Summertime, and the livin's easy.

Yep, cheating.  I've been with the satellite installer all afternoon, and have had little time for Ramblin' blogging.  At least it continues the string.   Four left for the full Monty six months, I might just make it.  Touch wood, (not that I'm the superstitious type or anything). 

No gaming this weekend, so I may have a chance to get one or two back into the queue.  Yeah, I know, don't count on it.

This was a little short story I started twenty-some odd years ago, never finished; SURPRISE!!!  I didn't write enough of it to be satisfied with it, and just enough for me to lose interest in it. 

SUMMERTIME

(C) 1994 

The four boys played along the creek, played like children nearly everywhere played.  Skipping stones, chasing frogs and crayfish, and as young boys all over the world are quite likely to do, ignoring nearly every rule that their mothers had laid down for them. 

The stifling heat and humidity of the Missouri summer was unbearable for the adults, but almost hog heaven for the four boys.  They could swim nearly anytime that they wished, the woods surrounding the farm teemed with wildlife.  Best of all, there would be no school for another whole month.  

The Tarzan yell cracked at the first AH, sounding more like the cry of an exotic whatisit than the primal yell of the Lord of the jungle, as the oldest of the boys swung out over the swimming hole.  He released his hold on the grapevine and plummeted into the water. 

"C'mon Joey.  You gonna swim all day?"

"Yeah.  Wha'sa matter, you panty wastes afraid to go on ahead by yourselves?"  Joey floated leisurely on his back and decided to make the others wait.  "I'll come out when I'm good and ready!"

"SNAKE!"  Charley pointed and yelled at the top of his lungs. Charley was the youngest, the youngest of the bunch by a whole six weeks.  Joey scrambled clear of the swimming hole.

            

"Thought that you were coming out when you were good and ready?"

"I did, it just didn't take me long to get ready.  Hey, what are y'all laughing about?  Hey, wait up."

            

Joey, Andy, Mark and Charley returned to their campsite just before the August daylight faded to nothingness.  They had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid for dinner.  Joey had blackmailed his older sister out of two six packs of beer that were left over from her party.  Andy swiped a half a  pack of Camel no filters from his old man.  

The four worldly adventurers, the Alan Quartermains, the Sam Spades, the four musketeers hacked and coughed and drank their beers.  But they had done it.  

            

Mark was the first to learn the first rule of beer.  What goes in, must come out.  He staggered out of the camp looking for a good place to pee.  In the process he startled something, it scared him witless as it crashed through the underbrush.

"PEEEEEUeeeee it sure stinks out here."  

The boy turned to go back into camp.  The beam from his flashlight briefly lit something as it slashed through the night.  The scream pierced the darkness and carried easily back to the boys at camp.   Mark came stumbling back into camp as fast as his drunken legs would carry him.  His face ashen, his body shook uncontrollably.  He still had control of his voice box.

            

"It's that crazy ole man."

The three others panicked.  If the crazy bastard didn't sick his mean ass dog on you he would load your hide up with rock salt.  Or maybe, just out of pure meanness, both.

         

Everyone tried to talk at once.

"Where's he at?"

"We gotta get outta here!"

 "He got that mean dog with him?"

             

"Did he see which way you came?"

Mark got himself under enough control to mutter, 

"He's fuckin' dead!  Sumptin kilt him.  A monster or a werewolf, or sumptin.  He's out there, face all chewed up an' stuff."

             

The pitiful wail of a single coyote sounded from the darkness.  Four young men, boys really, whose imaginations already tended to run on the wild side were now feeling both the effects from the alcohol and oxygen starvation from their first cigarettes now had little trouble seeing Lon Chaney Jr. stalking them through the darkened forest.  Nearby, a screech owl screamed out its banshee shriek.  Four young men, boys actually returned the owl's cry with screams of their own.

It was amazing to see how quickly the BB guns came out.  Joey felt an obligation, he was the oldest. 

"Pump em good and hard.  If ya see anything aim for the bugger's eyes."  

"We gotta get outta here!  C'mon guys let's go home."  Andy whined.

