After Tax
(English And Spanish Youth translation)
A Journey through Consequence
Written by Dan Zeorlin
Dedication
To my parents for sharing their love of life
and to Linda for showing us how to live.
introduction
Which state is most frightening: the experience you imagined or the imagination you experienced?
Sandy was just doing his job, minding his own business, staying free from messiness in life—when he died. As a dead man, Sandy does not have opportunities to do the right thing. He finds favor to have an intercessor (a living sponsor) so that he may exit from his condition and gain eternal justice.
His circle of influence included a handful of individuals but he did not empower these people to become better caregivers. Thus nobody was able to say Sandy’s life or death was significant.
Rather a risky venture, wouldn’t you agree?
The effect of advocating for rights of others often brings trials and tribulations. Sandy’s family must deal with the consequences of his behavior. Unaccountable existence can warrant exposure to hazards.
Good luck,
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE NUMBER
I:THE DEAD MAN page jump
Alone at Last 7
Dead or Alive 8
Dead Man’s Mate 9
The Harvest 12
The Harvest 12
Freaks 13
Arousal 14
The Decision 17
The Trip 17
FINALE 19
Epilogue 20
II. WONDERFUL FAMILY page jump
French Silk Pie 21
Funeral Plans 24
A Child’s Vantage 27
Automatic Exchange 29
Sacrificial Alteration 30
Roadkill 34
Nighthunt 35
Just Compensation 38
Ode to Grandma 42
Sneepers Returns 43
Winers 45
Wrongful Death 46
III. LOST EXCELLENCE-MAGNIFICENT TRAGEDY page jump
Team Player 48
IV. THE DESIRE TO PREY page jump
Fido’s Tale 51
About Frank 52
A Dog’s Life 55
The BOA 56
The Storm 60
The Maze 61
A Dog’s Perspective 62
Addiction 64
Ms. Shanalan’s Folly: Immutable Desire 65
How to Cheat your Peersss 67
More About Frank 68
Ms. S 69
CONCLUSION page jump
The Dead Man’s Lament 74
About the Author 76
I: The Dead Man
Alone at Last!
The dead man climbed slowly out of his grave. The exercise would kill him yet he had to do it.
His skeleton teetered and he arose feebly. Inelastic tissues extended to their full limits, balancing him. Although there was not a good reason for his fitness plan, he took action anyway and proceeded to jog around the graveyard.
He wanted answers: What held him back? When could he leave? Why must he seek permission?
A woman mourned quietly during the burial ritual. The genuine expression of her loss touched him. Lovely! He would be missed. Parting was bittersweet… NOW GET ON WITH IT.
His heart beat but he had been bled out by the undertaker and the embalming fluids did not revive him. His skin tightened, his eyes shot open and he clutched his chest. Despite being shocked, he sensed nothing. The funeral ended but the mourner refused to leave.
Dead or Alive
The groundskeeper lowered the box into the slot until it came to a halt at the root of a freshly blocked cut, between rotted hulls of adjacent coffins. Blue pines and a canopy of oak trees shaded the site. The dead man lay silent; death did not come. A backhoe dropped dirt into the slit.
Time, like the urge to pray, became a constant.
Who might have known such a thing would happen? His mouth pursed an “O” but without air in his lungs, the vocal chords were useless. Damn those preservatives! All the control in his life was gone. He felt useless and at the whim of death.
The dead man was angry and ill content. Heaven should have been easy but this was hard. Nobody can rest forever. He felt betrayed. DAMN IT! WHO WAVERED MY LEASE?
Most people fade away from living with a singular destination, yet the dead man's situation was different. The hereafter had jilted him! His flirt with death was short-lived; close, but no ducks. If he could inhale, he may still be able to smell its promising aroma–however, no; it was not meant to be.
The posthumous quarters bothered him. Plush cushions provided no consolation and the rigidity coupled with claustrophobia was unsettling. He damned his surroundings. Why won’t it end without atonement? The lack of sound was deafening.
After prying with the tang from his belt buckle, he penetrated the lead barrier of his shroud and formed a vent. The puncture enlarged and a thin sliver of aluminum-clad wood tore from the case. The dead man burrowed into the fill, packing his den with soil granules by shuttling and relocating them into the coffin. He reduced the overburden three teaspoons at a time. Soon and very soon he would depart.
Dead Man's Mate
Haze veiled the cemetery behind a screen of moist shadows, while granite markers resisted the mist. The latitude was unnerving. The dead man rose, and he radiated strangeness. Finally his head sprouted. He winced. Rain fell over the graveyard and soaked his soggy scab of dressing.
Stay calm! Don't pull gaffes. No knee-jerk reactions. He weighed the dreary alternatives. Prioritize…manipulate…control desires…. He decided to continue after sunset. The dead man nestled down into the viscous mud. Everyone is blind in the dark. Death is patient.
X X X
Nearby, a lone dog searched for the dead man. It yearned for his friendship. The dog began digging and picked up his scent. At last the unlikely comrade reached him but it was soon dismissed. Go away. I'm not your chew toy! Skulking, the bowser withdrew upwind and waited. Death was fickle.
X X X
The daylight climaxed in a vast and mottled sky and the moon stirred an evening breeze from the hallowed realm. The dead man thrust his arm above the horizon, forming a silhouette against the meadow of monuments. A horn bellowed from a bus on a vacant street and the dead man trembled. I must be crazy! Dare I risk it? Death might be practical.
X X X
Apparitions with bare fangs suddenly surfaced, broadcasting their warnings. The curs crept closer. Bristling faintly, a lone wolf crouched, leaped, and bowled the dead man over! A jackal halted the dead man’s momentum. Teeth sank into the dead man’s leg, ripping the calf away from his bone.
Without hesitation, the hound countered, biting off mouthfuls of scurvy fur from the mangy hunters’ coats. The dead man was astonished and grew exhausted by the melee. He wielded a fallen limb and lunged, bludgeoning the abominable canines. The brutes yelped, signaling their quest for dominance was over, and they loped away.
“Fido: Good Dog!” A wave reverberating from the dead man’s body bore the decree; vibration from his vertebrae enabled him to speak!
Fido's stomach grumbled.
The dead man had an idea. He removed a shoe, bent his toe sharply backwards, and snapped off the appendage. “Parts are parts…and you look famished. Enjoy, pooch.”
The carnivore snatched the fleshy morsel and crushed the digit, fracturing it like ice. At that instant, the nomad and the vagrant became allies. Their bond of demand and supply was secure for the moment.
Fido finished feeding before vanishing into the vapors. The dead man made clicking noises, adding a pulse to his dread: So much to be done…and without reparation. “Crap!” he said. His determination to succeed failed to produce the desired results.
The dead man wondered where the dog had gone. Efforts to find Fido were wasted and he thought of giving up. What next? He was afraid that horrible enemies waited for him. He did not trust anyone but a howling urged him onward and repeated, “Yow-ou-ou. Yow-ou-ou-ou.” Keep moving, he told himself. Walking with a limp, he staggered until he banged into a concrete bluff. The impact jarred his sensitivity. Earth fell away and a chasm opened. He looked into the hollow.
The Harvest
Ghastly specters projected resonating moans into the cavern. This cleft is spacious, and that’s no lie! A red-streaked vulture clawed strips of nastiness from carrion. Its beak dipped fully into a disjoined head, chiseling out segments from the unattached mound. Farther below, a hulking ogre roved aimlessly. The barbarian eviscerated a headless chest while stuffing its gullet with globs of easy meat. It removed cartilage with curved tusks, shredding the ties, and its massive forearms scattered the sloppy remains. Beneath the carnage, a ring-necked reptile gorged on scraps. Like a chameleon, its hue changed from yellow to brackish-black. Pillagers roamed in nightmarish scenes.
The dead man’s visions of cruelty aggravated his pride. How bizarre! In the past, he abandoned victims. Now, after life, he identified each by name.
A hideous brat crossed in front of him and it wailed shrilly. Here was young Frank, a former neighbor’s child who had been labeled as ADHD. In a curious tragedy, water-filled waders had panicked the boy’s fat-fisted father and they dragged him to the bottom of a pond. The incident was ruled “a mishap wrought by alcohol.” However, the lad did not view the drowning as having totally undesirable results. At the occasion of the senior Frank’s passing, his son incorporated a commonly expressed sentiment into his demeanor: Goodbye and good riddance. Part-thug and part-swine, the delinquent stubbornly engaged the dead man anew.
Another entity—a spiteful bird-lady—espied their zeal. It was Ms. Shanalan! Ms. Shanalan intrigued grade-schoolers with her tainted technology. Her bony neck craned, unrestricted atop scavenger-like shoulders. While she lived, Ms. Shanalan's power to unearth secrets was horrific. The dead man cowered and evaded the predator’s scan.
