When Reggie Came To Town

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

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

**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

The School Of Love

***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

We Three Kings, part four

**Editor's Note** Here is the final installment to our Christmas tale. I can only hope that it goes well with eggnog, but just to be on the safe side, drink the brandy and leave the eggnog for the maiden aunts who enjoy fruitcake.

Pang grabbed Clayton's elbow and pointed, "Here Mr. Clayton Delaney. Here is where we find the King of Kings."

"At the Best Western hotel?" asked Clayton incredulously. "We have followed a star that has led us to the west Mr. Clayton, why not the Best Western?" queried Umbala. "You got me there. Let's go see who's checked in," Clayton said with a shrug.

The sidewalk leading to the front door didn't show a single track in the snow and Clayton pulled on the handle only to discover it was locked. He pounded with his fists on the glass and yelled to the top of his lungs only to be joined by eleven cold and frustrated men. In a moment a thin wispy haired man in a parka came to the door. "We don't have any rooms!" he shouted from the other side of the glass, "Go somewhere else!"

"We're lookin' for somebody!" shouted Clayton but the man turned his back and walked away with a dismissive wave. "Stand back," warned Umbala as he rested his hand on Matt's shoulder and cocked his long leg back. Umbala's foot flew forward and connected with the rushing sound of splintered glass. He reached in and turned the latch and held the shattered door open so the rest could pass, and smiled as he did it. They all filed into the lobby that was standing room only and pressed their way to the wispy haired man who gaped at them in wonder. "Who do you think you are? You can't just break in here!" he shouted, "I'm going to call the cops! You are going to jail! This is breaking and entering, this is trespassing, this is..." he faltered.

"I said we was looking for somebody," said Clayton in a slow, menacing voice, "and we were having a little trouble getting your attention from outside. Now you go right ahead and call the cops Mr. ..."

"Smythe, Mr. Carl Smythe, I'm the manager and I'll-"

"You'll help us Mr. Smythe, 'cause the cops are six blocks away and your phone don't work I'm willing to bet, what with all this snow. We don't want to get ugly, but that can be arranged." As Clayton spoke he positioned he face an inch away from Smythe and slowly backed him up against the counter. "We need to find a woman. A pregnant woman. We don't know her name, but maybe she mentioned she was related to a guy named David. Ring any bells?"

"I don't know..," Smythe stuttered, "There are too many people here...not all of them checked in...some just getting out of the weather.." Clayton reached in his pocket and pulled out a large pocketknife and opened it in a slow ceremony. He reached past Smythe and cut the cord on the phone with deliberate motions. "Are you sure you can't help us?" he asked again as he examined the knife's edge.

"Don't," warned Markus at his elbow, "it isn't our way." Clayton looked at him for a moment, then nodded and closed the knife and slid it back in his pocket. "I'm sorry," apologised Clayton, "it's just that we have come so far and been through so much... we just need to find her so we can help her. You see, she's in trouble. She is in bad trouble and we have came to help..." Clayton trailed off and the crowded lobby breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

"Hey dude," spoke up a leather-clad biker woman near Clayton, "there was a pregnant lady who knocked on the door a few hours ago. There was a guy with her," she offered. "What room are they in? Where'd they go?" Clayton asked eagerly. The biker shrugged.

"The jackass manager here wouldn't let them in," said a guy in a rainbow T-shirt.

The fist that connected with Smythe's nose flew so fast that Clayton wasn't sure he had thrown it himself until he heard the bones snap under his hand. Smythe slid to the floor with a nasal "Owww," and he held his tie to it to staunch the flow of blood.

"What kind of asshole sends a pregnant woman out in a storm?" Clayton shouted. At that moment a man in ratty clothes and a mud stained Steelers hat was working his way through the crowd from the back of the room with three hot cups of coffee in his hands. "Scuse me, hot coffee, comin' through, pardon me, clear a path, headed for the door" he called out, ignorant of the scene that had just transpired.

As the man shouldered his way through the crowd and as he passed, Amir touched his arm. "Where are you going with that coffee?" Amir asked. The man's brown face broke into a look of concern, "Out to the trailer. I got Mr. Wainwright's horses to look after," he said, "besides the new child and momma and poppa," he chuckled. "Take us to them," Pang said and the thirteen of them filled out into the snowy parking lot leaving a bewildered crowd behind them.

"What's your name?" asked Clayton. "Able Amos Moses O'Brien, but most folks call me Moz," he replied, "You guy's from the Government?" he asked.

"Nope," said Clayton, "just kinda friends of the family."

"Tha's good, cause it's always good to have family about when a new youngin is borned. The momma and poppa always need lotsa help den." Moz handed the hot coffee cups to Pang so he could undo the latch at the back of a large horse trailer. "Now you gots to be real quiet now as momma and baby was just fallin' asleep when I went in an hour ago and I can't have you spookin' them or the horses neither. So shuts up and wait for me to call you all in one at a time."

Umbala asked eagerly, "Everything went alright didn't it?" and the grey-haired old black man smiled. "I've delivered a lot of calves and foals in my time and I've had some tough ones too, but I ain't never delivered no baby before, but this one come out like he was ready to meet the world. He don't cry or whine. He just snuggle to his mommas tit and fall asleep like he got the peace of Heaven on him. I put him in the feed trough with some hay and wrap him in some horse blankets cause that's all I got, and momma, she need some rest."

"Does Mr. Wainwright know you got a mother and child in his horse trailer in the dead of winter?" asked Amir.

"No suh, and I don't aim to tell him. I done this all on my own and I ain't about to involve him in somethin' that don't concern him, provided he don't find out." Moz said.

Clayton took the shepherds and fishermen aside and held a quiet conversation with them, and in a moment they headed back into the hotel. "Why don't you fellas go in one at a time and see our new addition to the family," Clayton suggested with a wink. Moz took the coffee cups from Pang and lead him into the trailer. A few minutes later, Pang came out and knelt on the ground in the deep snow and wept as he prayed. Umbala crept in and pulled the door softly shut behind him. In a few minutes he returned and could say nothing as he motioned for Amir to take his place. A few more minutes passed and Amir returned with a look in his eye as if he had seen something that would change him forever and he held Umbala close to him like a long lost brother.

What transpired next was a bit of a blur for all concerned. The fishermen and shepherds returned with a cot that they used to carry mother and child into the hotel and on up to the Honeymoon suite that had been recently been vacated by a very kind, very rich, and devout Mr. Wainwright. The Biker chick and the guy in the rainbow T-shirt had held the doors open on the elevator as the mother and child were transported to their new room while the adoring crowd in the lobby was held at bay by the bloody manager Smythe who threatened to turn loose this band of hooligans against the first person who woke the baby. The kitchen staff was ordered to feed anyone who was hungry and the small lounge was opened to provide drinks on the house to anyone who had come to seek respite at the Best Western in the horrible blizzard of '08.

