthy taste but it wasn't as unpleasant as it looked. After a couple more bites, Rodrigo was sorry that it was all gone.

"How are you going to save my keep? Do you know how to get a message to the army?" Rodrigo queried.

"Nothing of the sort. I just need my bag of herbs," the friar said with a knowing smile.

"You are going to drive off forty blood thirsty bandits with a bag of herbs?" Rodrigo asked incredulously but the friar ignored him, grabbed a little leather pouch from the bedpost of his pallet and set off at a brisk pace, out the door and into the woods. Rodrigo jogged to catch up.

In two hours time, they arrived at the edge of the woods and Rodrigo could see the bandits milling around their camp in front of his family keep. "You wait here in the trees and stay out of sight," the friar warned, and with that he strolled off as if he didn't have a care in the world. Rodrigo watched as the friar approached the bandits and one came to meet him. They spoke for a few moments. The friar seemed quite animated as he pointed towards the woods. He held up his little herb bag and then pointed to the keep. Soon all of the bandits were gathering around the friar and Rodrigo feared the worst. But then, miracle of miracles, they began to pack up their things, mount their horses and off they rode down the valley road. They crested the hill and never looked back.

When they had gone, the friar ambled back to the tree line. "It is all right now. You can come out. They've gone, and in quite a hurry too." the friar smiled.

"What did you say to them?" Rodrigo asked in wonder.

"Oh nothing really," the friar grinned sheepishly, "Only that I had come with some herbs and ointments for the nice people in the keep who were suffering from the plague!"

Doc

Peabody's Hex; Flash Fiction Friday-Cycle 27

2011-04-16T11:25:00.001-04:00

**Author's Note** This week's installment is another themed word list with the provision that it is a courtroom drama and under 1000 words, but money, foolish, kneecap, trace, and widow must be among them. Enjoy!

The Village of Peabody, Near Salem, In The Year Of Our Lord, 1692

"Reverend Breedlove and the honored deacons of the church, there is much to this trial that remains to be seen. The widow Mary Selby stands accused of witchcraft and much evidence has been brought to light. Mr. Mason has gone to great lengths to convince you of her guilt of being a witch while I am not so certain. There is no doubt that on the night of November first, All Saint's Day, she went to the farm of William Smith, a close neighbor of hers. She visited after dark and spent some time at their window without knocking. She stayed long enough to observe them at their evening prayers and to trace a heart in the snow with a stick. Mr. Mason suggests that this was part of her spell to summon the Evil One. I say she went to see a happy family at prayer because she missed her departed husband, Peter Selby, a man that no one could impugned of being impious, and drew a heart to represent her lost love. She was lonely and heartsick, seeking comfort in the Lord by watching William Smith and his family pray." Nathaniel Saltonstall clasped his hands in supplication and then continued.

"Mr. Mason calls as evidence the imprint she made in the snow by the road. He says that this is where she had congress with the Horn'd One and sites the blood found there the next day as proof of how he used her rudely. I say she tripped over the stump that was hidden by the snow and cut her kneecap when she fell. Her footprints and her wound confirms it. Mr. Mason says that this is where her familiar, the hog, came to suckle after her deal with the Dark One. I say this is an untruth." Saltonstall dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and paced the meeting house, but his eyes never left Reverend Breedlove.

"Mr. Mason makes much of the fact that Mary Selby owed a debt of money to the amount of three shillings to William Smith for the purchase of shoes for her son Elijah. A debt that was promised to be repaid in the spring with the slaughter of her hog. Mr. Mason cites this as the point she slipped into the clutches of the Evil One. That this and her coveting the husband of Patience Smith is what drove her into a pact with the Deceiver, and from then on, she was His agent in Peabody. This, he claims, is what drove her to make Mrs. Patience Smith to lose her unborn child." Saltonstall looked at the deacons and they seemed to be listening.

"I would ask you to not be foolish and hear the unfettered voice of our Lord. Listen to your God-given reason and return a verdict of Not Guilty." Saltonstall bowed his head. "Only He can guide you now."

Reverend Breedlove roused himself from his inattention and banged the gavel a few times when he realized that Nathaniel Saltonstall had finished speaking. "This court will reconvene at the summit of Gallows Hill where we will hear her confession."

"But Reverend, she hasn't confessed yet," Saltonstall sputtered.

"Well, we will already be atop the hill by then and there is still the flogging that needs attended to," the good Reverend mused. "Sheriff, do your duty!"

Doc

Tolchek's Venus and Vulcan; Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 26

2011-04-11T12:56:00.005-04:00

Themed Word List: Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm.

"If you will kindly disrobe, we can get started," Tolchek said. Nastinka clutched at the neck of her peasant dress and a small shiver of fear ran through her. "Well?" Tolchek demanded, "Do you want to earn the five rubles or not?" Nastinka could only nod her head dumbly as she fumbled with the tiny buttons. In a moment, she was as naked as the day she was born. Tolchek smiled approvingly. "Now please, sit on the stool and turn your head to the light. Nyet, nyet, that won't do. Bend your head down a bit, as if you are gazing into a pool of water. Yes, that's nice. Now lean on this arm and reach out with the other as if you are going to touch the surface of the water. Good. Now hold very still."

Tolchek turned to his easel and his charcoal began to fly across the page in an easy rhythm, sketching, shading, his eyes lost to the sight of the beautiful young girl in front of him. For him, she was just a thing, a vehicle for his art. She had all the allure of a bowl of fruit or cut flowers on a tablecloth. There was no person in front of him, gifted with warm blood, with dreams of her own, or even a mortal spirit. She was just a piece to be copied and that was all.

"Damn!" Tolchek swore and tossed down his charcoal in disgust. "Your legs are all wrong! You are not sitting at a spinning wheel or churning butter! You are gazing lovingly at your own reflection you simple country bumpkin! Wait just a moment..." Tolchek hurried to move a threadbare sofa from a corner of the studio into the light. Then he carefully rearranged her on it so that the light fell just so, but he never touched her. He would not let his hand stray even a little close to her. Tolchek had learned from his master that one should never touch a model, no matter how much easier it is to pose them that way. "This girl is just another ignorant peasant," Tolchek thought, "she is probably used to the rough hands of men, and no doubt she has her wanton ways, but it would never do for her to say that I even brushed against her cheek or my budding reputation would be lost. Should that happen, I would never find another model after her and I shall be forced to do more landscapes and die in ignominy like so many before me. Nyet, this will be my masterpiece and will get me an introduction into the court of the Czar!"

Now Tolchek changed from charcoal to paint and his brush moved like a fast flowing stream. His brush would dab, then swirl, only to return from another trip to his palette to jab at the painting. Sweat formed on his brow and lip as he worked himself into the fever that was his art. So consumed by his fervor was he that he never noticed that the door of his studio had been thrown open by great force to admit a giant kodiak of a man.

"Tolchek, you he-goat! I have come to take your life for violating my wife!" the huge man bellowed and beat his fists about his chest.

Tolchek looked up in utter surprise, as if the whole of the Czar's army had arrived on his doorstep. "Do I know you?" he asked softly.

"I am Mikal Egor Sergei Timur Markastrova and I will kill you now, you lecherous fool!" the long knife in his hand seemed to punctuate every word.

Tolchek narrowed his eyes and wiped a smear of paint from his knuckle absentmindedly on his breeches as he looked over the newcomer. "Good God nyet!" Nastinka screamed, "Mikal, I was only earning money so we could keep the farm! He never touched me, I swear by the Holy Mother! Oh please..." and her sobs went unheeded as she buried her face into her hands, unable to look at the coming tragedy that was about to unfold before her.

Tolchek stroked his beard for a moment as the giant gathered his rage. "Could you take a half step closer?" was all he managed to say. Mikal lunged forward, brandishing the knife with all the menace of Cain. Flecks of foam dripped from the corners of his mouth. "Hold right there!" Tolchek exclaimed as his hand reach once again for the charcoal.

"I will cut you into little bits and feed you to my hounds, you bastard son of a whore!" Mikal swore.

"Fine, fine," Tolchek muttered, "just do it after I'm done. For now, hold still you oaf!" Tolchek grimaced as his hand moved at lightening speed. He bit his lower lip as he put on the finishing touches. "There," he smiled, "now you may deliver the killing blow, but before you do, you must promise me that this picture will find it's way to Sergei Onamatov in Kiev, and know that you have slain the greatest artist ever born and an innocent man!" and with that, he threw down his brush and palette, closed his eyes and presented his chest to receive the gleaming blade.

Mikal knitted his thick brows and walked forward to where the painter stood. With one massive paw, he shoved the painter aside and looked at the canvas. His face changed from blood red heat to the calm of a summer breeze with glacial slowness but eventually he turned to Tolchek, and instead of offering him cold steel, he offered his hand. "I am no aristocrat," Mikal began, "but you have painted my Nastinka as the Madonna herself and for that I am truly grateful. And this big man in the background, is that me?" he asked in a small voice of wonder. "Do I truly look like that?"

Tolchek smiled, "You look exactly like that and if you will stand where you were before, you will look even better." The morning worked it's way into the afternoon and the three of them hardly noticed as Tolchek labored with the ardour of a zealot. At three, he slumped onto the stool and prepared tea with thick slices of course, dark bread.

"You know Tolchek, I came here today to slit your throat. I am glad to be slicing bread instead. You are not the bad man I thought you were. For that, I am glad," Mikal said as he brushed the crumbs from his long, unruly beard.

"I too am glad Mikal. I have my life and my masterpiece, but without you, I would have neither. I am an artist and without art, I have no life, while you sir, are a fighter who will never rest without your lover, much like Vulcan without his Venus. Come, I have a little vodka left. Let us toast our success and to your ten rubles!" Tolchek raised a half empty bottle.

""Nyet," Nastinka replied, "The bargain was for five rubles and five alone," she said adamantly.

Tolchek smiled broadly as he filled their glasses to the brim, "Ah but you have forgotten my dear, it was five rubles for each model and today I have had two!"

Doc

Buster Benson and the Mole Men; Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 24

2011-03-31T13:29:00.002-04:00

...We join now this weeks installment of Buster Benson and the adventure of the Mole Men, compliments of our sponsor, Miracle Soap Suds. If it gets it clean, it's a Miracle!

When last we met, Buster and his trusty sidekick Ray had just escaped from the underground lab of the evil Dr. Heinsmueller and his dark army, who close in on them even as we speak...

(sound of water dripping in a cave and the hum of something electric.)

Buster: Forget the diamonds Ray! We are lucky to be alive!. Dr. Heinsmueller's ray could have turned us into goose-stepping zombies. Now we need to concentrate on finding Helen. Come on!

Ray: Ah just a few Buster. It will mean so much to the orphans.

Buster: All right you big lug. You got me. Fill your pockets.

(sound of pebbles dropping into a frying pan.)

Buster: That's enough, now let's make a break for it. Grab that torch Ray and let's head down this passage way. We're sure to find the slave quarters from there, and that just might bring us one step closer to Helen.

(sound of echoing footfalls in a cave.)

Narrator: Buster and Ray follow the passage until they reach a large cavern.

Ray: Look Buster! It's our Cave Car! Boy am I ever glad to see that bucket of bolts.

Buster: Check it over Ray and make sure it hasn't been tampered with, then get it warmed up. I'm going on to find Helen and I'll meet you back here.

Ray: Sure thing boss.

(clank of metal tools followed by the sound of running footsteps and a woman's voice singing softly in the distance.)

Buster: Helen? Is that you Helen?

Helen: Oh Buster, darling, help me. I'm chained to the wall and I think I hear those dreadful creatures coming back!

(sound of chains falling to the floor.)

Buster: I've got you my love. You're safe now.

Helen: Oh Buster. (kissing sounds, then Helen screams) Buster! There, behind you!

Mole Man: Roar, hiss. (gunshots)

Buster: My bullets just bounce right off of him! No wonder Dr. Heinsmuller created these abominations for the Nazis. Quick Helen! Run!

Mole Man: Roar, hiss. (running footsteps and some more gunshots)

Buster: Quick Helen, get in the Cave Car. Ray, fire the rock cutting beam down that passageway.

Ray: But Buster, why? It might bring down the roof on us!

Buster: It's a chance we'll have to take. Fire!

(zap. zap, zap.)

Buster: Whoa, that was close. Thanks Ray.

Ray: Anything for a pal.

Buster: Now let's use the rock cutting beam to blast our way out of this cavern and get back to the Professor. Maybe he has discovered some way to defeat these evil Mole Men and stop Dr. Heinsmueller.

(sounds of blasting slowly fade away, music swells)

Narrator: That's this weeks installment of Buster Benson and the Mole Men. Remember kids, this Friday is the scrap rubber drive, and keep saving those box tops from Miracle Soap Suds for your official Buster Benson decoder ring. Bye bye and buy bonds. Goodnight.

The Best Part Of Waking Up... Flash Fiction Friday Cycle 23

2011-03-23T14:28:00.000-04:00

Barry rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked up at the smiling face of his beloved, Gloria. "Good morning sleepyhead," she grinned, "I made coffee and I need you bright eyed and bushy tailed. I've got plans for you buddy boy!" Her smile widened into a lascivious smirk.

"I can hardly wait," Barry hopped to his feet and followed her to the galley. His coffee cup vibrated on the table from the constant hum of the superluminal engines and he stared over it to look into her eyes. "Those amazing eyes," he thought to himself, and then he let his eyes roll over the rest of her compact frame. She was a knock out and Barry wondered how he could be so lucky. He had traveled the length and breadth of the galaxy on one off-world freighter or another but he had never seen anything like her, then he had signed up for a three year hitch on a colonization ship and there she was. She was everything he could possibly want in a woman. She was bright, energetic, had an infectious laugh, shared his sense of humor and she was as randy as an alley cat.

"Hurry and finish your coffee," she prodded, "I've got an itch that only you can scratch!" she giggled.

"What about some breakfast first? I've got more than one appetite you know, and three months in hypersleep does tend to work up a hunger." Barry pleaded.

"Oh no, me first," in one fluid move, she slid his cup aside and tugged at the zipper of her tight jumpsuit, "then we will see what you are hungry for." She pulled him close for a passionate kiss and the stellar engines hummed on.

***

Barry layed back against the pillow as Gloria snuggled close at his side and he thought about how the two of them had been thrown together. It was on their first shift that they realized their potent connection. The crew consisted of the two of them and the pilot, Roy. While the flight plan had been programed into the computer before they left Earth, Roy became the defacto pilot because he was the only one with the wetware to interface with the ship. Roy spent the entire trip in a suspended half sleep and monitored their progress as well as life support and other ship functions without ever leaving his sleep chamber. Every three months, the computer would wake them and they would spend a week staring at unmoving gauges while Roy got some deep beauty rest. It was boring, but it was part of the company's safety plan and the work wasn't hard.

The computer had awoken them a little early for their first shift and it only took a moment to figure out why. A food dispenser in the galley had sprung an unexpected leak and shorted out. The puff of smoke that it's frying motherboard emitted registered on the sensors and the computer roused them in a hurry. The parts needed for repair were locked in storage and only the pilot's okay would let them into the hold. Barry shivered a bit as he recalled trying to wake Roy. The needler made it's familiar hiss as he injected the stimulant into Roy's arm and he waited for his eyes to flutter instantly awake. He waited and waited. Nothing. He gave Roy another dose but to no avail. Roy's lifeless eyes would never open again. The feedback from the short had been too much and fried Roy's sleeping mind like an egg.

Now the ship had a crew of two, with three thousand frozen colonists in the hold and a busted food dispenser, light years from home and just as far to their destination. The decision to eat Roy was not one that they arrived at lightly but death by starvation does tend to rearrange one's priorities just a bit. Barry was all thumbs in the kitchen but Gloria made a wonderful pot roast that just melted in your mouth. It would have been better with some potatoes and carrots but beggars can't be choosers. Afterwards, they made love for the first time and that seemed to bring the universe back into alignment and seal their relationship forever.

Barry sat up in bed, finished with his post coital musings, "What about that breakfast you promised? I need some mind food if I'm going to spend a week staring at dials and playing rumpy-pumpy with you my love."

"Oh that's all taken care of. I've a nice American thawing as we speak," she said in a lazy voice.

"I hope he isn't an athlete. The last one was stringy and as tough as boot leather. Good flavor," he conceded, "but chewy."

"No, no. This one is as fat as a Christmas goose. You'll love him, but he won't be ready for at least another hour. What do you propose we do to fill the time?" she said with a purr. Barry pulled her close and the stellar engines hummed on.

Doc

Jamal & The Hermit

2011-03-09T14:38:00.000-05:00

Flash Fiction Friday Writing Prompt: This week’s story challenge is to explore a character’s defense mechanism at work in under 1500 words in any genre you want.

***

Fate has written a tragedy; its name is “The Human Heart.” The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer’s part; The Devil enters the prompter’s box and the play is ready to start. - Robert W. Service, "The Harpy".

***

Jamal struggled with the last few feet and heaving out of breath, threw himself down at the summit of the mountain. "Oh my sweet God," he thought to himself, "I never thought I would make it!" He panted, trying in vain to catch his breath in the thin, icy air. He looked down over the edge and surveyed the hard climb he had just surmounted. Each jagged rock and switchback seemed to taunt him still, even though he had spent three of the hardest days of his life climbing them. He turned his attention away from the precipice and back to the object of his journey. There, in a patch of scrub pines, stood a crude stone hut with wisps of smoke rising from some unseen chimney.

Jamal made for the hut in some haste but paused at the ill-fitting door, almost afraid to knock. "Come in young one," came an ancient voice from beyond the door, "Come and warm yourself by my fire." Jamal stooped to enter the small doorway and let his eyes adjust to the smoky darkness of the interior. A small, withered old man sat hunched by the fire and beckoned him to sit down.

"Oh great master, I have traveled so long and so far to seek you out. I-" Jamal began.

"I know why you have come," the old man interrupted, "You have come, like many before you, to seek the answers that you could not find below. You have braved the mountain, seeking the answers to life's hardest question. You want to know what life is all about, don't you?" The old man thrust a steaming cup of tea in his hands and turned away from him to gaze into the fire once more.

"Yes, oh master. You know my innermost heart. Please, wise one, tell me what I must do to live a good and happy life!" Jamal's eyes grew wide and he leaned forward so as to catch every word that tumbled from the old man's weathered lips.

"You must..."

"Yes, yes." Jamal trembled.

"You must find a pretty girl and settle down. Have children. Enjoy yourself and try not to think too much."

Jamal sat in silence as the words rolled around in his head. "That's it !?!" he barked incredulously, "Get married and try not to think too much? That's it?"

The old man poked at the fire with a stick, "All of life is a sad and funny play. Sit back and enjoy the show." The old man shrugged as if there really wasn't anything more to say.

"You can't be serious!" Jamal sputtered, "There has got to be more to it than that!" Jamal swore loudly and smacked his knee. "You sit up here at the summit of the mountain, reading and contemplating the wisdom of the ancients, pouring over the holy word day after day, and communicate with God himself, and that is all the wisdom you have to offer? You sir, are a fool! You are no wise man at all!" Jamal spat on the hard packed earthen floor.

"I never said I was wise. You did. I tell you to go and find a wife and live a happy, simple life because I do not want you to make the same mistake I did and live the cold, solitary existence of an aesthetic as I have done. Go, drink the wine, make love to a woman, smell the flowers." Jamal shook his head in disbelief.

"Besides," the old man continued, "Who is the greater fool? The old fool who wastes his life at the top of a mountain seeking something that cannot be found, or the young fool who risks his life climbing the mountain seeking a shortcut to enlightenment?"

Doc

Creature's Night In, Flash Fiction Friday

2011-02-26T20:01:00.001-05:00

"It is a little known fact that the undead are fond of cards, dice, and board games. You see, since they live forever, they have so much time to kill." - Brom Stoker, on his death bed; courtesy of the library of the Knowmordenudo Institute.

***

"Can I get you something sir?" Carrington asked in a snooty voice as he set down the candelabra on the huge dining room table. He made sure to set it so that it illuminated the board better and to make it easier to see the deeds. "Perhaps I could bring you some refreshments?" he offered.

"Yes Carrington, I will have a patty melt and a Diet Coke. The Wolfman will have a leg of lamb with mint jelly. Frankenstein wants a meat lover's pizza with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The Mummy will have clam chowder and see if there is any of the key lime pie left will you? Have you got all that?"

"Yes sir, to the letter. I'll only be a moment," and Carrington bustled off.

"Now," Dracula sighed as he turned his attention back to the board, "Whose turn is it? Wolfman landed on Marvin's Gardens and Frank went to jail, so Mummy that makes it your turn."

"My pleasure," the Mummy's voice whispered like the wind blowing through dry leaves. He rolls a nine, rounds Go and lands on income tax. He has too much cash and property to try and pay the 10% so he just tosses his Go money into the pot in the middle. Dracula tries to roll the much coveted double fives to get out of jail and land on Free Parking in one fell swoop but he doesn't get it. He pays his fifty bucks into the pot and moves to Community Chest. Second prize at a beauty contest $10. While the Wolfman slowly counted out his move to Luxury Tax, Dracula looked around the table to see how his competition was shaping up.

The Mummy was a contender. He owned all of the cheap side of the board and had hotels on everything, not to mention a fair amount of cash. The Wolfman was in a strong position too. He had the reds with three houses each which amounted to a pretty steady income. Frankenstein however had been backed into a corner early on by spending so much time in jail while the other three had been snatching up properties left and right. Sure he had the railroads and the utilities, but with nothing he could develop, he was just walking the board and donating his money as he went. Dracula eyed his green ones with the couple of houses and hoped that it would be enough to eliminate the others and he would be crowned the victor in this Battle Royale of high finance.

It was Frankenstein's turn but he just sat there quietly, staring off at nothing in particular. The Mummy nudged him. "Oh I am sorry. I'm holding up the game aren't I?" Frankenstein said in his deep, baritone voice, "So sorry. I was wool gathering. I was just wondering which of us is the scariest? You know, just out and out fright-wise." Frankenstein rolled but remained in jail.

"That is a very interesting question," the Wolfman replied before scratching behind his ear with his back foot, "Who do you think is the scariest Mummy?"

"Here you are gentlemen. Piping hot from the kitchen!" called out Carrington as he wheeled up the trolley and began to remove the lids. "For you sir, a Cobb salad and a tepid Mountain Dew, A can of Spam and a mint julep for the Wolfman, fish tacos and a bottle of Old Crow for Frankenstein, and corn chowder for the Mummy. And I am ever so sorry sir but I'm afraid the key lime pie has been eaten."

"What the devil are you playing at Carrington! This isn't what we ordered at all!" Dracula thundered. He explained the order in detail and waived him away. Carrington wheeled the trolley off with some haste but not before Frankenstein had snaked his long arm out and nabbed the whiskey. He took a long pull from the bottle and dabbed at the little bit that seeped out from the stitches at his throat. "Ahhh," he sighed, "So, Mummy, you didn't answer. Who do you think is the scariest?"

"Why I am you silly boy," the Mummy was always a little condescending to Frankenstein because of his young age, "The mighty Ra has endowed me with the strength of twenty men and I am relentless in my pursuit of defilers and heretics. I never rest and will cross vast oceans to deliver my vengeance on those who offend Ra!" His voice rose and fell like a dessert sandstorm, then he paid through the nose for Street Repairs with five hotels.

"Well I don't care what you say, I know that I am the most frightening," the Wolfman growled. "I appeal to one of the most primal of fears, the fear of a predator. I am an archetype. I am the Hell Hound of old if you will, but my fright is universal. Who outside of Epypt is going to be afraid of a bandaged man, while everyone runs from a rabid wolf. Case in point. Drac, it's your turn." Dracula rolls and lands on the one yellow one the Wolfman owns but it's mortgaged.

Frankenstein sets aside the bottle, sits back in his chair, and folds his long arms over his barrel chest and nods politely. "I can see your point Wolfman but by that same logic, I'm an archetype as well. I am literally the living dead. I am a corpse, the most obvious representation of death in even the most primitive mind, and I am reanimated to walk among people once more. I don't know that I am the scariest, but I am at least as frightening as you my hairy friend. I think we can all agree that I am the most gruesome among us, and I think that ought to count for something." Frankenstein collects the Wolfman's two hundred dollars for landing on Short Line, lights a cigar and takes a few puffs.

"I will concede that your appearance borders on the ghastly, while mine tends to lie much further at the other end of the scale, I am happy to say." Dracula began, "But if we are to follow the argument that the Wolfman put forth, then I am the oldest archetype and therefore the scariest. If he is the Hell Hound, I am the Devil himself. I am this malignant spirit or demon who manipulates the minds of innocents so that I may feed on their suffering. I am known for my penchant for seducing and deflowering beautiful maidens, always with the same tired temptation of eternal beauty, eternal life, and an unearthly love. Oh, I think I hear Carrington coming. Good. I'm starved" No sooner did the words leave his lips, than in comes Carrington pushing a laden trolley. "You better have it right this time, or I'll have your guts for garters!" Dracula threatened.

"No, no. Everything is as it should be. I brought everything you wanted. I have Doritos, Slim Jim's brand meat snacks, a beaver skin hat, five raw yams, a six pack of AA batteries, ramen noodles, a road flare, a bottle of Blue Nun, whole wheat hot dog buns, and a shaving mirror with a built in clock/radio." Carrington bowed and smiled insipidly.

"Carrington! You adlepated ninny hammer! What in the nine Hells am I going to do with a shaving mirror?" Dracula roared.

"It's got a clock/radio," Carrington offered softly.

"You boob!" Dracula was so angry he stomped his foot. "Alright, give me the Doritos and start pouring the wine. And be quick about it!" He sat down in a resigned huff and proceeded to stain his fingers orange as he stuffed his face. "Anyway, that is my argument on why I am the scariest of us all," he said between mouthfuls, "Who's with me gentlemen?"

"I don't know that I would agree with you there," Carrington mumbled as he poured the wine.

"You have an opinion on this matter Carrington? Well please enlighten us!" Dracula taunted.

"I would have thought it would have been obvious. I am the scariest one here." The walls rang with their collective laughter as each monster in turn snickered and guffawed. "Laugh if you must," Carrington continued, "but look at it from my point of view. Each of you is capable of horrible violence, but I'm a member of the service industry. I am overworked, underpaid, am apt to snap at any minute and most days, I could give a shit if you get what you want. There's four of you and about a million of me. So now who's scariest?"

Doc

When Reggie Came To Town

2011-02-24T18:43:00.002-05:00

The first time Reggie came to town, he caused quite a stir. Arnold had been mucking out the stables and was carting the third load of manure out to the garden when he saw him from afar. Reggie was coming up from the valley road at a halting, limping gate. Arnold stopped to stare. "Now there is something you don't see everyday," he thought to himself. The late afternoon sun shone brightly from Reggie's coat and mane. He didn't have the dull luster of the local work horses whose hide often sported burs and bald patches. The breeze caught Reg's hair just right and it fell across his face as he approached. He shook it back and addressed Arnold in a quiet, timid voice.

"Pardon me young sir," he began, "but is there a blacksmith in town and could you kindly lead me to him? I'm a stranger here and I need some help." He sounded embarassed to admit the last bit.

"Yes sir!" Arnold brightened, "My master would be more than happy to help you gentle sir. Come, it is only one street over." Arnold smiled as he thought of all the notoriety that he would garner among the locals as the one who brought the forrest creature to town. He smiled as he pictured himself retelling the tale for weeks around the inn's fireplace to a rapt audience. He would be famous. He turned to look at his new charge, the subject of his newly minted fame. The centaur followed at a slow pace and with every step of his right forefoot, he winced.

Arnold led him around the corner of the stables to the open courtyard of the smith. "Master, we have a customer!" Arnold called out. The smith turned from stoking the fire and out of habit, wiped his dirty hand on his leather apron before turning to greet his new customer. He blinked at Reggie who was framed by the late afternoon sun. The smith paused a moment before he stammered out, "What can I do for you sir?".

Reg put his forefoot up on the wood block and steadied himself from the cross beam. "I've got this bad hoof you see. It hurts like the devil to the point it goes clear up my leg. It's not a stone bruise, it hurts too badly for that. I don't know what to do with it and I was hoping you did." Reg wiped his brow on his forearm and looked the smith in the eye.

The smith scratched his beard and looked at the hoof, then he called out to Arnold, "Boy, go and fetch our guest a drink. Tell Mr. Miller we will have a pail of ale on account," and then in a much quieter voice he said, "and hurry yourself too!"

Arnold dashed off as quick as his legs could carry him and only paused to dodge Mrs. O'Leary and Mrs. O'Donnel at the well as he passed. Breathless, he asked Mr. Miller for the ale. "What's the hurry boy?"

"We've got a customer of some quality at the smithy and we need some of your excellent ale, but there is some haste about it or the customer is lost." Arnold fibbed and he hated to do it, but he knew he had to hustle the slow innkeeper or perhaps he would be missing precious time away from the centaur. If he wasn't there, then who would be able to tell the whole story to the village later? He had been the first to spot Reggie, so he had an obligation to be there for the whole thing, if for no other reason than having the bragging rights to the tale and make a name for himself.

No sooner did Mr. Miller set down the pail of ale than Arnold was off. Again he passed the old ladies and they called to him, "Where ya off to?".

"Gotta customer, gotta go," he called back over his shoulder. Arnold fetched the gourd dipper and held it up to Reggie as the smith got down on one knee and examined the hoof more closely.

