Matryoshka

Here's a short story I wrote earlier this year. I haven't shopped it around yet. Hope you like it.

---------------------------------

It was a dark and stormy... well, you know.

The rain poured down like a cow pissing on a flat rock. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed, illuminating the empty parking lot of the Kingston Truck Stop.

Ben and Eric sat in a booth, staring out the window at the apocalyptic weather. It was the end of Spring Break, and they had been on their way back to school when the storm had hit.

They were the only customers in the diner. An old woman sat behind the register, reading yesterday’s paper. Occasionally she’d waddle over to top off their coffee without a word.

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Ben asked Eric. He took a huge bite out of his club sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s pretty good.”

“Pass,” Eric said.

“You know what they say. Truckers eat at the best places.”

“Bullshit. Truckers eat where they can park.” Eric waved a hand at the window. “Besides, they don’t seem to be lining up to get in here, do they?”

They were both suddenly bathed in headlights as an 18-wheeler pulled into the parking lot. As it turned and parked, another flash of lightning illuminated the trailer. The words PETERSON PORK PRODUCTS were emblazoned across the side, across a trio of dancing pigs. And underneath was the proud motto, “You can’t BEAT our MEAT!”

The trucker bolted across the parking lot through the rain. The cowbell on the door jangled as he shoved it open and stepped into the diner. He was just over six foot tall, with a pot belly that hung over his enormous belt buckle. His blue jeans and American flag t-shirt were soaked through to his skin, and his cowboy boots squished with each step. His face was wide and tan, and stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

Eric muttered, “I says, Pigpen, this here’s the Rubber Duck, and I’m about to put the hammer down.” Ben gave him a dirty look to shush him.

The trucker glanced over at them, and grinned. He turned back to the woman behind the register.

“Hey, Edna. Looks like business is picking up, huh?”

“Go to hell, Duke,” the woman said, not even looking up from her paper. “You want a menu?”

“Nah. Gimme a diablo sandwich and a Dr. Pepper.” With a sigh, Edna got up and went back into the kitchen.

Duke ambled across the empty diner, trailing water behind on the dirty tile floor. He pulled off his John Deere gimme cap and ran his fingers through his damp, blonde hair.

“Evening, boys,” he said in a pleasant drawl. “Mind if’n I join you? I hate to eat alone.”

Eric rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. But Ben, obviously the affable of the two, slid over to make room. Duke slipped into the booth next to him, his belly pressed against the edge of the table.

“Much obliged,” he said. “Where you boys headed on a night like tonight?”

“Lubbock,” Ben said. “On our way back to school.”

“You know what they say,” Duke said with a wink. “If you wanna find Lubbock, you just go west ‘til you smell it and north ‘til you step in it.”

“Is that what they say?” Eric said.

Duke chuckled. “Sounds like someone jerked a knot in your friend’s tail,” he said to Ben.

“He’s just in a pissy mood,” Ben said apologetically. “We’ve been here for about two hours now, waiting for the rain to let up.”

“No TV. No radio. Not even a jukebox in this place!” Eric shook his head. “What kind of truck stop doesn’t have a jukebox?”

“Well now,” Duke said, “as long as we’re stuck here, we might as well pass the time pleasant-like. You boys amenable to a story?”

“Sure,” Ben said.

“Why not,” Eric sighed.

“All righty then. Just sit back and listen up, ‘cause ol’ Duke’s got a tale to tell. There was this Scoutmaster who took his troop camping one night...”

* * *

The day’s hiking was done, and the scouts had pitched camp for the night. Now they were gathered around the campfire, roasting marshmallows and listening to Scoutmaster Bill tell his ghost stories.

“...and when she looked down,” Bill said dramatically, “hanging from the car door handle was... a hook!”

The kids stared at him blankly.

“A hook!” Bill repeated. “There was a hook hanging from the door handle!”

“I don’t get it,” said Sheldon. The others murmured in agreement.

“It was a hook! The serial killer’s hook! Remember? I told you the serial killer was missing a hand?”

“No you didn’t,” Clifton said. “You said he was missing a foot.”

“Oh.” Bill sighed. “Well, he was missing a hand, okay? And had a hook instead. And that’s what she saw hanging from the car door handle. Okay?”

“That story sucked,” Preston whined. Sheldon, Clifton, and the rest joined in. “Yeah, that wasn’t scary at all!”

Bill placed another marshmallow on the tip of his stick, and held it over the flame. “So, you boys wanna hear a really scary story?”

“Yeah!” The boys wriggled excitedly, scooting closer to the fire.