As Clayton and the gang settled into the largest booth in the lounge and waited for Smythe to come and take their order, a thin and well-worn young man of seventeen with a scraggly beard wandered up.

"Are you Amir?" he asked and Clayton pointed to Amir. "My name is Joe, and I just want to thank you for all you have done for us and if you ever need new cabinets in your kitchen, just give me a call."

"Are you the baby's father?" asked Clayton.

"Well, sort of..." he said. "We just got married yesterday at the courthouse and..."

"Well we pooled our money and got you something," said Clayton with a grin, "Alright fellas, put it on the table." And with that appeared a bottle of expensive French perfume, some Myrrh incence, a Swiss Army knife, three packs of smokes, two lighters, a Snickers candy bar, one ticket to the monster truck pull, three Happy Meal Toys, a tea bag, a bottle opener, three-hundred dollars worth of prepaid phone cards, and the keys to a 1984 red Ford pickup that could be picked up at the Hanover exit as soon as the roads were clear.

Joe looked down at the stuff that filled the table and tried to mumble his thanks but the words just wouldn't come. At this, Umbala stood up and took off the jacket to his three-piece pinstripe suit and slid it over the youth's bony shoulders.

"You need this much more than I, " he said softly, "but it will fit much better when you get the weight out of the pocket."

Joe reached for the large brick that rested in the pocket and pulled it out to see what made the coat so heavy and gasped when he saw what it was.

"And the coat looks good on you too," said Clayton as he got a fresh chew.

**Editor's Note** I have borrowed and swiped a lot to create this story, as well as embellished, gilded the truth, and out and out lied, but know that I did it for you. God bless and keep you safe.

Doc

We Three Kings, part three

**Editor's Note** This is the third installment of a piece of short fiction inspired by Cap'n Ergo. If you missed the first two, this is the first and this is the second. My dear friends, may the joy of the season be yours, and may goodness and mercy follow you for all the days of your life. Cheers!

"We know whut Mr. Umbala brought but how about you two?" Clayton asked.

"I have brought for him some myrrh incense to help with his meditations and his morning prayers. My people have used it for centuries," Pang said with a note of pride.

"And you Amir?" asked Umbala with a nudge, as Amir remained quiet.

"I have brought some expensive French perfume. It was the only thing I could find that I could bring on the plane," he said a bit sheepishly.

"Oh yeah?" said Clayton with renewed interest, "Whut's it called?"

"Essence of Frankincense," Amir said quietly.

"Is that the kinda stuff French hook- um, French ladies-of-the-evening wear?" inquired Clayton.

"Certainly not!" Amir said firmly and he struggled to get his Gitanes from his pocket and lit one.

"You can ash on the floorboard Mr. Amir but I think Mr. Umbala better crack a window if he can reach it," Clayton said apologetically.

From there they rode on in silence for a while. Pang tried the radio but Clayton explained that the heater controls were the only thing that really worked well, or at all, in his old truck. The wind picked up and buffeted the truck and it started to sway into the other lane now and then. Clayton tightened his grip on the wheel and assured them that it would be alright.

Then the snow started to fall. Big, fat flakes the size of a quarter started to strike the windshield and Clayton swore quietly as he turned on the wipers and leaned forward in his seat to catch glimpses of the lines on the road. To make matters worse, the passenger side wiper would only rise a few inches to clear away the snow and left most of that side of the windshield covered.

"I've been meanin' ta fix that," Clayton muttered as he slowed down to meet an unexpected corner. But even as the snowstorm gathered strength, the star shone before them like some unearthly beacon guiding them to their goal. At the edge of the headlights they could see the land grew thick with trees and shrouded them in even greater darkness.

Umbala turned to the others and said, "Gentlemen, I think we should pray." Each nodded their agreement and bowed his head, except for Clayton who leaned a little closer to the wheel to see beyond the hood of the truck. All of them muttered their prayers in his own native tongue, and each hand sought out the hand of another as they prayed for their deliverance from the storm that threatened to halt them in the wilderness. The minutes seemed to stretch and the creaks and groans of the old Ford sounded as if it was adding it's prayers to theirs. The wipers kept time to their cadence and a soft sweat ran down the creases of Clayton's furrowed brow. The snow began to drift across the road. And then, as if by some silent signal, the wise men ended their prayers and the silence was only punctuated by the slap of the wipers.

"Hot Damn!" Clayton shouted, and by the light of an oncoming snow plow the green sign at the side of the road was illuminated, "You are now entering Licking County; Land Of Legend."

"It's alright now fellas," Clayton exclaimed, "This is my hometown and I could guide us through here blindfolded. Mr. Amir, can you see the star?" Amir said that he couldn't, but Umbala rolled his window down and leaned out into the storm and giggled like a school girl. "There Mr. Clayton!," he pointed, "Straight ahead! We are so close!" and his deep laugh was so infectious that they all snickered a bit and a couple of the fisherman from in back pressed their noses to the glass to see what all the the laughter was about.

"That there is the Hanover exit," Clayton said with a smile as he pointed out in a sea of white, "That's where I'd get off if I was headed for home." Despite the grim conditions, joy filled them all and they grinned until it hurt.

Then they saw the lights. Yellow, red, and blue ahead and the shape of patrol cars blocking the road came into view.

"Looks like there has been an accident," muttered Clayton as he crawled to a stop. A patrolman came to the side of the truck and rapped on the window with his flashlight. "Sorry folks, but the road has been closed. A National Emergency has been declared on account of the blizzard," he said in a cold, bloodless voice.

"On who's authority?" Clayton challenged in an angry tone.

The patrolman leaned in the window and shined his bright light from face to face and responded, "Under the authority of his honorable Agent Munson T. Herrod, Head of Homeland Security for the state of Ohio. Who the hell are you?"

At this, Clayton demurred. He handed over his drivers licence and explained that the guys he had with him were some veterinarians that were from out of the country and he had brought them here to examine his sheep before the end of the year sell-off, and that the guys in the back of the truck were local sheep farmers just like him who had chipped in to finance their trip. The deputy examined everyones cards and passports and seemed a little miffed that they were who they said they were, but in the end he couldn't let them continue on. The road was closed. Clayton said he would just head back down the highway and take the Hanover exit to get home and he would be out of the officer's hair. "No," insisted the cop, "you can't move this vehicle one more inch. You are welcome to hike, but the truck stays here. This road is closed and all traffic is to be stopped."

