Pete Simons's Blog

What��s Going On

I haven��t posted to my blog for several months now. You may be wondering what happened to me. No, I wasn��t abducted by aliens or trapped on an un-dockable cruise ship (sorry Bonnie) or put into the witness protection program and forced to serve out the rest of my life in an igloo. (Although that last one is actually a pretty good approximation of what it feels like to live in Minnesota right now.) Truth be told, I��ve pretty much been a recluse inside the house, except for an exciting long-weekend trip to Pittsburg, Kansas that no doubt will be immortalized in a song or a short story someday.

I��ve been keeping busy with the release and marketing of my second novel, White as Snow, which was self-published in paperback in December and an ebook format in early January. Visit my website at www.PeteSimonsAuthor.com for more information, if you haven��t already been completely bored to tears by my constant references to it on Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, and now Instagram (follow me at Pete_Simons2).

You may also have noticed that many of my earlier postings on this blog have been deleted. That is due to some recent comments by a literary agent, who strongly suggested that authors not make drafts of their work available to the public, for a number of good reasons that I won��t go into. (Hint: several reasons were based upon the fact that early drafts tend to suck, which I really couldn��t argue with.) From now on, I��ll only be posting material here that I have no intention of ever publishing. (But I��ll try not to let it suck, so I hope you��ll keep reading!)

So, yeah, that implies that I��m planning to publish some of the stuff that I��ve deleted. I��ve been working hard on my third book, which will be called Uncooperative Characters. It will be a collection of twenty-four short stories, some of which (but not all!) appeared on this blog as earlier drafts. I��ve fixed them up so they no longer suck. Or suck as much, I suppose. I��m now looking for a literary agent to represent the book.

I recently pitched my work in three separate Zoom meetings with literary agents, two of whom seemed sincerely interested, even enthusiastic, dare I say it. I��ve submitted written queries to them and several others. We��ll see what happens. If I fail to find an agent, I��ll probably self-publish the book in the fall. But if I��m successful, it will likely go through several more agent-driven revisions, a process of pitching the work to professional publishing houses, several more publisher-driven revisions, the development of a marketing plan, and finally a market release sometime in 2022 or even later. So don��t hold your breath.

Marketing books is my least favorite part of being an author. It takes a lot of time and effort, and it��s very difficult to gain traction when you don��t have a big advertising budget and can��t get into the bookstores (which not many people are visiting right now anyway, I suppose). So here��s how you can help me if you��re so inclined:

1) If you��ve read the book, please give me an honest review on Goodreads, Barnes & Noble, and/or Amazon.

2) If you liked the book, tell your friends! If you didn��t, mum��s the word.

3) Please consider forwarding/reposting any of my Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, and Instagram posts to your friends and contacts.

4) You might want to rent a large billboard next to a major highway and display a picture of my book along with your personal recommendation. Just a thought.

5) Wish me luck. Preferably by utilizing a large billboard next to a major highway.

Thanks.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on February 16, 2021 12:00

Review of Salman Rushdie��s novel, Quichotte

Quichotte has now supplanted Midnight��s Children as my favorite Rushdie work. I think he struck exactly the right balance in this novel. His prose, which tends to be somewhat meandering, works well here. The story is well structured and it flips back and forth between the story of Sam DuChamp, who is the ��author�� of the novel, and the tale of Quichotte (his fictional character) and Quichotte��s imaginary son Sancho.

This is not a modernized retelling of Cervantes�� Don Quixote. (Those looking for such a comic reimagining might be interested to consider my own humble effort in this regard, The Coyote by Pete Simons. If so, please visit my Goodreads Author page or my website at www.Pete SimonsAuthor.com). Quichotte uses the Cervantes novel as inspiration, but its plot is wholly different and wildly ambitious. In Rushdie��s words, ��He [Sam DuChamp] was trying to write about impossible, obsessional love, father-son relationships, sibling quarrels, and yes, unforgivable things; about Indian immigrants, racism toward them, crooks among them; about cyber-spies, science fiction, the intertwining of fictional and ��real�� realities, the death of the author, the end of the world. He [��] wanted to incorporate elements of the parodic, and of satire and pastiche.��

There are strange twists and occurrences throughout. (In one instance, the population of a New Jersey town are being inexplicably transformed into mastodons). Lovers of Haruki Murakami should be quite comfortable traversing the landscape that Rushdie has created.

I��ll be looking forward to giving this one a re-read at some future time.

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on November 03, 2020 11:00

Uncooperative Characters

The author stared at the blank screen and willed himself to think of a storyline. Any storyline would do. He could expand upon it or patch it up later. But he couldn��t take another hour of this idiotic writer��s block, this painful constipation of words. He was going to pen something today if it killed him. So what if it sounded like a bad idea at first? Many great works of fiction began with a stupid premise. A man wakes up to find he has turned into a gigantic insect, for example. Or some boys get stranded on a desert island and start to kill one another. Or an evil ring must be destroyed. (Tolkien managed to get three large books out of that one.)

