The Girl From Kansas City

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong." Fritz propped his feet up on the table and eyed the coal on his cigar, "A man's thoughts turn to love at about nine-thirty."

Javier nodded, took a sip of his tequila, and returned to the task of cleaning his rifle.

Fritz adjusted his feet and let his spurs dig into the wood of the table before he continued, "At nine-thirty, he has had his dinner and has had a couple of drinks. That is when he is ready for love. Hell, at that point, he is ready for anything!"

Fritz chuckles at his own joke and pulls out his pocket watch and examines it closely through blood-shot eyes. It is an hour until his appointment, so he closes the lid and continues to wax philosophical on man.

"About nine-thirty a man develops an itch like none other. Sure, it is a little stronger in the spring, but any man that would deny that the cold nights of winter don't make it enter his mind is a liar! On a cold night, nothing beats a warm woman!"

Javier looked up from his dirty ramrod and nodded his assent.

Fritz took a puff of his cigar and eyed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Javier had most of his bottle of tequila left, but cactus juice would only slow him down tonight. It would make him stupid and slow. No, the whiskey would keep him on edge and ready for whatever would happen next. It always had. Fritz upended the bottle and let the burn settle into his stomach. The burn would keep him safe and warm, while giving him the strength to carry on and be loose, without being stupid.

"I knew a girl in Kansas City that would make your eyes roll back in your head! Not you in particular, as she wouldn't hump Mexicans, but you know what I mean. Now that girl knew how to get rowdy! She'd cut loose and holler 'n yell. She had this little shimmy thing that she'd do..." His eyes glazed over as he recollected, and his spurs dug the gouge into the table a little deeper.

Javier nodded as he filled his rifle with as many shells as it would hold, worked the lever, chambered a shell, and took a bead at a point on the wall. Satisfied, he laid the rifle on the table.

"She would do things that would make you cry 'uncle' and a little more," Fritz said a little wistfully. He sat a little deeper into his chair and blew a large plume of smoke at the roof of the cabin. "What about you Javier? You ever been in love?"

"There was a girl once." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yeah, and what happened?"

"She died."

"I..I'm sorry to hear that," Fritz muttered.

"The neighbor woman thought her husband was cheating on her with my Naomi and she slit her throat. She didn't know it was Naomi's mother. She died in the street," he said matter-of-factly, then Javier bowed his head for a moment, adjusted his hat, and then finished his drink. He looked Fritz in the eye. "But they paid. They paid dearly." He smiled. "Tell me again, who we got for an inside man?"

"My brother Cormac. He's bringin' his new bride. Some girl he met in Kansas City I guess. His letter wasn't too specific. It was mostly about the job."

"I'm ready," Javier said flatly, "When do we meet 'em?"

"9:30," Fritz checked that his hammer was on an empty chamber in his pistol, dropped his feet to the floor and paused before he got up. "Do you mind if I have a sip of your tequila?" Javier slid the bottle to him. "I just need one more nip to calm my nerves," Fritz explained, and against his better judgement, tipped the bottle back and choked down three long gulps.

"Come on," he said as hie wiped his chin, "that stagecoach ain't gonna rob itself," and they headed to the horses.

Doc

It's Not Just Cold & Flu Season...

**Editor's Note** It's time for another Flash Fiction Friday entry, and I promise to keep it short.

"Come with me if you want to give these test results a gander Mr. Ford. Let's just step into my office," said Dr. Dunbar to Cletus, "I think you will be surprised!"

The nurse called to the Doctor, "Hey Doc, do you mind if I cut out early? I've got to-uh," she looked worried and thought for a second, "I've got to go visit my sick grandma!"

"Sure," Doc said with a knowing smile, "You go on and I'll lock up." Cletus noticed that she had her red coat and purse in her hands in a hurry, and hustled for the door like someone who really needed to go to the bathroom or cash a check. "Sit down Mr. Ford," said Doc as he waived him to a stool.

"Mr. Ford was my papa's name Doctor Dunbar. You can jus' call me Cletus," he said as he took off his hat.

