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.”

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2


Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.

He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.

Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.

As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.

The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.

“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.

“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.

“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.

“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”

“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.

“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”

“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.

“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.

“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).

“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”

“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.

“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.

“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.

“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.

Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”

“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.

“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”

“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”

“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”

“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.

“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”

“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”

Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.

“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”

“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.

“It is?” asked Andrew.

“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”

“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.

Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”

“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.

“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.

Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.

“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.

“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.

“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.

Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.

"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.

(continued next week)

Jeremy Hunted Part 1

Not sure whether this is a 2 or 3 parter, but I think this merits a bit of expansion. Not sure where I'm going yet, so we'll see what happens. ; ) ~Monica
PART ONE: THE OLD DOG

“ARGH!!!”

Andrew had scarcely draped his coat over the armchair (which Jeremy had asked him not to do over fifty times) when heard a cry and crash upstairs and ran to see what was going on.

After a clumsy hike up the narrow stairs, Andrew stood in the upstairs hallway, trying to discern where the noise came from. He checked in his room first. He knew that Jeremy liked to poke around in his room while he worked at the pub. Andrew didn’t like it, but decided not to let Jer know that he was on to him. He wasn’t worried about things disappearing — Jeremy wasn’t the sort to go around pinching things, he was merely curious. He sifted through Andrew’s belongings like an archeologist dug through ruins; he was to find out about the world outside his stuffy townhouse. Jeremy didn’t get out much. The last time he’d gone to the Odeon at Swiss Cottage, “The Shawshank Redemption” had been playing.

                Every few decades, Jeremy would get lonely and curious about the world and decide to stick his head out. He’d try to suck up all the information that he could and then he’d lose interest and cling to those facts for the next fifteen years or so. Andrew had observed him one time with a pile of his t-shirts next to the computer. The man was laboriously typing (with two fingers) the band names on his shirts into the Google search engine and would occasionally gasp at the results. The internet was one of the few concessions Jeremy had made to modern innovation; it allowed him to do his shopping without leaving the house.

Andrew peered into his room which was empty and (to all appearances) untouched. He checked Jeremy’s room and there was nothing there either, but something was different that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. He eventually looked in the guest bedrooms, which were resolutely empty despite the “Rooms to Let” sign by the privet hedge. It was in one of these that Andrew saw a fallen curtain rod and a pile of dusty cloth in a large pile. There was something thrashing under it muttering a stream of Victorian obscenities.  

                “Jer?” asked Andrew, picking up the pile of cloth. The awkward bundle weighed as much as a small child, which would have given the anemic Jeremy some trouble. It was immediately apparent to Andrew, however, that Jeremy’s main struggle was with the cast iron curtain rod that had skewered him through the chest.

                “Jer?” cried Andrew in alarm.

                “Little help?” gasped Jeremy, his face screwed up in pain.

                Andrew immediately grasped the heavy rod in his hand and yanked it out of Jeremy’s ribcage with a sickening “crunch.” Jeremy uttered a sharp cry and shuddered, but he seemed to shake it off shortly and sat up. His punctured shirt was damp with clear plasma, as was the carpet beneath him.

                “You alright?” asked Andrew in alarm, kneeling next to his friend.

                “I’m fine. It missed my heart by a few inches, but that was a close shave.”

                “I would think you’d have been a little more careful about your choice of décor, Jer,” said Andrew, eyeing the menacing spear on the end of the rod.

                “It was an antique,” said Jeremy with a shrug.   

“So are you,” said Andrew shaking his head. Already the hole in Jeremy’s chest was getting smaller, and Andrew could see paper-white skin through his rent shirt.

                “What were you doing anyway?”

                “I was taking the curtains down to be cleaned. Need to tidy up for the new lodger.”

                “We’re getting a lodger?” asked Andrew.

                “Yep, should be here tomorrow. He’s an American fellow here on a sabbatical.”

                “A yank lodger?” asked Andrew in surprise.

                “Americans need rooms to stay in like everyone else,” said Jeremy with a shrug.

                “You going to be…”Andrew trailed off uncomfortably. “Okay with it?”

                “I need the money, Andrew. Vampire-hunting doesn’t pay the bills, and things have been getting tight.”

                “No I mean with the…” Andrew stared at Jeremy’s chest as his wound shrunk to the size of a pea and then disappeared, leaving behind only pale, blue-veined skin, still damp with yellowish plasma.