“All right, then. But just remember, you asked for it.” Ben looked at their eager faces and nodded. “This guy was out driving one snowy night, and he saw a hitchhiker by the side of the road...”

* * *

The hitchhiker stood ankle deep in the snow, dressed in a tattered green jacket with a stuffed duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His damp hair and beard were freckled with snowflakes, and his breath snaked from his nostrils in steamy tendrils.

Albert wondered how long the man had been standing out there, waiting for a sympathetic driver. Most people would have simply written the poor guy off as a hippie or an axe murderer and driven on by. But Albert had always made it a rule to stop for hitchhikers.

“Thanks, man,” the hitchhiker said as he climbed into the passenger seat of Albert’s Escalade. He tossed his bag into the back, then turned the heater vent directly on his face. He sniffled a couple of times, then finally sighed with relief.

“Where you headed?” Albert asked.

“Wherever you are, I guess,” the hitchhiker said. He placed his hands in front of the vent, rubbing feeling back into his numb fingers.

“You’re lucky I came by,” Albert said. “Not a lot of folks on the road tonight.”

“I don’t suppose you got nothing warm to drink?” the hitchhiker asked.

Albert pointed to the thermos in the floorboard. “Help yourself to some hot chocolate.”

The hitchhiker took a swig straight from the mouth of the thermos. He smacked his lips, then took another drink.

“I ain’t got no money,” the hitchhiker said. “I mean, I ain’t no freeloader or nothing. I’m just kinda tapped right now.”

“It’s okay,” Albert said. “Cocoa’s on me.”

“Nah, I feel like you oughta get something for your trouble.” The hitchhiker stared out the window for a few seconds, then turned back to Albert. “I know! How about I tell you a story?”

Albert shrugged. “Sure.”

“All right, man.” The hitchhiker leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “There was this crazy old lady, right? And she lived with her son...”

* * *

Harv knew he’d screwed up bad. Wednesday nights he was supposed to come straight home from work so he could eat dinner and watch Deal or No Deal with Momma. But last night, he’d decided to go out for drinks with that girl Nina who worked in the mail room. It had been after midnight when he got home, and Momma had gone to bed. So he had gone on up to his room figuring he’d settle things with her in the morning.

It was now mid-afternoon, and Harv was chained to a wall in the basement. Momma, in her worn pink bathrobe and slippers, had been ignoring his pleas all morning as she labored away.

She was building a brick wall.

“Momma, please! You don’t have to do this!”

She slathered another layer of mortar with her trowel, then laid another brick in place. A cigarette, mostly ash, hung from her lips.

“You’re a bad boy, Harv. And you know what happens to bad boys.” She plopped another brick down. “Next time Momma tells you not to mess around indecent with slutty women, maybe you’ll listen.”

“Okay, I’m sorry!” Harv’s voice was hoarse from crying and pleading. “I promise, it won’t ever happen again! Just let me out of here, and we can go back upstairs and watch General Hospital.”

Momma considered it for a second. She took the cigarette from her mouth and tapped off the ashes. Then she shrugged and put down another layer of mortar.

“Momma! Stop, okay? Just stop!”

She kept laying the bricks, oblivious to his begging. He could no longer feel his arms, which he supposed was a blessing. His wrists were raw and bleeding from the manacles.

Desperately, Harv cried out, “If you stop, I’ll tell you a story!”

Momma set the trowel down and took another drag on her cigarette. “I’m listening,” she said.

Elated, Harv launched into his tale. “Once upon a time, there was this dog who was notorious for mauling cats...”

* * *

His owners had once called him Cocoa, but amongst the Feline Nation he was known as the Butcher. He was a pit bull/dachshund mix with short, chocolate brown fur and a narrow scissor snout full of strong, sharp teeth.

He had vague memories of living in a backyard, but that had been so long ago. His owners had moved away, and he’d found himself prowling the streets and alleys, eating from dumpsters and avoiding the men in uniforms that sometimes tried to catch him.

And chasing cats. He loved to chase cats.

He couldn’t explain why, any more than he could explain his desire to sniff other dogs’ butts or pee on things he liked. But there was something about their smug, smartass cat faces that set his teeth on edge.

But he was still a good dog. Yes he was!

The word had been out for some time, and the cats had become quite masterful at avoiding him. Occasionally, he’d get their scent, but he never seemed to catch more than a fleeting glimpse as they scampered over a fence or up a tree.