��Death is always a good character,�� suggested Death.

The author turned around to find a black-robed figure sitting in the La-z-boy recliner. A black-handled scythe was leaning against the grandfather clock. The grim reaper held a can of hard cider in one bony hand and some peanuts in the other. Every few seconds, he would toss a peanut into the dark void of his cowl where it disappeared, never to return. The remaining peanuts trembled with fear.

��I already wrote a short story about Death,�� said the author. ��You were on a beach, remember? And stop eating my peanuts.��

��Write another one about me. I��m telling you, Death never gets old. I could SPEAK IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS IF YOU LIKE.��

��No. Terry Pratchett already played that card, and much better than I ever could. Besides, I kind of maxed out on capital letters in my first novel, The Coyote. I��m afraid my computer will run out of them if I keep it up.��

��How about a different font, then? Something powerful and ominous?�� Death suggested.

��Better, but I dunno �� I was thinking more along the lines of a romantic comedy /magical pirate western, with maybe a sci-fi teenage slasher horror vibe. Something with gratuitous sex and violence but conveying a compassionate message that all mankind can embrace.��

Death delivered eternal rest to the remaining peanuts and grabbed another handful from the bowl. ��In other words, you don��t have a clue what to write about, do you?��

��No.��

��Well, in that case, I see only one option,�� said Death.

��You don��t mean��?��

��Yes. You must hold a Zoom meeting of the stock characters.��

It only took a few hours to organize. Naturally, due to the short notice, some of the most popular stock characters were unavailable. Prince Charming, Girl Next Door, Sleazy Politician, and Wise Old Man had prior commitments. Mad Scientist, Dark Lord, Dumb Blonde, and Bug-Eyed Monster were in locations without internet connectivity, and Humorous Drunk Guy was ��indisposed,�� having never gotten over the damage to his reputation from the movie Arthur several decades ago.

There were still plenty of stereotypes online when the author entered in his Zoom meeting I.D. and password. The computer screen was filled with little rectangular boxes, each containing a small video image of a standard fictional character.

��Good evening, everyone. I am the author, and I��d like to welcome you to tonight��s Zoom meeting on the topic of my new short story, as yet unnamed. I��m hoping to get some inspiration and insights from each of you as we brainstorm possible plots. Remember, there are no bad ideas on this call! So please don��t criticize other characters�� suggestions. To minimize unnecessary embarrassment, I will quietly discard all the crappy concepts after the Zoom call is over. Death is here with me, and he��ll be taking notes during these proceedings. Who��d like to begin?��

��Well, I guess I��ll run this up the flagpole and see who salutes it,�� said Hard-As-Nails-Gunslinger-With-A-Heart-Of-Gold. ��How��s about Femme Fatale and I get together to investigate the disappearance of her husband, for starters?�� Femme Fatale signaled her agreement by crossing her legs and raising a coquettish eyelash.

��Yeah, okay,�� seconded Evil Clown, ��But it turns out the husband��s dead, killed by yours truly, and I go on to kill his Sleazy Lawyer and Sleazy Banker as well. Of course, the reader won��t know that it��s me at first.��

��Sounds like a good start to me,�� said Death.

��I thought Sleazy Lawyer had another commitment tonight,�� said the author.

��No, I��m here,�� said Sleazy Lawyer. ��It was my friend, Sleazy Politician, who had the conflict.��

��Oh, my mistake.��

��I��d like to volunteer my services at this juncture,�� said Red Herring. ��You can direct the initial attention to me as the likely assassin.��

��But then I��ll have to kill you,�� said Evil Clown.

��Of course,�� replied Red Herring. ��But not too soon.��

Evil Clown rolled his painted eyes. ��Please. Give me some credit. I��m a professional.��

��No offense meant, Your Clownship.��

��None taken, Red. It��ll be great working with you again.��

��Hang on a minute, this plot seems too male-oriented,�� said the Female Chosen One. ��Maybe I should get in on the action.��

��Okay, point taken, but isn��t the Chosen One a Vampire Slayer? I don��t think we require your services, since there are no vampires in this tale,�� said the author.

��That can be fixed,�� said Bloodsucking Vampire.

��Not so fast. This is a short story, not a 5-book epic series,�� replied the author.

��Tut, tut. No criticisms. Remember the ground rules,�� said Death.

��Oops. My bad,�� said the author.

Female Chosen One put on her pouty face. ��The Chosen One is not limited to fighting vampires. I��ve slain many an Evil Clown in my day.��

��I can attest to that,�� said Evil Clown.