"Well Cletus, I've got your blood test back from the lab and I've figured out what's wrong with you, but I still need to ask you a few questions first."

"Shoot."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a logger. Got my own company and we are really startin' to take off."

"Have you been around a feral dog recently?"

"My old lady has a poodle. Is that what this is about? I got allergies?"

"No Cletus. A wild dog, or a wolf perhaps?" Doc pressed.

Cletus scratched his chin and thought for several minutes. "Other than Mitzy, I can't think of... Hey! Wait! Last fall, I was out at the Tucker place cuttin' up a big ol' walnut tree on their back lot when this huge hound jumped out and bit my hand! I chased him off with the chainsaw! He took a good chunk out of me, but nuthin' like the chunk I took outta him!" Cletus thought for a second longer, "Are you tellin' me I got rabies Doc?"

"No, no," Doc chuckled, "nothing of the sort." He looked at the file as he lit his Lucky Strike, took a puff and then continued, "No, what you have is called lycanthropy. It is an uncommon, but treatable disease."

"Lycanthropy? Whut's that?" Cletus said with lowered eyebrows.

"Ever hear of a werewolf?"

"Well sure, but you mean tuh tell me I'm gonna start to howl at the moon like thet dude in thet 'An American Werewolf In Dublin' flick? I thought that this was jus' some weird skin disease I had, what with the hair and the night sweats and the sleep walkin' an' all. Are your sure you're readin' that paper right Doc?"

Doc rested his elbows on his knees and looked Cletus in the eye, "Mr. Ford...Cletus. I know that this is a little much to hear from your small town family doctor, but unless you start treatment soon, you're are going to become a full-blown werewolf. If you ignore the condition long enough, you will develop what's called a blood lust and you will be driven to kill. Sure, it starts out with stray cats, but you eventually kill those closest to you shortly after that. It is a proven fact that 78% of those who go without treatment start slaying in the second year." Doc flicked the long ash from his cigarette. "So tell me Cletus, do you want treatment or do you want to be a statistic?"

Cletus looked at his feet and twirled his hat in his hands for a moment. He lifted his head and gazed hard at Doc. "What do I gotta do?"

"Take these four times a day and don't miss one," Doc recommended as he handed him a couple of blister packs of LYCANEX pills. "You will have this condition for the rest of your life, but with the proper care and treatment, you should be able to keep it in check."

"I uh, I don't have a lot of money for this sort of thing..." Cletus began.

"Don't worry," Doc reassured him, "I've got enough free samples from the pharmaceutical companies to last you for years, but you will still need regular check ups, just so we can monitor your condition. Call my nurse on Monday and schedule an appointment for next week. Now don't feel like you are in this alone. We have our support group in the basement of the Methodist church on Tuesdays and the first Thursday of every month we have our mixer at the VFW hall. Free beer, potluck, and lots of pretty girls, and your friends Mr. & Mrs. Tucker will be there."

"Mr. Tucker's got it too?"

"Yes, and you did cut him pretty badly with your chainsaw. Have you noticed that in the last year he has developed a bad limp?"

Cletus stood up like a man who had suffered a heavy blow but was determined to carry on. "Thanks for the straight poop Doc. I'll take the pills and I'll think about the meetings. Either way, but I'll be in touch," he reached for the door handle.

"Before you go Cletus, tell me, have you or any of your family voted for Republicans in the past few generations?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

"Just wondering, because studies have proven they have a natural weakness to the disease," Doc said as he made some notes in his file.

"Why's that?"

"Cause they start out as son's of bitches. Good night."

Doc

Be careful on your way home.

**Editor's Note** This is my entry in Cormac Brown's Flash Fiction Friday feature. He has corralled a group of talented writers the likes of Freida Bee, Ubermilf, Randal Graves, and the Baroness Von Bloggenschtern herself, not to mention yours truly. How I find myself running in such prestigious circles, I'll never know. The gist of it is this: on Friday at 12:00 AM PST, Cormac gives us a starter sentence and we write a story with it at the beginning, and we have until Tuesday at 9:00 AM PST to post it. Without further ado, this is my entry and is dedicated to a friend of mine who has just returned from a long hiatus.