"Shut up Andy.  We can't get out tonight, I don't think that any of us can walk good enough to get back home in the dark.  Charley, throw another log on the fire.  Let's have some light.  Mark, where'dya see that crazy ole bastard, an was that god awful mean dog with him?"

Such as it is, it is.  Thanks, as always.

See you on Monday, I won't even toss in the proverbial maybe thing here.  Peace... 

The Pulps.

This is another of those fiction Friday cheat things. At least it is an entry and I'll be a whole day ahead of you again. Yay!

This was started a few years ago as I was experimenting with a new approach to the National Novel Writing Month challenge. Instead of writing one novel of fifty thousand words I thought I would try a pulp serial approach. So, using Lester Dent's pulp formula I decided to write a series of 6000 word novellas. Each "Book" would have been a stand-alone adventure, yet tied into the others. A main protagonist and a sidekick would have been featured in each. The sidekick would have been promoted to Main Character status to replace the former and a new sidekick would be introduced for the next "episode". This was to have continued until the final book when all of the survivors would have been reunited to save the world from a Pulp fate worse than death.

A Novel of Derring-Do and Two-Fisted Adventure.

(C) 2012

The weather had started to close in. Thunderclouds were blooming in the west. Hank Ames needed to get Rosie on the ground, or he’d find himself behind the eight ball. He could probably avoid the weather and fly around the oncoming tempest. That would make the weather his least pressing problem; his big problem would be losing daylight. Even though he was unlikely to fly into a mountain here, flying after dark was not without its hazards and it wasn’t for the faint-hearted. He didn’t have the gas to fly all night, gasoline for Rosie and caffeine for him. It wasn’t like he’d never flown in the dark, he actually had considerable night dark flying. Those flights usually started with taking off in the wee early morning, flying a patrol and returning to base while the sun was still out. A takeoff from a prepared strip in the dark was duck soup when compared with landing. A decent pilot could put the Sikorsky amphibian on nearly any strip of open ground or calm water he could see, and any landing you could walk, or in Hank’s world, swim away from was a good one. It was getting back safely and in one piece that made flying interesting. Once in the air, any flyboy always found his way back to the ground, eventually. Gravity made that easy to do.

 Rosie bounced her way through a downdraft.  Hank kicked in a little left rudder to crab into the crosswind that threatened to blow them off course. He would have to nix the idea of continuing on to Nassau in the Bahamas. That idea was all wet, he’d be wet too if he had to ditch Rosie in the middle of the ocean. He could turn around and return to Watson Island. That wasn’t a good idea either, bacon was hard enough to come by these days; he didn’t have the time to take a trip for biscuits; nothing like wasting both his time and his money. Rosie wasn’t a cheap floozy, she was a high-class dame and she expected to be treated that way. She was a real hay burner; the two Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines each burned about twenty-five gallons an hour. It cost Hank a sawbuck just to get Rosie started and warmed up, and a C-note for the gas to fly 750 miles. It was good the hardships that had hit the rest of the country hadn’t affected his clientele as badly and they still had the dough to burn. Even though the wets had won and gotten prohibition repealed a few years back, there was always Caribbean rum to run back to the mainland. There were always wise guys trying to impress a squeeze, or a gold-digger playing the game. Anyone with the scratch wanted to experience the Caribbean. Bimini, Nassau, and Havana all destinations of choice for the dilettantes and the bon vivants who still had the lettuce to play. After the war, Ames had made connections flying hooch back to the states for some of those wise guys. A long as he was paid, in cash, he didn’t ask any questions, and he quickly forget anything he might have seen or heard. Discretion was a good thing with some; scratch that, most of his clients. The weather and the money involved really left him only one option; he banked right and pointed the twin-engine amphibian toward Bimini’s North Island.