                “Oh, you mean, am I going to drain his blood like it was Ribena?” said Jeremy with a shrug. “Oh please. It would take more than some American priest to make me go berserk.”

                “He’s a vicar?” asked Andrew agog.

                “No, he’s a papist something-or-other. He’s a deacon or a seminarian or something… I forget which he said it was.”

                “A religious nutter? Are you barking?”

“I don’t really care what he is as long as he pays rent. Help me carry these to the laundry room.”

“And you think he’ll be okay with living with a vampire?” asked Andrew with a frown. He shouldered the dusty bundle with a violent sneeze before following Jeremy downstairs. Apart from a few stiff jerks and quiet groans, Jeremy seemed otherwise fine again.

“I don’t intend to tell him I’m a vampire, Andrew,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes. “And you better keep mum too, got it?”

“Oh, because I’m Mr. Subterfuge, ain’t I?” said Andrew with a snort.

Jeremy paused and gripped his head. “…I can see where this may lead to some difficulties.”

“I’ll try to keep it secret,” said Andrew with a shrug, “but you know me.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy looking nervous. “Just put the curtains down there. I’ll have Olivia take care of them,” he added, pointing to the stone floor in the laundry room. Andrew complied and tried to wipe his dusty hands off on his black jeans.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Andrew eyeing Jeremy anxiously. He only realized now that the curtain-rod had gone completely through Jeremy’s sternum. There was a twin hole through the back of Jeremy’s white shirt as well.

“Bit peaky. And frankly starving,” said Jeremy grimly. “It takes a lot out of me to regenerate like that.”

“You want me to go get food?” said Andrew.

“Would you?” asked Jeremy, looking hopeful.

 “Yeah. Who do you feel like hitting up then?” asked Andrew. “Singh?”

“No, I can’t do Indian on an empty stomach,” said Jeremy with a grimace.

“How about Maarouf?” asked Andrew.

“Yeah. Lebanese would hit the spot,” nodded Jeremy. “Get some lamb kebabs (rare) with rice, falafel, tabouli salad — oh! And get that really good hummus with the pita bread,” said Jeremy eagerly.

Andrew’s face spread in his usual lopsided grin full of chipped teeth. “Yeah, sure, Jer. See you in a bit, eh?”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy.

“No problem. I was hungry, myself,” said Andrew.

“No, I mean thanks for… well, everything. I’ve been feeling a lot… better since you moved in,” said Jeremy.

“No man is an island, Jer,” said Andrew. “I think being around other people is good for you. Even if ‘other people’ is only me.”

“Oh, you’re good company, Andrew,” said Jeremy. “You just listen to rubbish bands.”

Andrew shook his head and grabbed his coat again on his way out the door trying to remember Jeremy’s order. “If that priesty-nutter starts to suspect, he can just watch you eat all that GARLIC and relax,” he mumbled.

Next week: PART TWO: Lodgers

Campus Spirit

By MONICA MARIER

“You’re a witch?” I asked, goggle-eyed.

Sandy just shrugged and pulled a lock of ash blond hair away from her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said.

It took a while before I could say anything else. One fact kept poking me in the back of the head like a pencil.

“BUT YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!” I blurted out.

Sandy snorted and rolled her eyes. “So? Doesn’t matter.”

“I thought you couldn’t be both,” I insisted. There was something about Sarah Palin the NRA paired with incense and crystals that didn’t mesh.

“Look, you’re born a witch. It’s not a lifestyle choice like who you vote for or what color socks you wear,” she told me.

I shrugged, but I tried to thoroughly examine my roommate without staring.

It still looked like Sandy Parks: a skinny but rather plain-jane physical therapy major, with horsey teeth and freckles. She still had a drawl after moving here from Norfolk VA —not that it mattered. Her genuine snakeskin boots (that had seen better days) and straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway.

She told me that she envied my “striking features” and overflowing EE cup, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Who’d want to be a big fat marshmallow when they were a size 2? You can fix bland features with a little makeup (which Sandy never tried to do) but you can’t fix fat.

And then this happened. We were on the floor, eating Milanos (hers) and watching The Last Unicorn (also her movie on her TV) when we suddenly announced she was a witch.