"I'd advise you to have some of the ale the boy has brought. You've come quite a ways under a hot sun and I expect you'll be needin' some relief." Reggie took a long draw from the dipper and nodded his thanks. The smith started with his hands on his knee and slowly slid them to Reggie's ankle. "This may sting a bit but I gotta know." His probing hands slid lower and cradled Reg's hoof in his hands until he winced.

"I'll have a bit more of that ale now boy," Reggie said, perspiration standing out brightly on his forehead.

"Have you been runnin' any fever or had some chills perhaps?" the smith asked after he had sniffed the hoof very closely.

"Now that you mention it, I haven't felt myself for the past couple of days. What? What is it?"

"Rot. You got hoof rot. Some kinda infection an' there is only one kinda cure," the smith shook his head.

"What is it?" Reg asked.

"I gotta split the hoof and get it out."

Reggie just nodded and the smith got his chisel and hammer. In two blows, the hoof was split and the yellow seeped from it. The smith washed it with the last of the ale and patted it dry. Throughout the experience, Reggie kept a brave face, only pausing now and then to sigh softly. Arnold admired his courage.

"Now comes the hard part," the smith explained. "Hand me the hot tar there by the fire." Arnold carried the hot pot at arm's length and the smith daubbed it into the split hoof. The air smelled of char, but quickly the smith waved him away as Reggie took a deep breath. The smith eyed his work and smiled. In a moment, he had mounted a shoe on the split hoof. In twenty minutes, he'd done the other three.

"That'll hold ya for now," the smith grinned, "but in thirty days, you should come back and let me take another look at it. You'll be wanting to keep it clean and dry. Take this bottle of medicine and smear it on every night before ya bed down. It'll kill anything the tar didn't."

Reg looked down at the bottle in his hands and then back at the smith. "I don't know how to thank you," he began, "I've naught with me for payment..." he trailed off.

The smith smiled. "My wife's been after me to go up in the hills for some gooseberries and I been tellin' 'er that it just ain't time for them to be ripe just yet, but I figure thirty days will ripen 'em up quite a bit. When you come back, maybe you could bring enough for a couple of pies."

Reggie gave a brief nod and the sound of his fresh shod hooves resounded throughout the town as he dashed away for the cover of the deep forrest once more. "I'll never see the likes of him again," thought Arnold as he watched him fade into the gathering dark of the valley road.

For two weeks afterwards, Arnold could be found at the fireside of the inn retelling the tale about how he had coaxed this shy sylvan creature from the woods to seek the help of his learned master for his wound. By the fourth telling, the smith only entered the story slightly. By the eighth, the smith had only been there to hold the hot bucket of tar and to marvel at the skill of his young apprentice. When pressed for confirmation, the old smith would only scratch absentmindedly at his scraggly beard and say, "It is as the boy tells it," and he would hide his knowing smile behind the rim of his ale cup.

Thirty days had passed swiftly and everyone in town had heard Arnold repeat his story to the point it was old news and no one wanted to hear it yet again. The smith sent Arnold out to fetch more wood for the furnace and he was relieved to be away from the heat, if only for a moment. They had spent the morning working on some hinges for Mr. Miller's cellar door and the afternoon hammering out new shoes for Mr. O'Leary's mare. As Arnold filled his arms with wood for the greedy furnace, he happened to look down the valley road. His heart leaped and he took off at a run. Breathless, he rounded the corner of the smithy.

"Where's the wood boy? That furnace ain't gonna feed itself," the smith chided.

Arnold panted, "Master, he's come back! He's back and we better lay in some more shoes as there must be thirty more with him!"

Doc

Whispered Words Of Tender Love

2011-02-18T10:55:00.000-05:00

Dear Zeke,

Oh my dear, how I long for your gentle touch. I miss you so much it hurts. I have trouble facing the day knowing that you aren't by my side and I need your warm embrace to steady me against the cold, outside world. I need you. I need you badly. I want to feel your arms around me. I want to feel the gentle brush of your lips along my neck. I ache to feel you inside of me once again like we were in the orchard last fall. I shiver to remember the way we made love beneath the apple trees. I know we have had our differences in the past but can't we put all that behind us now? Can't we embrace our love and just let the world fall away like we used to? I miss you darling. Come back to me, my loving man.

Yours forever more,
Maggie

Dear Maggie,
You two-timing white trash bitch! I wouldn't take you back for a billion dollars you selfish whore! It is one thing to get drunk and kiss Billy Ray on the dance floor of the Boar's Nest but it is another thing entirely to take him out to his pickup truck in the parking lot and shag him like some dog in heat! And to make matters worse, you have to follow him up with the entire high school football team, right down to the water boy! When the cops show up to arrest you for disturbing the peace, you blew them in the cruiser! I should have listened to my mother. She always said that you were a cooze but I didn't believe her. I know now why we got such a deal on the Firebird from the dealership, cause you banged Harold Sykes on the tire rack you unfaithful slut! I know cause that is how I got that bad case of the crabs back in April. Maggie, I'm taking that job in Texas and I'm taking the truck and the TV with me. You can have the trailer and all of the Designing Women DVDs. Good luck, you unfaithful harlot. I hope you catch a disease.

Zeke

Pembrook's Guitar (For Flannery, my guitar hero)

2011-02-16T14:47:00.003-05:00

Now I've heard a lot of hard luck stories since I bought this pawn shop from old Mr. Spencer near twenty years ago. Hard luck is what keeps the doors open and keeps people coming back. It is the one thing that every customer has in common and if they know it or not, it hovers over them like a black cloud, at least to some degree. Like the new father who is selling his football equipment to help pay for the birth of his new child and is hocking his dreams of youth, or the middle aged woman who peddles Great Grandma's broach to help pay for the lawyer in her divorce. Even the buyers who come to rifle through the broken dreams of others in the hope of finding a bargain have a tinge of the black cloud about them, like vultures hovering over the still warm dead. You have to have something of a hard heart to do this business.

Like Wednesday for example. I open at nine but business doesn't really roll in until lunchtime. About ten-thirty a couple of teenage boys come in and it's obvious that they are skipping school. They pour over the video games for twenty minutes, buy sixty bucks worth and hurry off to rot their brains. Then in comes this old black man. He's got to be eighty if he is a day. Snow white hair, natty black suit worn at the elbows, and he walks hunched over with a cane. He doesn't pause to look over the racks but comes right straight to the counter. I figure he's come looking for a TV or a pistol.

"I'm lookin' fer a guitar," he says in this hoarse, whiskey-and-cigarettes voice.

"I got a nice Fender here," I offered.

"Naw, I don't want any of that shit. I'm lookin' for an acoustic. A Gerhardt-Brecht."

Now anybody who knows anything about guitars knows that Gerhardt-Brecht is no ordinary six string. These are top of the line, hand made, custom order from old world craftsmen kind of thing. It is what Stradivarius is to violins, and this guy wanted one. "I don't think I've got anything like that..." I said.

"Sure you do. I got the ticket right here," and he plunked down a pink claim ticket. I check the ticket and it's genuine. I check the lot number and it's way in the back. I find the lot and it's wrapped in brown paper with a date on it of 1976 and it's in Mr. Spencer's handwriting. I bring it out and he unwraps it there on the counter and damn if it isn't a Gerhardt-Brecht, with gold and pearl inlays, and it's in mint condition. If I sold this guitar for what it was worth, I could retire. He hands me sixty bucks and it's his. I have to honor the ticket.

"Let me ask you something, why did you ever hock this guitar?"

"Well, I promised my wife I wouldn't play no more. Ya see, I used to play the blues in the clubs and she didn't like that. All the drinkin' an womanizin'. She didn't like that see, so I quit playin'. Went ta church, sobered up, got a job at da mill."

"And now you are going to start playing again after all these years?"

"Yes sir, cause she up and died yesterday. I'm going to the funeral now. I'm gonna play her one last song afore she go." He choked up a little and covered it by lighting a Lucky Strike and cradling that beautiful guitar like an old friend in his gnarled hands. "Is there a liquor store between here an' the graveyard? I'd hate to do this without a lil drink of something."

"Yeah, two blocks down." I could have shared my Johnny Walker with him but sometimes you need to have something of a hard heart to do this business.

Doc

**Author's Note** I honestly don't know spit about guitars, so forgive my poetic license. I just thought that Gerhardt-Brecht sounded like a good name. Let me leave you with another one of my guitar heroes, Mr. John Lee Hooker...

From the Mouthes Of Babes

2011-02-10T09:59:00.000-05:00

Like most of the country, the recent ice storm that we had knocked out our power for several days. The kids embraced the idea of camping out in our basement by the kerosene heater and playing board games by candlelight. While we were rearranging the laundry room into a more suitable living area, I thought it might be a good idea to explain some fire safety tips.

"Now you have to understand," I began, "this heater is a wonderful tool. It gives us heat and light but we have to be very, very careful around it. It can start a fire, and while it is a great tool, it can go horribly wrong in a hurry."

And without ever missing a beat, my youngest, Lucy, chimes in, "Like a wedding?"

Doc

The Last Rose Of Summer

2011-01-25T16:38:00.003-05:00

There comes a certain point in life when the sheen of childhood wears thin. You aren't old enough to be confronted by the everyday troubles of adults but there is some vague and undefinable line that you have crossed. You are old enough to start to notice the curves of the opposite sex but not old enough to drive. Most people probably don't recall the moment when they quit being kids but I do. It was September of 1983. Reagan was in office, Vanessa Williams was Miss America, and I was squatting on a rock the size of a Volkswagen.

School had started and the last warm Saturday of the year had arrived. The sun was warm and tingled the last of my summer sunburn but the passing breeze was cool. The leaves on the trees had just started to curl and would be a week or two before they turned brown. I got out my raft and decided to make one more trip down the crick behind our house before it was too late and the ice started to form at the edges with the onset of winter. Besides, time spent on the water beat the hell out of spending time with my sister.

It wasn't much of a raft, as it was a Styrofoam pull-along for people who couldn't water ski but it served my purposes just fine. It was about four feet long, two and a half wide, with the top carpeted with a green felt for grip. There was just enough room for me and a small bag and that was the way I liked it. I set off with a splash and the water oozed over the nose until I adjusted myself to the center. I had one old paddle that was longer than the craft itself but it was good to have the reach for pushing oneself through mud banks and sand. I let the current take me, rested the paddle on my knee and I drifted into our swimming hole.

A lot of people have the mistaken idea that the wild is a silent place. They couldn't be further from the truth. The back woods is certainly quiet, the kind you can't find anywhere else, but it isn't the silence of a church on Monday. Bird song fills the air, from the yelp of a titmouse to the mournful cry of a distant crow. Among the underbrush, a startled raccoon flees with his precious handful of crawdad and he curses me for spoiling his lunch at the water's edge. I float on, hesitant to dip the paddle in for fear of disturbing the peace of this soft moment that I am trying so hard to savor for the times this winter when I will while away hours in a boring classroom.

I gaze up into the pines that line the walls of the river valley and catch site of a cardinal trying very hard to conceal his red breast amongst the rich green of the needles. On the other side of the crick, I hear his mate scold him for not being home on time. He chirps back to her, "Shut your mouth woman! Can't you see the predator in our midst!" I am mildly ashamed for the marital discord that I have caused and I bend my back to the paddle in earnest for the first time.

The water gets shallower and swifter now. I feel the rub of the smooth rocks under my boat more than hear them. I paddle past the spot of the cornfield where I felt the neighbor girl's breast for the first and only time that summer. I think about it's butter color with a rose like crest, and how it was so indescribably soft in a way nature has no right to be. I am uncomfortable with the memory and I shift my weight on the raft although I don't know why at the time.

The current settles down now and I can see my goal. With my destination in sight, I check to make sure that my bag hasn't gotten too wet. The boat noses against the large rock in the stream and the last of this season's dragonflies whiz past as I pull it up. I gather a handful of drift wood and have a small fire going in minutes. The bits of sand caught in the bark of the wood will change the flame to green and blue as it burns and it will flavor my lunch like no spice I've had before or since. The ham makes a reassuring hiss as it hits the hot skillet of my mess kit. I quietly curse myself for forgetting the eggs as I put the greasy bread on to toast.

I eat my hot sandwich in small bites and look around me at the carpet of ferns that make their home beneath these huge pines. My nose is filled with the smell of crick mud, wet grass, rotting vegetation, and wood smoked ham on slightly burnt toast, and for some unknown reason I think to myself, "This is it. It will never get any better than this."

The truth of the matter is that it did get better than that over the next twenty-eight years, but it was never, ever the same kind of better as that afternoon. I kicked my fire into the crick and grabbed the pull rope on my raft and headed for home, walking the same route I had just floated. The cold water stung my toes while I thought of the neighbor girl and her soft, yielding kiss that held a mysterious passion that up until now I had reserved for collecting comic books alone. I thought of the unwelcome grind of homework that was due on Monday and how I was going to get through public school with the least amount of humiliation and ass kicking as I could manage. I wondered about how to make some money. As I pulled the raft up to the barn to put it away for the year, I paused to have a chew of tobacco, a new habit that I had recently acquired. "Screw it," I thought as I stopped to spit, "I'll worry about that tomorrow. I'm only young once and tonight will be the last night for lightening bugs."

Thanksgiving At The Star Of China

2010-11-23T13:30:00.002-05:00

I'd rather slam my hand in a car door a few times rather than head to Pop's for Thanksgiving this year. It's the first Thanksgiving since Mom has been gone and I just don't know if I can take the heartache. Pop has called every other day for two weeks to keep confirming that I'll be there. At first I lied and said that I may have to work that day but I couldn't keep it up. I finally told him that I'd gotten someone else to pull my shift at the call center and that I'd be there. He sounded so sad on the phone that there was no way I could beg off.

Thursday dawned a sleek battleship gray and a cold wind kept tugging at the remaining leaves on the trees. It was as if even the weather was dreading the day. I took one of the pills the doctor had given me for my anxiety attacks and pulled on my heavy blue sweater. I kept trying to think of some reason why I couldn't go, why I had to be somewhere other than Pop's today, but I just couldn't think of one. I fed the cat, grabbed my keys and pocketed the pills on my way out the door.

Pop opened the door with tears in his eyes as he fanned the smoke away from his face. He shouted over the smoke alarms that he needed a hand in the kitchen. I pulled the charred remains of a bird that had been doomed from the start out of the oven and rushed the smoldering ruin outside. Pop was opening windows and clicking on the ceiling fan when I got back in. "I don't understand it, I did it just like the book said!" he gasped.

"Pop, the oven is set to broil. You're lucky you didn't burn the house down! Let's go outside while this clears."

"Yeah, I need a smoke."

We stood on the sidewalk and he lit a Pall Mall from a half empty pack. It was starting to sleet flurries but they seemed to fall as if there was no hurry. Pop looked back at the house and shook his head, "I don't know what the hell we are goin' ta eat now. I've got some burritos in the freezer but that doesn't sound too appetizing. Is there any of the bird left? Maybe we could salvage some of it?"

"The bird is toast Pop. There isn't much more than ashes left."

He looked crestfallen and took a long drag on his cigarette. "Aw screw it!" he tossed his butt down and crushed it with his heel. "Let me go get my coat and I'll take you out to eat."

"There is no place open on Thanksgiving. Even McDonald's is closed!" but he ignored me and went in for his coat.

"Come on, I got a plan B lined up. We don't need the car. It's just a few blocks down." He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his old hunting coat and sniffed against the cold wind that tugged at us. He walked with a quick step and I found myself huffing a bit to keep up.

"You're not taking me to Ed's are you? I don't want to have chili dogs in a bar for Thanksgiving."

"Naw, I ain't takin' you to Ed's. I done thought of that, but Ed's boy is up from Miami so he closed up this year. No, I got something else in mind." He clammed up and we walked in silence for a while. "I must have spent half the night fixin' that damn bird." he swore, "Damned shame for it to turn out like that. I don't know how your mother did it, year after year. She never seemed ta spend more than an hour fussing with meal, and then- bang, you have a feast to sit down to. Hell, I spent forty-five minutes just pealing potatoes last night! Oh well, I know we will get a good meal where we're headed. Damned shame about the bird though." He was talking more to himself than to me and I just let him talk. "You know what I am going to miss the most this year? Your mother's stuffing. My God, she could make a stuffing that would melt in your mouth. I can see it in that ol' silver tureen. I don't know what she did to it that made it so good but I could never get enough of it."

He bit his lip a bit, "It's strange. At night, I still reach for her. I know in my heart of hearts that she is gone, but I still reach over to her side of the bed. Sometimes I slide my foot over, just to try to feel her feet again but..." He gripped himself a little tighter against the slap of the cold wind. "During the day, I'm all right. I don't miss her so much. I'm busy in the workshop most days, and I don't think too much about it. But as I lay there in the dark, she's there with me. I've almost felt her, I swear."

Then he did something I've never seen him do. He sobbed. Not full on, breaking out into tears, but just choked up a little. He quickly looked away for a second as if he was really interested in what the hardware store had on special this week and when he turned back, he was just as straight faced as always. It was weird to hear him talk like that. All my life, he has been this hard ass, tough as nails, and to see him just heartsick for the loss of his wife, just for a moment. It was weird. I think it was the first time I saw him as someone other than my Pop. He was just an old guy trying to get along without the love of his life at his side anymore. He seemed so much more human, and suddenly so frail all at once. "Pop, I uh,"

"We're here," he said as he pulled open the door to a tiny Chinese restaurant. I stepped into a little room with a dozen tables and absolutely everything was either red or gold. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, everything, right down to the bells that hung from the front door that announced a customer. Pop looked at me with a "whadja think ?" smile. "Pretty spiffy, ain't it?" he said.

In a moment, a shapely Chinese women of indeterminate age in a red sheath dress appeared from the gold beaded curtain at the back of the room. "Ah Steve," she gushed, "I had so hoped that you would come in today! Come, sit down. I will bring you some tea," and with a bustle, she disappeared into the back room. We were the only customers, so we sat down in the large, overstuffed booth. "You're going ta like this," he smiled. She came back with a teapot and some dainty cups. She made a great show of pouring the tea.

"Rose, honey," Pop said, "I want you to meet my son. This is Roger."

"How do you do?" and she bowed to me. "You are most welcome, and I look forward to seeing you often." she bowed again and hustled off.

"Hey Pop, what did she mean, see me often?"

He gulped down his little glass of tea and grinned, "Cause after Christmas, Rose is going to be moving in with me," he said matter-of-factly. It was at this point I learned what being truly thankful was, because my hand unconsciously slid to the pills I had had the foresight to bring.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Doc

Frickert's Folly; a little something for David and Barb

2010-11-09T22:02:00.000-05:00

Now Old Man Frickert was about the sourest person you were ever likely to meet. His back was bent from years of farming and his scraggly grey beard was shot with tobacco stains. His eyes were always set at a perpetual squint and his face looked as if he was trying to digest a meal of corn cobs. If he ever said a kind word, no one ever heard him or was willing to tell the tale.

Old Man Frickert only liked three things on God's green earth: his farm, his money, and Mrs. Frickert. He was especially proud of his apple orchard. He had cultivated some prize winning trees that, year after year, produced like no other in the county. Every fall, he'd set up his little stand by the roadside and peddle his pumpkins, squash, and other such victuals as he thought he could sell to the city people who traveled the main road. The highlight of goods was the apples though. They were are big as melons, fire engine red, and as sweet as a first kiss.

It was no mystery to the local kids as to where to find these scrumptious treats, but Old Man Frickert kept a watchful eye out for looters and was not afraid to fire off a few blasts from his old pumpgun to discourage would-be thieves. The local kids felt somewhat entitled to a share of Frickert's apples as they were just kids and had yet to learn that no one ever just hands you something and you gotta work for it. Their frustration culminated to the point that they felt obliged to inconvenience Old Man Frickert if they could. Well they could and did. Every year at Halloween time they would overturn his outhouse in the middle of the night and race off giggling at the mischief that they had managed.

This became a tradition to the point that the holiday could never really be said to have been celebrated unless the Frickert privy had been up ended. Every year, Old Man Frickert would go out to relieve himself in the morning only to find his outhouse on it's side, or some years, hole side up. He would cuss and swear to the point the hens wouldn't lay eggs for a week.

Well after years of suffering at the hands of the local kids, Old Man Frickert decided that he had had enough. This year, he was going to put a stop to it. This year he was going to hide out in the outhouse and use his old pumpgun loaded with rock salt to put the fear of God into the local hooligans. So the week of Halloween, he fixed himself a thermos of coffee, put two plugs of chewing tobacco into his hunting coat and camped in the outhouse every night, waiting for the local miscreants to arrive. He was determined to teach them a lesson.

Anyone who has spent a few nights outside in late October can tell you, it gets a little nippy. Sure, the days are still warm with the fall sunshine, but the nights can get downright cold. Old Man Frickert learned early on that his whopper sized apples were good for more than just pies and sauce. Every year, a certain portion of his harvest went into cider, and with a little nurturing, it became stiffer than a new broom. After the first night of his vigil, he knew he needed a little something besides coffee to chase away the cold and to loosen up muscles that weren't used to sitting in such a confined place for so long. So he brought along a jug of his home brew and it seemed to answer the need well. The deeper into the jug he got, the less he noticed the dropping temperature and the more acute his smoldering anger became. He would sit and mutter about how the younger generation had lost all respect for decency, their elders, and the country in general. "This current batch is going to flood the jails and sink to the depths of depravity that will make them ancient Greek fellers look like church deacons! They will rob, steal, and kill, and if they ain't stopped soon, they will fornicate in the streets to breed more of their poisonous ilk!" he would swear as he had another swig. Then he would check the shotgun one more time to make sure it was loaded and smile a cruel, devilish smile.

Old Man Frickert had spent his life going to bed with the chickens and getting up with the rooster to spend the day at hard labor to keep his farm going. It is very hard for a man of these kind of habits to turn his internal clock completely around. Add to the mix Old Man Frickert's potent cider and the end result won't be much of a surprise to anyone.

There is something to be said for the flintiness and urgency of youth. Especially if you are a freshman joining a mostly senior high school football team. Even more so if you have had more than your fair share of a purloined bottle of gin from some dad's stock. It is enough to make you risk life and limb over something that in a week's time won't mean anything. But you are young and are gifted with the sense that you are bulletproof and fearless. Such was the nature of the husky teenagers who snuck up on Old Man Frickert.

They were smart enough to choose the wee hours of the morning for their prank. They creeped up as silently as their sneakers and soft giggles would allow. They surveyed the target in much the same way an artist decides where to strike the first blow on a block of marble. They put their collective shoulders against the side and exerted all of their strength.

The outhouse and Old Man Frickert never stood a chance. One of them must have been paying some attention in physics class as the best approach for maximum damage was to push the little shed down hill. Well down hill it went, end over end, with all the gusto of a torpedo bound for it's intent.

Needless to say, this was enough to wake Old Man Frickert up. As he found himself tumbling, he tried to scream swear words at the kids but found that he had fallen asleep with a rather large chew of tobacco in his mouth that became lodged in his throat as he fell. In his fury, he began to empty the pumpgun into the walls of his privy as it skipped down the hill in the vain hope that he would wound one of his would-be attackers. He succeeded in creating fist sized holes throughout the structure and his only score of the night was when he fired through the crapper and managed to wing a drunken lineman in the heel. The wound was to keep him away from one practice but didn't hinder him from winning an MVP in the state finals for sacking the opposing quarterback a record of six times. As an adult, he would brag to his kids that he received the wound in the war, even though his flat feet kept him from service. His wife later told them the truth, much to his chagrin.

Old Man Frickert gave up trying to save his outhouse and accepted the fact that kids will steal apples and overturn sheds of necessity. It became an accepted ritual of fall. While he never staid up looking for tippers ever again, Old Man Frickert could never bring himself to patch the holes he had blasted through his privy. Years later, after his death, Mrs. Frickert admitted that she enjoyed spending a few quiet moments in the morning seated and overlooking the town as she planned her day.

Doc

I Owe You More Than One

2010-11-03T14:39:00.000-04:00

So National Blog Posting Month is in it's third day and I have been meaning to do this for about five years running. Truth be told, I never have. The first of November is my birthday and that pretty much means I won't be posting as I'm busy celebrating living for one more year. The past few years have been pretty calm and a far cry from the orgys of my tender youth. I missed the beginning of NoBloPloMo for some legitimate reasons this year which is something I've never been able to do in the past. This year I had a kid barfing in my bed and waiting on the plumber to distract me from what should be the beginning of the greatest thirty days of my blog career for the year. Needless to say, these circumstances intervened and I'm only now recovering.

I was going to put something up yesterday but I ran into a snag. I learned this year that I have Bipolar Disease. Much like a two-cycle engine, I need the right mix. If I run too rich, I'm manic and I approach things with a Devil may care attitude. If I run too thin, I am sunk into the blues. On occasion, I suffer from what the text books refer to as "racing thoughts".

Picture yourself lost in a lonely wood. Now have two pots of coffee with three Red Bull chasers. Imagine that you are confronted with an axe-wielding maniac and you get some context as to "racing thoughts". It's fight or flight at it's most keen, even though you are simply trying to load the dishwasher. Never in my life have I ever suffered from this problem before I started taking medication to prevent this sort of thing. It is as if the snake oil salesman is trying to peddle me the snake as well as the cure. Damn them.

I'm still in the midst of moving even though it's been over a month. Picking up everything you own and rearranging it takes more time than I thought. For the thirteen years I've been married, it seems as if we have moved every three years or so. I'm starting to put casters on everything we own. In another five years I will be able to pack everything into a hobo's handkerchief and sling it from a stick over my shoulder.

I'm so very sorry that I haven't been keeping up with your doings but I've been busy being Dad, moving, and checking my mental dipstick. I plan on fixing that as of now. I WILL post every day for the rest of the month and I also resolve to read every damn thing you post for the month and leave a nice comment as well. I won't let Facebook or Frontierville interfere anymore. As Flannery and God are my witnesses, I swear. Cross my heart.

After all, I owe you more than one,

Doc

Status Update

2010-10-18T11:08:00.001-04:00

Sorry I haven't been around. We've moved and that has occupied all my time as of late. Our new house is only about two blocks away from the old one so we didn't have far to go but picking up and moving every blessed thing you own is never easy, even if it is only two minutes away.

My broken leg is mending but the doctor says that it will be at least another year before it's whole again, maybe two. My birthday is coming up and I've asked for a new cane as I'm going to be hobbling around on one for some time to come. I know it has certainly hampered me in the move. With every armful of our collective crap I have to move, my leg reminds me that we still have very far to go. Frankly, it hurts like a bitch but at least I'm off the crutches and have a free hand now.

I haven't been writing at all and I'm regreting that. With the close of Flash Fiction Friday, I can't seem to muster anything in the way of a story anymore. Sure, there are a couple of incarnations that have risen in it's place but they are a once a month or every other week sort of thing and the looming deadline of Tuesday morning no longer presses me into action. I miss it like having two good legs. Cormac old friend, I hope you are happy because you sure deserve to be, especially for what you did for me. Your little weekly writing exercise is what kept me sane for some time. It strengthened my marriage and perhaps saved my life, and I would be lying like a rug if I said otherwise.

I'm still struggling with my Bipolar Disorder and everyday is a challenge. It is more than a little disconcerting when one's own head turns against you, but I take my meds and meet each day as it comes. Flannery and the girls are in love with the new house and their joy is somewhat infectious. I smoke less now and my beers are seldom. My diet has improved and I sleep well now, so I'm not really in a bad way. I just wanted to drop you a line and say that I'm getting by and that I miss you all badly, but I'll rejoin you once I put my house in some kind of order.

May Provedence keep you safe and warm,

Doc

Abandoned Shoes FFF #1

2010-10-02T12:15:00.001-04:00

"Why aren't shoes ever abandoned in pairs?" Brian wondered as he shuffled along the sleeping city sidewalk. Here was a red satin high heel, slightly scuffed, in the middle of the sidewalk with no real reason for being there. It laid upright, as if the woman had just casually stepped out of it and trotted off to who knew what fate. From the look of it, it had probably set someone back a pretty penny.

Brian thought of these sort of things on his nightly walks. That was one of the advantages of being an insomniac. You got a chance to enjoy more quiet time alone with your thoughts then the rest of the world allowed themselves. Sure it had it's drawbacks, as all of your waking life took on this heavily surreal quality that you could never really shake, much like living your life in an oil painting. He thought of it much like being a vampire. You were cursed to wander the night time world for the rest of your days but you had a lot more time to get things done. Brian prefered walking.

For no good reason that he could think of, he picked up the shoe and tucked it in his Army field jacket pocket and continued walking. Brian always wore his Army jacket on his nightly walks. A lot of the bums and winos wore them, not to mention that it gave muggers the idea that he didn't have anything worth robbing and perhaps he could handle himself if something bad went down. Wearing a windbreaker or a sportcoat never gave him the reassuring comfort of his field jacket. It was his armor against the vagaries of the night.

Brian listened to his steady footfalls on the damp pavement and vaguely imagined that he could hear the scitter of little rat feet amongst the garbage. The neon of long closed stores reflected from the oil-slicked puddles. These were the sights and sounds that made him feel alive and set his nerves on a comfortable razor's edge.