"But we will freeze to death!" protested Clayton. "And when we get the okay to open the roads, we will send out a search party," the cop offered, and in a quieter, more stern voice he said, "Should you come across something unusual, don't hesitate to call it in. We appreciate your cooperation."

"I'm sure you do," mumbled Clayton, "Alright fellas, everybody out of the truck. It looks like we are hoofin' it from here." The shepherds and fisherman grumbled as they climbed out into the snow. "Here's how we are goina do this, we travel single file. I'll lead and brake a path with Mr. Umbala behind me as we have the longest legs. I want you to reach forward and grab the belt of the guy ahead of you. John, you are in back with Mr. Pang. Anybody falls, call out. Anybody lets go of a belt, call out. And Zeke, you damn fool, put the beer back in the truck! We can't carry it anyway! Let's headout!" The officer smiled and touched the brim of his hat as they left, and then he called in on the radio.

The going was rough and the wind through the electric wires along the road gave an unholy shriek as it swept along. The snow began to crust on the cuffs of their trousers which only made each step that much heavier than the last.

Amir, in the middle of the pack, clutched at Johnny's belt and was thankful that at least his right hand was warm while the rest of him hovered between frozen and numb. The wind caught his wool cap and sent it zinging off into the darkness and he could feel the snow collecting on the top of his head now. His breath was ragged from his exertion but he tried to think of other things, warm things, like the orchid room in his father's flower shop where the temperature was always sweltering. The orchids had always been his mother's favorite, his father had explained. She had always tended them with such loving care, but when she died the job fell to him. His father had tried to look after them for a few weeks after her death, but always broke down in heaving sobs that would bring him to his knees. After that they went to the mosque more often and became much more active in the faith. They made friends and his father helped him to learn to read the Koran. "Life is a sport and a pastime," that was Amir's favorite passage. "You must always keep the faith," his father warned, "You have a strong mind and it will take you far, but always remember that you also have a strong heart that is the gift of your mother." Lost in his memories, Amir didn't hear that Clayton had called for a rest and he walked into Johnny's back.

Johnny turned, "You all right suh?" he asked with concern. "Yes, yes, just tired," responded Amir as he sat down on his briefcase in the snow.

"We'll take fifteen here fellas, and Mr. Umbala, no offence sir, but I wish you would quit switching hands on me. You start sliding that cold hand into my pants just makes me want to jump out of my skin."

"My apologies Mr. Clayton, but the bag gets heavy in one hand for too long." Umbala said. "Well shove that gold brick in your pocket and take the socks from your bag and cover your hands, and let me have that white shirt. Mr. Amir put this shirt on your head like a turban. It might look a little out of place but at least it will help keep your head warm. Zeke, what have you got there?" Zeke, looking a little ashamed pulled a handful of beers from his old army field jacket. "Well pass them around, you got six so every man gets a half but don't offer none to Mr. Amir. He can't drink it." Zeke smiled broadly at the prospect of having a beer to himself.

"No, I think I'd like to have some," Amir said to his own surprise, "I think Allah will forgive me just this once." Zeke's smile disappeared but he slugged down his half in two gulps and handed it to Amir. The unfamiliar taste and sting on his tongue was welcome and unsettling at the same time. "Mr. Amir, have you got any idea how much farther we have to go?" asked Clayton. Amir sat silent as the cold seemed to drive for his bones. He opened his briefcase to consult his notes but his sock garbed hands couldn't hold on to his papers and the wind snatched them away into the night. He looked up blankly at Clayton.

"The King is less than a kilometer away," said Pang. "Are you sure? I mean if-" Clayton started. "My work is measured in the milliseconds Mr. Clayton Delaney and I have spent my entire life working for this moment. I would not waste my life, or the lives of these good men, on a simple guess Mr. Clayton Delaney. If I am wrong, may my ancestors torture me in Hell for all eternity."

Clayton looked him in the eye for a long minute, then grinned and nodded, "By God, that is good enough for me Mr. Pang. That's damn sure good enough for me." And with a loud voice Clayton called them to their feet, "Alright you sorry sinners, get off your asses and start making tracks. The Savior of us all is just down the road a piece and we are gointa be there when he comes!"

No sooner had they fallen back in line and began their trudge through the deep snow, the wind died down and the snow quit altogether as if the storm had lost it's will to hinder them any further. At the first sight of a lit streetlight a cheer of joy rang out from them all and an impromptu snowball fight began until Clayton told them to knock it off and get moving.

Pang grabbed Clayton's elbow and pointed, "Here Mr. Clayton Delaney. Here is where we find the King of Kings."

**Editor's Note** The last installment will appear Wednesday 12/23/09. Thank you all for hanging with me! Now go have a cookie!

Cheers,
Doc

We Three Kings

**Author's Note**Last year a buddy of mine suggested that I write a story about the three wise men looking for Christ in the year 2008, so I did. This is a Christmas tale I love as it is perhaps as close as I've ever come to "heartwarming" and funny. It is dedicated to three kings: Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, Dale, and your friend and mine, Skyler's Dad. True kings, each and every one of them. Enjoy!

Amir looked at his watch and then at the "Now Arriving" sign and grimaced. It would be hours before his plane would arrive and there was nothing to do but wait. He had already killed as much time as he could stand in the duty-free shop and he just couldn't bring himself to read one more magazine. What more was there to do in Cleveland airport at one in the morning? Nothing was open but the bar, so he wandered in.

The bartender lifted his eyebrows in a "What'll you have?" gesture and Amir mumbled "Espresso and a menu." He listened to the whir of the machine as he glanced over the bill of fare.

"Here ya go," said the bartender, "Can I get you something else?"

"Yes, the hot wings with the veggie platter please." he said with a yawn. "Comin' right up," the bartender said as he shuffled off. Amir rubbed his tired eyes and looked around the bar. It was done in dark wood paneling with lots of brass and ferns. He noticed a couple of the patrons smoking so he lit an unfiltered Gitanes and sipped his espresso. The strong flavors combined were exactly what he needed and he pulled his notes from his briefcase to examine them for the thousandth time. "I must make it there on time!" he kept telling himself. He was so lost in his calculations that he didn't even notice the brawny man who walked up beside him.

"Mr. Amir?" he said softly. "Yes," Amir looked up somewhat startled, "do I know you?"

"No sir. We've never met but I knowed you was ah comin'. I'm your ride. My name is Delaney. Clayton Delaney. I'm to take you to Him."

