Back to School

Monica IRL

by Monica Marier

There’s nothing quite so jarring to a child as being brutally torn from the warm comforting womb of kindergarten to be dumped in the grey antiseptic hell that is First Grade. I remember walking into the classroom and noting how grey everything was. Of course, things were always grey in 1987 Warsaw , the coal dust clouds in the air turned everything in the city into shades of mud and charcoal, but this room really was grey and I longed for my Kindergarten classroom. The cheerless walls full of rules for spelling and math replaced the happy pictures of teddies and children playing. The cold grey linoleum replaced the soft, if somewhat stained, red carpet. Instead of group tables that I shared with the classmates I loved, there were only grey metal desks of solitude.

I shivered in my Kangaroo high-tops as I entered. There was no love, no mercy, no escape. A thin brisk woman ushered us into the class. Her lips were pinched and pruney, and they did not smile at us. She patted her cropped wiry hair which stood up on her head like a sergeant’s beret.

“Welcome back to school, first graders. I am your teacher. My name is Mrs. Virginia Fünke.”

I’m not kidding. That was her name.

Even as a kid I knew this was an absurd name, and under other circumstances I would have laughed a good hour over it. But there was no titter of giggles, no one even cracked a smile. We were as sober and scared as if she had just said, “I am Satan, Prince of Darkness.”

“And this is our class aide, Mr. Lowe,” she continued gesturing to the back of the room.

The ground shook as suddenly from the dark recesses of the classroom came a cyclopean nightmare. A six foot seven giant of a man made of solid muscle. His beefy face was red, his lips screwed into a frown.  He glared at us through tinted glasses in aviator frames as the fluorescent lights glinted on his sparsely-covered head.

“HULLO,” he barked in a deep Australian accent. “I'M MISTER LOWE.”

Those of us with dry pants gazed up in abject terror. He seemed to sense this for his frown deepened and he said no more. Mrs. Fünke called the role but most of us had forgotten our names by now and had to be asked twice.

“Now look at the worksheet on your desk,” Mrs. Fünke said in her clipped tones.

We looked down at a black and white Xerox. It was supposed to be a jolly picture of a circus train, each train containing happy animals or something. The joy was sucked out, however, by the dingy light filtering through the barred windows.

“Fill in the train cars with the alphabet,” said Mrs. Fünke, and we scrambled for our pencil boxes, frantic to obey her.

“… in pen,” she added.

The world stopped dead.

In pen? Was she serious? Pen was—well it was indelible! Pen was an accident waiting to happen. Most of us, at this point had never even been allowed to wield one let alone do school work with one.

With shaking fingers I pulled out my standard issue ballpoint pen and pulled the cap off. The unfamiliar smell of cheap ink turned my stomach as my chubby fingers gripped the implement. Slowly, with the care of a jeweler cutting a priceless diamond, I dug the pen into the paper. I could feel Mr. Lowe staring at me, and knew instinctively (quite accurately I might add) that he was waiting for an excuse to pounce. After I completed an uppercase and lowercase “Aa” I allowed myself to breathe.

The “Bb” and the “Cc” came easier and by the “Ff” I’d hit my stride. I was beginning to ignore the cold sweat on my neck and the piercing eyes of Mr. Lowe as they glinted behind his dark glasses, watching our every movement. I had just finished the “Zz” when I realized with a horrible shudder that something was wrong. There was an extra box at the end. Feeling feverish I searched the worksheet and discovered to my horror that I had completely skipped the letter “M.” How did I miss “M”? It was the first letter of my name, for God’s sake! But there it was,” Ll…Nn…Oo,” permanently scribed in noxious blue ink. I saw a shadow loom over my desk and I my insides froze. Fearing it was the titanic Mr. Lowe, I hunched up, trying to make myself small and unappetizing.

“How are we getting on?” came Mrs. Fünke’s low voice over my head. I felt only a little relieved. I looked up into her gimlet stare and knew I was dead woman.

“I umsle bumble num,” I stammered in a barely perceptible voice.

“What was that?” she asked coldly.

“I made a mistake, see?” I confessed, showing her the extra box and the missing “M”.

“I see,” said Mrs. Fünke eyeing my childish scrawls critically. “I guess you’ll just have to do it again.”

She then placed a new blank sheet on my desk and I felt her words burn me.

DO. IT. AGAIN.

I felt tears rising in my eyes and knew there was no holding them back. My lip trembled and my nose ran as my face prickled and stung. Then the damn broke. Wet hot tears rolled down my face, contorted with the effort of not making a sound, and splashed onto the virgin paper. Despite my efforts, little whimpers escaped my lips, alerting my classmates to my predicament. Most were probably sympathetic, but all I could hear was the whispers of my hated nickname that I earned last year.

Crybaby. Look crybaby is crying. Teacher made crybaby cry.

I went blind at that point, the tears blurring everything around me as I stared fixedly at my desk. The next thing I could hear was Mr. Lowe looming over me and roaring: “STOP CRYIN’! FOR GOD’S SAKE, GIRL! STOP CRYIN’!”