��Very well,�� said the author. ��That��s good for starters. I��ll consider it. But let��s get a few more ideas on the board for me to choose from. Anyone else?��

��How about if a cockroach named Gregor were to wake up one morning to find he had been transformed into a tiny human?�� said Tiny Human.

��Yes, and then he is shunned by his fellow bugs,�� said Monster-Eyed Bug.

��You��re here? I thought �� started the author.

��Bug-Eyed Monster is out of town. I��m Monster-Eyed Bug,�� clarified the bug.

��Oh, right.��

��Or how about a horror story about a bloodsucking vampire?�� suggested Bloodsucking Vampire. ��Although I should point out right away that I��m a dues-paying member of the Stock Characters Union and your usage of my character will need to comply with all union rules.��

��Um, I��m not sure if I��m completely familiar with ��

��I can help out with that,�� said Sleazy Lawyer. ��I��m employed by the Union. A full description of the rules would take too long to explain on this call, but just let me highlight the biggies. And I��m available for consultation to discuss the rest. At reasonable rates, of course. First, union members must be afforded with frequent coffee and relaxation breaks, so my client can only appear on odd-numbered pages of your story. You��re perfectly welcome to have other characters talk about him on the even pages, as long as he isn��t present.��

��That sounds unduly restrictive,�� said the author.

��You��ll figure it out. Second, you cannot defame my client��s character and you must always defend his honor during your narration.��

��But he��s a Bloodsucking Vampire!�� exclaims the author.

��That��s Honorable Bloodsucking Vampire to you and your readers. Third, my client can only die at the hand of another member of the union. Fourth, he is not permitted to utter any words beginning with the letters q, v, x, and z, because all such words have been deemed to be silly and inappropriate.��

��You mean, like Vampire?��

Sleazy Lawyer stopped for a moment. ��I take your point. We may be able to get a waiver of that particular rule in this case. If you would prepare a written list of the words you would need, I could seek the necessary approvals for a small fee.��

��None of this is going to make me particularly inclined to hire a union member, is it?�� asked the author.

Sleazy Lawyer frowned and said, ��I hope your last comment doesn��t imply a bias against the Union. Because refusal to hire one of our members solely because he or she belongs to the Union is illegal and we would prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. And perhaps I should have mentioned earlier that I am recording this entire Zoom call for possible legal use.��

There was a long silence.

��Just out of curiosity, how many of you are union members?�� asked the author.

Everyone raised their hand except for Death and the Terrifying Space Alien.

��Oh my God,�� exclaimed the author.

��Ahem,�� said Honorable Bloodsucking Vampire. ��In addition to the Union rules, I will also have one condition of my own.��

��And what might that be?�� asked the author.

��It��s nothing much. I simply don��t want to work opposite Female Chosen One again. Frankly, she gets on my nerves with that holier-than-thou attitude of hers.��

��Now just a darn minute, you bloodsucking�� began Female Chosen One.

��Honorable bloodsucking,�� corrected Sleazy Lawyer.

��People, people, let��s keep this civil, please,�� said Death.

��We��re just putting together ideas here, folks. There��s no need to mark your territory,�� said the author. ��Please continue, Honorable Bloodsucking Vampire. If Female Chosen One is not your nemesis, then who is?��

��That��s your decision; you��re the writer. Perhaps Old Wise Man?��

��He��s not available right now due to a prior commitment,�� said the author.

��Not so fast, sonny. I am available,�� said Old Wise Man.

��But ��

��Look, it��s Wise Old Man who��s absent. I��m Old Wise Man.��

��But �� what��s the difference?��

��Are you daft, author? It��s self-evident. He��s an old man who happens to be wise. I, on the other hand, am a wise man who happens to be old.��

��I see.��

��And you call yourself a wordsmith,�� Old Wise Man scoffs.

Ignoring the slight, the author says, ��Why don��t we hear from some of the stock characters who have remained silent thus far? You there, in the red shirt. What��s your name?��

��Who, me? I��m Redshirt.��

��Um, help me out here. What exactly is your role?��

��Well, I��m the guy who gets very little introduction and is the first to die. You know, like in the original Star Trek episodes? There��d always be some young ensign who beams down to the planet and gets killed by the Bug-Eyed Monster before the first commercial. He��s usually wearing a red shirt. That was me,�� Redshirt says proudly.

��Oh, I see. Thank you, Redshirt. And the person or thing to your right? What��s your deal?��

��I am Terrifying Space Alien. I generally don��t have a speaking part.��

��Yes, your slime-dripping tentacles certainly are intimidating, I��ll grant you that. And what is your particular specialty?��

��May I demonstrate?��

��Of course. That��s what we��re here for.��

Terrifying Space Alien suddenly dissolved into nothingness, then rematerialized right behind Redshirt. He wrapped his tentacles around the man and squeezed until Redshirt��s head exploded, covering his box with blood.

Teenage Scream Queen looked up from the box directly below and screamed.