Nicole’s cataracts have worsened, so I knew she was going to be running late because she had to relearn her way around. She surprised me at the restaurant when she showed up beside our usual table and asked me, "Wow, what just happened?”

I mumbled, "Why do you ask?" She folded up her white cane and threw it and her huge purse into the booth, and flopped down, "Because you are breathing like you just ran to catch a bus," she said.

"It's nothing," I lied. "Bullshit," she countered, "your fingers are twitching and you knee is trembling. What happened?"

"How do you know that?"

"I'm blind, if you didn't notice, but everything else is up to snuff. I can hear your fingers on the table and the nerves in my ass are enough to tell me the seat is shaking from your knee. You're spooked or nervous or something. What's up? Run into an old girlfriend or is someone trying to serve you court papers," she said with a giggle.

"So it's true what they say; a blind person does develop their other senses more keenly. I always thought that was a load of bunk." I tried to still my shaky knee and put my hands in my lap but they both seemed to have a mind of their own. She fumbled in her purse and got a stick of gum.

"That's bullshit," she said as she adjusted the black Wayfarer's on her nose, "Try learning Braille for a month and see how super human you feel. Don't get me wrong, being blind has it's advantages. I'm constantly grabbing the ass of the cute guy at work and getting away with it as long as I say 'Excuse me', but I'm not sure how much longer I can get away with that, not to mention the alimony payments, but that's another story." She tried to smooth down her short, spiky red hair and looked straight at me. "So why so jumpy?"

Nicole and I had been friends since high school and we had dated briefly. She was one of my oldest friends, and her bullshit detector had a three mile radius. Nicole was fun, funny, and care-free, despite the recent loss of her sight. She was the one person that I could always open up to and she stood by me with the loyalty of a collie dog. "I met a man this evening," I started.

"Oh I like where this is going," she said as she started to pop the bubbles in her gum.

"Shut up! I haven't even started and you have comments? Let me finish!" She made the motion of zipping her lips shut and I began again.

"I met a man this evening as I was waiting for you here. No sooner did I sit down than a strange man came up to me and-"

"What did he look like?" she interjected. "What?" I said.

"What did he look like? Please? I've been spending four hours a day learning Braille for two weeks and the sound is out on the TV. I'm missing my soaps and I'm missing America's Next Top Model, so I need some details here!" No longer could Nicole and I meet up for our regular Tuesday night dinner and a movie like we had always done. I had to be the entertainment now, as we had tried going to movies and me describing the show to her, but after the fifty-millionth shush, we gave up.

"Well," I thought, "he was short, dark haired, and frumpy."

"You know full well that that isn't any help. What did he look like? What did he have on? What did he smell like? I need details if it's got you this worked up." She motioned to the passing waiter as if she had seen him. The waiter nodded and held up a finger to say, "One minute," and she nodded as if she understood.

"How'd you do that?" I said in amazement. "Practice," she said with a smile, "please continue."

"Let me see...he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. He was short. Five feet five or so. He was wearing a brown tweed sport coat, the kind with leather patches on the elbows, a green corduroy vest and a cheap brown metallic tie. He was pudgy, and sun burnt with liver spots. His hair was dark and curly but it looked ink black as if he dyed it."

"Okay, I can see him. Anything else?" she was on the edge of her seat and had her hands folded under her chin.

"He had enormous teeth, you know, like a horse," I suggested.

"Hello. I'm Philip. I'll be your waiter this evening. Can I start you off with some drinks perhaps?" The waiter had returned and his pencil hovered above his note pad.