“Alright prove it,” I said, REALLY hoping she wouldn’t.

“’Kay,” she said. She pointed to a box of Pop Tarts (hers) on the shelf and said, “Cthinos h’yel meh taftut.”

 If anyone ELSE had said it without a thick Southern Accent it probably would have sounded really cool.

The box flopped over and remained on its side.

“Pshh. Is that it?” I asked.

“Just wait,” she said and my eyes returned to the box. A rustling sound indicated that something was happening to one of the shiny foil packages. I stared as the rustling got louder and louder until—

“HIT THE DECK!” shouted Sandy suddenly.

 Sandy and I ate the carpet as two shapes went whizzing overhead. There was a dull thudding sound as the room shook and I tentatively got up.

“Sorry,” said Sandy looking abashed. She rose and straightened her denim skirt. “I lost control a little.”

“A LITTLE?” I asked looking at the white cold walls.

Sticking out of the cinderblocks, like ninja throwing stars, were two perfectly toasted s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts.  I gingerly pulled one out of the wall, after it was cool enough to touch. The icing was now a caramelized brulee, but otherwise intact. How it managed to fly into the rock-hard wall without crumbling and showering us with molten sugar was beyond me. Gingerly I bit off a corner that wasn’t covered in plaster. It tasted fine.

“Cool,” I said warily. “So what else can you do, other than fire ballistic pastries?” I asked.

She winced at my comment and I felt ashamed of myself.

“Sorry. I can’t turn the snark off sometimes,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, I know,” she said shaking her head indulgently.  “Well, there’s a reason I told you I’m a witch, now that you ask me.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“I need your help with something.”

“Like what?” I asked, uncertainly. I was worried this was going to get uncomfortable and fast.

“I need you to help me get to a book,” she said.

Oh, thank GOD. She doesn’t want me to do something dumb with colored candles and silver knives, I thought.

“What kind of book. Is it expensive?” I asked.

“It’s priceless,” she said nodding. “It’s kept under lock and key at the library and only certain majors can get access to it.”

I nodded. There were a few of those. Our University was one of the oldest in America, which was really one of our only claims to fame these days apart from a champion ping-pong team.

“So where do I come in?” I asked.

“Well you’re a history major, minoring in archaic lore, right?”

“Yeah…” I said, growing nervous again.

“The book I need to get access to is the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I think MU has a copy of it in the Library.”

“Oh,” I said my stomach sinking. Maybe colored candles wouldn’t have been so bad. “Well, see, that’s going to be tricky. They kind of don’t let any students see that book anymore.”

“But they used to!” she cried.

“Yeah, but every time they did someone went bonkers! I think they were theorizing that the book had lead ink or fungoid spores in it — something that was making people go nuts. It’s sealed up in storage now.”

“Shit,” Sandy cursed a rare thing in itself. “Now what.”

“Well, they sell the English version in the campus bookstore,” I said.

Sandy looked up. “That might work,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “We can try anyway.”

“Well, okay. Let’s go — I could use a latte. What do you want it for any way?”

“Well you know how kids have been attacked on campus at night?” she said slowly.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I think the book might give me some clue as to how to stop it.”

I stopped dead as I strung the two factors together. Kids were getting attacked on Miskatonic campus behind the science buildings and Sandy wanted access to occult literature.

“What… are you saying something …weird is attacking students?”

“Rosemary West, what do you know about the reanimated?” Sandy asked me.

Don't Forget the Donuts

Rachael drank the dark re-fried office coffee and winced. It was usually bad, like the movie “Cocktail” was bad, but something was more off than usual. It now tasted like bad coffee that had been funneled through a garden hose. Looking at the prime suspect, the creamer, she spotted the bright yellow label with the words “Organic” across it. She groaned. For something that was supposed to be so natural and tamper free, why did organic milk and cream taste so…chemical?

Rachael tried not to let it bother her, but it began to rankle in her a little. A tiny fish hook of annoyance was teasing her skin and threatening to break the surface. She counted to ten and tried to breathe deeply as she walked past the grey labyrinth of cubicles. Rachael wanted to look at the clock, but was afraid to. Her stomach was telling her it must be close to lunchtime. Her brain wanted to cushion the blow, telling Rachael that it must be a good hour until 1:00–no, at least an hour and a half.