��Well done, Terrifying Space Alien,�� said Death. ��I give you nine points for style, but minus two points for excessive gore. The author wishes to remain unnamed, but I can disclose that he is not Quentin Tarantino.��

Terrifying Space Alien rematerialized inside his own box and said, ��I��m sorry to hear that, Death. But if you happen to bump into Mr. Tarantino in the future, I��d really appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me.��

��I certainly will,�� said Death. ��I do some consulting for him fairly frequently.��

��I was pretty good too, wasn��t I, Mr. Death?�� fawned Teenage Scream Queen.

��Oh, yes,�� said Death. ��It was a very nice scream, my dear. Ear-piercing, I should say.�� Teenage Scream Queen blushed.

��OH MY GOD! WE��RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!�� shouted Delayed-Reaction Pessimist.

��Hey, watch it with those capital letters,�� cautioned the author. ��They don��t grow on trees.��

��What about you, Evil Henchman?�� prodded Death. ��You��ve been unusually quiet this evening.��

��Oh, just call me Igor. Everyone does,�� said Evil Henchman. ��But honestly, I don��t even know why I logged onto this call. I never work solo, you see, and Mad Scientist is vacationing in Peru. Thus, I��m not currently in a position to hench.��

��Maybe you should reconsider your solo prohibition policy, Igor. You don��t always have to be paired up with Mad Scientist. What if I featured you in a story with Absentminded Professor? It could create an interesting dynamic,�� suggested the author.

��I��d be up for that,�� said Absentminded Professor.

��Hmm. It could be interesting to hench for a good guy. But would I still be evil?�� asked Evil Henchman, a.k.a. Igor.

��Of course,�� said the author. ��That��s what I mean about the dynamic. Absentminded Professor could think he��s doing good, but you steer him toward evil without his knowledge.��

��I��d be up for that,�� said Absentminded Professor. ��What were we talking about, again?��

��Very interesting,�� said Evil Henchman. ��Igor will consider this suggestion, thank you.��

��sorry,�� said Delayed-Reaction Pessimist. ��i didn��t mean to speak in all capital letters before. i just got carried away. i hope I didn��t blow my chances for a spot, but i know i probably did. this kind of thing is always happening to me. my life sucks.��

��Really, Delayed-Reaction Pessimist, don��t worry about it,�� said the author. Then addressing the entire group, he said, ��Well, everyone, our time limit on Zoom is almost up.��

��Only because you��re too cheap to buy the version without a time limit,�� muttered Old Wise Man.

The author continued undeterred. ��I��d like to thank you for participating in today��s video call. It��s been very instructive and you��ve given me lots to think about. I��ll contact you directly if you��re a potential fit for my story, once I��ve decided upon an appropriate plot.��

��I��ll be holding my breath with anticipation,�� said Old Wise Man.

��Again, thank you for ��

The screen went blank and a small message box appeared. ��Your Zoom meeting has ended.��

��Well, did you find that helpful?�� asked Death.

��I don��t know. They weren��t exactly the most cooperative bunch of characters I��ve ever worked with.��

��But it gave you some ideas to consider, I hope?��

��Perhaps. A few.��

��Well, I must be going. I have an appointment in Samarra tonight. Toodles.��

Death suddenly disappeared from the La-z-boy with a small ��pop.��

Writer��s Block Author turned back to his computer and stared at the blank screen.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on August 27, 2020 11:00

Question Time

Kenneth watched the love of his life sleeping next to him and thought back to the day they met, last Tuesday. She had been preparing a grande white chocolate mocha frappuccino and Kenneth had never seen anything so beautiful. The girl, that is. Not the frappuccino, although it was very nice as well.

��What��s your name?�� he asked. As if he didn��t know already.

��Don��t you know who I think I am?�� she said, pointing at her Starbucks badge. It read, ��Laura.��

��Do you believe in magic?�� Kenneth asked.

Laura shrugged and gestured to the room. ��Could this be magic?��

Kenneth reached over and pulled a coin from behind Laura��s ear and handed it to her. ��Could this be magic? How��s your love life, Baby? Can I call you tonight?��

��Are you strong enough to be my man?�� she asked, bemusedly.

��What does it take to win your love?��

��Why don��t you try?��

Kenneth turned to the woman behind him in the queue and asked, ��Isn��t she lovely?��

The morose-looking man waiting for the chai latte observed these proceedings with scorn. ��Is she really going out with him?�� he scoffed.

They met after she got off from work at 6 pm and drove south of San Francisco to a little Italian place he��d heard of. It was supposed to be intimate and romantic, which was just what he was looking for. Unfortunately, he got lost along the way and had to pull into a service station.

��Do you know the way to San Jose?�� he asked the attendant.