The night had everything that the daytime could never hold. The daytime was when every living soul trapsed these streets, seeking out a meager living or some low-rent, average dream that was held by millions. At night, there was only a certain kind of people who ventured out. Early on, it could be a desperate father chasing after diapers, or the cheeseburger that his pregnant woman craved so badly. Sometimes it was the working girls from the typing pool, out for a night on the town, but heading home at ten-thirty after suffering an evening of greasy over-priced appitizers and watered down drinks with bitches they could barely stand. These were the ones to be pitied. These leftover remnanents of the day. These people who had no business being out after dark. Regular people who staid up too late. Poor, sick, dim-witted bastards. After twelve, these souls who would forever be chained to their alarm clock vanished, and good riddance.

After twelve, the night people started to come out in full force, as if some unconcious pull of the moon made them appear. The pimps, the thugs, the crazies, the vagrants, the drunks, the druggies, and the bums. All of them out to pay divine homage to the absence of light. These nocturnal creatures seemed to bubble up from the concentration of shadows to repopulate a world fading fast into blackness. The dregs who came to feed at the trough of life after the respectable pigs had all gone to bed. These were Brian's people.

The best part of the night by far was the hookers. He watched these poor, saintly girls who pressed their bodies into service, night after unforgiving night, and blew their money on clothes and make up to make themselves more attractive to the next nights sweaty, heaving customers, only to blow their little wad of cash the next day on more make up, more clothes, more drugs, and with any luck, a better pimp.

Brian had tried a hooker once. It was early on, when he first started his nightly prowls. He had secured a job with a reputable company doing computer work from home after his hitch in the army. It was about the time the insomnia set in. She wasn't pretty, although she may have been at one time. Her hair was crunchy with hair spray and her eyes had more bags than Heathrow airport. Her scuffed leather skirt covered a few of her purple veins in her snagged fishnet stockings. She was the kind of woman who only looked presentable in the half light of three AM. The five minutes and fifty dollars later in a dirty alley were only memorable from the feel of the cold, wet brick wall that he rested against as she did her work. He could never remember the feel of her exertions, only the wet brick aganst his back. There was no warmth. No sensation that communicated the touch of another human being. Just cold, wet brick and the leering smile she wore as she wiped her mouth and thanked him for his fifty. "Swing by any time," she chimed as he buttoned his jeans, "I'm here every night by ten, you hear?" From there on out, Brian cursed the daylight and never left the blue glow of his computer until after twelve.

Brian's fingers reached around the shoe in his pocket and softly crumpled the ten dollar bill resting beneath it. It was his walking cash. The money he allotted himself for the evening. Not enough that some punk would want to stick him up for but enough to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee. When the insomnia first started to kick in full force, Brian tried to fight it. but there really was never any hope of overcoming it. He went to the VA, to doctors, to sleep specialists. They all handed out nasty tasteing pills and false hopes of ever joining the regular people again. Screw 'em, every one. The day people were all foreigners now. They spoke a different language, valued different things. Brian never, ever wanted to see eight AM again unless he had seen seven, six, five, and four before it. His world at night was enough for him and only coffee could slake his thirst. Coffee with lots and lots of sugar.

That's How I Got To Memphis; FFF #41

2010-09-07T10:45:00.002-04:00

"Music is moral law. It gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness and a gaiety and life to everything. It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good, true, and beautiful." - Plato

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk. "Mr. Dagget, I want you to find this girl" he said. I looked him over. His rumpled overcoat covered a suit that was long out of fashion and looked like it had been slept in. His bloodshot eyes stood out in sharp relief against his deathly pale face. He seemed to weave slightly like a man pushed to his very limit and his legs didn't seem to have the strength to hold him up much longer.

"Sit down Mr.-" I motioned him to a chair and he slumped into it with a heavy sigh.

"Hall. My name is Hall. I'm looking for this girl and I need some help finding her."

I looked down at the snapshot of a young woman, early twenties at a guess, clad in a denim jacket, flannel shirt, and worn out blue jeans. She was leaning against a tree and cradling a guitar. The sun in the background shone through her brilliantly red hair and gave her face something of an angelic look. "What's her name?" I asked.

"Ruby. Ruby Conners. She is a musician. Plays country music. I've been hitting every bar, tavern, and night club in Memphis looking for her, but in a town this size, I just can't hit 'em all. That's why I need your help." His stomach chose that moment to make itself known and it complained loudly that it was empty and under used. I flipped the switch on the intercom and asked Shirley to get a burger, fries, and a coke for Mr. Hall.

"That's awfully kind Mr. Dagget but I-" he stammered.

"How do you know this Ruby Conners, Mr. Hall?" It's right here with any client that you find out what you're in for. It doesn't matter what they say, because half the time it's complete bullshit anyway, but their eyes will clue you in to what's really going on, if you know how to read them. After fifteen years in the detective business, you learn to read a lot of eyes. His eyes filled with longing and desperation.

"I'm a disc jockey for a radio station, WRON, out of Ronceverte, West Virginia. I'm also a songwriter. I've written several for Ruby. She has a voice a sweet as angels and she is going to be a big star as soon as she lands a record deal." His eyes hinted at a smile.

"What makes you think that she is in Memphis?"

He laugh a little, "She used to get mad and say that she'd come back to Memphis someday. I tracked her to Cleveland where she stayed with her cousin briefly. He's a librarian there and he suggested that I might find her here. I figured that she would be looking for a place to play, so I've been haunting the night clubs."

Shirley came in with a greasy sack of burgers and I noticed that the sudden smell of food made him jump a little. His hand trembled as he reached for the meal. He opened the bag and unwrapped the burger. He ate mechanically, as if it was just something he had to do and taste was of no concern to him at all.

"Do you think that Ruby is in some kind of trouble Mr. Hall?"

"I don't know," his face washed over with worry, "I just have to find her, help her. You see Mr. Dagget," his eyes misted with tears, " I...I love her...and I'll do whatever I can to find her."

"My fee is two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses." This was always the clincher. This is where you find out who is serious and who is just trying to pull a fast one.

"I have a hundred and twenty-three fifty. Would that be enough to start?" He pulled out a small wad of crumpled bills and set it on the desk. It was every damn dime he had. "I just took a job as a dishwasher here in town at the Double Deuce on Beale street. I get paid on Friday and I've got another hundred and fifty coming. I could call my dad and see if he if he could loan me some, but it would take a day or two to get here." His voice cracked as he spoke. He was the genuine article alright. He was prepared to give up everything he had to find this girl, even to the point of starving himself for three more days to come up with the money.

"Alright Mr. Hall, I'll find Ruby for you. I'll take sixty now and call you tomorrow. Where can I reach you?"

"I'm at the Holiday Inn on Central. Room 204." He lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He mumbled his thanks and shook my hand. He was so elated that he almost forgot to pick up the last of his money. He shuffled out of my office cradling what was left of his lunch and closed the door softly.

Shirley opened the door and smiled at me. "What are you grinning at?" I barked.

"Go ahead and play the tough guy Jay. I know that deep down, you are a dyed in the wool romantic at heart and you can't deny it. You old softy!" she giggled.

"Oh yeah? And how would you know?" I scowled.

"You left the intercom on silly!" her skirt made a lovely swishing sound as she turned on her heel and went to answer the ringing telephone.

***Author's Note*** I was slim on ideas for this week's sentence but I was listening to some of my old vinyl last night and Tom T's "That's How I Got To Memphis" suggested this tale. Enjoy the music that inspired this story, and I hope you don't have to travel all the way to Memphis to find your true love.

Doc

The Stink Of Freedom; FFF #40

2010-08-30T19:02:00.001-04:00

I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys. Soon we will hear the clump, clump, clump of the guard's heavy soled brogans coming down the cell block. The rattle of keys is our wake up call. No loud alarm or bell to tell you to rise, just the soft jingle-jangle of keys and the slow, steady tread on the concrete.

To some prisoners the sound of the keys is a welcome sound. It meant that soon some food would be thrown into a dirty bowl and served with all the loving care of a backhanded slap in the face. To others the sound was the reminder that they were still alive and still trapped in the same shit hole with no hope of ever having their freedom again.

Either way you looked at it, at least it was better than the night time. The night is when everybody breaks down. There is no way around it. Sure, for the first few nights you might put on a brave face and pretend to sleep like you were at home, snuggled on your own comfy bed. But there will come a night when you just can't stand it any more. When the howls and cat calls of the other inmates won't quit ringing in your ears and they blend with the guttural noises of those who pleasure themselves in the darkness. When you can't stand the smell of urine and sweat and disinfectant and fear one more minute. When it finally sinks into the pit of your soul that you are behind bars and the only relief from this living hell is the painful sting of the needle that will shove the poison into your veins and it will close your eyes for good. Death is the only reprieve. I swear to God, when the fact of what you have to look forward to hits home, you will hang your God damned head and howl like a pup. Everyone gets around to it eventually.

Sometimes the guards will trot some people through the cell block. The people will smile and point at one prisoner or another and laugh and coo. These people will smell of sunshine, smoke, or cologne. Hell, they will practically reek of the outside, where you can feel the wind on your face and feel the crunch of leaves as you walk instead of the dull thud of concrete and the ever present hum of the florescent lights.

These effing people just stink of freedom. And when they have flaunted their free smell long enough, they have the guard drag some poor son of a bitch from his cell. The people will ruffle his hair and ask him if he has been a good boy. That's what they ask, but that isn't what they want to know. What they want to know is if he has been broken yet. Has every shred of his will been ground to a fine dust so that he will always cower when they speak? Has enough of his mind been pummeled to the point he can't even make a squirt of piss without their say so. Sometimes they take the son of a bitch away with them. Sometimes they just turn on their heel and walk away.

The worst ones are the shoppers, the looky-loos. They walk from cell to cell, listening to the hundreds of screaming voices that call out for mercy, clemency, and they act stone deaf. They just go from cell to cell and spew out reasons why this or that prisoner won't do. Every shortcoming or perceived fault is trotted out, one after another, like the devil recounting the failures of the damned.

Damn them. Damn them all to Hell. The guards, the people, the whole lot of them. They've got no God given conscious. If they did, why would they let us rot in these cages for weeks on end before the injection, and the whole time, hold up our freedom like some almost but not quite attainable lottery ticket? Damn them and their stinking false hope.

I am in this accursed cell and doomed because I defended myself and my home. For that, I will be allowed a coward's death. Stupid people. I only bit one guy, and he was a fucking mailman for Christ's sake. Isn't being bit by a dog part of their effing job?

Dear sweet Jesus, I just long to run with my pups one last time.

**Author's Note** My broken leg has been acting up and it helped to form the mood of this piece which is far from cheerful. The wonderful starter sentence that was provided by the good Mr. MaCrum suggested a convict or prisoner to me, but I wanted to give it a bit of a twist. After all, when you've seen Papillon, Escape From Alcatraz, and Murder In The First, there really isn't that much more that this poor country boy could possibly add. But what if the condemned isn't a person at all? What if he is a dog at the pound? Wouldn't he be more than a little bitter at his fate? I would. I've been to jail a time or two (always as a visitor thankfully) and the smell is something that hangs with you long after you return to the bright light of day. So if after reading this you realize that you have a little more room in your home and a little extra love in your heart, contact your local animal shelter or the American Humane Society, Adopt An Animal Canada, Animal Rescuers in the UK, or the Austrailian Animal Protection Society in the grand land down under . There is a furry convict out there who will thank you for it.

Doc

Tea From Netherland, FFF #39

2010-08-24T11:31:00.001-04:00

**Author's Note** This week for Flash Fiction Friday we got our usual starter sentence (shown below in blue) but we were also instructed to write in a genre that we hadn't written in before. I chose children's fantasy in much the same vein as Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and bus schedules everywhere. Thank you Randal for such a grand starter sentence. Enjoy!

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again. "Mr. Whiskers will protect me," she thought, "as he knows how important this tea party is to Timmy, what with it being his birthday and all."

"Remember to say the magic spell that the White Witch gave you," Mr. Whiskers said as he unrolled the long scroll and held it aloft with his long bunny ears.

"Right you are Mr. Whiskers as I'd almost forgotten." She smoothed down her dress and peered closely at the fancy looping script on the scroll. She began, "Tiddler, middler, bacon and brine, soon the genie will be mine. Tuddler, fuddler, pudding in pie, make him give this wishing a try! Taddler, paddler, fiddle dee dee, give me wishes, all of three. Munson, bosun, rattle and hum, stick a stopwatch in my bu-"

"You rang?" came the booming voice of the genie as his smoky body snaked from the keyhole of the door to Netherland. Mr. Whiskers gave a startled yelp, shoved his hands in his waistcoat pockets and hopped behind Daisy in a flash. The genie puffed up his chest and crossed his massive arms over it. "Who calls forth the powerful genie, guardian of the door to the magical world of Netherland, keeper of keys, ever vigilant sentinel of the portal of Daar, servant of the Grand Yellow King, and washer of windows on Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

"I do! Daisy Mae Dumont! I want my three wishes!" she yelled.

"No," said the genie, "I don't do that anymore. My wish granting days are over now. I just guard the door now. Well that and wash the odd window now and then. They have trouble reaching the high ones don't you know."

"Oh but dear genie, Mr. Whiskers and I have traveled so far. We have faced many hardships and overcome so many pits and traps, surely you could see your way clear to granting us one wish. We just want to make Timmy's birthday extra special. It's not everyday a boy turns six and Timmy is our bestest friend." Daisy's lip curled as she broke into a pout.

"Sorry. I can't help you. Now run along, you and your little bunny. I've windows to do. It is Tuesday you know," the genie huffed.

Daisy Mae smiled. She knew she had him because the scroll wasn't all that the White Witch had given her. "You will grant me my wish to see the Earl of Grey for I know your name."

The genie's eyes got wide, "No mortal knows my name! Even the Yellow King knows not my name!"

"Mumfred," Daisy said quietly.

"Screebees!" the genie shrieked, "I'll do whatever you want, just don't say that again!" sweat poured down his brow in little puffs of smoke. With that, he opened the door and summoned a magic carpet that scooped up Daisy and Mr. Whiskers. He instructed the carpet to take them to the Earl of Grey and gave them several gifts. Daisy unwrapped them as the carpet flew at incredible speeds, blurring the scenery below. The first was a bone china tea set decorated with pale pink roses. "Good," she thought, "this will make a fine gift for Timmy as he loves pale pink roses." The next was an over sized picnic basket filled with cookies, sandwiches, scones, bread and jam. The last was a case of Turtlewax, presumably for the carpet.

The carpet slowed and the landscape below changed from a blur to a vibrate forest. Mr. Whiskers pointed out the cute little squirrels who jumped from tree to tree, knife fighting. In a dappled glade, two black bears hammered at each other with brass knuckles. While the hummingbirds jousted, the butterflies spread mace and donned their gas masks. Netherland was not a friendly place. The carpet hovered and then slowly decended by a small, squat, grey cottage whose thatched roof waved in the carpet's thrust.

The dust had just settled when Daisy and Mr. Whiskers hopped off the carpet onto the dead, grey grass. The door of the cottage opened and out stepped a very tall, lanky man, clad in grey, who was much to large to live in a place so small. He pointed an accusing finger at Daisy, "By what right have you to park on my lawn young lady!"

Daisy repeated, word for word, the speech that the White Witch had taught her, "Hey there. Hi there. Ho there. Oh Earl of Grey, Great wizard of Mandalay and grower of the most exquisite tea in all the land, please part with a few leaves for this humble peasant, I beseech you!"

"I've nothing to give you child. Go see the dutch man, Der Geeling. If you would settle for coffee, I know a nice bandito named John Valdez who might help you. I know the donkey would be sympathetic." He shrugged his shoulders in helplessness.

The White Witch had warned her that the Earl might not want to help at first. She looked him in the eye, just as she had been instructed and said, "The White Witch would consider a second date if you would help me."

The Earl's shoulders slumped. He knew that he had been beaten. He pulled a grey snuff box from his overcoat and handed it over. "I'll need something as a deposit," he smiled.

Daisy and Mr. Whiskers flew so fast on the magic carpet that the air rushing by pulled tears from their eyes. In a flash, they flew over the forest and mountains, past the bogs and moors, through the door past the genie and down in Daisy's back yard once more.

They treated Timmy to a most wonderful tea and when they were finished, Timmy stretched out on the carpet and patted his tummy and undid the button on his powder blue suit. "I must say, Daisy old dear, that was the finest tea I have ever had or expect to ever have. Thank you ever so much. If you don't mind me asking, what did you pay for it?"

Daisy smiled at how boyish Timmy could be at times, "It was practically a song. I just gave up my mortal soul," she said with a laugh.

Timmy's face clouded, "Your mortal soul? Really?"

"Well, after all," she giggled, "I wasn't using it."

Doc

Liner Notes For My First Album

2010-08-20T09:30:00.000-04:00

I just know that the recording industry needs a guy like me. I will be the cash cow they have been looking for now that Micheal Jackson is dead, and will kick out multi-platinum albums like I'm tearing through a six-pack. I just haven't decided what medium I should shoot for yet.

Every time I mention my writing to my buddy, Franklinton, he tells me that I should learn to write songs, as he heard John Cougar Melloncamp say that once you learned how, it was the easiest thing in the world. I know nothing about writing songs as I'm not musical at all, but I enjoy music and could make for a very dynamic front-man for some aspiring band. Well, it's either that or go with a spoken word/comedy album and maybe that's more up my alley, even if it will be a much harder sell to the record execs.

Either way, I still have to come up with this awesome and timeless first album and that might take a while. So for the time being, I'll just have to hammer out the liner notes and make sure I get all of my thank-you's and shout-out's straight.

The cover art will be a black-n-white photo of me in a trenchcoat on a wet city street and the only color will be the flames of a burning barrel. The title of the album needs to be familiar but edgey like, "Bernadette Peters' G-String" or "Rectal Thermometer 9" or something. I'll have to work on that.

At the top of the opening page has to be a list of the band members, what they played, and which songs they appeared on. This might take up most of the first page as I'm going to need a couple of different horn sections, but this can all be ironed out later.

Next will come the long list of rat-bastards who made shit loads of money off of my genius, such as the producer, the three assistant producers, various ad agencies, my manager, every S.O.B. at the sorry ass label I manage to corral into publishing my masterpiece, the mixer, on down to the coffee boy, and the janitor.

This will be followed by the names of various "handlers" that the record company hired to keep me out of Christian Science reading rooms, public fountains, and political debates. They will also have been responcible for the right "aspirins", my grapefruit addiction, and shots of B12 being adminstered at the right time. These dim-witted thugs will for the first time see their names in print and it won't be in the court records section of the paper.

At this point the band is going to want to see their friends and managers names, but since I am the true backbone of the entire band, I will only allow them a small postage stamp sized space in the liner notes, right next to the Parental Warning on the last page. I think that's only fitting.

The second page must be a photo that is moodily lit, again in black-n-white, of...oh I dunno, a dead dove or some tooth paste or something. Might give it a tragically romantic feel maybe, but I'm thinking there might need to be just a few drops of blood. Not too many, just three or four. I'll have to call the art department on Monday and see what they can work up. Those lazy bastards will cost me a fortune, as all they want to give me is clip art!

The third page is the next with print, and has the words written in different fonts against a diamond-plate steel background. Maybe spray paint a unicorn with a hand-grenade on the diamond-plate and rough it up a little with a wire brush. Might be a nice touch. After all, this is the page that gives you a long list of the fancy instruments we used on this album as well as web addresses where you can purchase the super expensive items, not to mention where you can join my fan club and get my newsletter, T-shirts, hats, and bumper stickers. It's just one more chance for the corporation to soak up rewards of my brilliance.

Damn their eyes.

I'm thinking that the fifth page should be a collage, but I'm open to ideas.

The sixth and final page will be clogged with ads for how we used Dolby Sound to record this as it "had a much warmer feel" and it reminded us of "listening to The Beatles in mono" or some such B.S. Don't believe a word of it. All of my stuff will be changed in post-production and I won't have the slightest bit of say about it.

But despite them, I'll still go double platinum!

The great thing is, if I make it big, you're all coming with me!

Doc

P.S. - I only noticed on the reread of this that I called this an album and that is showing my age.

Garage Door Help-Line -or- Sunny's Revenge; a cautionary tale.

2010-08-16T11:00:00.002-04:00

**Editor's Note**This is a tale I penned some time ago that I rather like. It is a tale of new beginnings, deceit, violence, sex and murder. I give you Garage Door Help-Line!
"You dirty cunt," Ron mutters under his stinking breath. He repeats it as he finds that the aspirin bottle is empty.

Sunny sits quietly and lets him finish his morning routine.

"You better call those garage door people today or so help me God, I will belt you a good one," Ron slurs as he fumbles for his second cup of coffee. He takes a swig and brushes his hand down his face, then pulls open the junk drawer in the kitchen.

"Where the fuck are my cigars?" he demands as he turns to her.

She sits at the kitchen table and clinches her coffee cup tight and tries not to look him in the eye, "You said you were going to pick them up on your way home when you got gas and I didn't have to. Maybe you left them in the car," she says quietly.

The sting of the slap isn't as painful as the coldness of his hand. His hands are always cold. Not cold like ice or snow, but cold like a corpse. As she recovers from the blow, she picks up the cup and reaches for the paper towels. She just keeps watching her hands as she wipes up the spilled coffee off the floor.

He picks up last night's bottle and up-ends it into his oversized mug with a grunt of satisfaction. He puts on his coat and pats the pockets. He pulls a brand new cheap cigar out and bites off the end. He spits it on the floor and it lands wetly next to her hand before he goes out the back door into the garage to his SUV.

Sunny picks up the cigar end and says to herself, "This is it."

***

Dave sits down to his morning Mountain Dew and a Snickers and signs on for the next call. He munches loudly as he finishes his breakfast, much to the consternation of his cube mate, Phil.

Phil responds to a call and is frustrated by the noise that Dave can generate consuming one candy bar and a pop. He refers the caller to the help desk and hopes that Dave will be the one to take it so he can finish his tea in peace.

Dave gets a call over his head-set and tries to comprehend the woman on the other end of the line as his sugar rush peaks. "I will be glad to do whatever I can," he reassures her as he shakes the last few drops of his soda into his mouth. "What's your name Miss? How do you spell that? Do you know what model you have? On the side there should be a foil sticker, it will have the model number on it." Dave rattles the keys to his computer in time to the cadence of her speech.

"Yes, I'm still here. Yes, that's the model number, just let me pull it up." Dave checks the candy wrapper to see if there is one more bite left. There isn't. He jiggles his knee and raps his thumb on the desk knowing full well this irritates Phil to no end.

"Yes, I've got it now. This is one of our older models. So what seems to be the trouble?" Dave sits back in his chair and jiggles his knee a little slower as he tries to understand the lady's problem. She isn't like most of the boneheads that call in. She has genuinely checked it over and eliminated a couple of his easy trouble shooting suggestions. Might be a Midwesterner by the sound of her accent and she is trying to fix it herself.

"It sounds like one of the safety sensors might be acting up. Are they installed properly? How long ago did you purchase this unit? Oh, it came with the house." Dave scratches his nose as he flips through a couple of pages of expanded diagrams. "Check to see if the wires are making a good connection. Yeah, yeah, there is one more small screw at the front behind the light bulb and then the cover will come off. The wires should be red and white. You'll need a Philips."

Dave leans over in his chair and rests all of his weight on one leg and tries to quietly let one slip. It isn't as quiet as he'd hoped, but he is fairly sure the lady on the other end of the didn't hear. Phil gives him a dirty look and begins to fan the air away with a file folder as he swears under his breath.

"Well there you have it. The door should work properly now. Try it. Good. Well if you have anymore trouble, give us a call. My name? David. Thank you, always glad to help. Oh, we're based in Toronto. Yes, it does get a little chilly at times. Really? How soon are you leaving? Have you ever been here? Well, I should show you around. What hotel? That's just down the street. I have to pull the late shift that night but I think I can skate out of here by seven-thirty. Cool, cool. I'll meet you in the bar. No, I have a car. How will you know me? Um, I'll wear a red sweater. Oh, and something else. If the door has been jerking up and down like that for a while, you might want to check the connection on the manual release handle. Sometimes that can get worn and the whole door could come crashing down unexpectedly, and that is a very, very big door. You know, just for safety's sake. Well hey, I've got to take another call because the boss is giving me the hairy eyeball, but I'll see you Saturday, and remember to grease the track and oil the rollers." Dave smiles as she giggles at this.

"What the hell," thinks Dave, "this might be fun" and jiggles his knee.

***

Sunny stretches her back and then wipes her hands on a rag. She gathers up the tools and returns them to the tool box. She likes the sound they make as they drop in and clank against the other tools, especially the sound the file makes. To her, it just sounds like a job well done.

She heads into the house and goes to pour another cup of coffee when she notices her hand is shaking. "No more coffee for me," she thinks and pulls open the fridge instead. Hidden behind an assortment of left overs is a light beer. She carries it to the bathroom and turns on the small electric heater. The can of beer makes a sharp crack as she tips the tab in. She takes a large swallow and tries to remember when she last drank a beer. She and Ron were dating and they went to the roadhouse. He was so charming then. He put ten dollars in the jukebox and insisted they stayed until it was up. They sat and drank beer as the juke box played nothing but oldies. That was the night he proposed.

"Oh to have one night to live over again," she thinks. "I would have done things differently."

As she begins to crouch into the tub, she tries not to notice the bruises, but the purple and yellow are distracting. After the warm water washes over her and she settles in, she reaches for a bath bomb. She got a set of them for Christmas last year from her sister and this seems like an ideal time to try them. The water feels good and she feels clean for the first time in a long time. The bomb fizzes and stains the water red and she thinks about how this would loosen up the grease stains on her fingers. Sunny props her feet on the warm nozzle and thinks a bit.

Everything she needs is packed. Everything on her list is arranged. All the calls had been made, even the insurance company. Her sister is going to put her up, the neighbor is going to take her cat, and Ron will be a thing of the past. She is going to move on and embrace life and count her years with Ron as a tough lesson to be learned. "That part of my life is closed now," she thinks, "I am all about new beginnings from here on out."

She splashes at a few random bubbles and looks down her frame to her toes and lets the drain empty her hot bath. She lays very still, feeling the water ebb away leaving a ring of suds around her. "I still got it," she reassures herself.

She stands and turns on the shower to wash off the bomb, but she turns it as cold as it goes.

Sunny endures it for as long as she can, then bolts from the shower. The cold water was necessary, she reasons, as it makes her feel brisk and motivated. Her new clothes fit better than they did in the store, and in a few minutes, only the rubber marks on the drive way mark her passing.

***

Ron awakens to the feeling that his mouth has been recarpeted. He stumbles blindly for the bathroom. He clears his throat and spits as the empties his bladder. His head hurts like a Saturday and today is only Wednesday. He rubs his eyes and tries to think of why he got so drunk the night before. As he gives it a little shake he remembers the note. That was what got him started. That ungrateful bitch had walked out on him and left him some stupid note saying she was going to visit her sister and she would send for her stuff later.

Ron went to the kitchen for breakfast and gulped down three shots of rye to chase the aspirin. The coffee wasn't quite done yet, but he pours some anyway and the fresh drips sizzle as they strike the warmer plate below. The coffee is too hot to drink but some more rye cools it off nicely. Ron curses the bitch for her shortsightedness for not seeing his obvious good qualities so she could go slutting around. In Ron's book, if a woman wasn't at home, she was out slutting around. His dad had been very clear about this.

Ron climbed into the shower and noticed a red ring around the tub. He didn't think of it again until he climbed into his SUV and saw the pack of Big Red chewing gum on the passenger seat next to his new cigars. Ron gets his morning cigar going so it will cover the smell of his breath and he notices that the SUV is sitting crooked. He gets out to see that his front passenger side tire is flat. There is a roofing nail planted firmly in the tread.

"Fuck, of all days," he mutters and hits the button for the large garage door. "I gotta fix a flat on a day like today," he moans.

Ron heads for the rear of the vehicle to pull the spare tire from its rack as the three car garage door pulls itself up to a familiar whirring sound. A split second after his foot breaks the plain of the safety lasers, the door comes to an abrupt halt and puts an incredible strain on the manual release catch. The door groans a little as the catch slips and the door falls.

The door strikes Ron on the top of the head with the force of a train gathering speed and drops him. He is already sprawled upon the floor when it strikes him again with the full force of it's weight, and the sound of his ribs snapping echoes down the cul-de-sac. Ron lives just long enough to piss himself.

***

Dave gets a call from Detective So-And-So that Phil transfers directly to him. No, he can't remember a call from a Sunny somebody. Dave takes thirty-five calls a day and he can't remember every one. Dave hangs up with a reassurance that he will call Detective So-And-So if he remembers anything. Dave checks the clock that reads seven thirty-four. Quiting time was four minutes ago.

Dave takes his gym bag into the Men's room and changes his clothes. He has a hot date tonight with a foxy older woman who has just inherited a million dollars. "I still got it," he says as he runs his fingers through his hair in the mirror.

***

"Are you sure you don't want something else?" the bartender offers. Sunny brightens up and says, "Yes, I'll have a tall draft beer please." The bartender takes her tea cup and pours as she directed, then busies himself with the dirty glasses. The radio is tuned to an oldies station and it is the only noise in the room. The door swishes open and admits a chilly breeze and a skinny young man in a red sweater two sizes to big for him.

"Sunny?" he asks.

"Oh and you wore your red sweater! Good! Have a drink and talk to me a while." They chat for a few minutes until Sunny pauses and turns to the bartender, "Could you turn this up please? I love this song. Do you know the name of this song?" she asks with a smile.