I remember very little of the rest of that day. I only remember that the rest of the year was just as awful and as was the longing I felt for Kind Miss Szewicki and her Kindergarten classroom.

This entire memory flashed into life again as I took my trembling son to meet his first grade teacher. Granted, it wasn’t so bleak as my old classroom; there were toys and paint pots and pictures of Winnie the Pooh. But there were also grey walls and grey floors and solitary grey desks.

My son whimpered next to me. “I don’t like it. It’s scary here.”

“It will be fine. There’s nothing awful about first grade,” I lied.

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.)

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

Morning People

Today has been made of suck for me, but I stumbled accross this passage from a WIP I abandoned called "Go Forth and Discover, Young Americans!"

I stumbled into the kitchen with a pounding headache. Kev grimaced as he noted my floppy pajamas, and unwashed hair. He was completely ready for work (except of course for the last ten minutes of running around asking 'April, where'd I leave the      fill in the blank     ?') The kids, however were still in their pajamas and asking for food.

"'S there any coffee?" I mumbled.

"No," said Kevin.

"Can you make there be coffee?" I whined.

"Yes," he said cracking a small grin. Apart from the fact that he obviously forgot to brush his teeth, he really was rather cute.  I suppose it was inevitable for me to fuck up the moment.

"Why isn't there any coffee? You know I can't function without it! You're always up before me and it’s the simplest damn thing in the world! Would it kill you to just remember to make a pot every day?"

I glanced at Lee jumping up and down to the Wiggles.

"Why the Hell aren't the kids dressed? My GOD, Kev! You do this every morning. Lee's diaper is huge! Did you give Ursula her cereal? Turn some lights on! Good grief! It's like a bloody cave in here, how is anyone supposed to wake up with no lights on? What the HELL are all these dishes doing in the sink? The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty, for Christ's sake! Did you check? I'll bet it didn't occur to you to check and see if the dishes in there are dirty! I see you left last night's frying pan on the stove! GOD! I guess I have to do it all myself, again!!"

Kevin's smile slipped down around his ankles, as he cowed under my assault.  He rolled up his sleeves, brushed past me roughly and turned on the water as I kept flooding him with complaints. I didn't stop either. I just couldn't shut-up, I was in the middle of a sermon about how no one helps me out, and how everything is plopped in my lap like it's my job.

I was aware of a hot uncomfortable feeling in the back of my eyes as my list of complaints gets longer and louder. Lee started imitating me, while I changed his diaper.

"Keeeevaaaaaaaan," he whined nasally.

Kevin shuffled around, cowed, while he emptied the trash and the diaper pail. He looked at the floor and said nothing. He was brought up by his mother and three sisters to listen and obey. Something in his genetic makeup just made him react to a female voice like a dog-whistle. A very tiny voice in my head told me I was going too far. I couldn't push him like this, not if I wanted him to respect me. I had never listened to that voiced before, and I don't do it now. Years of training from my Mother were blossoming into fruition.

It was only after Kevin gave me a peck on the cheek, kissed the kids and walked out the door, that I shut up.

I then realized that of the 2 hours we had shared that morning, I had spent the entire time giving him orders. We hadn't talked, we hadn't blissfully prepared for the day ahead together, I wouldn't make him his sandwich. I had shouted, "make your own damn sandwich! You got hands!"  We hadn't even had breakfast together.  What was happening to us? I thought glumly.

 Then I realized. We NEVER did mornings together. When we'd first got married, Kevin would get ready for work and leave me sleeping. If I ever made his lunch, it's because he was eating what I had made for dinner the previous night. I shook it aside and said, "I'm just not a morning person, that's all." 

The tiny voice said, "Maybe you're just not a marriage person."

I told that voice to go to Hell.

The next morning, I got up as early as I could and stumbled to the kitchen. Kevin was frankly surprised.  Normally I didn't get up unless the kids were up, and they were still asleep, tired out from staying up late last night. I gave him a weak smile as he pulled me into a warm hug; my chin scraped against his scratchy unshaved face and he ruffled my dirty hair. I inhaled his smell and sighed with content. It had been worth getting up early for this... Until I saw the cold coffee pot... and the cold slimy dishes... and the pork roast from last night left out.

"Keeeviiiin..." I began. And then stopped.

"Whaaaaat?" he countered with a pained expression. I gritted my teeth, and took a shaky breath.

"Nothing...uh I was just going to ask if you had taken your shower yet?" I said, thinking quickly.

"What, really?" Kevin looked around uncertainly, like he was searching for hidden cameras.

"Yeah, go ahead, I'll take care of this and get the kids up and dressed," I said, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Really?" asked Kevin in the manner of a man probing a canker sore. "It's just that when you said 'Keeeviiiin' like that, I thought you were gonna yell at me for something." I laughed this off as lightly as I dared.

"Noooo!" I said, giving him an affectionate pinch. "What would make you think that? Go on, before Lee wakes up!" I said shoving him towards the bathroom. Kevin wasn't fooled for a minute, of course, but he understood, and gave me a wink.