Luckily, Laura found his lack of a sense of direction amusing and the rest of the evening was harmonious. The dinner was a symphony for the palate and their conversation maintained a steady rhythm. It was raining when they left the restaurant, but that didn��t dampen their harmony.

��Who��ll stop the rain?�� Kenneth asked as they walked toward his car.

��Have you ever seen the rain?�� Laura said. ��Isn��t it romantic?��

He had to agree. He drove her home and they kissed while the raindrops maintained a steady staccato on the windshield.

��When will I see you again?�� Kenneth asked.

��How soon is now?�� she responded.

That was then. Then came now. And here they were, sharing a bed. Kenneth couldn��t believe his good fortune.

Laura opened her eyes to find Kenneth staring at her. She smiled. ��What��s new, Pussycat?�� she purred.

��Do you love me?�� Kenneth asked.

Laura��s face scrunched up. ��What��s love got to do with it? What time is it?��

��Does anybody really know what time it is?�� responded Kenneth in a pouty voice. ��Is you is or is you ain��t my baby?��

Laura sighed. ��Why do fools fall in love?�� she asked, not expecting an answer. ��Do you wanna dance?��

She jumped out of bed and turned the radio on, looking for a rock station.

��What��s the frequency, Kenneth?�� she asked.

The radio started playing a Rufus Thomas song, ��Can Your Monkey Do the Dog?��

��Who let the dogs out?�� yelled Kenneth. He jumped up and they began to dance, but before the song was over there was a loud rapping at the front porch.

��Who can it be now?�� he muttered.

They got dressed quickly and Kenneth opened the door to find his friend Tommy. Nosy as usual, Tommy pushed his way in. ��What��s going on? Who��s that lady?��

Kenneth made introductions.

Tommy whistled and asked her, ��Are you lonesome tonight? Da ya think I��m sexy? Don��t you want me?��

Laura laughed and Kenneth shook his head, getting annoyed. ��Can��t you see that she��s mine? What am I gonna do with you?��

��How long has this been going on? Does your mother know?�� inquired Tommy.

Kenneth put his arm around his buddy and directed him to the exit. ��Have you ever loved a woman?�� he whispered. ��Why don��t you leave me alone?��

��What��d I say?�� asked Tommy. ��Should I stay or should I go?��

��Tommy, can you hear me?�� Kenneth pointed to the door.

Tommy got the message. Kenneth saw him out and then turned back into the house. After closing the door, he noticed Laura flipping through his cellphone pictures. His heart skipped a beat. Oh, no.

He discerned from Laura��s expression that she had found the photos he had been surreptitiously been taking of her for the past several months. She looked up with hatred in her eyes.

��Is that all there is? What��s your game?�� she growled.

Kenneth knew it didn��t look good for him. ��Didn��t I blow your mind this time?��

Laura screamed and pointed at the phone. ��Is this love? What kind of fool am I? You��ve been stalking me!��

Kenneth was startled by the absence of a question mark.

��Where did our love go?�� he mumbled.

Laura collected her things and marched out of the house. ��Hit the road, Jack!�� was the last thing she said as the door slammed behind her.

��Why does love got to be so sad?�� moaned Kenneth. He dejectedly erased all of Laura��s photos and wondered whether that new girl at the Burger King might be the real love of his life.

-��

Songs Referenced

Lynyrd Skynyrd. ��What��s Your Name?�� Street Survivors. Rossington, Van Zant. 1977.

Fall Out Boy. ��Don��t You Know Who I Think I Am?�� Infinity on High. Stump, Wentz, Trohman, Hurley. 2007.

The Lovin�� Spoonful. ��Do You Believe in Magic?�� Do You Believe in Magic? Sebastian. 1965.

Van Halen. ��Could This Be Magic?�� Women and Children First. Van Halen, Van Halen, Anthony, Roth. 1980.

Jackie Moore. ��How��s Your Love Life, Baby?�� I��m On My Way. Moore. 1979.

Dayglow. ��Can I Call You Tonight?�� Fuzzybrain. Struble. 2018.

Sheryl Crow. ��Are You Strong Enough To Be My Man?�� Tuesday Night Music Club. Crow, Bottrell, Baerwald, Gilbert, Ricketts, MacLeod. 1993.

Jr. Walker and the All Stars. ��What Does It Take To Win Your Love?�� Home Cookin��. Bristol, Fuqua, Bullock. 1969.

Kelly Clarkson. ��Why Don��t You Try?�� Stronger. Hutchinson. 2011.

Stevie Wonder. ��Isn��t She Lovely?�� Songs in the Key of Life. Wonder. 1975.

Joe Jackson. ��Is She Really Going Out with Him?�� Look Sharp! Jackson. 1978.

Dionne Warwick. ��Do You Know the Way to San Jose?�� Dionne Warwick in the Valley of the Dolls. Bacharach, David. 1968.

