My Neighbour, Mr. Bates

by Monica Marier

Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.

Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”

Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.

Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.

But what if I’m right? He asked himself.

His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.

Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.

Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.

Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.

“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”

At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.

“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.

Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.

“I’ve been watching you!”

“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.

“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”

“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”

“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”

“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”

“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”

“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.

“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”

Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.

“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.

Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”

Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.

“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.

“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”

“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.

“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.

“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”

“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.

“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.

“I need your help,” said Andrew.

Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.

“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”

“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.

“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.

“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”

Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”

“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.

“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”

Reruns

Hi my name is Lilly, and you’re about to see me die about…. Nnnnnnnnnow.

Yep, there I am, running down the escalator—sorry mister—nearly knocking over an old lady and her baby. I’m yelling “shit-shit-shit” as I try to jump on the train before the door closes. They would be my last words. I hope my mother never finds that out. I suppose the ultimate lesson I learn is that a) appropriate footwear is important and b) never run to catch a freaking train. How I got this far in those damn heels I’ll never know. Fuck, I look like Wonder Woman! It’s a little impressive until…. Yeah… here we go.

Door closes on my arm. I can’t even cry for help, I’m just screaming over the whine of gears as the train pulls away, dragging me with it. Other people are waving at the driver to stop. That’s nice of them. It doesn’t work and the tunnel entrance looms closer; I’m about to be bisected by it.

I can never watch this part. You go ahead.

…

I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.
Oh, NOW, he stops the train¬—stupid bastard. And the rest is all people shouting and ordering each other around until the ambulance comes. This part is pretty boring. Still, I can’t leave or go watch anything else. This is all there is. In about three hours, when the stretcher finally takes me away (in a black zipped-up bag) it’ll start over again.

A woman once told me I was a spiritual imprint. How she could talk to me, I don’t know, but she wasn’t the first person. Every now and then my fatal routine is a little different. There are people who weren’t there before watching me—not the me running, they’re watching the me that’s watching me. They sometimes ask me dumb questions: “what year is it,” “what’s my name,” “can I make a noise.” Other times they just look. Sometimes they scream and run away.

And then there’s you. I’m not sure what to make of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to tell anyone my story before. You’re different somehow.

So how do you like it? My eternal prison. Just a dimly-lit tunnel that smells of pee, the whine of passing trains, and every three hours… my own personal show.

I’ve never liked reruns.

Scaredy-Cat

By Monica Marier
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!


“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”

“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.

“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”

“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”

Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”

“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.

He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.

The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.

Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.

He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!

Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.

“It’s just me,” said Alex.

Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” said Isaac petulantly.

“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”

“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.

“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”

“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.

“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.

“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.

“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”

“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”

“Yeah I know.”

“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."

“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”

“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.

“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.

Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”

******

20 years later…

Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.

“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.

He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”

“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”

Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.

(Based on a true story.)

The Night Job

My dear friend Icy got me thinking about England this week. Andrew and Jeremy were characters I'd invented during my short study-abroad at Cambridge. I simply like Andrew for being a large lovable hooligan.  I don't have many characters like that.

Andrew felt himself waking up and fought it. He lost rather quickly. With supreme effort he tried to unglue his eyelids. He blinked red-eyed in the dim light that signified it was the wee small hours of the afternoon. He was suddenly aware that this was not his bed.  It was a familiar bed, and by familiar it didn’t fall into either category of girlfriend or one of his drunken mates. Instead he recognized the leaded windows and oak-beamed ceiling of Jeremy Bates’s house. How the hell had he wound up here? Jeremy was an old friend to be sure, although they hadn’t worked together in ages, but why here? HOW here?

He’d left the bike at the flat, he was sure of that. He couldn’t remember getting on the train last night and taking the Northern Line to Golders Green (that would have involved two transfers!). Nor could he remember stumbling down Finchley Road trying to look sober. That walk would have taken hours at any rate. Had he really gotten THAT pissed last night? That wasn’t like him. Realizing he was fully clothed, Andrew stuck his large clumsy hands in his pockets to look for clues.

 When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.

Kicked him out, come to think of it—that was a first. He wondered what protocol was for getting his stuff back. Most of it was Sasha’s and a lot of it wasn’t worth bothering over, but he really wanted his motorcycle helmet, and the commemorative 1966 World Cup Champions mug that had been a gift from his Uncle Arthur. Maybe Jeremy knew how the standard “I’m-really-sorry-and-I-know-you-said-you-never-wanted-to-see-me-again-but-can-I-pop-in-and-get-my-rubbish” transaction went. Did he have to bring a “second?”

He thought more about Sasha and fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t too hard; he’d had a lot of practice after 36 years.

Unable to go back to sleep, and not sure he wanted to in any case, Andrew wound his way down the narrow staircase. He heard a clattering in the kitchen and made his way towards the large and very old dining table, currently set for one.