"Cruel To Be Kind?" Dave offers.

Doc

Irons in the fire

2010-08-16T10:54:00.000-04:00

I've been away for good reason. I am going through a wagon load of shit right now and will return when we can see the bottom.

Cheers,
Doc

Seeking Bobby's Advice; Flash Fiction Friday #37

2010-07-26T16:10:00.002-04:00

***Author's Note*** The three people in the following story are composites of people I have known. This author doesn't encourage the behavior they are engaged in, but he is not so naive that he doesn't know that this sort of thing goes on. This tale was inspired by a comment that our good Cormac wrote some time ago and his starter sentence brought it to mind.

"As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down," Bobby said before he licked the paper and wound the joint he was rolling into a neat cylinder that could have passed for a store-bought cigarette. Bobby often made these kind of sage pronouncements, and out of anyone else they would have sounded like complete bullshit, but not Bobby. He had a slow, easy way of talking that made every word he said sound like it came from Buddha himself. “The bong is in the coffee table where it always is,” he motioned with a nod of his head as his hands were full with the makings of another joint.

I got the old Blue Bomber out and took a pinch from the loose weed that he was rolling his joints from. I packed a small one and took a hit before continuing, “I just don’t get her man. She used to be this super-cool, laid-back chic who didn’t get uptight about nothin’. Now the slightest little thing and she just goes ape-shit. I just want to know what happened to that girl. What happened to the Jackie who could just roll with the flow?” I exhaled into the rays of sunlight that were creeping in through the blinds just so I could watch the smoke roll into itself before being caught in the fan.

Bobby sat back in his frumpy, worn-out easy chair and glanced at his twelve inch black and white TV that was hooked up to the camera on his driveway. “Crap. Carl’s here,” he said as the El Camino filled the screen.

“Should I go?” I asked.

“Naw man. Don’t go. He’ll be gone in a few minutes, but if I’m here by myself, that sonofabitch will stay for hours. Stick around, we haven’t finished our conversation yet.” Bobby reassured me.

Have you ever known someone who could blow into a room like there was a hurricane behind them where ever they went? Carl was like that. He threw open the door, strolled in, and without a greeting, flopped on the sofa beside me. He wore a stupid grin that was punctuated by his missing teeth. “What’s up Bobby? What are you and Pete talking about?” Carl feigned interest as he helped himself to the weed on the table. Bobby grimaced as Carl licked his lips wetly before he hit the bong.

“We were just talking about a personal problem of Pete’s,” Bobby said as he traded the finished joint for another rolling paper.

“What? Jackie startin’ ta get real pregnant and give you shit? That’s the way Yolonda tried ta play me and I just told her straight up to fuck off. This bull ain’t gonna change for no heifer, that’s for damn sure. I don’t care how well she goes down!” Carl tapped his thumb against his chest as if he thought he was quite a catch for all womenkind. He helped himself to another bong. “What’s with all the joints Bobby?” Carl eyed the neat stack of doobies.

“Cheryl and I are going to a concert tonight and I wanted to take some with me.”

“Who ya goin’ ta see? I hear Tom Petty is in town,” Carl said.

“Wagner,” Bobby said flatly.

“Are they new? I ain’t heard them on the radio.” Carl scrunched up his eyebrows as he thought.

“No, ‘they’ ain’t new. Wagner was a composer,” Bobby shook his head.

“He do anything I’d have heard of?”

“Yeah, music for a Bugs Bunny cartoon.”

“Shit, I seen all of them. Hey Bob, ol’ buddy,” Carl’s tone changed to one used by car salesmen everywhere, “you wouldn’t happen to have a dime bag you could part with would you? Me an’ Frank are goin’ ta take the four wheelers out to Buckeye Lake and I wanted some for the trip.”

Bobby fished around in the coffee table and pulled out a rolled up baggie and put it on the table in front of him. Carl’s hand snaked out and pocketed it before you could blink. “You don’t mind if I get this one on spot do you?” he said as if this was a complete afterthought.

“You cheese-dicked idiot! In the eight years that you have known me, have I ever spotted you a sack? Ever?” Bobby’s face flushed red enough to match his eyes, “No, never. What gives you the gonads to ask now?!?”

“Well, I uh-“

“Don’t tell me you ‘thought’ Carl, because you don’t think. You don’t think any more often than I spot you a sack!” Bobby huffed and sat back again, “You take that sack and weasel on out of here and if you don’t have the cash on Monday, don’t you ever come back again!” Wordlessly, Carl slunk out of the room like a scolded child. Bobby followed his progress to the Camino on the TV to assure himself that he was truly gone. “I know full well that he won’t have the money on Monday, but it will be worth the sixty bucks just to have that bonehead out of my hair for good. Good riddance. I wish I’d have thought of it eight years ago.”

Bobby took a deep breath and tried to clear the air of the annoyance that had just breezed through. “Now where were we? Oh yes, Jackie. Now Pete, as much as I hate to admit it, there is a slim grain of truth in what Carl said. Jackie is getting along in her pregnancy and her hormones are in a cocktail shaker. You have followed the most basic command of nature. You have survived to adulthood and you have reproduced. The bit that you are getting hung up on is the fact that Jackie is changing and she expects you to change as well. You can’t be out smokin’ dope and blowing your money on beer and Taco Bell at 3 am. In her eyes, you need to be a good provider for the family you’ve started and she ain’t seeing that.” I raised my finger to object but Bobby dismissed me, “A couple of overtime shifts at the factory now and then isn’t gonna do it. Now be a man and act like one. Go home to your pretty wife and quit hangin’ out with your dope smokin’ buddies. They are a bad influence,” he said as a smile broke through his long gray beard. “Besides, I gotta get cleaned up for my date with my wife!”

Enjoy your week
Doc

White Man's Burden FFF #36

2010-07-20T11:47:00.005-04:00

In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was. This just couldn't be good. After all, when have you ever heard of buzzards being harbingers of good news? I crested the ridge and confirmed my worst fears. The entire wagon train lay in ruins.

The carnage was complete. The corpses laid at odd angles, mothers covering children, men in the prime of life with sculls caved in, and everything they owned on God's green earth scattered to the four winds. Only the horses and livestock seemed to have escaped death. The tracks led off to the west and from the looks of it, at least thirty braves had taken their plunder and whatever hooch they could find only to head back to whatever hideout they had off the reservation.

To some extent, I couldn't really blame them for what they had done. How long had they watched their own families slaughtered or shoved aside by the white man's progress? How many of their own had they watched waste away from diseases that their medicine man couldn't cure? Diseases that came from the white man's gift of blankets. Now they were hunted like a rabid dogs on lands that had once been their home. They were bitter, cold blooded, and felt like their backs were against a wall.

Yeah, one could see how this little wagon train was a choice prize that had just wandered into their lap. These thirty-six people were merely ripe fruit to be plucked, and pluck they did.

But then it wasn't their father, mother, and sisters who lay dead in the blistering sun, their bodies bloated with gas and food for the carrion crows and buzzards. I checked my .45-70 and nudged the horse to follow their tracks.

The buzzards were going to have another meal to eat today besides my family, and may God in Heaven have mercy on my soul for what I'm about to do.

Doc

**Author's Note** This was last minute as I forgot until Tuesday morning. Looking forward to reading your's.

All Hail Cooper Green!

2010-07-16T00:48:00.006-04:00

Cooper Green. Yes, that damn funny.

Doc

The Coop Keeper, FFF #35

2010-07-12T20:39:00.010-04:00

**Author's Note** Flannery won this week's poll for the starter sentence with her wonderful contribution of, "I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position." With a sentence like that, how can we go wrong? I'd like to extend a personal welcome to my closest buddy, Err, who joins us for the first time this week. I guess he had heard me rattle on about what a good time this was for so long that I finally got to him. Besides, after reading a few of my entries, I'm certain that I convinced him that he could do a better job than I. Welcome old friends and new, & know that I look forward to reading your tales.**

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position," said Father Medina as he set his drink aside and turned to level his gaze at me full on. He ran his fingers through his grey hair and gave a tired sigh as he looked me over. I adjusted my shirt so that it wouldn't cling to my sweaty armpits and waived my straw hat to shoo away the ever present cloud of mosquitoes from my face. The village's only grocery store/cantina filled with what could only be described as the "evening crowd". The old priest cleared his throat in preparation to speak.

"What would you have me do Mr. Smith? You, a stranger to me, would want me to betray my vows and reveal something that was entrusted to me in the holy sanctuary of confession by a man who now lies dead in my churchyard? And to gain my trust, you warn of some vague catastrophe that will befall myself and those in my flock, but when pressed, you cannot specify what or by whom? Why should I give you the location of the President's papers? I don't know where you come from but I sure someone in Washington bought your ticket here. Perhaps you are the catastrophe that will befall me?" Then he reached behind his wicker chair and produced a half empty bottle of rum and cut his lemonade liberally with it. He had a long pull, smacked his lips, dabbed his mouth and wiped his brow.

"And you, General Flores, a good Catholic, would ask of me to do the same thing as Mr. Smith asks and give you the President's papers." Father Medina turned his attention to the tall, pock-faced military man next to me and pointed a bony finger at him. "You ask me to remember my loyalty to my country and 'do the right thing' and protect El Presidente from having these very, very sensitive and damning papers revealed to the Americans, the U.N., or the world at large." Father Medina snorted and shoved that claw of a finger a little closer to towards the General's face. "How dare you question my loyalties, you insolent prick! You ask for my silence in covering up your dear leader's oppression of a people that he daily robs and provides almost nothing that the people would want a government for? Bah!" The Father's face set in a cruel sneer revealing his gnarled green teeth.

"Then you give me some trumped-up story about having known the man who died. A passing child wouldn't believe such a lie. It isn't very likely that the President's head military advisor would be all that familiar with a very, very junior aid from the backwaters of the most remote state. You wouldn't run in the same circles. You probably only knew the man by sight and never bothered to learn his name until a few files of 'For Your Eyes Only' documents disappeared from the wrong office. I'd bet the price of a case of rum that you couldn't even tell me his mother's name!"

The flustered General fumbled for a moment before he blurted out, "Maria!".

"A lucky guess, you little toad." Father Medina finished his lemonade and sat back in his chair. He laced his fingers over his chest and let his eyes roam over the last guest at our table. He grinned. She was a woman in her early thirties with long black hair. She was small but very curvy, and her ample breasts seemed to rest on the edge of the table as if they were some sort of advertisement. When she smiled, her perfect, whiter-than-white teeth would have assured her a lucrative career in toothpaste commercials back in the States. Her teeth stood in such sharp contrast to her smooth, olive skin, but even it's tint couldn't conceal the jaundice just beneath the surface. She was piss yellow underneath, yellow like a school bus.

"And you, Miss Benitez, you are as bad as the other two! You would have me give you the papers so that you can publish them in your newspaper and make the world understand that we are a nation with a machete permanently held to our collective throats. You argue and use words like freedom, truth, and justice, but you don't really seem to understand what those words mean. You try to sell me your revolution wrapped in the guise of optimistic fervor. You want to do this to aid the rebels that haunt these jungles and occasionally raid my village for food, supplies, and to drag away our young men like Jesus here," he casually patted the boyish waiter on the ass while Jesus was swapping his empty glass with a full one and pulling the cord on the overhead fan to coax it into stirring the humid air.

"Then, after you realize that you haven't convinced me to see things your way, you make a none too subtle hint that you would be more than willing to warm my bed in exchange for these now valuable papers, and I would have the dual pleasure of servicing you and your grand cause as well. No, if I haven't succumb to the wiles of a woman by my age, I don't think a wide-eyed, idealistic tart like you is going to change my mind now. No, Jesus sees to my needs and I want little of carnal desires now." He winked at Jesus who blushed and turned away quickly to start the generator so the juke box would work. "No, you preach the language of the rebels and the communists, but it is the accolades and prestige that you lust after and you would lie and whore to get it."

The General and the reporter both tried to shout their objections into his face at once but he dismissed them with a waive. The old man was slow in coming to his point but he was getting there. I would let him talk and see if I couldn't pick out an angle in what he said. I could always make my play later after the other two were out of the running.

"Silence! I will hear no more!" He bellowed, "You have had your say and if you want those papers, shut up! You three are like a hound, a fox, and a chicken. All of you are in the same coop and there is one egg somewhere. Mr. Smith, you are the chicken and you want the egg to trade it for whatever you can get later. General Flores, you are the fox who wants the egg to quietly disappear so you can make your master happy. And finally you, Miss Benitez, are the hound. You want the egg so you can blow the whistle on the other two and the world will look at you and say, 'now there's a good dog!' Me, I am the one who has the egg and I control the door to the coop!"

He pulled three envelopes from his pocket and gave us each one. These were his demands and the one who could supply the most in the shortest amount of time got the papers. He said he could always be found at the cantina, except on Sunday morning. I went to the stable that passed for a hotel and made some calls. The next morning, I handed him back the list with every item checked off. He got a new church, a new road to the highway, a new 4X4 for the mailman, a state of the art water system for the village, a school, and instantly created jobs for every man, woman, and child for sixty miles in every direction. There was also a large sum of cash. I checked over the papers and caught the first plane out on Monday.

It turns out that Father Medina was quite adept with his pen, because all three of us got a copy saying exactly what he thought we wanted to hear. Then he and Jesus took all three large sums of money and settled in Wisconsin where they do a lot of fishing.

I know.

The wily old bastard sends me a fuckin' Christmas card every year.

Doc

Will Write For Food

2010-06-27T18:00:00.006-04:00

I did something today I haven't done before. I custom wrote a story for someone. My buddies wife's birthday is tomorrow and he wanted to get her something special and personal. "Anybody can go to the store and buy something, wrap it up and give it as a gift. I want something memorable!"

I suggested writing a story for him, after all, who doesn't like seeing their name in print? I write stories and I like to think I'm good at it. I'm not in the same caliber as Cormac Brown or my dear Flannery. Both are much better writers than I am, but then we tend to write about very different things so it's much like comparing apples and pine cones.

So I spent twenty minutes asking him about how they met. I asked a couple of general questions and he filled in most every detail I could want. This was a week ago, and her birthday party was planned for today. I put it off as I've broken my leg and I've been eating pain pills like popcorn which takes the edge off but doesn't leave my mind clear enough to really write well.

So today I bang it out. It takes me three hours, but I had a few interuptions and a bit of technical difficulty. I am really hurting bad today and I pen the story while biting my lip to help foget about how bad my leg hurts. I take it over to him at the Tiki bar next door and he asks me to read it to him and Franklin. I read it and he is effing tickled. He thanks me up and down, and shakes my hand three or four times.

Then Franklin suggested that I start doing this for money. Since I broke my leg I haven't made a red cent. I had to sell some of my guns in an effort to make up for what I wasn't bringing in, but I've pretty much sold every material thing I have to sell. The only thing I've got left is my talent and the love of a great woman.

So I'm going to write custom order stories for money. I know I can do the writing but I don't know how to get the idea out to potential customers. That's where you come in. I'm looking for a way to promote this but I don't know anything about how to do that. I'd like your suggestions. Franklin suggested contacting Hallmark which might be worth a shot but I'm not going to pin all of my hopes on them alone.

Below is the story I wrote for my buddy to use as an example of what I can do. Mind you this was done in a short time and on drugs, but you get the idea. Enjoy and leave me lots of suggestions as I'm broke and broken.

Doc

Mark's Pride And Joy

She walked into the bar that was affectionately known as "The Pub Of Love" and let the air conditioning and thumping music wash over her. The crowd was thick tonight, even for a Wednesday. She pulled her tight tank top down over her slim belly and began to elbow her way to the bar. She had come on a mission and no crowd of drunken dancers was going to stop her. The music blared.

"Well I'm the new kid, I'm just comin' up,
A lot of rappers think that I can't tear it up,
Well I'm 'a show 'em and ignore 'em!"

A seat freed up at the bar and she hopped on the tall bar stool before someone else could take the choice spot. As she set her purse down on the bar the guy to her left turned to her, "Can I buy you a drink pretty lady?" he said with a sozzled smile.

"Fuck off fat boy. You're not my type," she didn't have the time for some jerks bullshit, not tonight. An unseen hand had set a cold, dirty martini in front of her. She looked up to see the bartender gazing back at her.

"I keep smokin', hot like fire
You had the turn, now retire,
Don't talk back, I'm not a new jack,
Cuz I'm fresher than you, an' you're whacked!
I keep tryin', I'm not lyin',
Up to number 1 is where I'm flyin'!"

he was tall, slim, blond, and handsome. His eyes twinkled against his dark tan which complimented his devil-may-care smile. He had the look of a fun-loving rogue but she knew he had a heart of gold. "How are you doing tonight?" he said as his smile grew wider.

She took a long pull at her drink before she answered, "I'll be better later." She toyed with an olive at the edge of her lips in a seductive way. "Oh yeah, how so?" he asked as he looked deep into her eyes.

"I'm gettin' greedy, don't lead me,
The wrong way cuz is just might, might, might,
Bring me down, I'll have to fight to get back up,
Move away cuz I just won't slack up!"

She finished the rest of her drink in one gulp and slid another olive from the swizzle stick into her mouth with one long stroke of her tongue. The bartender almost winced as her teeth bit into the soft flesh of the olive. He whisked away her empty glass and refilled it in an instant. "When do you get off tonight?" she said with a coquettish smile.

"Not until two."

"Any chance you could get out early?" She leaned in closer as the music thumped a little louder.

"Cuz I'm a leader, no I'm not a follower,
And MCs like you I swallow 'em!
So don't look and try to judge me,
Because you think that I'm another MC,
well I'm the new kind, I just moved around,
But that don't mean I can't rip up the town!"

"Maybe I can get someone to cover for me. What did you have in mind?" He leaned a little closer too.

"You know what I want. I want a tour. Hell, I want the grand tour!" The sparks between them could have outshined the lights on the dance floor.

"That's what I love about you, your no-bullshit attitude. I'll have Tim Lang cover for me. He owes me a favor. How does midnight sound?" his smile tried to reach his ears.

"Midnight sounds great," she knocked back her second drink faster than the first, "I'll meet you there."

"Not from the old school or from the new,
Applaud the boom, do what you want to,
Talk to me then try to put me down,
We used to be cool now we don't hang around!"

She dabbed her lipstick on a bar napkin and signed it, "Love, Joy & Pain" and left it on the bar. She turned to go and she thought to herself, "I'm going to marry that man someday," as she stepped out into the muggy Ohio summer night.

The bartender hung the lipstick smeared napkin behind the cash register as the song went into it's final verse.

"Maybe jealousy between you and me,
Could be the fame, could be the money.
I'm goin' for mine and I don't really care,
Cuz the spotlight Rob Base don't share!
I'm the headliner of this show,
And you're just a kid and you need to grow!"

"I'm not sure I'm ready to settle down yet," he thought to himself as he slowly shook his head, "but I would be a God damn fool to let a fine woman like that go!"

Happy Birthday Joy, and know that your husband loves you so much it hurts.

Joy & Pain

The Statue, FFF #34

2010-06-22T11:51:00.001-04:00

These are our four starter words: Sculpture, Culture, Cult, & Cohesive. I have to include all four words and build a story around them. Here it is:

"Well Mr. Taggert? Is it worth twenty-three thousand dollars?" Floubert asked as he rubbed paint from his fingers onto a stained rag, "I've an American client who has offered me that much and I believe that I am going to take him up on it." Taggert looked over the painting and shook his head, "Don't get me wrong Floubert, you know I don't go in much for your art scene and all of my culture is in the yogurt I eat, but I just can't see paying that much for a painting. You've done a nice job on the camel here and that sure is a pretty sunset, but it ain't worth no twenty-three grand."

Floubert grimaced, "That isn't a camel. It's a rampant lion."

"I am sorry Floubert. I'm just a simple, back country oil man at heart. They didn't teach art appreciation in Licking County High, just the three R's: Readin', 'Ritin', and 'Rithmatic. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings too badly."

"No, no, Mr. Taggert. On the contrary, I find your honesty refreshing. Too many people want to impress me and they try to talk as if they were knew what good art really is, but most think that the Dutch Masters were cigar makers."

Taggert laughed, "Now Floubert, you and I both know that you only dabble in painting as a sideline. It's your sculpture that I came to see you about. When are you going to do a sculpture of my wife Jean? I have been after you for six months to do one and you always brush me off. I've told you I'll pay whatever you want, up to a million, but even with all that cash you still claim to be too busy. You know how Jean admires your work and I would do anything for that woman. So what is the hold up? Does the money offend your artist's code or something?"

Now it was Floubert's turn to laugh, "My artist's code is the code of the begger. I would gladly take your money and turn out the finest piece I could because I admire Jean as much as she admires my work, but the truth is I've already taken a commision from another patron and to take on another would spread myself too thin and both works would suffer. Perhaps that is part of the artist's code you speak of?"

Taggert smiled as he pulled some papers from his pocket. "The thing is Floubert, you've already been taking my money. I have here a canceled check from Jean's account for five thousand dollars and another from two months later for another five grand. How do you explain that? You aren't starting a cult are you?"

Floubert's lip quivered ever so slightly, "It was a loan," he lied, "Jean lent me the money so that I could finsh my present commision. I'm selling the painting to repay her. In two weeks she will have her money back."

Taggert shuffled the papers and pulled out a bill, "What about the phone calls? Her cell phone bill says that you have been calling her five and six times a week for six months. Two old friends catching up or Jean checking on her investment wouldn't merit that amount of chatting. Hell, some of them were made at three in the morning! How do you explain that?" Taggert's voice took on a cold and angry tone.

Floubert looked flustered, "What can I say? She takes an interest in my work and she knows I keep odd hours. It's nothing more."

The papers fluttered softly to the floor as Taggert's hand flew to his waistband and pulled out a large caliber revolver. He leveled it at Floubert and the hammer snicked loudly in the large studio as it was drawn all the way back. "She takes such an interest in your work that she invents excuses to visit you when I'm away? She loves your art so much that she comes to you three times a week and stays until the wee hours of the morning? She leaves with her clothes messed up and her hair a wreck because she loves your art so much? You are having an affair with my wife. Now you have to admit Floubert old buddy, that it does make for a pretty cohesive theory!" Taggert aimed for right between Floubert's eyes and his hand was as steady a rock.

Sweat poured down Floubert's face as he backed up against a tall object covered in a tarp. "You've got it all wrong Mr. Taggert," he yanked the tarp to reveal five feet of the whitest Italian marble and the most beautiful woman that God had ever created. The statue was of Jean, nude, in a classical pose. "Your wife loves you more than you will ever know and she commisioned this for you for your forty-nineth birthday. You are truly blessed to have such a woman and if you don't fall to your knees every night and thank God for her, then you truly are the most miserable wretch I've ever known!"

Taggert dropped the pistol and began to cry.

Doc
**Author's Note** This is dedicated to my wonderful wife, the greatist of all God's creations.

Want To See My New Rod?

2010-06-18T02:09:00.002-04:00

Should I ever want to get on an airplane again, I'll need a note from my doctor explaining why the metal detector keeps going off.

And yes, this really is my leg and that is my tushy. Flannery had to do some editing so that my wedding tackle wasn't included as well. If you want my advice, stay off of pogo sticks.

Doc

Kitty's Cloakroom Caper, FFF #30

2010-05-03T21:33:00.009-04:00

1953, El Conquistador Hotel, Mexico City.

"Is it me, or does this coffee taste weird?" asked Mrs. Swartz as she set her cup down and reclined a little further back in the lounge chair to catch the sun's rays just right. She looked to see if Kitty was listening but she wasn't. She was too busy digging through her purse. "Does this coffee taste weird?" she repeated.

"I don't care if it tastes like pool water, I need something to wash down my medicine!" Kitty produced a gold pill box and popped a couple of tablets into her mouth and grimaced as the coffee chased them. "Oh dear God, that's awful! I can't drink that swill! Where's that waiter? Jesus!" Kitty yelled.

"Yes miss?" said the young man, "Can I get you something?"

"Yes Jesus. You can take away this dreadful coffee and bring me two glasses, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of your top shelf scotch. Make it snappy."

"I'm sorry miss but the hotel bar does not open until ten. How about some breakfast or some juice perhaps?"

Kitty fumbled in her purse and produced a fifty dollar bill. "This is more than enough to open the bar. If you get back in less than ten minutes, I'll throw in another fifty. Now scoot!" Jesus quickly pocketed the money and set off with long strides. "What time you got?" Kitty said to Mrs. Swartz.

"9:28 and twenty seconds." Mrs. Swartz was used to Kitty's little games by now, but still, it was fun to watch. After all, Kitty had oodles of money to throw around and she went to all the best parties. She had been a Hollywood starlet once. She had been lusted after in darkened theater's across the nation and graced the cover of hundreds of magazines. But that was long ago. Now she just vacationed and partied with old friends, all the while claiming that she was just looking for the right script to leap back into the limelight again. Mrs. Swartz loved Kitty in the morning, as that was when they were at their best. "What are you having for breakfast today Dear?" Mrs. Swartz asked.

Kitty laid back on her lounge chair and adjusted her floppy straw hat to shield her eyes from the morning light. "One of the blue ones. After a night like last night, you have to start with the blue ones and work your way up to the pinks. Start your day with one of the little pink ones and you may as well write off the whole day." Kitty let her mind wander as she stared out at the glistening pool. "It seems like there was something I wanted to tell you this morning...but I just can't think of it."

"Something about last night?"

"Yes...now what was it? Something odd happened at the party and you were out of the room at the time. I promised myself that I would tell you when I saw you...um..."

"Was it Roger falling over the planter and tumbling down the stairs? The poor man cracked his skull!" Mrs. Swartz tittered.

"No. It was before that. Besides, what's so unusual about seeing Roger fall on the floor?" Kitty thought for a moment and waited for either the pill or the memory to kick in. "OH MY GOD! I remember!" she clasped her head in both hands and squealed. She sat up quickly and yanked her chair close to Mrs. Swartz. She leaned in close and whispered as quietly as her cigarettes and gravel voice would allow. "Do you remember Mrs. Hussman?"

"Don Hussman's wife? The lady with the huge horse teeth and the annoying laugh? Who could forget her? You'd think that a guy like Don Hussman, head of the biggest film studio in Hollywood, would have some little young thing with a big rack. But not Don. He married a Missouri plow horse and he is going to keep her."

"That Mrs. Hussman!" Kitty giggled.

"So? What gives? What happened?" Mrs. Swartz loved to dish.

"Alright. Last night at the party, I'm standing there talking to Blake and he says that he wants to talk to me outside away from everyone else. I'm thinking that maybe this is business or maybe Blake wants a little. Either way, I want to hear what he has to say. So I go to the cloak room to get my mink and the door is closed and I don't see the hat check girl anywhere. So I open the door, and wouldn't you know it? Two people have slipped away from the party and here they are, balling on the floor!"

"Mrs. Hussman!?! That old nag was screwing on the floor?" Mrs. Swartz held her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"On my mink coat no less, and she was going to town if you know what I mean. I've seen sailors just off the boat after a six month tour who didn't go at it with that much enthusiasm."

"Well that Don must be one hell of a lover," Mrs. Swartz concluded.

"It wasn't Don Hussman she was riding..." Kitty trailed off with a wicked smile. She let that one sink in.

Mrs. Swartz's jaw dropped two notches lower. She squirmed in her seat with excitement but she just couldn't bring herself to ask. Kitty sat back in her chair and wondered where the boy with her drinks could be.

Finally the pins and needles were too much for Mrs. Swartz, "If you don't tell me right here and now, I swear I'm gonna burst!" She fidgeted. "Was it that handsome David Blythe?"

Kitty couldn't hold her smug look forever and she cracked into a large grin, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Mrs. Swartz gave her a hurt look. "Oh alright. Don Hussman's prim and proper empty-headed wife was balling one of the Mexicans that work here at the hotel and she looked like she was having the time of her life. She was putting him to work so hard that neither one of them even noticed me standing there. I was in such a shock that I must have stood there a whole minute before I thought to close the door."

"You didn't see any such thing!" Mrs. Swartz scoffed. "You were out of your head on scotch and the little pink ones by then. You imagined the whole thing!"

"I'll grant you that I had made a few trips to the bar by then, but I know what I saw and years of anti-psychotics and group therapies couldn't convince me otherwise."

"Are you going to say anything to Don? I know he would just be heart broken. She is ugly and brutish but he loves her dearly."

"No, I don't think I'm going to say anything to Don, at least not yet. I would like to sit down and have a little chat with Mrs. Hussman though." Kitty smiled.

"Whatever for?"

"Why to see if I can finagle a movie deal out of this darling, what else? She has Don's ear and she wouldn't want me whispering in it, so she convinces Don to make my new picture. It's a sure thing." Kitty winked.

"You wicked, wicked woman! I don't know why I tag along with you." Mrs. Swartz said with mock indignation. "You're always seem to stir up trouble where ever you go!"

"Here you are Miss Kitty. I have your drinks for you," panted Jesus as he rushed back. "I'm sorry it took so long but I had to get the key from-"

"Time Mrs. Swartz?" Kitty bellowed.

"9:39 and forty-three seconds," she said firmly.

"Well kid, I'm sorry too. Not only did you miss out on the extra fifty bucks by a minute forty-three, you get points off for bringing bourbon. Never mind. Just pour it over lots of ice and hand it over." Kitty held out her hand waiting for the coming drink. Jesus looked crestfallen as he gave her a double.

