 
Stories about Things and Stuff

Copyright© 2016 by Ben Mariner

Cover Art by Ben Mariner

ISBN: 9781370126651

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in

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photocopying, recording, without prior permission of the

author.

All characters and events portrayed in this novel are

fictitious and for entertainment purposes only.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is

purely coincidental.

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## Stories About

## Things And

## Stuff

### by

## Ben

## Mariner

## Preface

Several years ago, when I got really, really bored, I'd ask a friend to provide me with a person, place, or thing and I'd write a story that had to contain all of those elements in some way. It was more of a writing exercise to keep me and the ol' idea factory running at full capacity on top of killing the boredom, but a lot of the stories that came out of this were quite entertaining. What you're about to read is a collection of those stories, as well as a few super old ones I wrote for a creative writing course. Many of them are completely ridiculous in concept, but I was working with what I was given so cut me some slack.

If you enjoy any or all of these stories, you can find my full length novels on Amazon, but I'm not going to make any promises that they're any less ridiculous. They're just longer. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this tiny look into the way my mind works, and, if not, at least you didn't have to pay money for it. Have fun and remember: support your favorite indie authors by reviewing their books and telling your friends.

## Bombardment

Wednesday.

The most unholy day of the week.

Not only is it only half way through the week, but there are still two more days to get through to see the glorious light of Saturday morning where a kid like me can find solace in the Ninja Turtles and X-Men. Where I can eat a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and not have to worry about the always looming wedgies or purple nurples. Saturday was where it was at. But, like I said, that was still a few days away. First I had to deal with Wednesday.

Wednesday is Salisbury steak day in the cafeteria. Most kids love it, but I'll never understand why. I think it tastes and chews like a rotten piece of leather smothered in bat mucus. On Wednesday's, I envy the cold lunch kids. The kids whose parents were too cheap to let them buy their lunch. Any other day, my heart would go out to their starving, neglected souls. On Wednesdays, I wished I was one of them.

Neglected children and inedible steaks aside, there was one reason I dreaded the most misspelled day of the week more than any other. One reason why my entire childhood has been full of degradation and emotional pain. The one reason that I make an attempt to fake sick every Wednesday, every week. Wednesday was the day for bombardment.

The fluorescent lights glared off the gym floor. A violent blaze of the harsh synthetic light dangling high above my head. A murderous spotlight shining on the battlefield of 5th grade humiliation. This is my least favorite room in this God forsaken building.

Mr. Barnhart stood sentinel at the out-of-bounds line of the basketball court. A rusted, metallic whistle hung above his pit stained white polo shirt. He was wearing some sort of twisted perversion of shorts and sweat pants. They came down to mid-thigh, his pasty white legs hairy and unusually muscular. A pair of pristine white sneakers adorned his feet, covering a pair of tube socks pulled up to their tearing point. The only thing that could have made him a more quintessential gym teacher was a flat top. Unfortunately for him, he'd lost most of his hair by the time he was twenty-four, the rest to follow shortly thereafter.

His whistle let out a shrill cry and landed back in its trusty place on his chest. He patted his hand on it like it was a puppy and smiled. He always thought no one could see it, but I swear I've heard him call that damn thing _Gladys_ before.

"Alright, kids, you know what day it is," he screamed over the din of a medium-sized group of 5th graders, "everyone line up on the blue line. Jimmy and Eric, you're captains. Pick your teams."

We all lined up – some of us more reluctant than others – on the blue volleyball line. Jimmy Farthing and Eric Thompson stood out in front of us, perusing our ranks like witnesses picking out a criminal from a line-up.

"Eric," Mr. Barnhart said, "you get first pick."

"Jennifer," Eric said, the words bursting out of his mouth before Mr. Barnhart could finish.

Normally, picking a girl first was a big faux pas at this age. At the 5th grade level, they were just inferior sportsmen. Once we hit Jr. High/High School, though, they'll become genetically superior in every way. It's sad to think we boys peak at such an early age. Eric and Jennifer were dating though, so the upper echelon of the 5th grade hierarchy turns the other cheek.

"Mitchell," Jimmy called out.

Mitchell Tanner. James K. Polk Middle School's top athlete. The first picked for everything. I heard he was making deals with the NBA for when he graduates high school. I hope that's not true, and if it is, I hope he breaks his leg and has to be shot.

"Danny."

"Steve."

"Robbie."

"Sarah."

Of course Jimmy would pick Sarah Evans. There was a rumor circulating about them making out under the bleachers and Eric putting his hand up her shirt. I suppose the 5th grade _is_ the best time to start being a ho.

"Evan."

"Nicole."

"Gunner."

"Ashley."

"Joey."

"Ed."

It's down to the weird foreign kid and me. He smells like curry and looks like he hasn't bathed in at least a week. What's funny is, even though he looks like he should have flies buzzing around his head, he'll still get picked before me. Compared to me, his aptitude at bombardment is vastly superior.

"Otm."

Otm gives me a casual, but sympathetic glance and walks to Eric's team. He's really not a bad kid. If he understood a word of English other than 'yes' or 'no', we might even be friends.

No one bothers to even call my name. I lumber over to Jimmy's team oozing with a lack of enthusiasm. I wonder if these kids will ever know what kind of emotional damage you take when you're picked last.

"Alright, you guys," Mr. Barnhart said after another quick shot of his whistle. Every time he says 'you guys' I get the distinct feeling that he wishes he were screaming 'you maggots' at us like a drill instructor berating a new group of recruits. "Jimmy, your team gets that end. Eric you guys on the other."

Both teams split, finding their way to their designated ends of the gym. Some were more enthusiastic than others. Mitchell Tanner being the prime example.

Mr. Barnhart grabbed a large, misshapen linen sack stained with years of use. As he walked along the centerline of the court placing balls from the sack at almost perfect intervals from each other. Each ball was made out of foam, not inherently heavy enough to hurl at another human being unless, of course, you wrap them in a thin layer of latex or rubber or whatever it was they used. Perfect for leaving welts if thrown hard enough.

Mr. Barnhart walked back to the sidelines and stood with his arms akimbo. Each one of us stood at opposite ends of the gym, our hands pressed against the wall in anticipation.

"On the whistle," he said in an overly theatrical tone, "we begin."

An orgy of chaos erupted at the shrill cry of the whistle. The sound of thundering footsteps echoed off the walls like frightened cattle stampeding away from a gunshot in the middle of the night.

I'm not the fastest kid in the world; no one could argue that. Most of the time, I make it up to the line so slow the other kids have already gotten their hands on a ball and are poised and ready to let fly in my direction. To my surprise, I actually made it before someone else. The textured latex/rubber felt warm on my fingertips. I took aim and cocked back. Billy Tabernacle's eyes grew wide when he saw the ball release, and land squarely in his chest. I think it was more shock at seeing me throw the ball than the fact that he was out. No one expected me to get anyone out. Ever. Not even me.

If memory serves, that's the first time I've ever gotten someone out on purpose. One other time I got someone out but only because, in mid-air, my ball collided with another and the trajectory changed and nicked the kid to the left. It was a moral victory if nothing else. But this was new. It felt good to strike with determination and see the aftermath of shame and embarrassment. I felt a small amount of vindication.

The feeling was almost gone as fast as it came. I relished in my small victory just a bit too long. This wasn't a battle. It was a war. Some unseen force urged me to duck just as a ball went sailing over my head. I could feel the hair on my head flutter in its wake. I hit the floor hard, a shockwave emanating through my body.

I looked back to see Gunner Etchison's face was twisted with a bizarre hunger. The look of a predator that hadn't eaten in three weeks and suddenly stumbled upon wounded prey. Someone passed him a ball. His mouth widened into a grin like a pedophile at Chuck E. Cheese. He side-armed the ball with all his might, clearly throwing for a kill. I blinked, and the ball was in my hands. I blinked again, and Eric Thompson was walking to the sidelines.

What the hell just happened?

I got back to my feet in a rush of adrenalin. Two more people had fallen by my hand. Their numbers were thinning, and I was finally a part of that. With a quick look around, I could see ours were dwindling as well. It was up to me to end this.

And I felt _invincible_.

I grabbed a nearby ball off the gym floor, another ball sailing over my head as I bent over. No matter, they couldn't hit me even if they wanted to. I unleashed my full power on the side of Otm's head, sending him to the floor. Take that you non-descript foreign bastard!

Much to my surprise, a cheer let out from the sidelines. My less fortunate teammates sitting in a neat line waiting to come back in were cheering me on. A tingle shot up my spine. I've never been cheered on. I really should catch a few to bring some of them back in...forget it.

This is my time. I'm going to prove myself. Not just to me, but to all of them. Especially Erin Henebry. She looks so good sitting on the gym floor in her _Ghostbusters_ t-shirt. She was cheering me on too! Oh joyous rapture! Once I take these jerks down, we can finally be together, just like we were in the drawings in my notebooks.

It was two on four. Jessica Randall gave me a pleading look, but I shot back an emotionless one. To be honest, I didn't know what to tell her. I've never made it this far. We were outnumbered and she was their first target. Unfortunate side effect of being a girl in a man's war. I wonder if she'd listen to me if I told her that once her breasts develop completely, none of these guys would dare knock her out in hopes of getting to touch them.

I roll a nearby ball up on my foot and kick it up to myself not wanting to leave myself open for attack. Adam Hurwitz let fly at Jessica. She was too slow to dodge and took it on the hip. Fortunately, I took the opportunity to get him out as well. Three on one.

The cheers were rising higher, now from both sides. Mitchell Tanner, Steve Potter, and Joey Martin stood before me, spread across their half of the court. Their eyes were locked on me, targeting me like snipers finally ready to take that killing shot.

Three balls sat lined at my feet. An odd coincidental placement, but to my advantage. I took two misleading steps to the left, and they all threw in unison like synchronized swimmers. I rolled back to the right. My arm moved faster than I'd ever seen it, firing one ball after the other like a Gatling gun. Joey Martin took one in the chest. Two on one. Steve Potter tried to duck but the ball hit his shoulder. One on one.

Of course, Mitchell Tanner dodged my throw without much thought. His reaction time was otherworldly. He's some sort of dark wizard. I swear it! The sweat rolled down my cheek as the two teams began pounding on the gym floor like tribesmen banging their drums for the two warriors about to do battle.

Never in a million years would I have thought I was about to go head to head with Mitchell Tanner at anything. Under different circumstances, I'd be scared shitless. Not today, though. A steeled determination poured over every inch of my body, stiffening my resolve. I could feel the sweat from under my arms drip down onto my fingertips. It felt good, cool and moist to the touch.

"Pick up the ball," Mitchell said to me, nodding to the ball next to me. "I won't hit you. Just pick it up."

I did so, not taking my eyes off of him.

"It's just you and me," he said looking at the ball in his hands. I nodded in agreement. He smiled.

"Let's dance."

I drew my arm back. The entire fury of whatever it was that was driving me was coming to life. To my chagrin, the sweat that felt so right on my fingers, actually made the ball difficult to hold, and it slipped from my fingers.

A blinding white light flashed everything out as Mitchell's ball collided with the bridge of my nose. I fell to the floor and his team erupted in a chorus of cheers. I could hear their footsteps as they rushed the court, surrounding him in praise and accolades. I chose not to look at them. The gym ceiling was exactly what I wanted to see right now.

My teammates surrounded me as well. I half expected to receive praise for my stellar performance as well, but I knew better.

"Good going, skid mark," Jimmy Farthing said, and spit in my face. The rest of the team laughed and they walked away, leaving me alone on the gym floor.

Maybe next Wednesday I'll try to fake dysentery.

## 1000 Words

The sun was high, and the temperature was sweltering. Illinois summers were always too humid to bear. Sweat rolled down the side of Tom's face as his old Ford Escort rolled to a stop in front of the next house on his pre-mapped route. One of Tom's favorite summer activities was visiting the local garage sales. It was something he and his grandmother had done since he was a kid and she would watch him every day while his parents were at work. It was by and large an activity for elderly women, but it was something that he'd always loved doing with her, and when she died, he had kept the tradition alive just to feel a little closer to her.

It was his fifth and final house for the day. A mound of useless garbage had started to pile up in the back seat. Among the haul was an old sewing machine, four yo-yos, a toaster oven, several movies on VHS, an old, beat up copy of _Mr. Poppers Penguins_ , and thirteen different shoes, only a few of which were matches. Tom's friends considered him a hoarder, but he considered himself a collector of rare and vintage, sometimes heavily used treasures that others had overlooked.

He walked up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Patches of crab grass pockmarked the yard. The air in the garage smelled heavily of neglect and stagnant motor oil. Three folding-tables had been arranged in a U shape, each one piled high with a random assortment of knick knacks and, once or twice, actual garbage. A heavy set woman was seated on a metal folding chair behind a small lockable cashbox. She was drinking a tallboy of Keystone and Tom ignored the fact that it was just after ten in the morning.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, walked to the nearest table, and started rummaging through the odds and ends. Mere minutes passed before Tom had gathered up a small stack of baseball cards, a box of blunted crayons, and an under inflated basketball under his arm. The whole lot would cost him a little under two dollars. On his last table, Tom found an old Polaroid camera. He reached for the camera with a smile, but he was cut off by someone else. He'd been so focused on his search through the rubble that he hadn't even noticed someone else enter the garage.

"I'm so sorry," he said looking up.

"It's okay," the stranger replied.

Tom's tongue suddenly locked up in his mouth when he saw the new comer. She was a young woman around Tom's age with shoulder length jet black hair. Two small patches of freckles sat under her dark blue eyes. She was wearing a t-shirt with an ironic saying on the front that was at least a size too small and a pair of skin tight cutoff jeans. Tom had never seen a woman so beautiful at a garage sale. He was under the impression that beautiful women made it a point to stay away from anything that might connect them with ogres like the one sitting behind the cash box.

"You can take it, I guess," the girl said.

"Huh?" Tom said dumbly.

"The camera," she repeated, pointing to the antique, "you can have it."

"Oh," Tom replied. He reached out and took the camera even though every muscle in his body was screaming at him to stop what he was doing and let the pretty girl have whatever the hell she wanted.

The girl turned to walk away, but Tom, through some miraculous feat a sheer will power, stopped her.

"Hey," Tom called after her, "I'm Tom."

"Julia," She said in reply.

"Are you sure about the camera?" Tom asked, holding the Polaroid. "I really don't care."

"No, it's okay," Julia replied with a smile, and she turned to walk away again.

"Well, maybe I could make it up to you with some dinner sometime?" Tom was completely unaware that his voice was now just below a scream as he tried to be heard by the young woman standing at the opposite end of the drive way.

Julia smiled, walked back up the driveway, and grabbed the camera out of Tom's hand. She held it up in the air towards herself and took a quick selfie. She pulled out the picture, grabbed a marker from the table next to her, and wrote her name and number on the white border. She handed the picture to Tom and walked away without saying another word.

Ten days passed. Tom tried the number, but it had only gone to a generic voicemail immediately. In desperation, he had tried rearranging the numbers to see if maybe Julia had forgotten her own phone number, but he only ended up get a few rather surly people who were not happy about being bother and more voicemails.

Tom sat alone in his messy apartment scanning Facebook for any trace of a beautiful girl named Julia that listed the same city as him. There were a seemingly endless list of results, but none were the Julia he was looking for. A large bowl of Craft mac and cheese sat next to him with a large spoon jammed carelessly in the middle, jutting up like a stake in the cheesy heart of a pasta vampire. He only stopped Facebook stalking – or sadly attempting to – to take a big spoonful of mac and cheese and chase it with a crisp _Dr. Thunder_.

Even though it had been almost two weeks since Tom's encounter with Julia, the pile of random junk he'd collected that day still sat on his bed. He'd pushed it to one side so he still had room enough to sleep as long as he curled up in a ball and didn't cover himself up with a blanket. It had almost been forgotten once Julia had entered his mind.

Outside the apartment the wind raged on, driving people on the streets into their homes and people in their homes deeper under their blankets for warmth. Tom's stereo was turned up to half the dial, blaring out hard, mindless, rock music. For Tom, there was no better background music for surfing the internet than something filled with anger and power chords.

His cell phone rang.

It rang again, the vibrations on his desktop muted by the music.

It rang a third time, catching Tom's attention.

He picked it up and looked at the caller ID If he hadn't been pouring over it the last ten days, he never would have recognized Julia's number and probably ignored the call all together. He almost dropped the phone in excitement.

"Hello," Tom said jovially, hitting the _answer_ button.

There was no answer.

"Hello," Tom said again, confused and more than a little disappointed.

Still no reply. Tom opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off.

_A picture's worth a thousand words,_ a voice said.

It oozed with androgyny. So much so, Tom almost thought he could hear two voices. A man _and_ a woman.

"Who is this?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Whoever it was, man or woman, they hung up.

Tom set the phone down slowly, as if it would shatter into a million pieces if it hit the desk even the slightest bit too hard. He tried going back to Facebook, but he kept glancing at the phone out of the corner of his eye. His fingers fumbled on the keyboard as he tried another combination of keywords to search. The results were useless, but Tom had stopped caring. All he could think about now was the phone call. Just like that, he'd almost completely forgotten that Julia even existed.

Frustrated, Tom stood up from his chair and crossed the room to the stereo. He switched it off with a little more force than necessary, and took in the silence that surrounded him. Outside, the wind howled.

Tom's phone rang again, startling him into stubbing his toe on the nearby dresser. He limped across the room and saw it was Julia's number calling again. He contemplated not answering, but his curiosity was winning.

"Hello?" he said nervously.

_A picture's worth a thousand words,_ the same androgynous voice said. The line went dead.

"Screw you," screamed Tom at the phone's home screen.

Behind him, the Polaroid camera Julia had taken a picture with rolled off his bed and landed on the floor. Tom spun toward the noise in a panic. After a long, tense moment, the camera began spitting out picture after picture, each one landing in a semi-neat pile. Tom stomped across the room and took in the bizarre scene with horror.

Each picture was slowly developing before his eyes. Instead of showing Tom's bedroom as it should have, the same picture of Julia that was sitting on his desk next to his keyboard was materializing again and again. He name and number were written in the same marker with the same curly handwriting on each and every picture. Tom's mind tried to reason that it was a simple malfunction in the camera, but the idea was quickly rejected as fear welled up inside of him.

He rushed to the phone, and pulled up the recent call list. He selected Julia's number from the top of the list. Instead of going to voicemail like it had every other time before, the androgynous voice answered.

A picture's worth a thousand words.

Tom dropped the phone and scrambled back to the foot of the bed. He scooped up the pictures and ran as fast as he could to the kitchen. He flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and turned on the faucet. Meticulously shoving each picture into the disposal, Tom felt a sense of satisfaction at the noise of each piece of film being shredded into confetti. When they were all gone down the drain, Tom walked back to his room. The camera hadn't stopped spewing the picture of Julia over and over. In fact, it appeared to be working twice as fast. Tom screamed uncontrollably and kicked the pictures and camera under the bed.

The phone rang again.

This time the phone showed a familiar number on the caller ID.

"Mom?" Tom answered hopefully.

A picture's worth a thousand words.

Tom hurled the phone against the wall, shattering the screen and sending debris flying across the room.

Under the bed, the camera continued to spit out pictures.

"Alright," Tom said to himself aloud, "I've just got to get a hold of myself. I've just been awake too long. I just need to go to sleep."

He threw back the covers of his bed, scattering the useless junk onto the floor, and climbed in without changing clothes. Pulling the covers over his head, Tom curled up into a ball and muttered to himself, trying to convince himself that he was not, in fact, going crazy.

He lay in bed for several minutes, trying to force himself to sleep. It was no use. The sound of the camera spewing the same picture over and over was digging its way into his head.

"Son of a...!" Tom screamed, throwing the blankets onto the floor. "What the hell is going..."

Tom stopped short when he realized his breath came out in a billowy puff of white as he spoke. It was bitterly cold in the room. Tom could feel the chill creep up his spine and invade his body. He rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm.

He moved to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. He jerked them back as soon as they touched down. The floor was a step away from being an ice rink. Tom thought of his coat, and now his shoes, sitting by the door. He took a few deep breaths, and tried to get across the floor to the door. After one step he let out a cry of pain as a layer of skin peeled from his feet. He fell onto his elbows and knees. When he tried to move, more skin tore from his body.

When he made it to the hallway, he tried to stand. A bolt of pain shot up his body when his feet touched the ground. He almost toppled again, but held himself up, knowing it would hurt more to crawl. He hobbled himself down the hall to the door. He grabbed the coat, and pulled on his shoes.

"What's going on?" Tom panted. "Why is this happening to me?"

Tom watched as a cold fog crept out of the bedroom, freezing the walls and floors as it crept toward him.

He swore and got to his feet. He could feel the will to fight slowly drain from his body. Effects of the cold, he supposed. He made his way back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. Surprisingly enough, it was warmer than the rest of the house.

Tom could feel himself slipping into a cold induced sleep when he was woken up by a sudden ring of the phone. He jerked his head off the pillow. The phone lay shattered by the bed, ringing as clearly as if it was whole. He ignored it. He didn't know what else to do.

It was no use. The phone answered itself.

_A picture is worth a thousand words,_ the voice said, and the pictures began piling up under the bed. They spewed out at an unbelievable rate. Tom pulled the covers up over his head and prayed for it to stop.

Oddly enough it did.

A deafening silence cut through the room. Tom nervously pulled the blanket down from over his head and looked around the room. The walls were dripping with condensation. It poured through the cracks, wetting the pictures on the floor. Before Tom knew it, the walls themselves were closing in on him. They inched ever closer to the bed, pushing all his belongings toward him. They loomed high above his head as he cowered on his bed. Tom felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

Suddenly, it all stopped. The walls jerked back to their rightful position, taking the rest of the furniture with them. Tom lay back on the bed in relief, his head resting heavily on the pillow. He felt the unmistakable pull of sleep washing over him and he closed his eyes. Inside, he could feel his heart racing, but on the outside, he felt as calm as a cow in India.

Tom's bed shifted as the pictures rolled out unbidden from underneath. They spread themselves out across the floor, no two pictures overlapping. If Tom's eyes had been open, he would have witnessed the hundred different Julias in the hundred different pictures begin to move as one toward the picture in the center of the room. A single hand emerged from the picture and braced itself against the floor to pull the rest of Julia's body from a single Polaroid picture.