A serpentine rebel slid directly underneath him. So this was what Sneepers aspired to be: foolish teen. The twerp twisted his dirt bike around a tree. Sneepers now resembled a snake more than he did a human being. Such a misfortune. Rise too fast; fade like a shadow.
A green pustule ballooned from inside Frank’s four-sided snout, and then the mucous bubble burst, discharging mealy liquid. Sneepers’ gills billowed lithely apart. Ms. Shanalan screeched her foul laugh. Frank sneezed and blew particles into the air. Salty solutions dripped like mantras from the dead man as he contemplated his new identity.
Freaks
The repulsive freaks stopped: Sneepers coiled beside him; Ms. Shanalan expelled a pair of dice; Frank embraced the die and rolled snake eyes. The cubic orbs locked onto the dead man like insects impaled by pins. Sneepers sneered and Frank goaded. “You suck.”
“Be done,” Ms. Shanalan interjected. “He is a recruit.”
She gestured invitingly to the dead man. “We prospected you!”
“I have a pet,” he muttered.
Frank snorted through a menacing pout. “Ain’t no dogma here.”
Ms. Shanalan wilted derisively. “Frank, you’re incorrigible.”
At that decisive moment, the mongrel reappeared and sidled up to him. “Fido, my guardian!” The dead man swelled with relief and said, “Come Fido!” He flipped another toe to the dog and broke the trio’s concentration.
The dead man was incensed. He grew haggard from Frank’s banal selfishness and he exclaimed, “Chicken-shit assholes. This is the final speculation.”
Fido merely belched.
Arousal
The dead man threw up. Soon he encountered a great foundation, on which the bodies of disoriented ghouls paraded haphazardly. They gyrated and groped incoherently. Various vindicators vexed valiantly.
“You snared us like rats...”
“You suffocated us…”
“How deceitful…”
“You cheated on me…”
“I choked…”
“You’re infected…”
“It wasn’t me,” said the dead man. His denunciation oozed like shelf life.
“Is he done?” queried a waxen corpse.
The dead man detested close-knit beings, and he flinched.
“Bring a dissenter to me!” commanded Ms. Shanalan.
Frank snarled. “Make your lackey do it.”
“But which one?” asked the dead man.
“Pick me. Pick me.”
“Sssasssssshay,” wheezed the viper.
The dead man navigated through the huddled masses. He returned to the lurid patrol with one of the perishables.
“It’s disappointing how things turned out,” said the dead man.
“Now is your chance to win,” Ms. Shanalan said to the plebe. “What’s your pleasure?”
“I love to Bridge,” said the contestant.
A feminine figure responded enthusiastically. “Why not me?” she asked.
“Screw that.”
“Your part isss crooked,” Sneepers drawled. “Your part isss crooked.”
“Ante up,” said Ms. Shanalan.
Frank spanked a stream of brusqueness on the departure and Sneepers gurgled.
Stakes were driven into a high plateau, puncturing the trading station with dots. Piles of poorly reconciled ledgers concealed a warped altar. Ms. Shanalan promptly demonstrated her administrative expertise. She criticized the proceedings.
Frank badgered the dead man, “Deal, loser.”
The dead man shuffled cards from a voluminous deck. The sentinel maneuvered in an amateurish manner and drew closer to the action. “I expect quality,” she preconditioned.
“Ingrate. You're going to get it.” Ms. Shanalan released a cackle.
Sneepers was deeply disturbed. “I-I-I needsss out.”
Elimination of the first player took little effort. Frank kicked the dog, punting Fido into the lifeless throng.
“You lossst.” Sneepers struck at the dead man and then slithered away in pursuit of a diversion.
“Next candidate,” said Ms. Shanalan.
Her alert roused a thin, colorless man from his stupor. The mark pledged weakly, “I dropped a nut. You got the drumstick. We lost Tripoly.”
The legion of secondary offenders cheered while the gamers mocked him. The dead man spat, “Of all the sordid luck...Entertainment Night!”
Details were systematically obscured. The dead man wondered if this were how penance should be dispensed.
“As you were,” dictated Ms. Shanalan. She elevated her roost to perch above the dead man. “We are an esoteric group…”
The Decision
“Join us,” she crowed.
“Why me?” the dead man asked.
“We have options.”
Frank chimed in. “You ain't no choirboy.”
As daybreak threatened, the earth trembled and the dog's hidey-hole opened. Fido gnawed on a huge thigh. The dead man nervously viewed the propositioners. Does anything help?
Sneepers slid indistinctly to the base of the troupe and mouthed, “No regretsss.”
Fido clutched a leg bone. The dead man shuddered, recalling the satin lining of his box–soft, but no chenille. “I know. I know: It won’t last.” Fido ceased begging and departed the abyss. Dawn broke the drama and denied the nether its allure.
The Trip
“Damn it, Fido,” the dead man said. He appraised the rapidly brightening firmament before rendering his opinion: “That council was biased!”
Nearby a taxi’s dual headlights bathed the duo with contrasting light. The operator behind the wheel yelled: “Irrevocable, reprehensible butchers!”
The dead man furrowed his brow.
The taxi driver tendered an interpretation. “Don’t let bastards grind you down, honey.”
Fido nuzzled the dead man’s arm before removing a serving of crunchies.
“Heh, heh, heh,” the cabby chortled and leaned through the open portal, handing a clean napkin to the dog. “What’s the game plan for this here rodeo?”
The dead man refocused his gaze; he eyed glory while his whole being emitted putrid scent.
“Hey, trooper, give her a chance,” the cabby continued. “Your stink’d make a hog vomit. You need to clear that gutter.”
The dead man reacted. “My, you’re persistent!”
“Look, buddy; I just had a premonition you didn't belong here. Wake up or be compost.”
Fido’s jowl bulged around a tepid plug that hung from the roof of her palate and she groaned. The dead man avoided making eye contact.
“Hurry up. Get in.” The driver pointed to the back and said, “We'll chat at the Crypt!”
The grade was steep and the outcome abrupt. Faulty suspension supported the ends.
FINALE
The conclusion was hasty and unavoidable: The end is coming. The end is near. The end is here.
At last, impasse was breached. The dead man looked out. Dead-Speak was inscribed above a stoic archway.
Death is mortified
X X X
life proceeds unrestrained
“Life and Death wreak hazards for the pilgrim. That’s for sure,” said the guide, steering the conversation. “Now get out,” she added, collecting the fare, “…and don't take forever.”
The dead man rambled. “Wisdom makes the trip worth its toll.” He progressed and Fido receded—it was no cake walk–but thus, closure was obtained.
End of I
Epilogue
Rest assured. Taxes can be pried from life but death is only a wish.
II: Wonderful Family
French Silk Pie
Jess’s obligation to his job demanded versatility and it cluttered his weekdays with a great deal of compromise. Ain’t got nothing. Never had nothing. Ain’t ever gonna have nothing. Jess felt like a loser. He traveled home, bearing presents that compensated for the shortcomings, his absence, and their taxed family time. When his trips were prolonged, he capped the returns with loads of treats.
Mary loved desserts but Stevie preferred snacks; however, each shared a passion for chocolate.
He parked behind a big, ratty Lincoln that sported rusted spokes expanding through magnesium wheels. Iron stains bled onto all four tires. Jess asked himself, What the hell are they doing here? The junker belonged to his brother, Sandy. He presumed Jewell, Leveret, and Grandma had arrived as well–the whole slacking lot of them. Jess despised wastefulness and squandering of valuable assets. His homecoming spiked with reservations.
Jess wasn’t ready to entertain the callers. He could get past Sandy, but the others were a problem. He removed his luggage from a cargo bay filled with gifts.
Colleen and the kids poured through an arbor on the side of the house. It linked the backyard with the street. Stephen and Mary squealed, “Daddy’s home. Daddy’s home.” Leveret stopped on the sidewalk.
Colleen declared, “Your mom is here,” as she kissed Jess on the cheek. “She invaded this morning.”
Sandy and Jewell strolled across the lawn. “Hey, bro.” Sandy beamed. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
Jess leered at his sibling but then redirected his glare to the front porch: There stood their mother.
The matron asked, “What’d you bring me?”
“Hello, Mother. You should’ve called.”
“Don’t be so hard on me. I’m old and decrepit.”
“We were just headed out of town.”
“Don’t worry Jesse. I can’t stay.” She added, “We’ll be gone by Sunday.”
“Mother,” said Jess. “I told you. Don’t call me that. The name belongs to an outlaw.”
Jewell interrupted. “Leveret enjoys his cousins.” Then she motioned to the children. “Come, help with the baggage.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Jess used his elbow and he tried to close the trunk.
“Wait, there’sss one more,” said Leveret as he propped himself against the compartment, stalling the lid’s descent.
Jess murmured to Colleen, “That’s for us.” The sweets were for his family. Those parasites knew that.