"Will there be anything else?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Kitty smiled, "A drink for my friend here, and then you can come and sit down and chat for a bit."

"Chat?"

"First you can tell me how well you know Mrs. Hussman and then you can run right out and have my mink cleaned, you naughty, naughty boy!" Kitty rested her hand gently on his knee and sipped her drink.

Doc

The Five Minute Manfred; FFF #29

2010-04-25T21:05:00.010-04:00

"I said that you don't have to believe me, and I certainly wouldn't...if I were in your shoes," Eion paused to puff at his cigar, "but I have seen Manfred's ghost in this very room every night for two weeks now and if you wait long enough, you will see him too."

James tossed the butt of his cigarette into the grate and sat back to look his companion over. "You can't be serious, Eion old friend. That is the biggest load of tommy rot I've ever heard! You tell me you're seeing ghosts now? I know that Manfred's death was a shock to you and that he'd been with the family for years, but when you say you are seeing spirits of the dear departed in your library, my first thought is that you have gone barking mad!"

"Which is precisely why I invited you over. I need a sceptic, a non-believer. When I saw you at the club tonight, it was as if fate had placed you in my hands. Now at your elbow is a fine bottle of port and some glasses. Let's have a nip and enjoy another cigar. Manfred doesn't appear until 9:45 so I have thirty minutes to lay the facts before you."

"If you must," said James with a sigh as he handed Eion a glass, "but in this enlightened age it seems silly to sit and chat about ghosts and bogey men."

"Nonetheless," Eion began as he pulled out his pocket notebook, "I must insist or I will never know peace in this house again." He ran his pencil down the page and ticked off points as he hit them, "On February 28, I left home to attend to business out of town, leaving Manfred here at home alone. I was only going to be gone for a couple of days and Manfred was going to stay here, polish the silver and finish a book of poems that his sister had gotten him for his birthday. On March 2, I received a telegram from the local police saying that my house had been burgled and Manfred had been found dead. The constable explained that the milkman had found him. He found the door ajar and entered, calling for Manfred all the while. He found him here, in the library, struck dead with the fireplace poker. The house had been ransacked and my mother's jewels were missing, as well as the silver and one pillow case. The pillow case was presumably stolen to carry away the silver. The constable was certain that Manfred had surprised the burglar and his death wasn't premeditated as the weapon was simply what came to hand."

Eion paused to relight his cigar and glanced at the clock before continuing, "For the next three days I was busy arranging the funeral and never entered this room. On Monday, March 5, I buried poor Manfred. That night I was restless but I couldn't bring myself to go out. At eight-thirty or so, I came to the library, lit a fire to drive away the damp, and sat back with a cigar and a glass of the very port we are drinking. I tried to distract myself with a book but after a page or two, I realised I was reading Manfred's poetry book and it made me feel even worse. I blew out the lamp and sat by the glow of the fire. I looked at the clock on the mantle and it was a quarter 'til ten. I was about to get up and throw one more log on the fire when I noticed Manfred standing just to the left of the fireplace. I saw him just a plainly as I see you now. He was no mist or floating bed sheet. He didn't have a strange glow or sport a halo. He was just as real as when I'd left him."

"Did he say or do anything?" James asked, trying to hide his smirk behind his glass.

"I was so startled, I left the room. I dashed to the kitchen and splashed my face with water. In five minutes or so, I returned and he was gone. The next night I waited up for him and at exactly 9:45, there to the left of the fireplace was my man Manfred. He was dressed in the black suit he aways wore, but his tie was missing and his collar was undone as if he was getting undressed for bed. His face was a little flushed and his hair was a little rumpled, but other than that, he looked as right as rain. He didn't speak and he didn't move for the next three minutes. I called out to him and he smiled as if he recognised me. He bent as if to stoke the fire, then his face took on a worried look. He looked up in anguish and disappeared. Every night since then, I have sat here and watched the scene repeat itself over and over again. At 9:45 he appears. At 9:48, he smiles. At 9:49, he stokes the fire, then he looks worried. At 9:50, he's gone." Eion closed his notebook and emptied his glass. He looked at James and waited for him to speak.

"There is no variation to it? He never does anything else? Have you tried to touch him?"

"My hand passed right through him and he looked a solid as this table. Last night I got the idea that since he was so intent on fussing with the fire in the five minutes that he is here, I thought I would help him. As he reached for the poker, I moved to put another log on the fire. He looked at me and shook his head no. Then he took on the same worried look and disappeared. That is why I need you here tonight. I need to know if you see him too. It's 9:38 by the mantle clock. The fire has burned down a bit. Let's just sit back in silence for a few minutes and see what happens."

James lit a cigarette from his new gold case, stared into the fire and wondered how his friend had gone so completely off his rocker. The mantle clock chimed the quarter of the hour. James looked at Eion. His face was filled with expectation. James returned his gaze back to the fireplace and there stood Manfred, exactly as Eion had described him.

The lit cigarette that fell from Jame's lips made an uncomfortable hot spot in his lap and reminded him that he wasn't dreaming. When he had managed to crush it out, he saw Manfred turn and smile at his master. Then he picked up the poker and leaned over to stoke at the fire. He seemed to be making a sweeping motion with it as if to brush the coals aside. Then Manfred raised his head from his task and his face was overcome with terror. He looked as if he had seen his doom. In an instant, he was gone.

"You saw him too, didn't you?" Eion smiled as he broke the silence. James found himself trembling and his breath short.

"I don't know what I saw, but by God, it sure looked like Manfred!" he gasped.

"I noticed something this evening that hadn't struck me before," Eion said, "He doesn't seem to be trying to build the fire up. He seems to be trying to put it out." Eion leaped to his feet and dashed out the door. In a few minutes, he returned with two pitchers of water. The steam rolled off the fire with a hiss. "Bring the lamp over here James." Eion crouched in front of the fireplace and shifted the wet ashes from side to side. "These ashes haven't been emptied since I've been home. Wait. Look there. The soot by the damper has been disturbed."

Eion reached up into the chimney and drew out a slightly charred canvas bag. He spilled it's contents on the hearth. Diamond earrings and gold broaches nestled in the loops of a long string of pearls. "My mother's jewels!" Eion exclaimed, "Dear Manfred must have hidden them from the thief. He has been trying to point them out the whole time! Dear old Manfred. Dear sweet Manfred..."

"Yes, you can thank him in the afterlife," James said coolly as he rested the cocked pistol against Eion's head. "The both of you were supposed to be out of the house that night."

Doc

A Patriot's Act

2010-04-24T20:53:00.003-04:00

Something interesting happened to me Thursday night in the bakery. I went to answer the ring of the bell that sits on our counter to signal that a customer needs service. There stands a tall, well-built gentleman in his late fifties to mid sixties who covers his salt and pepper hair with a ball cap that reads "Marines". He asks politely for some apple fritters. As I bag them up, I ask him, "Were you in the Marines?"

"Yes," he says softly.

"Well for what it's worth, a grateful citizen says thank you."

He looks at me for a half a minute in silence. "Why do you say that?"

"Because of you, I get to enjoy the freedoms I have." I hand him his doughnuts and he nods his thanks. I return to the back room where some ten dozen cupcakes are waiting to be iced and sprinkled. I just get my gloves back on when the bell rings again.

I go out and a woman is a step or two away from the counter and moves up quickly to get her sweets. Just as she opens her mouth, The old Marine walks back. "Pardon me," he says to the woman, "I just have a question." She nods and begins counting in her head how many Smiley cookies she is going to need.

He stands up straight, squares his shoulders, and looks me in the eye. "I've been out for forty years, and no one has ever said that to me. I've been spit on..." he trails off as something gets caught in his throat that my or may not be a bit of a sob. "Thanks," he mutters and moves away in some haste, as if a few old memories had come to mind. I hope they weren't bads ones.

If I haven't said it before, I'm saying it now. To that old Marine and all those who serve, a grateful citizen says thanks.

Doc

The Civilizing Effects of Beer

2010-04-23T12:01:00.000-04:00

**Editor's Note** I'm all about recycling, so here is the first post I ever published.

"Enkidu, a shaggy, unkempt, almost bestial primitive man, who ate grass and could milk wild animals, wanted to test his strength against Gilgamesh, the demigod-like sovereign. Taking no chances, Gilgamesh sent a (prostitute) to Enkidu to learn of his strengths and weaknesses. Enkidu enjoyed a week with her, during which she taught him of civilization. Enkidu knew not what bread was nor how one ate it. He had also not learned to drink beer. The (prostitute) opened her mouth and spoke to Enkidu: 'Eat the bread now, O Enkidu, as it belongs to life. Drink also beer, as it is the custom of the land.' Enkidu drank seven cups of beer and his heart soared. In this condition he washed himself and became a human being. "

From the epic Sumerian tale of Gilgamesh, circa 3rd millennium, B.C.

Let us, for a moment, take a look at this ancient story from before the advent of the written word, Dear beer lovers. After reading this, and mind you, this is just me talking here, but it only took beer and prostitutes to civilize this poor, backward creature of Enkidu. Wow! And all this time I have been grossly mistaken as to what it takes to create a civilization.

I mean really, Enkidu must have been a mess when this unknown prostitute (let’s call her Trixie) found him in the wild, living on grass and the milk of whatever he could catch. This sounds like some nightmarish celebrity diet that would be recommended in the tabloids.

STAR JONES SEZ “I LOST 36 LBS. ON THE ENKIDU DIET AND I FEEL GREAT!”

But, in spite of his appearance, cause he had to be one ripe and awful looking chump, Trixie agrees to give old Enkidu a whirl ‘cause she has a code of honor to live up to, like Angel-eyes from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. (“When I get paid, I always see the job through.”) Not only does she give him a whirl, but more than one apparently, she stayed for a week, and taught him the ways of the “civilized” world. You got to admire the girl’s grit. Would you take a scabby, homeless man to bed for money then stay for a week to teach him which was the salad fork, to not fart at the table, and what opera was all about? I know. Me neither. Could this be the first appearance of the stock character, the whore with a heart of gold? Perhaps.

But let us delve a little deeper into Enkidu. This guy may have been raised by wolves/badgers/or gorillas in the mist (not very likely ‘cause how would he have learned to milk wild animals from them) but he listens to Trixie and takes her advice to heart. She gives him a slice of toast and some beer, (well, not just some beer, it takes more than a six pack,) but suddenly his heart soars and he realizes what a wretch he has been up to this point. He goes from smelly, crazed, grass-eating hermit dairy farmer to strong, enlightened man about town. Not only that, but I’m certain that she probably had to give a crash course in the birds and bees department. (I’m sure that little tidbit of info was not a hard lesson to sell. I mean, come on, he has been alone a long time and how has he spent his time? Milking the beasts of the wild. He probably started by trying to milk her. She would then give him some step-by-step instructions using a stick to draw in the sand. Hey, that’s how I learned. What? Didn’t everyone?)

So now we have this new and improved Enkidu, transformed by a sandwich and a couple of 40’s, and what does he do with this new insight? He hops into the bath and becomes a human being. Why, you might ask, is his conversion from wild man to a suave Beau Brummel so complete? Well, isn’t it obvious? He did it all for the nookie and the beer. The same reason that so many young men leave the life of carefree bachelor for the warm, comfortable existence of married life.

Dear and Gentle Reader, make no mistake, the civilizations of past and present were not built for the purposes of mutual protection, economic growth, a reliable food source, a stable system of justice, and the furthering of the species. No, you poor misinformed fool. Throw out these textbook answers that were handed to you, enmasse, by your world history teachers and step into the light of knowledge. Go on. It won’t hurt. Civilization was founded on the premise of securing the steady supply of beer and nookie. Face it, if there was no beer and no nookie, we would all be wearing plaid shirts and khakis, and beating animals and each other with sticks. Look into your own heart and tell me it ain’t so.

I know I will not garner the esteem and respect of the learned academic community by committing this to paper, or most women for that matter, but your average man-in-the-street would at least give this theory a grudging acceptance. Let’s face it Gentlemen, women are truly the civilizing influence in society and beer is the wonderful elixir that helps to temper our more base impulses. Would Hitler have been the world-menacing tyrant that he was if his buddies had bought him a few rounds of bock and turned him loose with the St. Paulies Girl? (Lets face it men, that girl is stacked!) Would Napoleon have brought the western world into a smoking ruin with his French war-machine if Josephine had merely taken the brandy from his hand and replaced it with a cold Corona beer w/ lime and set out some decent nachos for a long weekend of getting his freak on? Would the Roman Empire still stand today if Caesar had a couple of frosty Coors to hand around to Brutus and company before they slipped off to the temple of Bacchus for the mid-March orgy? Could Moses have gotten the children of Israel out of Egypt, without all of the first-born son stuff, if he and Pharaoh had hashed things out over a couple of Guinness’s and gone on a double date with some nice Jewish girls?

The world will never know for sure, but I’d like to think that, perhaps, with a little bit more affection and maybe some cold frosty ones,We, as a species, could overcome our differences, put down our weapons of war, and live in peaceful harmony, and get down to the truly important problems of the world: hunger, poverty, ignorance, and how to make a good beer that does not compel you to do stupid things and have to pee a lot.

Doc

If I Traveled Time...

2010-04-20T09:00:00.003-04:00

If I traveled time, I would screw things up left and right. For example:

Copernicus would never face house arrest.

Lincoln would have skipped the theater and told his wife to shut the f*ck up.

Jesus would have the number four top rated video on Youtube right after that cat that barks like a dog.

We would have had Al Gore put our surplus in a lockbox after he won the election.

The World Wars wouldn't have happened because Mythbusters was on.

My mom wouldn't have had a stroke because they would have caught it in time.

My wife wouldn't have dated any losers before me.

Fast food would retain some quality and it's workers would have a sense of pride.

I would be able to hang out with Robert Ruarke, Ronnie James Dio, and Charles Nelson Riley.

I could eat animals that weren't extinct.

Borders could be redrawn and soldiers would only have to help fill sandbags to fend off bad storms and deliver stuffed animals to kids.

No one would go hungry and the very least of us would have to pick through Jenny Craig low fat meals.

Gold would only be used for teeth and not stored in Fort Knox.

Every square inch of the world that wasn't being used would grow walnut trees as I like walnuts.

America would become the world leader in bicycle production.

Every major town in the world would have a fountain the was filled with beer and conflicts would be resolved by who had the better beer.

Sir Walter Reighly would have sent more whiskey back rather than tobacco.

All the women and slaves of the world would stand up at once and form a union.

Countries would pride themselves on the quality of shoes they made.

The only thing a child would have to work at was being a good adult.

In the Olympics, there would be a medal for brewing, lying, and housekeeping.

There would be lots of whales, buffalo and rhinos.

The common cold, cancer, and bad teeth would be replaced by hangovers as mankind's biggest problem.

Every kid everywhere would start life with a 64 box of crayons and health care.

Vegetarians would eat well and cows would volunteer to give up some of their own for the sake of feeding the carnivores.

Lead would only be used to make batteries and not used to sling at people you don't know regardless of their color or creed.

Public education will teach kids what they need to know.

Pearls will become cheap as every oyster will have one and our oceans won't be full of our trash.

And while I'm wishing, I'd like for everyone to have a pony that they can ride to work.

Be safe out there,
Doc

The Open Door - or- The Story I Didn't Post In Time For Flash Fiction Friday

2010-04-14T10:00:00.001-04:00

"The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I'm choking on the stuff!" thought Paul as he ran screaming for his life.

He had rented a little house in the country for a few months to just get away for his health. The doctor had recommended complete rest after his break down and the quiet country air seemed to be the best medicine. Paul looked forward to catching up on his reading and sleeping in for a change.

The first week, Paul lounged about in his pajamas and ate and slept when he felt like it. He barely moved from the overstuffed sofa unless he was getting another bowl of cereal or topping off his cup of coffee. He read from the dozens of novels that he had brought and tried not to think about his grief.

His wife, two kids, and his parents had gone on vacation to the islands, but because of a snafu at work, he had to stay behind. Three days after they had been gone, he heard about the earthquake. He tried to call but couldn't get an answer. The island authorities assured him they were doing all they could to find his family, but the damage was extensive and manpower was short. For a week he drove himself mad with worry. Then the call came, they had been found. The coffins would be shipped home in a week.

Paul lost his senses and folded into a catatonic state that was only punctuated by crying jags. His stay in the hospital was long enough that he missed the funerals. When he regained himself, two months had passed. Then came the prescription for rest.

Paul watched it rain for the next week and he got cabin fever. So when a nice bright day dawned, he set out on a hike. The rolling hills were filled with birdsong and the damp morning air felt good as Paul ambled through the woods. He wandered until he realised that he wasn't at all sure he could find his way back. The wind picked up and Paul started to get cold and hungry.

He continued walking until he stumbled upon a log cabin in a clearing. Not knowing what else to do, he knocked at the open door. A girl of fifteen greeted him and introduced herself as Delia. Paul explained that he was lost and was looking for someone who could help him find his way back. "Oh, well I'm sure mama could help you but she went out to drop off some canned goods to the neighbor. She'll be back in a half an hour. Would you like to wait?" she said with a smile.

She offered him a seat by the fire and brought him some hot coffee. The fire was warm and bright but the wind still blustered in the open door. Paul suggested that the cabin would be warmer if the door were closed.

"Oh no. Mama wouldn't like that," she said and her face took on a grave look, "You see, Mama always keeps the door open so she can watch for Papa to come back from hunting."

"How long ago did he leave?" Paul asked.

"A year ago today," Delia said softly. "He went out to the marshes to see what he could find for the stew pot. He put on his yellow raincoat and his plaid huntin' cap and went off early one morning. It had been raining a lot, just like it has been, and parts of the marsh that had always been safe before now were swamp. Papa didn't see that in the early morning light," she looked down at her feet, "The bog, it just swallowed him up. Ever since then, Mama won't let me close the door. She says that she needs to watch for him to come home. She's a little touched now, what with Papa bein' gone and all." Delia shook her head to cast off her gloomy thoughts and offered him some more coffee.

Paul was more than a little startled when a middle aged woman in overalls and rubber boots darkened the open door. "Hello, and who might you be?" she said warmly. Paul explained his plight and the woman nodded. "So you're the one who moved into the old Hoover place. Sure, I'll be glad to walk you to the main road and you can find your way from there. I just have to wait for my husband to come home from huntin' as I don't like to leave Delia alone for too long as she tends to get up to mischief." The woman settled into the other chair by the fire and rolled a cigarette, all the while watching through the open door over Paul's shoulder. "He should be back any minute," she reassured him but her gaze never wavered and here eyes seemed to glaze as her mind drifted to something else, "He's been gone long enough that he ought to have a nice bag of ducks for supper tonight. You ever eat fresh duck cooked over an open fire mister?" she asked in a far away voice.

Paul's voice cracked a little, "Miss, I thought that your husband was de-"

"Oh here he comes now," she pointed at the open door. Paul turned and looked out into the treeline and a figure clad in a yellow raincoat and a plaid cap was moving slowly towards the cabin. The shotgun in it's hand seemed to gleam despite the misty fog that had settled in. Paul's rattled nerves couldn't take the strain. He dropped his cup and ran as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. He never looked back for fear of seeing the long dead hunter behind him.

Delia smiled. She loved to have strangers in the house so she could make up a new story for them. The people of the hills love to tell a good story, even if it ain't true.

Doc

**Author's Note** I didn't finish in time to have this published on Tuesday as I worked all weekend. I hope you enjoy it.

Downbound Train

2010-04-13T21:55:00.000-04:00

The boiler was filled with lager beer
The devil himself was the engineer,
The passengers were most a motley crew,
Some were foreigners and others he knew.
Rich men in broadclothe and lost beggars in rags
Handsome young ladies and wicked old hags.

"Downbound Train", by Chuck Barry, was released in December 1955 as the B Side of "No Money Down."

I just love this song. I don't know why. Maybe it is because the stranger learns his lesson about lager beer. The video is pretty cool too...

HEY, EVERYBODY!!! IT'S YOUR UNCLE RALPH CHIMING IN FOR A SUNDAY AM!!!

2010-04-12T06:00:00.002-04:00

Oh, goodness, it's UNCLE RALPH again!! And this time he's pissed!

CREDITS:
Flannery Alden, Scripts & Creative Design
Doc, Director & Wardrobe
Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, Vocals

UNCLE RALPH CHIMES IN-- REDEUX!!!!

2010-04-10T01:15:00.002-04:00

Ladies n' gentlemens, gather 'round your PC for a good ol' fashinoned yarn Your Uncle Ralph has decided to grace us all with His presence!!

CREDITS:
Flannery Alden, Scripts & Creative Design
Doc, Director & Wardrobe
Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, Vocals

Nothing Beats A Good Head Job

2010-04-07T06:00:00.000-04:00

On Easter Sunday I did something I have never done before. I was the designated driver. This was a new role for me as I'm usually the one in the back seat, reeking of beer and screaming for White Castle hamburgers. We had Easter dinner at a Mexican place called Don Pablo's as nothing says the Resurrection of Christ quite like Mexican food.

Donna, my mother in law, had two Tijuana Teas (tequila & iced tea) and Flannery had a pitcher of sangria (red wine with fruit juice). Donna can hold her own when it comes to wine, but mixed drinks go right to her head. Flannery is the original cheap drunk and half a beer is enough to make her loopy. She had four or five sangrias and developed that familiar twinkle at the corner of her eye that tells me she has had a little too much.

We finished our meal when Donna said she wanted to go to Bed, Bath, & Beyond. My father in law didn't want to go so he would take the kids back to the house and I volunteered to drive them as I only had water with lunch. They didn't have the beer I wanted and I wasn't going to drink the swill they had on tap.

I had never been to Bed, Bath, & Beyond as that isn't really my idea of shopping. If I'm shopping, it's for new boots, britches, or beer. I am a man of simple needs and very little means, so my shopping is infrequent and selective. Now this place is geared to a woman's tastes and that obvious from the moment you walk in. The only thing masculine in the place is the variety of towels with sports team logos on them.

In five minutes, I have walked the entire store and seen everything there is to see. I have read the dirty novelty cards and looked over the overpriced lawn furniture. I was surprised to see that they had an extensive selection of condoms. I didn't know that Trojans came in so many varieties. They had a His/Hers two pack of lube for seventeen dollars that seemed like the perfect gift for the couple who have everything. Apparently this is the Beyond part of the store's name.

For the next two hours, my tipsy wife and drunken mother in law oohed and fingered every damn thing in the store. I found a demonstrator model of a back massager and watched an infomercial for a bowel cleaner called Colon-Blow. They kept showing the nasty sludge that this miracle product would make shoot out of your butt, all for the cut-rate price of fifty dollars. No thanks.

Which brings me to my title. We also got a new shower head for the master bath. It took longer to remove it from it's package than it took to install. I thought the back massager in the store was awesome but the new shower head borders on uphoria inducing. I could almost hear the music from a douche commercial playing in the background as I froliced under the orgasmic jets of H2o.

I guess this means I'm going to clean up my act.

Somewhat.

Doc

The Master Of Lunacy FFF #27

2010-04-05T20:42:00.009-04:00

Four words: Cache, Cashew, Eschew, & Through.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Mr. Burlington frantically thought as he followed the orderly down the bright salmon colored hallway, "Please let me be sane! Or at least be able to convince Dr. Shaw!" The orderly ushered him into the wood paneled office and asked him to take a seat and the doctor would be right with him.

Burlington sat in the overstuffed leather chair across from the large desk and waited. He stared out the window at a walnut tree and the two chickadees that were flitting through it. They seemed to be in love. There was a nest they were building on the nearest bow. He tried to relax and watch them construct their new home to clear his mind, but he just couldn't sit still. He walked to the window to take a closer look, but the birds flew away.

He looked around the room for something to distract himself as the doctor was taking an awfully long time. The room was sparse and the only picture was a still life of a bowl of fruit. Burlington noticed that they were all bananas. There was the empty desk, two leather chairs, and a small bookshelf with a dictionary, medical encyclopedias, and a couple of back issues of American Psychology. The only thing that showed that this wasn't a disused room was a large bowl of cashews placed in the center of the desk. Burlington absentmindedly munched a couple from the doctor's cache and stared out the window to see if the chickadees would return. He tried to think of nothing.

"Ah, I see you've found my nuts," said the man who shuffled through the door behind him. Burlington gulped hard and wished he had some water to wash down his mouthful of salty cashews. The man was dressed in the same terry clothe robe and standard issue pajamas as he was.

"Where is Dr. Shaw?" Burlington asked. The cashews stuck to the back of his dry throat as his palms began to sweat.

The man flashed a comforting smile. "Dr. Shaw has been detained. I am Dr. Breedlove and I will be filling in for him. Please sit down Mr.-" he consulted the file folder in his hand, "Mr. Burlington, and let's get started. This is a simple evaluation and only takes a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable."

Burlington sat and watched as the robed man took his seat across the desk from him. "You are dressed like I am. Is that common?" Burlington asked.

"It is a new policy of the hospital. The doctors and staff are to dress as the patients so that there is more of a bonding and less friction with an authority figure. In short, we eschew formality. Dr. Brown of the California Institute of Psychology has had great success with this measure," Breedlove explained as he sat and flipped through the folder without looking up.

"Are you the Master of Lunacy? Are you the one to decide if I'm sane?" Burlington wished his voice wouldn't have cracked as he said this but he couldn't take it back now.

"They don't call this post the Master of Lunacy anymore. I am the acting Director of Admissions. Up until now, you have been fulfilling your court-ordered mandate to seek psychiatric care. We just need to know if you need more care or not. Let's get started, shall we?" Breedlove returned to his comforting smile. "I will ask you a few questions, and reaction time is a factor in this, but respond truthfully and we will be done in minutes." Breedlove let his eyes bore into his as if he was trying to see his brain through his eye sockets.

"Do you feel the hospital has been a help to you?" he asked.

"Oh sure," Burlington felt he was on easy ground here, "The staff are ever so nice, and the fresh fruit and enemas have done wonders. I feel like I am a whole new man! I especially enjoyed the group sessions as it let me know that I wasn't alone in this. I was facing my troubles head on and helping others with theirs too. Mrs. Abood was a great moderator and I think I've learned a lot about myself and others." Without any effort at all, his prepared speech came out.

Breedlove check marked a few boxes on the top paper and returned to his piercing glare. "What will you do if you return to society?" he asked.

"My brother has a moving company and has promised to take me on full time. Mrs. Sekorskey has kept my apartment these eight months, so I have a place to stay." The lump of cashews moved a little further down his parched throat but his tongue felt like it was covered in a thick layer of salt. He felt a cold trickle of sweat slide from his underarm down his ribcage but tried to ignore it.

"We are almost done Mr. Burlington. I just have a few more questions," Breedlove reassured him. He placed an eight by ten card on the table with a smear of ink on it. "What does this look like to you?" he asked.

"An ink blot," Burlington answered bluntly.

"No, no, no. Do you see a picture?"

"It looks like someone dropped a plate of spaghetti."

"And this?"

"A bath tub."

"And this one?"

"John Cleese."

Breedlove scribbled a few more notes and shut the folder with a snap. He handed Burlington a piece of paper with an official looking seal. "Mr. Burlington," he sighed, "you are as sane as I am. Show this to the orderly and go collect your things. There is a cab waiting at the front door to return you to your home. The best of luck to you, and should you need help in the future, don't hesitate to call." Breedlove shook his hand warmly and opened the door to send him on his way into the wide world with the honest hope that everything would come up roses for the young man.

Breedlove chewed a few nuts while watching from the office window as the cab pulled away. When it had disappeared from sight, he noticed the chickadees in the tree as they returned and padded their nest.

He turned from the window and slipped the file into an empty drawer. "Now for Dr. Shaw," he thought as he returned to the janitor's closet where his hostage was tied up with bed sheets. "I need a few new ink blots in blood," he thought, and reached for a sharp chisel and some paper. Dr. Shaw was wide-eyed as he struggled against his bonds and he tried to scream against his gag, but to no avail.

Doc

Uncle Riley's Hat And A Fairy Tale Joke

2010-04-03T23:05:00.002-04:00

Working at my job requires lots of skills, especially during the holidays. It takes endurance, wit, aplomb, tact, pluck, and comfortable shoes. I regret that the only thing I have are the shoes. I know that everyone has bad days at work. It is just a fact of life. The only thing is mine are marked on everyone's calender and I don't spend them with my family. For three years running I haven't gotten Father's Day off and I am the only guy in the bakery. But after a long day of selling cookies and doughnuts to fat men, I like to unwind.

And how better than a joke?

Have a wonderful Easter/Passover and I'll see you all tomorrow.

What Would You Use To Wash Down A Mouthful Of Oven Cleaner?

2010-03-29T22:14:00.004-04:00

I have, in my mispent youth, dabbled in substances. I felt obliged to sow a few wild oats if for no other reason than I would be better able to steer my children away from them and be speaking from the viewpoint of an expert, or if not an expert, at least a well informed eye-witness.

I have dabbled in substances, and to name a few: Beer in every form I could find it, scotch, vodka, whiskey, rum, tobacco, caffiene, and Pixy Stix taken nasally. I have even sniffed gasoline and not for the fragrance. I have washed down an aspirin with Coca Cola. Needless to say, I have been wreckless and stupid.

I have never messed with oven cleaner however. Tonight was my first experience into the sordid world of this common household chemical.

My job required me to clean the shrink wrap machine this evening, and the only thing that was going to remove a years worth of burnt fudge icing was going to involve this miracle of modern science, oven cleaner.