She walked softly over the now empty pictures to Tom who lay on the bed serenely. She put her hand on his forehead and smiled gently.

"I'm scared," Tom said, opening his eyes slightly. He did not sound like he was concerned about Julia's sudden appearance in the room.

"Good. I was hoping you would be," Julia said, the smile never leaving her face, "Fear makes the transition so much easier."

She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. The scent of fear filled her nostrils making her whole body cry out in desperation. She tilted Tom's head back on the pillow slightly and gently opened his mouth with her fore and middle fingers. Julia opened her mouth wide enough to cover Tom's. Her lips pressed firmly down over Tom's and felt the creature growing inside her wriggle with unbridled delight. It pushed its way out from the depths of Julia's body, up her esophagus, past her teeth, and into Tom's open, waiting mouth. In mere seconds, the creature had moved from Julia to Tom, making a new home deep inside Tom's bowels. Julia stood and wiped the excess mucus from her lips with a finger and licked it clean. She could already feel the creature taking hold inside her latest victim, the newest addition.

"Stand up, Tom," she said softly.

Tom's eyes opened slowly. They were unfocused for a moment, but were quickly drawn to Julia. He sat up in bed and wiped the excess mucus away as Julia had. He stood from the bed and walked to Julia's side.

"Come with me, _foundling_ ," she said, holding her hand out. Tom took it delicately as a child would take their mother's hand to cross the street.

Julia led Tom out of the small, messy apartment. Neither of them looked back as they descended into the sewers together, a _foundling_ and its _master_.

## Me, Myself, and a Waffle Iron

I get up every morning at 8:30:34. I assume that it's more like 8:30:00 exactly when I actually physically wake up, but by the time I shake off the hazy feeling of sleep and roll over, it's 8:30:34. It never changes. I'm never a second slow. I'm never a second fast. There could be a massive natural disaster going on outside and my body won't stir until 8:30:34. It's so certain that at, one point in my life, I made all travel plans around the fact that I can't wake up a second earlier or later than 8:30:34.

At one point in my life. I'm not at that point any more. Far from it actually. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. 8:30:34. I don't even know why I bother to look anymore when I first wake up. I still do it, though. I'm a creature of habit, I guess. I threw the blankets back and slid to the edge of the bed. My slippers sat obediently in their usual spot. I slid my feet in and smiled at the protective comfort of the wool lining the insides. The floors looked clean, but so do some strippers. The minute you let your guard down you end up in a hospital emergency room with a crippling case of the clap.

I took the twelve steps it takes to cross the room and draw the curtains. From my penthouse, I could see the entire city. From the coastline, to the slums that surround the city; all lie within my view from the top floor bedroom view. This city used to be beautiful. It used to be clean. It used to be livable. Now it's overrun with murderers, thieves, and prostitutes. If you've been keeping an eye on it like I have, you can see the spread of disease and degeneration as it grows out from the slums on the edge of town like a deadly weed in a concrete garden. It's over half way now. Nothing can stop it, and nothing can make me go down there. Unwashed miscreants.

I walked to the bathroom, seventeen steps. It's so clean I almost hate to walk in there for fear of it getting dirty. I raised the toilet seat. I once held all my bodily waste in for a week and a half because the toilet was so clean I didn't want to ruin it. Obviously, that couldn't last. I was in so much pain, I thought it was going to kill me. I've just learned to control my urine with a pristine precision. It splashes into the water at the exact center of the bowl. Not a single drop goes astray. With a flush, I pulled my pajama pants back to their rightful position and turned to the sink.

A single bristle of my toothbrush had separated itself from the rest. I threw the toothbrush in the trash and grabbed a fresh one out of the top drawer. Each bristle was perfectly in line with the rest, making clean, tight little groups to clean my teeth to the best of their ability. I squeezed a small dollop of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and wet it with warm water. Thirty-six strokes back and forth, eighteen for the top, eighteen for the bottom. Thirty-four strokes up and down. I spit the excess toothpaste into the sink, rinsed it out, and rinsed off my toothbrush. A small, clear cup sat next to the faucet, exactly one inch away. I filled it half way with warm water, swished it in my mouth and spit it out. I turned the faucet on to clean the sink out once and for all and leave the bathroom with eight steps.

In the kitchen, thirty-five steps from the bathroom, I slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and pushed down the handle. I grabbed the butter and grape jelly from the fridge, as well as the milk. I took the cleanest butter knife out of the drawer and set it at a 90-degree angle with the edge of the counter. I opened the cabinet to the right of the oven and grabbed a glass from the bottom of the shelf. I filled it a quarter inch from the top with milk, screwed the lid back on, and put the milk back into the fridge. The bread popped out of the toaster, toasted to a golden brown perfection. I put both slices on a paper plate and took them to the counter.

The butter always went on first. An equal amount went on each slice and was spread evenly four times over. I bought the jelly in the squeezable tubes because I felt like I could control my jelly distribution better than scooping it out of a jar. You never know exactly what you're getting out of jar. They're too unreliable. Once the jelly was spread on the toast, I put the jelly and butter back into the fridge, and took my plate and glass to the table.

I sat at the head of the table. Even though no one else lived there, I still felt I needed to sit at the head to support my role as the head of the household. I tried sitting in one of the other chairs once; I felt dirty and used. I never tried it again.

The amalgamation of butter, jelly, and toast filled my mouth as I took a more than generous bite. Without swallowing what's already in there, I took a large sip of milk to wash it all down.

"You shouldn't take such large bites. You're going to choke one of these days," a womanly voice said from the kitchen. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Well this is the 782nd time you've told me," I replied without taking my eyes off of my breakfast, "and I still haven't stopped. Maybe you should try for an even thousand. You know I'm a sucker for a nice even number."

"Yeah," another voice spoke up, this time a man with a slightly southern accent, "well you know none of us can give you the Heimlich or CPR, so maybe you should listen to her."

"Look, everyone," I replied with understanding, "I get what you're saying, but I've eaten toast with jelly for breakfast for the past 11,677 days and I've never even so much as coughed while doing it. I think I've got it under control."

"Whatever you say," the female voice said. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

"Well, if he chokes and dies," a new voice, robotically masculine, "he isn't going to be able to tell you anything."

"Good point," the female voice said.

I finished off the last of the toast and took a long drink to empty the glass. I walked back into the kitchen, lifted the lid of the trashcan, and tossed away the paper plate. I turned on the hot water in the sink and scrubbed the glass clean.

"Have any good dreams last night?" the female voice asked.

"No, Fridge," I replied looking at the fridge, "you know I don't dream."

"There's a first time for everything," Fridge replied, the bottom freezer door working as a mouth and the random magnets acting as eyes.

"That's true," I replied and motioned to the toaster, "So I guess that means you'll actually go out on a date with Toaster then."

"That's a good idea," Toaster replied using his two slots as a mouth to project his slightly southern accent.

"I don't think so, Toaster," Fridge replied, adding, "I don't date southern guys."

"I've always been curious as to why you have that accent, Toaster," I asked, trying to change the subject. "Where were you made?"

"Southern Illinois," Toaster replied with embarrassment, "It's not quite the south, but close enough so no one will act like it's weird that you're talking with a southern accent."

"That's odd," the dishwasher put in, his voice thick with a German accent.

"What about you, Dishwasher?" Toaster inquired.

"I was made in Berlin," Dishwasher replied proudly.

"No wonder you always sounds angry when you speak," the microwave replied in his masculine robot voice.

"What the hell does that mean?" Dishwasher fired back.

"Germans are an angry people," Microwave said simply. "It's common knowledge."

"Screw you, Microwave," Dishwasher said indignantly.

"Alright, you guys," I cut in, "I've had enough of the bickering. I'd like to get through one breakfast without Dishwasher swearing at someone."

"I wouldn't yell if these a-holes would back off," Dishwasher said. Toaster was right. It was hard for me to tell if Dishwasher was mad or not through the accent.

"What's the plan for today, Albert?" Fridge asked, trying to change the subject.

"I thought I'd clean the living room," I replied, looking out the window at a cloudless sky. "Maybe watch some soaps. Read a little. Maybe write a little. I'll see what I have time for."

"Yeah, that sounds like what'll happen," Microwave said, his robotic tone oozing with sarcasm.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked with an air of confusion.

"Microwave's dry, robotic humor aside, he's right," Toaster said sympathetically. "You haven't worked on anything in over three years. We can't help but think that you just don't have it in you anymore."

"That seems a little presumptuous," I said matter-of-factly. "I just haven't had any kind of good ideas lately. The world doesn't speak to me like it used to."

"That could have something to do with the fact that you haven't left your apartment in close to a decade," Oven said after a long silence. His voice is deep. The kind of voice that was steeped in knowledge and wisdom. I sometimes wonder how an oven got so wise.

"You know why I don't go outside," I sighed. The argument was old and tired.

"I know why you claim not to go outside," Oven said, "I know what you think of those people out there. I know you think they're riddled with disease. I know you think they all rape, pillage, and murder any chance they get. I know that's what you think. But what do you _know_?"

"I know that...I know I..." I trailed off racking my brain for some truth, and found it. "I know that the Young and the Restless is on in 10 minutes and 37 seconds. And I know that Waffle Iron has dreams about making love to Filipino men."

"Hey," Waffle Iron screamed. His voice, male in undertone, is lined with a femininity only a waffle iron could produce. "You told me you could keep a secret!"

The whole kitchen erupted into jaunty laughter. If a waffle iron could blush, his face would be a shade of red that rivaled a sports car's shiny front end.

"Shut up!" he shrieked, somewhat muted by the laughter.

After three minutes and twelve seconds of laughter, the room fell to a relative silence. Fridge cleared her throat to get everyone's attention.

"Waffle Iron's homosexual tendencies aside," she said in her best maternal voice, "We've all talked and we think it's time you went outside again. It might be just what you need to get back to writing."

"The lovely lady is right," Toaster added, clearly saying so because Fridge did. "There's nothing wrong with the outside world. In fact, it can be a pretty amazing place."

I took a long look out the window at the cloudless sky hanging over a bustling metropolis. I closed my eyes and imagined myself barefoot on the beach. My nephew running by my side, barefoot as well, laughing the sweet sound of a child's laughter. He's four again, the same age as the last time I saw him. His curly hair bouncing with each awkward, heavy step. His footprints could fit in mine twice over, maybe more. The waves crashed hard on the beach, the air thick with their salt. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, brushing my hair back and a smile crossed my face. A homeless man forces his grimy hand in my face and asks for spare change.

A chill of disgust runs up my spine.

"What do you know?" I said, coming out of the daydream. "You're just a toaster."

"Touché," he replied, and I forced back a smile at how weird a French word sounds when spoken with a southern accent.

Without another word, I left the kitchen and walked the eighteen steps into the living room. In the center of the room sat two couches, a love seat, and two separate chairs, each at a perfect 90-degree angle from each other. The two couches were across from each other, and the two chairs were exactly one foot apart. In the center of the furniture square sat an antique coffee table with assorted magazines spread out on either side of a vase with a fake flower arrangement. The east wall of the living room, the one shared with the bedroom, supported the 60-inch flat screen plasma television. On either side of the TV, were pictures of myself and family members I haven't seen in years. Our smiles unknowing and carefree. The wall opposite the television, the west wall, is the resting place of an assortment of modern art I had a habit of collecting in my past. The north wall was invisible behind a massive bookcase I hired my own grandfather to build. He insisted he would do it for free as a gift, but I wouldn't hear of it. I heard he donated the $3000 I gave him to a local charity that fights against children's leukemia. Ungrateful bastard.

The south wall of the living room was my least favorite. There was no wall actually. It was comprised of nothing but large panes of glass that stretch from floor to ceiling. For some people it's a beautiful view of the city. Of course, for me, it's just another, maybe even better, view of the dingy municipality that used to be a flourishing haven for the good and decent. The windows aren't what I really had a problem with. Massive red velvet curtains block the city from sight. At this time of the day, they're backlit by the sun, making them glow with a creepy imminence of a portal to an ethereal realm.

The desk was the real problem I had with the wall. I suppose there was nothing exceptional about the desk. It was made out of solid oak, which made it very heavy, or so the movers said. I don't think "a ton" was a very accurate estimate, though. Six feet long. Two and a half feet wide. Two feet and eight inches tall. Seven drawers of various sizes. Nothing special. I guess when I think about it, the desk isn't the problem at all. It's the computer that sits atop it.

I was never one to trust computers when it came to writing. There are just too many things that can erase what you've worked so hard to create. I always used a typewriter, and when I was done, whether it was a chapter or an entire book, I took the hard copy and put it in a weather resistant lockbox. My old typewriter used to sit next to this God forsaken laptop, specifically used for writing. Fridge talked me into modernizing and getting rid of it. That was quite possibly the biggest mistake of my career. I haven't been able to sit down and write since. So, in a way, I guess it's her fault I haven't written anything in years. She'd never believe that. Typical female thinking.

"You can stare at it all you want, Al," the couch facing the east wall said. His voice was deep and cartoon-ish. Almost what you'd expect a couch to sound like if it spoke. I called this couch Red because, well, he was red. Actually, he was more of a salmon color, but I thought it was easier to call him Red than Salmon, and he agreed. "Last time I checked, it's the one thing in this place that doesn't have a mind of it's own. It's not going to tell you what to do."

"I know that, Red," I replied, failing to look at him.

"Why don't you sit down and try to get some work done," he suggested. If he had a head I'm sure he would have nodded toward the computer.

"Work?" I asked. "What should I work on Red?"

"How am I supposed to know?" he replied, shrugging the arms of the couch, "I'm just a couch. Maybe you should go outside and clear your head. Go down to the park. You might find some inspiration."

"Inspiration for what?" I asked. "I don't write stories about post-apocalyptic wastelands filled with cretin and murderers."

"Post-apocalyptic?" Red asked disbelieving. "I think that might be a bit of an exaggeration."

"Maybe a little," I replied, scooting the leather chair back from the desk.

"There you go," Red said supportively. "Just have a seat. Take it step by step."

I lowered myself into the chair. The leather was soft and the cushions seem to swallow me up like quicksand. It felt like I was floating over the earth on a leather-lined cloud. I leaned back in the chair and rested my head on the back. If I closed my eyes I could easily fall asleep. I don't want to, though, so I leaned back upright.

"Now turn on the computer," Red suggested.

I took a long look at the thin, black piece of plastic in front of me. Most people saw it as a tool to connect them to the rest of the world. I saw it as an untrustworthy gateway to the depths of my own personal hell. To each his own, I suppose. I pressed in the release and raised the screen. The screen was black and lifeless like the soul of my ex-wife. Eighty-four keys stared back at me, begging for the peck of warm, soft fingers. Each one taunting me in their own way.

I thumbed in the power button and the screen blinked with electronic life. A prompt appeared on the screen instructing me to press the function buttons if I wished to start the computer in "safe" mode. My mind jumped back to the last time I used the computer. My complete lack of ability to write something worthwhile forced me to jam in the power button, frustrated and defeated. Red made some sort of snide comment then, and I'm sure he will now if the same thing happens. Some things never change.

A picture of my ex-wife and me was plastered in the background of the computer screen. We were in matching white sweaters in front of a brick wall, ivy growing across it like cancer. It was the picture we used for our last Christmas card. Coupled with the memory of lost love, the sweetness of this picture turned my stomach. I quickly opened the settings menu and changed the background to a random picture of a bed of tulips.

I opened the word processing program. A white screen opened with a single vertical line to show me where I'd be typing. I laid my fingers on the home row, racking my brain for something to write. My fingers started to shake, more violently the longer I sat and thought. I jumped out of the chair and backed away from the desk, my whole body trembling from the experience.

"Am I crazy?" I asked Red but didn't take my eyes off the computer on the desk, "or does this thing have some sort of power over my creativity and imagination?"

"It's hard for me to answer that question," Red stated simply. "On one hand, I've never once seen you as a crazy guy. On the other, I am a couch whom you're having a conversation with. I'd say, at this point, it's probably a 50/50 shot."

"I see your point," I said agreeably, "but some might argue that since I haven't left the house in years, I'm more than entitled to talk to you guys just to stop myself from going insane."

"That's a valid argument," Red replied, "but just because you're entitled to it, doesn't mean it prevents you from insanity."

"Touché," I consented. "I guess when you really look closely, I really am..."

I cut my last thought off. An exciting idea began to percolate in my brain. Its frothy creativity brimming over into my conscious mind from the depths of the subconscious. An idea so perfect I felt like my mind could collapse on itself if I held it in for too long. An idea so ludicrous that it can only be reality. So farfetched that the only place you could find it is in the real world.

I lunged across the room in three great strides. The leather cushions accepted my body graciously, and I slid the chair back up to the desk. My fingers fell back onto the home row, gently shaking with the excitement of a perfect new idea. The plastic of the keys felt coarse, but comfortable, under my fingers.

With each klak of the keys, my perfect ideas poured onto the screen. My fingers hadn't moved this fast since I wrote my last novel. I had the same feeling then as I do now. The feeling of writing not only a book people will like, but a book people will talk about for ages and ages to come. Unfortunately, my last book wasn't like that, but it's got nothing on this.

I started with the childhood years. Time after time of being picked on and teased. Pushed down, degraded for the amusement of classmates. One time in particular, during a 5th grade talent show. De-pantsing. Skid marks. Embarrassment. After that comes puberty. The most awkward point of a boy's life. Hair growing in new places. Wet dreams of the newly developing girls. Cracking voices in the middle of asking out your first girl, only to have her laugh in your face. Getting unexpected erections in the middle of a class presentation and being unable to hide them.

High school was the turning point. Being paddled mercilessly as an incoming freshman. Every soul in that school pretending you don't exist because you're new and they don't know you. Seeking sanctuary and amusement in friends, only to find out they've abandoned you for their never-ending quest for vaginal penetration.

Passing your driver's test after the third try, and being just as happy as if you'd nailed it the first time around. The first girlfriend that lasted more than a week. Being dumped by the same girl because you're too awkward and shy to actually talk to her even when it's just you and her sitting on the couch.

Hours passed with me sitting in front of the computer. When I woke up this morning, my life seemed meaningless. Now I was sitting there putting it all on paper and thinking of how amazingly interesting it was. The memoirs of a self-conscious, compulsive kid who turned into an obsessive, pretentious agoraphobic. It just happened to make for captivating reading.

The sun set about an hour before I finally stopped. The lights of the city were coming on one by one, illuminating the sea of sickly humanity with a cheap fluorescent light. My eyes burned like the urethra of a cheap prostitute. I had typed over half of my life's story in just a few hours, and I couldn't honestly remember when the last time I blinked was. I leaned back in the chair and stretched my arms out over my head. I thought about getting a glass of water from the kitchen, maybe something to eat, but decided to keep working while the ideas and memories were fresh in my head.

I sat back up and put my fingers back on the keys. I brought up a new page to start the next chapter about meeting my wife at a college party. She was the one sitting on the patio reading _A Clockwork Orange_ at two o'clock in the morning. I started typing; my mind filled with the happy memory of her smile and the way her hair fell in her face when she laughed.

Suddenly, a shriek tore through the kitchen and out into the living room. I heard the tink tink tink of metal on the countertop followed by a splash. The lights in the entire apartment flickered with the remains of life and blinked out. I looked at the blank computer screen where, just moments before, sat my life's work, unsaved and misremembered. I felt a lump in my throat. My body wanted to vomit, but I choked it back to avoid having to clean it.

I jumped out of the chair and dashed into the kitchen. It was silent except for Fridge sobbing gently. I walked to the sink and pulled a flashlight out from under it. I turned it on and started scanning the kitchen to see what happened.

"What's going on?" I asked nervously to anyone who will answer.

"The sink," Toaster replied. His tone was somber, unnerving. "Waffle Iron."

I turned on my heels and put the light on the spot where Waffle Iron used to sit. It was vacant, his power cord still plugged into the wall. A piece of paper sat in his spot. I picked it up and read the remarkably legible handwriting.

Goodbye cruel world

\-- Waffle Iron

I traced the power cord to a sink full of water and a smoking Waffle Iron. I yanked the cord from the wall and pulled him out, fooling myself into thinking that if I hurried he'd be all right. Water splashed onto the counter top as I set him down gently. I could feel my heart racing in a panic.

"What should I do?" I asked frantically.

No one responded. No one said anything.

"Answer me, damn it!" I yelled, tears running down my face.

No one answered. I did the only thing I could think of. I scooped Waffle Iron up into my arms and dashed out of the kitchen and through the living room. The front door burst open and I stumbled out into the hallway. I sprinted toward the elevator and hit the down button. Surprisingly, it opened immediately. I stood alone in the elevator holding my good friend in my arms, stroking what I thought was his head to comfort his pain in some small way.

When the doors to the elevator opened, I rushed out into the lobby. It was empty save for the doorman.

"Call an ambulance," I yelled at him, "my friend is unconscious. He needs help."

The doorman gave me a look of utter confusion.

"I'm sorry, sir?" he asked trying to be polite. "You want me to call an ambulance for your waffle iron?"

"Yes, damn it," I demanded. I could feel the panic taking over.

"Sir," the doorman said calmly, "I can't call an ambulance for a kitchen appliance."

I didn't bother arguing. He clearly wasn't going to help me. I turned toward the door and did what I never thought I'd do again. I ran who knows how many steps across the lobby and burst out the front door of the building onto the sidewalk.

The air was crisp and cool. It gently rolled across my face making the tears tingle on my cheeks. The nearest hospital was twelve blocks away. I didn't waste time with a cab. I set off at a brisk walk, followed by a swift jog that turned into an all-out sprint. My legs burned. My lungs constricted. My whole body resisted at the unexpected exercise. I was only half way there, but my body just couldn't keep going. I had to stop. I leaned against a dumpster in a nearby alley to catch my breath. Unfortunately, the breath was filled with the acrid stench of rotting garbage. I couldn't help but choke.

"Hey, Mister," a gruff voice said from behind me, "got the time?"

"No, I don't wear a watch," I replied, and turned around. The man behind me was exactly what I was expecting from years of watching the city turn to garbage. He appeared not to have bathed in at least a month. A five o'clock shadow stretched from one ear to the other, each of which was pierced more than a couple of times. His clothes were torn and dirty. A street rat by the most basic standards.