Holding her breath, Rachael looked up at the boring, white-faced bare-bones office clock and stifled a scream. It was 9:27 am. Her blackberry began to vibrate on her holster, and she fished around under her oversized green blouse to find it. A message flashed on it, saying “meeting w. team D.” A sudden jolt of memory hit her brain, still fuzzy from lack of coffee. Oh right. The meeting.

She speed-walked across the floor, with as much dignity as she could muster, her sensible flats flapping on the carpet as her long skirt caught on wastebaskets and protruding screws. Rachael’s unruly tangle of brown curls kept getting in her face, and she franticly searched her blazer pockets for something to tie them back. Sadly, she remembered too late that these pockets were only ornamental flaps, and she tore the left one by accident. Spying the copy cart, she quickly grabbed a brown utility rubber-band and attempted to tie back her brown halo. The raw rubber yanked fine hairs, torturing her scalp and drawing tears, which she brushed away in a hurry.

Forty seconds later she arrived at conference room C. She was the first one there. She sighed in relief and sank into one of the cushy black vinyl chairs. She had only to wait. With a tiny flutter of happiness, she leaned back in her chair, and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming. Her stomach gave a few rumbles, but she sipped her horrible coffee to shut it up.

Minutes ticked by. It was now 9:42 and Team D hadn’t arrived. More importantly, Ted hadn’t arrived. Ted was heading it, and Rachael was sort of grateful. She liked Ted. Ted didn’t condescend to her, he knew that being the only graphic designer on the floor, she got a lot dumped on her plate that she shouldn’t have to deal with. Ted was also vaguely aware of the software and programs she used. He’d heard of Adobe Illustrator, and knew what ppi meant, and didn’t ask dumb questions like “how do I put an image in power-point?” Ted had also said he was going to stop at Dunkin Donuts and pick up 2 dozen donuts in various flavors. That was worth this stupid meeting alone.

9:50 read the clock in the dark meeting room. Rachael slugged back the rest of her cold, grassy tasting coffee, but it didn't shut up the nagging voice in her stomach. The fishhook of annoyance was now burrowing into her skin, and she had to conscientiously unclench her jaw. Her dentist had warned her about that. She ran a tongue over the sharp points of her canine teeth and felt the serrated grooves caused by her anxious teeth-clenching. 10:03 Where the hell was everyone? With a sinking feeling, Rachael wondered if maybe she’d gotten the meeting place wrong. Maybe team D was in Conference room M or something waiting for her to show up with her thumbdrive.

Rachael stuck her head out the door and flagged down Evan.
“Hey, Evan, was Team D supposed to meet in here today?
Evan consulted the spreadsheet. “Eeee-yeah. 9:30-10:30, it says. Ted not there?”
“Nobody’s in here!” whined Rachael.
“Want me to call Ted?” asked Evan.
“Would you please? I wish somebody’s tell me what’s going on.” Rachael winced at her own voice. She knew she was sounding like a petulant four-year-old in front of Evan (who she thought was really cute).
“You want to go back to your desk and I’ll ding you if he responds?”
“I’m scheduled to be here until 10:30,” said Rachael evenly. “I might as well wait, in case someone shows up.”
“’Kay.”
10:14
10:20
Rachael was sweating she was so anxious and nervous. The hot sick feeling was roiling in her stomach. She was either being duped or she’d overlooked something important and made a huge mistake. Not knowing which it was added to her stress. Feeling sick to her stomach, she fished in her purse for her pill-caddy and fished out two iron pills. She swallowed them dry, and they stuck in her throat, giving her heartburn. Where was Ted? Where were the freaking donuts?

At 10:28, Ted finally waltzed through the meeting room door.
“Evan said you were in here,” he said shrugging.
“Ted,” began Rachael, fighting to keep her voice even. “Wasn’t there some meeting that was supposed to take place at 9:30?”
Ted shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Well, it turns out that all of Team D was on the smoking balcony during break, so we kind of had an impromptu meeting out there.”
“Um, I’m in Team D,” said Rachael.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mark it on your timesheet or nuthin’. It’s not your fault you don’t smoke.”
“But the meeting was about the graphic designs for the site!” hissed Rachael.
“Yeah, but we got some good ideas.”
“TED. I’M THE ONLY GRAPHIC DESIGNER.”
“Yeah, but we’ll tell you what you need to do, I took notes.”
Ted handed Rachael a crumpled napkin covered in ballpoint pen scrawl. The only legible word was “logo.” Rachael noted sadly that the napkin was from Dunkin Donuts.
“I suppose you ate all the donuts, then.”
“Yeah, but I thought you wouldn’t care, Rachael. You're always complaining that there’s too much junk food in the office, right?”
Rachael fought it. She really did, but the smell of cigarettes, and Ted’s smarmy grin, were testing her mettle. And now… no donuts?
“I’m sorry?” said Ted, half-heartedly.
“No, Ted. I’M sorry,” sighed Rachael, closing the door to the conference room behind Ted. “You should have brought the donuts.”