Colleen saw the bakery box and chided Jess. “We can ration.” She turned to her nephew. “I’ll take it, Leveret.”
Jess grimaced. “There won’t be enough,” he said.
Jewell defused the tension. “I don’t need anything.”
Colleen scolded Jess. “They can eat mine.” She extracted the pastry from the car and carried the masterpiece gingerly, walking straight to the kitchen.
“Welcome home,” Sandy said, changing his gibe to a smirk.
They all went inside. The argument ended and Jess had lost–again.
“You want a cup of coffee?” asked Jewell.
Jess nodded his head.
“If it’s not any good, most likely that’s because she ruined it with two fingers of whiskey,” said his mother.
Colleen stacked eight settings on the buffet and asked, “Jess, would you mind getting us a few more chairs?”
Colleen was a fabulous chef. Jess devoured a savory meal of lemon-spiced chicken, wild rice, and sautéed mushrooms, and he felt a little better.
Funeral Plans
Live is what you do while preparing to die. Grandma scanned the obits, hoping to glean trivia that she could add to her schedule. Maintaining all the ‘To Do” lists is such a heavy chore.
Grandma incorporated unforgettable tid-bits into her agenda. She fully intended to vacate with distinction, and she littered the outline with mementos.
Funeral Plans
¨ Program–Checklist
1. Vault location: Eternal Bliss Memorial Gardens, West Lawn (next to Dad’s)
2. Director: Bledfry Mortuary
3. Service: Weaver's Remorse
q Red rag carpet runner down main aisle
q Crocheted arm covers/knitted cushions
q Draped linens (w/ermine tassels) on sepulcher
q Tatted door pulls
q Art show in lobby
Funeral Plans, continued
¨ Program–Checklist, continued
4. Rosary: 7:00 P.M., All Saints Church
q Music: Kum Ba Ya (piped from wings)
q Jesse describe crafts
5. Funeral: 9:30 A.M., New Life Chapel
q Open casket (NOT negotiable)
q Soloist: The Old Rugged Cross
6. Dinner in Fellowship Room immediately following sermon
q Servers: Altar Society
q Private (NO relatives)
burial concurrent with dinner
q Menu:
· pot roast
· cheesy corn
· macaroni
· rolls w/ margarine pats
7. Gather to bless crypt, 1:30 P.M.
Funeral Plans, continued
¨ Attire–Checklist
q Lavender dress, purple shoes
q Be sure I wear my best bra and panties (top drawer, right side, far corner–my hose is there)
q Use a full slip–otherwise you’ll see through my dress
q My hat and purse are inside a 5-gallon pickle bucket in the clothes closet
q White pearls, single strand
q The wedding band and rose gold wristwatch go with me!
q Daub my favorite perfume, “White Shoulders” on my wrists and behind my ears
q P.S.: Ida (Rosie’s hairdresser) will do my hair and face
q P.S.S.: Gertrude–please touch-up my nails with Revlon “Fire Engine Red”
q P.S.S.S.: Also, forget the glasses–I look years younger without them
|
A Child’s Vantage
Mary squashed a pinch pot and thought, This shouldn’t be happening. Oh Daddy, do we have to share?
When Daddy traveled, our family waited for him to come back home, and we eagerly awaited the treasures he would bring. Sometimes he had pocket animals. Other times he gave us T-shirts and hats.
The doorbell rang at 11:30 A.M. “Yea! Daddy’s home!”
But there stood Grandma. Oh, she was fine enough, though not the type of playmate we had in mind. Uncle Sandy, Aunt Jewell, and cuz Leveret were here, too. That was okay. Our Dad would be home soon. He’d have a surprise for us.
Sure enough, several hours later his car pulled into the driveway.
We gathered in the dining room. The table was set and Mamma made a good dinner. We celebrated Daddy’s safe trip. Then Mamma announced that Daddy brought home sweets.
Oh my gosh! Our all-time favorite: French silk pie.
Stevie and I had a pact; it was always a contest to see who could eat the slowest.
First we picked off the shaved chocolate and let that melt in our mouths. Next we ate the flaky crust. Gradually we whittled bites from the wedge of filling.
That was our tradition. Very deliberate.
We both did our thing but Stevie didn’t have it in him. He ate too fast. I was going to win. I always won.
I took the last bit from my plate and held it in front of my open jaw. Then I grinned from ear-to-ear. As I slowly set my fork on the table I knew I’d won. Yes, I was the winner!
But Stevie stared in disbelief–I turned to see what had captured his attention. It was Grandma, the Queen of Slow. She did everything slowly. But this–this was pure evil. There she was, savoring my victory with over half the serving still on her plate!
We watched her eat. Every chew seemed measured. She swung her hand to her face with a conductor’s grace. She even broke crumbs from the crumbs–and she copied the exact same movement with each leisurely bite.
When she finally placed the food on her tongue, she closed her lips and removed her hand with a delicate, intentional slide. This couldn’t be happening.
In our house, you weren’t allowed to leave the table until everyone finished the meal. We thought we might sit there half our lives and look at this woman eat our pie–slowly eat our pie–willfully eat our pie.
My mind raced. How could Stevie and I hide the remaining piece? What if Mamma offered them more? No. This was wrong!
I couldn’t stand it. It’s not fair–Daddy brought the pie for me and Stevie. It just leaped out before I knew what happened: “NO! MAKE HER STOP.”
The damage was done: We would never be the same. We learned that adults don’t play by the rules.
Automatic Exchange
(Six years earlier)
Frank served the Army as an MP; Sandy was an officer in the Air Force. Frank was drafted; Sandy enlisted after graduating from college ROTC. Both were discharged–one in dishonor and the other in denial. They bartered over the value of a carbine until an agreement was reached. “It’s a bargain.”
Sandy traded his armament for the wad of cash in Frank’s hand.
“Now give me the clip,” said Frank.
“You knew it was used.” Sandy replied. “When I said ‘as is,’ I meant ‘AS IS’–it ain't got one. That’s how I got it.”
“Then I don't want it.”
“Too bad–it's a done deal.”
“Bullshit,” said Frank. “You said it worked.”
“It does–one bullet at a time.”
“That's not what I expected.”
“You got what you paid for.”
“Give me my money.”
“You can't have it.”
“Then I'll take it.”
“How you gonna do that?” Sandy, the taller man, swaggered, ready for a fight.
Frank palmed a cartridge and pushed it into the chamber. He closed the bolt action and shoved the bead into Sandy’s gut.
“Hey!”
Frank punched the safety off and Sandy’s ruddy complexion turned pasty.
“I was only joking,” Sandy said. “Here–take your ransom money.”
Frank crumpled the bills. “Yeah. Me too,” he said, and he retracted the firearm. Then he frowned at Sandy, raised the barrel, and dropped a twenty-dollar bill to the floor. “I never pay full price for anything.”
“You’re going to regret this,” said Sandy.
“Maybe I will someday,” said Frank, “but it looks like you’re the only one who does today.”
Sacrificial Alteration
(Eighteen years later)
The club performed aerobics routines on Friday morning in unison to accelerated rhythms. “Does anybody have tickets for the concert tomorrow?” Michelle asked the girls.
Jill replied, “I have mine!”
“Grapevine right,” Floi began, “…step-up knee repeater.”
“They only had general admission when I called...and those were for bench seats at the top of the bleachers,” Mary said. She tried to keep pace and swayed with the music’s syncopated tempo. “But I got one!”
“Tummies tucked.” The 28-year old trainer choreographed a sequence of patterns and the dancers complied in dynamic motion with her directions.
“Don’t forget the pix,” said Michelle.
“Ten-count mambo,” Floi redirected. “Side-gluts.”
Jill took control of the studio talk. “Darth invites the babes to party with him backstage,” she said.
“V-step. Charleston kicks.”
“I wish I were going,” said Michelle. “Darth is so hot!”
“Jack it up for two.”
X X X
On Sunday afternoon, Jill drummed her fingertips over a vinyl case at the One-Stop Print Shop. She smiled at the clerk and then slid a hand into her rear pocket.
Paul addressed the customer. “May I help you?”
Jill head-pointed to a banner. It read: Ask for Deluxe Handling.
“What’s that all about?”
“Well, enhancements. Air brushing, adornments, blemish removals…to name just a few. We increase brightness when the exposure demanded more light, crop out undesirable backgrounds, and add touch-ups…anything you need and everything you want for a flawless memory.” Paul pitched the high-pressure sales tactic with perfect delivery.
“I used a box camera last night to take pictures at the stadium,” said Jill. “Can you make it look like I sat on the stage?”
“Okay. Sure.”
“I want close-ups.”
The attendant reverted to his most impressive candor. “Zoom characteristics, telephoto lens features, high-end quality. Can I do more?”
Jill inquired further. “Would you turn the lead singer’s eyes so they look to me?”