So he was elated when he saw the fat mackerel tabby glaring at him from the mouth of an alley. Its tail was low and twitching, and its ears were flat. Not scared. Not threatened. Just aggressive.

He walked slowly towards the cat, hoping to close the distance before startling it. When he was near enough to see the yellow of its eyes, the cat turned and bolted into the dark alley. He let out a short, angry bark and leapt into the shadows after it. The alley came to an abrupt dead end. A stack of rotted wooden warehouse pallets lay at the end, towering above him. And resting atop the stack was the cat. It gave a yowl that made his fur itch. Several dozen yowls were offered up in response.

Nervously, he turned to see the cats filing into the alley. Most were scrawny and matted, some were missing eyes, ears, and tails. Black, brown, striped, spotted... he’d never seen so many cats in one place before. It had never occurred to him there were this many cats in the world.

They approached en masse, jumping down from fire escapes and leaping out from behind trash cans. They hissed and caterwauled as they came towards him, and he knew he was in trouble.

“Well, well, well,” said the fat tabby from up above him. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to go hunting without your pack?”

He said nothing. He simply turned to face the cats as they advanced on him. He felt the hair on his back and neck bristle as he let loose with his most threatening growl.

“Enough!” the tabby yowled. It turned its gaze down to him and said, “You stand accused of heinous crimes against the Feline Nation. What say you, Butcher? Do you have anything to offer up in your defense before we pass judgment?”

He pondered for a moment. Then he told them a story about a man in Scotland who made a deal with the Devil...

* * *

A Scotsman had bargained with nefarious powers, offering up his soul in exchange for wealth and fame. True to his word, the Devil had granted respect and prosperity to the Scotsman. But he had then struck the poor man down with scarlet fever in the prime of his life.

So now he lay on his deathbed, wracked with scarlatina. His daughter, a handsome lass, sat by his bedside, keeping vigil and providing what comfort she could. She mopped his feverish brow, gave him cool water to drink, and read to him from his Bible.

“Be strong, Faither,” she told him, clutching his hand. “Be brave. And should the De’il come here tonight, I winna let him take ye without a fight.”

“Indeed?” A man stepped from the shadows, dark-dressed and soft-spoken. He smiled, showing plentiful white teeth. His was a face that was unearthly in its beauty, but oh, so cold and hateful his eyes!

The daughter leapt to her feet, still holding her Bible in her arms. She eyed the stranger warily, taking note of the silver cane he held in one hand, and of his oddly-shaped boots that might conceal cloven hooves. And she named him thus, “Auld Cloots!”

The pronouncement of his name was met by a tremendous crash of thunder, and the howling of hounds on the moors.

“At your service,” he said with a bow. “I’ve business with your father.

“Ye’ll nae take him,” said the daughter defiantly.

“Well, I beg to differ,” said the interloper. He held out his hand, and a yellowed document appeared with a puff of smoke. Her father’s name was signed in red in the lower corner.

“Signed, stamped, and notarized,” he said. “Twenty years ago this very night, your father did prick his thumb with a silver pin and sign his name. Upon his death, his soul will be remanded into my custody for eternity.”

The daughter leaned in to read the fine print, squinting as she ran a finger along the infernal clauses. “It says here that ye must collect my faither’s soul within twenty years of signing, or he goes free.”

“Yes,” sighed the stranger. “Your father proved to be more hale and hardy than I’d originally thought, which is why I had to smite him with the scarlet fever.” He pulled a silver watch from his pocket and consulted it. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

“I’ve a proposition for ye,” said the daughter. “A wager.”

The stranger placed the watch back in his pocket. “You don’t say.”

“I ken ye’re familiar with the Good Book,” she said, holding up the Bible.

“I’ve browsed through it,” he said. “Never read the whole thing. Those damned begats put me right to sleep.”

“I wager I can tell ye a story out of this Bible that ye’ve ne’er heard. If I win, ye tear up that contract and give my faither some peace.”

“And if you lose?”

The daughter regarded the stranger, meeting his evil gaze with an icy stare of her own. “If I lose, then ye can take me down to yer black pit as well.”

He considered her offer, then smiled his evil smile. “Done, and done,” spake he. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She gazed over at her ailing father, and hugged the Bible to her bosom for comfort. Then she took a deep breath and began her tale. “Now it came to pass on a certain day, that Jesus said unto his disciples, Let us go over unto the other side of the lake...”

* * *

22 One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over unto the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out.

23 As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so the boat was being swamped and they were in great danger.

24 The disciples argued among themselves about the proper course of action. Peter spoke unto the others, saying, “A prudent fisherman would head for shore to escape the storm. But to do so might also be seen as a lack of faith.