Creedence Clearwater Revival. ��Who��ll Stop the Rain?�� Cosmo��s Factory. Fogerty. 1970.

Creedence Clearwater Revival. ��Have You Ever Seen the Rain?�� Pendulum. Fogerty. 1971.

��Isn��t It Romantic?�� Rodgers, Hart. 1932.

The Three Degrees. ��When Will I See You Again?�� The Three Degrees. Gamble, Huff. 1974.

The Smiths. ��How Soon Is Now?�� Hatful of Hollow. Marr, Morrissey. 1985.

Tom Jones. ��What��s New Pussycat?�� What��s New Pussycat? Bacharach, David. 1965.

The Contours. ��Do You Love Me?�� Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance). Gordy. 1962.

Tina Turner. ��What��s Love Got to Do with It?�� Private Dancer. Britten, Lyle. 1984.

High School Musical 2 Cast. ��What Time Is It?�� High School Musical 2. Gerrard, Nevil. 2007.

Chicago. ��Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?�� Chicago Transit Authority. Lamm. 1970.

Louis Jordan. ��Is You Is or Is You Ain��t My Baby?�� Austin, Jordan. 1943.

Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers. ��Why Do Fools Fall in Love?�� The Teenagers Featuring Frankie Lymon. Lymon, Santiago, Merchant. 1956.

Barry Blue. ��Do You Wanna Dance?�� Barry Blue. Blue. 1973.

R.E.M. ��What��s the Frequency, Kenneth?�� Monster. Berry, Buck, Mills, Stipe. 1994.

Rufus Thomas. ��Can Your Monkey Do the Dog?�� Walking the Dog. Thomas, Cropper. 1964.

Baha Men. ��Who Let the Dogs Out?�� Who Let the Dogs Out? Greenberg, Traynor. 2000.

Men at Work. ��Who Can It Be Now?�� Business as Usual. Hay. 1981.

Marvin Gaye. ��What��s Going On?�� What��s Going On? Cleveland, Benson, Gaye. 1971.

The Isley Brothers. ��Who��s That Lady?�� 3 + 3. The Isley Brothers. 1973.

Charles Hart. ��Are You Lonesome Tonight?�� Handman, Turk. 1927.

Rod Stewart. ��Da Ya Think I��m Sexy?�� Blondes Have More Fun. Stewart, Appice, Hitchings. 1978.

The Human League. ��Don��t You Want Me?�� Dave. Callis, Oakey, Wright. 1981.

The Dave Clark Five. ��Can��t You See That She��s Mine?�� The Dave Clark Five Return! Ryan, Smith. 1964.

Barry White. ��What Am I Gonna Do with You?�� Just Another Way To Say I Love You. White. 1975.

George Gershwin. ��How Long Has This Been Going On?�� Funny Face. Gershwin, Gershwin. 1928.

ABBA. ��Does Your Mother Know?�� Voulez-Vous. Andersson, Ulvaeus. 1979.

Freddy King. ��Have You Ever Loved a Woman?�� Myles. 1960.

Hank Williams III. ��Why Don��t You Leave Me Alone?�� Risin�� Outlaw. Hancock. 1999.

Ray Charles. ��What��d I Say?�� What��d I Say? Charles. 1959.

The Clash. ��Should I Stay or Should I Go?�� Combat Rock. Headon, Jones, Simonon, Strummer. 1982.

The Who. ��Tommy Can You Hear Me?�� Tommy. Townshend, Entwhistle, Daltrey. 1969.

Peggy Lee. ��Is That All There Is?�� Is That All There Is? Lieber, Stoller. 1969.

The Ramones. ��What��s Your Game?�� Leave Home. Ramone. 1977.

The Delfonics. ��Didn��t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)?�� The Delfonics. Bell, Hart. 1969.

Whitesnake. ��Is This Love?�� Whitesnake. Coverdale, Sykes. 1987.

Sammy Davis Jr. ��What Kind of Fool Am I?�� What Kind of Fool Am I? Bricusse, Newley. 1962.

The Supremes. ��Where Did Our Love Go?�� Where Did Our Love Go? Holland, Dozier, Holland. 1964.

Ray Charles. ��Hit the Road Jack.�� Mayfield. 1961.

Derek and the Dominos. ��Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad?�� Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs. Clapton, Whitlock. 1928.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on August 19, 2020 13:00

Housebound

He woke up feeling like his entire body had been hit with a sledgehammer and wondered whether he had come down with the coronavirus everyone was talking about. He��d need to distance himself from Shauna and the kids. Maybe go get tested someplace.

Shauna was still sleeping peacefully beside him. Since it was Saturday, there was no rush to get up. He lay motionless for another twenty minutes and started to feel a little better. He was still sore but the pounding in his head had stopped. He eased himself up with more effort than was usually required. I was fine when I went to bed last night, he thought. But I sure feel like crap now. It was still dark. The clock on the nightstand read 5:48 a.m.