Hank Ames graduated in May 1917 from The Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas. By September he found himself as a newly commissioned Ensign, with two years of required sea duty waived, assigned to the Naval Reserve Flying Corps ground school at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. A fish out of water, a Texan stuck in the land of the Yankees. He made the most out of his time in Cambridge. He excelled in aeronautical studies and the military discipline that The Corps of Cadets had instilled in him made his transition into a naval aviator that much easier. Two months later when he boarded the train for elementary flight training in Key West, the instructors and his fellow students alike regarded him as a real go-getter and a squared way sailor. Ames completed his advanced flight training at the Naval aeronautical station in Pensacola. Though scheduled for go to Britain to fly anti-submarine and zeppelin patrols over the English Channel the Armistice was signed and the war ended before his transfer came through. Curtiss H-12 flying boat patrols from Dinner Key, Florida would have been the closest he got to the war. After he left the Navy he found that Florida and the Caribbean held much more appeal than did the dry and arid lands west of the Brazos River. The West Texas native found he liked being around water, he found a new home in South Florida.

The sky through Rosie’s windscreen grew angrier at each mile that passed beneath the wings.

“Rosie old girl. Looks like it’s a-fixin to blow up a gully washer.” Hank muttered aloud. “Them clouds is getting’ lower and the waves is gettin’ higher. If that keeps up I think we might just run outta sky. We need to find some terra firma gal.” He bumped the throttles forward a little to coax a little more horsepower from the Wasps and find a little more speed against the head wind that was slowing their progress.

A wind from the south has rain in her mouth. He thought just as the first big rain drops splattered against the windscreen. The twin engine Sikorsky wasn’t a small plane; Rosie could carry ten passengers or two tons of cargo. However, with the angry, storm tossed sea brewing below and an angry storm tossed sky trying to swat them into that angry sea Rosie felt as small as that little Curtiss Jenny he had first soloed in eighteen years ago. Hank felt as insignificant as a pimple on an elephant’s hind end. He was beginning to regret his decision to try to make Bimini; he probably should have turned around when he had the chance. At least the mainland would have been easier to find, and would have offered more options.

"Damn the torpedoes!" He said aloud. Bimini was closer. He’d be all right. Rosie would bring him through, she always did. He knew this part of the ocean like he knew the back of his hand.

Downdrafts, updrafts, turbulent cross winds that couldn’t decide where they were coming from or where they were inclined to blow to. Squall lines brought buckets of rain, some of it actually fell in the right direction. Sometimes, it even rained sideways.


Thanks for coming.

See you when I see you, Monday perhaps.  Peace.

 

Another cheat.

In what may be a vain attempt to stave off the reboot's
eventual demise I'm posting another Fiction Friday thing. 

I had the idea to put a spin on one of the legendary 'Ghost Ship" tales, the Mary Celeste.  In my telling I imagined a man fleeing the New World and returning to Europe. During the voyage he was to transform both literally and figuratively into a monster. I hadn't yet decided on his fate, werewolf, vampire, homicidal psychopath or something taking an entirely new form, and would be either responsible for the disappearance of the crew, or the only surviving witness.

What follows is all that remains, every time I tried to get the main character into the violence we needed to tell the story, he flat out poo-poohed the idea. I tried to steer him in gently, force him in with a stick, coerce him in through the back door. Each time he basically told me to go screw myself, he was a proper gentleman and couldn't be bothered to act in such an atrocious manner. Either I'm too good at creating strong characters, or, more likely, not strong enough to impose my will and dominance. I don't really know how many attempts I made, several to be sure. Each ended in a fight between a fictional monster and his Frankenstein creator. None of the vain attempts survived the ire of the delete button. It's probably a good thing.

Mary's Curse.

©2009

November the sixth, 1872.
The night wind was cold and biting, heavy with moisture from the bay. A cold wind blew in from the north, singing in the lines and rigging overhead. The threat of snow seemingly diminished for the evening as that same night breezes broke up the clouds and pushed them on. The cold chilled me to my very bones. The exhalations of my breath were visible in the pale moonlight of Luna, waxing towards her first quarter as she attempted to peer out from behind the veils of the dissipating clouds. I made my way quietly down the darkened quay, trying to remain unobtrusive in the shadows along the side of the warehouse. A little brigantine rocked gently at her moorings near the head of the pier. The hawsers that bound her fast to the quay murmured as they alternately slackened and tensioned. That would be Benjamin’s vessel and my transport across the Atlantic Ocean. The embers of a sentry’s pipe flared briefly, glowing red, as its owner inhaled. Through the cover of darkness, I could barely make out his silhouette as he stood solitary watch near the head of the gangboard. In a voice both soft and low, I asked permission to board. 