"I love you," I said, meaning it.

"I love you too," he returned, flashing me a brighter grin than I'd seen in a while.

Of course when he left, I was faced with the gooey dishes and no coffee, but I took a deep breath and plunged in. Hindsight being 20-20, I should have started the coffee so it'd brew while I was doing the dishes. Being short on coffee in the first place though, I wasn't thinking very clearly. I was about to wash out the cold coffee from yesterday, when Lee started banging his crib against the wall and Ursula started crying.

"Kevin?" I called out. Nothing. Damn. I'd have to get them myself.

Moving slower than tectonic plates, I slowly changed diapers, wrestled the kids into clothes, and plopped them in highchairs with a handful of Cheerioes each.  This bought me time to make the coffee before they demanded breakfast. 

I realized, I couldn't wait for the fresh coffee, I'd never make it, so I emptied the cold dregs into a bucket-sized mug and shoved it in the microwave for a minute while I made the fresh pot. My progress was halted when I heard popping and hissing from the microwave. I'd left my spoon in the mug, and it was sending up sparks. I took out the scalding hot, incredibly bitter coffee, and looked for some milk to help it go down easier. I'd done this before. When you added milk to day-old coffee, you often couldn't see the difference. It might change in color from pitch black to charcoal gray, if you were lucky.

A quick look in the fridge told me we were out of Milk. I was about to whine "Keeeeviiiin" again, and halted in my tracks. I would just deal with it. I looked around for a substitute. My best bet was some ancient, freezer-burned vanilla icecream from the freezer. It worked pretty well, and at least it brought the coffee down to a temperature safe for human consumption.

Lee looked up, saw the icecream container and pointed. "Bite? Bite? Icebeam! Icebeam tone!" he chirped.

"No honey," I said calmly. "No Icecream cone. How about juice? Okay?"

Lee frowned. "No Juice! Icebeam! Icebeam! Icebeam tone!"

I cringed, "Lee-honey, Icebeam's not for breakfast. You want some toast? Toast for breakfast?"

Lee paused, his elfish face screwed up into a scowl. He started to make whimpering noises as his cheeks began to turn red.

I decided to give in, it wasn't worth fighting. I scooped out some ice cream and plopped it in his suction-based bowl. To make it more breakfasty though, I poured Rice Krispies on top.

By now the coffee maker was done trickling, and I had that glorious first cup. The anticipation made it transcendently good. I look around at my clothed, and eating children. Kevin strode in, fresh from the shower, and we sat at the table and ate our breakfast, making small talk while Dora the Explorer played in the background. I could get used to this, I thought. I then and there resolved to get up early every morning.

 

The next morning I pretended to be asleep so Kevin would leave me alone and get the screaming babies. I then lay in bed for an hour until Kevin brought me a cup of coffee. I burned my tongue and spilt it on my covers.

Maybe I'll get up early on Tuesdays... I'll start with Tuesdays.

Free Tuxedo

By Monica Marier

This is based off a comic I started in 1999. It was called "Tomorrow the World" and was basically chronicling the personal lives of employees working for a Bond-ian villain with aspirations of global domination. I put the comic on the back-burner for now, but I plan to pick it up again later. (MUCH later.)

Stone Fox, AKA Jonny Fawkes, secret agent, pulled the diving mask off and climbed out of the shark tank. Floating in the tank were the mutilated remains of the two henchmen who had tried to jump him, and the sated sharks were docilely sleeping off their heavy dinner.

Fox kicked aside the fins and oxygen tank as he unzipped his diving suit to reveal his flawless tuxedo. Shaking the water droplets out of his luxurious hair, he looked around the secret underwater lair. On a platform was a large computer console — a jungle of screens, dials, and keyboards. And at the centerpiece, the computer mainframe… was a beat up DELL with a cracked screen. The screensaver was cycling through pictures of Christina Hendricks in provocative poses.

Stone Fox rolled his eyes as he logged in (using the password he’d gotten in his fortune cookie) and accessed Agent W’s desktop. He dragged the folder from the Dell to W’s drop box and watched the progress bar count down.

28% completed.

“I was wondering when you would arrive, Stone Fox,” came a sonorous voice from the far corner of the lair.

Drawing his Walther PPK from his tailcoat, Fox spun around to face... THE SCHMITZ.

The Schmitz stepped into the light, flanked by his two right-hand men, Erik Sigurd and Osamu Hidekei.  Schmitz was trimly dressed in a caramel-colored jacket with a mandarin collar, his face still carefully in shadow. He wasn’t stroking a white Persian cat, but that was simply due to allergies.

“You’re finished Schmitz,” said Fox, eying the beat-up laptop —  41% completed. “We’ve got all the evidence and schematics we need to shut you down!”

56% Completed.

“However did you get past the whirling knives?” asked Schmitz, impressed.

“You should have gone with Ginsu, Schmitz. I found the knives to be rather… dull,” Fox quipped.