"Hello Philip," Nicole smiled her largest fake smile and practically squirmed in her seat as she spoke, "I can tell you're new here, so let me just spell it out for you. Dale and I are regulars and we get this booth every Tuesday. We have a nice meal and a few drinks and run up a nice big bill, every Tuesday. If you get this right this evening, you can guarantee yourself a huge tip tonight, and a huge tip every Tuesday from now on. If your screw it up, I won't leave you the lint out of my pockets. Do you understand Philip?" Her smile widened by two notches.

"Yes miss, I think so," Philip was caught off guard, as all of the new waiters were when they met Nicole.

"I will give you our order in it's entirety with specific details as to each food, and how and when we want it served. I will not repeat myself and you will have to keep up or lose a seven hundred dollar tip. So let's begin, shall we?"

What followed was a culinary obstacle course with every detail spelled out to the nth degree but delivered at a shotgun pace. "...and lastly I'll have a triple scotch and soda, on the rocks with two limes, no seeds, and Dale will have an iced tea with two Sweet 'N Lows. I know you don't have them, but the Chinese place next door does." Nicole took a big breath, "Have you got it?"

"Yes, I think so..." Philip scanned his four pages of notes.

"I'd like to change my drink order please," I said in a wavering voice.

"Well, a precedent has been broken!" Nicole cooed.

"I'll have what she's having."

"But Dale, darling, you don't drink!" Nicole said.

"Well this evening I'm willing to learn," I replied.

Nicole dismissed Philip with a wave of her hand and turned back to me with a mischievous grin. "So what's with old frumpy guy?"

"It's just plain weird," I begin, "I'm sitting here and I see this guy who walks past the table as if he is off to pay his check, and then he stops as if he has forgotten something and starts walking back. He looks at me and then stops in his tracks. I swear he stands there for a full minute and stares at me. Then he comes up and introduces himself. 'Hi, I'm Mr. Waterson,' or Wasselston or Vasserstein or something and he shakes my hand. He tells me he is an old friend of my dad's and they used to work together or were in the Navy or something. I wasn't listening to well because I was still trying to figure out who this guy was. Anyway, he tells me how he had made a promise to my dad to look me up after he died. He read in the paper last year that my dad had passed on but just hadn't found the time to call me, as this was the busy time of year in the carpet business. So he tells me that he has something for me and I'm a little leery because I think that he is trying to scam me somehow, but then he tells me how he was there when my dad died-"

Philip was back and set down two tall scotches and made a flourish of lighting the candle and primping the flowers on our table, then disappeared wordlessly.

Nicole clinks her glass against mine and up ends hers. She takes a long pull and emptied her's by half. "So what does he give you?" she mutters in her alcohol fumed exhale.

I poke at the floating limes with my finger and set the glass down. "Now it gets even weirder. He tells me how my dad died in his arms and made him promise to save my life one day. He describes my dad's death in every detail that could only have been known by someone who was there! I must not have been able to hide my shock as he goes quiet for a minute as this sinks in. He tells me that he is going to save my life tonight. Then he leans in real close and I can smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath and he says real softly, 'Tonight I fulfil my part of the tontine. If you wish to see tomorrow, walk home. Whatever you do, don't take a cab. I can say nothing else. Good luck!' he shook my hand again and left in a hurry."

Nicole sipped her drink in silence for a moment then dug through her purse and lit a cigarette. In an instant, Philip was at her elbow explaining that the restaurant had a very strict No Smoking policy. Nicole blew out a large plume of smoke and told him that if anyone complained that she would pay for their dinners and leave their tip as well. Philip scurried off.

"I've got to say darling that this is the strangest thing I've heard in a week," she bit into her lime wedge and made a sour face. "No wonder you're creeped out and drinking," she said nodding to my untouched beverage. "Hell, I'm weirded out for you!" She held her empty glass above her head and rattled the ice cubes in it. Philip was right there with a replacement and gone in a flurry of motion. "So tell me, do you believe him?"

I took a small sip of my drink to steady my rattled nerves and felt the ice and limes brush my lip as a horrible taste filled my mouth. My tongue went numb and my stomach felt warm, but my nerves remained jangled. "I don't know what to believe. It all sounds so incredible, but at the same time how could he know the small details of my dad's death. They weren't published in the paper and there was only two people there when he died, Uncle Charlie and some fishing buddy of his. Besides, what could he gain by lying to me? It's all very weird," I said again.