“Ja, velkommen meester Kelly. Pleeze kom ombord zir. Jeg er zecond mate Gilling. Rikardzon zed you come, ja? Kaptajnen Briggs zed you to have Rikardzon’s cab’n. Pleeze, dis way ja.” His accent was thick and heavy from the Nordic climes of the old world and his ancestors had probably sailed in ships that bore names like Yrsa and Fyrdraca.

“Ja, vi zail vit da tide an dat turns near dawn.”

The little vessel, with me tucked away aboard, would depart New York bound for Italy. By the sixth or seventh of December she was due to enter the Straits of Gibraltar. From there, she would continue on to Genoa without me. Her master and partial owner, Benjamin Briggs was a good and dear friend and had offered passage, had it not been free, I could nary afford.  I shall not say that I am forced to leave New York, but there appears to be no finer time than the present. I suppose that I could have packed what little I owned and headed for the frontier, however, I am neither cowpoke nor pistoleer, nor have I any intentions of ever following either of those noble trades portrayed so eloquently in the dime novels. True, the west remains a wild frontier. Yet, the western portions of America are still America. Europe, I believe to be far better suited to my lifestyle, than would be the Colonies. New Orleans perhaps, may suit me, though of that, I have both reservations and misgivings.

I stowed my meager few belongings in the mate’s cabin, Benjamin has arranged for the mate to berth with the remainder of the crew. Not terribly uncommon when a vessel took a paying passenger, though, in truth, few would pay as little. I shall remain cloistered until we were well away under sail with fair winds and following seas. There would be eleven us aboard the little vessel, Captain Briggs, his wife, Sarah and their small daughter, and seven man jack sailors.

The tiny cabin was cold and dark, and reeked of manual labour. The stench of dried sweat was nearly overpowering. The small lamp struggled to illuminate a space barely large enough for a man to stand in let alone turn about. If one should trice up the hammock one should have nearly as much space as a small privy. Be it e’er so humble, be it e’er so frugal, and undemanding upon my purse.

The smells of dead fish and salt marshes permeated into the bowels of the ship. Many people associated those odors with the open ocean. I associated those smells with change, departing one location and arriving at another. The ocean for me smelled like a spring day after a cleansing rain, only better. Man-made odors dissipated quickly and the offensive rank smells that only man could produce oft failed to disturb even the worst of days under canvas. How I long to stand topside in the night air. While certainly an act I could easily perform, assumedly, it would be none too wise. I would err on the side of caution and endeavor to remain covert, at least for the time.

November the seventh, 1872.
I have dozed a bit, for I awoke to the roll of the deck beneath me as she heeled over in a port tack. The sounds that a vessel sings, the wind in the rigging, the murmurings of the timbers and the snap of canvas all familiar, were lightening to my countenance. The tide had turned shortly past dawn. I could see Fort Gibson on Oyster Island as it came athwart starboard. We had left the Battery astern, and Fort Wood would soon come into view. The Lower bay and the Atlantic beckoned, the open water three miles offshore would grant peace of mind and the boon of a bit of sanity. We could not reach that point soon enough for me. Soon we would add sail and start running with the wind, should fortune favour us, the wind would hold and we would make eight or ten knots, perhaps more. Three thousand and eight hundred miles to the east lay Gibraltar and Europe. It had been too long since I had set foot upon my homeland. I should be home by the Solstice.

A gentle tapping announced a visitor at the cabin door. I opened the door and was greeted by a tall and gangling young man of perhaps two and twenty years. One could tell by the cut of his jib that he was familiar with life at sea, not entirely an inexperienced lubber nor seasoned salt. He carried himself on legs accustomed to the motion of a deck beneath him. Perhaps on his second or third voyage. He brought with him breakfast. That would most likely make him the cook.