25 “Verily, I say we should alter our course and head into the squall, thus demonstrating to our master that our belief is beyond reproach.”

26 But Philip rebuked him, saying, “Salvation will come about through our own actions, not through foolhardy gestures.

27 “For it is written that God helps those whom help themselves.”

28 “Actually, it isn’t,” said Jesus, shaking his head. “But that’s okay. Lots of people make that mistake.”

29 And the disciples rejoiced to see that their master had awakened and joined them, and they beseeched him for guidance, asking “What would Jesus do?”

30 And Jesus told them this parable: “There was once an emperor who had seven sons...”

* * *

The Jade Emperor called forth his seven sons, who knelt before him. “My time will soon be at an end,” he told them, “and I must decide which of you is most worthy to rule in my stead. As a good ruler must willingly provide for his people, so will you demonstrate your capacity for giving to me.

“Each of you will bestow upon me the greatest gift you can. And he that gives the finest gift of all shall inherit my empire.”

The first son, Sun Yi, presented his father with a large urn filled with flawless diamonds. The second, Sun Er, brought in dozens of royal robes, all crafted from the finest silk. His third son, Sun San, unveiled an exquisite, golden statue of a belly dancer, while the fourth, Sun Si, presented him with a cask of potent spirits. From his fifth son, Sun Wu, he received a massive tapestry depicting his many military victories. And from his sixth, Sun Liu, he received a dozen beautiful Ukrainian horses.

But the seventh son, Sun Qi, approached the throne empty handed, and the emperor was puzzled. “Where, then,” he said, “is your gift for me?”

“Material possessions are fleeting, Father,” said the seventh son. “I bring you a gift more enduring than any other. I bring you a story.”

His brothers laughed amongst themselves until the emperor silenced them with an upraised hand. “A story? Very well. Give me your story, my son.”

The seventh son bowed and took a seat on the steps, at the feet of his father. “There is a cave deep beneath the world...”

* * *

...and in this cave, the goddess Ramistoka sleeps and dreams the world into existence. There is a legend that a mortal can enter the cave, approach the goddess, and whisper his fondest wish into her ear. Upon hearing the wish, Ramistoka will dream it into being. Thus can a mortal achieve his heart’s desire.

Alamon is a miserable man who has led a passive life. Five years ago, his wife left him for a traveling merchant. Three years ago, his oxen perished of the blight. And last year, a fire destroyed his farm and home. And through it all, Alamon’s only response has been to shake his fists at the heavens and cry out, “Why me?”

But Alamon has decided he will be a plaything of the fates no more. Rather than sit back and wait for misfortune to fall upon him, he is going to take action and make things happen.

The road is hard and fraught with peril, but Alamon finally makes it to the Sacred Mountains. The climb is difficult, but he scales the cliffs and eventually reaches the narrow, winding path. He braves the snow and ice as he presses on, knowing true happiness lies at the end of the trail.

And then, at last, he finds himself in the massive cavern. Ramistoka, vast and beautiful, lies on her back atop an enormous stone dais. Her arms are crossed on her chest, and her gentle snores echo throughout the chamber.

Alamon approaches her reverently, wondering what he’ll wish for. He climbs to the top of the dais and walks the length of her body. Her skin is pale blue and flawless, and smells of jasmine.

His heart pounding, he approaches her head. He’s mulled it over, and he’s finally figured out his most fervent desire. He doesn’t care about his oxen, or his farm, or his home. He doesn’t even want his wife back.

There’s only one thing that can make him happy. He leans into Ramistoka’s ear, and he whispers, “Wake up.”

* * *

Sun Qi finished his story, and the throne room was silent.

“A bleak tale,” the Jade Emperor finally said, “but there is much wisdom in it. Your story is truly a worthy gift, my son.”

“I’m glad you are pleased, Father.”

“But I’ve decided that my successor shall be Sun San.”

There were some angry and surprised outcries from the others as the third son stepped up proudly to the throne.

“But why?” asked Sun Qi. “I thought you liked my story!”

The emperor shrugged. “It was okay. But I really liked this gold belly dancer statue your brother gave me. It has rubies where the nipples should be!”

* * *

39 And when Jesus completed his story, the disciples scratched their heads in puzzlement. None had understanding of the parable, but none wanted to admit to their ignorance.

40 It was Simon Peter who finally spoke, saying, “It was an interesting lesson, Master, but I think I prefer the one about the man leaving footprints on the beach.”