Dinner came and went. I struggled through my drink until I felt a little light headed, and Philip brought the bill with a broad smile. Nicole plunked down her credit card without a word, but when he returned with her receipt, Nicole chastised him about the quality of the service that we had received and said she was going to have to shave a little off of his tip for his laxity. "I will endeavor to do better next time miss," Philip said quietly. I noticed she left him a seven hundred dollar tip anyway.

We stepped out of the restaurant and into a light, misty rain. No sooner had we set foot on the pavement than Nicole lit a joint from her pack of cigarettes. I admonished her for her brazenness but she shrugged and said that if it was good enough to prescribe to glaucoma patients, it was damn well good enough for cataracts. A checkered cab was waiting for a fare on the corner. "You folks want a lift?" the driver called. I halted and thought of the old man's words. Nicole blew out a big drag, "No thanks dear. It's a lovely night for a walk!" she giggled. At this point the skies opened up and the rain came down in large, cold drops. "Suit yourself," the cabbie muttered and drove off.

In two blocks, we were soaked to the bone. My suit felt fifty pounds heavier from the water and my slacks were starting to chafe my thighs. I was starting to regret not taking the cab despite the old man's warning. Nicole shivered as she clung to my arm.

We were within a few feet of the door to Nicole's building when she tripped over an empty beer bottle on the sidewalk. She fell, and in falling, took me down with her. We laid on the ground and laughed at our drunken clumsiness as the rain came pelting down. "Well aren't we a fine pair!" Nicole tittered, "The lush leading the blind!" As we were trying to regain our feet, the same checkered cab pulled up to the curb and a tall, thin man in an ill-fitting raincoat emerged. He threw some money at the cabbie and from somewhere across the street I heard a man shout, "Johnson!". The tall man turned to look and several gun shots rang out and he slumped to the ground, followed by the sound of running feet slapping the wet sidewalk.

We must have laid there hugging each other and the sidewalk for a full five minutes before I found the nerve to get up. I went around the car and looked at the man and the cabbie. I stood in the puddle of their collecting blood knowing that neither one could be alive. "Is anyone hurt?" Nicole called to me in a wavering voice. My only reply was the sound of my twelve hundred dollar dinner hitting the pavement.

Nicole dialed 911 on her cell and lit a cigarette. "Good thing we didn't take the cab," she said between puffs, "They won't let you smoke in them now anyway."



Doc

Grandpa's Last Blast

**Editor's Note** This is some short fiction for my buddy Cormac Brown. If you don't read his stuff, you are missing out.

"Lord, stop me before I date again!" Grandpa shouted into the cool, gathering dusk from the truck window as he and Billy rattled down the dirt road.

"I wouldn't lean too hard on that door Grandpa. It's libel to swing open and toss you into the ditch," Billy warned. Grandpa ignored him and took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

"Let me tell you somethin' boy. A man is dumber than the dumbest jackass that ever walked this earth. You know why?" Billy knew better than to answer and just kept his eyes on the road ahead. "He's dumber because he keeps makin' the same stupid mistakes again and again. Take me for example. I'm a little smarter than your average Johnny-off-the-pickle-boat but even wit' that goin' fer me, if I staid one more night in that hospital, I woulda made the second worst mistake in my life. I would have gone down to the TV room and proposed to that widow woman with the long gray hair and I'da had her for my wife, and then where would I be?" Grandpa just shook his head at the thought.

"What was the worst mistake you ever made?" Billy asked.

"Gettin' a tattoo," Grandpa said with a sour face.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo," Billy grinned at him.

"There is a lot of things about me you don't know boy, and several I aim to keep that way," Grandpa said. "Did you bring the stuff like I asked ya?"

"Sure. I got everything, just like you said, but what do you need all of it for?" Billy asked.