"What?" was all Amir could say before the bartender interrupted. "Here's your veggie platter. It will be just a few more minutes on those wings. Can I get you something else?" Amir shook his head. "How about you sir?"

"Ya'll serve Pabst?" Clayton asked. "Sorry," the barkeep said. "I'll have a tall Bud draft and a shot of Jack Daniels." The barman busied himself fetching the drinks. Amir began with, "How did you know..." but Clayton motioned for him to be quiet. The bartender set down Clayton's order and headed for the kitchen in back. Amir watched as Clayton dropped the shot glass of whiskey into his beer and when the foam started to reach the top he brought it to his lips and took three long gulps, emptying most of the glass. Clayton wiped his mouth, belched, and said, "I do love my boilermakers."

He turned to Amir and in a whisper said, "I'm sure you are wonderin' how I knew you and where you was agoin'. Well, I'll tell ya. It is goin' ta sound strange, but I swear what I'm about to say is the God's honest truth. I met an angel and he told me to meet you at the Cleveland airport bar and take you to the King of Kings. Scared the shit out of me, let me tell you. I had just gone out to put out some feed for the sheep, I'm a sheep farmer by the way, and this light appeared outta nowhere and I heared the most beautiful music I ever heared in my life and amongst the light there appeared this angel and he told me to seek out the wise men from afar. At first I thought he said from a fire, but he corrected me and sent me to you, so here I am." he said with a shrug of his shoulders. Clayton finished his drink in one long pull and waited for Amir to speak.

"Here's your wings. Can I get you some brandy or a whiskey perhaps?" said the bartender.

"No, I don't drink. It is against my religion." said Amir.

"How about a beer then?" suggested the bartender.

"No, thank you!" Amir said firmly.

"I'll have another," Clayton said with a smile. "Go ahead and finish yer meal. It'll be a little while afore the other two get here." Clayton sat down on the bar stool and tugged at the knees of his dirty overalls as he did. He fished around in the pocket of his Carhart coat and pulled out a tin of Copenhagen snuff and lined his lip with it. "So what do you do Mr. Amir from afar?" he said with a tobacco stained smile.

"I'm the president of the University of Paris. I'm an astrocartographer."

"I reckon that makes you kind of a king on campus. Let me ask you somethin'. Is it true what they say about French girls?"

Amir was about to respond that he had no idea what "they" said about French girls when a deep baritone voice behind them interrupted.

"Are you Gentlemen headed to meet our Lord and Savior?"

"Not so loud!" admonished Clayton as he turned to the tall, stately black man in the three-piece pinstripe suit. "You don't want the whole of Homeland Security down on us do you?"

"My apologies gentlemen," he said in a deep whisper, "but I am eager to find the Savior of us all and I forget myself sometimes. My name is Eze Djimon Keon Falstaff Umbala, but please, call me Umbala. I have ventured a long way and I am weary from my travels. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours nor eaten in twelve. I am at my wit's end at being so close and yet so far away."

"Well pull up a stool and sit down. I'm sure Mr. Pang will be a few more minutes. Order whatever you want fella, it's on my tab. I'm Clayton and this here is Mr Amir" offered Clayton.

"Thank you very much sirs. It took much more money to get here than I expected and I haven't any money. All I have is a gift for the King and I wouldn't surrender it for the world."

"Here," said Amir as he slid the plates over, "eat and tell us of your travels."

"Whut kinda name is Eze, Mr. Umbala?" asked Clayton.

"It is an Afican name. It means King. My father had high hopes for me. He was somewhat disappointed when I chose to be a Bible scholar." At that Umbala fell on the chicken and vegetables like a man who hadn't eaten in a week and didn't look up from his plate until it contained nothing but bones and drips of sauce. "My mouth burns," he said as he dabbed at his beard.

"Barkeep!" called Clayton, "Can we get a drink for muh friend here?"

"Have you any rice wine?" Umbala asked.

"We have the house red or white," offered the bartender. "White, please."

As the bartender set down the glass, he looked the men over, but turned away quickly as if he had just thought of something he had to do. At that moment, the door of the bar opened and admitted a short Chinese man with a Fu Manchu mustache. He came to them in long strides and stopped short of them just long enough to give a curt bow and said, "I have done as you have asked Mr. Clayton Delaney. I have turned in my ticket and am ready to leave now please."

"Fellas, let me introduce Mr. Pang Wang Yao. He is going to be comin' with us. He is an astrologer." Clayton said with a note of pride in his voice.

"Pardon me please, astronomer," Pang corrected. "Whatever you say Pang. Alright fellas, gather yer gear and let's hightail it outta here. I'll pay the tab and meet you at the front door," Clayton said as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. The men left in some haste and the bartender brought the check. Clayton didn't even look at it, he just set his Target Visa card on it and finished the last of his drink even though his mouth was still crammed with snuff.

In a minute the bartender returned with the slip and a pen. Clayton signed and left the man a healthy tip. As he handed it back to the bartender, the bartender clasped his hand, hard, and wouldn't let go. "Are you really going to find the Messiah?" he asked. Clayton looked him in the eye for the first time and he saw the look of hope, and as his gaze lowered to his hand he noticed the shiny gold star of David that gleamed from the necklace in the bartender's open collar. "Yup," was all he could mutter.

"I'll pray for you," the bartender muttered in a choked up voice, let go of his hand, and turned away quickly to stifle a tear of joy.

**Editor's Note** The next installment will be published on Saturday 12/19/09. The staff here at Social Zymurgy; the culture of beer would like to wish you a delirously happy holiday, and if you get the chance, drink some of the holiday spirits.

Cheers,
Doc

The Marshall Tool And Die Company

***FFF #9 comes not with a starter sentence per usual but with a short list of words that need to be included. Please enjoy this dark tale that was composed around Lies, Compromise, Disguise, & Redemption.***

"I hate like hell to drag you out of bed at this hour Mr. Levarr but you might be the only man in the state who can help me," Slane said as he plopped down behind his desk. Frank rubbed his sleepy eyes and yawned, "As long as you make it worth my while, I can miss a few hours of sleep."

"Oh the money is there. Don't you fret about that. I just-"

"What kind of money?" Frank pressed.

Slane sat back in his squeaky swivel chair and rubbed his jaw, "Now Mr. Levarr, we have always been very generous with you in the past. Why should now be any different?"

"One, you never knocked me out of bed at two in the morning before, and two, I've always dealt with old man Marshall in the past. Where is he?"

"He took sick. Got cancer in his thyroid or something. He went to Chicago to get some kinda radical treatment. Super chemo or some such. He left me in charge while he's gone." Slane leaned forward on the desk and looked him in the eye, "You want the job or not?"