He stood up and grimaced at the pain. His legs were like lead. He stepped slowly to the bathroom and threw some water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and started. No way! I��ve grown a beard and mustache overnight. How is that even possible?

He headed downstairs and noticed all of the curtains had been drawn. Strange, he thought. I wonder why Shauna covered all the windows. He moved to the kitchen and popped a K-cup into the Keurig machine and turned it on. The aroma of the dripping coffee was comforting. He sat at the counter and relished the first sip.

He heard noises upstairs and realized Shauna was awake. A few minutes later she came down the stairs, looking beautiful as usual, albeit a little worse for wear.

��My God. I feel like I��ve been run over by a truck.��

��I know. I��m in the same condition. Coffee helps a little; I��ll make you a cup.�� He stood up.

��Thanks, Hon. Hey, why did you close all the curtains?��

��I thought you did that.��

��No �� at least, I don��t think I did. Oh God, Frank, your face!��

Frank smiled. ��I know. I��ll shave it off in a minute.��

��But how can that even happen overnight?��

��Damned if I know, Love. Here, this should help a bit.��

She took a sip. ��Mmm. Yeah. Thanks, it hits the spot.�� She looked at his hands. ��Your fingernails could use a trim also. Mine too. Weird.�� She took another sip. ��Frank, do you think we both have COVID? What are we going to do about the kids?��

��I don��t know. Let��s just take it slow. We should probably get tested for it later today. Did you check on them before you came down?��

��Yeah, they��re both sleeping peacefully. Could you open the curtains, please?��

��Sure.��

Frank pulled the cord and uttered an out-of-character expletive.

��Frank?��

��Come and see this.��

Shauna approached and looked at the window. ��What the hell?�� she said.

Frank was busy opening more curtains. ��It��s the same all over. All the windows are covered with some kind of plastic sheeting on the outside.��

��I don��t understand.��

��I��ll go out and have a look.�� He opened the front door and froze in place. ��No frigging way.��

Shauna stepped behind him. ��What the hell is that, Frank?��

��It��s a large metal container, like an airlock. It covers the whole doorframe. There��s another door on the other end.�� He stepped inside and fiddled with the latch on the outer door. He banged against it with his fists. ��It��s no good, it��s locked. I can��t open it.��

��My God, this is insane. I��m scared. What��s going on?��

��I don��t know. Let��s check the other door.��

The back door, which opened outward, wouldn��t budge. There appeared to be something blocking it. More of that plastic, presumably.

��I��m calling the cops,�� said Frank. He pulled out his cellphone and was surprised to find it turned off. He pushed the power button and it came to life.

��That��s odd,�� he said after a few moments. ��There��s no signal. And no internet.��

��Let me try mine,�� Shauna said. But it was the same result.

Frank placed his phone down on the table. ��I��ll check the kids�� phones in a little while. But I expect it��ll be the same. Something must be blocking the signal. Maybe it��ll clear up later.��

��Do you think it��s got to do with the virus, Frank? Maybe it��s some kind of emergency measure?��

��That��s hard to believe, Hon. They couldn��t have known we were sick. And how could they do this overnight? Why didn��t we hear anything?��

��Let��s check the news, anyway.��

They proceeded to the living room and turned on the flat screen. The picture showed a rotund man with a blue shirt and captain��s hat arguing with a thin man in a red shirt, white pants, and a floppy white hat. They were standing on a beach next to a wrecked pleasure boat.

Shauna pointed the remote control at the screen and changed the channel. It was the same show. She flipped quickly through the options, growing increasingly agitated.

��This is impossible. Every channel is broadcasting the same episode of Gilligan��s Island! Even CNN and Fox news!�� She turned it off.

��No, Hon, leave it on. Just turn the sound down. Maybe they��ll start broadcasting again later this morning.��

Shauna complied. The professor was demonstrating his bicycle-powered washing machine.

��I��m going to check the upstairs windows,�� said Frank.

��Okay, but stay out of the kids�� rooms for now, alright?��

��Sure. If all of the other windows are covered, there��s hardly any reason to check theirs anyway.��

��I��m going to make a few masks for us to wear, just in case.��

��Sounds good. We can��t be too careful in this situation.��

Frank ascended the stairs, noting to himself how unusually strenuous the climb was. A minute or two later he came back down, a frown upon his bearded face.

��It��s the same thing upstairs. All the windows are covered by some sort of shielding. I managed to slide one of the panes open and felt the surface of the stuff. It seems to be a plastic. Very smooth and hard. It seems airtight. It wouldn��t budge when I hit it.��

��Oh my God, Frank. Do you think we��ve been put into a high-tech quarantine?��

Frank scratched his head and realized he needed a haircut. ��I dunno, Hon. I wouldn��t have thought our government would do that, even if they could.��

He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. ��unless we have a disease that��s too dangerous to let escape, in which case we��re in a world of hurt. But why would they mess with our phone and internet reception?