"That's okay," he replied sympathetically, "I'll just take all the money you have on you then." He pulled out a switchblade and waved it in my face. The cool steel of the blade twinkled in the streetlight.

"Look, I don't want trouble," I said, pulling Waffle Iron closer to my chest. "I'm just trying to get my friend to the hospital."

"That's a waffle iron," he said bewildered.

"Yeah. So?" I replied matter-of-factly.

"They don't take waffle irons at the hospital," the mugger said, putting his knife away.

"Since when?" I asked him surprised.

"Since always, I think," he said shrugging his shoulders.

"I see," I replied. I held Waffle Iron out in front of me. His white exterior was black in spots from the heat of being electrocuted. I suddenly realized there just wasn't anything I could do for him. I walked to the dumpster and lifted the lid. The rotten garbage made me gag.

"We can't live forever," the mugger said with insight.

"You're right," I tossed Waffle Iron into the dumpster. "There's plenty of Filipino men where you are, old friend." I said to my dear departed friend.

The mugger put his arm around my shoulder sympathetically and closed the lid to the dumpster. I told him I didn't have any money and he let me go out of the goodness of his heart, what little there was left. I walked back to my penthouse and took the elevator up to the top floor. I swung the door open slowly and walked into the living room. It was dark and silent. I shut the door behind me, but didn't bother to lock it. I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a soda. The cool carbonated drink felt good on my throat. I took a long look at all the appliances sitting around the kitchen. Once good friends. Now just soulless pieces of metal. Normally, one of them would say something to try and comfort me. Possibly even witty and urbane. They're quiet now. And will be for a long time I'm guessing.

I smiled at the thought, finished off the last of the soda, and tossed the can in the trash.

"I guess I'll have to go out and find a new waffle iron tomorrow," I said to myself and walked to the bedroom.

## Merlin vs The Jabberwocky

The rain came down in buckets. It was the kind of rain that made torrential downpours ashamed to call themselves storms. Imagine standing with your back against the rock behind a waterfall and looking out and you'll have an idea of just how heavy the rain was on this particular day. If you could see more than four feet in any direction you were lucky. Well, as lucky as you can be when you're standing in a storm like that. Generally speaking, when it was raining that hard, you counted yourself lucky when you were sitting in a nice cushy armchair next to a roaring fire reading a nice, thick volume of the encyclopedia.

Merlin, however, did not consider himself lucky, as he was one of the few unfortunate souls that found himself out in the weather. When he'd set out from his small cottage in the Irish country side, it was but merely sprinkling; nothing a low to mid-grade wizard couldn't handle. Yes, I said low to mid-grade, because this is not the Merlin you're familiar with. This Merlin was not court wizard for Arthur and his knights. Nor was he the wizard who banished the evil Morgana to the NetherRealm. No, this particular Merlin wasn't even distantly related to the Great and Powerful Merlin of legend. He _was_ named after him though, as his father was rather a fan of the old stories.

Merlin's father had enrolled him in Wizard College at the age of fifteen when any young one is eligible for the study of magic. As stated previously, Randolfo, Merlin's father, loved reading the old tales about his son's namesake and had always hoped his own son would achieve even greater feats of magic than the original Merlin ever did. Merlin, however, was skeptical from the outset. He enjoyed the stories as well, and found magic quite interesting, but he thought his father had set fairly high expectations for his son. After all, Merlin was one of the clumsiest human beings to ever walk the face of the Earth.

He'd helped around the farm when he was old enough to do so, but it usually ended in broken wagons, escaped cows or chickens, or the occasional broken bone that did not always belong to Merlin. When he was sent to school, his father believed the discipline would help Merlin gain control over his flailing. The second night Merlin was gone, a raven had arrived to let Randolfo know that Merlin had accidentally set fire to a priceless tapestry that predated time itself – the clocks and whatnot, not history as it were – but not to worry, as it was put almost in its rightful order with a click flick of the wrist and that Randolfo would only be charged for the small corner that was unable to be recovered.

From there, Merlin had done his best in his schooling, but never managed to really get the hang of the whole magic thing. He managed to turn on some lights without lighting them, open some minor locks, and even pull a rabbit out of a hat though he wasn't trying to do so. At the end of his schooling, his teachers had given him a low to mid-grade rating simply because he could do some decent work, but only if he wasn't trying. When Merlin returned home, now a man and kind of a wizard, his father only showed a brief display of disappointment in his son's low marks. There was a father's pride there though, one way or another, and Randolfo bragged to neighbors far and wide about his son, the wizard, with any chance he got.

Merlin became something of a joke around his small village. Any time he was called upon to heal the sick or repair broken wagon wheel, he usually made things worse by either making the sick man sicker – or killing that one fellow – or setting the entire wagon on fire. After about a month of terrorizing the village at their unbeknownst request, everyone gave Merlin a wide berth whenever they saw him in passing. Most were scared Merlin would accidentally turn them into a newt or some such creature. The rest just really didn't like him all that well, and didn't wish to speak to him, wizard or no.

One day, Randolfo came home with a terrible expression of shame and hurt on his face. Merlin asked what ailed him, but Randolfo would not speak of it. With a little digging, Merlin found that his father had overheard two of the local villagers mocking Merlin openly. It was one thing to be a joke to everyone else. It was quite another to have his father know it. Two weeks passed with Merlin trying hard to give his father something to be proud of, but he failed at every turn, only shaming his father further.

When Merlin heard two men in the local tavern discussing rumors of a jabberwocky in the area, he'd made a very rash, generally stupid decision.

"I'm leaving in the morning, father," Merlin said when he got home that night. Mead was on his breath but not so much that Randolfo could smell it.

"To where do you travel, my son?" Randolfo replied. Mead was on his breath as well, as it often was over the last few weeks.

"I go to slay the jabberwocky," Merlin replied with a hint of pride in his voice. "I'll make you proud, father."

Randolfo would have been proud at the moment, but he was now fast in a mead-induced sleep.

The next morning when Merlin set off, Randolfo had presented him with an old shabby looking hatchet with a sizeable knick in the blade. Merlin couldn't remember ever seeing it before in his life.

"'Tis my grandfather's," Randolfo answered at Merlin's bewildered look. "May it bring you luck, son."

"Thank you, father," Merlin said. Father and son hugged briefly, and Merlin tucked the hatchet into his belt. Just like that, he left the village as the rain began to trickle down.

Now here he was, soaked to the bone, not an inch of him dry whatsoever, with the nearest village at least twenty more miles from him in any direction. Merlin pulled his hat down over his eyes in a failed attempt at keeping out the rain and trudged on. His feet began sinking slowly into the mud of the path until he was sinking in knee deep with each step and finding it increasingly hard to retrieve his leg each time. After several minutes of the monotonous trudging, Merlin espied a moderately large mass in the distance which he assumed was a rock formation.

With a great heave, Merlin persuaded his legs from the muck and flopped into the nearby grass that had turned into a marshland. Wading through the mire, Merlin came to the correctly assumed huddle of rocks which rose from the ground like a massive hernia. Just at the base, luckily enough, was an opening large enough for at least three men to walk abreast and tall enough to fit a good sized cottage. Merlin thanked whatever god it was that ran the whole crazy mishegoss, and entered the cave to wait out the storm.

Once inside the cave, Merlin stripped off his soaked clothes and laid them spread out on the ground. He put his hands together and created a small orb of fire, which was the only spell he could ever seem to get right, and placed it on the ground next to his clothes to speed up the drying process. He created another orb of fire and held it up to illuminate the cave. At the back of the cave, Merlin saw that the ground dropped off into darkness. He walked to the edge of the darkness and found that it was a path that led down into the earth. He walked back to his clothes, grabbed the hatchet, and walked down the path with the orb of fire held over his head.

There were no other paths branching off of the one Merlin was on. It was just a solitary path plunging ever farther into the depths of the earth. With each step Merlin tried to convince himself to turn around, but still he walked on, which was surprising, given how terrified he was of the unknown that lay in front of him. When he reached the end of the path, Merlin was standing in a large circular room with nothing but a medium-sized nest in the middle of the floor. In the nest sat three eggs large enough to house a Labrador retriever.

Merlin recognized the eggs at once as jabberwocky eggs and felt the fear inside him intensify. Jabberwockies were a mean lot, but a jabberwocky mother is just about the meanest creature in the world. It's said that jabberwocky mothers have killed men for simply hearing the word _egg_ uttered from their mouths. Now Merlin was standing not fifteen feet from three of those eggs wishing he was absolutely anywhere else in the world. Even France would do, and that's saying something.

He had no idea how long he stood, frozen in terror, staring at the eggs, but eventually he forced his body to turn around to leave before the mother showed up. Unfortunately for him, the mother had showed up, and was now standing directly behind him. Merlin was eye to eye with the evil beast and he felt the urine start to flow before he even felt the urge to let it.

Jabberwockies are ugly creatures. They're about twice the size of any given lion with massive leathery wings like a bat. They have the heads of dragons, teeth and tail of a beaver, and the forelegs of a tyrannosaurus rex. Like I said, ugly creatures.

The jabberwocky dove at Merlin who, by nothing more than luck, dodged the beast and stumbled his way back to the path that led out. He turned and let out a blood curdling scream and hurled the hatchet at the dragon. He didn't even bother to wait and see if it came of anything, he simply turned tail and ran as soon as he was unarmed.

The path seemed shorter this time, but that was mostly because he was going at a dead sprint as opposed to baby stepping his way. When he reached his clothes, he realized that he could hear nothing behind him. He expected to have to abandon his clothes and run naked back into the rain with a jabberwocky hot on his heels, but nothing of the sort seemed to be happening. He looked outside at the rain, back to the mouth of the path, and down at his clothes. He threw his semi-dry clothes back on, and for a reason he will never be able to explain so long as he lived, went back down the path at the back of the cave.

He went forward at a baby's pace once more, ready to run at the slightest sound, but he heard nothing. When he reached the circular room at the end of the path he found the nest as it had been. The jabberwocky, however, was huddled midway in between him and the eggs, not moving. It could have been a clever ruse by the beast, but last time he checked, Merlin was sure jabberwockies were exceptionally stupid animals.

Merlin approached the dragon hesitantly. Once he was closer he found that it wasn't breathing and appeared to not even notice he was there. He reached out with one foot and nudged the animal over as best he could. It was enough to reveal the creature's head which had Merlin's hatchet buried haft deep between its eyes. He'd slain the beast as he set out to do, although, like almost everything else he did correctly, it was completely unintentional.

Merlin took a moment to dance a victory jig and sing the first song that came to mind which was a jaunty tune about mermaids. He heaved the hatchet out of the jabberwocky's face and put it back in place under his belt. Merlin walked back to where he'd entered the cave concocting a story worth of song to make up for the pure stroke of luck that he'd experienced. He'd finally succeeded in something worth being proud of and he couldn't wait to rub in the villagers' faces.

And that, my friends, is how Merlin, a low to mid-grade wizard slayed a jabberwocky and became known as Merlin the Dragon Killer to the villagers, but no one else. He lived the rest of his days performing small scale spells and telling the story of his feat to anyone that would hear it, each time getting more and more elaborate. Merlin passed onto the NetherRealm himself at the ripe old age of 104 due to a runaway wagon wheel and a drunken chimpanzee.

## Dead End Street

The house appeared to smile. Not a smile that had once adorned the faces of the three children standing in front of it. It was a sinister smile. A smile of warning. A smile of threatening. A smile that said, "If you enter, I will slowly, deliberately, and enjoyably eat you."

1574 Gainsborough Street was the neighborhood "haunted house". It sat lonely at the end of a dead end street. Two weeping willows drooped in the front yard, giving shade and creating a spooky _do not enter_ aura. The paint was peeling off the distressed walls; the shutters were cracked and falling off. The previous occupants had long since abandoned the house, and, for some reason, the city never tore it down, only condemned it.

There were a lot of rumors circulating Pike Township about 1574 Gainsborough Street. The most popular of which being the patriarch of the Jenson family, the home's last residents, had snapped one evening and took an axe to his wife and two daughters, then hung himself in his office.

Among the favorite reasons for Mr. Jenson's breakdown with the Pike Township gossips was Mrs. Jenson's torrid love affair. Every day at 1:15, the postal carrier would come to drop off the mail. Supposedly, everyday at 1:45 the mail carrier left with a kiss and a wave, leaving a smile on Mrs. Jenson's face. The mail carrier in question happened to be a woman, which only made the gossip that much juicier.

After the Jenson family left Pike Township – whether they went to meet God or simply moved to a new town – the house went to rot. Obviously, with the rumor circulating, selling it was impossible. Years upon years ate away at the house's once illustrious appearance at the end of Gainsborough Street. Rumors upon rumors added to the ambiguity of the house. With each year that passed, 1574 Gainsborough Street transformed little by little into the haunted houses of countless legends.

And so, bearing all this in mind, Mikey, David, and Jason stood on the cracked, crumbling sidewalk in front of the Old Jenson Place. A look of foreboding struck the faces of each child. A sinister chill crept up Mikey's spine. He shook noticeably with fear.

"I don't know about this guys," he said, not able to take his eyes off the house looming in front of him.

"Stop being a chicken," Jason replied harshly. "Tommy Dickinson would have the whole school laughing at us if we don't take him up on his dare."

"I'd rather have the entire school laughing at me than be dead, Jason," David said looking at the house and shuddering with the same fear as Mikey had.

"It's just a house, guys," Jason said taking the Polaroid camera from around his neck. "I didn't sneak into my parent's room and steal this for nothing. Tommy wants proof that we went in, and he'll get it. You guys can come with me or not, but I'm going in."

Jason held the camera up and snapped a picture of the front of the house. The print slid out of the front of the camera like a child sticking out his tongue. He grabbed the picture, and without a look, slid it into his back pocket. He put the camera back around his neck and set off up the walkway leading to the front door. Mikey and David gave each other apprehensive looks and followed Jason.

Each worn, wooden step of the porch creaked with strain as each of the three boys tested their durability. The porch was strewn with dirt and weeds that had made their way up the stairs to inhabit a new home. In the far corner, an old, faded, white rocking chair was swaying lazily back and forth in the soft afternoon breeze. Mikey refused to look at it, for fear of seeing something, or someone, sitting there that shouldn't be.

The front door stood solid in front of them. As the three boys stood, staring at the gateway to the unknown, it seemed to loom over them like a gargantuan redwood. The red paint was chipping away; the brass of the doorknob starting to rust. A perfect portrait of the effects of time and weather.

Jason reached out and felt the cool brass under his fingers. He turned his wrist, but the knob didn't budge. He gave another twist, adding a swift kick, but the door refused to move.

"Damn it," Jason swore under his breath, and turned back to his friends. "It's locked."

"Okay," Mikey sighed with relief, "time to go home."

"Not so fast," Jason said, as Mikey and David turned to head home. "We'll just have to find another way in."

Jason pushed past his friends and bounded down the steps two at a time. He cut a path through the waist high grass, passing under one of the willow trees on his way to the fence surrounding the backyard. The chain link was rusted, and falling apart in several places, one of which Jason took advantage of, and climbed through to the backyard, followed by Mikey and David.

The backyard wasn't completely dissimilar to the front yard, but had its own distinctive spookiness. Instead of willow trees, a single oak stood in the center of the yard, providing shade for the entire yard. On one of the lower branches swung an old tire swing. The rope holding it up was fraying, ready for someone to come for a swing and receive a broken tailbone. Opposite the tire swing was a sandbox. Grass was growing through the sand, but a perfect square still broke the sea of waist high grass where the sandbox resided.

Jason raised the camera and took a quick snapshot of the desolate backyard. When the picture slid out, he again stuffed it in his back pocket. With his friends following in his wake, Jason tore through the backyard jungle to the back door of the house. It was almost identical to the front door, other than the different style of doorknob.

Jason tried this knob, but with the same results as the first, and he let out another swear.

"I think that's a sign, Jason," David said, his voice shaky.

"I think we're just going to have to try harder," Jason replied trying to look into the nearby windows. "Someone give me a boost."

Mikey shook his head as he cupped his hand for Jason to use as a cradle. Jason put a heavy, red high top into Mikey's hand and straightened himself. Mikey put all his strength into lifting Jason to the window two feet above their heads. Inside, Jason saw nothing but an old kitchen. A thick layer of dust had settled over everything, and the appliances were from a time long before Jason or either of his friends were born. Next to the fridge sat a high chair with a stuffed puppy dog sitting in it.

"Do you see anything?" David called up to Jason.

"Doesn't look haunted to me," Jason replied, and gave Mikey the signal to lower him. Once his feet were flat on the ground again, he brushed the dirt off of his shirt and smiled. "This is going to be easier than I thought. We just have to find a way in."

Jason cut back through the grass toward the back door. Halfway to the door, he tripped on a small rock jutting out of the ground. He sprawled out into the grass, the wind knocked out of him. He curled up in the fetal position, gasping for air. Through a break in the grass, Jason could see the outline of a small window leading to the cellar. He jumped to his feet, air rushing back into his lungs.

"There's a window down here," he called to his friends. He pried the rock that he tripped on out of the ground.

"You can't break the window," Mikey said, looking around the yard for any onlookers, "it's illegal."

"Yeah," Jason replied sarcastically, "I'm sure someone is going to notice the broken window in a house that hasn't had anyone living in it for years, and that's covered up with grass."

"I agree with Mikey," David said.

"Big surprise," Jason said, and hurled the rock through the window. The crashing of the glass on the cellar floor echoed through air like a gunshot. "Too late to argue now."

Mikey and David sighed as Jason slid through the cellar window and plopped down on the cellar floor. The glass crunched under his feet.

"It's a little dark down here, but it'll be okay," Jason called out from the cellar to his friends. "I can see the stairs."

Mikey and David slid down behind Jason reluctantly. The cellar wasn't unlike any other cellar. It was poorly lit, musty and dirty from the years of neglect. Boxes upon boxes were stacked around the room, each marked with a permanent marker labeling each boxes' contents. At the foot of the stairs, a Raggedy Anne doll sat, staring straight ahead, its button eyes staring blankly into space, but seeming to follow the three boys as they walked by.

The stairs moaned with stress as the three boys made their up into the kitchen. Jason immediately snapped a picture of the room and put it in his pocket with the others. He walked to the fridge and opened it, finding nothing but an old box of baking soda.

"See," he said, shutting the refrigerator door and looking around the kitchen, "there's nothing to be scared of. Just some old dusty junk."

"Yeah, I guess," Mikey replied giving David a nervous glance. Neither could shake the feeling of uneasiness that emanated from the house.

Jason turned and walked into the foyer. The front door to his left, a flight of stairs to his right. Straight ahead was the living room.

"Tommy wants pictures of the bedrooms where the family was supposedly killed," Jason said, looking up the stairs nonchalantly. "If you two are really that scared you can stay here and wait for me."

"Don't take long," David said, and Mikey nodded his head in agreement.

"Girls," Jason said derisively, and walked up the stairs.

Mikey and David stood in silence for several minutes while the sound of footsteps and photography echoed through the house. With each passing second, the two friends grew ever more nervous. Each afraid that the longer they wait, the more likely something bad will happen.

"I don't like this house," Mikey said, breaking the silence.

"Me neither," David replied.

"Should we leave?"

"We can't leave Jason..." David replied. After a moment's thought he looked at Mikey pleadingly, "...Can we?"

Mikey didn't answer right away. He couldn't help but want to run from the house, screaming.

"No," he said eventually. "If we leave him here, he'll tell Tommy and then we'll be the laughing stock of the whole school and Jason will be a hero. I'm not going to live with that. I'll have to change schools."

"Good point," David said, shrugging his shoulders. "I can't stay here much longer though. I don't care what happens. I heard the hot lunch program over at 3rd Street is pretty stellar."

Before Mikey could answer, both boys realized that Jason's footsteps had stopped and the clicking of the camera was non-existent. They exchanged a scared look.

"Jason?" David called out, but with no reply.

"Should we go check on him?" Mikey asked.

"I'm not going up there. He's got to be messing with us," David said, his voice shaking with fear.

"Jason?" Mikey called after his friend, "Stop messing around, man. It's not..."

Mikey wanted to tell his friend that the joke wasn't hitting home, and that he should just finish up so they could leave. He couldn't. His throat tightened in fear as the sound of footsteps came from the living room behind him. Mikey turned to David whose face was stricken with terror. As far as they knew, there was only one way to go between floors and they were standing in front of it.

The footsteps were slow and deliberate, each one screeching a warning to get out while they still could. Unfortunately for them, their legs couldn't, wouldn't work even if they were on fire. Their only option was to stand and face their approaching doom.

Around the corner, a ghastly apparition slowly appeared. With each step, the ghoulish figure came into sight little by little. Once it stood full in the entry way to the living room it let out a hollow, ghostly moan.

"Daaaaaaaaavvvvvvvvvviiiiiiiiiiddddddddd," the apparition called out in its horrid voice, "Miiiiiiiiikeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy."

David and Mikey let out a terrified screech at a pitch only the neighborhood dogs could hear. David scrambled with the lock of the front door, as the ghost came closer and closer. The rust made it tougher than it should have been, but he managed it open and flung the door almost off its hinges.

David and Mikey went barreling down the street, screaming the whole way. The apparition followed slowly onto the porch and let out a chuckle. Jason pulled the stark, white sheet over his head and let it fall to the porch.

"Couple of chickens," he said to himself, chuckling again. He hopped down the stairs and walked to the middle of the sidewalk leading to the house. He decided to pull the pictures out of his back pocket and give them a look. He wanted to bask in his victory before he went to Mikey's house to tell him that he, Jason, was the ghostly apparition, and that he had found another set of stairs around the back of the house leading down to the living room.

The first picture was of the front of the house. Nothing special. Next was the backyard, then the kitchen, the foyer, the upstairs hallway, and the bathroom. So far nothing to get excited about. Tommy Dickinson was going to be disappointed. Jason flipped to the next picture in the stack. He stood, frozen in terror, at what he saw.

The picture depicted the Jenson's children's room. As Jason stood in the doorway taking the picture, it wasn't any different than any other bedroom he'd ever been in. The picture told a different story. The two girls lay in their beds, each of their heads detached from their bodies, torsos half severed, and blood sprayed across the room.