Frank lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling, "Now Slane, you and I both know that Marshall got the contract with the new shock absorber plant going into Youngstown. Tomorrow is the first of the month and I'm willing to bet that the machine is due for delivery, and it isn't ready yet is it? Why else would you drag me out at this ungodly hour? A machine like that has got to be worth at least $750,000 right?"

"850," Slane grumbled.

"Now it wouldn't look too good if you had to explain to Mr. Marshall how you suffered a big penalty on that contract because you couldn't have it ready on time, now would it? What does the penalty run?"

"Ten grand," Slain said flatly.

"Lies," Frank said as he flicked some ash from the knee of his jeans, "It's got to be at least fifty or perhaps even more? I'll take thirty and save you the grief. You can make the check out to cash." Frank took a long pull at his cigarette and watched the sweaty fat man squirm.

"Surely we can come to some compromise?" Slane pleaded, "I have a wife and family to think of! And what about the business? These are hard times Mr. Lavarr and there are a lot of folks counting on this money!" Slane's eyes grew wide.

Frank dropped his butt on the office floor and made a slow motion of crushing it with his heel. He looked Slane in the eye. "Your wife is a no-good slut and everyone for three counties knows it," Frank cocked a crooked smile, "and if it wasn't for this contract, this place would have folded six months ago, but I am not a blood thirsty vulture. Mr. Marshall was always good to me in a roundabout way, so why kick a man when he's down? I'll take twenty-five and we will call it even. Take it or leave it." Frank began to button his coat as a cold rain began to patter against the window and plink against the metal roof of the pole building.

Slane shook his head as if to rid himself of an uncomfortable truth, but he couldn't shake the reality that he was over a barrel. "I'll get the checkbook from the safe," he said quietly as he rang a buzzer. He tried to disguise his defeat but his hangdog expression gave him away.

The door to the grimy office opened and a hunched man in overalls entered. His slitted eyes took in the scene.

"You remember my brother-in-law Wenzel don't you Mr. Levarr?" Slane said as he crouched in front of the antique safe and waved a hand at the newcomer. Wenzel nodded his hello and slid his hands deep in his pockets. "Why don't you take Mr. Levarr to the machine Wenzel. It is going to take me a few minutes to get this old bastard to open, as it's always temperamental when it's damp out."

"Come on," Wenzel said in a gravely voice and motioned with a jerk of his head that Frank was to follow him. Frank grinned at the thought of easy money as he followed the hunchback out.

Wenzel lead Frank out into the factory with a peculiar shuffling gate as his twisted back seemed to make him wobble from side to side as he took his short, hobbled steps forward. Wenzel let his work boots scuffle along the dirt floor. They ambled past steel stock of all shapes and sizes, and huge presses that were to cut pizza boxes from cardboard three feet thick. The air reeked of grease, dust, and exhaust. The bare light bulbs hung low and it seemed as if only every other one was lit. The rain picked up and began to pound the metal roof like lead shot falling on a drum head.

Wenzel paused at a hard-used red tool box at his feet and rummaged around for a moment. "Here we go," he muttered as he pulled out a heavy-duty metal flashlight. He clicked the switch to make sure that it worked and the light fell into the tool box. "So that's where I left it," he muttered as he pulled a pint bottle of cheap whiskey out. He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. "You want a snort?" he offered. Frank noticed how he wiped the bottle off on his grease encrusted sleeve before he held it out. "No thanks," Frank said, "not before breakfast."

"Suit yerself," and most of the bottle slid down his gullet before he tucked it away in his back pocket. "C'mon," he said as he handed the flashlight to Frank and they mounted the narrow metal stairs up the huge gray machine. Wenzel pointed out each feature and section as they went along, from the feeding system of the metal stock to the stamp that produces the cylinder that was the body of the shock. He motioned to the entry of the milled piston and the measurement of the fluid that was used. All the while, Frank was shining the light from each connection and joint, checking every air hose and belt, his critical eye was taking in all the facets of this complicated machine in much the same way a surgeon lays open his patient and surveys his project.

Wenzel stopped along the high catwalk and shouted above the sound of the torrent of rain on the metal roof, "Here's where we got the problem. This bit is supposed to stuff the rubber washer into the grommets at the ends but it just won't do it. I've checked the feed. I checked the air pressure, the timing, and the placement, but the son of a bitch just don't want to line up." Wenzel had another sip from his bottle, "I can't figure it out, maybe you can," he said with a toxic grin.

Frank ran a few pieces and saw how the rubber washer was consistently crushed and mauled. "It just doesn't have enough throw to the mounting arm," he said with resolve as he climbed the ladder to the access panel on the top. Frank removed the loose panel and stuck his head in. The hole was small and it took him some effort to work his hand holding the flashlight into the confined space.

What greeted him was the anguished face of a seventy-year old man with gray hair who had had his throat cut out with a jagged, sharp object and had wedged himself in the machinery in an effort to hide from his attacker, and had promptly bled to death.

Frank yanked his head from the machine with a startled cry, "It's...it's Mr. Marshall...he's dead!" he managed to sputter out.

Wenzel's pale face lost what little color it had and he turned his slitted eyes on Frank in an insane way, "So that's where he's been hiding," Wenzel nodded as if it all made sense now. "I think you had better climb down now Mr. Levarr," his gravel voice turned deeper as the lightening began to flash through the high windows.

Frank stared at him in disbelief, "The man is dead Wenzel! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"He said a dirty thing about my sister," Wenzel said in a monotone.

Frank's mouth moved but he couldn't make any sound.

"You said a dirty thing about her too!" Wenzel shouted, and to punctuate it, he broke his bottle on the hand rail and waved the jagged glass at Frank's face. "I heard you! I was outside of the office and I heard you!" The lightening flashed again and seemed to leave it's bright spark in Wenzel's maniacal eyes. Frank trembled and the flashlight fell from his fingers and made a wildly tinny sound as it clattered down through the machinery until it struck the floor with a thud.

"You can't talk like that about her!" he screamed. His face screwed itself up into a look of rage as tears welled in his eyes. "She was the only one who protected me from Pappa! He would beat me when he was drunk and curse me for killing Mama by being born, and she would always lead him away. Sometimes she would sleep in his bed and I would hear her cry out and scream, like the devil had her by the ass, and maybe he did! But in the morning, when he was sleeping it off, she would bring me hot towels and patch my hurts..." Now the tears wouldn't stop and Wenzel couldn't see straight through his madness and his wet eyes.