62% Completed.

“And the laser net?” asked Schmitz.

“I discovered the pattern immediately,” bragged Fox. “Nothing like a little hopscotch game.”

76% completed.

Schmitz nodded . “And poor Gregory. He couldn’t stop you?”

“Gregory? I found him rather ‘armless,” quipped Fox.

84% completed.

Shmitz and Fox stood in mutual silence.

92% completed.

“Sigurd? Hidekei?” said Schmitz. His two male-model cronies stepped forward.

“Sir?” they said in unison.

99% completed.

“Shoot,” said Schmitz.

Both men raised their glocks and fired. Sigurd hit Fox in the head. Hidekei shot the Dell.

The last thing Fox said as the world went red was, “That’s… cheating….”

***

“DUDE! I found another one!” shouted August. He yanked open the gym locker as far as he could. His quarter jangled in the key-slot. Keeping the spring-loaded door ajar with his shoulder, August reached in and pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in shrink wrap.

“Another tuxedo?” asked Rosario (called Zari).

“Yeah! This is like the third one, Zari!” shouted August, trying to peel off the sticky tape seal.

“Where do they all come from?” asked Zari peering in the locker with suspicion. It was like every other locker in the Employee Fitness Center. It was just a coin-operated metal locker with razor-sharp corners. No secret panels, no gateways to Narnia, just petrified gum and an old Band-Aid.

“Maybe some guy keeps leaving his dry cleaning in here,” suggested Zari.

“Then why is the key back in the lock?” asked August. He was now trying to bite through the cellophane.

“Maybe he didn’t want it anymore,” said Zari.

“Hope not, cause this is mine,” said August finally freeing the clothing from the bag and shaking it out “Ooh! Armani! Ver’ nice!” It smelled freshly laundered and the rich fabric shimmered under the florescent lighting.  He examined the tag on the trousers.

“Aw MAN! 32 waistband,” he moaned.

“I wonder who it belonged to,” mused Zari.

“Whoever he was, he didn’t eat Lil’ Debbie’s Oatmeal Cream Pies for breakfast every day,” sighed August.

“Like you?”

“Well crap, I’m never going to find a 36.” sighed August. “You want it?”

“I’m a 34,” said Zari. “You can at least keep the jacket.”

“What the hell am I gonna do with a jacket and no pants?” said August in annoyance.

“You could wear a kilt with it.”

“A  KILT?”

“Yeah, like Sean Connery.”

August snorted. “My family’s Dutch/German. We don’t do kilts. Well I already paid my quarter for this locker, so let’s cram our stuff in and hit the pool.”

August shoved his spare clothes into tight space and tried to cram his shoes in the upper shelf with no luck. “There’s something up there.”

Zari stood on a bench to peer in. “Oh, I see what’s doing that,” he said reaching in. “This was in the way.”

August glanced up as Zari pulled out something off-white and round. Zari proffered it to August to examine.

It was a human skull.

“Oh. That explains it,” said August nodding. “Is it clear now?” he asked, indicating the upper shelf.

“No, there’s a bunch of other bones. Femurs and junk.”

August sighed in frustration. “Forget it. I’m not cleaning all that crap out.” He tossed his shoes in and slammed the locker door shut before they tumbled out. Wrenching out the key, he shoved the elastic band over his bulky wrist.

“Come on,” said Zari. “We’re wasting valuable pool time.”

“That reminds me. Did you finish collating those mailing fliers for Monday?” asked August.

“I’ll do it Monday morning,” grumbled Zari.

“You better. Riggs will have my ass if they don’t go out before the new insurance packages take effect.”

“Aw come ON! Like SchmitzCo really hinges on the insurance benefits briefings.”

“I dunno. This company has a LOT of employees. We’re going global next week.”

“Big deal,” said Zari. “Do you even know what the hell this company does?”

August pondered this for a moment. “Bonds?” he looked at Zari questioningly.

Zari only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I dunno either.”

August shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, it probably has nothing to do with two cubicle monkeys like us.”

“Yeah. Remind me to steal  some more pens when we get back on Monday.”

“Will do — Hey, Erik! Hey, Ossy!” August waved to Hidekei and Sigurd as they came in from the lobby, gym bags on their shoulders.

“Hey,” said Erik with a slight smile.

“Sup!” said Ossy, grinning.

August and Zari walked across the slick tiles to the pool.

“I like them. They’re so nice,” said August in admiration.
He tossed the skull in the wastebasket.

Bedtime for Bedlam

This is based off an ACTUAL book my daughter has. It features a dog prominently in the story but there is neither name nor even mention of said dog in the narrative. It's driven me to distraction why that's the case. It's Chekov's dog, I guess.


Linus sat on the edge of Fia’s bed and enjoyed the momentary peace of it all. His young daughter was freshly laundered and smelling of soap with lavender, she was in a clean nightgown and sitting calmly under the worn quilt on her trundle bed. They’d mumbled through a quick prayer together in mutual uncertainty and he’d tucked her in.