Jason's hand shook as he flipped to the next picture. Instead of seeing the master bedroom the way he had just seen it, he saw Mrs. Jenson lying on the floor in a pool of blood, decapitated. Mr. Jenson stood over her, axe in hand, staring at her cold, lifeless body without compassion.

Jason could feel the warm run of urine down this leg as he turned to the next picture. Not surprisingly, he found the picture to be different than he wanted it to be. A chair lay tipped over on the floor, and Mr. Jenson hung from the ceiling fan by an extension cord. Mrs. Jenson's head was hanging from his death-gripped right hand, a look of terror frozen on her face.

Jason dropped the pictures into the grass, but couldn't move. He didn't want to turn and face the house, but couldn't make his legs move to save his life. Suddenly, the sidewalk began to curl under his feet, rolling him up like a concrete tongue. It drew him back into the house, screaming, and the door slammed behind him with a resounding _thwack_ that could be heard for blocks if anyone had cared to listen for it.

Afterwards, there was silence, and 1574 Gainsborough Street smiled on.

## Punch Drunk

She didn't know why she was there.

Well, she did actually. She just couldn't believe she had actually gone through with it. The whole thing was just so unlike her. She was just sweet, innocent little Judy. Didn't have a mean bone in her body. That's what pretty much everyone thought about her, at least. Mostly she puts on the kind exterior because it's easier than being grumpy all the time. It was no fun being the office grouch; the one that everyone assumed was mean just because they had that look on their face all the time. That was Angela. She could keep that title. Judy was content to be thought of as the sweet one, the push over, and silently curse everyone who came into her path.

But it had gotten to be a little much over the last few months. Her company was going through a monumental change in management and the backlash seemed to be coming down all on her. She knew it wasn't really, but there were days when it felt like the entire company's fate was resting squarely on her shoulders. Her old boss, Dan, had been a good enough guy, but they had given him the boot for performance issues. He was replaced by Heath, a real cheese ball that reeked of Axe body spray and thought every woman on earth wanted to sleep with him. He did absolutely nothing all day, and then took credit for the things Judy did when praise was handed down.

Really, Heath was the reason she had made the call in the first place. Judy had worked an entire week on one specific thing to make it the best she could. It was her best work by a mile, and she was hoping it would land her the promotion she was working so hard for. She passed it along to Heath, and out of nowhere, decided he wanted to get involved in her work and made some changes he didn't run by her. Instead of getting promoted, she was told it was some of her worst work. When Heath had sent it back and she had seen what he'd done, it took everything in her to not march into his office and beat the living gibblets out of him.

She had picked up the phone instead. She'd always heard about it from other people, how therapeutic it could be. She'd even seen a few people out with them, but she never thought she'd be the one paying money for such an insane idea.

So there she sat, all alone in a coffee shop in the middle of downtown at 2:45 in the afternoon on a work day. It was the only time he could meet, so she had made up some excuse about having "lady problems" and ducked out early. He was late, but Judy was willing to wait. They had already charged her credit card, after all. She was going to get her money's worth. Besides, Heath had been so uncomfortable at the sound of her _lady_ _troubles_ she could easily take the rest of the day and call in tomorrow without an issue. Men were so easy to manipulate.

Judy recognized him the instant he walked through the door even though she'd never seen a picture of him. The shirt was a big tip off. They all wore the same navy blue t-shirt with their organization's insignia stitched into the breast. The bruises were another big clue. She'd never seen one of them that wasn't covered in bruises or missing teeth. All part of the job, Judy supposed. She did her best to wave at him discreetly. For whatever reason, she didn't want people knowing she'd hired him. It was perfectly socially acceptable, but she still felt weird about it.

He smiled and headed in her direction. He wasn't a completely unattractive man under the scars and bruises. He couldn't have been a day over twenty-five with light brown hair and sparkling green eyes. He seemed genuinely happy to see her despite the circumstances. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, putting his hand out for Judy to shake.

"Hi," he said in introduction, "I'm Punch."

Judy paused, her hand in his. "Your name is _Punch_?"

He shrugged and let go of her hand. "My real name is Scott. My friends call me Punch for obvious reasons. It just kind of stuck and I like it."

"Fair enough," commented Judy. "So I'm not sure how this works. I've never done anything like this before."

Punch laughed. "Not many people have, honestly. Don't feel awkward. Have you ever hit anyone before?" Judy shook her head, but Punch smiled. "I wouldn't have guessed so. Follow me."

He hopped up from his chair and made for the exit. Judy scrambled after him, not ready for such an abrupt departure. She followed the big white block letters on the back of his shirt that read REGISTERED ABUSE COMPANION out to the sidewalk and around the corner of the coffee shop into an alley. It smelled like fresh death, but Punch didn't seem to mind.

"I'm here for you," he explained. "Any time you feel like the anger is too much and you just want to punch something, punch me. I'm with you 24/7 until you cancel my service. Don't be afraid to let me have it. That's what I'm here for. The only thing I ask is a bit of a heads up so I can prepare myself, and if you could avoid the crotch, my future children will thank you. Any questions?"

"What if I hurt you?" asked Judy uncertainly. "Not that I will, necessarily, but I'm not going to get saddled with a bunch of medical bills if I have to take you to the hospital or something am I?"

"Not at all," Punch told her. "The Association covers any and all medical costs incurred while under contract. We're just here to help you work out your aggression so you don't take it out on someone else and risk incarceration or any other legal troubles. You pay enough for our services, you don't need medical bills on top of that. Anything else?"

Judy thought for a moment, but nothing was coming to her. She shook her head.

"Awesome," said Punch enthusiastically. "Let me have it then."

"Wait," Judy stammered. "What? You just want me to punch you? Just like that?"

Punch shrugged. "Yeah. That's why I'm here, after all."

Judy looked uncertain. There was something about the whole thing that didn't sit right with her.

"Look," said Punch, seeing her hesitation, "you hired me for a reason. What is it?"

"My boss," she told him halfheartedly.

"Got to be the number one thing I hear," he assured her. "Jerk? Takes credit for everything you do? That kind of guy?"

Judy nodded.

"So picture his face as best you can right _here_ ," he framed his face with his hands, "and just let me have it. Put everything thing you've got behind it. Hit me so hard he might _actually_ feel it. Come on!"

Judy didn't have any trouble replacing Punch's face with Heath's. The instant she saw that shit eating grin, the fire inside her erupted in a violent volcano of hatred. Before she even realized what she was doing she had landed a solid punch to the side of Punch's face. He went sprawling onto the pavement, unconscious.

"Oh my god," she said, panicking. "Oh my god. What did I just do? Punch, are you okay?"

She rushed to his side and started shaking him, calling his name louder and louder. Just as she was pulling her phone out to call an ambulance, Punch's eyes fluttered open weakly.

"Dang," he said gruffly. "You throw one heck of a right hook, Judy. I think you jarred something loose."

She wasn't sure if he was kidding or not until he reached into his mouth and pulled out a broken shard of a tooth.

"Jesus," she gasped. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so _so_ sorry."

He waved her off. "Don't worry about it. Happens all the time. How do you feel?"

Now that her heart rate was returning to normal, she couldn't help but feel a little less stressed out. Her anger toward Heath had lessened significantly, that was for sure. Her hand, though, was throbbing.

"Better," she said and Punch smiled. "My hand hurts though."

"Well that'll happen when you cold cock a guy," he laughed and clamored to his feet shakily. "We should get you to a hospital. Make sure nothing is broken...for both of us."

Judy helped Punch to her car two blocks away and then drove them both to the nearest hospital. After a long wait in the ER and a few X-rays, she had left with a slightly fractured index finger and Punch had been given pain meds and a recommendation that he see a dentist to fix his shattered tooth. He thought it was one of the funniest things he'd ever heard. He kept calling her _bruiser_.

After they left the hospital, Judy dropped Punch off at a dentist and went to get some dinner for the both of them. When her phone alerted her to a text from Heath, she didn't feel the same rage she had earlier that morning. She didn't even bother to respond. Her hand was battered and bandaged, but she'd never felt better. When she picked Punch up from the dentist with a freshly capped tooth, she handed him a vanilla milkshake which he slurped at happily. The ride back to her apartment was silent, but not uncomfortable.

Back at her place, Judy helped Punch settle in for what was hopefully going to be a short stay.

"When your hand heals up a bit we can go for another round," Punch told her before she settled in for the night. "Maybe just work the body next time. Everyone goes for the face the first time, but as you can see, it can be over a little too fast. My torso can take a pounding. Really helps get out the aggression."

"I'll keep that in mind," Judy said, smiling. "Goodnight, Punch."

"Goodnight, Judy," he said, already dozing off on the couch. "See you in the morning."

## Elvis Has Left the Building

It was a rainy day in the City of Light. Well, it had been raining. The meager precipitation had ceased only moments before, but there was a still a large collection of very somber looking rain clouds hovering above the city. It was early September, and the weather was slightly cool so early in the morning. The cars passing by hummed out the all too familiar sound of wet rubber on pavement. A young boy was bouncing a soccer ball deftly off his forehead, managing to keep the ball in the air and stay out of everyone's way all at the same time.

A man stepped out of a nearby hotel just after nine o'clock in the morning. He was wearing a denim jacket that was a different shade of blue than the jeans he was wearing. A pair of old, battered cowboy boots _clunked_ on the sidewalk as he ambled in the direction of the boy with the soccer ball. His gait was slow and purposeful; not a single footfall landed where he didn't want it to. To the casual observer, the man would have appeared as nothing more than another tourist out for a walkabout in one of the most famous cities in the world. To a more practiced eye, he would have appeared as so much more.

When the man was no more than ten feet from the boy, the soccer ball took an odd bounce off the bridge of the boy's nose and sailed in the direction of the approaching man of mystery. The toe of his right boot lifted up slightly off the ground to stop the escaping ball in its tracks. The man bent down, his long dark hair cascading into his face, and picked up the ball. It was wet from its brief jaunt on the ground, but the man seemed not to notice. He spun the ball slowly in his hands before holding it out to the young boy who had been chasing his toy.

"Pardon, monsieur," the boy mumbled. He held out his hands for the man to hand him back his ball.

The man drew it back. "Don't speak to me in that gibberish, kid." He spoke in a perfect impression of Elvis Presley, because he was, in fact, Elvis Presley. The boy, being far too young to know who Elvis Presley was, just gave the King a quizzical look. Presley clucked his tongue, and held out the ball to the boy. He could have used a bit of Power on the boy to make him understand, but he didn't see the use in trying.

"Merci," the boy called out. He snatched the soccer ball from Presley's hands and bolted down the street toward a nearby café. Elvis watched the boy disappear into the distance, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He popped a single smoke from the box with a flick of his wrist, and clamped it gently between his lips. Once the pack was back in his pocket, Elvis snapped his fingers and a small flame sprung to life at their tips. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling the smoke into the cool, damp morning air.

A few things must be said about the great Elvis Presley. First, he is one of the greatest, most loved recording artists of all time. Second, he is one of the most notorious wizards that has ever lived. Much of his music was enjoyed so thoroughly because it was imbued with his own Power to make it listenable. Not to say that is was bad, it just wasn't quite as good as most people think it is. His career was so successful because his magic was so excellent. Elvis is also the closest thing to an immortal the world has ever seen. He's been alive since the early thirteenth century, and has lived under so many different names he can hardly remember them all. What's more, his entire life has been spent on the run.

Something must also be said about wizards in general. They are illegal, though the majority of the population is unaware of their existence. Wizards have lived in secrecy their entire existence and are hunted by an equally secret society of men who hate wizards to the very core of their being. Many, many wizards have been slain by the society, and Elvis is the last of their kind. He's kept himself constantly on the move which has kept him from being exterminated, even though there were some close calls.

One might wonder why Elvis chose a life in the spotlight if he was being hunted. Well the answer to that is simple. He thought he was safe. Word of the society's downfall had reached him at some point in the 1950's. He decided to use his powers for a little gain, and entered the music industry under a new identity. It was only years after his decision to become a musician that he learned that it was simply a lie to draw him out. Elvis faked his death immediately and went back into hiding and a life of exile.

So there he was, a wanderer in the heart of Paris, smoking a cigarette and sensing the world around him. There was a certain spell that Presley, or any wizard, could cast that could enhance the caster's senses to a point where they were superhuman. It was easy to pick up any unwanted company when you could hear a fly buzzing from four hundred yards. He closed his eyes and let his consciousness scour his surroundings. A moment later, Elvis determined he was safe to make his way across town.

Elvis had just arrived in Paris the previous day and he had some sightseeing he wanted to get done. Even though he had been alive for several centuries, Presley had never set foot in Paris. He couldn't say why, he just never had a reason to go there so he never did. He had decided it was high time he see the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, maybe even that art museum everyone seems so taken with.

Elvis set off down the street toward the Seine. He didn't exactly know where he was going just yet, or how to get there, but he liked walking. It helped clear his head. He made a right, a left, two more rights, and then another left. He had twisted and turned so much he could hardly tell where he was. There was the sound of a boat horn not too far to the north, so he knew he was close to the river. Elvis turned down a nearby alley and walked in the direction of the horn.

The alley was deserted except for him, but Elvis didn't mind. Other people just gummed up the works anyway. Halfway down the alley, a very strange looking metal sphere dropped from the sky and landed mere inches in front of Presley. He'd never seen such an object before. Runic symbols were carved into the metal surface crudely, glowing with a faint purple light. While he didn't recognize all of the symbols, he knew enough to know that whatever the thing was, it was trouble. Elvis turned on his heels to retreat only to find a row of men in dark, flowing coats standing across the alley behind him. He couldn't see them, but Elvis knew full well that there were dangerous weapons hidden under those coats.

The King spun around again, but found another line of nearly identical men blocking the only other way out. He dug deep down inside of him to tap his power, but he found that there was nothing there.

"Ah, ah, ah," a voice from an unseen body called out. "You'll find that your power is quite out of reach at the moment."

Elvis wheeled around to see a slight man wearing a stark white suit standing nonchalantly in front of one of the rows of angry looking fellows. The man's hair was slicked back with product, and a pencil thin mustache trailed across his upper lip. He smiled snidely at Presley, revealing a mouth full of yellowed teeth. Elvis recognized the man as Herman Prescott, head of the society that was doing their best to kill him and, consequently, wipe the race of wizards off the face of the planet for good.

Prescott walked to where the metal sphere sat on the pavement and placed his pristine leather dress shoe on top of it.

"Impressive, is it not?" Prescott asked the King. "We have found an old negation recipe in one of our tomes. Carve a few symbols in just the right way on just the right object and it happens to suck all magical energy out of a two hundred yard radius."

"Nifty toy," Elvis replied curtly. He knew Prescott wasn't lying by the fact that he couldn't have created even the smallest of flames at the moment. He was in a very real, very large amount of trouble, and he had no idea how he could get out of it.

Prescott merely smiled. "You see, Elvis – or whatever you're going by nowadays – I have worked a very long time to see the wizard race squashed out of existence. My father did the same, as well as his father before him. You are a blight on humanity, and must be exterminated."

"So what are you waiting for?" Elvis spat. He was exerting an immense amount of effort to call even the tiniest amount of power to his aid, but nothing was responding.

"Ah, forgive me," Prescott apologized. "As you are the last wizard on earth, and you're about to die most gruesomely, I thought I'd take some time to savor it. After all, I will forever be known as the man who made wizards extinct."

Elvis grunted a laugh. He'd given up. He was just waiting for the final blow. "Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't want to hear you pontificate before you blow my ass to hell. Have your goons pull their triggers and get it over with."

Prescott looked a bit crestfallen, but shook it off. "Very well. Boys."

Every man in the alley other than Prescott and Elvis drew a very strange looking weapon that appeared to be a mix between a crossbow and a flamethrower and trained their sights on the very last wizard on earth. Prescott took a moment to remove himself from the line of fire before issuing the very last command of his long career with the society. "Fire."

Without hesitation Prescott's men pulled their triggers, and the alleyway was lit with the light of bright blue liquid fire. One man would have been able to do the job, but Prescott wanted to be sure that Presley was dead. He looked on triumphantly as the man he had chased for so long slowly melted to bone and then to ash.

And so it was, some fifty years after Elvis was pronounced dead, the King of Rock-and-Roll died in a Parisian alley, and the wizard race went extinct with him.

## The Snail

When Ethan Reynard woke up that morning, it didn't seem to be any different of a day than the one before it or the one before that. The alarm clock trilled out its incessant shriek at 7:45 a.m., and he hit the snooze button twice to get some additional beauty sleep. Finally, he stepped out of bed and walked zombie-like to the bathroom to take a leak and scratch his ass something fierce. To be fair, he could have scratched himself at any time, but doing so while peeing just seemed to go hand-in-hand. Once a few ounces of dark, smelly urine left his system and that ever present itch was scratched, Ethan walked back to the bed and slept for another twenty minutes.

Once Ethan fully rose from his semi-futile attempt at getting some shut eye he went to the kitchen to get some breakfast. Pulling a bowl from the cabinet, he poured himself a heaping bowl of Count Chocula and applied a generous portion of milk. Ethan loved Count Chocula because, not only was it delicious and brought childhood memories to life, it also left a nice bowl of chocolate milk to slurp down once the cereal was gone. Ethan made an attempt to eat all the flaky bits before the marshmallows, but decided it was impossible halfway through and gobbled the rest down as if his life depended on it. He slurped down the remaining milk noisily.

After breakfast, Ethan went back to the bathroom. He turned the hot water on in the shower to give it time to heat up properly, and set about brushing his teeth. He knew there was some specific way to brush teeth that's more effective, but he was never one for playing by the rules so he just brushed however the hell he felt like it. Today he felt like brushing his teeth standing on his head. Somewhat clumsily, he flipped himself upside down against the wall, wetted his toothbrush, and began scrubbing vigorously. After about a minute he flopped himself onto the floor and stood upright as the blood was beginning to pool in his head. Ethan rinsed his mouth in the sink and watched the spit spiral down the drain.

He stripped his pajamas – which consisted of whatever pair of boxers he was wearing the previous day or nothing if he didn't wear any underwear – off and stepped into the now lukewarm shower. Ethan turned on the shower radio to a station dedicated to hits from the 90's and began belting out *NSYNC's _Bye Bye Bye_ as he washed the previous day and night's grime off of his body. When _Only Wanna Be With You_ by Hootie and the Blowfish came on, he picked up the shampoo bottle and used it as a makeshift microphone. Ethan remained in the shower, singing himself hoarse to all of the 90's biggest hits, until the hot water ran out completely.

Once he had dried himself off, Ethan walked to his dresser and grabbed a clean pair of boxers. He slid them on, followed by a mostly clean pair of jeans, and then socks. He pulled a t-shirt with an ironic saying on it out of the closet and threw it on as well.

Dressed for the day, Ethan walked back through his apartment to the front door. He slid on a pair of beat up sneakers and grabbed his keys from a hook on the wall. As he stepped outside, he corrected himself at the last second and jerked his foot to the right to avoid stepping on a snail that was sitting cozily on his doorstep. Ethan bent down and picked up the snail to examine it more closely. The body of the snail was a putrid color of green with a burgundy shell flecked with white. The snail's slimy antennae were moving slowly back and forth like a pair of alien tentacles.

"Stupid snail," Ethan said. He reared and hurled the snail as far as he could toss it. The snail landed with a rustle in the shrubbery across the street. Without a second thought to the snail, Ethan walked to his car and set off for work.

It's hard to say if the following months from that day were a direct karmic result of Ethan's actions or not. Some may argue as such, but others – cynics and atheists mostly – would wholly disagree and state that nothing is related and that everything is just a random series of events controlled by nothing. I can't say who's right or who's wrong, but what I do know is that that particular day marked the beginning of a series of events that lasted for an entire year, and were completely disagreeable with Ethan's existence.

On the day in question, Ethan got in a fender bender on the way to work and ended up being fired for being late one too many times. He went home and drank until he blacked out. The following week was filled with more drinking and blacking out, but with a bit of Tetris mixed in. By the end of the month, he had spent so much time inside not bathing that he smelled and looked like something that had been passed through the digestive system of a sick, old woman.

The following month, August, he got his shit together and started looking for a new job. Three weeks were spent scouring the city and internet for available positions that he was qualified for which didn't seem to exist. Eventually, he settled and took a position at the local Taco Bell as a cashier. It wasn't a terrible gig, but that was only because of the free food he got on every shift. Other than that, it was hell on earth.

In October, Ethan met a girl he easily would have considered the love of his life had he not walked in on her and what could only be described as a horde of other people all naked and fornicating with each other. He wouldn't have minded it so much if they weren't convening their orgy on his bed. The day after they broke up, Ethan woke up to the knock at the door. It was a process server delivering the summons to court for the lawsuit against him from the driver of the car he had rear ended the month previous.

Ethan went to court in November and, of course, lost with staggering impressiveness. Having no money to foot the bill, all Ethan's property was seized and he was cast out on the street. Being a homeless man in the winter time isn't exactly the most desirable of lives, but Ethan made due. Months passed as he struggled to stay alive in the cold against a hunger so fierce it often made him see things that may or may not have been there.

In early February, Ethan came across an old friend who somehow recognized him through the dirt, grime, and gnarly beard. The man let Ethan move in to his apartment and got him a haircut and shave. The man even set Ethan up with a job to get him back on his feet. It was a kindness Ethan could barely comprehend. As a kind of thanks, he gave into temptation and slept with the man's girlfriend.

Back on the streets, but this time with a job, Ethan somehow managed to rent out the same exact apartment that he had been occupying only a few months previously. He moved in with a single box of clothes that he'd bought with his first few paychecks at his new job. He then began slowly amassing the things he'd lost.

One thing he acquired that he didn't have previously was a newfound addiction for sex. Most people wouldn't think this necessarily a bad thing, but for Ethan it turned out to be a rather crippling addiction. Each night he would prowl the streets for a new fix, usually a young girl who had too much to drink, but he was not stranger to prostitutes either. After months of plowing through any nubile young lady or smelly old whore he could find, Ethan found himself a human Petri-dish for sexually transmitted diseases. He had contracted and cured every non-lethal disease that existed – excepted herpes, of course.

In June, just eleven months from his encounter with the snail, Ethan began therapy to cure himself of his insatiable desire for a good lay. The meetings were difficult and he slept with one or two of the women there within the first week, completely defeating the purpose of the meetings themselves. But go he did, and slowly he got better, and only screwed one or two girls a week as opposed to one or two a day.