* * *

The daughter reached the end of her tale and regarded the stranger, who stared at her incredulously.

“Um, I don’t think that story is actually in the Bible,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “It’s, er, in Deuteronomy somewhere.”

The stranger sighed. “Fine. We’ll call it a draw. But I’m still taking your father’s soul.”

At this, the bedridden Scotsman suddenly sat up and proclaimed, “Ye’ll nae be taking no souls today, Auld Nick. For I am Sir Alexander Fleming, and I’ve recovered from the scarlet fever thanks to my recent invention of penicillin!”

The daughter clapped her hands with glee and ran over to hug her father. The stranger shook his head and muttered, “I knew I should have gone with a heart attack.” Then he vanished in a cloud of brimstone.

* * *

Harv wrapped up his story and smiled at Momma. “So, what did you think?”

“It’s the worst story I've ever heard,” said Momma. “I don’t even think Fleming had a daughter.”

Ignoring her son’s screams, Momma finished the wall. And when the last brick was in place, she went upstairs to watch her stories.

* * *

The hitchhiker pointed at a deserted house as they drove past it and said, “That was the house, man. Right there. And they say the ghost of that Harv dude wanders this very road, telling his tale to any who will listen.”

The hitchhiker drained the last of the hot cocoa from the thermos, then tossed it onto the floorboard.

“Was it you?” Albert asked.

“What?”

“Were you the guy that got walled up in that basement? Are you his ghost?”

The hitchhiker snorted. “No way, man! But that would’ve been cool!” He held up his hands menacingly and let out a ghostly, “Oooooooooh!”

His goofy grin faded, and he suddenly clutched at his throat. “Cocoa...” he wheezed.

Albert nodded. “Yeah, it’s poisoned. You really shouldn’t hitchhike, you know? It’s dangerous.”

The hitchhiker was still gasping and thrashing weakly when Albert turned onto the dirt road and followed it into a snowy field. He got out of the car, grabbed the hitchhiker by his long hair, and dragged him into the snow. Then he took a shovel from his trunk and went to work, digging a new shallow grave next to the other sixteen...

* * *

“Because he was a serial killer,” Scoutmaster Bill finished up. “You see?”

The kids glared at him over the campfire, shaking their heads. “That’s so lame,” Preston said. “Your stories suck!”

“Yeah,” said Sheldon and Clifton and the others.

Bill felt himself getting flustered. “Well, that’s because I haven’t gotten to the scary part yet,” he said. “Um, because when Albert was burying the hitchhiker, he was suddenly attacked... by a VAMPIRE!”

There was no response from the kids. Bill looked over and saw they were all slumped over. Their hair was white and standing on end, and their eyes were wide with horror. His entire troop had died of fright.

“Well, I warned them it was scary,” Scoutmaster Bill murmured to himself. Nodding with approval, he roasted another marshmallow.

* * *

As Duke’s story came to a close, Eric glanced out the window and smiled for the first time that night.

“Dude,” he said, nudging Ben. “It stopped raining!”

As suddenly as it had come, the storm had blown over. A full moon lit the night sky and cast reflections in the puddles throughout the parking lot.

Duke polished off his sandwich and gulped down the rest of his Dr. Pepper. Then he slid his massive frame out of the booth and stood. He gave Ben and Eric a respectful salute and said, “Well boys, my work here is done. It’s time for me to be moving on.”

While he was paying for his meal, Ben timidly called his name. Duke turned, an enigmatic smile on his face.

“It... it was more than just a story,” Ben said. “Wasn’t it?”

“Maybe it was, boys. Maybe it was.” He gave them a wink, and walked outside. The cowbell on the door clanged behind him. Ben stared through the window, watching in awe as Duke climbed up into his cab and pulled his big rig onto the highway. He gave a tug on his horn, and then sped off into the night.

For several minutes, nobody said a word. There was no sound except for the rumble of distant thunder and the rustle of Edna’s newspaper. Ben couldn’t escape the feeling that something wondrous had happened here tonight. He wondered where Duke’s travels would take him next. And he wondered if he’d ever see the mysterious trucker again.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Eric shouted, slapping the tabletop. "What the hell happened to the dog?"

Orange Alert

Note: I wrote the following short story back in 2003. I haven't managed to sell it yet, so I figured I'd just inflict it on you, my faithful readers. Enjoy!
-------------------------

The clock radio snapped on at 6:15, yanking Ben Griswold into reluctant consciousness. A woman's chipper voice droned on cheerfully about the news of the day. "...of Homeland Security has upgraded the threat level from yellow to orange. This means there is a high risk of terrorist attack..."