“With computer technology, I change sedans into coupes and put trophy racks onto herds of does. If you can imagine it, I will invent it!”
Jill asked for more, “Do enhancements include adding cleavage?”
Paul gawked at Jill’s breasts. “With pleasure,” he said, “but first I’ll need a closer look.”
X X X
On Monday morning Michelle asked, “How was the concert? Did anybody get lucky?”
Mary rushed her answer. “From where I sat, it looked like Security swarmed over the groupies like ants. Nobody was allowed to get close to the band.”
“It was terrific,” said Jill.
The class warmed-up with slow, deliberate movements.
“It didn’t matter anyway,” Mary amended her response. “The stadium was too dark for photos.”
But Jill disagreed. “I got some.”
Mary defended her reply. “Even with a flash, the only things the film caught were ghosts.”
“You want proof?” asked Jill. She opened a plump gym bag and produced souvenirs. The paraphernalia elicited oohs, aahs, and whoops from the girls.
“And here’s a few of the pics I squeezed.”
“Your photos are so sharp,” Floi said. “You must have been in the front row.”
Jill accentuated her vanity: “The show was fantastic,” she agreed. “I had a VIP seat.”
“How’d you get that?”
Jill clutched the sachet containing her remaining prints. She removed one and pointed to a male. “From him,” she said, “…at the pre-show bash.”
“Oh my God.” Michelle gaped. “That’s Darth!”
“Who’s in the others?” asked Mary. She was ready for the display to end.
“You know what?” Jill said. “Some pervert slipped a bimbo in with my order.”
The class guessed what the culprit disclosed and they peeked at the images for confirmation.
“That’s not just a nudie,” said Floi. “That’s you!”
Roadkill
Jewell was livid. “Give me facts. Where’d you get it?”
“Mom–I-I-I jussst found it, okay. It’sss no big deal.”
“Then I’m having the police come pick it up.”
“No, Mom. That could getsss sssomebody arresssted.” The boy pleaded. “Give it back and I-I-I can sssink it in the river.”
The woman inspected the weapon. “Leveret, are you in some kind of trouble?”
The boy protested. “No, Mom. It’sss jusssssst a machine.”
“What would Sandy do? What will my sister say?”
“I-I-I’m not going to hurt anybody with it. Honessst. Ssstephen isss taking me with him to practicsse ssshooting. It’ll be okay. Pleassse Mom?”
Jewell considered his imbalanced state.
Wasn’t this an improvement over the darkness? Leveret’s cousin was rough on the outside but still, he was good at heart. All children flexed muscles somewhere on the journey to independence.
She recanted. “Okay, but promise me you’ll get rid of it tomorrow.”
Nighthunt
The beast glowered from the effects of the dazzling strobe. It was difficult to cope with the source of streaming illumination while the dizzying staccato of inception and intrusion dilated its pupils. Multiple stimuli muddled its headwork and the queer being’s facilities were confused.
The plague was absent the massive and customary body-damages generated by slugs shot through a semi-automatic rifle barrel. Except for its singed fur and seared hide, the creature stood undaunted by ricochets that disappeared into the night.
“Get in,” said Stephen.
“What isss it?” Sneepers asked in amazement. “Where are we going?” He uttered disbelief as the pickup gained ground on the outcast. They struck the target and tangled it wildly around the driveshaft. Then the boys zigzagged, dragging the shape over 500 meters of pavement as though painting grease marks with a picnic ham.
The savage became unstable and Stephen was frightened. He stabbed the gear shifter into reverse and accelerated until, running off the blacktop, he lost traction. He intended to dislodge it. It didn’t budge.
Sneepers grew deeply disturbed and whined, “I-I-I needsss out.”
“Get it off,” Stephen yelled.
Sneepers picked up the spotlight and jumped from the cab. He waved it under the chassis and found a bloody chock. The light trained on its hairless rump. It began slapping the ground violently. The undercarriage was pelted with loads of gravel and Sneepers was amazed. The monster stopped to lick its wounds and then crawled to the middle of the street. The horrified teenagers looked on in awe as it regained its poise.
Finally, Sneepers said, “Whatever it isss…it’sss not dead!”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Stephen.
Clamoring at each other, they refined the specifics of their midnight experience. Later, an embellished version would be told to Frank.
X X X
“How’d you like the rifle?” asked Frank.
“Really cool flassshesss,” Sneepers answered.
“Sweet,” Stephen affirmed cooly.
“It sssoundsss like woodpeckersss rapping on beehivesss,” said Sneepers.
“Interesting.” Frank yawned.
Then Stephen balked. “Except it jammed,” he said.
Suddenly, Frank became apprehensive over closing the deal. “Yeah, okay. But you’re buying it, right?
The road warriors stared at each other. Sneepers replied emphatically, “Of courssse.”
“It skipped rounds, too,” Stephen contended. “I don’t think so.”
Frank grew agitated. “So,” he reasoned hastily, “you can’t kill anything.”
Steven scuffed his feet. “That’s not true.”
Sneepers continued the rebuttal. “We wasss out of ammo ssso Ssstephen gotsss to finisssh it off with hisss truck.”
“I drug it three blocks,” Steven boasted. “Nobody will recognize the carcass.”
“What do you think it was?” Frank condescended. “A raccoon…maybe a possum?”
Steven shook his head.
Sneepers replied. “We don’t know. It wasss ssso grossssss and disssgusssting.”
“Way to go,” Frank said half-heartedly.
The ruthless treatment soured Stephen’s stomach. “I’ve gotta go take a leak,” he said. “Then I’m outta here.”
After he left the room, Sneepers asked, “Can I-I-I ssshoot it?”
Frank lambasted Sneepers. “You pathetic schitzo. I wouldn’t show you how to operate a rifle unless you tried to kill yourself.”
“What about a pissstol?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll hook you up with a gun if you introduce me to that prick’s sister. I’m going to rock her world!”
Just Compensation
“Are you okay?” Jess asked.
“I think so,” said Stephen.
“You just ruined a classic,” Jess said. He was furious. “What were you thinking?”
“I forgot.” Stephen looked down.
Jess cursed and, as he cursed, their connection broke.
Stephen grew distant after Jess and Shirley divorced. The court denied custody to her however Stephen’s family ties were already strained. He lived with his dad though mostly he only saw him on weekends and holidays. He never spent any time with his mom. Jess married a girlfriend and the new wife inherited his household.
Stephen mumbled so Jill could barely hear him: “If he didn’t want me to drive the hot rod, he should have told me. How was I supposed to know the insurance policy didn’t include riders?”
After winching the wreck aboard a two-ton flatbed, the mechanic pulled away from the curb with the damaged freight.
Jess blew a gasket. “What’d you just say?” Then steam erupted. “Tell me, how did this happen?”
“I closed my eyes for a second. My eyeballs itched really bad,” said Stephen. “Jill was rubbing…my neck.”
Jess took a moment to draw a false conclusion. “I don’t give a damn if ‘Miss Divine’ here had your whole foot in her mouth,” he said. “Excuses are worthless! Now get in the van.”
Stephen stomped around to the passenger side and got inside, slamming the door behind him. Jill defended herself: “I was only helping Stevie relax.”
Applause
Applause
Jess Current always commemorated Independence Day on the first Sunday of July. This year, two of Mary’s classmates joined for a pitching tournament and barbecue extravaganza. Sandy, Jewell, Leveret and Grandma came too. Together with Colleen and Stephen they raised the headcount to ten. The guests were infused with panic as the festivities deteriorated in an unfortunate chain of events. The boys ignited an arsenal of incendiaries and they quickly escalated into chaos.
Mary said to the girls, “Who’s ready to play horseshoes? Let’s pick teams.”
Sandy was not asked to mix in games of skill because his aim was bad; he didn’t toss accurately at bulls’ eyes. His right hand was missing pointer and index fingers. Both were severed at the second knuckle in a hunting accident; he never got a good grip on things.
As boys, Sandy and his brother stalked game in the woods. Jesse carried the rifle while Sandy carted a double barrel, break-open shotgun. Sandy fiddled with the lever and unlocked the action. The muzzle tilted, two shells popped out, and they dropped into the brush.
“Look! I’ve got 12-gage fingers,” said Sandy.
“Quit screwing around,” said Jesse, and he thumped his sibling on the melon.
Just then a gigantic bird lifted into the air from near Sandy’s feet. He stumbled and the breech snapped closed.
X X X
Mary pitted Jill and Michelle against Jewell and herself, and the aerobic rivalry fueled their competition. Sneepers unfurled folded furniture for the four female fliers.
“The winnersss getsss to make outsss with me,” he said.
“Demented, psychotic, and loathsome is no way to hit on women,” said Jill.
“Bugsss won’t pessster you if you ressspesssct their turf,” Sneepers retorted.
The boys flung fireworks from opposite ends of the court while Colleen stood at the grill and brushed sauce onto meaty slabs. Essence of garlic mingled with the sulphurous odors.