And so it was, exactly one year to the date from the beginning of this little tale, Ethan's alarm clock went off, and he silenced it with a smack. He got up, brushed his teeth in a normal fashion, took a shower, got dressed, and ate some breakfast. This time it was Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but still equally delicious. He put on a new pair of old beat up sneakers and grabbed his keys on his way out the door.

When he opened the door, he found a snail sitting on the front porch. Now, the human mind doesn't have the best powers of memory, generally speaking, so Ethan made no connection to the event. He bent and picked up the snail. It was a putrid shade of green with a burgundy shell flecked with white. Ethan stared at the invertebrate for several seconds, a memory stirring somewhere in the back of his mind but never fully coming to fruition. He could tell there was something familiar about the snail but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Just has he began rearing back his arm for the impending toss, he noticed the snail's beady black eyes making contact with his. It's not easy to read the expression of a snail, but Ethan got the feeling it was an angry glare as opposed to the normal blank expression a snail should have. Ethan was shocked to see it was also opening a tiny slit he assumed it was the creature's mouth.

"Hey," the snail admonished in a squeaky voice. "What the hell was the point of that?"

## The King and the Jester

"Do you know why I asked you here today, jester?" the king asked, letting his booming voice echo about the dining hall.

Sitting at the other end of the table at the far end of the hall, the jester shrugged his shoulders. Bells twinkled when he did. "No, your greatness. Would you like me to juggle or perhaps tell a naughty limerick?"

The jester's voice was squeaky and insignificant, but the acoustics in the dining hall were such that he was heard without any great strain from the king. Had they been closer, the jester would have been able to see his king smile sadly. "No, jester. I wish for neither of those things."

"Name it, lord of lords, and it shall be done," the jester offered confidently.

"Come," the king commanded, "sit next to me and we shall hold council."

The jester had never been asked to approach the king's end of the dining hall before. At least not when there wasn't a feast on. He was humbled. "Surely I am not worthy to dine so near your highness."

"Jester," the king said gently, but sternly.

The Jester nodded briefly, the bells on his colorful hat jingling as he did. "It is my most esteemed honor, king of all."

The jester hopped from his seat and tumbled from one end of the hall to the other, ending the routine with an expertly performed cartwheel. The king looked at him with a mixture of humor and impatience.

"Please sit," he said, pointing to a chair to his right. The jester obeyed.

Before the king could speak to the jester further, a small contingent of servants emerged from a nearby door laden with steaming dishes of food and cool pitchers of spiced wine. The servants took a moment to serve the food and pour the wine, and then scurried back to the kitchen.

"Have you heard the rumors that have been circulating, jester?" the king asked after they were alone once more.

"Nay, sire," answered the jester with a twinkling shake of the head.

The king took a roasted potato and put it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"The birds whisper that you bear me ill will," the king continued. "They say you wish to see me put to pasture, sent to the clearing."

The jester shook his head furiously. "Never, sire. Never would I wish such things upon you. You are my king, my lord, my life. I swear my fealty to you with undying devotion. I would happily give my life to protect you in any way I can, lowly jester though I am."

The king seemed to ease upon hearing those words. "I was sure they were simple fabrications, lies to push you out of favor. Many would see your head on a pike, as I'm sure you already know full well."

The jester laughed heartily. "A jester isn't doing his job if people don't want to kill him, my lord."

"Say true," the king cried, and picked up his goblet of wine. "Please, drink with me, jester. I wish to wash away the bad taste these vicious lies have put in my mouth."

The jester scooped his goblet up as well and held it high. "To your health, sire."

"To yours, jester," replied the king. He drank deeply from the goblet, wine pouring down his chin. The cool liquid tasted like strawberries and cinnamon. But there was something else, something almost imperceptible. The wine's aftertaste was far bitterer than it should have been, almost steely.

"Something wrong, highness?" the jester asked upon seeing the king's face.

The king spat on the floor. "I think this wine has soured. Pray you did not already partake."

"Oh, don't worry, sire," the jester said slyly. "You couldn't pay me enough money to drink poisoned wine."

The king looked at the jester with alarm. "Poison?" he choked. He could now feel it coursing through his veins. The dining hall was beginning to blur.

"Yes, you fool," the jester laughed. His voice had changed to a deep rasp. "Look upon me while you still draw breath, king of kings. Your fool has become your unmaking. Your death comes at the hands of Figaro."

The jester turned assassin stood from his seat and pulled a single raven's feather from his breast pocket. He tucked it firmly in the king's collar before taking off the silly hat and tossing it on the table. The king slumped forward onto the table, the life that once commanded armies and wooed women had left him.

Taking a roasted turkey leg for the road, Figaro, the master of the assassin's guild, left the castle and faded into the night.

## The Fictional Non-Fictionizer

"Get in here, dude," a voice called out from somewhere in the second bedroom of the two-bedroom apartment. Glen Stevens, bored with that particular episode of _Knight Rider_ got up from the sofa without too much of a fuss. Somewhere in the back of his mind his subconscious warned him that this was another ruse perpetrated by his roommate to trick him into looking at his junk, so, in punishment, his roommate could call him gay and punch him. A classic bait and switch...or something.

This didn't quite sound like that, though. Glen had lived with Brody for nearly two years and he had become quite accustomed to his roommate's tones. There was his I've-gotta-shit tone. His give-me-a-fucking-break tone. His hey-man-come-in-here-so-you-can-look-at-my-dick-so-i-can-punch-you tone. And Glen's personal favorite, Brody's sarcastic-because-I-think-I-know-more-than-you-but-I'm-compensating-because-I-really-know-less tone. Glen had never heard this particular tone before. It was hurried, excited, and amused all in one.

He entered Brody's room with bemusement. It was a typical single man in his twenties kind of room. Posters of half-naked women lined the walls and clothes that could either be clean or dirty were scattered about on the floor. Brody's boom box CD player was thrashing out a Slayer song that sounded almost exactly like every other Slayer song, hard, fast, and bitchin'. Brody was sitting on his bed tinkering on what appeared to be a miniature old-timey cannon modified with Super Soaker tanks and heating coils. Glen knew Brody was into steampunk cosplay so he figured whatever the object was had something to do with the upcoming Decatur Steampunk Convention that was being held at the Civic Center in two weeks' time.

"I fucking did it, dude," Brody exclaimed, setting down the screw driver and picking up the cannon. "I'm a fucking genius. Fuck you, Mr. Futrell, for doubting my scientific prowess. Eat shit, you old bastard."

"What are you babbling about?" Glen asked, chuckling a little. Brody could get in his moods, but it was always fun to see him vindicated.

Brody motioned to the device he was holding. Glen could see a massive dial on one side that he'd missed before as it was turned away from him. "This," Brody insisted.

"And what is that?" asked Glen, taking the bait.

"I call it the Fictional Non-Fictionizer," Brody said with self-inspired awe.

"That's a terrible name," Glen said off-handedly, then he looked at Brody askance. "What does it do?"

Brody stood up from the bed and crossed the room. He grabbed a _Where's Waldo_ book and held it out to Glen. "Pick a page and hold it open for me."

Glen thumbed through the book and selected a random page. He opened it wide and held it out in Brody's direction. Brody was, in turn, fiddling with the dial on his Fictional Non-Fictionizer, muttering quietly to himself. Brody, satisfied with his tinkering, pointed the device directly at Glen and the book. Maybe it was just him, or maybe it was the very real now that he looked at it cannon being pointed directly at him, but Glen was suddenly feeling an overwhelming sense of regret for playing along with Brody's whim.

"3...2...1..." Barry counted down. After one, he pushed a button on the butt of the cannon.

At first, nothing happened. Glen was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a faint hum started building. It was low at first but gradually got louder, more intense. Soon it was deafening, but before Glen was certain his ear drums would rupture, a blinding stream of blue light erupted out from the mouth of the cannon. It looked like a vaporous version of blueberry Jell-O. Glen was tempted to take his hand off the book and touch the beam, but thought better of it at the last second.

Just as suddenly as the beam appeared, it disappeared, leaving spots bursting in Glen's vision.

"Now just a quick adjustment," Brody muttered to himself. He turned one of the dials on the cannon and pointed the device at his bed. He pressed the button on the butt of the device again. This time it emitted the same kind of humming sound only in reverse. The beam erupted from the end of the cannon again, but it shone green instead of blue. On Brody's bed a figure was materializing out of the green glow. A pair of brown shoes appeared first, followed by a pair of sky blue slacks, and then a red and white striped long sleeve shirt. Finally, a dorky looking face sat upon the red and white shoulders. A pair of thick framed hipster glasses hung crookedly on the man's ears and a few tufts of brown hair jutted out from beneath a stocking cap that matched his shirt.

"Holy shit," Glen said breathlessly. "It's Waldo."

Brody laughed maniacally like the mad scientist he apparently was.

Waldo stood up from the bed and look at Brody and Glen suspiciously.

"Who the hell are you guys?" he demanded.

"I'm Brody," said Brody, pointing to himself and then to Glen, "and this is Glen."

"Cool," Waldo said placidly. "You guys got anything to drink?"

"There're some beers in the fridge, I think," answered Glen.

Waldo left the room without another word, leaving Glen and Brody alone.

"How the hell did you do that?" asked Glen in awe.

Barry tapped his temple and gave his roommate a sly look. "It's all up here, buddy. All up here."

Barry scurried out of the room, and Glen followed closely behind. Brody stopped in front of the television and looked at it greedily. He immediately started adjusting the dials.

"What are you doing?" Glen asked excitedly.

"I'm going to get me some KITT action," answered Brody immediately.

The blue light blasted from the cannon into the television. After it stopped, Brody moved to the window of the apartment, tinkering with the dials as he went. He threw open the window and leaned out, point the device into an empty spot in the parking lot. Green light flashed and KITT from _Knight Rider_ appeared in the spot a moment later, complete with flashing lights and high-tech out-of-date technology.

Waldo came to the window and looked out at the new addition to the parking lot while he sipped his beer.

He belched loudly before saying, "Sweet ride. Who wants to go cruising for chicks?"

Brody stopped for a moment. "Picking up chicks with Waldo in KITT from _Knight Rider_? Um...yes, please."

Brody tossed the device onto the couch where it plunked down roughly, kicking dust into the air. He and Waldo walked to the door and then turned to Glen. "You in, hoser?" Waldo asked him.

"I just want to say something first," said Glen. "I think this is one of the most ridiculous things I've ever experienced in my entire life. I'm not convinced this isn't a drug induced hallucination, but if it's not, Brody you are a genius and you should given the Nobel Peace Prize or some shit."

Brody laughed. "Word."

The unlikely trio left the apartment and walked down to the car that was impatiently awaiting them.

"Took you assholes long enough," KITT said as they approached. "My gears are rusting."

"I'm driving," Brody said like a giddy school girl.

"Psh..." Waldo scoffed. "You couldn't drive a blow up doll to the tip of your dick."

"I don't care who drives," KITT added, "as long as it's not Hasselhoff. That dude smells like patchouli and cheap hookers."

Waldo walked to the driver side down and swung it open. "You bitches getting in or what?" He climbed in the car, shut the door, and fired up the engine.

"Why do I get the feeling this is going to be the greatest day ever?" Brody wondered aloud as they walked to the passenger side door. They opened the door to find no backseat and a passenger seat that was only big enough for one person. After a quick game of rock, paper, scissors, Glen got in first and Brody sat on his lap.

"I probably should have thought this through a bit more," Brody said as Waldo backed KITT out of the space.

"You probably should have shut the hell up," Waldo answered him. "You two douche bags better get ready to party. Waldo style."

Waldo shifted gears and stomped the pedal to the floor. The tires squealed momentarily before rocketing through the parking lot and into traffic. Several cars swerved into each other to avoid a collision with KITT. They barreled down El Dorado Street at breakneck speed into a night filled with limitless possibilities, liver damaging amounts of alcohol, and cheap, loose women.

## Portrait of a Henchman

I'm a goon. A lackey. A henchman. A zealot. A hired gun. I had a name once, but it's long since been lost to time and a string of bosses that had so many employees they just gave us numbers. I'm part of the army that evil maniacs have at their disposal when they try to take over the word. How I've survived this long is unbeknownst to me.

I got up yesterday at six in the morning. Standard henchman wake up time. It's almost as if we _are_ in the army. Close enough, I suppose.

I raised my head off the paper-thin pillow of the cot I was given. The barracks are solid white. This guy has a serious obsession with the color white. This whole base is white, at least on the inside. The outside blends in perfectly with its jungle environment. It was a real pain in the ass to find for the interview, that's for sure.

I went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulled out my standard issue white jumpsuit. The zipper starts at the crotch and goes all the way up to the top of the turtleneck. One of the most uncomfortable things I've ever worn. I slid on my boots, also white, and clasped all three Velcro strips as tight as they were comfortable.

The other henchmen in the barracks were scrambling to get ready. Eager pawns in the deadly game of world domination. I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. My features are dull and uninspiring. You probably couldn't tell the difference between me and the guy that slept next to me if you walked past us on the street. I slicked my black hair back with hair gel, and made sure I was clean shaven.

I walked back to my cot and grabbed the white dome-like helmet off the hook on the wall. I slid it over my head and slid the strap under my chin. It's tight, but I'm used to it. I grabbed the sub-machine gun off the same hook and threw it over my shoulder.

Standing at the end of the bed for inspection was the worst part of the day. This was our job. We were always perfect. There was never any need for inspection, but this guy just demands it of his henchman.

I remember when my mother asked me why I chose the career path of a henchman.

"Why can't you join the good side?" she asked me.

"Because evil maniacs pay better, mom" I replied simply, knowing she wouldn't understand.

That's true too. I've made a fortune gooning. Not that I can spend it. We're not allowed off base. The fact remains though, when I retire, I'll be a rich man.

A friend of mine decided to be a good guy. We talked last year while I was in between jobs. He told me it was the worst decision he'd ever made. They work for barely any money and the "reward of making the world a better place". That's a bunch of bullshit, I think. The world will always have guys like my boss running around to cause trouble. It'll never be a safe place.

The henchmen captain came in at six-thirty. A lot of yelling commenced for no reason. He's a real asshole. He walked the length of the barracks, looking each of us up and down, moving on when he was satisfied. His whole routine takes about seven minutes. Seven minutes is about six minutes too many in my opinion. When he's done, he shouts the order to fall out for breakfast, and we all do so willingly.

The cafeteria is quite exceptional. At least as far as evil base cafeterias go. One-way mirrors lined the walls so we could look out onto the jungle surroundings. The sight was more pleasant than white walls, so I looked out constantly.

This morning's breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, three slices of bacon, two slices of buttered toast, and our choice of milk or orange juice. I chose orange juice to avoid anything else white. I ate rapidly, but savored every bite as I always do.

When I was done, I took my tray up to the conveyor belt for dirty dishes and threw it on. It disappeared into the wall and I went to check where I was posted for today.

Just outside the cafeteria, several pieces of paper were pinned to a bulletin board. Each paper had a squad number and a list of each squad member and their assignment on it. I looked at the paper marked SQUAD 370 and found myself. HENCHMAN 221: EAST WARD, UPPER HALL PATROL.

I enjoyed patrol far more than guard. Guard consisted of standing in one spot for hours on end, while on patrol you...well, you patrolled. Sure, I just walked up and down a hallway all day, but at least I was moving.

When I arrived at my post, another henchman was there, patrolling.

"Good morning, Henchman 221," he said to me in a monotone.

"Same to you, Henchman 443," I replied. The man looked almost exactly like me except for a few subtle differences. "You've done good. I'm here to take over."

"Ah, most appreciated," he said, not smiling, and without another word, walked away towards the barracks.

And so starts my ten-hour shift of walking back and forth in a white hallway.

Five hours into the shift another henchman brought me a protein/energy bar for my lunch. It tasted like cardboard, but I ate the whole thing out of hunger and boredom.

My boredom didn't last much longer. There I stood in an empty hallway eating a piece of an old shoe when the alarm sounded. It was so sudden I almost choked on my lunch. Then the computer voice of the intercom spoke up.

_SECURITY BREACH IN SECTOR 12, ALL UNITS RESPOND_ it said, the voice soft and feminine without a hint of panic.

I turned on my heels and sprinted down the hall towards Sector 12. As I ran, the other henchmen on duty were pouring into the halls with me, each of us stepping in time with each other.

Sector 12 was a war zone. Bullets flew over my head as I slid through the door and took cover behind a 50-gallon steel drum. Why it was there, I'm not entirely sure. All around me, my coworkers were dying tragically, and hilariously at times.

I popped my head over the drum and fired a few shots into the crowd advancing on our position. Whether I killed anyone or not, I have no idea. My accuracy isn't the best.

I peeked out again to see what I was up against. They were at least one hundred strong, and led by someone I can only describe as a super spy. The kind of guy who's notorious for being a thorn in an evil maniac's side. He was dressed casually, but ready for a fight. His hair kept its fluff even in the heat of battle. He was remarkable as he killed henchmen with one or two shots, managing to avoid all the bullets flying in his direction with little to no effort.

I popped out and fired in his direction. The bullets sprayed around him sporadically. He didn't even flinch. The captain showed up shortly after and told us to fall back to our defensive positions. We didn't have to be told twice.

I was defending an almost unknown door. Most people didn't even know it existed. As such, they only assigned me and another guard to the duty. The battle was on the other end of the compound. We were safe here. At least we thought we were.

The door opened and the super spy appeared. Without hesitation, the other guard and I opened fire on him, but he slipped back through the door with a cat-like reflex. He poked his gun out the crack of the door and fired off a few rounds. I ducked behind cover, but the other guard wasn't so lucky. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. The super spy kept firing, but hitting nothing. Then his ammo ran out and I heard nothing but clicking.

I took the opportunity to reload, but before I could finish the spy had rushed through the door and grabbed me from my cover. He tossed me across the hall with little effort and I hit the ground hard, sending my gun sliding away. I stood up and took a fighting stance. I swung once, then twice at his head. He blocked them both, and landed his own punch, making me dizzy. Before I could recover, I felt his boot on the side of my face, and I went down.

I was incapacitated and he was getting away. The life of a henchman, I guess. No skills, no stamina, and no chance. I could feel the life draining out of me. Who'd have thought you could die from a punch and a kick. Go figure.

## Boy and Bot: Paranormal Detectives

Inspired by Boy and Bot by Ame Dyckman

The phone rang.

"Boy & Bot Paranormal Detective Agency," Boy answered.

"Yeah, is this Boy & Bot Paranormal Detective Agency?" a voice asked, clearly elderly.

Boy sighed. "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"

"I need help," the old woman said.

"I understand that ma'am," Boy said, gritting his teeth. "What kind of help do you need?"

"My house," the old woman said. She raised her voice as if it would help Boy understand what she was saying any better.

Boy, feeling his nerves start to wear, decided to change tack. "Why don't we start with your name, ma'am?"

"Mrs. Tallmadge," answered the old woman without lowering the volume of her voice.

Boy jotted down the name on a nearby steno pad. "Okay, Mrs. Tallmadge, how can we be of service to you?"

"I've got a poltergeist in here something fierce, sonny."

Boy made another note. "How long has this been going on?"

"Oh," Mrs. Tallmadge said, thinking, "I'd say going on thirty-five years."

Boy paused, somewhat taken aback. He thought about writing it down, but he'd never heard of anyone dealing with a poltergeist for thirty-five years. He wasn't likely to forget such a thing any time soon. "Why haven't you called someone about it sooner?"

A racket came from the other end of the phone. Whether it was Mrs. Tallmadge or the poltergeist, he didn't know. "My husband used to deal with the thing so it wasn't too much of a worry. He passed a few months back and I'm just getting around to calling."

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Tallmadge," Boy said. He was very sincere. Mr. Tallmadge had to be one hard sack of rocks to tangle with a poltergeist for three decades. They were nasty creatures at the best of time. At the worst...well, Boy hated thinking about that. He'd only seen it once and the nightmares still haunted him. "Give me your address and Bot and I will be over as soon as we can."

"1558 Oak Avenue," Mrs. Tallmadge shouted through the phone.

Boy wrote down the address, tore the sheet from the pad, and slipped it into his front pocket. "We'll leave now."

Boy hung up the phone and looked across the office to Bot who was standing motionless in the corner as he was apt to do when they weren't on a case. At first, it kind of freaked Boy out, but eventually it became a soothing presence in the small, dimly lit office. It'd been fifteen years since Boy had found Bot in the woods while he was out playing. They'd been fast friends ever since. He was by Boy's side all through high school and college. He was, in fact, the only reason Boy passed his physics class in college. Boy refused to call it cheating; it was more of a 'helping hand'.

"We've got a poltergeist over on Oak Ave, Bot," Boy announced to the currently inanimate robot in the corner. Bot's eyes immediately lit up; the dull white light of life that meant Bot was ready to rumble. "You ready to roll?"

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , Bot responded.

At one point, Boy would have had to gather his equipment and toss it in the car. He had always done it himself, never wanting to take advantage of Bot and his never-tiring mechanical body. After they had begun turning a profit, Boy had retrofitted Bot with most of the gadgets necessary to do their job effectively. After that, getting everything from place to place was as easy as Bot getting in the car. Boy had even spent the extra money to make each device as compact and hidden as possible so Bot didn't even look that much different after the work was done.

Boy and Bot left their office through the front door that opened out below street level. They hopped up a small flight of stairs to the sidewalk where a 1979 Ford station wagon with wood paneling and sky blue paint sat at the curb. Boy opened the rear door to let Bot climb in, and closed it behind him. Boy had nothing against Bot riding in the front seat, but Bot appeared to prefer the back of the wagon. Probably so he could stretch his legs or watch dogs chase the car, Boy figured. Bot did so love watching dogs chase things. Boy climbed into the driver's seat and fired up the engine with a flick of the wrist.

Oak Avenue was on the other side of town from Boy and Bot's office, but it only took them ten minutes to make the trip. Boy didn't have to speed. It was just that small of a town. Small town though it was, it seemed to be lousy with ghosts, specters, vampires, werewolves, poltergeists, and any other paranormal creature that the universe could conceive. Boy had often wondered how someone didn't think of opening up a business just like his long before he had the chance. Not that he was going to argue. Once people finally realized that he could do everything he said he could do and more, he'd been putting out fires left and right.