Ben slapped the clock silent and climbed out of bed. His stomach knotted as he considered the day ahead. It was Monday, which meant he and Mike were supposed to give their weekly update on the network upgrade. Just the thought of that unctuous, ass-kissing bastard this early in the morning was enough to make him taste bile.

Ben and Mike both reported to David "Dutch" Schulz, an obese man who chain-smoked, drank heavily, and occasionally ate an entire bucket of chicken for lunch. After his last heart attack, Dutch had announced that he would be retiring at the end of the year. He had then called Ben and Mike into his office and told them, "Look sharp, boys. One of you is going to have to take my place when I'm gone."

That had been a month ago, and since then Ben and Mike had struggled to one-up each other at every opportunity. When something went well, they both raced to take the credit. And when the inevitable shit hit the fan, neither could shift the blame fast enough.

Ben wanted that promotion, and had decided he would do whatever it took to get it, which is why he was up so early on a Monday morning. He was going to stop and pick up some Krispy Kremes on the way to work.

Dutch loved donuts.

* * *

"It's banana nut bread," Mike was saying, holding aloft the saran-wrapped plate. "My wife baked it fresh last night."

Dutch sat at the head of the table, or rather propped his considerable ass on the edge of his chair at the head of the table. His belly pressed against the table edge, and his hands were folded atop it. It wasn't eight yet, but his sleeves were already rolled up and his tie was loosened. Poor Dutch could break a sweat waiting for the elevator.

"That's nice, Mike," Dutch said. "Tell Molly I said thanks."

"Will do, Mr. Schulz," Mike said. He set the plate on the table and took his seat.

Dutch looked up at Ben, and his enormous face split into a gluttonous grin. "Ooh, donuts! Set those down right there!"

Ben ignored Mike's dirty look as he handed the box of donuts to his boss. Dutch tore the lid off and shoved an entire donut into his mouth.

Score one for the Griswold boy, Ben thought as he slid into his chair. He met Mike's angry glare and responded with a quick flash of his finger and thumb. "Loser," he mouthed.

"Okay, boys," Dutch said around a mouthful of pastry. "Where do we stand on the upgrade?"

"We're just about finished, sir," Ben said, beating Mike to the punch. "We were having a little trouble configuring the new DHCP settings, but I figured out how to..."

"Actually," Mike interrupted, "I was looking over Ben's settings and I'm a little concerned about the security of the..."

"The security?" Ben interrupted back. "Name one thing wrong with our security! I'm the one that got the firewall up and running, remember?"

"That's what concerns me," Mike said. "I think you're rushing things just so you can meet your deadline..."

"Our deadline! And I'm not rushing things! That firewall will protect our network from any hacker or any virus that..."

"I'd still feel more comfortable if I could check it myself," Mike said. "After all, I think results are far more important than just making deadlines. Right, Mr. Schulz?"

Dutch nodded and licked the glazed sugar from his fingers. "Better to have it right than have it quick."

"But it is right," Ben said desperately, hearing a defensive edge in his voice. He took a deep breath and said, "If you want to check it, Mike, feel free. But I stand by my work."

"Nobody's criticizing your work, Ben," Dutch said. "But better safe than sorry."

"Exactly!" Mike said with a triumphant grin. "Don't worry, Mr. Schulz. I'll make sure everything is running."

Flustered and frustrated, Ben clenched and unclenched his fists. His mind raced desperately for a way to upstage Mike and recapture the lead, but he couldn't think of anything other than his fervent desire to beat that smirk off of Mike's face with a chair. Just as he was about to give up and regroup for the next meeting, he was struck with inspiration.

"That's a good idea, Mike," Ben said amiably. Mike narrowed his eyes, justifiably suspicious. "Why don't we schedule a meeting to go over it together? How about this afternoon?"

Mike sighed. "I'll be out of the office this afternoon. My daughter has a soccer game." He glanced anxiously toward Dutch, who was on his sixth donut and showed no sign of slowing down. "Um, you remember I cleared that with you, Mr. Schulz?"

"Right, soccer game," Dutch said. "I remember now."

"Oh, that's too bad," Ben said. "Still, I guess family's got to come first, right? Much more important than work."

"We can go over it tomorrow," Mike said through gritted teeth.

"Whenever's convenient for you," Ben replied. "Oh, and while you're out, maybe I should double check your server backups. After all, I'd hate for the company to lose critical data while you were off with your family."

"Good idea, Ben," Dutch said. "Better safe than sorry."