I have never used oven cleaner before. I read the directions very carefully and followed them to the letter. The can recommends elbow length gloves. The gloves I have won't come to my wrist in much the same way a Trojan condom wouldn't work for a Clydesdale. I hold the can the correct distance from the surface I am about to clean, after unplugging it of course, and give it a good spritz.

At no point on the label did it say, "Don't Inhale". My nose has been a little plugged up from a recent sniffle so all of my breathing has been orally. I inhaled enough that my tongue tastes like soapy foil and my saliva glands are working overtime. I didn't have to spit this much when I still dipped snuff.

The first coat went on at 5 pm. I put on four more coats this evening before 8:45 pm, but I held my wet apron over my mouth as I did them. To no avail. The damage was done.

I couldn't clock out fast enough and pushed the speed limit to get home. The Jeep hadn't stuttered to a halt before I was out the door and headed to the dorm fridge in the garage.

I don't know what you would use to wash the taste of oven cleaner out of your mouth, but I was going to start with beer. I had five and I can still taste it, but I'll get back to you on how many it takes.

If all else fails, I could put bathroom cleaner on my toothbrush and let them fight it out.

Doc

Today, I Wrote You A Love Letter

2010-03-28T13:17:00.004-04:00

Today, I wrote you a love letter. The letter is:

Don't you love it?

Doc

***Editor's Note*** Do you ever think of a stupid joke that only seems funny to you?

Shooting Arrows At The Moon; a mystery for FFF #26

2010-03-27T14:30:00.006-04:00

"What do you see when you close your eyes?" Nicole asked Detective Harker. Harker was silent and looked Mrs. Nicole Cleghorn over, looking for clues as to what was running through her mind. Her broad shoulders trembled as she stared out the window with a glazed look in her eyes. She had calmed down, but every so often a tear would follow the wet path down her face that so many had traveled before. "When I close my eyes," she said, "I see Ollie on the roof, naked and laughing, with that great big bow of his, shooting arrows at the moon. He was like that. He was just full of life and laughter and he wanted to share it with the world. It was in his writing and children loved him for it." She smiled at the thought.

"Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?" Harker said softly.

"No. He was in a scuffle or two at the local tavern, but that was just a misunderstanding. Besides, that was months ago."

Sgt. O'Brien beckoned from the doorway to the parlor and Harker excused himself. "Alright Sergeant, what do we know?" Harker asked after he closed the door.

O'Brien opened his notebook and checked off things as he read them. "It runs like this: the dead man is Oliver Cleghorn. He writes children's books and has made a ton of money doing it. You have met Mrs. Cleghorn, his wife. Mr. Cleghorn has a long history of run ins with the law, most of which were alcohol related. He was found dead in his study this evening at approximately ten fifteen. Cause of death was from being struck in the back of the head with a heavy instrument which caused his demise per Dr. Shaw. The murder weapon was found next to the body. It is a replica of a medieval mace. It has blood and hair on it that match the victim. The forensic guys have gone all over the house and whoever did this had a key or was here. There are no signs of forced entry on the whole house or fingerprints on the weapon."

"Who had access to the house?" Harker asked.

"We have narrowed it down to Mrs. Cleghorn, Walter Hurst, Mr. Cleghorn's illustrator, and Gibson Tucker, his publisher. Hurst is at his cottage by the gate and Tucker was often a guest including tonight, and is in his bedroom on the third floor. We have a couple of uniforms checking in at the local tavern, but from the little bit I've heard, this bastard was nutty as they come and he drank like a fish." O'Brein closed the notebook with a snap. "So what are your orders Detective?"

"The mace was from here in the house?"

"Yessir. Turns out Mr. Cleghorn was crazy about the stuff. Swords, bows and arrows, axes, suits of armor. The stuff is all through the house. Even the house is a replica of an English manor house."

"Have someone make some coffee and take it to Mrs. Cleghorn. Tell her I'll see her shortly. Right now, I'm going to see the study. Take statements from Mr. Hurst and Mr. Tucker. I'll be along to interview them later."

The study was fifteen by fifteen and was lined floor to ceiling with books. The only wall not covered in leather bound limited editions was filled with a stained glass window of a Greek woman holding a stag in one hand and a bow in the other. The setting sun through the moon over her shoulder gave the room an eerie glow. In the center of the room was a large roll top desk and draped on it was pale corpse of Ollie Cleghorn, the beloved author of forty-seven Murial the Moose children's books. At last count, they were being translated into twenty-three languages and sold worldwide. There were even rumors of a theme park.

Harker stood behind Ollie and looked over the desk. Ollie was slumped to the left of his lap top and a Word document was up. From the layout, it looked like a play, complete with stage directions, lighting and set layout notes. On further examination, it was the script for an Adult version of The Taming Of The Shrew. The only really interesting part was the final paragraph. "h8v9o3bi8oo3ebj3" and these were the only keys with blood on them, so Ollie must have lived long enough to touch his fatal wound with both hands and type this out. The key was in his final message but Harker couldn't make sense of it. "Maybe Mr. Tucker can shed some light on this," he thought as he copied the line into his notebook.

Mr. Gibson Tucker was a wisp of a man with a receding hairline and an even more receding chin. He wore an expensive gray flannel suit that made him look like a cashier at a bank who got more of a thrill from handling the money than any Vegas call girl could provide. Mr. Tucker seemed more agitated by the lack of his cell phone than the demise of his friend and colleague. "You don't understand," he pleaded, "I've got to call the publishing house right now! I've got probably fifty novels and probably five hundred short stories of Ollie's laying around. I've got to start the presses now! If I don't, I'll look like some Johnny-come-lately when all the publishers have their editions out. Ollie wrote like a mad man. He churned out stuff like a machine. Any damn thing he could think of, romance, horror, westerns, mystery's, sci-fi. Nothing sold because all the world knew him as the creator of Murial. He tried pen names, and they still turned him down because they weren't willing to risk the cost of the run on an author with no public recognition. I have a lifetimes of Ollie Cleghorn's work that instantly has a market!"

"The man is still warm downstairs. Doesn't that bother you at all Mr. Tucker?" Harker asked.

"What bothers me is I can't have my damn cell phone to make the deal of a lifetime! You are costing me money!" He patted his forehead with handkerchief, "Say, don't I get one phone call?"

"Not until we book you. Do you recognise this serial number?" He showed him the string of numbers and letters from Ollie's computer. "An off shore account?" Tucker guessed. Harker nodded to the uniform as he left the room, "Stay with him and don't let him near a phone."

Harker enjoyed the little stroll down the drive to Mr. Hurst's cottage as the crickets began their song. Harker had to squint a little as he stepped out of the dark and into Walter Hurst's drawing room. Hurst was seated at his easel under a bright lamp, sketching the same moose in different poses. While Harker let his eyes adjust, Hurst picked up a clean sheet and his pencil flew across the page. He looked up once to glance at Harker and traded his pencil for some charcoal. With a sweep, a brush, and a bit of shading, Hurst handed the sheet to him. It was a picture of himself drawn like Dick Tracy with his .45 blazing. Sure, it was cartoonish, but the likeness was unmistakable. "Well I've seen your artwork Mr. Hurst, let's see how well you tell a story?"

"Well Mr. Detective, I've got a damn good story to tell but it is the kind that calls for a drink. Do you mind Mr.-"

"Harker," he said as he sat down on the worn plaid love seat and spread his notebook on his knee, "and no, I don't mind." The tall, slim Hurst pulled three beers from a dorm fridge and handed him one. Hurst returned to his easel, opened his can and took a long pull. "Harker, I've got every reason in the world to give this to you straight. I'm going to tell you a little tale but I'm going to try and keep this short. Just stop me if you have a question. I just want to get through this so I can put away a couple more of these beers and forget today ever happened for a few hours." He finished his first can and cracked the second before he started.

"I've known Ollie the longest. We met in college. He wrote and I drew, and we just gravitated together. He was fun, he was funny. He knew all the girls and who was throwing the best parties. Make no mistake about it, Ollie loved to have a good time but he drank. Even then, he drank like it was his job and he would fight anyone. He had a horrible mouth on him and he just didn't know when to shut up. He could write like choirs of angels but he couldn't string three sentences out of his mouth without muttering fuck cunt cock sucking bastard in there somewhere. That's why he could never do book signings or public appearances. All of his interviews had to be written." He wet his lips and continued.

"Him and Nicole met fourteen years ago, and after a very brief courtship were married. This was four years before Ollie hit it big with Murial the Moose. As mean and as violent as he could get when he was drunk, which was all the time, he was always sweet to her. Never raised a hand to her. He'd get loud sometimes, sure, but she was his rock."

"After four years of scratching around trying to make ends meet, Ollie tells me that we are going to try for two more months then give it up. Ollie figures we could do a children's book and make some dough. They have short runs and are more likely to give a break to some unknowns. We blow the last of our cash on frozen pizzas and beer, and knock out the first Murial in a long drunken weekend. We drop it in the mail on Monday. On Friday, Tucker calls and wants to mail us a check for thirty grand for starters until the lawyers could hash out the contract. We hitchhiked to the bank to cash it and bought a car to get home in for twelve hundred. We stopped at the liquor store, got six bottles of rum and wrecked the car within a quarter mile of home. We thought we had made the big time."

"Then they asked how soon we could have the next one ready? We turned one out every two weeks for eight months. Then the checks really started to roll in. Ollie put some money back so he and Nicole could have a baby. We both bought houses and tried to get comfortable with the idea that we didn't have to eat instant noodles any more."

"But Ollie wasn't happy. He wanted to have something else of his published that wasn't a moose. So he drank more, a lot more. Any normal person would have just keeled over, but not Ollie. He was a gold medalist at his chosen sport. I've seen him drink 100 beers in 24 hours, and to top it off, he did a handstand on the bar.

"How was your relationship with Ollie then?" Harker put away the notebook and sipped his beer. He knew it was best to just let him talk.

"Ollie and I were pals. We would have a good time and the work always got done. Ollie threw wild parties and invited celebrities and a few came, but they didn't come again. Then it was just Nicole and Ollie and I. She and Ollie went to Europe for an extended trip. Months later, he calls me and invites me to come live here with them. He's had this estate built as an exact replica of one he'd seen in England. He said it would be much easier if I was here, as his heart just wasn't in it any more."

"What about the money? Ollie made it rich off the Murial books, but what about you? Where is your estate and fancy cars?" Harker got up to get another beer.

"I make a good living at what I do. I'm an illustrator. Any one who can draw a stick man thinks they are an illustrator, but one with even a little bit of talent could copy my style and I'm out of a job. Sure, the money was lopsided because Ollie was the author, but I got my fair share. Most of it went to my mother's medical bills. She had the cancer," he said softly. "A hundred times, Tucker tried to get Ollie to write me out and hire someone else for peanuts to do what I did, but every damn time, he turned him down. 'I work with Walt or I walk!' he said. What can I say? I loved the man. He was my one true friend and my partner. I would have done anything for him."
"Does this mean anything to you?" and Harker showed him Ollie's last key strokes. He shook his head. "What about Nicole?" Harker looked him in the eye first. He had to see the reaction. Hurst smiled. He smiled warmly, the same way he did when he mentioned his mother.

"She is my friend and my rock too. I don't have any family left, and she and Ollie were all I had. I don't know what she will do now, or me either for that matter. Tucker will be just fine with whatever deals he can cook up and that slimy bastard would sell his grandma on the street for the price of a cup of coffee." Hurst stood and stretched with a glanced at his unmade bed.

"Just one more question and I'll get out of your hair. Why didn't Ollie and Nicole ever have kids?"

"Something medical with her. Scarring or something. I don't know. Ollie didn't like to talk about it, but they both loved children. Why?"

"No reason. I just thought that a successful writer of children's books might want a kid. We might need to contact you in the morning. Until then, goodnight."

The cool air and the dimness seemed to agree with Harker as he walked back to the house. He stopped to marvel at the rising full moon. He thought of the stained glass window with it's own moon and he wondered who the woman might be. The more he stood and gazed, the connections fell into place, but there was one piece missing. He turned away from the moon and took long strides to the house. Sgt. O'Brien was at the door and told him that Dr. Shaw has been forced to sedate Mrs. Cleghorn due to her grief and she would be unavailable for questioning until the morning. Harker ignored him and headed straight to the library.

The body had been removed but everything was just the same. Harker left the lights off and brushed the mouse on the lap top to shoo away the screen saver. He looked from the screen to the keyboard. He turned to the darkened stained glass window, and knew who killed Ollie Cleghorn. "Sergent! Prepare to make an arrest!"
*************************************************************************************

Harker knows who did it. Do you?

Leave your guesses in the comments and I'll supply the Answer this time Tuesday.

Doc

Five For Friday

2010-03-26T06:09:00.003-04:00

No, not a five string. Five Jokes for Friday!

Every year in January I compile a "best of" from the year before and put it up while my New Year's Eve hangover settles down. It's the end of March now and I'm just finishing up.

I discovered our lap top has a camera and I experimented with it just for kicks. What follows are five dirty jokes I told, each under two minutes in length. So start your week end off with a chuckle:

"Redneck Logic"

"Wash In The Holy Water Please!"

"Be Careful What You Love..."

"Did You Jump?"

"The Greatest Love Of All"

Doc

Always Beware When The Room Smells Like Hamster And You Don't Own A Hamster

2010-03-24T21:00:00.002-04:00

For those of you who have had the good sense not to reproduce, I take my hat off to you. For those of you with children, my prayers go out to you.

I have a little girl named Lucy and she will be the one who peppers my blond hair with gray before my time. Lucy is a born actress and she frustrates me to no end. She has a horrible habit that I'd like to tell you about.

I go in one morning to wake her up for school and I could swear that the room smelled like a hamster. We don't own a hamster, but the smell persisted. My sense of smell is the dullest of all my senses after an unfortunate bottle rocket incident as a child. I wrote the weird smell off to farts in the night from onion rings the night before.

I don't smell it when I put her to bed that night but the door has been open all day.

The next morning I go to get her up and her bedroom reeks of hamster, right down to the ceder chip bedding and the little black grains of rice they call their poop. The room smells of hamster but I only have one eye open and need a cup of coffee in the worst way, so I will investigate later after the kids are on the bus. I forgot all about it until bedtime that night.

Lucy and I go to get PJ's for bed and the room smells like a zoo-sized hamster cage! Five year olds operate under the idea that when you are done with something you drop it where you are. Should you want it later, it will be in the place you dropped it. If it isn't there, you cannot look for it yourself but must round up a posse. Needless to say, five year olds don't tend to be neat and tidy.

I can't stand the mystery any longer and go searching for the hamster smell. I clean the room and put everything in it's place. Still no luck. The room stinks of rodent. I get down on my belly and marine crawl to the farthest back corner under her bed and find a boiled egg I had made two weeks ago.

To say that it looked like a cancerous ulcer would have been putting it kindly. I was afraid to pick it up lest the zombie chick inside bite me. It was rapidly disposed of when a stake was driven through it's heart.

From somewhere on Flannery's side of the family, Lucy gets the inclination to hide food like a squirrel. I can't explain it. She always tucks a snack away for later. I've started to find juice boxes and Doritos hidden in various closets. If she is trying to prepare for Doom's Day, let's hope she is taking her cues from Charlton Heston and not David Koresh.

Doc

Born Under A Bad Sign -or- How Jack Got Jerked.

2010-03-23T23:27:00.000-04:00

"What you gonna do? Time's caught up with you.
Now you wait your turn, you know there's no return.
Take your written rules, you join the other fools.
Turn to something new, now it's killing you." - Black Sabbath, "Hand Of Doom"

"Wine and women is all I crave.
A big legged woman is
gonna carry me to my grave.
Born under a bad sign.
I been down since I begin to crawl.
If it wasn't for bad luck,
I wouldn't have no luck at all." - Cream, "Born Under A Bad Sign"
*************************************************************************************

As far as Jack was concerned, even a field of four-leaf clovers couldn’t turn things around. He was convinced that because he was born in a leap year, that he was under a secret thirteenth Zodiac sign and its symbol was a giant screw. He adjusted himself in the lawnchair, propped his feet up on the lawnmower, sipped his cold beer and tried to think of when it all started to go so horibbly wrong.

His youth had been a long string of disappointments from his speech impediment, his second-hand clothes, bullies, and the death of his father in a freak sausage accident. High school was no picnic either. He was the joke of the town after gym class and showering on the first day. Every girl in school heard the tale of his obvious shortage in the male department. His prom date insisted on a limo, a $200 dinner, a $600 dress, and no physical contact. The evening ended with a grudging handshake. College was a blur of sleepless nights trying to drift off to the sound of all the raucus parties down the hall that he would never be invited to.

After college, he moved smoothly into a telemarketing job for a temporary company. The pay was bad and the hours late, but there he met Ursala. She was going to change his life for the better. On their first date, she got drunk and was willing to hold still for a few minutes. Jack found a small piece of heaven that night.

It was to prove to be his only one.

Six weeks later, they were married and her dress was as ill-fitting as his itchy, rented tux, but they stood before the Justice Of The Peace and bound themselves together forever. At this point Jack thought he had it made. He was going to be a husband to a woman who loved him and he had just been named the head of the training department at the call center with a ten cent raise. Ursala mentioned something about applying for a credit card and he just nodded as he was trying to find the weather report in the local paper as a snow storm was to be expected.

The baby emerged and he didn't have any obvious defects. Jack thanked his lucky stars. Ursala stayed home with the boy while Jack moved to a new sales job that promised more money. It turns out that it takes a certain kind of person to sell gravel for a gravel company and Jack just wasn't what they were looking for. For six months he lived on Hamburger Helper without the hamburger. Ursala posessed many skills, but cooking wasn't among them.

Jack's mother died and left him a large amount of stock. Ursala rubbed her hands in delight at the news and called every catalog company that she knew for a new everything. Two weeks later, Enron folded and they were left with nothing but very official looking paper.

One day at lunch, instead of his usual egg salad sandwich from the gas station, Jack bought a Slim Jim, a coney dog, and a Powerball ticket. He just felt lucky, he later explained to the news cameras. The jackpot had reached one hundred and sixty-eight million dollars and Jack picked the right numbers on a whim.

He had also checkmarked the box that said Pay Now instead of the payment plan. For his one dollar investment, he got twenty-eight million after taxes. After this, Ursala demanded a new house, followed by a new car and a staff of servants.

After a particularly good dinner of chicken nuggets and salad delivered by the butler one evening, she suggested that they have an "open marriage" to spice up their love life. Jack quickly agreed in between mouthfuls if it meant he could sleep in the same bedroom as her again. Their son, Gustav, looked at them with weary glances as he filled his mouth with apple sauce and quietly farted.

Jack tried to better manage the money and invested some of it in a cruise that would bring them all together. His surprise trip was kiboshed when Ursala stated that she had an appointment in New York for a nip and tuck with an extended recovery while Gustav would be in Switzerland for his harmonica sessions for the next six weeks.

At this point, Jack decided that he needed some help. He decided to hire a personal valet to travel with him. Ursala had objected strongly to the expence but he had managed to catch her after her massage and before her mud bath, so her protest had only been strongly worded but not a definite no.

Jack's choice had been Vernon, his college roommate and lifelong friend. Jack didn't have many friends and Vernon had always been there in a pinch, right down to being the Best Man at his wedding when no one else wanted the job. The flight to Florida with Vernon had been uneventful other than Vernon's horrible snoring for the three hour flight. Jack's travel agent must have misunderstood his simple instructions when he asked to book a cruise. Their boat had only just missed the Spanish Armada by being in dry dock at the time to have barnicles scraped. The captain had only a passing knowledge of English, while the the crew knew none, and welcomed them to the trip of their ham. They weren't out of sight of shore before the captain suggested they wet their noses in what he knew as Brazilian marching powder and then wash it down with large amounts of the local rum. The crew had already availed themselves, and he and Vernon were welcome to what was left as part of the cruise.

The fact that the ship sank wasn't a big surprise to anyone other than Jack. The fact that Jack's fickle lucky stars spared him was. The idea that he and Vernon should survive such a horribble fate was unfathomable. They swam for a slip of sand above water while the whole crew went down in a boiling sea. The flames of the burning ship gurgled as they gasped for breath on the tiny key.

Jack would have been lost had it not been for Vernon. Vernon, the great silent, hairy ape of a man followed the TV show Survivior religiously and had read up on the subject in the vain hopes that they would be looking for a virtual mute for their next season. The eight months that they lived on cocoanuts and fish while squating in a rude hut were to prove to be the best time in Jack's poor life. There was no phone to ring or any demands on his time other than the eternal search for fire wood. Every evening, they would try to invent new ways to combine Jack's cocoanut hual with Vernon's catch. All of their combinations were an ivitation to an unending dirreah until the ship came.

It was a Brazilian fishing ship that noticed their fire on the shore and picked them up. When they got on, the cook brought them Spam steaks with noodles and they ate like kings and asked for seconds.

Uncle Py And The Troll, FFF #25

2010-03-23T11:30:00.001-04:00

"He had been told that crawling would get him nowhere, but-" Homer gestured with his arms above his head as I shuffled in through the door of Dave Syke's general store.

"No, no, no," Dave interrupted, "Now that Bob is here, you have to start from the beginning. There is no getting out of it. You promised!" Homer huffed as I settled onto the barrel of nails nearest the pot bellied stove. "What's this?" I asked.

"I was tellin' Dave about my uncle and he insisted that we wait for you. Well, after three games of checkers, Dave wanted to hear the tale, but he insisted that as soon as you showed up, I start all over." I stoked the fire in the stove, packed my pipe and settled in to spend a rainy Friday night of tall tales with the fellows. Dave handed me a mason jar, "Have a sip of this to chase away the chill." The corn liquor burned all the way down and made a warm spot in my middle.

"Alright, I'm listening," I said.

"Now neither one of you ever got to meet my Uncle Py, but he was something else," Homer began after a little nip from the jar to wet his lips. "He had all kinds of adventures and traveled all over the world. Now this particular time was when he was a young man and these mountains was still pretty wild and open country."

"Py? That's kind of a queer name innit?" Dave asked.

"He was named after Pythagoras, one of them old Greek dudes in the Bible," Homer answered. Book learnin' was not one of Homer's strong suits, but it is best not to call a man's shortcomings to his attention in front of others as it's libel to sour a friendship. "Now it was in the fall after the crops was in," Homer began again, "and all of the men of the community would gather up their batch of corn and turn it into shine so it was easier to get down off the mountain and sell it at market in Hecketsville. Now this took a couple of weeks to cook it all up, and of course everybody wanted to try some of the first batch. What followed was one big drunken party that lasted two weeks. They called it an Oh-Gee."

"Orgy?" Dave interrupted again.

"No, you mule-headed somebitch. An orgy you have with girls. This was an Oh-Gee. As in, 'Oh gee, I'm drunk but I'll have another sip'." Homer laughed at his own joke. "Now while they was cookin' up the mash, they'd have coon hunts and wrasslin' matches and story tellin' contests, just to see who could come up with the biggest whopper. Now Uncle Py had spent two weeks blind, stinkin' drunk and he figgered it was about time to go home and sleep it off so he left the others at the still, loaded up his mule and headed down the mountain. Afore he can get down it turns dark and a powerful storm rolls in. The rain comes down hard and you can't see your hand in front of your face. Well, Uncle Py and Della, that's the mule, they lose their way and get off the path."

"Now Uncle Py is not a man easily discouraged and was always of a bright an' cheerful nature. He knows that turning around and looking for the path in the dark is a lost cause so he lights his lantern and decides that he can just find his own way down, since he has been roaming these hills all his life. But the going is tough. The rain has turned the ground to mush and the trees grow thick together, so he has to kinda bust his way through. Now his lantern gives him a little light, but the briers and branches tug at his clothes and every here and there are loose patches of rocks. One wrong step and he goes ass over tea kettle down the mountain to his doom. Della the mule is a pretty sure-footed animal, but Della is blind, so they kinda have to help each other."

"After a couple of hours of stumbling through the dark and the rain, the storm really gets with it and the sky blisters with lightening and the thunder shakes the ground under their feet as it rolls through the valley. Well needless to say, Della gets spooked and takes off at a run dragging Uncle Py with her as well as six gallons of some of the sweetest moonshine this valley ever tasted."

"Despite her load, Uncle Py figgered she drug him a quarter mile through some of the worst briers and brambles the mountain had to offer. Della only stops because they get to a spring wash and she can hear the water rushing by. After hours of rain, there is a lot of water going by and purdy swift too. Uncle Py picks himself up and looks around and he can't even decide which side of the mountain they are on. He is wondering what to do, when by the flash of lightening, he spies a bridge over the washed out gully. He heads for it even though he had never known of any bridge being near the mountain or heard tell of one, but with a bridge you had a landmark, and perhaps a decent trail to follow until he could figure out just where the hell he was."

"So he gets Della calmed down and guides her to the bridge but she smells something and hunches up. About that time the sky lights up again and there in front of him is this big ol' troll. He's eight foot tall if he was an inch. He's long and gangly and green, with these big claws where he ought to have hands. He stinks to high heavens. His eyes glow red in the dark and Uncle Py can smell his putrid breathe in his face." Homer lowers his voice to a growl and grimaces. "You cross my bridge, you pay my toll! Six gold pieces or your life!"

"Now Uncle Py was always quick thinker when he had to be and it kept him out of some tight spots on several occasions. Uncle Py didn't have six gold pieces on him and the troll may as well have asked for the crown of the king of England but Uncle Py had something better than gold. He had shine. So Uncle Py offers the troll some of that instead. The troll clutches the jug in his bony claw and knocks back a big ol' snort. 'Yum' he says and he starts gulping it down."

"Well now that the two of them are on a more friendly basis, Uncle Py pulls out a dollar cigar that he won in a poker game. He lights it with the one dry match that he can find and offers it to the troll, just to be social like. The troll looks up from his drink and takes it and has a puff. Now while the troll has been drinkin', he can't hold the jug to good on account of his claws, so he's dumped a fair amount of shine all over his self. The troll smiles real big as he gets the hang of smokin' the cigar and everything is going just fine until a hot ash falls off the cigar and lands in the wet hairs on the troll's chest."

"All the sudden, whoosh, he catches fire. He dances around tryin to put it out but he still has the cigar in his claw and winds up lighting new spots that wasn't lit before. Now he's madder than a wet hen and he turns on Uncle Py, thinking that he planned on setting him on fire all along. Uncle Py claims that he was trying to take off his wet coat to smother the flames, but either way, when the troll lunged at him, he managed to step out of the way. The bad thing is Della didn't."

"The troll landed on her and knocked her flat, crushing five gallons of moonshine. They went up in an unholy fire ball that scorched the ground for thirty feet. Uncle Py said the only thing that saved him was the fact that he had his wet coat out in front of him or it would have burnt his face off. The blast threw him several feet and he landed on the far side of the bridge. The flash had left him blinded and he had been told as an itty-bitty boy that crawling would get him nowhere but that's what he did. He wandered the hills for three days before Old Man Sedgewick found him and patched him up."

"Uncle Py said he tried several times to find the spot where that bridge was but he could never find it. He did say that for the rest of his life that he could always tell when a bad storm was going to come over the mountain because you could always smell a little bit of burnt mule hair in the breeze."

We all sat silent for a moment as the late November wind whipped rain against the window and the little stove belched smoke from a down draft.

"You're fulla shit," Dave Sykes blurted out. I don't like to point out a man's short comings, but Dave ain't that mannerly.

Doc

Butterscotch Kisses, FFF #24

2010-03-16T11:00:00.001-04:00

"Well there's a girl that lives up the block
back in school she could turn all the boy's heads,
Sometimes on a Friday I'll stop by
and have a few drinks after she put her kids to bed" - Bruce Springsteen "Glory Days" (1984)

"A kiss as sweet as...," Vanessa thought a moment, "butterscotch candy," she decided. That's what Randy's kisses were like. She licked her lips at the thought of it as she twirled a lock of her long, red hair in her fingers. She stared absentmindedly out the window as her mother pulled out of the drive way with the kids for a night out with Grandma. The last pink rays of the setting sun seemed to give her cheeks that rosy hint of youth. She smiled.

"Oh Lord, I gotta get ready!" and Vanessa scampered for the shower. She lingered in the steam for a few minutes and watched as the last of the water slid into the drain. "Well there go my troubles and worries," she thought. "Tonight, I am going to have a good time and just forget everything else. Randy Allen Miller, you better just look out, cause tonight I got your number!" She giggled to herself. As she fussed with her wet hair in front of the mirror, she took a long look at herself and thought of Roy.

Thank God he had a poker weekend with his Navy buddies! He'd be gone until Sunday and come home reeking of cigars and whiskey with tales of a straight flush he almost had, twice. The sixty dollars he'd blow on poker was worth it just to have him out of the house.

She debated what dress to wear. She reached for the low cut, red one first but it seemed a little too slutty. She would settle for a nice cotton sun dress with a simple orange and yellow floral pattern.

"Best not to look too eager," she thought, "after all, it is only going to be Randy's third time being here and I've got to take this slow. Randy and I go way back, but Randy is a good guy. He doesn't want to tread on Roy's toes. Roy and I have been married a long time, but I've just got to know. I've got to know what it could have been like with Randy. What I may have missed? I just need to see what could have been once, just this once." She checked her lipstick and patted off the excess with a tissue.