“Beg’n yer pard’n sir, Mister Rich’rds’n said to me he did, that ye might be spect’n some chow. I s’ppose it taint much at all what ye be used to be hav’n, but it be hot an it’ll fill the holler spot in yer belly.”

I relieved him of the trencher and the steaming mug and offered my gratitude. The look upon his face told me that he was unaccustomed to such treatment. If one desires to experience a pleasant voyage, one must strive to insure that both Captain and Cook take not offense. To further foster his goodwill I inquired of him his name.

“Ed’rd, sir. Ed’rd Head. Most always I jes git called cookie.
“Cap’n told me ta make sures I pass’d the word. Cap’n wud like ye ta join him an the missus for supper, Be’n if’n ye have a mind to.”

“Thank you Edward, I should be honored to dine with The Captain and Missus Briggs.” Sea Captains and masters rarely made requests aboard their charges. This was their kingdom, and they were king.

“How stands the day Edward?’

“Nigh two bells to the for’watch, sir.”

I thanked the man again, took my breakfast, and sat down at the small table that was lodged under the single scuttle in the after corner of the cabin. My body had required sleep, and evidently, being back aboard a ship had provided me with the opportunity as I had slept soundly and rested well. Now, judging by the sounds emanating from my stomach, my appetite needed sustenance as well. Edward was correct, the food was not precisely what I was accustomed to, but it was hot and would fill the hollow spot. With nary a few hours since weighing anchor the food would be the freshest of the journey, not having had time to ripen. The bread was nearly fresh, having been baked in the last week or ten days. The green spots were barely visible in the gloom of the cabin, and the weevils had not gained a foothold as of yet. The meat was fresh killed as well, I tasted nary a maggot one. This piece of beef, stringy and leathery tough, had probably whinnied and pulled a wagon not more that a month ago. Fresh food was always a boon on a sea voyage. Unfortunately, that would soon change soon enough, a change I fear would be for the worse. Long before we met landfall in Europe the meat would seem to be living once again as it squirmed with each mouthful and the hardtack should not be examined too closely, as it too would seem alive. Oh, how I do so look forward to rancid and maggoty meat, stale, insect infested hardtack, and rank water that smelt of rat shit. All of life’s rewards incurred a debt, a debt that must be settled with hardships. As far as hardships go, shipboard food is among the lesser. We could not reach the shores of the old world soon enough for my liking.

I longed to feel the sunlight, as feeble as it would be, warm upon my face and inhale the smells of the sea that carried in unobstructed on the ocean breezes. However, my desires must remain unsated temporarily, as the single, small scuttle provided my only views of the outside world as America fell astern. We would most certainly be under the guns of Castle Williams on Governor’s Island and would present a prime and tempting target should a gun captain experience a fit of whim or whimsy. One of the American Navy’s newest warships, a steam sloop, the Omaha, was patrolling here in the Bay. She could very easily catch us under steam alone should her master have want or warrant, and she was surely close by.

The ship’s bell sounded twice. Nine o’clock. The next chime and America would lay two miles further astern and Europe two miles nearer to hand.