For several seconds, the room was silent except for the sound of Dutch chewing noisily on yet another donut. Mike and Ben stared viciously at one another, each trying through sheer force of will to make the other's head explode.

But behind his poker face, Ben was elated. His heart was pounding with excitement and sheer joy at his masterful handling of the situation. No question about it. He had really shown Mike up this morning. Mike and his pathetic banana bread...

* * *

The fluorescent lights flickered and went out, drowning the entire floor in darkness. Blue lights in the ceiling began to flash intermittently, and the fire alarms hiccupped at the sudden loss of power.

The air conditioner was dead, and Ben's ears rang in the abrupt, stuffy silence. A scream came from somewhere down the hall, cut short by the startling burst of gunfire. More screams and angry shouts, and the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"What the hell is going on?" Ben asked, startled by how loud his voice sounded.

Mike shushed him angrily. "Terrorists," he whispered.

"Terrorists?" Ben shook his head. "That's stupid. Why would terrorists..."

"Didn't you hear the news?" Mike whispered. "We're at Orange Alert."

"Oh crap," Dutch moaned, pressing his hand to his chest. "I'm going to have another heart attack."

"Don't worry, sir," Mike whispered, standing up. "I'll take care of it."

Ben snorted. "Oh, right. And just what are you..."

Mike shushed him again and moved silently to stand beside the door. Ben was about to comment once again on how stupid this whole thing was when he saw a flicker of light in the hallway. The light danced upon the carpet and the wall, bouncing in time with the approaching footsteps.

A bearded man in loose-fitting fatigues stalked down the hall, clutching an enormous rifle. Strapped to the barrel with duct tape was a yellow, underwater flashlight. Ben felt his throat tighten and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Behind him, he could hear Dutch's labored breathing, even over his own pounding heart.

The soldier stopped at the doorway and shined his light into the meeting room. When he caught Dutch in his bright beam, he shouted something in a foreign tongue and took aim.

Mike leaped from the shadows and grabbed the rifle. The man barely had time to shriek in surprise before Mike smashed him in the face with the butt of his gun. The terrorist fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Mike pressed the barrel of the rifle to the man's head and finished him off with one shot.

"Oh crap," Dutch whispered. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap..."

"It's going to be okay, sir," Mike said in a voice brimming with confidence. He slipped his tie from around his neck and tied it like a bandana around his head. Then he slapped a new clip into the rifle, and slid back the bolt with a metallic snick. "I'll teach these bastards they can't mess with the good ol' U.S. of A."

And with that, Mike bolted off into the darkness. A few minutes later, Ben heard machine gun fire and angry, guttural shouts that turned into dying screams. And above it all, he could hear Mike shouting, "Yeah, you like that? You want some? How about you? Take that, you terrorist bastards!"

Ben took shelter with Dutch under the table, waiting for the end of the threat. He crouched on the floor with his panting, sweating boss and imagined Mike, bloodcaked and grimy, unleashing death on wave after wave of terrorists.

And he sighed. Great, he thought. How in the hell am I ever going to top that?

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Orange Alert © 2005 by Chris Irby

But I Digress...

I remember when I was 10 years old, and I spent hours upon hours making potholders out of sock loops. I would hook the loops onto this special plastic frame that had all these little pegs on it, and then I would weave the little sock loops in and out, in and out, in and out, until I had filled up the entire frame. And when it was done, I would take the little plastic hook and go around the edges, hooking each loop through the previous loop, until I had finally formed a beautiful, colorful potholder.

One night, my mother and sister and I were just sitting there, making potholders and watching Quincy. It was this really interesting episode where Quincy was investigating some guy that had died, but what I remember most of all was this commercial for Grape Nuts cereal.

The commercial sticks in my mind because there was this old man in the ad who was feeding Grape Nuts to his grandson, just like my grandfather used to do to me. I would often ask him, "Grandpa? How come they call them Grape Nuts? They don't have grapes or nuts in them?" And my grandfather would just laugh softly and tell me to shut the hell up before he sliced my freakin’ throat with a bayonet.

My grandfather was a little high strung because he spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp during WWII. He finally escaped one night when he broke the neck of one of the guards with his bare hands, dressed the guard in his rags, and left him in his cell. He then donned the guard's uniform and made his way into the streets. Some Philippine rebels took pity on him and helped smuggle him to Hawaii in a gigantic halibut. Grandpa returned home a hero, but was never the same.