"Never you mind son. I got plans. Where did you stow the smokes and the hooch?" Grandpa asked with a gleam in his eye.

"They're in a paper sack under your seat but I don't think-" Billy started.

"That's right! You don't think!" the old man snapped and then he caught himself, "I'm sorry son. I didn't mean it. I just been pumped full of so many chemicals and pills that I got nothin' in me but bile, but even still, that ain't no way to treat you. I'm sorry. I'm powerful sorry." Grandpa choked up a little bit and pulled out his red hanky, then blew his nose loudly. Then he leaned down between his withered legs and tugged a brown paper sack from under the seat and pulled a large bottle of Jack Daniels out of it. "You are a good boy," he muttered as he spun the cap off in a well practiced move, "you even bought the big bottle, God bless your heart!" Grandpa tipped back the bottle and the brown liquid slid down his throat. He grimaced as he exhaled. "Just like an ol' friend," he muttered as his drink settled in. He opened a pack of filterless cigarettes, lit one and took a puff.

"Grandpa, that can't be good for you..." Billy mildly protested.

The old man took a drag and looked him in the eye, "Boy, I been enjoying a belt and a smoke for a long time before you come along. I'm eighty-four years old and my insides are rotted out with cancer. The doc sez I got but two weeks to live. Why on God's green earth would I want to deny myself a couple of life's simplest pleasures? What harm can it do me now? Besides," he said as if his mind was made up, "I'm to old to fight or fuck, so what's left for me?"

They rode on in silence until the old man leaned over and muttered, "Here's the spot. Stop the truck." Billy pulled over to the side of the road and shut the engine off. "The wheel chair ain't going to be any use here as the spot is a hundred and fifty yards up that hill," Grandpa said.

"Well jus' climb on my back," Billy suggested and helped the bony old man into position. As Billy hiked up the hill with Grandpa on his back, he thought of all the times as a child that the roles had been reversed with him on Grandpa's back for innumerable piggy-back rides. The old man was no heavier than the Sunday paper and the brambles and thickets didn't slow them much.

"Jes' set me down by that log over there," Grandpa pointed. Billy eased him down and noticed how the skin on the back of the old man's hands was paper thin and mottled with purple bruises as the old man clutched at the bottle in his lap. Billy returned to the truck and dug out the rest of the gear and hiked back.

He set down the little bag of candies and jerky along side of the box of shells and the shotgun. Then he opened the wheelchair and set the old man in it.

"Jes' set everything within easy reach boy and see if you can scratch up some firewood," Grandpa said as he lit another cigarette. In ten minutes there was enough wood for a bonfire and when Billy struck a match to it the hillside was filled with light.

They both gazed into the flames for a few minutes before Grandpa spoke. "Son, let me just say this and get it out there because if I think on it too long, I'm going to mess it up. Don't interrupt and don't start bawlin', 'cause neither one is gonna help. I'm dying. You know it and I do too. They ain't nothin' we can do about it. It is a fact of life. I've roamed this land for eighty-four years and I've had a lot of fun an' it's time to come to a close. Ever'thing I own goes to you, the house, my car, and all muh stuff. Under the bed is a tin box with a lock on it. There is two thousand dollars in it. It ain't much, but it is enough to give a young man like yerself a start. There is also a Nazi pistol in there that ain't ever been fired. See that it never is, and if you find yourself in hard times, sell it, as it is worth a little money. I've tried very hard to do right by you as best I could but from now on, you are going to have to do without me. Your mother, God rest her soul, left you with me and I wish I had something a little better than a few dollars, a run-down house, and an old pistol to leave you, but you're a smart boy an you'll make it just fine. Find a good woman like your Grandma and not like your mother. She will torment you to no end but she will keep you out of trouble. Get an education if you can swing it and whatever you do, stay out of the Army and jail. They'd eat you alive. You got a good head on your shoulders, use it, and try not to have to work with your hands for a living. You're better than that." Grandpa tipped the bottle back and tossed the stub of his cigarette on the fire and lit another.