Sneepers was stunned by a near miss that Stephen threw, and the pyromaniac tumbled from his stoop. His sack of explosives spilled and dumped missiles. As the propulsive continued to burn, spray lit the exposed fuses and a lawn chair’s nylon webbing caught fire. Canons blasted flaming mortars.
The wind shifted. A cloud of smoke drifted past the battlefield and peppered the fracas with particles. Colleen fell and splayed across the patio. A torrent of hot embers veered and funneled below the floorboard where they ignited a packet of rodenticide. The gasified ingredients emitted a caustic haze and cloaked Colleen with its poison.
Jewell cried, ”Oh my God. Colleen!”
The pandemonium accelerated and Sneepers accused Stephen. “Look what you causssed.”
“Why’d you fall?” Stephen returned the blame.
“It wasss an akcsscident.” Sneepers argued.
The bystanders were incapacitated as toxic fumes scrambled the functions of Colleen’s nervous system.
Mary shrieked. “Somebody do something.”
Jess drew a breath and emerged from the unmoving crowd. He tottered, hoisted Colleen with his arms, and retreated before laying her in the yard. Her body contorted at a precarious angle, suggesting a fracture that would jeopardize future wiggling.
“Call 911,” screamed Jill.
Michelle pounded the keys into her cell phone. Colleen’s eyes were jittery.
Sneepers responded to the emergency. “I knowsss CPR,” he said.
Jess yelled at the boy. “Hey! Get away from her, you derelict!’
Grandma spoke deliberately to Stephen. “Colleen’s clumsy blunders always spoil this family’s happy affairs.”
Ode to Grandma
Grandma made weekly trips to visit Grandpa at the cemetery. “Hello, dear. I’ve got good news: I found the cutest pair of pumps to go with that lavender dress–and it blends so well with your gray suit! I won’t be caught dead in my purple heels!”
X X X
At 56, Grandma was slow; twenty-one years later, her death was attributed to natural causes: old age. “Your mom should have died last year,” Colleen remarked. “That way she would’ve been on time.” The funeral procession began two hours late.
Jess' eulogy changed into a snide criticism of his mother’s greatest idiosyncrasy: anal retention. Nothing ended before she could let it go.
Grandma squandered Grandpa’s fortune. They lived the last years of their lives in squalor and she died penniless.
X X X
Sneepers Returns
(Seven years after the incident)
Sneepers split the air and then tasted it with his tongue. He reminisced how, in life, his personality quirks were the kinds that most psychotherapists deemed curable: Fanatical…but harmless. His mom indulged his traits but her husband wasn’t quite so liberal. Some guardians were appalled by the fact that they were requested to include him in activities with their children!
Periodically, he added delightful lisps onto such words as, “Pleassse,” “Ssscertainly,” and “Sssurely.”
Sneepers developed an unusual talent for dawdling. He never participated in any events–yet he always pushed ahead in lines. The boy harassed individuals until, eventually, he was included. He had no friends.
The youth was creepy. Sneepers did not maintain lasting associations. Stephen, Sneepers’ step-cousin, became his closest acquaintance. Their household relocated unexpectedly and they didn’t advance notice to anyone. Because of this wanton disregard, Sneepers withdrew further from society.
Jewell found his farewell–a typewritten manuscript–after his motorcycle accident. It was in a stamped but unsealed envelope.
Dearest Stephen, Mary, Jesse, and Colleen,
How’s it going? Reunions are defining, don’t you agree? You were genial when I was in your old house. You even fed me and showed me hospitality. But all that had to change. What great adventurers you are…you could have told me you were leaving.
Stephen, we ventured out in NUMEROUS capacities on SO MANY different trips around the city: It was WONDERFUL having you as my pal! Sorry if you got bored or annoyed with my “I don’t care’s” (Remember: the cadaver is our little secret). Always be yourself and tell people the correct way to pronounce your name, “SsstepHen.”
Mary, I appreciated hanging out with you except you were a prude. Your buddies are fun though, especially Jill. What a tart! I wish she had overcome her shyness. She really turns me on!
Uncle Jesse–there’s no doubt about it: you’re full of wit! Wow! How could anyone have ever pointed the finger at you as a bad influence? Your spontaneity was funny and your stories were hilarious! You excel in just about everything, except for horseshoes. But, hey–look who’s laughing now! Who’s ready for a rematch? Ha, ha! Who knows? You might get on top, sooner or later.
Auntie Colleen, you are the coolest lady... I’ll miss you–and your mentoring–the most. You showed me kindness, and tolerated my gloom. Plus your theater was tons of fun (what an entertainer)! If your health improves–and I hope it does someday–you’ll be tougher than nails–I just know it!
People can’t say enough about get-togethers: they are legendary.
He scrawled, “SSSNEEPERSSS” in cursive script at the bottom of the page.
X X X
The obituary reported an incident wherein Sneepers rescued a frightened puppy. It snagged somehow on a rubbish pile that washed into a bridge pier. His act resulted in a hero’s award for him–a decoration reserved for champions and military personnel.
Those people attending his memorial service left within two minutes after the closing prayer ended.
Winers
Michelle mixed Cabernet with the sludge at the bottom of her glass.
“Why do you want to leave?” Cecil asked.
“I don’t get paid to answer questions,” she said. Michelle tugged up the skirt she had worn that morning. It bunched at the hips. “I did as I was told.”
She was in a bad mood and Cecil speculated about it. “Another funeral?” he asked.
She concurred, “Yes.”
“Who was it this time?”
“Nobody. The preacher used his generic rite.” Michelle folded her hands. “I was the token weeper.”
They both snickered at her sarcasm.
“You look great in black, Chelley,” Cecil said. He slumped to the floor. “Come, help me! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
Michelle pressed her hand into Cecil’s thigh and exchanged his playful banter. “I need some sympathy if that’s a stiffy.”
Her outfit landed in a heap. “The fabric on this one is wrinkle-proof.”
Wrongful Death
The baby was discovered between the walls of the Fellowship Room and the Office of Worship. The congregation gathered around the crime scene in clusters like jettisoned cargo. “Thank God the new tabernacle was spared,” said the Deacon. “We will still meet tonight for the revival.”
(That evening)
Jess guided Colleen’s wheelchair down the aisle. Pastor Bob ascended to the podium. He mused blankly at stained glass windows before addressing the onlookers. “Sisters and Brothers,” he began. “We sometimes forget: life is fragile. Many die involuntarily through ordinary means…ignorant, foolish, and reckless, but we become complacent and we also die from abuse.” The speaker savored the accuracy of his words.
“The incineration of our vestibule disentombed this infant child. The crematorium has graciously tidied the remains for interment here in God’s House.” He paused and indicated a small urn.
The gathering issued mild applause. “This vase bears testimony to the delicate chemistry of life.”
Pastor Bob adjusted the tone of his voice to engage the Lord God herself in awesome conversation! “Unworthy and displaced sinners–be ye lift up–and find ye the way.”
“Lord, Thou redeems the souls of strangers through no merit of ours. We prithee. Lead us not astray nor put us asunder. Bestow Thy grace on us, for Thou alone art Merciful and comforts us in our affliction. Grant us happy deaths, for thus we accede to the throne of Thy magnificent and almighty creation.”
The supplicant applied his trademark pitch and stretched the maah-teee until it snapped back into the microphone. The assemblage responded wholeheartedly, “Amen. Amen.”
Pastor Bob layered nuggets of incense over smoldering coals in a clay bowl. As billowing tufts of perfumed fragrance rose and dispersed the offering, a baritone cantor intoned “Amazing Grace” a cappella. Rebounding stanzas of the hymn permeated the lofty airspace while aromatic plumes broadened into thickets, distributing the heaven-bound pleas.
Mary wept openly and the ceremony waned.
III: LOST excellence–MAGNIFICENT TRAGEDY
Team Player
All the news agencies covered the same event. “One small slip for man, one giant blight on mankind.” The anchors were skeptical in their preliminary reports: “No constituents are expected to survive the global catastrophe.”
The engineer put a plastic tablespoon in his pocket after lunch. Then he slinked back into his cubicle. His behavior affirmed the company’s corporate mission statement: “Those unwilling to retool the present are destined to repeat the past.” He adhered to protocol and displayed disbelief. But this revelation did not astonish him, and the scandal heightened his cynicism. No duh. What did they expect would happen?
His bosses were powerful and they made it through the ensuing intrigue without fail–always did, always would. No evidence of foul play, exhibits of error, or acts of omission came to pass. It became the norm. The government should hunt elsewhere for a witch.