“HANDS ALOFT. MAKE MORE SAIL. SET THE UPPER TOPS’L.” A voice rang out topside, which would have been Richardson, the mate. On this day and at this time, more sail was a good thing, a promise of a change of fortune. The hands were in good spirits and fine mettle, one could tell by their laughter and the good cheer in their voices as they swung into the ratlines and climbed aloft. Though I could not see them, I knew that most of them scampered into the tops, as would squirrels up a tree. An inexperienced hand would climb through the lubber hole, preferring that to swinging over the futtock shrouds to the foot lines as the more experienced sailors would do, an old salt might run along the yard to the end before dropping to the foot lines. Once the men had positioned themselves along the length of the yards they would have one hand for the ship, unfurling the upper topsail, and one hand for themselves to stay them a fall. The sail, once set would be trimmed to best catch the wind. Most of the men would drop gracefully back onto the deck, perhaps a laggard or two might remain in the tops, gazing eastward toward the open sea, hoping to see far enough ahead as to catch a glimpse of Europe from here.  Or perhaps, looking astern to the girl he left behind. These sailing men would all be as excited and as anxious as was I to feel the deck roll over the seas, may briefly, experience desire to spend time ashore, but always do they long to return to the seas. Mister Melville knew this call drove sane and rational flat landers to depart the prairies, leaving their homes and families behind in Kansas or Missouri or other parts of the heartland in order to take up the life of a sailor and to taste the salt air. He wrote eloquently of it in his excellent tale of whale men in pursuit of the legendary white whale. However, unlike his Ishmael, I prefer to sail as a passenger. Though I should prefer better accommodations, one must not look a gift horse in the mouth.

The little brigantine’s roll changed ever so slightly, we had entered the Narrows. The Lower bay and the deeper water of the Atlantic lay just beyond.

As always, thanks. Fair winds and following seas.

See you on Monday, peace.

Still playing the game.

Four and a half years ago when I started this thing I implied that I may post a story or two.  Well, it's #FictionFriday again.  Yes, I know.  I'm still cheating.  So what?  It's my blog and I'll cheat if want to.

So, for today, I present the first 1400 words of a something, short story, novelette, novella or even a perhaps even a novel.   Needless to say, my heart wasn't in it and I lost interest.  It comes across as "forced" to my ear, I don't like it's rhythm.  I'm a notoriously harsh critic of my own work, never satisfied. Write, rewrite, edit, re-edit, throw it all out and start over, lather, rinse, repeat  ad infinitum, ad nauseam, yada, yada, yada...