He lashed out at Frank with the broken bottle and cut a large gash in his side. Frank crumpled to the catwalk and tried to hold his guts in as he scooted away from certain death at the hands of a mad man. Frank pulled himself along, his gaze never wavering from Wenzel's slow plod after him until his back bumped something solid and he looked up into the eyes of Slane.

"So you figured out what was wrong?" Slane asked in a calm voice.

"He's fuckin' crazy!" Frank blurted out.

"Yes, yes, we all know that," Slain dismissed the statement with a casual wave of his hand, "what's wrong with the machine?"

Frank was not a religious man but at that point he began to mumble the only prayer he knew. He got to "Who art in heaven" before Wenzel's broken bottle scooped out his throat from chin to collar bone.

Slane looked down at the dead man and sighed, "I guess there is no need to worry about redeeming ourselves in Mr. Marshall's eyes now," he concluded.

"They ain't no redemption for guys like us," Wenzel muttered as he ran his bloody fingers through his long, greasy hair. "Go get the van and call Velma. We can cash the check in Cleveland," he said.

Doc

**Author's Note** This idea was "lifted" from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Engineer's Thumb" and in no way should be viewed as an invention of the author himself. While the author takes much pride in his work, he is deeply indebted to those who came before him and tries to give them credit where it is so often due. The author also knows nothing about how shock absorbers are made.

An Established Curriculum

FFF #8

"Warning: choking hazard, small parts, not suitable for children under 3 years" was what the Li'l Edgar Allan Poe Posable Figure box said, but Johnny didn't listen because he was almost thirteen so he ripped off the head and ate it. "There, you old bastard," he muttered as the taste of Chinese plastic faded from his tongue, "that will teach you and Mrs. Kessler! Screw the stupid book report! I ain't doing it!"

The head of Poe seemed to lodge itself halfway down and it felt as if it was gnawing at the root of his tongue. Johnny coughed and sputtered a bit, but the head refused to move on to the indignity that he had planned for it. "A cold drink will fix this right," he thought. There wasn't any milk in the fridge, but the carton of grape juice was full. Johnny wasn't the kind of kid to stand for the formalities of cups and glasses, so he drank right from the carton in the way his mother frowned upon.

"There's your case of Amontill...Amantill...Amandildo!" Johnny thought to himself, "Try and unbrick your fuckin' way out of this one, you creepy old son of a bitch!" as the grape juice loosened Poe's head. It seemed to make a subtle thud as it hit bottom.

"Johnny! Time for bed dear!" his mother called from the sofa.

"Aww Mom! It's only nine-thirty!" Johnny whined.

"I don't care. You are a growing boy and you need your rest. Besides, it's a school night and I want you bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. Go to bed!" she said with a mother's resolve.

"G'night," he mumbled as he shuffled off.

The sheets were cool as he slid between them and settled his head into a comfy spot on the pillow. His belly rumbled as his limbs went slack in relaxation. "Stuffed green peppers must be sitting wrong," he considered as his eyes closed and sleep quickly overcame him.

Like most nights, Johnny quickly fell into a dream state and pictured himself in school the next day. Mrs. Kessler called his name to give his book report and Johnny swaggered forward to the head of the class with all the confidence of a flinty western gunfighter. Mrs. Kessler and the class looked at him with rapt attention. Johnny turned his back to the black board and looked out across the sea of faces. "For starters," he began, "I didn't read the effing book!" The class gasped along with Mrs. Kessler who held her hand in front of her mouth to hear such a blaspheme. "You want to know why? This stupid son of a bitch has got nuthin' to teach us for one. He ain't scary for another, and nobody talks like this any more! Who the hell can follow what the fuck he is talkin' about? I can't, and you shouldn't have to suffer through any more of this hack's bullshit!" At this point, the class broke into cheers and Mrs. Kessler dabbed her wet eyes with her hanky and shook his hand. She held it for a long time and thanked him for his honesty and in helping her see the light. She gave him an 'A' and promised that they would never study Edgar Allan Poe again in PS 128! Johnny basked in the glow of his fellow classmates and looked down the front of Mrs. Kessler's ample sweater as he did it.

Johnny awoke with a start as the dream ended abruptly. He was in his own room and was nestled in his own bed, but the warm feeling of adulation from his classmates evaporated in an instant and was replaced by a very cold sense of fear. The house was quiet. Nothing broke the stillness of the night as Johnny stared at the ceiling above him in the darkened room until the distant howl of a lonesome dog pierced the night. Johnny's belly howled along with the mysterious hound.

Johnny wasn't old enough to know what fear or despair smelled like, but his room was filled with a grossly uncomfortable stink, and it wasn't from fluffing the covers after stuffed pepper night. His alarm clock started to tick progressively louder despite it's digital operation. It seemed to be ticking in time with his heart in a familiar but uncomfortable tick-tick, thump-thump manner, as if one was calling out to the other, and the other answered in it's own kind.

Johnny reached up to wipe the fat beads of sweat from his forehead before they slid into his wide eyes that were trying to penetrate the gloom. He struggled to ascertain from which direction this nameless fear would strike out at him. He found his hand to be numb and lifeless as he pulled it across his brow, as if he had been laying wrong on his arm and it had gone to sleep of it's own volition. As his own hand passed over his eyes, even this limp member could detect a volcanic temperature that arose from his head.

As he tucked his arm beneath the warm covers, Johnny tried to convince himself that it was only a good dream that had drifted into fear on his awakening and there was really nothing to be afraid of. Johnny stared hard at the covers that were bathed in a sliver of moonlight from his blinds to steady his rattled nerves. He needed to be fully awake or to quickly drift back off to sleep, as this was the only way he could think of to shake these late night jitters. As he pulled the covers up to his neck, he tried to return to his lost dream of class-wide admiration, and moved his feet a little deeper into the bed.

He was surprised when one foot struck something cold and hard. His eyelids shot up and his focus studied his feet in the small stripes of moon light that fell from his blinds. He looked at his feet intently in the dim light.

Whatever his foot had struck had a life of it's own. To his amazement, it seemed to cling to his little toe with a vice-like grip. He heard the soft snap of toe bones crunching before the pain ever registered in his sleep addled brain.

Johnny kicked and thrashed, and he shook the painful attack loose. "The hell.." was as much as he could muster before the covers revealed that, whatever it was, it was climbing up his leg towards him and the bump under the covers was moving with a steady pace. He held still and watched. He could feel tiny fingers clasp one hair and then the next in an effort to pull itself up his leg. He could feel tiny shoes dig into his shin and push themselves along by their own perverse exertion. The covers humped up and moved with the sensations to reassure him that something wicked was crawling up his leg.