Another shift of work ended. Picketers surveyed the layers of protection over the guarded compound. They surrounded the barbed wire fence enclosing the grounds and then instigated a scuffle. Crack. Crack. Enforcers fired taser darts from the lookout shack into the crowd. High voltage current excited the unholy flesh of a cocaine dealer. Or was that a pimp peddling flesh? Or maybe this time it was a child trafficker? Or a panderer? With the right promotions, nobody could be sure who they were.
The exploits of entrepreneurialism were multiple and varied: Threats are routinely selected, neutralized, and eliminated. The public believed what it was told.
The witness walked reluctantly to his Towne Car. He got inside, started it, and coasted to the terminal where he flashed his ID card at an officer before pulling away. No sense in going home. He drove the coach until it reached a river valley and he could retreat no further. The engineer skated the transmission lever into “P” and he shut off the engine. He was furious. How did it get to be so crazy? The wait wasn’t killing him–it was the awareness. Waves of paranoia surged and slammed against the confines of his psyche.
X X X
Sandy’s back tingled and his shirt soaked with sweat. Apprehension overwhelmed him, angina squeezed ripples into his chest, ringing inundated his hearing, and his spirit flailed in agony. He removed a packet from the glove box containing a small bottle and some pills. Next, he placed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and sipped water from a flask. His scalp rubbed against the headrest while his pupils rolled up inside his head. “Oh, God, help me.” The heart attack subsided.
X X X
Sandy tickled his key into the steering column and switched on the power. The electronics rebooted. An onboard GPS established his coordinates on line, in real time. He motored to the post office and retrieved his mail. Then upon arriving home, he waited inside the car while it idled.
The engineer longed to earn his brother’s confidence, to collaborate with him, and share his own outrage. Was the suffering legitimate? What were acceptable levels of disparity? Maybe things would get better on their own? Did anything really matter? Nobody had all the answers.
Everybody should know success and failure–dominations and deprivations. His stepson had been suicidal, his wife was hooked on hallucinogenics, and his dog ran away. What’s up with all that? He balked at revisions. Life was mediocre–wasn’t that okay? It wouldn’t stay bad forever. Could it? His job was depressing.
He sorted the mail, dropping bills on the seat and junk to the floor. Carbon monoxide exhaust displaced oxygen inside the garage. What’s this? A refund check? ‘A mistake made on your income tax return has resulted in overpayment.’ Yesss! Oh, man! Things are finally beginning to look up!
IV: The Desire to Prey
Fido’s Tale
A rat chewed through the base of the dead man’s skull and then appraised the opening. It relieved itself outside the useless cranium. The driver’s aura lingered, evoking pleasant sensations for Fido. Her expression broadened into a grin. Nobody likes the messenger.
Surging heat induced the dog’s muscles to twitch in involuntary recoil and the dead man’s dense props eroded quickly. The corpse’s joints and marrow left an aftertaste; however, it was the boding of wickedness that made Fido convulse. She gagged and she spewed bile, dousing his ivory frame the way sprinkled water grays glowing ashes.
Fido bounded, smacking the roof of the taxi. She sprang repeatedly, smashing the window. Fido leaped again. This time, the pane disintegrated. A shard of glass reared up to pierce Fido’s groin as she glided through a jagged aperture. The harsh injustice of gender inequality was levied on the courier. It culled her with the finality of a reaper’s blade until she dangled by her ruptured belly. Fido passed out.
Sometime later, she awoke. A funk loaded her groove and she retched violently; the severed nerves from her wasted paunch revolted against the endless taunting. Longing for relief, Fido regurgitated. Terra firma anticipated her spoil.
About Frank
Debris was strewn along the road and Frank hacked through it until he reached the commuter transport. Clearly, he was not affected by destruction. His body knotted in a pensive posture and he revived fragmented recollections from life unfulfilled…
X X X
A minister ushered Frank into the prison library where he would be counseled. The inmates were taught to feel remorse so they might recognize the events leading to their condemnation; great empathy was shown in exchange for self-improvement. Seated behind two-way mirrors, representatives from the citizenship at large encircled the incarcerated men. Individually, courageous captives stood and apologized.
The leader spoke to Frank. “It’s your turn.” Frank cleared his throat and read aloud from penned passages:
“Over the past seven years I pondered the grave extent of pain that I caused to you. Foremost I deserted my God…but I deceived myself, too. I don’t want your pity. My quest is to prove repentance. I will remain in this haven of serenity until I behold the fruits of my conviction.
I know that I am in your prayers. I hope you are not opposed in any way to my asking for your forgiveness. This is my most important goal and the least heartless thing I might achieve.
I am liable for my deeds. I never imagined how wrongdoings might affect you. Rather, I was only seeking happiness through self-gratification. It was by my own hand that loved ones–and that includes you and me–have suffered. I chose these shortcomings; they led to my greatest shame.
To Michelle: My screw-ups really got your panties in a bunch. I am entirely at fault.
To my community: I apologize for the energies wasted, the valuables ruined, and the heartaches evoked while repairing damages–all of which I caused. I defiled a truly sacred place. I was desperate, prolonging an addiction I contracted as a nine-year old. From the mental distress and emotional turmoil inflicted on you folks, I am filled with regret.
My offenses were not committed with the intent to hoard wealth. I ask you now: Please find strength and absolve me.
If I have earned your forgiveness, then this has been the finest day of my life. May all of you be blessed.
Again, please pray for me and for yourselves. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Frank”
“That’s great, Frank,” said the mediator. “Fine words. The Pardon and Reform board appreciates your honesty, too.”
Michelle squirmed awkwardly. She witnessed the public accounting of Frank’s rehabilitation but she was uncomfortable with it. She knew his latest confession was merely one performance in a saga of feigned confidences. She joined the others in applauding his countenance, anyway.
Frank sat down and creased his letter. He had studied history before forging his contrition. This was better than getting Jesus-ed up! The advent of word processing gifted the penal code. Likewise, other felons could fake appropriate sorrows if they borrowed from suitable templates. Originality is a curse! The morons ain’t got a clue.
Michelle’s employer, a church, assigned her with responsibility for monitoring the distribution of donations. Frank cooked up an enterprising scheme to fleece the parishioners. He approached Michelle privately, requesting that she, “Give me a boost. Share the loot!”
“Or should I ask one of your boyfriends to loan me the money?”
Michelle drafted a $350.00 debit on the nonprofit account.
This deed, when coupled with Frank’s endorsing signature, cornered him as the prime suspect in an investigation of embezzlement. Baaaa! Part of Frank became a goat.
Michelle redressed herself in front of him, saying she wouldn’t report it to the authorities but he must do exactly as she told him. “Obliterate all traces of the theft.” Frank was not well acquainted with extortion and complied with her demands. The Holy Spirit roared with flame-envy when the ensuing blaze sanctified the organization.
A fire marshal evaluated the damage. Frank was arrested and charged with homicide, arson, and coercion. Human DNA was found in the rubble near Michelle’s desk and, unfortunately for Frank, so was a tank containing the gasoline that powered his lawn mowing equipment. Nothing to implicate Michelle in the crime was uncovered and so she was not indicted by the trial. The case closed with a ruling against Frank.
A Dog’s Life
Fido reawakened in a pothole. Swollen haunches flanked her distended abdomen. She tensed and squeezed. Nope; nada; nil; zippo; zilch; naught. No escape from this quagmire tonight. The wounded dog lifted from her depression and padded along, moving noiselessly across the tarmac. Her infestation of ticks and fleas discontinued their borings.
Once in a while on the shoulder, a rut filled with sluggish runoff, forming a makeshift trough. Fido rallied before long, and the omnivore slaked her thirst in a ravine.
A red spider skittered over the soup and wound up near Fido’s flews. She swallowed the arachnid on its second lap. Bueno!
Fido spread out. She invited a wag from her tail and then eased into slumber.
The BOA
“Who knows the meaning of ophidiophobia?” No one made a noise as Ms. Shanalan wrote the word on the chalkboard.
“What’s the difference between a ‘fat’ man and a ‘flat’ man?” Frank whispered. “ ‘L’–who cares?”
Not to be outdone, Leveret asked, “Do you know why a dead man won’t wear sssussspendersss? Becaussse they givesss him the creepsss!”
“Want to see a match burn twice?” asked Frank.
“Ouch!” said Leveret.
The stunt drew attention and the room full of juveniles giggled hysterically.
“Aaah, Leveret, so good to hear you make another contribution. Come rub my feet, please.”
Leveret trudged forward. He knew he would pay for interrupting the teacher. “I-I-I’m sssorry.” He advanced woefully.
“Let’s conduct an experiment,” said Ms. Shanalan. “Today we’re going to learn about fear and I need a volunteer.” She pointed to the boy. “Why Leveret, how about you?”
Leveret was sequestered to a squatty, three-legged stool in the corner.
“Who knows what a phobia is? What about you, Leveret? Do you have any phobias?”
Her demeaning probes upset Leveret and he sobbed.
“Phobias are exaggerated fears. We can be sure this word will mean fear of something. Can anyone define what that is?”