Midlife Crisis He dropped three perfect ice cubes into a crystal old fashioned and splashed a few ounces of Svedka 100 over them.  Barely audible music, a classical piece, played low in the background.  Perhaps Debussy, or Rachmaninoff.  He wasn’t sure, and didn’t particularly give a shit.  Everything seemed to run together these days.  The smell of rain drifted in through the open window, the night air cool in anticipation of the coming change of seasons.  He couldn’t quite remember who he was, or just exactly who he had been.  It was all still there of course.  It lay there buried just beneath the surface of his reality.  If he tried, he could remember the facts of his past.  He would probably even be able to recall the highlights, had there been any.  It was in the details where he fell short.  It hadn’t been a particularly bad or traumatic past, or for that matter noteworthy, it had just been there.  A past that he didn’t give a flying fuck about.  His marriage had been fun while it lasted.  It just hadn’t lasted.  They both had known it was time to end it.  The divorce had not been amiable.  Both of them had been too bitter.  Joan, because although she enjoyed the money, the amenities and the lifestyle he provided to her and the kids, she resented his job.  She said he worked too much; too many long hours, and never spent any time with her.  Stupid bitch.  How could she have it both ways?  His bitterness sprang from her promiscuous lust.  She relieved her boredom with sex.  With the gardener, the pool guy, the maid, the neighbor, his wife and their dog as well.  Well, he wasn’t completely sure about the neighbor.   With any one but him.    A mostly responsible father, he paid his child support, and as a dutiful ex-husband he paid the court ordered spousal support.  She hadn’t gotten much less than she had asked for, and complained incessantly that she couldn’t maintain her lifestyle.  Happily he paid it, just to piss her off, so she couldn't complain about it.  Joan loved to complain.  Not so secretly, he hoped the bitch would choke on the alimony, or at least gag on a dick.  Joan had made her bed, now she could lay on her back and fuck in it. As he approached middle age his generic and not overly exciting life had lead him into certain risky behaviors.  At first they were relatively benign. His midlife crisis had begun with a speeding ticket.  Seventy-five in a thirty five zone.  He was probably lucky it hadn’t been 135.  That ticket fueled his downfall.  A blowjob from an intern.  Sex with his son’s girlfriend, she had been almost 18.  He didn’t know if it was an addiction to adrenaline or just a need for something different.  He had spent every day just existing, now he needed to live.  Some men had affairs, some bought a Corvette or Porsche.  He had found another outlet.  Some people felt too much and used alcohol or weed to numb their perceptions. Others felt too little and tried to stimulate their senses with acid or coke.  Drunks, stoners, tweakers, huffers, crack heads, speed freaks, or junkies.  He had little use for any of them.  They were a waste of protoplasm, breathing his air and polluting the gene pool.  Already dead but too stupid or stoned to realize it.  He was just helping them achieve their destiny.             It certainly wasn’t a righteous, moral or a holier than thou attitude that had taken him down this road.  It was simply something to do. Something different.  Something exciting.             He had started with a huffer; it had been easier than he had thought.  A can of silver spray paint as a lure, a brain destroyed by constant abuse, and an old necktie.  There hadn’t been much fight left in the man.              Three more paint abusers had made it had too easy.  It was time to ramp it up a notch. But how?   The hyped up meth head had put up enough of a fight to chase him off.  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  He should probably stay away from Memphis for a while longer.  After the failed attempt on the tweaker, he knew he didn’t have the balls to get in close with a PCP duster.  Rationally, he knew the stories he had heard had been mostly stories, mostly.   A mean, angry drunk?  Too public.  A whore from the street?  Not enough justification.   Absently, he swirled his glass, the three perfect ice cubes and the vodka danced.   Paint abusers and serious potheads were too easy, and the meth addicts scared him.  Maybe he needed to be scared?  He packed the bowl of the little one-hit pipe and took a deep drag from his cigarette.  Maybe it was time to refocus his attention.  Maybe, just maybe it was time to put up or shut up.  Why should he pursue the addicts, the serious addicts had already set their course.  Why should he risk everything on them?  In the long run they were just weak willed sheep.  Their fate already determined.  He lit the little pipe and inhaled deeply.  Weak willed sheep, pathetically following the herd.  Too fucking stupid to realize what they were doing to themselves.  The vodka and the weed had worked their combined magic and had begun to blur the edges.               He sat in the darkness and an idea began to form.  He’d need a weapon.  He didn’t think of it as a gun, he’d seen too many movies; “This is my rifle, this is my gun.  This is for killing this is for fun.”   Of course, it couldn’t be a rifle.  Though the thought appealed to him, he had neither the skill nor the time required to become a proficient sniper.  True enough rifles could reach out and touch someone, but rifles were hard to conceal, and there were too many variables in their use.  Wind, distance, humidity, elevation, temperature.  How exciting would it be to set the crosshairs on a target that never knew that his life was over.  A gentle squeeze of the trigger and a second later his life gone.  One second alive, the next dead.  He’d heard it said that you never hear the shot that kills you.   He took a sip of vodka.   Shotgun?  Effective yes, but again hard to hide.  Assault rifle, he could probably find an AK easily enough.  Not the right tool for the job.  Tech 9?  Bullshit, he wasn’t a gang-banger wanna be.  That left a handgun.  It would have to be concealable with enough energy to penetrate and inflect a traumatic wound channel.   The weapon and the ammunition needed to be common.  Nine or ten millimeter, say .357 to .45 calibers.  Concealable and controllable, that leaves the forty-four magnum out of the equation.  It would definitely do the job, but if a large caliber weapon is concealable it won’t be very controllable, and if it’s controllable it won’t be very concealable.  A Colt 45ACP would be nice, replacement barrels are easy enough to get and dispose of.  No internal ballistics to link the weapon and a shooting together would make his life easier. Except, he needs to select a revolver.  A revolver he won’t leave any spent shell casings lying around to tie his weapon to the crime scene.  A revolver would prevent his using a silencer.   A silencer equipped revolver in a movie or on television.  What a crock of shit.   The simple physics of the weapon made it laughable.  He took another hit from his little pipe and drained the last of the Svedka in a final sip, and sat there in the dark, listening to the rain and Beethoven, he recognized Ludwig’s work.  Shortly, his breathing deepened and the crystal tumbler slipped from his hand, the thick carpeting cushioned its fall.               He slept a little later than he had intended to.  He should be at the gym.  He was getting a little soft.  The path he seemed to be going down would require a higher level of fitness than he currently had.  It was okay, and easy enough to accomplish.  He would just call Marjorie and have her reschedule his morning appointments.  None of his clients had any hearings scheduled, and weren’t likely to go anywhere.  If they did manage get out they would be too busy trying to avoid the cops to come looking for him.  He didn’t care, fuck em, he already had their money. See you Monday...