Jeremy was in the kitchen, heating up baked beans in a saucepan. Two pieces of bread suffering from third-degree burns were smoking pathetically on a chipped plate. Andrew managed a half-grin. Only Jeremy could have buggered up beans on toast.

“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.

“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. Gloaming perhaps?”

“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.

“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes

“So…er…uh…”

“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.

“I found you this morning while I was getting the paper. You were at the street corner trying to bash in a postbox. You kept screaming, ‘this bloody thing took my money and won’t give me a Kitkat.’ Sound familiar now?”

“Uh. No.”

“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan.  “I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.

“Yeah. We broke it off,” finished Andrew. He watched Jeremy try to chisel the remainder of his beans out of the pot with a lemon zester.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy.

Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You never liked her.”

Jeremy had the pained expression of one determined to make a clean breast of it. “She was an illiterate chav with more piercings than brain cells who thought that the greatest contribution to modern civilization was Heinz’s line of microwavable puddings.”

Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.

“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room.

“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.

“That’s because you need glasses.”

“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”

“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean.  “Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot better than Sasha.”

“You’ve never liked any of them, Jer.”

Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”

“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.

“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”

Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.

Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly.

“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.

“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”

“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”

“Torch-what?”

“It’s just a show.”

“On the wireless?”

“No. I keep telling you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a wireless,” he added.

“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.

“She said, ‘How in the hell after all this time can you come out and say such utter plonk? Telling me you were seeing another girl woulda been more honest than this rubbish about bein’ a vampire hunter!’”

“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”

“Eh?”

“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”

“ Yeah. One of those. I’ll admit it’s a first. Usually they call an ambulance and I’m under surveillance for a few days.”

“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”

“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”

“On the contrary— you don’t look young enough to be my son anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.

“Brother?”

“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.

“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.

Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”

“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.

“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”

Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere.

“Er… so how much money did I shove into that postbox?”

Friday Flash Anthology

Assuming I haven't already missed the deadline for this,
I've been wondering which story to submit for the BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH 2 Anthology. As John W. already posted, authors are CRAP at picking their best stuff so I thought I would narrow it down to 3 stories and let you guys pick. I know you're all busy, so I've stated the premise of each story next to the title if you don't have time to read or re-read it.

Three Finalists:

1. Joe Milgrave and the Devil: Joe summons the Devil (who doesn't REMOTELY look like Burt Reynolds) to beg one favor: Make Mrs. Milgrave agree with him.

2. Mr. Peterson's Tale
A wizened old exterminator tells of his harrowing encounter with "Ol' blinky."

3. Doctor Frankenstein's House of Pancakes The good Doctor F, his promethean construct, Igor and Stephanie are the staff at your not-too-average breakfast joint. "Try the thrcrapple."

Please vote for you favorite by leaving a comment with the number or title of your favorite story. If you've liked a different story that you think deserves submission, feel free to state as such.

I REALLY appreciate you taking the time to read this and vote. SUPER thanks in advance.

Happy Hallowe'en!

A special thanks to Tony Noland and Werewolf Mike Murphy. My concept was an entry in the "dullest horror movie" hashtag thread. Tony and Mike sort of ran with it for a few yards. I managed to intercept it and get possession again, but I couldn't have done it without 'em. And now, without further ado, I present

DR. FRANKENSTEIN'S HOUSE OF PANCAKES

“Welcome to Dr. Frankenstein’s House of Pancakes. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have the bottomless pot of coffee.”
“Decaf or regular?”
“What do you think?” came the sarcastic reply.
Stephanie tried to brush off the comment, but it stung. There hadn’t been anything insipid in her question. Why the smart-ass remark? The pained look on her face must have registered with the customer, who put her hands up in supplication.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m having a rough day. It’s my time of the month, and I can be a real bitch,” she added in an undertone.
Three weeks ago, that comment would have meant something very different to Stephanie (and been far too much information.) Now, it only took her a fraction of a second to note the woman’s swarthy side-burns and bushy brows. Ah, werewolf.

Stephanie wrote the coffee on the werewolf’s tab and walked to the kitchen. On the way, she passed a clean fork to the shoggoth who kept dropping his, brought another batch of creamer to the family of villagers (their pitchforks propped up against their chairs), and took back an order of blood sausage which was too cooked for a customer’s liking. The vampire scowled at her as he complained about his breakfast.
“And by too cooked, I mean it’s been cooked. Next time I tell you I want something raw, I’m not using an artful metaphor,” he sniffed. He pulled out a package of Lucky’s and started to light up, when a theatrical throat-clearing made him pause.