Mrs. Tallmadge's house was a large cape cod with a magnificent picture window on one side and a quaint little porch decorated with lawn gnomes and plastic birds on the other. The second story windows looked down over the yard, each with their own ceramic cat statue sitting on the inside sill. A tall oak stood in the front yard, shading the slightly overgrown front yard almost entirely. As Boy opened the back door of the station wagon to let Bot out, he couldn't help but feel like it was a warm and happy home at some point in time. Then he remembered the poltergeist haunting the home and quickly changed his mind.

Before Boy and Bot could get more than halfway up the front walk, Mrs. Tallmadge emerged from the home looking more than a little befuddled. She was wearing a yellow house-dress bedecked with white daisies and a pair of slippers that looked way past their prime. Her stark white curls hung in disarray around her wrinkled face. A pair of beleaguered eyes gazed out at them from behind a pair of glasses that made her look vaguely bug-like. She was smoking a cigarette that was nearly three-quarters ash, but still somehow held together.

"You Boy and Bot?" she asked curtly as she let curls of smoke stream out her nostrils.

Boy looked at the robot standing next to him briefly, wondering what other human/robot combinations that had come to see Mrs. Tallmadge. "We are," Boy answered.

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , Bot added.

"Well come in before you catch cold," Mrs. Tallmadge ordered them. It hadn't dropped below seventy in weeks.

Boy and Bot obliged her, climbing the small wooden stairs up to the porch. The smell that greeted boy as he entered the home was part cinnamon babka, part cigarette smoke, and part Bengay. Something was a little off though. Boy could sense it immediately. He took a deep breath, letting all the various scents circulating the home waft into his nostrils. He could barely smell it with all the other odors assaulting his mind, but it was there alright. Just on the outskirts of nasal recognition, but it was there, unmistakable.

"Do you smell that Bot?" Boy asked his partner.

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , answered Bot, after a brief whirring sound.

"That bucket of bolts can smell?" Mrs. Tallmadge asked rudely.

"Yes and no," Boy told her. "He's been outfitted with a sensory receptors and odor analyzers. He can't smell like a human can smell, but he can take in the air and analyze with 100% accuracy what exists therein."

"Now I've seen everything," Mrs. Tallmadge said with wonder.

Boy took a couple of quick sniffs just to confirm. "You smell what I smell, Bot?"

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , Bot replied.

Boy turned back to Mrs. Tallmadge. "Ma'am, I'm going to have you to step outside for a moment while my partner and I handle the situation here."

"And just what am I supposed to do?" Mrs. Tallmadge demanded.

Boy shrugged. "Go for a walk. Tend to your garden. It doesn't really matter as long as you're not in the house. This could get very dangerous for someone who isn't trained to deal with this kind of situation like my partner and I."

Mrs. Tallmadge harrumphed, but didn't argue. She put on a light jacket and left the house. She walked to the end of her front walk and turned around to look at the house. Apparently she wasn't apt to leave strangers alone in her home without at least keeping an eye on the house. Boy couldn't blame her. There were a lot of nasty people out there that would do a lot of nasty things without a second thought. Luckily, Boy wasn't one of them, and he took great pleasure in that fact.

"Do a quick scan of the house, Bot," asked Boy of his partner. Bot must have been a few steps ahead, because before Boy had finished his sentence, Bot was handing over a readout that had come from an almost imperceptible output feed in his side. It was a scaled down blue print of the home with red X's in six different locations, one in each bedroom, one in the kitchen, and one in the master bathroom. Boy folded up the paper and slid it in his back pocket. "Give me the mallet and the Skittles."

There was a metallic _click_ as a door swung open in Bot's back. From it, the robot produced an almost comically large rubber mallet and the closed the door. He handed the mallet to Boy as a small drawer slowly slid open from his chest. Bot reached in and pulled out a bag of tropical fruit Skittles which he also handed to Boy.

"Thanks, pal," Boy said to him. "Ready to get to work?"

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , Bot responded.

Mrs. Tallmadge had lived on Oak Avenue for nearly forty years. In that time, she'd raised three kids, spoiled six grandkids, and loved and buried more cats than she could count. It was the home her husband had bought for them as a wedding gift to his wife. There was an incalculable amount of sentimental value in that old house. Countless pictures, report cards, home movies, and vintage toys found sanctuary within those walls. Yes, it was as much a part of Mrs. Tallmadge as her legs or arms.

And now some guy and his robot were wrecking up the place.

When she first left the house, Mrs. Tallmadge had felt a bit of apprehension about the decision she'd made. They were strangers, after all. And what was that saying they taught kids nowadays, _stranger danger_? After a few moments of waiting patiently on the sidewalk, that apprehension started to wane. That's when the ruckus began. It was shattering glass first, which she assumed was a broken picture frame or possibly a window. Then it was snapping wood followed by grinding metal. Soon a cacophony of noises was filling the quite afternoon air. With each break, crack, or smash Mrs. Tallmadge's heart broke just a little bit.

She stood on the sidewalk, fighting the urge to walk back in the house and kick the guy and his robot to the curb. The only thing that stopped her was Boy's warning of danger. In spite of that, Mrs. Tallmadge had made up her mind to put the madness and destruction to an end. She took one step toward the house, and a large object came crashing through the picture window in the front of the house, landing with a dull thud on the front lawn. Her heart seized up for a moment when she thought it was her favorite arm chair. It was only when the object stood up and dusted itself off that she relaxed, but only a little.

Boy was standing in the front yard surrounded by broken glass. He was holding a large rubber mallet in one hand and what appeared to be little naked people with pink hair in the other. He turned around to see Mrs. Tallmadge bearing down on him with a look of rage in her eyes, and a new cigarette in her mouth.

"What do you think you're doing?" roared the old woman.

Boy looked sheepish. "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Tallmadge. It appears you don't have a poltergeist at all."

She paused momentarily. "I don't?" Boy shook his head. "Then what is it?"

Boy lifted the creatures in his left hand. He was holding them by their electric pink hair that was six inches long. Their faces were scrunched up in anger; their tiny eyes filled with malice. They were completely naked, but had no identifying anatomy to discern whether they were male or female. One of the creatures was wind milling its legs as if it was trying to run in midair. The other was simply screeching in an unintelligible language, spitting from time to time to show its displeasure.

"What are those?" asked Mrs. Tallmadge in disgust.

"Trolls," Boy answered her.

Mrs. Tallmadge looked closer and something clicked. "Like the toys?"

"Kind of," Boy conceded. "Only these are much more real and much, much angrier."

It was true that a line of toys had been developed some years ago using the race of creatures that the two monsters Boy held in his hand belonged to. They were cute and it was fun to play with their hair, but real trolls were mean little suckers that relished in causing mischief. They smelled like rotten bananas and cursed like sailors, albeit in their own language so you wouldn't be able to tell. Boy could understand why Mrs. Tallmadge had confused the antics of trolls for that of a poltergeist, as they had similar M.O.s, but there was no mistaking a troll hovel when you found one.

"You're not smashing them are you?" she asked, taking notice of the mallet again.

"They're a lot tougher than they look," Boy told her. "The most this could do is knock them out for a few hours. It's kind of like smacking a rock, except that the rock can run around and bite your ankles."

"And what are the Skittles for?" asked Mrs. Tallmadge, pointing at the electric blue bag of candy poking out of Boy's front pocket.

Boy chuckled. "Bait. Trolls love tropical fruit Skittles."

Mrs. Tallmadge stared at Boy blankly as if he'd said the most amazingly interesting, completely boring thing ever.

"Your infestation was a lot worse than I had anticipated," Boy explained to her. "I think we've about got them all rounded up though. If you wouldn't mind waiting out here for just a few moments more, I promise we'll be out of your hair soon."

The old woman looked at him angrily again. "What about my house? My window? You're destroying the place!"

"I know," admitted Boy sheepishly. "I'm very sorry, but I promise you will be more than satisfactorily compensated for the damage once we're done."

Before she could argue further, Boy spun on his heels and ran back into the house. They had managed to bag most of the trolls before a small contingent had appeared out of nowhere and tossed him out the front window. When he got back inside, Bot was stalking from room to room, scooping up trolls and tossing them into a burlap sack he had flung over his metallic shoulder.

"Almost clear, Bot?"

_AFFIRMATIVE_.

Boy ran into the kitchen where a small group of trolls were kneeling in a corner looking over something. They didn't even see Boy enter the room.

"Hello, boys," said Boy triumphantly.

The trolls whirled around in an instant. The one in the front shouted something, an order presumably. The other trolls threw themselves clear of a tiny catapult that was in the corner. One of the trolls released the lever and a two pound Idahoan spud came sailing across the kitchen. Boy was so shocked that he didn't have time to react before the potato plunked him directly between the eyes. He crumpled to the floor, dazed.

The trolls were on him in an instant, tiny little hands clawing and tiny little teeth biting. Boy fought as best he could, but there's little a human can do when they're covered in angry trolls. He swiped carefully at them to make sure he didn't hit himself with the mallet, because that was the last thing he needed. He managed to pull himself to his feet, and he threw himself against a nearby wall in an attempt to smash the little creatures into unconsciousness. The best it did was daze a couple of them and make him a little more wobbly on his feet.

Boy quickly surveyed the kitchen for a solution, but nothing presented itself. That's when Bot entered. The robot was all action, deftly pulling the little monsters off of his friend without so much as pinching Boy's already tender flesh. In no time, Boy was clear of trolls and Bot was tying the burlap sack shut, dropping it on the floor with a resounding thud of finality.

"Is that all of them?" Boy asked the metal man.

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , Bot answered.

Boy sighed his relief. "Good. I hate those things. Do you have our payment?"

AFFIRMATIVE.

Boy could hear tiny little fists banging against a hollow panel in Bot's chest. Two live trolls would be enough to feed them for a couple of weeks.

Boy and Bot made their way back through the house with the sack of trolls in tow. Mrs. Tallmadge stood expectantly on the walk as they exited the now destroyed house. She was tapping her foot in a mixture of anger and nervousness.

"All clear," Boy said triumphantly.

"How much do I owe you?" the old lady asked in annoyance.

Boy waved her off. "We don't want any of your money. We've got enough of a payment already."

Not really caring what he meant by that, Mrs. Tallmadge pressed on. "What about the damage to the house?"

Boy pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it out to her. She took it and eyed is suspiciously.

" _Jimmy Dean's Supernatural Creature Elimination Service_ ," she read aloud, and then looked at Boy.

He pointed to the sack of trolls. "Bot will load these in your car for you. Take them to the address on the card. JD should pay you more than enough for them to fix your house and put you up in a hotel while it gets done."

Mrs. Tallmadge nodded. She had no idea a sack full of trolls would be worth anything. "Well, come on then, tin man," she said, motioning for Bot to follow her. He did so dutifully.

After Mrs. Tallmadge had pulled her car out of the garage and Bot had loaded the wiggly sack into the back seat, Boy and Bot waved her off joyfully as she trundled down Oak Avenue toward compensation. Once she was gone, Boy and Bot went about putting caution tape over the broken picture window and any other window that had been broken in the scuffle. To add the finishing touch, Boy stuck a small plastic sign in the front yard that read: GHOST GOT YOU DOWN? VAMPIRES AFTER YOUR BLOOD? CALL BOY \+ BOT (614)555-9985

"That was hard work," Boy commented to Bot as he climbed in the driver's seat and started the car. "How about a strawberry milkshake, old buddy?"

_AFFIRMATIVE_ , answered Bot. The old robot never turned down a strawberry milkshake.

Boy put the car in gear and slowly drove away from Mrs. Tallmadge's home without looking back.

## The Gods Among Us

It was raining in Seattle. A bank of rather dreary, depressed clouds had settled over the city. In the distance there was a rumble of thunder and a brief flash as lightning streaked across the sky in a hurry to get to wherever it is that lightning gets to. It was a typical day in the city that was home to the world's most recognizable coffee shop chain and mediocre-at-best sports teams. If you could find one person that would tell you they remember a clear sunny day in the last six months you'd have also found a bold face liar. That's just how things were in the Pacific Northwest. It rained for months on end. People lost hope and killed themselves. The sun would come up for a day or two. Rinse and repeat.

That's how Thom liked it. Clouds made him feel at home. Overcast weather was his milieu. Plop him down on a beach or in the desert and he'd feel like he was on an alien planet. He'd be that guy walking down the beach in a pair of jeans and a jacket praying for rain while everyone else is in their swim attire playing beach volleyball and surfing. Seattle was Thom's kind of city. The sun could go screw itself. Clouds were the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas. Of course, when you're a retired god of thunder, you tend to feel that way.

While Thom had rather enjoyed Seattle, he'd spent several hundred years of human history wreaking havoc in the skies above Scandinavia. He'd gone by Thor then, and the Norse people had loved him. Well, loved him as much as any terrified peasant can love one of their gods. Especially one of the gods that could sink their ships out on a raid with the wave of his hand. Not that he was ever that ruthless, but still, he _could_. Keep the slaughtered sheep and the virgins coming, and Thor was happy. Nowadays, all it took to please the former god of thunder was an apple fritter and a tall cup of coffee from anywhere other than fucking Starbucks. Thom had instantly hated the coffee chain when they adopted the mermaid as part of their logo. He'd known a few mermaids in his time, and he could tell you that they would be the last creatures you wanted to serve you coffee. Devilishly mischievous, mermaids.

Thom left his studio apartment that looked out onto Puget Sound and took a good long pull of the damp morning air. Another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance and Thom smiled. Music to his ears. Sure, he wasn't the conductor any more, but he still liked that sound. In Thom's personal opinion, the lazy Christian god wasn't quite as good as him at making a good thunderhead, but what can you expect from a guy that rested on the seventh day? This thunder was utilitarian. Thunder for the sake of thunder. What Thom did was art; thunder to strike fear into the hearts of men. It wasn't fancy anymore, but it would have to do. And don't even get him started on the lightning.

Thom set off north towards a small open air market located just a few blocks from his place. He met Andy there every Wednesday morning and they walked to group together. Thom passed a small group of children, presumably from the local elementary school that were walking hand in hand in a single file line behind a heavy set woman in purple pants. Each child was wearing some version of a rain jacket, and Thom heard the woman say something to the children about hurrying back to school to beat the storm. Thom chuckled to himself. Humans were always so scared of a little rainfall, of getting a little wet. Thom hadn't even bothered to put on his jacket before he left the house.

Olympus Farmer's Market operated from ten to three Monday through Friday, and from noon to two on Saturdays. It was a bustling mass of hippies and yuppies all pretending that eating organic food was actually going to make them live longer or have better health. Thom knew the truth. Didn't matter what you ate or how often you ate it. Your personal health was laid out in your genetics before you were even born. You could be the healthiest asshole on earth, there was not a thing you could do about preventing lung cancer or HIV. That's what humans truly didn't understand. The illnesses they contract aren't viral or bacterial, they're genetic. It would be centuries still before they would realize it, and centuries more before they developed a way to cure them. Thom didn't know if he'd still be around for that particular development, but he doubted it. Immortals can only hang around for so long before they just give up and let The Council remove them.

Andy was standing next to a stall selling plantains when Thom walked up. Andy was holding a particularly large plantain, prodding and squeezing the fruit to check for ripeness. Andy was well over six feet tall with dark skin and a face that was vaguely dog-like. He was wearing a tattered jean jacket and a pair of blue with white Reebok Pumps. Thom thought his old friend looked for all the world like an out-of-date hipster fondling a large brown penis at the farmer's market and he laughed.

"What's funny?" Andy asked as Thom approached.

Thom whispered what he was laughing at into Andy's semi-pointy ear.

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter," Andy chided. "How old are you?"

Thom took a moment to think. "A few centuries, I think."

"Few?" Andy said, giving Thom a disbelieving look.

"Give or take..." Thom thought again, "six or so centuries."

Andy shook his head. "And yet you still act like a child."

"Oh come on," argued Thom. "It's not my fault you were fondling the plantain, nature's dick."

Andy sighed. "Are you ready to go? We're going to be late."

Thom nodded and Andy picked up a cup of Starbucks coffee from the table next to him. The scent of Arabian mocha java rose from the small opening in the lid with a healthy amount of steam. Thom spat an inaudible curse and slapped the cup from Andy's hand. The small cardboard cup hit the ground with excessive force, expelling the contents all over Andy's shoes and pants.

"What the hell, man?" Andy shouted and pushed Thom.

"You know what you did," Thom stated bluntly. "Don't drink that shit around me. Starbucks is responsible for the downfall of western civilization."

Andy grumbled and tried to brush the coffee off his pants with no effect.

"Let it go, Thom," he said angrily. "Just because that mermaid slept with you and never called you back doesn't mean Starbucks did anything wrong."

"Those bastards are guilty by association," said Thom in response. "And she slept with me twice and took my wallet the second time."

Andy walked passed Thom toward the street. Thom followed closely behind. Andy turned to look at Thom with his inquisitive dog-like face as they moved down the sidewalk east, further into the city.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask," he said to Thom. "How does sex with a mermaid work? They don't have the right parts...down there."

Thom gave him a surly look. "Oh, now whose mind is in the gutter? Perv."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. It was only a few blocks to the Lower Seattle Community Center, a small brick building that sat unassumingly between a pair of twelve story buildings that were trying very hard to be noticed above the community center. The inside of the LSCC smelled vaguely of peaches and Mr. Clean. An elderly woman was working behind the reception desk, but Andy and Thom didn't stop to talk to her. It wouldn't have mattered if they had. Mrs. Overlander had been behind that desk for seven years, and in all that time, no one could say for certain whether the woman had actually moved a muscle. The only reason they hadn't assumed she was dead was because she would disappear every night without so much as a word to anyone and return in the morning just as inconspicuously.

Room 11-B was located on the second floor in the far northwest corner of the building. Inside were arrayed a circle of chairs next to a table of various snacks and soft drinks. The general fare was junk food with Dr. Pepper to drink. No god had ever drunk any soda other than Dr. Pepper since its invention. It was the modern day equivalent to ambrosia. Several different beers and liquors used to be provided before a leprechaun had moved to town and started attending group. The drunken Irishman stereotype had not come from the Irish people, but the leprechauns. They were violent drunks, and often more mischievous than the mermaids. Anything you could do to keep a leprechaun sober should be done for the sake of your wallet and/or general health.

A few of the chairs in the circle had been filled. Thom recognized a few of the faces immediately. There was Angie, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Next to her was Thom's brother Lenny. Directly across from Lenny was Hank the leprechaun who was polishing a series of gold coins he pulled from thin air and then quickly returned them there. In line at the snack table were Kenneth, the raven god of Siberia, and Auggie, the evil Inuit sea god who never happened to be in a good mood. Walking in behind Thom and Andy was the Chinese sky deity, Di. His hair had a windswept look and he smelled like a fresh spring morning. Di took a seat next to the leprechaun.

Thom took his place in line behind Auggie who smelled strongly of blubber and salt water as usual. Taking a flimsy paper plate from the stack at the edge of the table, Thom did his best to load as much junk food onto a small paper plate without overworking the plate's structural integrity and sending the whole mess down to the floor. It was a form of functional art. Nothing could go on bottom that would smoosh and create an unsteady base. Candy bars and the like typically went on first, followed by string candy like licorice, topped with loose candy such as M&M's or Skittles. Donuts were placed last because that's just good sense. A seasoned food stacker like Thom knew a trade secret that most were too weak of heart to perform. Instead of dumping a handful of M&M's onto the plate, he took a single donut, pressed it firmly into the bowl of candy, and pulled it out coated with delicious bite sized chocolate pieces. Plate laden with tasty treats, he moved to his seat next to his brother.

Lenny was always the rambunctious child, swiping things here and shaving cats there. As he aged, his mischief grew to a large scale until whole tribes of Vikings would find themselves on the tail end of a prank, alone and starving in the frozen wastes of Scandinavia. Nowadays, Lenny spent his time as a fairly accomplished pickpocket and grifter. He was wearing a finely pressed suit with a maroon tie. His hair was quaffed expertly and a pencil thin mustache ran across his upper lip. He looked more or less like he'd be at home standing on a street corner in the 1920's flipping a coin and smoking a cigarette.

"Morning, Thom," he said, as Thom and Andy took their seats next to him. "Andy."

"Lenny," Andy answered him with a nod.

"What are you playing at today?" Thom asked his brother without greeting him.

Lenny gave him a broad smile that oozed tomfoolery. "Meeting a mark up by the Needle. Should score me just over fifty G's."

Andy scoffed. He'd never particularly liked Lenny's _modus operandi._ "Who are you scamming for fifty thousand dollars?"

"What's it to you, death boy," Lenny spat back. "Mind your beeswax."

Before they could argue further, a woman entered the room. Her presence demanded attention, which had a lot to do with the fact that she was so large she could barely fit through the door. Her blond hair was pulled tightly back in a ponytail and her beady black eyes took in everyone in the room. Her house dress was a fading purple color that did nothing to make her look less like a hippo. Not that she was trying, however. Tammy, or Taweret in her hay day, had spent many years as the Egyptian hippo goddess before moving to America in search of cooler waters and sandier beaches. She found the cooler waters, but the beaches were no more sandy and, sadly, a little rockier.

Tammy squeezed through the door and waddled her way around the circle to take a seat at the head of the group, if a group arrayed in a circle could, in fact, have a head. No one spoke while she took her sweet time catching her breath and clearing the spots from her eyes. She had made many petitions to the Community Center's director to have an elevator installed or, at the very least, have the group moved to the first floor but they fell on deaf ears. Her only solace was that she would long out live the director and would more than likely take a hippo sized dump on his grave shortly after he was interred.

"Welcome to group everyone," she said after several heaving breaths. "Does anyone want to start by sharing any experiences from the week?"

Angie immediately raised her hand much to the chagrin of the rest of the group. Thom heard Di let out an audible sigh. She ignored them all, of course, and stood up.

"Hello everyone," she said to the room, "my names Angie, and I'm a forgotten god."

"Hello, Angie," said half the room in half-heated unison.

"We know who you are, lady," Thom heard Andy mumble under his breath. "You've only been coming to this group for five years."

Thom choked back a smile.