She checked that the Chinese take out was warm in the oven and methodically loosened a couple of light bulbs around the living room. She turn on the switch to check the effect but found it a little dark. She lit a couple of candles on the mantle and pushed the remote for the gas fireplace and the room was instantly cozy. Much like the junior high dance where she had met Randy the first time. He was tall for his age and kind of stood off to the side but there was no missing his rugged good looks. Dark, wavy hair that fell down over hazel eyes, no matter how hard he tried to brush it back. He had a wide grin on a chiseled jaw and all the girls wanted to dance with him, but he didn't dance. None of the girls could get up the nerve to ask him out on the floor but Vanessa took a sip of her punch and marched right up to him. "Come on," she shouted over the blaring music, "they are playing our song!"

"Kung Fu Fighting? That's our song?" he mildly pleaded as she dragged him on to the dance floor. The record began to skip and some one put on a slow song instead. She pulled him close and guided his hand on to her back. He turned and looked her in the eye and never moved his gaze. They moved about the floor as if under a spell. When the song ended, he leaned in and pecked her cheek. He looked at her hard, mumbled a good night and left. She had never forgotten that night.

They dated through high school but when their junior year rolled around, Randy went off to the local trade school to learn diesel mechanics and they never saw each other. They drifted apart and found other people. She found Roy, and Randy moved away shortly after.

Then three months ago, she was shopping for groceries on a Thursday night while Roy went off to his regular poker weekend, and her cart slipped from her hand in the check out line and bumped none other than Randy Miller. The years disappeared and Vanessa couldn't help eyeing the man that Randy had become. They chatted for a few minutes but when Vanessa had trouble lifting a frozen turkey into her cart, he offered to walk her to her car and help her with it. They chatted long after the sacks were tucked into her trunk.

Again, Vanessa made a bold move. "Would you like to stop over for a cup of coffee?" her voice had a certain lilt to it that she wished she could take back. "Sure," Randy smiled, "I'll follow you." They sat and talked until three in the morning. She told him about Roy and the kids. She would have liked to make it sound more glamorous but as she told Randy what she had been up to for all these years, it all sounded so plain and drab.

Randy had done well for himself. He owned a chain of body shops and car washes. He was married for a short time but his wife had died in a thunderstorm when lightening had struck her car. He threw himself into his work after that and prospered, but he wasn't really happy. He did smile a bit when he mentioned that he sponsored three racing teams. He would send her a jacket, he promised. As he headed for his car, he paused at the door to say that it was great to see her and it would be great to do it again sometime.

"How about the fifteenth of next month?" she blurted, knowing it was Roy's poker weekend. "Sure," he nodded. He fumbled for a moment and then shook her hand warmly before driving off into the third best night of Vanessa's life.

The next time they got together, they went out to the movies and spent two hours in the dark snuggling ever closer to the big bucket of buttered popcorn, as well as each other. Neither one payed the movie much attention but often their hands would brush each other as they reached for the next hand full, and the thrill of the touch was enough to excite an unspoken desire that Vanessa didn't know she still had.

They talked about the movie as they drove to her place afterwards. "The last time I was here," Randy said, "I noticed you had a nice turntable. I dropped by my dad's house and picked up two boxes of my old vinyl. Do you mind if we listen to some music?"

"I'd love to! Let me make some coffee."

"Do you have a beer?"

"Foreign or Domestic?"

"Cold is fine," he said as the needle fell into the groove. They played song after song and the evening wore on. After the third beer, Vanessa laid her head on his shoulder and he sat very still. The music played and she could hear his heart beat. When he left, they made plans to listen to the rest of the records next month and he leaned in close. "I enjoy spending time with you Van. I always have. I...goodnight." His welcome lips tasted of butterscotch and the flavor hung with her for days afterwards.

Vanessa dabbed a little perfume on her neck and wrists. This was going to be a night to be remembered.

**Author's Note** When I told Flannery I was going to try to write a romantic story for Flash Fiction Friday she laughed in my face. Not a little giggle or a snicker, but a down deep guffaw that lasted several minutes. With that kind of reassurance, how could I go wrong? While I'm happy with how it turned out, I keep getting this nagging feeling that there is something missing. I thought of including more back story or even a torrid love scene but I don't think I could write that without it sounding like an "adult" movie. I'd love to hear some suggestions.

Doc

The Raffle Ticket, FFF #23

2010-03-06T22:13:00.005-05:00

He had to kick out the back window to escape. There just wasn't anywhere else to go. The fire that Jonah had awoken to was in the midst of burning his house out from under him and the floor shuddered as he lept for the window. The glass parted with a crash and the cool night air was a welcome relief from the smoke filled air that he had been trying to suck in. He filled his lungs as the twelve foot drop landed him in his neighbor's hedge. As he struggled to free himself from the branches, he found that one had pierced his leather jacket and the meat of his collar bone as well. The smell of pine was strong as he extricated himself and he was dizzy from his fall.

"He's over here!" yelled Freebird who waved a switchblade at him. The Walther spat three times and Jonah sent him to the great biker bar in the sky.

His feet thudded like lead across the nieghbor's yard as the flames of his former home lit up the night. He bashed the window of the light blue K car and swung in behind the wheel. Sure enough, the neighbor had left the keys in the ignition. The engine started with a cough as the corpse of Freebird twitched at the edge of the driveway. As he floored the K car, it sputtered down the dead end street and the pistol bullets thudded into the trunk while shattering the back glass. If Jonah could have picked a getaway car, this wouldn't have been it. The engine whined like a sewing machine pushed to it's limit as he turned on the freeway and headed south. It shimmied and shook like a virgin on her wedding night.

"Why, oh why did I buy that raffle ticket at the state fair?" he wondered. The local Cancer Society had accepted the gift of a gold plated 750 cc 1942 Harley Davidson XA from an anonymous donor. Odds were on Mr. Longaberger, the basket king, but no one would fess up. It was displayed with much fanfare in the dairy barn and armed guards surrounded it night and day. The ticket had set him back five dollars and he waited in line for a half hour. He didn't have any great expectations of winning as the line had stretched for a half mile, but the gleam of that golden bike had inspired dreams that he didn't know he had. He pictured himself on some long, flat highway out west. The wind whipping by and pulling at him as he sped to California to see his ex-wife Mariah. As the smile spred across his face the rear view mirror splintered and showered glass into his lap.

He looked behind him to see a long trail of motorcycle headlights that were rapidly advancing. The passenger seat was full of drive through bags and Jonah wadded up some paper napkins in his shoulder wound to staunch the blood and took the first exit he came to. The single head lights pulled ever closer and the sound of bullets striking his trunk came more frequently now. The blue sign for the State Highway Patrol station was a welcome sight. The tires squeeled as he pulled into the parking lot and came to an abrupt stop by the cruisers. The sodium lights hummed loudly as he ran for the door. Bullets skipped off the blacktop with a whine.

Sgt. Barber looked up with surprise as Jonah burst through the door and took cover behind the counter. The hail of bullets that followed was even more unexpected than snow in July. Sgt. Barber managed to mutter, "What the..." before sinking to the floor with most of his throat missing. He motioned for something to write with and some paper as he clutched his spurting throat. He managed to scribble, "I love you Barb," before his eyes rolled back in his head. Jonah pulled the 9mm from Sgt. Barber's holster. The radio had taken the worst of the gunfire and squelched a high pitched whine until one more stray bullet finished it's complaint.

The bullets continued to thud into the counter as Jonah lifted the keys from the rapidly cooling Sgt. Barber and made his way down the back hallway until he came to a door marked armory. As the key made it's familiar "snick" sound in the lock, the roar of Harleys broke through the missing front windows of the police station.

The shells seemed to leap from the box and into the stainless steel pump shotgun as Jonah watched the doorway. He should have taken the offer from the lawyer that called him two days after the fair. He hinted at fifty thousand dollars for the bike but had done it in such a way that suggested that there could be more if Jonah wanted to haggle. Like a fool, he told him to piss up a rope as his mind was full of dreams of riding the open highway on a vintage Harley with the wind blowing through his hair. He smiled at his idiocy as he leaned around the corner in time to cut an unwashed biker in half with a blast of buckshot.

He ducked back around the corner and listened for footsteps as his ears rang. Above the din, a man called out to him. "Jonah, it doesn't have to be this way. We just want the ticket. You give us that and everyone goes away happy. You go home and raise your daughter and never hear from us again. You don't give us that ticket and you die gagging in a pool of blood in a Highway Patrol station and yer kid becomes an orphan. So what do you say? You want to play ball or die here? It's up to you."

The air is suddenly filled with the smell of gasoline and the familiar sound of flint being scratched on a Zippo lighter.

"You bastards are barking up the wrong tree. The ticket went up in flames when you burnt down my house. You are welcome to sift through the ashes and look for it in my cookie jar but I'm willing to bet that it wasn't enough to save the ticket. That bike is going to go to the second runner-up unless you act fast. His name is Mr. Randal Smythe of Parma Ohio. If you move fast, you can catch him before he leaves for work at seven. It's only an hour ride away." The sound of shuffling feet was soon followed by the murmur of fifty bikes starting and the squal of tires hitting the freeway.

Jonah held the shotgun in sweaty hands as he edged towards the front of the building to find a parking lot without a single bike or biker in it. The cruiser that fitted Sgt. Barber's keys had a full tank of gas and Jonah blew every light with the sirens going full blast.

Lucy was surprised to see her dad roll up in a cop car and be driving it. She gathered up her blanket and her stuffed frog, Mr. Pips, and climbed in without a word. Her aunt waved from the porch and shook her head. On the high speed run to Columbus, she dozed off despite the sirens. Jonah woke her up when they were parked in front of the jail. The walk in the morning air to the Waffle House two blocks away was enough to rouse her appitite and she ordered a double stack of pancakes.

The waitress looked twice at Jonah when he asked for extra napkins with his coffee and eggs. He kept tucking napkins under his jacket to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder. They left a good tip and slipped out while she was making more coffee.

Two weeks later, she noticed on Ebay the sale of a gold plated Harley and for some reason thought of the wounded biker and his cute four year old little girl. She shook her head, "Only someone with more money than good sense would buy this piece of shit." Despite her feelings, she followed the auction and saw it sold for six hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

"I hope it does somebody good," she wished when the auction closed.

Doc

A Little Something For Randal -or- Glaucus Revisited

2010-03-04T00:37:00.004-05:00

I'm not sure at what point in my life I decided that I was okay with making an ass of myself, but I am fairly certain that it was early on. Here is a fine example. My buddy, Franklinton, has often stated that while my stories are wonderful, they really lack the punch if I don't read them myself. So I have reproduced one on video. As I knotted a bed sheet and slung it over my shoulder to settle in in front of the camera, Flannery laughed. "What?" I objected. "It's just funny how far you will go for your art," she snickered.

I was a little hurt, but after some thought, I realized she was right. I was going out of my way to make my little tale funny and if that involved wearing a bed sheet, so be it. I tried to straighten my hat hair and made sure that my nipples didn't show, and then moved blithely on.

Without further ado, here is The Singular Tale Of Glaucus, in two parts:

Doc

Palpable Tension, FFF #22

2010-03-02T10:50:00.001-05:00

Explosives expert Dickie Hume wiped the sweat from his brow as the tension was palpable. It was so palpable that you could have cut it with a knife, and he would have if he was able to hold his shaky hands still long enough.

The bomb in front of him ticked away with a contented sound much like Grandma's clock, and it seemed to seethe contentment in the fact that it's job would soon be done with a spectacular finish. The rest of the crew had moved to the back of the submarine and huddled in the engine room anxiously awaiting the call that would tell them that they wouldn't be blown to smithereens at eight hundred feet below sub-zero water.

Dickie leaned against a torpedo and tried to calm his jangled nerves but was instantly reminded that he had sprained that elbow playing tennis with the Murphy twins before the sub left port. "God I wish I had a drink right now," Dickie thought to himself as he looked over the wiring that resembled a D.C. street map, "and why on earth did I drink so much coffee today?" He took a deep breath and felt his asthma coming on. He fumbled for a cigarette in hopes that this would steady his hand and on the eleventh strike of his lighter, he lit it and took a puff. "Egad! This is a menthol!" he realised and tossed it aside in disgust.

It landed in a pile of oily rags that immediately put it to good use. The fire was enough to better illuminate the bomb wiring but in no way lessened the tension. Dickie looked up at the frightened albino ensign that had been assigned to him for the purpose of disarming the bomb and casually said, "Do you mind putting that out? I've got to look this over for a few seconds." Ensign Whitey's eyes bulged a little farther before he started to try and smother the fire with his sweat filled shirt. He found it to be inadequate and started to bail water from the rapidly rising pool on the floor.

Dickie got down on his knees to examine the bomb closer as it's ticking became ever louder, and his leg was seized with a cramp. He tried to straighten up but his bad back kicked in and reminded him that he should never help his friends move a piano, despite what generous swingers they were.

He fished around in the rising water for a moment looking for his flashlight. Without meaning to, he shoved his paper-cut fingers into a large glass of lemon juice. The sting was enough to remind him that he was still alive and that he had a job to do.

His will was iron and his resolve was steel but his nerves were spaghetti in a blender, but that was a problem that needed to be resolved later. He picked up the wire cutters and held them limply in his right hand that had gone to sleep after sitting on it for so long. Dickie Hume stared into the mass of wires until he knew he had found his culprits. It all depended on the red and green wires. Much like Christmas, it only had two colors.

"Ensign?"

"Yes sir?" Whitey said as he waved the flames away from the torpedoes with his wet shirt.

"I'm colorblind. How about you?" Dickie asked.

"Me too sir. Why?"

"We don't have time for that! Pick a wire!"

Whitey shook like a manic disco dancer and pointed in the vague direction of the bomb. Dickie's right hand wouldn't answer the call of duty, so with clumsy, shaking fingers, his left hand grasped the wire cutters.

"That's a pipe wrench," screamed the panicked Whitey.

Dickie struggled for his glasses before smirking at the young man. He needn't have bothered, as the fire had spread to the leaking fuel and Ensign Whitey didn't notice his smirk as he was too busy trying to put out the flames with his wet shirt again.

"Alright," Dickie thought, "I'll just cut a wire. If it's the right one, I'm a hero. If it's the wrong one, I won't have to worry long." Dickie's stomach rumbled and he was filled with the urge to defecate. "I gotta start eating more organic food," he thought.

The bomb ticked ever closer to it's end and Dickie shoved the wire clippers into it and frantically started cutting. The final seconds ticked, four, three, two, one...nothing. The bomb sputtered a small puff of smoke in frustration and died.

Dickie stood and tossed the wire cutters into the rising water and strolled away to tell the crew that they were safe, as well as spend some quality time in the can with a tall martini. As he headed for the door, he turned to Ensign Whitey, "When you are all finished cleaning up down here, swing by my cabin. I need you to put some cream on the boil on my butt. Don't worry, it's non-corrosive," and he ambled away.

Doc

***Author's Note*** Like most of my ideas, this story grew from my beautiful muse, Flannery. The woman has stood by me when anyone one else would have chucked me into a ditch and called it a job well done. Thank you darlin'. You mean the world to me!

Wrestling Demons

2010-02-24T20:54:00.001-05:00

Sorry I haven't been about much. I'm just wrestling a few personal demons. See you in a few.

Doc

The School Of Love

2010-02-03T15:27:00.007-05:00

***Oct. 10, 2011. Breckenridge Community College, Oh.
Transcript of Professor Hazel Pethig's class of Oct. 4, 2011 by students: North, Blankenship, & Cosgrove. Some sections of the tape were damaged by fire. All video was lost but most of the audio survives. For review by B.C.C. Board of Directors for compliance to State Mandated Guidelines. Transcript follows.***

Welcome back to the seventh edition of our School Of Love. If you would please pass your homework forward on the smells that will attract a potential mate from last session, we can begin the part of the lesson that you have all been waiting for. Mr. North will be around to collect them from the front of the rows and I'm certain will provide me with more than a little bit of titillation later. I see that once again Mr. Cosgrove has gone well beyond the scope of the assignment and provided film with the documentation of his experiments. You sir, seem to be gunning for my job. (class laughs) I will have to keep an eye on you. Alright, all the papers are in? Good. Let's begin.

Until this time the entire series has been devoted to finding someone that will mate with you for the purposes of producing offspring that will then be supported by both parents. They will replenish the population as well as be a vessel for your values and beliefs. This is a time honored tradition and is surrounded with many rituals, conventions, and common pitfalls. These have been covered in previous chapters. After the successful completion of your final on Wednesday, you will all be licensed potential parents. No, no, don't be shy about the applause. You have earned it. Not just everyone makes it this far in the course. You deserve a hand! (lots of clapping)

Yes, yes, now back to the lesson. There are some of you who have been patiently waiting for this day more than any other in the class. Even more so than when you receive your diploma in Mating Studies. You want to learn how to attract not a mate but a sex partner for one or more encounters that isn't driven by the need to reproduce. In short, how do I find and make someone want to shag me?

Now state law prohibits me from laying out a definitive course guide that will achieve this result, but I do have several suggestions that the state does not object to, as well as an extensive reading list that will more than complete your self education on this matter provided you are motivated enough to complete the self study program. With that in mind, let's begin.

We already know that the first thing that we need to do is find someone else to have sex with that meets our criteria according to our already Established Hierarchy of Needs form that we filled out at the beginning of the course. The criteria remain much the same regardless of the need to reproduce or to just simply "get our rocks off". I would encourage you to take out your Established Hierarchy of Needs form and look it over. Now that you are seven weeks into the course and have learned what we have covered so far, are there any answers that you would change? Has your criteria been altered by what you now know? Reread the eleven simple questions and change your answers now. Those who do not wish to change their answers may view the vintage turn of the century pornography that is playing on the monitor behind me. Pardon me, I need some coffee.

(four minutes and thirty-two seconds elapse before class resumes)

Alright, eyes up front please. We have established that we are no longer looking for a mate to reproduce with and are instead looking for a partner for casual sex and the opportunity to release our sex cells for the reasons of pleasure-slash-relief alone. We have reviewed our H.O.N. forms and adjusted our answers accordingly. Now what would be the next step? Anyone? Yes, Mr. Cosgrove?

(at this point the audio becomes sketchy in places and is presented as is)

-orny bastard Mr. Cosgrove! You really are looking to put me out of work! (class laughs) Yes it is important to find someone with the correct gender of your preference according to your H.O.N. but that was not what I was looking for. That was assumed. Anyone? Yes Ms. Blankenship? (garbled audio)

Yes, hygiene and grooming are important as few people actively seek out disheveled and smelly partners, but here again, that is assumed. No, the answer I was looking for was the location where your chances are higher of finding a partner. Parties, singles bars, and the like, as we all know that the presence of alcohol does somewhat shift the odds in your favor. You might also consider some of the clubs or organizations that you are already a member of, as it will help establish the bond that we discussed in chapter two.

Now before seeking out your partner, there are some preparations that need to be done. Birth control must be on hand for one. Also, you need to prepare the place you are going to have this glorious sex. While some partners will be content with the back seat of a car, the bathroom of the bar you are in, or even outside in whatever bushes you can find, most potential partners will prefer a private and comfortable place to do "the nasty" as Mr. Cosgrove put it in our last session. A bedroom is the most ideal place as it provides both comfort and privacy. The bedroom can be made more conducive to seducing one's partner with candles, incense, potpourri, fragrances, and a roaring fire in the fireplace helps as well. Studies have shown that an open flame seems to trigger some primal urge in the reptilian part of the brain that encourages sexual activity. Should a bedroom not be available for your tryst, sometimes you just have to make do with what you have, but it is always good to know what is most likely to bring about the desired result and shoot for it. Now- (fire alarm sounds in background)

Well the fire drill is going to cut our class short this week, but read Michealson chapters nine and ten for next time. Mr. Cosgrove, would you see me after class please? I'd like to go over your extra credit...in my office...alone...(tape ends)

Doc

Snake Oil Bites, FFF #19

2010-02-01T15:16:00.011-05:00

As far as Jack was concerned, even a field of four-leaf clovers couldn’t turn things around. He was convinced that because he was born in a leap year, that he was under a secret thirteenth Zodiac sign and its symbol was a giant screw. If he had done as the old Indian had asked, perhaps the Cutler Comedy Company would have survived.

Jack had assembled the very best talent he could find for his traveling troupe and for this reason alone his "Kickipoo Elixir" outsold every other huckster. There was Myra, the four-hundred pound bearded lady who could sing with the voice of angels on high, Big Jacob, the midget who plucked the banjo, the Professor, who would recite long passages of Shakespeare and flowery poetry that the ladies seemed to like so well, and Joe Keaton, the knock-about comedian with his signature "hitch kick". With these four, there wasn't a crossroads town that couldn't be fleeced in three shows, or four if they arrived on a Sunday.

Jack prided himself on his ability to spot a mark and knew how to gear the show to his audience. A religious community got the regular show with lots of psalm singing and Bible passages about loving thy neighbor and the evils of greed. The elixir was to ease the pains of their frail, earthly bodies so that they could better concentrate on the scriptures and therefore become closer to God. Farm towns got the "pride of the working man" routine with little tins of salve handed out with every bottle. Now a mining camp or the Saturday night saloon crowd was a completely different show. Jack had a bevy of dirty jokes that he told in between acts as well as a selection of smutty postcards that he sold five for a nickel. With these rough and ready crowds, he promised that his "Kickipoo Elixir" would relieve hangovers, remove warts, and "put the lead back in yer pencil" Jack would say with a wink. This always got a big laugh.

Yeah, Jack had it made and the money was rolling in. That is until he met that old Indian at the side of the road.

They were traveling west to Piqua Junction on a lonely stretch of road when they came upon this old Indian who had been hurt when his weathered nag overturned his wagon on him and pinned him beneath it. Jack heard his mournful cries on the wind long before they found him in the ditch. He didn't really want to stop as they were running behind after the encore performance they had given at the Perkinsville mine the day before, but the miner's were free with their money and what snake oil salesman could pass that up, but Myra with her soft heart insisted that they lend a hand.

It took the combined power of the five of them to lift the wagon off the old man. He laid in agony and muttered his Indian gibberish while the Professor examined him. "He's got a crushed pelvis," the Professor explained, "They ain't nothin' we can do fer him. Even if we had a doctor here now, I'm certain he has got internal bleeding and wouldn't last out the hour. If we try and move him, it will only kill him faster." The Professor took off his stovepipe hat and dabbed the sweat from his brow. "Sweet Jesus," Myra gasped and held her hand to her ample bosom.

"Damn it," Jack muttered, "we have got to get going if we are going to make it to Pigua Junction in time for the show. I already wired ahead and had the handbills printed up saying the show was tonight. If we don't make it there in time, we are going to look like a bunch of damned hayseed fools and the locals will be throwin' their money in the collection plate on Sunday. Damn it!" Jack swore again as he paced back and forth, trying to decided what to do. Big Jacob looked up at him with his eyes rimmed with tears and he clasped Myra's hand. Joe Keaton rummaged around in his gear and pulled out a whiskey bottle that he handed to the Professor who moistened the lips of the dying man.

"Alright," Jack sighed, "Professor, you see if you can make him comfortable and get him to tell you if he has any kin we need to write to. Joe, you and Jacob see to the horses. I'll look through his kit and see if I can find a letter or something that will tell us where he's from." Jack headed for the pile of belongings that had spilled from the wagon. "What about me Jack? What should I do?" Myra asked in a half choked sob.

"Well, from the looks of him Myra, I suggest you start prayin', cause he ain't got that long." Myra struggled to lower her huge frame to her knees and folded her hands in quiet supplication.

Jack found a worn out carpetbag in among the blankets and rooted through it. He found five Double Eagle $20 coins, some turquoise gems, and an Indian totem with a grotesque face trimmed with beads and feathers. The coins and gems made a comfortable lump in his vest and he tucked the totem in his coat pocket with the intent of selling it to some rube for a few bucks.

"He's gone," the Professor said in a firm voice. The horses neighed and pawed at the earth. Myra sobbed while Jacob bowed his head and muttered a quiet,"Amen". Joe Keaton shook his head and rolled a cigarette. "He didn't mention any family," the Professor continued as he slid the old man's leathery eyelids down, "He said he wanted to be buried here, facing east, and there was some beaded stick he wanted buried with him. Did you find some kind of beaded stick Jack?"

"No," he lied, "Alright everybody back in the wagon. We're burnin' daylight."

"Ain't we going to bury him?" Myra asked.

"This ground is harder than granite and you couldn't cut it with an axe. It would take three days of hard labor to make a hole and we ain't got that kinda time. There ain't enough rocks for five miles to cover him with and that would take longer than diggin' the grave. Naw, we cover him with a blanket and let Nature take it's course."

They grudgingly climbed back into the wagon with the exception of Joe Keaton. "C'mon Joe," Jack called. "I'm stayin'," he said. "But Joe, you can't do anything fer-" Jack started.

"Jack Cutler, you are one flinty-hearted son of a bitch. Leave me some water, food, and a spade. I'll bury him and catch up to you in Piqua Junction in a day or two," Joe said.

"Well if you feel that strongly about it," Jack handed down a canteen, a shovel and Joe Keaton's bag.

"And Jack," his voice took on a knife edged tone, "I'll take my pay. I might be needing some money for expenses along the way." Jack gave him four dollars and whipped the horses into a trot. From the back of the wagon, Myra waved.

They had gone about ten miles when one of the horses threw a shoe. Myra had complained the whole way that they should have stayed. Big Jacob just nodded while the Professor brooded in silence. Jack pulled the wagon up to an abandoned mud hut and examined the horse's hoof with dismay. It was getting dark and Jack knew as well as the rest of them that they weren't going to make it to Piqua Junction tonight. He had them unload the wagon and start making camp. Myra just stood and stared down the road with her hands on her wide hips with her lips pressed together in a frown.

"I'ma goin' back," she announced to whomever was listening, "I'm goin' back to help Joe and then I'm going on to Perkinsville. One of them miners asked me to marry him and I think I'm going to take him up on it. Don't say one word to me Jackie boy. Muh mind's made up." With that, she grabbed her bag and parasol and waddled off into the fading light. "Best of luck," Big Jacob called out to her with a note of sadness.

"Never mind her," Jack said, "That fat ol' sow is just going to go have a few sweaty nights in the arms of some fool miner. He'll get tired of her in a few days and break her heart. We'll just pick her up on our way back through." Big Jacob nodded and the Professor grunted. "Jake, there is a well out back. Draw up some water, build a fire and put the coffee on. The Professor and I are going to see if the hut is worth stayin' in." Big Jacob took down the bucket and rope and headed off.

The lantern sputtered and was slow to come to life. It's feeble glow wasn't much more than a firefly and did little to reveal much of the darkened interior of the hut. "I'm glad we have this moment alone Jack, as I need a private word with you," said the Professor. "Shoot," Jack said as he held the lantern up.

"First, I'd hope that if I was to meet my end along the trail, you would show me a bit more consideration than you did for our red skinned friend." Jack started to explain but the Professor silenced him. "Secondly, you and I both know that there is $100 in gold coins in your vest pocket that belong to the troupe. I alone saw you. After all, we played to an audience of one this afternoon but there is no reason that I shouldn't have a share of the box office." The Professor extended his bony hand palm up, and smiled.

Jack smiled back as shelled out two gold coins, "We will be keeping this to ourselves, right Professor?" The Professor touched the brim of his hat and turned to go. In the dim light, he didn't see the log on the floor and the tall, gangly man flailed as he fell forward. His neck made a sickening crunch as his head struck the wall at an odd angle. He landed miraculously on his back, with his arms across his chest and his hat covering his eyes as if he had stretched out to sleep on the dirt floor. One last breath gurgled in his throat and then he laid still.

Jack decided to tell Big Jacob that the old man was going to sleep in here tonight while they slept outside. They could conveniently find him dead in the morning. Things will just be simpler that way he reasoned as he headed back out into the dark, but not before he pried the two Double Eagles from the dead man's sweaty hand.

"Coffee's ready," Big Jacob said as Jack settled down by the fire. He poured a cup for the both of them and set the pot at the edge of the fire. Jack told him the Professor had had a big day and had already gone to bed. Jacob nodded and sipped his coffee. "I miss Myra," the little man said as he gazed into the flames.

"I miss her too Jake. I don't miss her whining, but I do miss her coffee. Damn Jacob, this is terrible."

"The water was a little murky. Sorry." he mumbled. A coyote howled in the distance. Jack looked out into the dark and asked Jacob to put some more wood on the fire. Jacob picked up a few boards that were laying next to him on the ground and piled them on.

"What have you got there Jacob? It looks like there is some writin' on those boards."

"It was a sign next to the well. I couldn't find any other wood handy so I busted it up."

"What did it say?"

"That's kinda queer now that you mention it," Jacob said as he gulped his coffee, "The sign said posin'. Now who would pose by a well?"

"Posing?"

"Yeah," Jacob poured himself another cup and took a swig, "You know, P-O-I-S-I-N. Like posin' fer a picture."

Jack dropped his hot coffee as if he were holding a serpent. "You ignorant jackass! That's-" he didn't get any further as Big Jacob's body began to thrash and claw at the ground and his eye's bulged like a fish in the bottom of the boat. He contorted into a ball and his tongue lulled to one side of his mouth. He was very still as his sightless gaze fell on Jack.