"Now don't come too early in the morning," the old man advised, "and when you do, be prepared to make a few phone calls. Now get on home. Tomorrow is going ta be a big day for you." Grandpa reached over for the shot gun and checked to see that both chambers had a shell before he clicked the action shut and set it next to him. He brushed a bit of ash off the old gun, much like a man polishing his prized automobile before looking up and grunting, "Go on now, you hear?"

Billy headed back to through the brush, down the hill and into the truck. As he turned the key, he thought he heard, "I love you son!" but he couldn't be sure over the engine's rumble.

***

Billy took his time that morning. He was up at six, pulled on his overalls, and set the coffee to boil. He made eggs, ham, and beans and sat down to full plate but found that he couldn't eat a bite and shoved the plate away. His stomach turned at the hot coffee but he drank it anyway. Billy was sure now what the old man had in mind on that hillside with the 12 gauge. He wasn't sure yesterday when he dropped him off, but he knew now. Grandpa wasn't the kind of man to wait for death. He was the kind who would meet death on his own terms and by his own hand. "You damned old fool," he cussed as his hand trembled reaching for the keys to the truck.

At nine o'clock the truck rattled to a stop on the dirt road and Billy turned his flashers on so no one would hit it in the morning fog. He parted the brush and started up the steep hill. He couldn't smell wood smoke, so he knew the fire was out. Grandpa probably didn't bother to add any more wood after he left which means he had sat in the dark for most of the night. In the brambles, Billy's boot struck the empty whiskey bottle. Grandpa must have been really drunk after that much booze on an empty stomach, and he didn't weigh but a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

Billy stepped into the clearing and the first thing that met his gaze was the amount of blood. There was blood everywhere. The wheelchair was tipped over and Grandpa's body was on the ground, slumped over a log face down. "You crazy bastard!" he shouted, "You've gone and done it this time!" Billy tried hard not to burst into tears but he just couldn't choke them back. Here was the man who raised him and had been the only family he had ever known, and now he was lying dead in a pool of blood. Billy hung his head and sobbed from the pit of his soul.

"What are you blubberin' about boy?" came the familiar croak of the old man's voice. Billy looked up to see Grandpa propping himself up and looking at him with blood-shot eyes and a crooked grin.

"You're alive?" Billy sputtered.

"Hell yes I'm alive and I've got a hangover big enough to drop a horse so keep the shouting down will ya?" The old man scratched around and lit the last cigarette from the pack.

"But the blood? You ain't hurt?" Billy stammered.

"I'm sore from sleepin' on the ground and my head is full of jackhammers, but other than that, I'm fine. Now if you are done bawlin', maybe you'd like to haul this eight-point buck I shot down to the truck. He's on the other side of this log. I tried to gut him in the dark, but old hands ain't that steady when the lights are out. He ain't a big one but I figure there will be some meat in the house this winter."

Billy took three trips to load up the deer, Grandpa, and his gear. As he started the truck, the old man leaned over and hugged him. "Thanks for comin' ta get me son. It means alot to me, and on the way home, could you stop at the liquor store? I've got a powerful thirst!"

Doc

Only The Royal Society Would Be Interested In Transvestite Lizard Sex

Published this week in the journal, "Proceedings of the Royal Society" was an article on South African Augarabies flat lizards and how immature males would disguise themselves as females so they could hang with the chicks and not get their ass beat by older males. The Associated Press qouted Jonathan Webb, a researcher for the University of Sydney, as saying, "Males are fooled by looks, but not by scent," and one lick would give the imposters away, as these lizards smell with their tongues, so the tranvestites must become agile.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for science and learning about the world around us, but don't you think this is a little weird? Not the lizards. As a devout coward, I would wear a nun's habit and hobble along with a walker to save myself from an ass beating. That makes perfect sense to me. No, to me the weird part is that someone is learning this for their job.

Imagine poor Mr. Webb at a cocktail party that is just packed full of his wife's coworkers, and while she is away in the bathroom, her Boss asks him what he does for a living. Mr. Webb would be hard pressed to come up with a simple answer, other than to say he was doing research with the University.