It was now story time.

“What would you like to read?” he asked Fia.

“I want that new book that Aunt Rumia bought me,” chirped Fia

“Alright then,” said Linus picking up the new book. Like all the others it was printed on coarse linen and bound with worsted. Unlike the others, the pages on this were free of food stains, handprints and bodily fluids, the pictures were clear and crisp, and the pages could actually bend.

“The Princess and the Glass Mountain,” he began in his strong baritone. “Princess Beatrice lived in a castle with her Mother and Father, the King and Queen of Ashburn.”

“I can’t see the pictures,” said Fia pulling his arm closer.

“Here,” said Linus showing Fia a picture of a lithe little girl with the typical blonde hair and blue eyes that all princesses had. Fia nodded in approval. This one even had a pointy hat with a scarf on it.

“One day, she was playing in the castle courtyard when she slipped and dropped her crown,” Linus read.

Fia was gazing in rapt attention at the vivid picture when she stabbed the page with her chubby finger.

“She’s playing with the dog,” observed Fia, interrupting her father.

“That’s right,” nodded Linus. “When she slipped and dropped-"

“What’s the dog’s name?” asked Fia.

Linus was nonplussed. “Why’s the dog important? “ he mumbled. “I don’t know, Fia.”

Fia frowned. This answer was CLEARLY not good enough. “What’s the story say about the dog?” she asked.

Linus sighed and glanced at the page. “It doesn’t say,” he said.

“It must say!” insisted Fia.

Linus grunted and scanned the rest of the book. There was a jade needle, three faeries, a swineherd, an old hungry man in the forest, a handsome prince, and a talking badger… but no mention of the mystery canine or what its name might be.

“It really doesn’t say. Can we get a move on?” asked Linus. Fia scowled but nodded acquiescence and Linus continued the narrative when there on the next page was the dog again.

“THERE!” cried Fia. “The dog again! It MUST say what his name is! Check it!”

Linus groaned. It was going to be one of THOSE nights.  “It doesn’t say, Fia.”

“Why not?” demanded Fia.

“I don’t know,” groaned Linus, rather sore at the Dunray Kiddie-Rag Publishing Company. Why would ANY children’s book put a dog in the story without mentioning it or naming it? Didn’t they realize that parents had things to DO at night?

“Can’t we just forget the dog and go on with the story?” he pleaded.

Fia glared at him and pursed her lips in a perfect imitation of her mother.

“There’s a talking badger,” he coaxed.

It didn’t work.

“Fine. Fia, why don’t you name the dog?”

Fia thought for a moment, “The dog’s name is Ruff,” she said.

“Jolly good. Let’s back up a bit and get on with it, One day, she was playing in the castle courtyard—”

“With Ruff,” interjected Fia.

“—with Ruff— when she slipped and dropped her crown. The crown was horribly bent by a stone and Princess Beatrice,”

“Was he her dog?” asked Fia.

“What?” Asked Linus.

“Ruff. Was he Princess Beatrice’s dog?”

Linus swallowed a loud curse. “What do you think, Fia?” he asked, his 'gentle voice' fraying at the edges a little.

“I don’t think he’s the princess’s dog because she didn’t know his name,” said Fia after a gargantuan pause.

“Ther you are then,” snapped Linus before reading again. “The crown was horribly bent by a stone and Princess Beatrice—“

“Who did he belong to?” asked Fia.

“And Princess Beatrice was very upset. She cried by a duck pond until a friendly duck hopped out of the water and shook the water out of its feathers,” Linus read, ignoring her.

“Daddy?”

“’Why are you crying princess?’ asked the Duck.”

“Daddy?”

“I’m crying because my crown is bent and I’m afraid to tell King Papa!’ said the—”

“DADDY?”

“said-the-princess-the-duck-quacked-happily-and-said-‘cry-no-more-for” Linus rattled off at a furious pace before Fia shouted, “DAA-DEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“WHAT??” he snarled at her.

Fia only blinked, used to her father’s outbursts. “Who does Ruff belong to?”

“Linus glanced at the page and noticed a non-descript man in the background castle activites. “Him,” he said pointing.

“Who is he?” asked Fia.

“That’s… er… Ted.... Ted the Falconer.”

“Does he live in the Castle?”

“Yes.”

“Where in the castle?” asked Fia.

“Above the East Gate… right above the moat,” said Linus, inventing madly.

“Does Ruff like the moat?” asked Fia.

“Yes. He likes swimming.”

“In the moat?” asked Fia. “Don’t the crocodiles get him?”

“Well this moat isn’t stocked with crocodiles.”

“What’s stocked mean?”

“I mean there aren’t any crocodiles. Only fish.”

“Why?”

“… erm.. Ted and Ruff like to go fishing.”

“It’s the King’s moat, Dad, not his,” said Fia, probing the hole in his logic.

“The King comes too. The Queen makes them a picnic,” said Linus, feeling his brain teeter a little. “Can we get back to the story about Princess Beatrice?”