"So I'm at the library the other day," Angie continued, unperturbed, "and I ventured into the Young Adult section."

"Ah crap," Auggie the Inuit sea god said aloud, "here we go again."

Angie clucked her tongue reprovingly. "Well excuse me, but I am the goddess of intelligent activity, arts, and literature among others and this genre defies all of those things. It's as young people today thrive on drivel and nonsense. And don't even get me started on _Twilight_."

"No one said _anything_ about _Twilight_ ," Di argued.

"Right," Angie agreed. "I'm glad you mentioned it. Stephenie Meyer has got to be the biggest hack in this centur..."

Before the goddess of wisdom could launch into her old familiar tirade about overrated YA authors, she was cut off by a new arrival to the room. There was a knock at the door and the whole group turned to find a young woman with long, flowing black hair and icy blue eyes. Her skin was olive toned and stood in stark contrast to the white t-shirt and blue jeans she was wearing. The men in the room were, of course, taken with her, but none so much as Thom. An impressive fireworks display was erupting in his head that made thinking about anything but the literal goddess that stood in the doorway. Andy nudged him with an elbow and made a wiping gesture. Thom lifted his hand to his mouth to find a single M&M running down his chin on a river of drool. He blushed and wiped it clear as quickly as possible.

"Is this the Forgotten God Support Group?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, honey," Tammy replied politely. "Come in, come in."

The young lady stepped into the room proper and took a seat in between Di and Kenneth, both of which looked quite uncomfortable with such a beautiful woman so close to them. Thom had to put every last godly effort into prying his eyes off of the woman across from him. She had to be Aphrodite or something looking like that, he thought. Was it polite to shout your name out at a pretty girl in a room full of people, he wondered. He could always just do it and see how it played out. That's how people did things right?

"Sorry, Angie," said Tammy with no sympathy, "newcomers take precedence."

Angie huffed audibly, rolled her eyes, and sat down. The young lady stood up and looked at the room shyly.

"Hello, everyone," she said softly. "My name is Freddie."

"Hi Freddie," the men in the room said enthusiastically which elicited another eye roll from Angie.

"I'm the Roman goddess of fortune," Freddie continued. "Although, I don't know that anyone really remembers me. Not sure if they even really knew I was there in the first place. I just moved to town to help out one of my cousins. I attended a few of these meetings in Las Vegas, but never felt like I got much out of it. I was just hoping maybe this group would be a little different. Not sure what else to say."

"It's okay, Freddie," Tammy said sweetly. "Thank you for introducing yourself. I hope you find what you need here with us. We were just listening to Angie here share some things with us."

Freddie sat down when Angie stood back up.

"Thank you, Tammy," she said, shooting Freddie an icy look, which Freddie effortlessly ignored. Thom knew Greek and Roman gods had a natural dislike for each other, but he was fairly certain that the icy look had something to do with the looks Freddie was getting from the men of the group.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur for Thom. Angie went on for at least fifteen minutes about whatever it was she was rambling on about. Di shared a story, as did Kenneth. All Thom heard was a noise similar to the teacher from Charlie Brown. He had to work extra hard not to stare at Freddie to avoid looking like a creeper. It turned out to be harder than he expected, but he felt like he did a decent job. It wasn't until Lenny kneed him that he realized the meeting was over and everyone was gathering their belongings to be about their own business. Thom caught Freddie out the corner of his eye leaving the room. He sprung out of his chair and made for the door.

"Thom," Lenny called after him.

"No time," Thom shouted back and ran into the hall.

Freddie was nowhere in sight, so he sprinted down the hall to the stairs and took them two at a time. In the lobby, Mrs. Overlander was sitting frozen in her usual position watching an episode of Maury in which a young upstanding gentleman was finding out that he was, indeed, the father of a child that Thom was sure he would care for unflinchingly in the light of the news. Thom caught sight of Freddie's jet black hair flowing liquidly out the front entrance of the building. He pushed out behind her and found her walking south down the street alone, hands in her pockets.

"Freddie," he shouted after her. She stopped and turned to see him running after her. "Hey."

"Hey," she said awkwardly. Thom suddenly realized how threatening a large man chasing a young woman must seem.

"Just, uh..." he mumbled, "wanted to say hi...I guess."

She looked around as if hoping to find a hidden camera. "Hi," she said back.

Neither one of them could possibly know it, but three full minutes passed in silence as Thom tried to find the right words, and Freddie tried not to run away from the creepy guy that had just chased her down the street.

"I'm Thor," Thom said with a charming befuddledness. He held his hand out in greeting.

Freddie's smile made Thom's heart melt.

"Hi, Thor," she said, shaking his hand. "I'm Fortuna."

"Fortuna," Thom repeated in a twitterpated whisper.

She giggled. "I should get going. I have a bus to catch."

"Wait," blurted Thom, stopping her in her tracks again. "Maybe we could grab some dinner some time."

Freddie smiled a devilish grin at him. "Sure, why not."

She pulled a Sharpie from her back pocket and wrote her number on a piece of paper she found on the sidewalk. She handed it to Thom who took it and looked at it as if to make sure there was actually a phone number written on it. Freddie looked over his shoulder to find her bus rumbling down the street.

"Crap," she sighed. "That's my bus. I have to go."

She turned and set off down the sidewalk in the direction of the nearest bus stop. Thom, under no power of his own, made to follow her for some reason. He'd say it was just because she had that power over him. In reality, he was heading that way too. The bus hit a rather large pot hole in the street and sent a miniature tidal wave of street water crashing down over Thom, soaking him from head to toe. Freddie turned back to see him standing soaking wet on the sidewalk like a cat caught in a thunderstorm.

"Bad luck," she said with a wink before disappearing around the corner.

Thom looked down to see that, while his entire body was dripping with stinking water from the street, the piece of paper with Freddie's number on it was miraculously dry.

"Maybe not," he said to himself, and walked back to find Andy to tell him what had happened.

## Orange is the New Crazy

It's been like this my whole life. I get knocked down. I get back up. I get knocked down one more time, and life kicks me in the teeth with a steel toed boot just to get the message across that I've got no business standing on my own two feet. I guess I'm used to it by now. Or maybe I'm not. There's always a part of me that thinks that the next time I get back up, it'll be the last time. I'll be up for good and there isn't a force on earth that can knock my feet out from under me again. I guess that's the chocolate filling, the sweet part, the naiveté. It's never long before a great sweeping stroke comes at me and sends my legs flying up past my ears and leaving me on my back.

This is one helluva kick, though.

There's nothing quite like the sensation you feel when you come home expecting your wife to be waiting for you, maybe even a hot dinner on the table, only to find that not only is dinner not even cooking but she isn't anywhere in sight. I'm a reasonable guy. I know women have their sewing circles or happy hours. They have lives too. Can't hold it against them. I was ready to kick back with a beer and turn on the game. The universe had a different plan. I went to the fridge to grab a cold one and I found it. I actually expected to find a sticky note stuck to the door of the fridge. Usually meant dinner was inside and the note was heating instructions. Not this time though.

She's mine now. If you want to see her alive again, come to where the alligators play.

-Orange

The SOB had finally lost it. I told them not to mess around with pretzels. Too twisted a treat. Can't trust it. The sweet and salty combination addles the mind. Look at Yellow. He's a step away from the loony bin himself.

I snatched the sticky note off the fridge and grab the phone off the nearby wall. Dialing Yellow's number, my mind races with the possibilities, the implications, of what that mad man had done.

"Hello?" Yellow answered in his typical 'big doofus' voice.

"Yellow," I said curtly, "It's Red."

"Oh, hey Red," said Yellow, his voice perking in recognition. "What's going on? Want to go bowling or something."

I ignored his question. "No time, big guy. That Bavarian rooster has flown the coop."

Yellow sighed. "What's he done this time?"

"Remember what he did to Jelly?" I asked him.

There was a long, low whistle. "Jelly B?" Yellow clarified. "Oh yeah. The guy couldn't walk right for a month."

"Well this is worse," I said flatly. Everyone remembers the incident with Jelly. I never knew Nerds could do so much damage. I guess when it's far enough up there and struggling, how could it not. "I'm on my way over. Grab Bill and wait for me outside."

I hung up the phone without waiting for a response. I walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. The room was eerily undisturbed. The bed was made. The knick knacks on the dresser were still in the meticulous order she'd left them in. I flipped the switch on the wall just inside the door to bathe the room in weak, pale light. Not hesitating for a moment, I crossed the room to my night stand a pulled two cylindrical magnets, each the size of a roll of quarters and a Beretta semi-automatic pistol. I swore I'd never use these things to harm anyone again. Guess life showed me what it thought of my resolve, my plan for living on the up and up.

I left the apartment without looking back, only stopping for a moment to grab my cigs and Fedora from the counter where I'd left them. I lit a cigarette as I made my way down the stairs to the street. I didn't smoke much anymore, only when I was stressed or drinking. This was one situation that created a lot of stress and deserved a good drink. Unfortunately there wasn't time to stop off the bar before I picked Yellow up. God knew I could use a few fingers of a nice, smooth scotch.

My car was parked two blocks over and down. Never a decent spot available in this city. It was a mint green Bilar, last year's model ten years ago. The sugar coating was peeling in a few spots and the gummy beneath was starting to spoil and rot. What could I say? The Depression was hard on everyone. I was just happy to still have a car. Junk yards were piling up with 'em around here. Too many people out of work to make payments or be in the market for an automobile. I climbed in the driver's seat and fired up the engine. It sputtered to life, spewing a bit more cotton candy exhaust from the back than it probably should. All it had to do was hold on for just a little longer. Once this was finished, the thing could be carried off by birds for all I cared.

It was late. The sun had gone down hours ago. The only people left wandering the streets were vagrants and ne'er-do-wells looking to hold a poor sap up for everything he was worth instead of trying to work to make a buck like the rest of us. This used to be a good neighborhood. That was before the market crashed and things went to shite. I'd grown up a couple blocks uptown of where I lived now. I knew the streets like the back of my hand. My hands. They'd never looked so battered. The white was graying in areas and big rough patches were starting to show on the fabric. Telltale signs of a day of honest to goodness work. No wonder so many people broke the law to make money. Manual labor would be the end of me one day, I was sure of it. If I survived this, that is.

I pulled up in front of Yellow's building a few minutes after leaving my own. He was standing on his stoop with a gnarled chunk of wood that used to be a baseball bat slung over one shoulder and whistling like it was the most beautiful day in the world. When I came to a stop he hopped down the steps and got in the passenger seat, throwing the bat in the back seat. Bill E. Clubb had been with Yellow for longer than I could remember. He said his father had made it with his bare hands. He wanted his son to be a big baseball star someday. Yellow was too slow and stupid for the delicacies of the diamond, though, so he used Mr. Clubb to crack open the skulls of wise guys.

I pulled the car away from the curb.

"Where are we headed?" Yellow asked as I steered the gummy buggy downtown.

I handed him the sticky note and gave him ample time to read it. I could almost hear him sounding out the words slowly in his mind. Finally, he handed the note back to me and looked forward at the road ahead.

"51st and Broadway?" he confirmed with me.

I nodded.

As I directed my car toward Midtown I thought about what I was in for. Everyone knew Orange was a little touched in the head, a bent twig. Ever since he showed up, things had been happening. A little strong arm robbery here. A stolen car there. It could have been anyone. Then things escalated. The crimes got more outrageous. Acts that could only be committed by someone who had a truly twisted mind. Twisted and salted. A chill ran up my shell. The things he was capable of. The mind reels.

It only took a few minutes to get to 51st and Broadway. The allusion about the alligators was all Yellow or I had needed to know exactly where to find that madman. It was a rumor that circulated for years that the sewer system under the city was infested with alligators. The mayor had staunchly denied the rumors again and again. Six months ago, one of the city sewer men had lost a leg down in one of the pipes while he was doing some work. He would tell any soul who asked that it was an alligator that had bit it off. After that, the city had sent a team down into the sewers to investigate. Five scientists went down, only two of them returned. The only words they'd spoken since were 'alligators' and...well, does screaming count as a word? Either way, everyone knew to steer clear of sewer drains and manholes. Especially the manhole that the city worker and the scientists had gone down. 51st and Broadway.

I pulled my car into an empty spot only a few feet away from the intersection. The whole intersection was avoided like the sugar plague. Some said it was cursed, others just didn't want to get killed by an alligator. Didn't matter to me one way or the other. All it meant to me was open parking. I slid my Beretta into its shoulder holster and stuck both magnets to the butt. I'd need my hands free for a little while, at least until I was in the sewer. Yellow pulled Bill from the back seat and tapped it in one hand as if to get a feel for the old chunk of hickory. I looked at him. He nodded. I nodded back. We got out of the car and walked towards the intersection that would mean death for someone. What really stuck in my craw was the fact that we didn't know who.

I took Bill from Yellow so he could pry up the manhole cover. He was a strong mother and I was happy to have the extra muscle. He let it flop over on the pavement where it landed with a reverberating clang. I handed Bill back and moved toward the open sewer entrance. There was a faint glow coming from the open space, but it was still too dark to see anything down there.

"Want me to go first?" Yellow asked.

I shook my head. This was my fight. I was going first. I put my big white shoe on the first rung of the ladder that was built into the wall. It was slippery with moisture, but my footing stayed true as I lowered my other foot down to the second rung. I descended into darkness, letting the dank, dark underworld envelop me. The ladder seemed to go on forever. Rung after rung after rung. I didn't know how far down the sewer system was below the city, but it couldn't have been far. My inability to truly see the ground beneath me was playing tricks on my mind that was all. I looked up to see Yellow climbing down the ladder behind me. Above him, the city lights burned through the small circle that was the only way back out of this disgusting maze of tunnels.

Finally my feet set down on a solid walk of concrete like a sidewalk. I had expected to be knee deep in excrement when I finally reached the bottom. Solid footing was a welcome discovery. I stepped aside to let Yellow down next to me. We both looked in every direction. There was only one clear path, and it was only clear because it was very dimly lit by a series of candles lit at regular intervals down the tunnel. There could have been any number of other tunnels in the darkness with any number of creatures waiting for a candy coated treat. We followed the only lit path. The possibility that it was a trap laid by Orange himself was not lost on me but there weren't a lot of viable alternatives.

We moved slowly, both of us ready for trouble at a moment's notice. The further we moved into the impossible labyrinth of sewage, the more wary I got. I had pulled the magnets off the pistol and clutched each one in a fist. They'd provide a little extra wallop when trouble finally did rear its ugly head. The gun was a just a backup, a contingency plan in case things went as wrong as they could go. I'd only take it out of the holster if I was out of options. I wasn't looking to spill chocolate unless I had to. Yellow's breath had gotten shorter. Whether he was getting worn out or just more nervous, I wasn't sure. I just wanted something to happen. I wanted this over with.

As if granting my wish, we turned the corner to find a nest of small eggs so yellow they were almost glowing in the darkness. I looked at Yellow and the look on his face said everything. We'd just wandered into a gummy alligator hive. There were at least fifty eggs if not a hundred or more in front of us. There was no sign of the mothers, but they weren't far off, I was sure of that. I scanned the tunnel for a way out. The only option was a path on the other side of the eggs. I could make it without disturbing the eggs, but it would take a miracle for Yellow to only crush a few. We were in serious trouble.

"What do we do?" Yellow whispered to me. It had been so quiet in the tunnels his voice sounded like a gunshot.

I shrugged, steeling my determination. "We're going to move fast and pray to Wonka, Mars, Hershey, or whoever we can that the mothers of these little monsters are far enough away to not be disturbed by our passing."

Yellow looked at me nervously. He knew as well as I did that he wasn't light footed enough for that. We'd have to take our chances.

"Ready?" I asked him.

"No," he answered flatly.

I took a deep breath. "Good. Let's do this."

I waded into the random array of fragile eggs, stepping lightly. There was just enough space for me to move without crushing anything. Yellow, on the other hand, didn't get more than one step in before the unmistakable sound of breaking egg echoed off the tunnel walls. There was a very, very brief moment of silence. I held my breath afraid to exhale. Just as I had expected, a roar came tearing down a nearby pipe. Mama was awake, and we'd just killed her baby.

"Move," I shouted back at Yellow.

Subtlety and stealth could go suck an egg, figuratively speaking. I ran through the mess of eggs without a thought to the consequences. They broke easily under my weight. I didn't look down. I didn't want to see what was inside. If I missed any, Yellow was sure to have destroyed it as he blundered along behind me. We dashed into the tunnel on the opposite side of the nest and followed the dim light that was still stretched out in front of us. We could hear scratching on the concrete behind us. The alligators weren't just angry, they'd caught our scent and were giving chase. We bounded down the tunnel with wild abandon. Things weren't looking good for our chances of survival.

We came to a large hub, a great circular room with a dozen different tunnels branching off in every direction. Yellow and I looked around wildly. There were more than a few tunnels lit by the same candles we'd been following. We could wander for months and never find what we were looking for. Fortunately for us, we only had minutes, probably seconds, to make a choice and get the lead out. Panic was rendering my thought processes useless. There was no logic, just an endless series of tunnels in front of us and certain death behind us. We'd have to take a stab in the dark, and hope it wasn't the wrong choice.

"This way," I said, and set off toward a tunnel that ran roughly northwest, assuming we'd come in from the south tunnel. A low grumble came from inside the tunnel and a gummy gator reared its ugly head. The thick, sugary, translucent skin was blue and yellow. Its eyes stared at us emptily, but there was an anger there that was unmistakable. We'd killed its babies and it wanted revenge. Behind us, more alligators moved into place blocking our exit. We had two choice: choose a tunnel at random and hope for the best, or stand and fight.

"Ready for this?" I asked Yellow, taking both magnets in hand and clutching my fist around them.

He tapped the end of Bill in his left hand. "As I'll ever be."

Without another word, Yellow flung himself down the tunnel we'd just come out of. Three gummy gators were waiting eagerly for their prey. I watched as Yellow, blind with battle rage, dove into their midst. Their gummy teeth gnashed at him, but he managed to avoid their snapping jaws. He landed on the back of the middle gator, lifted Bill up over his head, and brought the old chunk of hickory down with enough power to crack concrete. The gator's head exploded, showering gummy bits all over the walls, Yellow, and the other beasts. Dumb as a brick, he may be, but useless in a fight he was not.

I turned away from Yellow as one of the other gummy gators leapt at him. I squared off with the blue and yellow beast eyed me expectantly. It was better odds than Yellow was up against, but something told me this one would be just as much of a handful. I weighed out my options as I gripped the magnets tighter. I could fight, sure. Maybe I could even win. I'd never done it before, but I assumed fist fighting a gummy gator would take time. I was no slouch in a scrap, but I didn't have the raw power that Yellow did. To win this fight I'd have to be crafty and resourceful. Two things that would take too much time. Time wasn't on my side. Green was out there, who knows in what kind of danger. I had to do what I could to get to her as quickly as possible.

Without another thought, I dropped the magnet in my right hand and pulled the pistol in a flash. My first shot only grazed the creatures left shoulder, cutting a gooey trench in its skin. It was momentarily startled by the gunshot, the noise magnified by the bare walls of the sewer system. Then it charged, roaring its anger. It sounded like a freight train barreling down the tracks. I fired again, but it was moving quick and the shot was only another superficial wound. I popped off a few more shots, making solid contact with a few, but not in places that really counted. The gator's gooey insides seeped out of its wounds, but it didn't slow down. I fired again...and again...and again. The beast rose itself up in a menacing gesture and dove toward me. I held my ground and fired one last bullet. It sailed through the air, into the gator's mouth, and out the top of its skull. I dove out of the way just in time to avoid getting crushed by the lifeless body that was moving now out of sheer momentum.

I picked myself up and looked at the gator lying dead on the floor. Poor thing was just trying to protect its young. The end of the gun barrel smoked from the work it had just been put through. Instinctively I knew there was only one bullet left in the chamber and none in the clip. Just my luck. I turned to look back where Yellow had been, but he and the other gummy gators had vanished. I made to go after him, but something stopped me in my tracks. It was almost inaudible in the deafening silence. It was a low, steady laugh dripping with insanity.

"Impressive," a voice said loud enough for me to hear it.

I turned on my heels to see Orange standing just inside one of the tunnels. He stood there surveying the scene as if he was a spectator at a baseball game, nonchalant and relaxed.

"Where is she?" I shouted at him. It took everything in me to not put my last bullet in his twisted pretzel brain.

Orange shrugged. "Follow me."

He set off down the tunnel he'd emerged in. It was like he'd just accepted defeat. Without giving it much thought, I followed him into the darkness. He kept a good pace, but not an impossible one. We wound even further down into the twisting sewer system. Yellow would never be able to find me now, and I wasn't sure I could find my way out once I had Green safe with me. Maybe that's how Orange wanted it. Kill him and be lost down in the sewer forever, or let him live and let him get away with this madness. I'd make the decision when it came to it. Even after being almost killed by a sewer alligator, I didn't quite have it in me to kill him. It wasn't his fault he was crazy. It was how he was made.

Orange led me to a large exchange room. Hundreds of pipes wound in and out of the tunnels that branched off the room. Some of them dumped their contents into a massive pit in the center of the chamber. I didn't have to get close to know that it stretched on forever, no end in sight. Who knows where the water went once it plunged into the darkness. There was a railing around the pit to keep city workers from slipping in. It was rusty, though, and parts of it were completely eaten away. In a big gap in the railing was a small wooden chair. In that chair sat Green.

My heart leapt into my throat. Her hands were tied behind her back and her feet tied to the chair. One of her eyes was puffy, a swollen bruise. Orange would pay for that dearly. Her one good eye look at me with shock when she saw me enter the exchange room. I did everything I could to not run to her. I couldn't let Orange see just how much he'd gotten to me. It would give him the upper hand.

"Red!" she cried. "Get me out of here. He's gone crazy!"

I put my hand up to calm her. "It's ok, honey. I'm here. We'll be leaving soon."

Orange leaned against the railing next to her. He laughed heartily at my words.

"Yes, _honey_ ," he giggled maniacally. "This will all be over soon."

He had truly lost his mind.

"What do you want, Orange?"