"Arrgh!" Johnny screamed as he squirmed and threw back the covers. A six inch figure in a tiny black suit was clinging to his leg hairs and looked at him with a death stare, or would have, if it had a head. Johnny thrashed around some more and tried to kick it off with his other leg, but it was as if his limbs had been paralysed and he was held in place by glue.

The figure continued to pull himself along by the hairs on Johnny's leg, and as he did so, the clock grew louder and the figure grew bigger with each tug at these fine hairs. As he reached Johnny's knee, he was three feet long. As his cold gray claws hooked into Johnny's underwear, He was four feet long. When the figure reached his cold, plastic hands around Johnny throat and began to gently squeeze, he was a six foot plastic headless corpse and his weight was a hundred and sixty pounds heavy on Johnny's chest.

Johnny struggled to loose himself from this death-like grip. He fought against his foe with limbs that wouldn't answer. He tried to cry out for help, but his voice only made a rasping, gurgling noise and he knew that no one would ever hear him again. He quit fighting and resolved to die at age thirteen, beneath the crushing weight of a life-sized plastic corpse who would consume his very soul.

The body seemed to turn it's non-existent head on him and recognise him for the first time. The bloodless plastic hands slowly crushed his wind pipe a little harder as it leaned close to his face. He could feel the hot breath emerge upon his cheek from a severed plastic esophagus and it seemed to have quickened it's breath to match the timing of his pounding heart.

The plastic hands gripped tighter still and Johnny felt the life ebbing from him when the figure leaned into his face and muttered from it's throat hole, "Read it," in a ghastly hiss.

Johnny ceased to be and grew cold where he lay.

Johnny's mother got up early like she always did and stopped at the bathroom to relieve herself, then headed off to the kitchen to make her morning coffee. "What are you doing up?" she said with a startled cry.

"I couldn't sleep," Johnny admitted, "and I had some homework to finish before school today. I made coffee already. Have some. I did." Johnny's eyes were as bloodshot as a crack addict and he spoke in a monotone so different from his usual bouncy self. He turned his red eyes back to a book and scribbled like mad on a paper already filled with notes.

"Why the sudden interest in school work?" Mom asked as she filled her mug, "You never cared this much before?"

"I got up early cause I had to take a crap," Johnny explained in a disembodied voice, "There was a head in it and it told me so." he turned his eyes slowly back to his book and his notes as if his life depended on it.

Of this, he would never speak of again.

Mom got used to his new all black wardrobe and his vegan diet, but he was never the same again.

Doc

**Author's Note** This story comes from meeting Riley's teacher at an ungodly hour of the morning today after a long night of celebrating my birthday. I can only pray that you have average kids, as the gifted ones are tougher to handle. As a parent, you owe them to start putting your boot in their ass now. I'm finding out now, it is my job.

The Chica Chica Boom Room

FFF #7

"There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.
It's easy." - The Beatles, "All You Need Is Love".

"Save me, I'm lost.
Oh Lord, I've been waiting for you.
I'll pay any cost.
Save me from being confused." - Carolina Liar

"Is that you baby or just a brilliant disguise?" - Bruce Springsteen.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana. "Who the hell is this cat Bensonmum?" I asked. The bar tender leaned stiffly forward over the bar and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, "This is Senor Krackow. He is a bit eccentric, but he is very good for business. Be nice to him, please."

"I said where is my figging iguana?" Krackow bellowed, "You ass warts didn't hear me? You butt crusts better get it together! I want my Buddha blamed iguana right flaming now!" Every face in the bar was turned to him as he rested his hand on one cocked hip and let his sequined skirt with the wide slit slide to one side, revealing entirely too much leg. He awaited results. Bensonmum's finger snap sounded like a gunshot as he grabbed the attention of the waiters and the rest of the bar. Wordlessly, he raised his index finger straight up and made a small circle in the air. Instantly, every person was in motion. Women dumped out their handbags while men turned out their pockets as if this was a well practiced fire drill. The waiters began crawling under tables and rooting through the large potted plants.

Bensonmum hurried around the bar and ushered Senor Krackow to a stool, "It will take them a few moments to find Mrs. Urethra Senor. Please, come and have a cool drink on the house while you wait. It should only be a moment, please, sit down next to the good Doctor." Krackow walked like he had a rented pelvis, thrusting it out ahead of himself, but he let Bensonmum guide him to a seat. "About time I got some sodding service," he muttered, "And you call this place a reputable bar. I was prepared to make a scene if I had to!"

"No, no. That won't be necessary. We have things well in hand now," Bensonmum said as he glanced at his wait staff who were pulling down the curtains. "Senor Krackow, may I present Herr Doctor Quackenbush. Doctor, the right honorable Senor Enrique Butch Blossom Krackow the third. You gentlemen get acquainted while I fetch some drinks," and with that, Bensonmum was gone, leaving me sitting next to a raving loony who was wearing twelve pounds of fresh fruit and enough sequins to pave Vegas. "Er, so uh, tell me Senor Krackow, what do you do?" I asked.

"Whatever I jacking well please," he said flippantly as he plucked a grape from his forehead and popped it into his mouth. He chewed noisily as he looked me over then spat a grape seed on the bar as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

"Here are your drinks gentlemen. Gin and tonic for Herr Doctor, and a Roy Rogers with a triple vermouth back for the Senor," Bensonmum said as he set the drinks down with a flourish, "Pardon me, I must attend to my wait staff as they seem to need some assistance in removing the paneling from the walls. Enjoy!" and with that, he was off.

"Doctor eh? What kind of a doctor? Podiatrist maybe?" Krackow asked.

"Gynecologist," I lied.

"Damn! I was hoping for a foot doctor as these heels are killing me!" Krackow pulled the cherries from his Roy Rogers and gently tucked them into his fruity hat before sucking down the drink with a gurgle.

I knew I shouldn't, but I just had to ask, "What's with the costume?"

He smiled, "What, this old thing? I only wear this when I don't care what I look like," he said with a giggled of a little girl. As he laughed his great horse's bray of a laugh, he put one hand across his breast so as not to reveal too much and held the other one in front of his mouth to catch the spittle. He leaned forward and whispered, "It's a disguise you see. I'm hiding. The King of Sweden has put a price on my head and I can't be caught until we get Alexander back into office."

"Alexander?"