“No thank you, Daddy. I want to hear about Ted and Ruff and the King going fishing and having a picnic.”

Linus sighed and held his head in his hands.

“How’s about YOU tell the story, and I go to sleep?”

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.

Cautionary Tale

This is based on conversation I've had with other moms.



“I can’t be sick, I have too much stuff to do,” I muttered as forced my sweating coughing carcass out of bed. I’d used my kids’ talking Spongebob thermometer only to confirm what I already knew. I was still sick as a dog. The pain in my chest and my stiff neck told me this wasn’t going to be pretty either, but I couldn’t sleep it off. I had to get the kids on the bus and then I had to scan and send all those forms. The cupcakes had to be done for the church bake sale and I had no ingredients. Heck, we didn’t even have milk or canned spaghetti. Then I had to get my dress fitted for Marnie’s wedding on Tuesday!

I was downstairs. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I only remembered chugging cough sryrup like it was Gatorade. I was making lunches as fast as I could – which took a while considering that I first had to remember what bread looked like. My hands were covered in Skippy and grape jelly as I shoved the sandwiches into paper bags. Lisa couldn’t find her shoes, I had to help with that. Oliver suddenly remembered that he needed an example of art from the impressionist period. I jumped on the internet and shoved the damp page fresh from the printer into his hand as the bus pulled up.

No time for a breather, I had too much to do. I found myself in the bathroom with no memory of when I’d decided to go upstairs, or when I’d done it. I had a coffee mug in my hand. I took a decongestant, using my coffee to wash it down. I forced myself back on the computer downstairs as I signed and scanned every form for my boss. I had to email her twice. The first time I forgot the attachment and I almost forgot it in the second email that was apologizing for not sending the attachment. The computer freezing up saved me that embarrassment.

I shoved my damp head through my old grey sweatsuit¬–I was getting chills again. I did a load of socks and underwear before grabbing my car keys. Had I taken my antibiotic? I couldn’t’ remember. I ran up to the bedroom and emptied the pills out on the bathroom sink… then I did it again. I had no clue. I tried to count how many days I’d been on the pills but then I couldn’t remember how many there’d been in the first place. I decided that if I didn’t remember I probably hadn’t taken it yet. I downed the pill as my head spun so hard I had to sit on the tile floor again. Was this chest cold ever going to get better? I didn’t need this! I had too much to do.

When the spinning stopped I grabbed my car keys and headed to the car. I’d finish my errands and then take a nap. I promised myself. Let me just get through this day, and then I could rest.

*******

“Will?”
“Yeah, Sasha?” came Will’s voice from the hall.
“Did you lay all these pills out on the sink like this?” asked Sasha. She stood in her underwear in the bathroom. Every jar of pills and supplements that she owned had been opened and every pill had been placed in a straight line.

Will joined her and turned pale. “No. But the same thing happened to me about a week ago.”
“First the peanut butter all over the kitchen, then the car keys… now what is that about?” asked Sasha in a high voice.
“I’m starting to think this house was going cheap for a reason,” said Will shivering. “How did that lady die?”
“They said it was an overdose of cold medicine,” said Sasha. She noticed her breath forming in clouds. It had suddenly gotten very cold in the bathroom and just on the edge of hearing, Sasha thought she heard a woman’s voice, sighing. It said:

“I can’t be sick! I have too much to do!”

Joe Milgrave and the Devil

I always loved those little Faustian Exchange stories and wanted to take a crack at one. I read the name Joe Milgrave in one of my books and the title jumped into my head. I liked the meter.

“Wow. You went through a lot of trouble for this,” said the Devil, straightening up. Joe couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim candlelight. It was the body of a trim muscular (if a little short) man of indeterminate age. Joe watched the man’s head turn from side to side, taking in the slaughtered pig, the pentagram drawn in swine blood, the smelly candles that gave off a choking smoke, and the crowning glory; the ram’s skull.

“Geez, son,” said the figure stepping idly across the circle that was supposed to be keeping him prisoner. “Most people just shout out, ‘hey Devil!’ They don’t turn their barn into a movie set from ‘Carrie’.”

Joe didn’t answer, however, as the Devil’s appearance suddenly rang a bell.
“BURT REYNOLDS?” he gasped.
The Devil only shrugged and looked quizzical, his handsome mustache twitching to one side as his thick brows arched. “You must be the millionth person to say that,” he said. “This Burt Reynolds fellah must be a handsome devil… get it?” he joked. He threw his head back for a high-pitched mirthful laugh that sure as HELL sounded like Burt Reynolds. Joe, being a “Cannonball Run” fan was that much more in awe of him now.

“Okey-dokey, Joe. So what did you drag me here for? Didja want proof I existed? Didja want to do the soul-for-favor exchange, or should we chalk this up to ‘dicking around with shit we don’t understand?” The Devil regarded Joe’s trembling knees, and the fervent look in his eyes. “I’d say it was all three, right Joe?”

“I need you to do something for me,” said Joe nodding.

“And what’s that, son?” said the Devil amiably.