My grandmother, in the meantime, had believed my grandfather to be dead and had been so stricken with grief that she was unable to cope. At last, she found that killing drifters abated the pain somewhat. Even when Grandpa returned, she found herself unable to stop. She would spend her evenings cruising the highway in her green Ford LTD and picking up hitchhikers.

One of these hitchhikers, surprisingly enough, was Jim Morrison himself! Turns out he had faked his death in Paris to get away from the fans and surreptitiously made his way back into the country. He was on his way to Memphis to visit the grave of the recently departed Elvis when my grandmother picked him up and plunged a ceremonial dagger into the back of his neck.

The dagger had been a gift to her from Grumar Daemonicus, the crazy old satanic high priest that lived in the boarding house. My grandmother had once hidden Grumar in her basement when the local church came looking for him, hoping to burn him at the stake for practicing witchcraft. In return, he had given my grandmother the dagger that, according to legend, had been carved from the bones of a long dead god.

This god, Viseroghagoth, was said to be so horrifying that anyone glimpsing its true form would be driven instantly insane. Such was the case of Galgamor, a Sumerian priest who received such horrifying visions that he finally tore his own eyes from his head and drowned himself in the Euphrates River.

Galgamor's remains were discovered in a clay pot by Dr. Reginald Reese, noted archeologist and expert on ancient cultures. Dr. Reese uncovered the urn while on a routine dig, but was devoured by a ravenous swarm of scorpions as he was attempting to decipher the strange cuneiform text.

When word of her husband's grisly death reached her in Salt Lake City, Emily Reese could scarcely contain her joy. For years, she had been suffering in silence, secretly in love with their maid Marie, yet she dared not speak of her forbidden passions. But now, with her husband out of the way, Emily and Marie were at last free to love. Their lingering embrace became a passionate kiss, and before they knew what had happened, they were lost in a white flash of hot, blinding lust. Their naked bodies entwined, their pale and sweaty flesh pressed together as, wordlessly but in unison, they brought each other to the sheer pinnacle of ecstasy. And Emily wept, because she had never known love could be so primal.

When they had finished, Marie left Emily sleeping so she could go downstairs and start dinner. While she was waiting for the water to boil, her mind drifted to her brother Maurice, whom she hadn't seen since he had been dispatched to Iraq to assassinate Saddam Hussein. It had been six years, and she hadn't heard a word from him. She was remembering his sad eyes and his kind smile when she reached for the boiling pot and burned her fingers. Gasping, she jerked away and accidentally knocked over a mason jar full of grease.

The grease spread across the stove and immediately burst into flames. Foolishly, Marie tried to extinguish the fire by pouring water on it, which only caused it to spread further. Before she knew it, the curtains were on fire. Marie tried desperately to make it upstairs to where Emily was sleeping, but was quickly overcome by the smoke. She passed out on the stairs, and never made it out alive.

"What a senseless waste of human life," said Bill Sadler, a local fire fighter and deacon, as he presided over Marie's funeral. The entire congregation wept, but none more bitterly than Emily, who had been miraculously spared in the raging inferno. "But for me," Bill went on, his voice quavering with poignancy, "the most tragic thing is that this whole horrible incident could have been avoided if only Marie had used a potholder."

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I submitted this short story to a literary magazine called "Axe Factory Review" last November, because they said they were looking for "quirky, off-center, offensive and annoying" stories. The manuscript was returned to me with a Post-It note attached. And written on the Post-It note was:

"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits. Send $8 for a sample."

Yeah. Cute. But pretty much par for the course. Most of these literary magazines like to hawk their subscriptions even while they're telling you how much your writing fucking sucks. But the funniest part was that, written on the manuscript itself (right around the 7th paragraph), was a single comment. And it read:

"What boarding house?"

So apparently, Mr. Axe Factory Guardian Spirit Wrangler was okay with the story up to that point. I can just see him reading it and making his notations. "Hmmmm... sock loops... right... right... uh huh... bayonet... right... giant halibut... got it... killing drifters... hmmmm... Jim Morrison... I see... uh huh... ceremonial dagger... uh huh... WAIT! WHAT FUCKING BOARDING HOUSE?"

I imagine he was so upset by this point that he dropped the skull from which he'd been drinking port and began frantically waving his silk lace handkerchief to ward off "the vapors." And as the naked serving boys scrambled to fetch his briar pipe and his fur-lined cape, he cried out in an effeminate voice, "By the flaming tits of Percy Bysshe Shelley!" Then, I'm pretty sure he crapped his pants.

"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits." Christ. How much pretension can you fit on one fucking Post-It note?