She felt her canines lengthen as she grabbed Ted by his stupid Spongebob tie and sank her teeth into his neck.

Thoki & Lor (Experiment 4)

Recap: Thoki was informed by his half-brother, Jormungand that the source of ultimate Chaos is Egypt. Thoki’s ultimate goal is to use the chaos to rule the world. Lor’s ultimate goal is to meet Big Bird from Sesame Street.

“Dah-dun”

“Thoki?”
“What.”
“I think I see it again.”
“Oh, crap, you’re right. Paddle faster!”

Thoki and Lor were on the western side the Atlantic Ocean heading roughly east towards the Mediterranean. Standard forms of travel had been out of the question. Between the two of them, they had managed to save up only $128.34 from various odd jobs and petty thievery. That wasn’t enough to get a plane ticket for Thoki, let alone Lor who would have needed to purchase an extra seat to accommodate his backside. Plus he would have had to hunch the entire way to keep from banging his head on the overhead compartment.

Thus stymied, they had tried to stow-away aboard a cruise ship. This plan had worked for all of twenty minutes. Thoki was still nursing some bruises from when they were arrested and put ashore in Florida. Stupid Disney. Down to their last Benjamin, Thoki attempted to be resourceful. He waltzed into a beach-shop and began to purchase/shoplift supplies.

Now he was 40 miles out to sea, with his cohort, in a crude raft made of inflatable alligator pool-toys held together with duct tape. Three inflatable beer-coolers swam beneath them, acting as ballast. They were filled with containers of Ensure, Red Bull and Dasani, which were their only concessions to hydration and nutrition. The Red Bull was for Lor, who was currently acting as the outboard motor. He was wearing a large innertube around his waist, and orange water-wings, as his massive legs thrashed the water, keeping up the steady “kick, kick, kick,” they’d been doing all morning. Lor never got tired, he didn’t have enough imagination to get tired.

Right now, however, he was kicking more frantically as Thoki called out to him.
“Starboard, kick starboard!”
“Is that left or right?” asked Lor.
“It’s that way,” said Thoki, pointing.
“So left?”
“No, that’s… wait. Does it matter which way I’m facing?”
“I think it depends on which way the boat is facing,” said Lor in one of his rare moments of lucidity.
“Oh… so port, then?”
“No thanks, I don’t drink.”
“Too late! Here it comes again!” cried Thoki in a panicked voice. He pulled on the tether holding Lor to the craft, and tried to pull him aboard. After a few close calls and near-capsizes, the giant managed to clamber onto the squeaking wet alligator toys.


The two stared in growing anxiety, huddled beneath a pile of stolen beach towels, as a large dark shape came closer to the boat.
“It might just be a whale,” said Thoki in a whisper.
DA-DUN.
“Or not,” he added mournfully.
DA-DUN.
“I’m scared,” said Lor quietly.
DA-DUN-DUN.
“Just don’t make any sudden moves,” said Thoki. “Keep quiet and don’t touch the water.”
"Okie-dokie, Thoki."
DA-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN
“It’s getting closer,” whimpered the giant, trying pathetically to make himself smaller.
BADDA-BUNNNNNNNNNNN (DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN)
The water began to boil and churn as the dark shape got closer and closer. Thoki and Lor, held each other tightly as scales and fins began to flash beneath the surface.
BADA-BUN! BADA-BUN!
The ocean rose suddenly in a column of green water that erupted from the waves. A terrifying creature rose sixty feet in the air and came down again in a horrible splash. It was a sea serpent that seemed too big to be possible. The undulating coils were larger and longer than a freight train as jaws, the size of a drawbridge, snapped at them.