"The Great, you silly boy!" He patted my arm as if we were old friends. He dipped his fingers in his glass of vermouth and dabbed a little behind each ear in a well rehearsed move, then he licked a cocktail napkin. Satisfied with his freshening up, he turned to the rest of the bar and bellowed, "Someone better come up with my dirt monkey iguana before I get totally jim-jammed here! I warn you, I have mustard and I'm not afraid to use it!" He turned back to me as the chaos in the bar ratcheted up another notch and made the Keystone Cops look like a well trained S.W.A.T. team. "Are you going to be in town long?" he asked.

"Just the weekend," I said, "I've come to study the cracks here in town."

He raised one eyebrow as the maraschino cherry juice dribbled down his forehead and into his eye.

"No, no. Nothing like that," I volunteered, "The cracks in the sidewalks. This town has the most interesting cracks in the world. It's something of a hobby of mine. I have a coffee table book coming out in June published by Rickenbacker, Flemish, & Bledsoe. They are very reputable publishing house and have given the topic the proper respect it deserves." I have no idea why I said this, but it seemed like the right responce for the time.

"Pity you aren't in town longer. We could have played racket ball."

"Really? How's your serve?" I asked.

"Oh I don't serve. I just throw the racket at the ball and see how far I can get it to bounce! It's quite fun!" Krackow picked up a full sugar shaker and flung it at a passing waiter's head. It connected with a sharp thud and sent the waiter reeling to the floor. The waiter thanked him for his kind attention and crawled off looking for his false teeth that had been dislodged with the blow. "That will learn you, you gob stuffing gravy spoon!" Krakow remarked.

"Here she is!" Bensonmum called with an armful of iguana as he scurried to the bar, "She has been found at last! The little vixen was hiding in the flour canister in the kitchen," he said with a broad smile.

"Probably thought it was my stash, the poor simpering, foolish adenoid," cooed Krackow. He gave the iguana a tickle under the chin and then performed a quick bath for it in the vermouth, with most of it running off into his lap. Then he pulled an enormous check book from his brassier and dashed off a check for a million pounds or rubles or something.

"Ta-ta darlings. I must gabble out of here. I've people to do and places to meet," with that, he hiked up his skirt and made a small leap off the bar stool to land perfectly on his lime green stiletto heels. He smoothed out his skirt and adjusted his fruity hat before turning back. "Bensonmum?"

"Yes Senor?"

"If a short, squat gentleman with a large facial scar stops in tonight and asks for me, would you give him a message?"

"Certainly Senor," Bensonmum licked the end of his pencil and held it above his order pad, fully prepared to take dictation.

"Tell him..."

"Yes..."

"Tell him to eat the mushroom and forget about the tabby cat," Krackow nodded to himself as if he had done his best to accomplish a tough and painful task. He headed for the door and at the threshold screamed, "God Save Sri Lanka!" and disappeared into the night.

The patrons turned from one to another and heaved a collective sigh of relief. I took a long pull at my gin and stood up. This was as much of an adventure as I could handle for the evening. My twenty dollar bill looked pretty small next to Krackow's over-sized check on the bar. I filled my lungs with the cool night air when I hit the pavement. I lit a Players and hiked for my hotel, the Ben Wa Arms.

As I walked and smoked, I tried to make a little sense of my evening. Nothing about it made the slightest bit of sense. Not Bensonmum, the bar, and most of all, not Krackow. My gaze fell to my moving feet on the sidewalk. The more I watched my feet eat up the distance, the more I convinced myself that this was some horrible flashback from too many years sniffing model glue as a teenager or from the time I shoved white blotter acid under my eyelid in college so I could trip extra hard. It was all too surreal.

Then I stopped mid-stride. On the sidewalk, fallen between the cracks was a smashed maraschino cherry and some iguana dung. At that moment, I resolved to spend my weekend in the hotel and live off of room service, and with any luck, not run into another soul.

Sometimes you need to fall back and regroup.

Doc

Who Can Question The Power Of Love?

"First time you feel it, it might make you sad,
Next time you feel it it might make you mad,
But you'll be glad baby when you've found,
That's the power makes the world go round!" - Huey Lewis & The News, "The Power Of Love"

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong. It's in the fall. I know I've been feeling a bit of an itch lately, if you know what I mean," Fritz said wistfully.

Javier didn't seem to be listening, but seemed more intent on staring at Fritz's left shoulder with an intense gaze. Fritz didn't notice and continued to elaborated on his thought.

"Yeah, I've been feeling pretty randy here as of late," Fritz scratched his chin, "You know what I look for in a woman Javier? You know what really pushes my buttons? I bet you haven't got a clue."

"A big ass?" Javier volunteered without ever moving his fixed look.

"That's right! Ha ha! You got it! A nice big, plump red ass! The redder, the better!" Fritz smiled at the thought and clapped his hands, "That's how my ex-wife Naomi was. Just redder than the setting sun, and she knew how to shake it, let me tell you boy! She was a fine catch at the time. The first time I saw her, she was just strolling by and I take one look at her and I thought to myself, 'She's pretty good looking. Not drop dead WOW, but pretty.' but when she got past me and I saw her from the back, I knew I had to make her mine! She had a walk that just exuded grace and sexiness, and...well...class, if you know what I mean. She had panache. Not like the girls today who just want to stick it in your face and mutter something dreadful like, 'Come and get it, big boy' or some twaddle."

Javier's arm shot out with the speed of a flash bulb and snatched something from Fritz's shoulder and he pinched it in his fingers. "Sorry old man, didn't mean to startle you," Javier said, "It's just that you've had this bug crawling on you for fifteen minutes and that just irritates me to no end! One of my many eccentricities I guess," Javier sighed, "I'm sorry, please continue. Naomi's ass?"

"Well, yes," Fritz shifted and eyed Javier to see if he was going to lash out again any time soon, then continued, "Yeah, that Naomi was a fine one for a roll, she was. It's a pity she was so bull-headed. I could have made my life with that woman if she could have just once and a while compromised. But no! It had to be her way all the time! What we ate, where we slept, on and on! She would just dig her feet in over the stupidest things. It was a relief when she moved back in with her mother." Fritz sat quietly for a moment and just fiddled with his thumbs. Javier didn't say anything because he was afraid to intrude on his friend's thoughts, and snuck the bug between his fingers into his mouth instead.

Fritz looked up and wiped his nose on his wrist with resolve. "What do you say we rustle up some dinner," he said, "I know this great ant mound not far from here. You could find us some sticks on the way."

"Why do I have to find the sticks?" queried Javier.

"Cause you're the better tool-maker numb nuts!" Fritz said with a friendly jab. The two baboons wandered off together.













**Editor's Note** I read somewhere that when a female baboon is "in season" her butt gets redder to attract mates. I thought this was odd and worthy of a story.

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