“I want you to make my wife agree with me.”

Joe had never met the Devil or Burt Reynolds before, but got the distinct impression that this imposing man was seldom non-plussed. Yet, here it was, the drooping mustache, the eyes wide open and round as golf-balls.

“Mind running that by me again, Joe?”

“I’ve been married to Lida for twenty-six years,” said Joe in a low even voice, “…and she has never EVER agreed with me.”

“Chee whiz, son. I must admit that’s a first. Just agree with you? Why not have me make her obedient? It’s kinda the same thing?”

“No thanks, that’s not a problem.”

“Please elaborate, Joe. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You know the passage from Corinthians: ‘Wives Be submissive to your husband?’”

“I think it was from Colossians, but go on.”

“Well, Lida always took that passage very seriously. But while she always gave into me, whether I wanted her to or not, she’s never agreed with me. She’d always call me an idiot, or a fool, or she’d just nod and say, ‘well I leave it to your conscience, Joe’.”

The Devil flinched. “Damn, son. You really won the lottery with that one.”

“Even if it’s just for a day, I just want to hear her say, “yes, Joe,” or “you’re right, Joe.”

“And you want that in exchange for your immortal soul??” asked the Devil incredulously. “A day? Son, you’re no poker player. Never go all-in on the first round.”

“How long’d you give me?”

“A little thing like that? How bout until the end of your natural life?”

“You’d do that??” asked Joe agape.

“Well not so fast now. This is kind of like getting a loan. There’s an approval process. Let me just pull out the Milton Index and see how you figure.”

“Milton Index?”

“It tells where you are soul-wise and how likely you are to go to heaven or hell. The way we figured it, there’s no point in giving out freebies for people who are going to end up in Hell anyway,” The Devil finished with a charming grin. Joe blanched a little.

The Devil pulled an oblong box from his pocket and consulted it. To Joe, it looked like an elaborate stud-finder. The Devil waved it at Joe and then shook the device and banged on the side in frustration.

“Well, shoot, Joe! You barely register on this thing.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Joe.

“What it means is that apart from our little meeting here, you are a pious man. And I don’t mean pious in that sense that makes you want to puke. You are a lawful, considerate, caring, God-fearing man!”

“I am?”

“The only real blot on your soul is your desire to get back at your wife. But you suffer quietly and are a good husband to her. What gives, Joe? You’re not a papist; divorce her! Live a good life and go to heaven like the goody-two-shoes you are.”

“But I love her,” said Joe sadly.

“You’re a piece of work, and no mistake, Joe. Alright. You got it. For the rest of your life (or hers, whichever comes first) your wife will agree with everything you say.”

There was a cloud of acrid smoke and the Devil was gone. Shaking and sweating, Joe cleaned up the barn as best he could, so he could be composed when he rejoined Lida in the kitchen.

“And where have you been?” asked Lida acidly. “And why do you stink like dead meat?”
“I’m going to lie down, Lida. I don’t feel so good,” said Joe.
To his amazement, Lida said, “You’re right, Joe. You look terrible.”
Did Lida actually agree with him? No snide comments? No trying to one-up him with an account of her problems? Joe smiled, but it was short-lived. He was now dimly aware of a numbness in his left arm that was rolling over his body and a painful throbbing in his chest.

“Lida…I do believe I’m having a heart-attack,” he mumbled through rubbery lips.

“Joe I think you’re right!” said Lida, agreeing with him again. She ran for the phone. “I’ll call 911.”

Joe was dead before the EMTs arrived, but as they rolled out the zippered bag to the ambulance, no one noticed the shadowy figure in the barn looking out and smoking a cigarette. The figure stomped out the smoldering butt and kicked the ground moodily.

“Shit. I hadn’t done it yet!” spat the Devil.

Freddy's Bagpipes

“What do you want Santa to Bring you?” asked Hannah.
Frederick had been pouring over catalogues all afternoon. His face was covered in pink splotches, which he’d been instructed not to scratch. He had been home for three days with the chickenpox and the doctor had said it wasn’t likely to clear up before Christmas.

He looked up at his nanny with mournful eyes and sighed. “I don’t care,” he said finally. “I wish he’d make my chickenpox go away.”
“How do you think he’d do that?” asked Hannah, nudging her blonde hair back in place with the back of her hand. She was currently engaged in a bowl of soft cheese, caramelized onions and spices. It was going to be a cheese ball for tonight’s Christmas Party. Fredrick would be confined to his room for the affair. He didn’t mind that so much. He’d be out of the clutches of Seraphine Daniels. Seraphine kept trying to kiss him and play house with him.

“I think Santa could come down the chimney and stand over my bed and ‘poof’ the chickenpox would disappear,” he said finally.

“Santa Claus isn’t a wizard, Freddy. He can’t cure disease. Besides, your chickenpox will be gone in a week or so, and then won’t you be glad to have nice toys to play with?”