“BADA-BUN!” sang the snake-head joyfully. Its breath tore at the two sailors, smelling of death and chocolate milk. In confirmation, a few empty Ensure cans floated to the surface.

“JORM! KNOCK IT OFF!” screamed Thoki.
“Aw, don’t have a hissy-fit, wiener. I was just funnin’ yah,” said Jormungandr, the world serpent.
“And stop eating our food supply!” Thoki snapped again at his half-brother.

Jormungandr was in his traditionally ‘mythic’ form this time, that of a gigantic cretaceous clidastes. He didn’t exactly run the length of the world–the Ancient Norsemen did like to exaggerate– but he could circle around Australia at least. The giant sea-serpent was supposedly so hideous that no mortal could look on it without going insane, but Thoki was used to it by now and tried to stare down the mad rolling yellow eyes.

“And do you have to sing the theme to ‘Jaws’ every time? It’s getting old.”
“I could sing the theme to the Poseidon Adventure. There’s got to be a morning afterrrr, If we can hold on through the niiiiiiiii–!”
“NO SINGING!”
“Aw, you got such a stick up your ass.”
“Can you sing something from an ocean-themed movie where nobody dies?”
“Alright. Have it your way,” said Jormungand with a poisonous grin. “Under da Seeea! Under da Seeeaaa!...”
“Is he going to do this all the way to Egypt?” asked Lor meekly.
“Or until he gets bored and tries to eat us,” said Thoki.
“I prefer the singing.”
“Me too, actually– he’s not that bad.”
“Up on de shore, dey work all day…” sang the serpent.
“This is going to be a long freaking trip though,” sighed Thoki.
“Who wants to hear me sing the theme to Spongebob?” cried Jorm turning happily in spirals.
“Ooh! Ooh! Me!" said Lor, raising his hand.
“Drama queen,” Thoki muttered.

END

Previous adventures of Thoki & Lor:
Experiment 3: Land of the Vikings
Experiment 2: Dwindled
Experiment 1: Mornings

Thoki & Lor (Experiment 3)

I would like to thank whomever gave me this week's prompt, but I've forgotten who they are. It's the line about the ducks. If you are that person, please let me know so I can thank you properly here.
~M

LAND OF THE VIKINGS

Recap: Thoki is the lesser-known son of Loki (Norse Myth). Lor is a frost giant. Thoki is looking for the source of Ultimate Chaos so he can use it to take over the world. Lor thinks scented candles are edible.

“Say it!” said Fenrir.
“NO!” cried nine-year-old Thoki.
“Say it, or I’ll drop you!”
“Alright! I’m a weenie!”
“What kind of weenie?” said Jormungander in Thoki’s ear.
“I’m a sissy weenie who plays with dolls!” cried Thoki, tears streaming down his face.
“And you eat your own boogers! Say that!” added Fenrir
“I don’t––“
“Say it, or Earth gets a new hole to Niflheim!” snapped Jormungander.
“AND I EAT MY OWN BOOGERS––LET ME DOWN!!”
“Nah, changed my mind,” said Fenrir.
“BUT YOU PROM––AHHHH!”

Thoki awoke in a cold sweat. He hated those dreams about his childhood. In them were the memories of countless wedgies, swirlies and pink-bellies doled out by his two half-brothers. This time, Thoki remembered when Fenrir had dangled him (by his underpants) over the Bifrost Bridge. Thoki had seen Earth with crystal clarity sparkling thousands of miles below. And while Earth hadn’t gained a new crater, it did receive a brief shower of slightly warm rain.

It took Thoki a few minutes to convince himself he was no longer nine years old, then he picked himself off the ground and brushed the pine needles from his arm. They’d been camping in the forest for the last few weeks. He got up, stretched, and poked his traveling buddy, Lor, with a pointed stick.

“Hey. Wake up.”
Lor blinked and sat up at his usual glacial speed. “Time to make the donuts?” he mumbled, still half asleep.
“I wish,” sighed Thoki. They’d been eating suspicious plants for nineteen days now. “Any clue where we are now? What’s the name of this Fjord?” said Thoki, pointing to the water lapping at the shore.
“It’s not a Fjord. It’s a lake.”
“It’s a big wet thing! Same difference!” snapped Thoki.
“Well technically, a Fjord is a long, narrow arm of the sea bordered by steep cliffs usually formed by glacial erosion; while a lake is a body of fresh or salt water of considerable size, surrounded by land.”