Jack's stomach clenched and he began to sweat in the cool night air. "I'm alright," he reassured himself, "I only had a sip. Jacob was small and drank two full cups. I'm healthy and strong. Probably just get a bad belly ache." Jack took off his coat and tucked it behind his head for a pillow. His fingers seemed to be losing their feeling as he pulled the lump from his pocket. His vision seemed to blur a little at the edges as he looked on the old Indian's totem.

"Must be a trick of the light," he said, "This afternoon, I could have sworn that this had an angry face. Now it looks like it's smiling."

Doc

Funny Things I've Learned From Blogging

2010-01-25T13:43:00.006-05:00

I was over at Two Minutes In The Box where the always delightful GetkristiLove is celebrating her four year blogiversary. It got me wondering about how long I've been at this myself. A quick search of the archives shows that on April 21 of 2006, I penned my first entry for these glittery virtual pages. As you may have guessed it was about beer. It is rife with spelling and punctuation blunders, and contains very little of the "style" that my writing would later develop, should I ever be accused of having "style". I have however retained the spelling and punctuation errors.

Regardless, I am rapidly approaching my four year anniversary and with eight hundred and eighty-two posts under my belt, I feel like something of a veteran. That being said, I have to ask myself, "Have I learned anything?"

The honest answer is, "Not really", but there are a few things that I've picked up along the way and I'd like to share them so maybe you can dodge a few of the mistakes I've made.

1. If you are going to put up something that isn't work safe, warn your readers.

2. Never describe your genitals, your bowel movements, or your sex life in graphic detail. As interesting as you might find it, people just don't want to know. Also, don't provide pictures of any of the above.

3. It is okay to cuss and swear but use it sparingly or you will come off sounding like an uneducated idiot. Justin Wilson once said that there is no better exclamation point like a good Hell or a Damn, and this is true, but no one wants to read a long series of exclamation marks.

4. Never leave the Caps Lock button on. This is a cardinal no-no.

5. You can run your mouth on any subject you want but don't be surprised when someone leaves you a nasty comment. Unlike life, jerks in Blogdom do occasionally get their come-uppance.

6. You want some one to read your stuff, go read theirs. Simple as that.

7. Trying to post every day can and will burn you out. I've seen it happen. Often times it just shoves the good piece that you wrote yesterday further down the list to be replaced by the piece of fluff that you just threw up today.

8. Most people only read what's on top and don't scroll down. Some do, but not many.

9. If you keep at it, you are going to meet a lot of really cool folks that you wouldn't have any other way. With any luck, you'll make a lot of friends who will back you up when life hands you a sewer sandwich. Blogdom is a community of writers, and writers are a rare breed of animal that come in all sorts of stripes and colors, but share the common thread of the love of language and a big heart.

10. Not every post is going to be pure gold, so cut yourself some slack and others as well. Even Bill Shakespeare had off days where he just wanted to put up a Youtube video of his cat or photos of the meal he ate last night.

11. Most of all, try and make it funny if you can, because we could all use a good laugh.

Other than that, I haven't learned a damn thing. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A CLOSE-UP PHOTO OF MY FUCKIN' GENITALS?

Doc

Hell Bent For Leather, FFF #18

2010-01-22T13:34:00.002-05:00

**Author's Note** This weeks starter sentence was contributed by the much esteemed and right honorable David Barber. My entry for this week was inspired by a comment that David left on my tale of Homer and his young ward, Glaucus, from last week. He suggested that the whole thing could very well have been played out by the cast of Monty Python's Flying Circus. I own the entire set of Monty Python and take every oppurtunity to warp my children with it. So here is to my tribute to Monty Python, Charles Bronson, Mr. M. Crum, and Mr. Barber. May your world be tiled from floor to ceiling!

As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for. My first thought was that I was looking for the missing "E" from my whisky but that would be ridiculous, and this isn't Sesame Street. No, I was engaged in that most loathsome of chores: shopping. The only way I can bring myself to do this is to get a little tight first.

To be honest, I was a little tight after the fourth shot. The other two were just so I could stand the insufferably perky girl at the check out counter. The teeny bopper with too much makeup, ten pounds of plastic neon jewelry, and who punctuates every sentence with an "OMG". Yeah, you know the one.

I went to Walmart, that many-headed hydra of commerce that keeps popping up on the landscape like an open, weeping boil on a vagrant's buttocks. It truly is one stop shopping, and one stop was as much as my rattled nerves could handle. I grabbed a cart so I had something to steady my wobbly, drunken gait and tried very hard not to look anyone in the eye.

I sped from aisle to aisle, grabbing what I would need, all the while dodging fat, toothless mothers and their simpering, snot-nosed ugly kids. The only real delay was at the sporting goods counter where the pock-faced little twit told me that there was a ten day waiting period on purchasing a handgun. "Screw it, give me the Mossberg 500 model with the bullpup stock and two boxes of shells. One with deer slugs and one in buck shot. And be quick about it, I've got shit I've gotta do!" He moved with unaccustomed speed to get rid of me.
I tried to tune out whatever the teeny bopper at the checkout prattled on about while Sir Elton John warbled out something about a "candle in the wind" on the P.A. "Why," I thought to myself, "does every fecking store have to play Elton John in the background? Do they think it will make you lose your senses and buy more crap?" I thought about the help that Walmart had hired and subjected to eight hours a day of Sir Elton and it seemed like maybe I was on to something.

As I loaded the stuff into the back of the Jeep, I went through my mental checklist: shotgun with shells-check, orange marmalade-check, rat traps-check, beef jerky-check, three gallons of lighter fluid-check, road flares-check, three cases of cheap beer-check, one gallon of Spanish olives-check, rat poison-check, Charles Bronson's magnum opus the "Death Wish" movies, the entire series-check, vitamins and pep pills-check, smoke bombs-check, guitar strings-check, deep sea fish hooks-check, scent blocking camo coveralls size Large-check, twelve pack of disposable Bic lighters-check, small canister of liquid hydrogen and sewing needles-check and check. Everything I needed was here.

Say what you want about Walmart, but the wretched little bastards do carry everything, and when you are going to spend the weekend drunk and hunting a rat the size of a Saint Bernard that has holed up in the wainscoting, you need one stop shopping!

Doc

The Singular Adventure Of Glaucus, Flash Fiction Friday #17

2010-01-18T23:00:00.000-05:00

"I am not supposed to remember any of this," thought Glaucus as he closed his eyes to the rush of the cosmos around him and into the sweeping black hole that would spit him out in the middle of a horrible war. He clasped Homer's hand a little tighter and tried to sort out in his mind how the two of them had gotten in this mess to begin with.

They had been on a trip to the town of Sodom because of a speaking engagement that Homer had secured. The Sodom Council of Arts, Theaters, & Orgies had come across with a large sum of gold with promises of more on arrival. Homer just couldn't pass it up. "Besides," he joked, "it will be nice to see some new scenery."

They were on the road to Sodom and they had met several drunken travelers who had just come from the city. They described it as the best good time since Uranus had discovered that that thing was used for something other than to pee with.

Glaucus was tired of hiking the hot, dusty road and wondered to himself how much farther it could be. From around the bend in the road and obscured by cedar trees, he heard a merchant calling out his wares. "Perfume! Wine, wine here! Strong enough to give Bacchus himself a week long hangover! Olive oil! You can cook with it, you can put it in your hair, softens your skin, and works great as a lube! Erotic urns and jugs! Dildos! Get yer dildos here!"

"Well, we've gotta be close now," thought Glaucus.

Homer stopped the slave boy and pulled a few coins from his purse. "Go to the merchant and buy some skins of wine. It would not do for us to show up before the generous council empty handed," he advised. Glaucus brought back the wine, but not before he had took a few swigs, and they continued on towards the city gates. As they approached, Homer leaned in to the boy's ear and whispered, "I want you to keep a careful eye out Glaucus. There are things here that you may never see anywhere else on earth. If you see something interesting, describe it to me in detail as it might make for a good story later," Homer smiled at the thought. "And keep close to me," he warned, "they like cute, little boys here!"

"For servants?" Glaucus asked innocently.

"Of a sort lad. Of a sort," Homer shook his head at the thought and tightened his grip on the boy's hand.

As they stood in line to enter the fabled city, a gust of wind swept across the road, carrying with it a large cloud of dust. They coughed and sputtered, but then it cleared away as quickly as it had come. In it's place was a tall, slim youth wearing nothing but a winged cap and a mischievous smile.

"Scroll-o-gram for Homer! Scroll-o-gram for a Mister Homer!" he called out to the crowd in general, even though he was looking right at them.

Homer raised his staff, "Here young man! Here! I am Homer." The messenger strolled over and handed him a scroll. Homer handed it to Glaucus, "Read it to me boy."

"Forgive me master, but it is all Greek to me," he confessed as he looked at the little squiggles.

"Mayhaps I might be of some help," said the comely messenger as he took the scroll back from the befuddled boy. He unrolled it to it's full length, cleared his throat, and in a lusty voice began, "To the right honorable Homer, poet extraordinaire, your presence is required at the court of Zeus, Father of the Gods, Lord of thunder and lightening, bedder of many maidens, seer of all, etcetera, etcetera...it goes on like this for a bit...Be at the top of Mount Olympus now, or if possible, sooner. Signed, the Big Z."

Homer looked very cross at the young man, or at least in his general direction. "I have no time for this foolishness," he blustered, "I'm to see the council about a job! A well paying job at that!" Homer waved his staff about, "Let me pass you young trickster!" Glaucus restrained him from cracking the svelte messenger in the shins.

"Master!" he cried, "it would not be wise to offend the Gods. You have often told me so yourself. And though you know it not, the man before you has a winged cap and winged feet. Surely this can only be Hermes. Did we not make an offering to him at the temple before our journey to insure our safety? And did we not arrive safe and sound?"

"Oh goat shit," Homer muttered softly as he lowered his head. He turned to Hermes, "Alright Speedy, give me one good reason why I ought to go with you to Mount Olympus and not take the choice gig I've already got lined up inside. And don't give me that 'seas will swallow me whole and fire will rain from the sky' bullshit because I've heard it all before, and from better poets than you!"

Hermes shrugged, "Cause the feckin' place is scheduled for demolition. Some Hebrew god has had it on the 'Wiped Clean' listing for months now. E's jes been waiting on the surveyors to turn in their report as they run into trouble with a bloke named Lot or some such. You know Big Z, he don't cross pantheons. Bad for business. Feck if I know really. I just do what the Big Z sez and 'E sez bring this 'ere note to you and fetch you back. You want to risk yer ride to the Underworld, feck if I'ma gonna stop ya."

Homer knew he had been trumped. "Alright bird-heels, you win. Take us now please." Hermes smiled. He started with a light jog around them and rapidly picked up the pace until he was nothing but a swirl of motion on every side. Soon they found themselves in a funnel of wind that lifted them off the ground and into the sky. Glaucus shook with fear and clung to the old man for dear life. Homer's laughter was swept away by the rush of air.

When Glaucus finally opened his eyes again, they were standing on a shiny marble floor that stretched into craggy mountain tops and was hemmed with clouds and stars. Before them was a great golden throne and lounging on it was a huge bearded man eating figs and scratching his balls absentmindedly.

"Homer! Baby! How the hades are you? You're looking thin. Doesn't this slave know how to feed you? Come in, sit down. We never talk any more." The huge man waved a hand and they were seated.

"Z, you old goat licker! Don't put on the 'Howdy Do' for me, you snake in the grass. What do you want?" Homer sneered. Glaucus lowered his head away from Zeus' gaze.

"Oh Homey! You hurt me baby. You are just harshing me out with all of your negative waves man. You can't just talk to your old friend, exchange a few pleasantries, say hello, how ya doin'? No, you got to lay on those negative waves. Sheesh, I thought we was pals and all..." Zeus put on a mock look of hurt.

"Okay, fine. What have you been up to?" Homer sighed.

Zeus brightened up, "I've been transforming into fowl and cattle to deflower quite a few virgins," he bragged, "I've got at least three immortals on the way, but I think one might be screwed up and turn out to be a Kracken. You know, same old, same old. What about you? You still diggin' your crazy beats?"

"Still up to your cock & bull routine, eh?" Homer chuckled, "Yeah, the kid and I still travel around, tell my little tales for food, drinks, and tips. Sometimes the lady of the house wants to shag a celebrity and I get to sheathe my sword at the expense of the husband. Mostly it's a lot of nights sleeping on the ground."

Glaucus smiled at his master and shucked the goatskin bags from his shoulder. "What have you got there boy?" Zeus asked.

"W-Wine sir," Glaucus stuttered.

"Bring me some. I'm dry," Zeus held out a cup as big as bathtub and waited. Glaucus made haste and poured a full goatskin in. Zeus upended the cup and made a sour face and sparks of lightening shown from the edges of his eyes. "Say what you want about those Sodomites, they do make good wine. Bacchus must have slipped them the recipe."

"So you've had your drink and we are all caught up, what can I do for the Big Z that he can't do for himself?" Homer asked.

"Homey baby, I owe you a favor and-" He began.

"You owe me three," Homer interrupted, "if anybody is keeping count...and I'm not. I'd just like to mention that time in Cyprus, the time in Lesbos, and again in Luxembourg. Unless Pythagoras has got the wrong end of the stick, that's three."

"What I've got lined up for you baby is gonna be worth seven- no, nine favors! You are going to make so much money, you are going to have to hire dudes just to count it for you! And the broads! Jeez! You thought you were pulling in a descent amount of tail now, just wait until you see the action you get once I lay this shit on you! You'll be eating oysters for breakfast just to try and keep up and your cock will be in a splint!"

Homer sighed, "Enough of the soft sell, what's the gig?"

"I need you to write a story for me," Zeus said in a soft voice.

"Bullshit. You know I don't work on commission," Homer leveled his sightless gaze at Zeus, and it convinced Glaucus that he could make the Pharaoh's tax collector run in fright.

"I need you to cover a war for me," Zeus began, "and before you say no, hear me out. This war will send all of Greece into complete chaos. There is no way to avoid it. Many brave, young men will have to die. Now ask yourself, as a Greek patriot, can you let these thousands of men die unsung? Can you let them fill nameless graves in a far off land without a word to send them to the ferryman with?"

Homer sat silent for a long time and thought. "There is no way to avoid the war?"

Zeus shook his head.

"Goat shit," Homer swore, "Alright, I'm in. What's my angle?"

"That's the beauty of this story, it has it all! Passion, romance, action, comedy, drama, tragedy, sex, the works! Shit, there's enough stuff here for a sequel! If you write this, you'll be remembered longer than I will," Zeus gushed.

"Okay, but what starts the war?" Homer probed.

"Love," Zeus said simply.

"Oh that old saw," Homer muttered. "What the fig," he said, "I've been looking for some new material anyway. I'll do it. After all, it's only poets and writers who can save the world. We have left it in the hands of others for too long."

"The boy must remember none of this or he won't be any help to you in telling your tale. Say hello to Odysseus for me!" Zeus snapped his fingers and Glaucus and Homer were in the whirlwind again. "I am not supposed to remember any of this," Glaucus thought again.

Glaucus opened his eyes to a sunny beach with sea birds cawing overhead and Homer leaning over him as he lay flat on the sand.

"I should have told you not to drink the merchant's wine Glaucus, as they spice it with the Lotus flower. Come on, get up. The war is about to start!" Glaucus rose to his feet and wondered how he had gotten here, but his curiosity was even more piqued when he saw thousands of Greek ships in the harbor.

Doc

Brian Alphonzo MacKenney Is Dead

2010-01-12T11:56:00.002-05:00

FFF #16

It was an honest mistake...or it was honestly stupid. Either way, I didn't mean anything by it. I took a well meaning, simple minded country kid and lead him to his untimely demise.

Brian Alphonzo MacKenney was the next big "IT". He had a smile that would melt a million hearts and eyes that would moisten the underwear of both genders. He was as buff as Adonis and would have made Narcissus fall for him. He was in a handful of teen romantic comedies and quickly jumped to this year's hot guy to watch. He held the new record of number of magazine covers in one month by a single celebrity. So when the studio offered me a breakout film, I leaped at the chance to work with the one young man who could guarantee me box office gold.

I met with him at his loft and we had a few beers. I told him that if he did my picture he could make seventeen million on his next one, more than doubling his present net gain. The stupid oaf just shook his head no. "I live pretty good now. What do I need money for?" he said with a bankable smile.

Of all the money grubbers that Hollywood chews up and spits out, I had to run into the first honest guy. I had to try a different tactic. "This will be a stretch for you as an actor," I explained. "You will be breaking your typecasting and opening yourself up to new roles. People will perceive you differently and you will get primo parts in movies with a message. Hell, you could do a new Shakespeare movie!" When it comes to actors, if you can't appeal to their greed, appeal to their ART. Shit, most are more ego than brains, and if you can stoke their fragile ego a bit, they're putty.

"I got plans for the future. I'm...uh...gonna settled down and raise a family. Sarah and I are going to tie the knot a year from now. I'm done doing movies after that. I just want to be a good husband, a good father, and a successful farmer. I'm workin' with several charities now." He shuffled his feet as he said this and I knew I had him.

"Well you want to provide for your wife and future kids right? You want to put your charities in the limelight don't you? Do this film, and you will never have to worry about either one of them. I'll dedicate the film to whatever charity you say." I waited for this to sink in. "So what do you say?" I handed him my gold pen so he could sign and told him to keep it. He could put it in his next celebrity auction.

This was to be my first action film with all the usual gunfights and explosions. It was a far cry from the summer fluff I had been directing up to this point. I got the job because the studio knew I could bring it in on time, and with a little luck, under budget. Oh sure, the script was not going to win any awards. It was a standard issue jungle flick with the hero saving the village from an evil drug kingpin while falling for the hot local girl, but for a few bucks I had a starving writer friend of mine in San Fransisco punch it up and throw in some classic noir moments that would impresses the film critics.

My location staff found me some excellent land in Honduras. Lots of jungle we could blow up as well as a water fall that had to be seen to be believed. I had a cast of thousands from the local populace that I got for peanuts and the only thing lacking on this shoot was the catering. There was not a bagel to be had. The mayor required a kick back but our security budget would be slashed as it would be provided by the army, just in case the local insurgents tried to mess with our movie while on location. A Colonel Something-Or-Other was assigned to my duty with several troops at his disposal. His name was unpronounceable and I just took to calling him Dimples, as a bullet had once punctured his cheek and exited though the other leaving him with a small, pink pucker on both sides. He accepted the nickname with a careless nod, but I don't think he spoke a word of English anyway.

The shoot goes swimmingly. The second unit was a week ahead of schedule and got me some good shots of the train I wanted, as well as some decent "poverty of the people" stuff. You know, squallier and a crying baby and all that. The pace was frantic but we never had to do more than two takes on any scene and the crack team I'd hired on the cheap worked together like a well oiled machine despite the fact that we are living in tents in a rain forrest. The gaffer made some connection with one of the locals and scored some of the best ganja. I don't care what they say, the drugs are just better down here and gaffers always find the best weed.

So I'm up at three every morning, have some blow with my morning coffee, run the staff meeting, on location by six, shoot until eleven, have some fresh fruit for lunch with a little toot, then shoot until six, sometimes eight if the lighting guys can get things set up in time, then dinner and a couple of whiskeys with the rest of the night spent going through the rushes from the day before, a few hours sleep, then up again to start all over. It was a hellish timetable, but everything that could have gone right did. No weather delays, no clashes of ego, no union rule book thrown in my face. It was perfect.

And through it all Brian Alphonzo MacKenney, or BAM as the tabloids and teen mags had dubbed him, was a peach. He always had a smile on his face and the cast and crew loved him for it. He always had a kind word for everyone, right down to the best boy. He was always on time and on target. Never got drunk or whored around with the local girls. Never threw a fit at working late on the night scenes and gave a performance far and above what the hack writer could have envisioned. When he held the crying baby, played by the Mayor's grandson, and swore to get revenge on Don Diablo for what he had done to his village and his parents, there wasn't a dry eye on the set. BAM had pathos out the wazoo.

He spent his evenings in his tent reading his bible but he wasn't above hanging out at night and having a couple of beers with the crew. Daphne, the make up girl, was determined that she was going to have some of him before this thing was over and worked very hard to worm her way into his bed. When she did spend the night in his tent, they spent the evening writing a letter to his dearest Sarah with her suggestions on how the ceremony for BAM's wedding should be. After that, she was overheard to say that BAM was the nicest, most faithful man she had ever met and Sarah didn't deserve this angel. All from a woman who wore her ankles behind her ears for a good parking space in L.A.

Then tragedy struck.

We are down to the shoot out with the villain, Don Diablo. BAM meets him in the street of the village and the two face off. The long tracking shot before hand sets the mood. Now Don Diablo pulls a dirty trick and gets the drop on BAM's character and wounds him in the shoulder. BAM falls to the dusty street and Don Diablo gloats over him with an evil laugh while a baby cries in the background. BAM deliveres this summer's catchiest catch phrase and shoots him in the head. The shot turns slow motion and the gore flys from Diablo's head with some fast-paced Spanish music playing over it. It is a classic clincher and you don't mess with the classics.

The lighting is perfect. The mikes and the explosions are rigged and ready. I'm going to get this shot from six different cameras and splice it together and make "Titanic" look like some cheap student project. With enough return on their investment, the studio might parley this into a three movie deal. If I can get the rights to some Santana music, it might even turn into a franchise like James Bond or Harry Potter. Who knows?

So I'm ready to start the shot. The set is quiet and everybody is on their marks. I settle into my chair with the most amazing Colombian coffee you have ever tasted and am about to yell "Action!" to put a seven hundred-thousand dollar shot in the can when the translator tells me that Dimples has to excuse himself for a moment but he will be right back. Dimples is holding his belly like he has to take a shit when it occurs to me that he is dressed exactly like our villain. I wave him away when David, the props guy, tells me that Monique, the continuity girl, says that Diablo had a different pistol in the previous scene.

Cool. My staff is doing their job and saving me from winding up on the "Big Movie Blunders" website. Cool. I tell David to get the right pistol from the props table and to hurry it up. I'd like to spend tomorrow night in my own hot tub in California sweating out all the South American dirt and drugs while taking calls from studio big whigs who want to line my pockets for years to come. David hustles off and in a minute is buckling on a new pistol belt on the aging Spanish actor we got for next to nothing to play the part.

Okay. We're ready. Action! We get the tracking shot and it looks better than I imagined. The camera has Diablo striking the girl in the face and her falling to her knees in the street with defiant tears at the edge of her eyes. Swivel to hero. Close up of his determined look. Cut back to Diablo taunting him. Second camera focus on BAM's right hand poised above the gun in his belt. Que music. The close ups of each face are done together but are shone one after another in an ever quickening pace. It sets the tempo and heightens the tension. Camera three does a wide angle to capture the roof top assassin in the background before the tight in on BAM leveling his gun and taking fire. Camera four does all of my railing kills and caught this man's plummet with panache. Quick shot of BAM appraising his kill before the switch to camera two as Diablo takes aim and fires.

The squib in BAM's shirt sleeve goes off without a hitch and he tumbles to the dirt street as the drug lab explodes in the background, just like the script. What isn't in the script is the front of his head exploding as a .45 calber hollow point turns Brian Alphonzo MacKenney into a semi headless corpse that flops about a bit before sinking to the street and making a huge puddle of blood no one could explain.

I sat for five whole minutes before it occurred to me to yell cut. I thought he was just trying to hone his craft. The medics were prepared to fight malaria, hang overs, and social diseases but gun shot wounds and brain surgery was a little out of their league.

Brian Alphonzo MacKenny died on a Honduran village street lined with trash, poverty, dust, and explosives that we set off in his honor with all six cameras rolling.

He was a good guy.

I blew my savings from an early shoot on hiring the stunt double at twice his wage and CGIing in the rest of BAM for the final scenes. The audio doesn't quite match up to the lips but most summer audiences won't notice the difference and with any luck, the critics won't either. The press release will say he died defending the crew from insurgents or terrorists even though he croaked from having Dimples put his gun belt down on the props table while he took a crap.

It doesn't matter either way. Should the story leak, the special effects guy is listed as Allan Smithy and everything can be pinned on him. He is the scape goat while I cash in on all of the T-shirt/DVD/novelty ties/bumper stickers I can print with BAM's face on them. With any luck I can market him as this generations James Dean and get royalties for years to come.

The charity I dedicated the film to was the NRA. I think Brian would have wanted it that way.

Do You Know Who Gets Laid A Lot?

2010-01-11T10:32:00.002-05:00

Chinese people.

They must.

There are so many of them.

Doc

Highlights and Low-Lifes, or All That's Right With What's Left. Social Zymurgy; the culture of beer presents The Year's Best!

2010-01-10T15:00:00.001-05:00

"We all know that only poets and writers can save the world. We have left it in the hands of others for too long." - Doc

This is something of a tradition here at Social Zymurgy, the culture of beer. At the beginning of the New Year, we do a brief recap of the best from the previous twelve months. You get the steak without the gristle. The binge without the hangover. The worldwide cruise without all the sea sickness. In short, I've cut the fluff and kept the good stuff. This will be a series for the next week so that I can catch up on your blog. Enjoy!

Ideas for blog writers who can't think of any:

"For Those Engaged In National Blog Posting Month"

Tales of caution:

A story from my sordid young adulthood: "The Night I Took Up Flying"

A purely visual joke which I don't do very often: "When I die, I would like to die peacefully, in my sleep like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers."

Have you ever had a few beers and done something silly? "The Flare Gun"

It is only a matter of time: "Why The Aliens Would Want To Kidnap Me And What Should Be Done When This Happens"

This too is simply a matter of time: "My Living Will or What To Do When The Coma Comes"

Helpful advice for when the excrement hits the turbine: "The Five Things You Didn't Know You Needed In A Disaster"

Thanks for joining me on a trip down amnesia lane. Swing by tomorrow for more tales from your favorite dumb white country boy!

Cheers,
Doc

Winter Wonderland

2010-01-09T06:50:00.004-05:00

"Now the ground is white
Go it while you're young,
Take the girls tonight
and sing this sleighing song!" - Jingle Bells.

Winter wonderland my ass! I look out my window and see some nightmarish Gary Busey cocaine fantasy with a foot and a half of the white stuff covering everything. I've been away from the computer mostly because I've been working quite a bit but that's all about to change.

I missed last week's Flash Fiction Friday for the first time. I'd like to tell you I had a damn good excuse but I just plain old forgot.

Here at the Lodge, we are gearing up for Ground Hog's Day and playing with all the cool swag we got for Christmas. I made a few New Year's resolutions but I have been treating them more like guidelines with lots of loop holes. I find them much easier to keep that way.

I'll put up a new post on Sunday with lots of sex, beer, and general silliness. Until then, I gotta run. I haven't read any of your stuff for a week or two and I just know you've been up to your old hi jinks!

Doc

LAST THINGS LAST HEARD BEFORE 2009 PASSED AWAY...

2010-01-01T00:26:00.004-05:00

"Well, the world is full of people walking around with a notepad and a pencil looking to be offended at something," quoth Doc.

"How old are these nuts?" asked Cap'n Ergo

"The word is 'fresh.' Is your choice 'Ghandi,' 'Norman Rockwell' and 'barfing.'" said Spooky.

"Goodnight, Hookers!!" Sprach Flannery

Post-Holiday Snafu Speech Writer

2009-12-31T01:01:00.006-05:00

I had a wonderful Christmas and got underwear and toys. I can only hope that yours was as good. I loafed with Flannery and the girls for a few days afterwards, playing games and munching on leftovers. It was nice. We got a white post-Christmas and built a fire. These were the days that stand out when your life chooses to flit past your eyes in some pre-death experience that only plays in fast-forward.

Regardless, I spent this evening doing something I have never done before. I sat and wrote a speech to be delivered by a buddy of mine before a judge on Monday, and had a few beers as I penned it. I've drank beer and penned speeches for judges before, but I've never done it for a friend. It was always my speech, my judge, and my court date, not someone else's.

You see, I have very few of what most of the world would consider "viable skills". Apparently writing happens to be one of them as my friends seek me out when they want something committed to paper. I have been consulted on job proposals, wedding vows, wills, and contracts. My written opinion has been sought on such weighty philosophical matters as love, peace, and cocktail hours.

I try and approach each new challenge with as much aplomb as I can muster, which isn't really saying much as my "aplomb bob" seems to waiver at times. My peers think of me as something of a man of letters and while I've mastered twenty-three of twenty-six, I still tend to throw in too many Q's, U's, and E's if for no other reason than to make it look French and therefore acceptable to polite society. They tell me I've a gift for words but most are of the four letter variety and I politely ask to be excused.

Not tonight.

My buddy ran afoul of the law and he is in real trouble. He stands to have a large rock around his neck for quite some time. He is my buddy and I want to help him but my legal advice wouldn't fill a thimble. What can I do? Tell him that he will enjoy wearing striped clothing as it will make him look slimmer? Console him with the fact that he will get to enjoy someone else's cooking for a change? Should I explain that dropping the soap in the shower is a great way to make new friends?

No. I have to write a speech like the one that kept several Congressmen out of the pokey for breaking the law. They had power and money and influence and the best speech writer's that this generation could disgorge. My poor buddy is stuck with me because I'll do it for a large plate of ham and eggs.

All I can say is, I hope it helps. He deserves a break, and while I know that Providence rarely gives them to those who need them, I hope his turns up.

And while we are on the subject of breaks, I hope someone with power, influence, and money reads this and are hiring. All I ask is to work from home on my own hours, and a killer spell-check program, as I can't spell sheet.

Doc