“He won’t bring me what I really want,” said Frederick mournfully.
“What's that?” asked Hannah in surprise. The Hummel family was incredibly rich. There were few things a boy could want that they couldn’t buy, except maybe a star on the Hollywood Walk or a space shuttle.

“Bagpipes,” said Freddy.

Hannah was so surprised by this answer that she dropped the bag of (thankfully unopened) pecans. “Bagpipes?” he asked incredulously.
“Uh-huh. I saw a movie with a little boy playing the bagpipes and I thought it was really neat. There’s also that guy in Central Park who plays them when it’s summer?”

Hannah nodded, she remembered the fellow.

“I really want a set of bagpipes.”
“Did you ask your mother?”
“She said it was a stupid thing to ask for and wouldn’t I rather have a transformer or a powerwheels.”
“She didn’t like the idea?” slightly angry over Mrs. Hummel’s use of the word ‘stupid.’
“No. Dad agreed with her. He said I had a perfectly good violin and I should learn to play that before I try any fool bagpipe. They said it was too noisy and expensive and Santa Claus wouldn’t get one for us because I’m not Scottish, I’m French-German-English-American. I didn’t know you had to be Scottish.”

“I don’t see why you’d have to be Scottish,” said Hannah, washing the cheese from her hands. “You don’t have to be Japanese to play a Yamaha piano.”

“Well anyway, I’m not getting one. They said they had the power of veto over lists to Santa.”

“I guess that’s that, then. Sorry Freddy.”
“It’s alright,” sighed Freddy mournfully plodding up the stairs to his room. It was packed full of every toy imaginable and every electronic game system known to man. Yet Hannah knew that Freddy would sit at the window seat, scratching his scabs, and dream of tartan kilts and a droning pentatonic Amazing Grace.

That afternoon as she browsed the bookstore for presents she caught sight of a book in the reduced price stack. It was an enormous coffee-table book full of scenic pictures of Scotland, rolling hills, old castles and a seemingly endless supply of sheep. Sure enough there were beautiful full-color photos of bagpipers, in traditional costume, piping some unheard melody on sheer cliff sides and blustery downs. The book was only $5.99 so Hannah decided to get it for Freddy. He was a sweet little boy, after all and he couldn’t help being the forgotten son of two snobbish socialites. As a pimply-faced girl rang her up and began to gift wrap it, Hannah got a glimpse of the back cover with a red star on the back. On the star were the words “Includes CD! With 28 tracks of traditional bagpipe music!”

Hannah grinned widely. Well, she was going back to Finland next month anyway.

Mr. Peterson's Tale

This Week's Friday Flash is brought to you by low oxygen levels and codeine.

The old man leaned into the grey light.

"Yes'm. I seen 'em. I seen 'em many a time before. Dark corners, trail of black dust, like soot from the furnaces of Hell. That's them alright. I've fought them buggers for nigh on fifty years now, seen em smaller than a pinhead, and big as a dinner roll. They're a scourge on humanity and foul everything they touch. I've carried my weapons of duty to fight the good fight against their blight.

"But there's one as yet, I haven't squared with. You hear tales on the long nights when the old men sip their Rob Roys and tell tall stories. They all ran against him and lived to tell the tale. They were the lucky ones, and they say that none have ever faced him and come away whole – not entirely whole anyway – in the soul, ye see, ma'am.

"I crossed his path myself, when I was too young and carefree. They call hims Bingodangogumfree which in the old Indian tongue means 'one-eyed bastard'. When the settlers came to this land he was given the name 'Blinky', but there's still some among us think that names don't mean nothing. They say that he's Old Nick himself, walkin' the earth.

"Now when I seen him, it was dusk, I was in the old Mason house – don't look for it now, they tore it down years ago. I remember walking the floors, armed with my poisons and I heard a scuttling sound. "Skutter-skutter" it went – "skutter-skutter" like something with more legs than good intentions. I could feel the foul musty air press against me and I was too terrified to move. I could only stand with my feet stuck to the floor like tree-roots as I saw the huge creature shamble across the floor.

"He was bigger'n my Great Dane, Rufus – coulda swallowed him whole, and the sickly yaller moon shone on his greasy brown carapace. He stood up on his spindly legs, his great rotten body turned towards me with his one beady eye and an unearthly "chitter-chitter" noise came from his monstrous head. How I survived, I don't know. I coudln't move for fainting and the beast had me to rights, but he let me live. He only looked at me and turned away as if to say, 'not yet, boy. Your time ain't come yet.' He and I knew it would only be a matter of time before we would tangle again and it would be a battle for the ages.

"I never saw him again, but I will. Someday I will meet Blinky again. He'll kill me, or I'll kill him and we'll shake the very heavens with our struggle. Count on it, ma'am."

"Yeah," I said, eventually. "We'll I think most of the roaches are under the washing machine. See what you can do okay?"

"I will, ma'am. It'll be safe to come back in the three hours. I'll mail the bill to you."

"Uh-huh." I picked up my purse in a daze and dragged my kids to the car. "This is the last time I let your dad pick the cheapest exterminator in the phone book," I told them.