" _Want_?" he asked incredulously. "What do I _want_? Okay, I'll tell you what I want. I want you and Yellow dead. I'm sick of all the attention you two get. Always parading around for people like you're a couple of America icons or something. It makes me sick. Yellow is just a glorified Goober. And you...you're nothing but a bit of chocolate with a thin candy shell. What makes you so special? What makes you better than me? Huh?"

Sure Yellow and I had done some TV work, rode in a few parades. It helped pay the bills. This seemed like a steep price to pay for trying to provide for your family.

"Nothing makes me special," I told him, hoping to cool things off.

"That's right," he shouted, triumphant. "Nothing! And now I'm going to prove it."

He stepped over to Green and put his big white foot on the chair in between her legs. The chair pitched backwards dangerously. But she didn't fall. Orange was keeping her up with his foot. All he had to do was let go and she'd be gone forever. I tried to shout but my voice failed me.

"You have two options," Orange told me. "You can use that last bullet to kill me and let your beloved fall to her watery grave." To emphasize his point, he teetered Green back further. I could hear her quietly sobbing. "Or I can lead you back to the surface where you'll publicly announce my flavor superiority to the world and admit to framing me for all the savage acts that have been laid on my shoulders."

It was an easy choice. I didn't like the spotlight. I was just trying to put food on the table. He could take my place. Sure, no problem.

"Whatever you want, Orange," I answered him. "Just let her go. That's all that matters."

He eyed me suspiciously for a long moment. Once he was satisfied that my acquiescence wasn't some kind of ruse, he tipped Green back on to all four chair legs. The wood clacked on the concrete, audible over the rush of the water surging into the pit. I let out the breath I had been holding in for what felt like forever.

"Excellent," he said to me, stepping away from Green. "I'll just grab a knife to cut these ropes free and we'll be on our way."

He stepped into a nearby tunnel and emerged a moment later with a switch blade.

"See," he said, turning to face me, "I'm a reasonable fellow. Now let's just get those ropes off and we'll get out of—"

His words were cut short by a deafening _crunch_ that echoed through the room. Bits of chocolate and pretzel flew everywhere as Bill E. Clubb cut a great rift down the middle of Orange's body. If it wasn't obvious that he was dead already, the empty look in his eyes would have said everything. He crumpled to the floor, the bat still lodged in his crumbly pretzel brain. Yellow stood over him, a look of triumph on his face.

"That was for Jelly Belly," he said matter-of-factly. He bent over and wrenched Bill free from Orange's body.

My heart sank. Orange was dead and so were our chances of getting out of the sewers alive. Yellow, however, looked as if nothing was amiss. I chose not to comment. Instead I walked to Orange's body and grabbed the knife. I quickly used it to cut Green free. She wrapped her arms around me, squeezing tightly. The hug was part joy for being free, and part acceptance that we were going to die together amidst the excrement of millions of people who only looked at us like candy spokes models.

"Should we get going?" Yellow asked dumbly.

I pulled away from Green and looked at him. He looked back at me like a dog that thought it was about to go for a walk.

"I don't know the way out," I told him, and pointed to Orange's lifeless body. "Only he did."

"Oh," Yellow said. As comprehension dawned, he added, " _Oh_. Well now what do we do?"

As if in answer to his question, a great roar ripped through the pipes above. We all looked up to see a gummy gator emerging through one of the bigger pipes overhead. It was just big enough to allow the vicious beast passage. He looked at no one but Yellow who, in turn, looked back at the creature with malice.

" _Snarf_ ," he swore. "I thought we'd taken care of them all."

The gator leapt from the pipe, his body angled perfectly toward Yellow. My old friend didn't hesitate. He spun around and used the railing around the pit to boost himself into the air after the gummy gator. But the alligator's momentum was greater. They met in mid-air, and Yellow was smashed backwards, the both of them launching into a deadly tail spin. Had I known what would have happened when the two great beasts collided, I would have acted faster. As it was, I just stood there and stared dumbly as Yellow and the gummy gator tumbled through the air. The alligator's tail flung wildly to the side and caught Green just under her good eye, sending her sprawling toward the pit. It happened so fast there was nothing I could have done. I watched as she skipped once across the slick concrete and over the edge. The last thing I head was her screams as she plunged into the darkness with Yellow and the alligator.

That was it.

I was alone.

I stood at the edge of the pit for what felt like an eternity, staring aimlessly into the blackness as gallon upon gallon upon gallon of tainted water from the city above poured after the only woman I had ever loved. Even if it wasn't a far fall, she'd never be able to stay afloat. We aren't buoyant enough.

I looked down at the pistol hanging limply in my hand. One bullet left. Fate, it seemed, was not without a sense of humor. That was it. Life had won. I wasn't going to bother getting up. Not this time. I put the barrel to the side of my head. My last fleeting thought was of Green. We'd gone to the park on the Fourth of July years ago. We had a picnic, played tetherball with a nice Sour Patch couple, and then made love in a secluded spot of the park while fireworks erupted above us. It was the best day of my life.

I pulled the trigger and darkness took me.

## Monster in the Closet

"But, Mom, there are monsters in here."

"That's enough, Timmy," Timmy's mother answered him sternly. "There's no such thing as monsters. Now goodnight."

Timmy's mother flipped the light switch by the door. The room was cast into darkness save a small column of light coming from the hall through the half open doorway. There would have been more light had Timmy's mother not been standing there; her body was blocking the majority of the sweet life affirming glow of the overhead lamps in the hall. "Just go to sleep and I'll make pancakes in the morning, okay?"

"With chocolate chips?" Timmy asked, expectantly.

"Yes, Timmy," his mother conceded, "with chocolate chips. Now sleep."

_Easier said than done_ , Timmy thought as his mother shut the door to his room, leaving him in darkness. It was a full moon on a cloudless night and the glow from the moon was lighting his bedroom just enough for Timmy to make out shapes around the room. Timmy couldn't quite decide if it was better to see a vague outline of something or not see it at all. Each had its pros and cons, but mostly cons existed on that twisted list. Semi-darkness could be just as, if not more, fearsome and forbidding than pitch black gloom.

Timmy scanned the room and identified everything he could just to be sure nothing suspicious was lurking where he didn't expect it. On his nightstand was a box of tissues and his glasses sat next to a lamp shaped like a baseball bat. To the left of his bed was the dresser his grandfather had made with his bare hands. Atop the dresser was an array of action figures in various frozen positions, each fighting an invisible foe. Timmy's toy box was next to the dresser, a small electric keyboard sat on top of it with sheet music piled on top of that. Lining the walls were posters of courageous space rangers and Timmy's favorite sports heroes. On any normal day, the characters in the posters looked down on him with what Timmy always felt was a sort of protective gaze. Now, in the darkness, each one of them glared at him with an expression of hatred and impending doom.

"Your mother's right, Timmy," a voice said in the darkness. It was deep and grating, and it made the hair on the back of Timmy's neck stand on end. What was more terrifying was that it was a voice Timmy recognized, although he'd never seen the body it belonged to, nor did he want to. "You really should get some sleep."

"You know I can't sleep when I know you're watching me, Grimhook," Timmy hissed, addressing the closet which was open a few inches.

The disembodied voice clucked what Timmy could only assume was its tongue. " _Watching_ makes it sound so...creepy. Call it _savoring._ " The voice thickened on the last word, and Timmy couldn't help but imagine the creature smiling as if it were looking at a Thanksgiving dinner. His skin crawled at the thought.

"I'm really not afraid of you, you know," Timmy said as nonchalantly as possible. He managed to present a fairly brave exterior even though his insides were screaming out the fear that was ravaging his mind.

Grimhook laughed slowly and deeply. With each laugh a small puff of steam shot out of the crack in the closet door. Timmy had just learned about what creates steam in school. He knew when a gust of hot air meets cold air, it suddenly becomes visible to the human eye. The trouble was, it wasn't particularly cold in Timmy's room, and it left him to wonder just how hot the breath coming from the closet actually was.

"Oh, you're afraid of me, Timmy," Grimhook said good-humoredly. "Would you like to know how I know that, young man?"

"I'd like you to leave me alone," Timmy answered nervously. He was trying to act brave but whatever was in his closet could see right through his façade as if it were a window.

"I can tell you're afraid, Timmy," the voice pressed on, ignoring Timmy's request, "because I feed on fear. It fills me up, makes me stronger, and I haven't felt so sated and powerful in years."

Timmy groaned involuntarily. "Why don't you just eat me and get it over with?"

There was a brief pause as if Grimhook was contemplating what Timmy had said. "Maybe I will, Timmy. Maybe I'll do just that." The closet door started to ease open gently, and Timmy could feel a blinding fear crawling up his spine and scrambling his thoughts. His mind was screaming at him to jump out of bed and run to his parents room. At the very least scream for his mother or father. His mind just wanted him to do something to stop him from being eaten. His body had other thoughts. It was betraying Timmy when he needed it most. In a few seconds time, Timmy would be dinner for some unthinkable creature and it would be all his body's fault.

"You know better than to step over the threshold, Grimhook," another voice cut through the room. It was as deep as Grimhook's, but in a different way. There was power and comfort in this new voice that made Timmy breathe a sigh of relief. "At least not just yet."

Grimhook hissed and the door stopped before it was fully open. "So nice of you to join us, Isaac."

If Timmy had more control over his body he would have agreed with Grimhook out loud. As it was, he silently admonished Isaac in his head.

"I do apologize for my tardiness," Isaac pleaded to the room. "There was a bit of a traffic jam by the Well of Souls."

Grimhook chuckled. More steam hissed from the closet. "You really should plan ahead for these things. It is a busy time of year, you know?"

"Silence, you cur," Isaac spat.

Before the argument could get out of control, Timmy silenced them. Something had suddenly registered in his brain. "Wait a second. What do you mean he can't cross the threshold just yet?"

"Ah," Isaac stuttered, but recovered quickly. "Nothing to fret over, Timmy. Just get some sleep."

Grimhook spat a single guttural laugh. "Oh, just tell him, you twit. He should know at some point, and there isn't much time left for him to do so."

There was a moment of silence at that. Timmy could practically see what he imagined Isaac looked like contemplating just the right words. Finally, Isaac spoke.

"I know you've come to think of me as your saving grace, Timmy," the voice said softly, "but, unfortunately, that's not quite the case here. I'm here to keep Grimhook from entering your room, but only until a certain time and date. After that, he's free to come and go as he pleases, although I'm sure just the once will be satisfactory enough."

"That it will," Grimhook agreed hungrily.

"I don't understand," Timmy said. He could feel the tears beginning to well in his eyes. He did think of Isaac as a sort of guardian angel keeping the demon at bay, not just someone passing through and lending a hand until it was time to move on.

"Well, this may be hard to hear," Isaac continued, "but when your father was in college, he agreed to sell his first born son to Satan for tickets to a Dave Matthews concert. While he may not have realized what he was doing, it was a verbal contract, and the Devil always makes good on things like that. Grimhook was the demon assigned to your case, and I am the angel assigned to make sure he does not violate the contract by fulfilling it one second earlier than he's allowed."

"And when is he allowed?" Timmy asked, even though he didn't want to know the answer.

"9:15," Isaac and Grimhook answered in unison.

Timmy looked at the clock. It was currently twelve minutes after nine. "Why haven't you come sooner? I'm almost twelve."

"Well, God and Satan sat down one day and put forth terms that allowed Satan to claim any verbal contract such as the one your father made without the opposite parties consent so long as the victim was allowed to live no longer than fifteen years from the day the contract was made. God felt as if it would teach a lesson to humans to watch what they say. You were born three years after that concert, and in three minutes, the full fifteen years will be up. I really am rather sorry about this. You're a rather exceptional young man."

Timmy was now freely sobbing, his eyes pressed against his knees.

"Yes," Grimhook hissed. "Cry, boy. It fuels my hunger."

"Oh, shut up," Isaac chided the demon.

The next three minutes passed in relative silence with only Timmy's sobs and Grimhook's smacking lips breaking the noiselessness.

"Goodbye, Timmy," Isaac said as the clock changed to 9:15. The closet door opened to reveal a monstrosity so truly terrifying Timmy's mind could barely comprehend what he was seeing. The two identifying characteristics of the creature that Timmy registered were the eyes covering the demons body all trained on him, and the mouth full of razor sharp yellow teeth dripping with drool. Timmy lost consciousness as soon as the demon set foot across the threshold. His parents would spend years searching for their son, but no one saw little Timmy Miller ever again.

## The Witch and The Woodsman

The weeds in that part of the forest were wildly overgrown. Brilliant green vines choked the trees masking the woody complexion of the bark, leaving a sea of green that was nearly impossible to navigate. Impossible for anyone who wasn't the Woodsman, of course. No, the Woodsman could find his way about the forest on the darkest night of winter without a single star in the sky to guide him or compass to point the way north. The Woods were his domain. He was master and commander, lord of the manor, king of the castle. None of those were official titles, you see, but simple, plain, irrefutable facts. The Woods belonged to The Woodsman and The Woodsman belonged to The Woods.

On this particular summer day, the humidity was creating a sweltering jungle of tangled weeds and scruff. Thick bramble patches clawed at the hardened skin of The Woodsman's exposed lower legs. No blood was drawn, no scratch was seen. It wasn't that his skin had hardened over time from continual abuse. That would imply weakness, a vulnerability to the hazards and pitfalls that lived within The Woods. The Woodsman was immune to such hazards, laughed in the face of such pitfalls. He did not adapt. He was perfectly engineered to coexist with anything that lived within the boundaries of the forest. Engineered by whom? Well, that's a story for another time.

The Woodsman was a great giant of a man. Towering over seven feet tall, he could easily be spotted roaming his woods if you looked in just the right place. The Woodsman was lithe and silent, however, and you were never going to be looking in just the right place. He had a head of shaggy chestnut hair tucked under a deep blue stocking cap with a white fuzzy ball at the top. His iron-like, chiseled jaw was hidden behind a perfectly trimmed beard the same color as his unkempt mane. A pair of chocolate brown eyes scanned the forest with a cool calculation and analysis. He took everything in, leaving nothing unnoticed. Today, as any other day, he was wearing a plain white button up t-shirt over his muscular upper body, and a pair of ragged blue jeans cut off just above the knee and held up with brown leather suspenders. Flung over his right shoulder was an axe large enough to fell any normal sized tree in The Woods with a single swing. The larger trees were not to be touched; they were wise creatures in their age. The Woodsman's pontoon feet were encased in a pair of scuffed, worn leather work boots that had to be replaced once or twice a month. The Woodsman may be immune to harm, but his boots, oddly enough, seemed particularly susceptible to it.

The Woodsman was moving faster through the forest than he normally would. To The Woodsman, each day was a gift, something to be cherished and enjoyed. When he walked, he did so with purpose and precision. Today, on the other hand, The Woodsman was walking with a wild abandon, unrestrained and full steam on the throttle. He'd been given a most distressing piece of news upon waking from his feather and straw bed in his cozy cabin in the center of The Woods. A small sparrow had landed on his windowsill and chirruped the bad news with a sadness and fear hanging about its burdened soul. The Woodsman dressed immediately and left without looking back, the sparrow's words ringing in his ears.

_A witch_ , the little bird had squeaked, _taken up residence in the Ivy Graveyard._

The Woodsman had arrived at the Ivy Graveyard mere moments later although it was nearly ten miles from his home. The Ivy Graveyard was not, as its name suggested, a graveyard for ivy. Quite the opposite, actually. The ivy thrived in the Ivy Graveyard. It was everything else that withered and died, slowly choked off from the life-giving sunshine by the ivy's never-ending growth. A wizard had come around The Woods several summers past and placed a protective spell around the Ivy Graveyard so the vile weeds could not take over the forest for good. The Woodsman was grateful, and paid the old man with a pair of roasted pheasants which the wizard gobbled down gratefully, finishing the meal with a toke of his hand carved pipe and a glass of iced goat's milk with honey.

Since that day, the ivy had stayed where it belonged, and the rest of the forest's inhabitants lived peacefully knowing that they were safe from the slowly slithering clutches of the emerald, earthen snakes. If a witch was loose in The Woods, that safety would crumble, the wizard's hard work undone.

Witches were vile, nasty creatures by nature. There's a reason people with nasty dispositions are referred to as _witches_. A witch is not made, however. They are born in the dark lands outside The Woods, a putrid patch of barren land where the sun hid behind a perpetual sheet of storm clouds the darkest shade of gray. They are nursed on the milk of jackals and, when they're old enough, fed serpent eggs and large heads of lettuce, all of which instilled a hatred for the living, happy creatures that lived within the forest. From the time they are able to speak and move about on their own, witches are trained to perform evil spells, brew wicked potions, and just be generally unpleasant to be around. It is a myth that they fly on broomsticks, though The Woodsman had seen one or two using one as a walking stick. Witches walk around just like any other living creatures only with a sinister air about them. Pray that you never meet a witch, my friends, and if you have the unfortunate luck to meet one, pray that The Woodsman is nearby to intervene.

The Woodsman could smell the faint tinge of smoke on the air. The scent was laced with newt eyes and cat's blood. It made The Woodsman's blood boil with rage. He stomped through the trees to find a small stone cottage with a thatched roof sitting somewhat incongruously in the middle of a small clearing of trees. It looked decades old, but The Woodsmen had never seen it, nor was a single vine of ivy touching the outer walls. The foul smelling smoke was puffing lazily out of the chimney of the cottage. The Woodsman could see a faint glow of fire through a crack in one of the shutters on the front of the house. He thought about taking the flat side of his axe to the structure, toppling it in on her miserable head and snuffing the problem in one fell stroke. He did something else though. Something unexpected. He walked up to the front door of the cottage and knocked, three quick raps on the wood.

"Who is it?" the witch hissed from the other side of the door.

"It's The Woodsman," The Woodsman announced in a booming, commanding voice.

"I don't want any of what you're selling, Wooderson," the witch spat back. "Go to the house down the way and leave me to my business."

There were no other houses in the Ivy Graveyard of any kind. The Woodsman knocked again.

"I must insist, madam," he urged her. "Please vacate these woods immediately. We want nothing of your kind here."

There was a sound of glass bottles jangling together and the scrape of wood on wood, followed by irregular footsteps on a wooden floor. The door opened with a speed The Woodsmen wouldn't have thought possible from the tiny woman behind it that was now in front of him. She could not have been more than four feet high. Her sickly green skin was pocked with warts and scabs. She was wearing a simple black dress that plunged disgustingly deep in between a pair of misshapen breasts. The witch's ruby red hair jutted out in all directions from under her pointy black hat. Her nose crooked at an illogical angle and she peered at The Woodsman with beady red eyes.

"What's this about now?" she asked, wiping her hands off on a filthy rag that couldn't have cleaned anything.

The Woodsman sighed. He was not used to having to repeat himself, and even less used to not being obeyed. It was a rather large nuisance.

"I am here to banish you from this forest," he said again through gritted teeth. "The citizens of The Woods do not want you about, even in this dead land. I will give you the option to leave of your own volition, or you can choose to leave by mine. It is up to you."

The witch cackled under her breath. "Come in, come in," she croaked.

The witch stepped back from the door to allow The Woodsman inside. He squeezed his massive frame into the door and had to stoop himself over so his head didn't knock against the ceiling. The inside of the cottage smelled thickly of the same smoke that was pumping out of the chimney. There were bits and pieces of dozens of different animals organized into glass jars all over the house. A cast iron cauldron sat over the gently burning logs in the fireplace, a thick, bubbling liquid brewing inside. A single wooden table sat in the middle of the tiny room with two chairs on either side.

"Sit, sit," the witch said throatily.

The Woodsman pulled out one of the tiny chairs and sat down. His knees stood well above the table. The witch sat down across the table from him and looked at him again with her beady red eyes.

"So, what's all this about _eviction_?" the witch asked The Woodsman, almost snarling the last word.

"Egads, woman," cried The Woodsman in frustration, "have you not been listening to me? I want you out of my forest, post haste!"

The witch smirked at him. "Ah, I see. Well, that's going to be a bit of a problem."

"How's that, demon?" The Woodsman demanded.

"You see," the witch cackled slowly, "my boyfriend is on a bit of a walkabout, and I can't leave without him. Even if he were here, I'm not sure he'd be too keen on leaving. He's grown rather fond of the place, he has."

"You haven't been here a day," The Woodsman stated in confusion.

The witch just shrugged. "Be that as it may, we're not leaving. I'd really rather not upset him. He's quite handsome, if I do say so myself."

The Woodsman couldn't help himself. "What man could stand your putrescence for more than a moment?"

The witch smiled the smile of the smitten. "Oh, he's charming. Quite charming, indeed. Has a bit of a fetish though, a real dead issue."

The color drained from The Woodsman's face. It felt as if ice were coursing through his veins. He knew of the type of man of which she spoke. The word blasted through his skull like a runaway mine cart.

"You brought one of _them_ into my woods?" The Woodsman roared.

In one quick movement he had stood up, grabbed the witch around the throat, and slammed her up against the wall behind him. She hit the wall with such force that the wind was shot out of her and a few ribs audibly cracked. She didn't seem to notice. She just smiled wildly at The Woodsman.

"Where is he?" demanded The Woodsman.

"Should be back shortly," the witch choked out. "He won't be happy when he sees you manhandling his woman."

The Woodsman growled. "See how happy he is about this."

In an expert simultaneous movement, The Woodsman released the witch and swung the axe. The blade cleaved deeply into the stone, nearly destroying the wall in the process. The witch's head perched atop the axe while her body slid slowly to the floor, crumpling like a busted sack of potatoes at The Woodsman's feet. Navy blue witch blood poured out of the open wound onto the floor. The Woodsman heaved the axe out of the stone and let the witch head drop to the floor. The body had begun bubbling and melting into a sticky puddle of slaughtered effluence. He stomped out of the cottage and peered into the woods for some sign of the man who was even more of a threat to The Woods than the witch or the ivy was. He caught a faint scent of death and decay on the gently breeze and knew he had his man. The Woodsman bolted off south into the trees without another moment's hesitation.

## Author's Note

So you made it all the way here, eh? Well aren't you just the best person ever. I really hope you enjoyed at least one of these stories, and hey, it was free. Can't beat that, right? I just want to say a quick thank you for giving this little collection of insanity a chance. It means a lot to an indie author like me that you take the time to read the stories we write. Again, you can find all my full length novels on Amazon and if you find it in your heart to leave a review for me or any other indie author you read, it really does mean the world to us.