Suddenly, every hand was in the air. The sixth graders became frenzied trying to guess the answer.
“Guns?”
“Bats?”
“Spiders?”
“Water?”
“Accordions?”
“Maybe this will help,” said Ms. Shanalan. She stood beside the boy, unveiled a box and removed a scaly, seven-foot long body. “Ophidiophobia is… THE FEAR OF…”
The children responded excitedly: “A snake!”
Sneepers was deeply disturbed. “I-I-I needsss out.”
“Are you ophidiophobic?” Leveret froze. The boy was plainly terrified.
The snake flicked its tongue and hissed a prolonged s-s-s-s-s-s-s. Leveret’s skin grew pale and his watery eyes bulged. “S-s-sn-ake,” he repeated.
“Jeepers creepers, b-b-bee-ver-it.” Frank stuttered intentionally. “Are you afraid of snakes?”
“You can touch it,” Ms. Shanalan said to the adolescent. “It’s docile.”
“Jeepers creepers, s-s-sn-eepers.” Frank scoffed a second time. “It’s only a s-s-sn-ake.” The coining of the nickname momentarily amused Ms. Shanalan and she hooted.
The lesson resumed. Ms. Shanalan asked, “Who can name the dietary range for a constrictor?” Again, she was bombarded with answers:
“Rats?”
“Correct.”
“Mice?”
“Correct.”
“Birds?”
“Correct.”
“Bunnies?”
“Correct.”
“Squirrels?”
“Correct.”
“Bats?”
“Correct.”
“Chipmunks?”
“Correct.”
“Piglets?”
“Yes and many other small animals. Snakes can unhinge their jawbones so their quarry is rarely restricted by size.”
“What result did development without arms and legs have on their evolution?”
“They won’t climb?”
“Not true. Snakes are excellent climbers.”
“They don’t run?”
“They have no need to run. Snakes can generally move about as quickly as would a person on a fast walk, maybe 3 mph.”
“They can’t get around in the city…”
“No. Mature snakes develop specialized maneuverability skills, and they avoid cultivation of linear expertise. Snakes can live wherever the food supply is plentiful.
“For extra credit, somebody please tell me, ’What is a feeding cycle?’”
The room quieted.
“An i-i-isssce chessst on a moped?”
Ms. Shanalan dismissed Leveret’s remark and continued her lecture. “Some herpetologists contend that at any instant, provisioning is not a snake’s sole motivation to eat. Yesterday this snake ate a rabbit for lunch and, although it won’t feast again until after everything but hair and bones are digested, already it has executed preemptive strikes on its next foray.”
“Thank you, ‘Sneepers’–you may go back to your desk now.” As she bent over and returned the snake to its lair, she whispered, “Boas are known to ingest children, too.”
Ms. Shanalan’s teaching methods were cold-blooded but effective.
The Storm
Jewell turned her collar to the storm and hurried to get inside the school building. A tornado siren blared. The entire student body sat in the hallway with their heads between their knees. Frank’s fiery-red mane stood out against the faded pink floor tiles. She ignored the drill and rushed over to have a word with the junior tattler.
“Hi Frankie. Where is Leveret?
The public address system switched from its oscillating tone to a monotonic message.
“This has been a test of the emergency preparedness system.”
“He’s down by the drinking fountains, in front of the restrooms.”
“If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed to…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘…kiss your asp goodbye.’ ”
Jewell was appalled by the boy’s abusive candor. Her eyes followed the thread of disinterested students until she located her son. A thin reservoir of liquid engulfed Leveret and it was expanding on the floor.
The Maze
(Three semesters later)
Sneepers released a mouse into his science project: a labyrinth.
The critter scurried with amazing agility through interlaced corridors. “Now watsssch thisss,” the boy said as he plucked the curd-craver from the canal. Sneepers fastened partitions into new positions. Then he reindexed his study by filling the hold with sunflower seeds; again, the cheese-chopper chose to cheerily charge the core. The miniature mammal’s memory functioned as though preprogrammed with the latest layout. It changed strategies for each trial, reaching the cache without a hitch.
Sneepers said, “I-I-I’m lucky thisss sssoldier doesssn’t ecxsspect colossssssal priczssesss.”
Frank was stymied. “What kind of peon runs to pinch bird feed?”
“Obviousssly not your type,” said Sneepers. “You probably gotsss to do sssomething badder, like chokesss an old lady.”
Frank didn’t object. “How does it know to take the bait?”
“It’sss sssmarter than you.”
“Let me try,” said Frank. He rummaged through the remaining pieces and removed slats from the supply kit. Next he transformed the works into a spiral and closed off the opening. Ultimately, he deposited a small, rectangular plank in the central cavity.
“Now do it,” Frank demanded.
Sneepers placed the his mouse inside the maze. It dashed around the outer loop three times before jerking to a halt at a gate that barred entrance to the middle.
“What an idiot,” said Frank. He opened his a pocketknife and flashed the blade around the quadruped. “When in doubt, cut it out.”
The mouse vaulted over the obstruction, taking off and expending energy like a tethered ball. It sprinted around the now-diminishing radius. When it gained access to the terminus, it tripped the trigger on a snap trap, activating a spring-loaded armature to crush its spine.
“Look at that,” Frank guffawed, “…fresh meat!”
A Dog’s Perspective
Fido dreamed her leg was hiked into the space that paralleled her backbone. A wee stream trickled over the downward thigh as her bladder emptied. Damn, that feels good! Fido had always sought liberation through unconventional means, even as a pup. Self-control is a powerful motivator. She puckered her nose and sniffed. Gonna be a party tonight! Wonder what’s fer supper?
She wasn’t exactly hungry. But Fido’s oral cravings were usually ready to be filled: Sticks, balls…ANYTHING. She began a trot and searched for signs of activity.
Fido was the kind of dog that people bragged about–gentle with children, fierce protector, dedicated and, in a word, truthful. Fido had escaped the detentions of multiple owners. When at last she was taken in by a tranquil family, she dwelled with them roughly for half a dog-decade.
Fido wandered away from her latest custodians and was injured on a trucker’s rig at a highway rest stop. The janitor of a northwest homeless shelter picked her up and brought her to live with them. There, residents adopted the crippled stray. She became a star. Fido beheld the values of these disowned, aged, and/or mentally disabled units by intuiting their common language:
You have the nicest friends!
I didn’t break it on purpose.
You’re the best.
You’re the greatest.
Are you happy? Good!
How are you feeling?
You look great!
You sent flowers!
We’re going to do just fine.
Addiction
Frank Junior’s mother drained her glass.
“Boy,” she said, “get me another pack of smokes.”
He raised the empty carton. “Ma, they’re gone.”
“Give it here,” she ordered. “Let me see.” The youngster obeyed. She fumbled with the paperboard box and then grabbed him.
“What’d you do with them?” She prodded. Her hold tightened and the inebriated woman shook him until he answered.
Frank cried. “Stop, Ma. You’re hurting me! I didn’t do nothing.”
“You little shit. Don’t lie to me.” Her fingers squeezed bruises around his biceps. “There were two packs in here last night. They didn’t climb out by themselves.”
“Dad ran out of stogies.” Frank turned his arm over to reveal a blistering injury: two cigarette burns were aligned on the end of a row of nickel-sized scars. She relaxed her grip and Frank Junior pulled away.
“That lousy bastard,” the woman slurred. Mrs. Frank Shanalan uncapped a vodka bottle and poured herself another drink before saying, “Go to bed.”
Frank mimicked his father’s gait and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him. He found a delaminated doorskin in the lower quarter panel of the hollow room divider and lifted it up. A cellophane-wrapped package, a lighter and a half-toked cigarette fell to the floor. Frank sparked a flame onto the butane torch and drew it into the fresh butt.
Ms. Shanalan’s Folly: Immutable Desire
Frank’s flashbacks faded. He crept past the snoozing Fido’s motionless body as he lumbered to get into the cab and defile its sanctuary.
“F - - k!” squawked Ms. S.
“What do you want?”
Frank stooped. With one stomp, his terse boot separated Fido’s ribs from her sternum.
Ms. S. reprimanded Frank. “I pick carcasses!”
“Not hers you won’t.”
“Go to hell!”
Frank stammered. “That l-l-lying bitch. She’s faking it.” He frothed.
Ms. S replied, “It is over.”
Frank bashed his temple on a sill of low self-esteem. Once again, frustration went unrelieved and Frank held up.
“Way to ussse your head,” said Sneepers; he ached to join in malicious exploit and he used camouflaged wisps of reasoning (such as, dwindling logic breeds derision) to antagonize the bully.
Frank grunted. “You spineless sneak.”
Ms. S was mad. “Violation is my right. Your triumph will be to encumber the opponent.”
“I’ll do it…for a price,” said Frank.