Mr. Prometheus, the assistant manager, had materialized from the shadows and was now looming over the vampire’s table. Mr. P raised a gigantic scar-mottled hand to a bright red sign on the wall. It read, “This is a non-smoking establishment. FIRE BAD.” He growled under his throat for emphasis. The vampire turned three shades whiter (until he was nearly translucent) and quietly put the unlit cigarette next to his coffee mug.

“Thanks,” whispered Stephanie, and Mr. P gave her a friendly, if slightly lopsided wink. He was quite well spoken, and very intelligent, but he never revealed it to the customers. They were more inclined to respect him and the staff if he didn’t try to coax them into conversations about Proust. Stephanie had been nervous around Mr. P until the day he had helped her with a difficult crossword puzzle during her lunch break.

She passed Patrick on her way to the kitchen. An anxious gypsy mother was asking what the Igor Special was.
“It’s a tall stack of pancakes: one classic buttermilk, one blueberry, one buckwheat, and one pecan. Comes with an egg and your choice of bacon or scrapple.”
“Oh, I see. A stack made out of different pancakes,” sighed the mother in relief.

Just don’t ask what’s in the scrapple, Stephanie thought, stifling a giggle. Her grin slipped off her face as she walked hip-first through the shiny metal kitchen doors and dropped off the blood sausage.
“I screwed up another one,” she sighed.
“It’th only your firtht one thith week, and it’th Thurthday at that,” said Igor kindly, agitating the hash-browns on the griddle. “You’re getting better, Thtephanie. Don’t worry. You’ll thoon be an exthpert.”
“Thanks,” said Stephanie, making an effort to pronounce her ‘esses.’ After listening to Igor for a while, she had a tendency to pick up his lisp. She picked up a pot of coffee from the line of thermal pitchers, and waited for Igor to hand her a new raw sausage.

Of course, all fry cooks were required by law to wear hair-nets, to prevent unwanted additions to the food. Igor was probably the only fry cook who wore hand and face nets as well. The result looked a bit like an Olympic fencer, wearing dainty crocheted gloves and a greasy apron. The face net had the added advantage of catching run off from the little man’s precipitous small-talk.

She was on her way to drop off the food when a figure ran through the double doors and smashed into her. The blood sausage sailed through the air as the plate dropped and smashed. Hot coffee poured copiously over her work clothes and scalded her and the person in her lap. Stephanie screamed as her assailant scrambled to his knees and blinked at her through his specs.

It was the boss.

She had barely seen Dr. Victor Frankenstein (or ‘Doc’ as the others called him) since she was hired, but she liked him. It was impossible not to like Doc. He was middle-aged and handsome, if a bit on the lanky side. The doc was driven, you could tell by the way he ran the place, but he also cared about his employees. On Stephanie’s first day, when she’d first dressed in her green uniform, in the pocket of her apron was a handwritten note saying, “Welcome to the family!” It had also included some “free meal” coupons that she could use whenever she wanted (which admittedly she had never used since she already got free meals during her shift). Now, with his glasses askew, and his graying hair in his eyes, she couldn't help but think Doc was kind of cute. Then she remembered her ruined uniform and various coffee burns.

“Owwww!” she moaned.
“Uh! I’m s-so sorry, Stephanie,” Doc stammered, as he helped her to her feet. “Oh! You’re…you’re a mess! I’m sorry! Oh dear! This really couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” he moaned. He sounded so distraught that Stephanie’s heart went out to him.
“What’th all thith thillineth?” asked Igor indignantly. He was apparently ignorant that the airborne sausage had landed on his head. He stopped short as he eyed Stephanie’s ruined uniform, and the disheveled Doc. “Mathter Victor? Whath going on?”
“There’s thomething—er, sorry,-- something coming to the restaurant. Something horrible that threatens to undo all we’ve fought to achieve here,” said Doc soberly.
“Villagerth with pitchforkth?” asked Igor, trembling.
“No, they’re at table eight. Incidentally, Stephanie, they could use a refill of water.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“No, you need to change into a fresh uniform first. I’ll see to them.”
“I don’t underthtand, Mathter. What’th tho horrible? What’th coming to the rethtaurant that can dethtroy uth all? It’th not that Van Helthing chap that shot up the plathe with his crothbowth, ith it?”
“No….it’s….” Doc trailed off before he steeled himself.
“He’s here, Doc,” said Mr. Prometheus, standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Who ith?” demanded Igor, now literally hopping mad.
“It’s a food critic,” said Doc in a low quaver.
The others froze. Stephanie gasped in alarm, and the Doc pulled her to him, comforting her in his embrace, but also seeking comfort in it.
“What shall we do, mathter?” asked Igor.
“We’re gonna give ‘em the best damn pecan pancakes they’ve ever eaten, that’s what,” said Stephanie boldy. The Doctor gave her an admiring smile.
“MMMMM…” said Mr. Prometheus, from the doorway.

Happy Halloween!