Thoki just stared. Usually he would have argued with Lor, but when it came to “jography” he didn’t question Lor. The wooly-headed giant had trouble reading most 3-letter words, but when it came to reading maps, the behemoth had a talent bordering on the supernatural. Lor being clever unsettled Thoki. It was as if a sheep had suddenly donned a tie and begun offering financial advice.

“This is Lake Superior,” yawned Lor.
“Does that mean we’re in Minnesota?” cried Thoki in excitement.
“Yes. We crossed over from Wisconsin last night. I think we’re near Deluth.”
“HOT DOG!” Thoki’s petite figure broke into an impromptu jig. He stopped as the butterflies rose up in his throat. “Well, I suppose I better call him,” he said with less excitement.
“What can I do?” asked Lor amiably.
Thoki sighed. “I dunno. Go play.”
“Kay,” said Lor, back to his monosyllabic self. He lumbered over to a cluster of cattails.
“Alright… here we go,” said Thoki, psyching himself up.

He pulled a reel of cofilament, thermal-fused fishing line from his pocket. Only one guy in the world had been stupid enough to fish for Jorumgand, and he’d used an Ox-head for bait. Thoki, who knew his half-brother a bit better than mighty Thor, wrapped the sturdy fishing line around a six-pack of Miller Lite. Using a log as a float, he cast it onto the lake’s surface. Hel said he’d need to fish for Jormungand, “At the great fjord near the home of the Vikings.” Thoki deduced that the only place left on Earth with Vikings, was Minnesota.

Two hours ticked past with no change. Thoki was now nursing a sunburn on his neck and he looked longingly at the chilled beer floating on the lake’s surface.
“Lor? How you doin’ there buddy?” asked Thoki. Lor was being very quiet, usually a sign that he was doing something Thoki wouldn’t like. That or he was confused by life again.
“Fine.”
“Whatcha doin?”
“We were planting seeds in the ground so they could grow into ducks.”
“What kind of seeds?” asked Thoki, glad Lor was being stupid again.
“Duckweed seeds.”
“Makes sense… Wait. We?” asked Thoki, looking at his partner for the first time.
“Me and Mr. Onion.”
“Mister…Onion…” said Thoki slowly, craning his neck to see what was in Lor’s hands. It was a rock. Thoki shrugged. “Alright. Have fun, you two.”
“Kay.”

Thoki turned his head, to watch his bobber and screamed. A large, muscular chest was blocking his view. It was clothed in a black T-shirt sporting the legend, “Han Shot First.” Thoki tried to back up and lost his footing. Sitting on the ground, hard, he stared up into the face of Jormungand, who was busy downing the contents of one of the beer-cans. He belched politely and threw it over his shoulder.

“Hey, wiener,” said Thoki's brother. He was in a human form, but there was a definite serpent quality to him from the blue-veined skin, to his hair the color of parsley. His eyes were the greatest giveaway–yellow, with slit pupils, and a transparent ocular cap which twitched as he regarded his younger brother and opened another can.

“Miller Lite? You gotta be kiddin,” he said with disgust.
“It’s all I could afford,” said Thoki. He’d spent his last tenner on it too.
“How touching. What do you want?”
“You wrap around the world right? You see everything.”
“Everything connected to water, but I concede your point. Continue.”
“I’m looking for something. Something I’ve only read in passing, but I need more information.”
“Jeezus, try the internet, dumbass. Do I look like Wikipedia?” said Jormungander turning towards the water.
“Wait!! Jorm! Do you know anything about a source of ultimate chaos?” cried Thoki frantically.

The snake-man paused. His diamond-shaped face looked at Thoki again. There was a strange smile playing on his thin lips.
“Now why would you want to know about that?” he asked.
“Tell me,” said Thoki, drawing himself up.
The ocular cap flicked up again. “Egypt. It’s in Egypt.”
“Egypt! But how––?“
“Not my problem. Ask when you get there. But it’s in Egypt. Later, runt.”
And Jormungand sank into Lake Superior without so much as a ripple.


END

Previous Adventures of Thoki & Lor
Experiment 2: Dwindeled
Experiment 1: Mornings