“You ssstupid freak,” Sneepers flared.
Ms. S studied the groveling combatants through beady eyes. Her annoyance was relentless. “There are no witnesses.”
“Well?” She continued. “I’ve known petty bickering before. What’s it going to be?”
“Desecration,” said Frank. “Plain and simple.”
Sneepers gloated. “I could eatsss the sssnitch, puke it up, and eatsss it again.”
Ms. S dismantled the hindrance that disallowed deployment of plunderers. She put on a wry scowl and added, “Git-er-done.”
Sneepers crawled out of his skin. His wretched flight infuriated Frank. “How did you get away?” Frank complained.
Sneepers cracked wise about his artful makeover: “Reflexesss; tremendousss, uncontrollable reflexesss.”
Ms. S obsessed over Frank’s performance. “You dupe! After appeasing me, your flaccid anxieties would cease.”
Frank conceded with incontrovertible precision. “The worm secured the remnants.”
Ms. S inflated masked-sails. Her plumage quivered in full regalia while she chanted an incantation:
WAIT TILL MY SPIRIT SINGS!
Bless-ed with a belfry's crown,
My view is loosed above the clouds
And RAINBOWS float it down.
WAIT TILL YOU FACE MY SHINE!
The X X X is endured by design.
Opinioned, grandiose achievement;
ALAS…to lose–and gain–bereavement.
WAIT TILL THEY SEE ME DANCE!
Reptile races chafe the slider.
Daughters mourn a regal fighter;
Rue the fleeing chance.
“No, Frank,” Ms. S said scornfully. “Death never closes its door.”
How to Cheat your Peersss
Sneepers was deeply disturbed. “I-I-I needsss out.”
The crybaby’s tantrum diminished in hushed whimpers while the rest of his hold festered from neglect. Frankie and his mother coddled each other and Sneepers sniffled. “I-I-I hatesss partnersss.”
His pang of futility loomed distant and sure. “I-I-I wantsss a gang.”
No compliment equated the simulated rescue preservation with shared responsibility. “I-I-I tooksss no joysss in reducsssing the burdensss of proof.”
A ribbon of hopelessness pared ire and sliced jealousy from his regression in the underworld. “I-I-I disssappresssciatesss withholdingsss.”
He transmuted into a golden moth. “I-I-I can’t flitsss forever.”
Sneepers was deeply disturbed. “I-I-I needsss out.”
More about Frank
Frank’s parole officer, Cecil, was a likeable guy. Frank enjoyed the outdoors, and Cecil suggested the ex-con should tag along on his next hunt for waterfowl. “You’ll be retrieving birds, of course.”
“Of course,” said Frank.
Their futures linked together and the two hit it off.
X X X
Cecil brandished a chuckle for his roommate. “What a remarkable coincidence! You’ll never guess what Frank told me.”
Michelle acclaimed, “That punk is dumber than a post. He distorts reality. Believe me on this.”
She lured Cecil into the bedroom where they made wild, desperate love. Afterwards Cecil said, “Time heals all wounds.”
Michelle replied, “Only if the transactions are buried.”
Cecil picked up the phone and placed a call.
“You bet!” said Frank. He agreed to meet Cecil at 3:30 the following Sunday morning.
“You know, Chelley...” Cecil said, “The devil wouldn’t strike the matches you inspire.” Then he admitted to himself, This will be easier than stealing eggs!
Ms. S
The thin-haired woman sat contradictorily, opposing the front desk with her back. Her pleas for care went unheeded. “I need in,” she said.
The receptionist acknowledged the visitor. “Have you been helped?”
Sophia pointed to a timepiece in the foyer and complained. “I want an adjustment. I’ve been here since noon.”
“Name, please.”
“Shanalan. Sophia Shanalan.”
“Did you have an appointment? You’re not on the books and I can’t seem to locate you in the database, either.”
Sophia slumped and braced herself for a joust with obscurity. “No.”
“Too bad you weren’t here earlier. We had two cancellations last week.” The registrar vacillated and added, “I will pencil you into next month’s schedule.”
“Please, I’ve got to see a clinician today.”
“Have you received prior treatments from us?”
Sophia nodded, “Yes.”
“When?”
Some employees behaved as though previous contacts had never been made. Sophia was a participant in eleven different clinical trials. Most often, staffing shunned outside involvement with regular clients, but they responded to verifiable facts. Sophia knew the drill. “November 27th, 2:30 P.M.,” she said.
“That was well over six months ago. The network server crashed last night so I’m unable to access the archived files. I’m sorry–I assumed you were a beginner.” She took a break before continuing. “The statistician needs to evaluate all bloodwork before authorizing additional procedures. Besides, you may be qualified for full restoration to the control set but we won’t determine that until later.”
“I have a hunch you could take me already. I’m not prejudiced.”
“We have no record."
“There is no need.”
Sophia signed an authorization form and waived her rights. The prospect became the host.
“Did you drink anything?”
“Nothing since 6:30.”
“…and when did you take solids?”
“Last evening, around nine.”
The concierge consented, “That’ll do.”
At 5:30 P.M., a teal-frocked intern traipsed into the waiting room and broke the silence. “Sophia Shanalan?”
She did not disregard the prompt. “Yes,” Sophia said, and she rose to her feet.
The technician whisked her into a small laboratory. Once inside, she saw three tiny trays of test tubes and was told, “Fill these vials so we can begin cultivating specimens.” Sophia fainted shortly after the needle pricked her skin. She shivered on the last draw and chills descended over her body.
X X X
A trumpeter proclaimed, “She’s coming around. Does anyone have a theory?”
The connotation was not lost. Sophia perspired in a groggy, weakened state. Her eyelids fluttered while her agitated skull lolled on its side. She was restrained by metered doses of elixir dropping from neoplastic oncology bags. The IV lanyards held her down.
“You’re in St. Dymphna’s Medical Center. You were treated with the RAS oncogene–the cancer-carrying gene…but you rejected it, and renegade cells colonized your brain.” The diagnosis included a solemn interlude, after which her prognosis was delivered:
“We removed the mutant nuclei that defected during SCNT [1] and eliminated invasive papilla in time however, acorn-sized sarcomas settled behind your frontal lobes.” The doctor hesitated, sweeping a soft hand and grazing Sophia’s wrist lightly, before adding, “You’re sick. Better have your things in order.”
Sophia’s mind protested without audience and she lapsed into a coma.
Five weeks later, she began responding to external stimuli. Sophia’s motor skills returned. How much rehab was necessary until basic functions were recovered?
One day a floor nurse said, “Sophia, your next-of-kin is coming to see you. Try to loosen up.” Goodwill was expired.
The corners of Sophia’s mouth rose slightly. A bead of drool rolled down her cheek, and it soaked into the pillow.
Sophia shut her eyes. Her son appeared in the corridor with his partner, Jill. She said stridently, “I’m not going in. Not this time.”
The man reassured her. “It won’t take long.”
They tramped into Sophia’s room.
The visitors steered a wide berth around her feet and descended on her bed, hovering owlishly close beside Sophia’s head. Presently, her son’s fingers nipped her nostrils until all breathing stopped. Sophia’s chin dropped; worried wind whistled ‘tween wisps of shriveled lips.
Her heart fibrillated. The device monitoring her pulmonary functions registered distress before recalibrating and sounding an alarm. The hand released its hold and Sophia gasped.
“Goddamned waste of money. Doc says you’re gonna die anyway.”
The night before, Sophia left her bed and removed a scalpel from a Biohazard/Sharps box. She clenched the knife and now heaved the medical tool into his eye.
Frank stiffened before collapsing. His girlfriend’s peals of horror elongated down the hallway.
Sophia aspirated and whispered imperceptibly, “Yes...but not before you do.”
conclusion
The Dead Man’s Lament
Creepy, crawly, crafty critters
Locked inside my head
Made me mix mild mock-ammonia
Cocktails for the dead.
When the dreadful drinks were drained
The near-deceased lay down.
And I was told, “Please, come again
To fetch another round.”
Creaking, cracking, cramping cribmates
Crushed me ‘till I cried.
Their weary words, once whispered,
Now were SHOUTED, and I lied:
Get away from here–
There’s no room for you inside!
The specters were embarrassed
While the phantoms could have died.
Crimson crowns and crabby crests
Displayed vanquished conceit.
The quirky quipped, ”Your quintessential
Quivers crimped the fleet.”
But I was proud. I’d disallowed
Meanderings and loiters.
I tossed the lost yet glossed the cost:
“We’re handsome with our goiters.
About the Author
Dan Zeorlin lives near Kansas City with his family, where he enjoys baking cookies and amusing his neighbors. In Dan’s professional career, he served the engineering community for over twenty-five years. An avid fiction reader in the past, he developed a bent for poetry. Dan induces acceptance into the demands of caregiving and tries to add “fun” into a dysfunctional world!