Cheating...

It's still Saturday night and the Hockey game is still on, and the Blues still trail by one at the top of the second.  I decided to reward punish you with an extra entry today.  I'm cheating though.  I'm going to call this Fiction Friday Flashback.

This was inspired by a late, late night insomnia fueled (both sides) conversation with a friend and was written some five and a half years ago.

Wicked Anna.

The air, heavy and oppressive, stank of sweat and reeked of fear. Cra-ack. The dimly lit interior of the abandoned warehouse reverberated with the pounding of a heavy metal drum solo. Cra-ack, this time, the sound the whip created as the tip accelerated faster than the speed of sound was sharper and more defined. A screaming guitar riff sliced through the darkness. Cra-ack. Another scream, this one more primal and base in its intensity added its voice, almost, but not quite in perfect harmony, fear causing it to stray off key. This scream brought a smile to her lips.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME.” The tremble in his voice betrayed his swagger of defiance. Cra-ack. He screamed again. The welts were beginning to rise on his bare skin.

“GODDAMMIT. Don’t you know who I am?” His resolve was beginning to crumble. She smiled again. Cra-ack. This one bit into soft exposed flesh and brought blood, just a trickle, she hoped he would be fun while he lasted, and that he lasted as long as she was still having fun.

“I-I didn’t do it…” Cra-ack. He winced, anticipating the pain that didn’t come. Her skill with the whip was exquisite. She laughed.

He struggled to maintain his dignity. Sans clothing and handcuffed just high enough so he was forced to stand on his toes to relieve the pressure his considerable bulk imposed on his wrists. Both knew his dignity would fail, followed by his resistance. His sanity would not be his final loss of the game. Cra-ack. He screamed again as the leather bit into the soft fleshy meat of his ass. She laughed again.

"P-p-please st-stop.” He whimpered.

She stood behind him, readying the whip. Petite, trim and athletic in her conservative white lab jacket and skirt looking more the part of a dental assistant than a woman who was ready to kill…again. Cra-ack. This time her timing was absolute perfection as his scream pierced the gloom, accentuating the lead singer’s angry lead into the chorus.

“I-it wasn’t my id-idea…” He sobbed. She wasn’t laughing any longer. With slow and deliberate steps; click... click... click; she walked to the table where the CD player blasted out Glam metal power chords, ejected the disk and replaced it with a special one, one of her choosing.

She approached the object of her torment just as the smooth baritone voice of Roger Whittaker began to croon from the sound system. Smirking, amused by his fear, she leaned close.

“Darling,” she whispered. “You thought it was funny didn’t you. Who’s laughing now?”

“I-I-I’m sorry…” His voice raspy, cracking with sobs. She knew she had broken him.

“Daniel you make me very, very unhappy.” She continued to torment him. The sound of the spring-loaded blade as it flicked out of hiding causing him to flinch. Her nose crinkled slightly as she caught whiff of the fear he had deposited on the floor…

“Puh-puh-please Anna, I’ll never do it again.”

“For the first time tonight, I believe you.”

“Are y-y-you going to let me go? I won’t t-t-t-ell anyone.”

“Yes, yes of course. In a moment.” She was enjoying this again. 

“I’m not evil, just a little wicked at times.”

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…” Roger’s voice haunted the darkness.

“Remember this night the next time you decide to fuck with my CD’s.
Oh, and I lied.”  The stiletto slipped between his ribs and into his heart….

“…I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.” Roger’s song trailed off as a hot pink Smart car slipped quietly into the darkness. 

See you on Monday, peace...