"So what are you studying Jon?" the Boss asks.

Jon casually takes a long pull at his gin and tonic and looks him in the eye.

"I'm studying the sex life of transvestite South African lizards and how they protect themselves from getting their ass beat," he says with an easy grin. By now, he has this line down pat as he gets asked this alot. The Boss chuckles predictably, as they always do.

"Really?" he stammers out as he nudges the guy next to him.

"Yes, and my studies are going to be published in The Proceedings of the Royal Society. The Queen herself expressed some interest in my work."

"Oh?" the Boss continues to chuckle.

"Yeah. I mentioned your name when I signed her copy and she said you were a prick, and if you didn't keep your filthy hands off of my wife, she would send MI6 to put you in a shallow hole," his voice is soft but with an unmistakeable edge. "Did you want to talk about science, or were you just making conversation?" he wears a smile that would frighten convicts.

The Boss turns pale and waves at a nonexistent friend across the room, then hurries away.

Forgive me, I've been reading some of Cormac's crime fiction and getting my news from Yahoo.

Stay warm,
Doc

Caption Contest Jackassery, the "Flaming Mug" edition

Today I stand before you as something I never thought I'd be: a winner, not once but twice over.

First off, the ever imaginative Cormac Brown informs me that I am the winner of his "Caption Contest #1". I would have liked to put up the photo that I had to work with, but that bit of Blogger that works with the pictures seems to be on the fritz again, so you will just have to click on the link instead. My winning entry was, "Where's the rest of your 'Rockband' game?" and garnered me a coffee cup of my choice from his very own store. I think I'm going to go with the one he holds in his photo that says, "Procrastination? It's CRACK for Writers", as that seems to be the most appropriate one.

Then in the comments section of the previous post by Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, the beautiful and ever-witty Beckeye at The Pop Eye leaves me a note saying that I have won her Caption Contest as well, and am to be named FIRECROTCH of the Month and have my comely photo to grace her side bar for the rest of January.

Now I have got to be honest here, and tell you that at no time in my life have I ever won anything before, so that makes both of these honors quite special. Also, that I have the greatest respect for both of these talented writers which makes the winning all the sweeter to be recognized by one's peers.

But Damn! I have been plugging away at Beckeye's Caption Contests for about two years now and I couldn't even get an honorable mention. I would like to think that I was contributing comedic gold every time, but I always lost out to some much more gifted writer than myself. And while I don't have concrete figures on how many of these I've entered, I always wound up like Charlie Brown kicking the football. This caused me to do something I never, ever do: I whined. I whined and grumped, and complained, and even threw a small hissy-fit when I thought no one was looking. "What did that get you?" you might ask.

It got my effing picture posted in the sidebar of one kickass blog baby!

Now as luck would have it, both of these contests had only a small number of entries, so my mediocrity was able to rise to the top! Mrs. Brown helped by casting the deciding vote in Cormac's contest, and Beckeye was determined to shut me up, and judged my contribution, "Put your hands all over me you damn dirty ape!" as the best for Paris Hilton's snapshot with a guy in a monkey costume.

I couldn't be more proud, and I mean that.

Now Dear and Gentle Readers, you know that there is almost nothing on God's green earth that I would ever throw my endorsement behind, and that I don't shill for nobody, but please take a moment and add these fine blogs to your blogroll. American Idol starts tonight and Beckeye has promised to turn her blog into "The Greatest Recapalooza on Earth" and this is where she really shines folks. And if you want to see what good writing is like, skip the trip to the library and swing by Cormac's place. Not only does he create engaging stories and characters, but he invests himself in every story and it shows. These blogs deserve a bit of your time and attention, not to mention they are also great places to steal ideas from, and it doesn't hurt at all that they are both extremely funny and astute.

I am honored by you both. With that, let me bow deeply and say "Cheers!"
Doc

P.S.- Tune in tomorrow to find out how I tongued my boss at the company Christmas party.