Frank��s musings were interrupted by a shrill scream from upstairs. ��Mommy! Daddy! Help me! I��m really sick!��

��We��re coming, Juliet!�� shouted his wife as they both heavily climbed the stairs. They entered their seven-year-old daughter��s room. And stopped dead in their tracks at the door. Something was definitely wrong.

Juliet was sitting up in her bed.

She was older.

Not way older. Maybe she had grown about a year��s worth? But she sure didn��t look like this when they had put her to bed last night.

And it wasn��t his imagination, Frank realized. Her clothes were too tight. They no longer fit her body.

Frank looked at his wife. He didn��t need to point it out. She knew and she was trying to come to grips with it, without success.

Because it simply made no sense.

��Mommy, my body doesn��t feel right. It��s all sore and heavy.��

Shauna broke out of her lethargy and rushed to Juliet��s side. ��It��s okay, honey, mommy and daddy have it too. It��s just a little virus. You��re going to be fine. Come on downstairs with us.��

��I need to pee.��

��Right, then, a quick stop at the potty.��

Shauna looked up at Frank. She didn��t need to say a word.

��I��ll check on him right now,�� said Frank. He went out into the hallway and walked toward his son��s room. He opened the door and entered, proceeding to Tyler��s bedside.

Yes, it was the same. Tyler was twelve and the changes were less obvious, but they were there. His face was fuller, slightly more mature. His pajamas seemed to be a size too small. His hair had grown.

While Frank watched, Tyler opened his eyes. He looked confused for a moment. Then he croaked, ��Dad? I don��t feel so good.��

Frank sighed. No need for those masks, then. ��You��re okay, Champ. It��s some kind of virus, we think. The whole family��s got it. But you��ll feel a little better after you��ve been up for a while. Come on downstairs, okay? Your mom��s going to make us breakfast.��

Tyler nodded. Frank ruffled his hair and walked out.

-��

It was starting to get light out, but the translucent plastic covering on their windows was too cloudy to allow them to see outside. The family ate their breakfast in relative silence, which was an unusual occurrence. Usually, the kids would be teasing one another by this point. But they knew something was wrong today.

��What happened to the windows?�� asked Tyler.

��Why is Gilligan��s Island on all the TV channels?�� asked Juliet.

��What happened to us last night?�� asked Tyler.

��We don��t know,�� said Frank, figuring it was useless to lie about it at this juncture. ��I think we may have been asleep for a long time. Maybe because of this virus we seem to have. But I��m sure we must all be getting better now.��

��How long did we sleep?��

��I �� I don��t know.��

��C��mon, Dad. I could see the changes to my face in the mirror. And Juliet looks older too. How long?��

Frank looked at Shauna, who stared back at him without any visible signal.

��Um, ah, maybe a few months? I can��t say for sure,�� Frank said.

��If we were asleep for a really long time, who took care of us?�� persisted Tyler. ��Someone had to.��

��That��s a good question, Tyler. No doubt it was the same people who covered up our windows. But I just don��t know, son. For now, we have to stay in the house. At least until this virus goes away.��

��What��s going to happen to us? Are we going to die?�� asked Juliet.

��You��re scaring them, Frank.��

��I don��t mean to, Shauna. But I don��t think lying about our situation is going to help.��

Frank turned to Juliet. ��We��re going to be fine, honey. If we did sleep for that long, then someone took care of us. They know we��re here, and they��re not going to let anything bad happen. So we wait. We��re all here, and we��re fine. Let��s finish our breakfast, and we��ll figure this out. Okay?��

��Okay. But I hope they show something else on TV. I don��t like Gilligan��s Island. I think Ginger is kind of creepy, and Mr. Howell sounds like Mr. Magoo.��

Everyone laughed.

��More powdered eggs, anyone?�� asked Shauna.

��Powdered eggs?�� asked Frank. ��I knew they tasted different. When did we buy those?��

��We didn��t,�� Shauna said, as she fought back tears.

Jesus, shut up, Frank, thought Frank.

-��

After breakfast, everyone took turns in the shower and Frank tried the kids�� cellphones. As he expected, there was no phone signal or internet connectivity on either one. The television continued to broadcast the Gilligan��s Island marathon. They came one episode after the other, with no commercial messages in between.

Frank decided to see if he could break through one of the plastic coverings. Maybe this was some kind of government biohazard thing and maybe he��d get in trouble for doing it, but goddamn it, no one had asked him if it was okay to cover his house in shielding. He started down to the basement to get his toolbox.

He opened the basement door. Right behind it was a sheet of the plastic crap. It covered the entire entrance and seemed to continue into the floor and wall.

��Shit!�� he shouted. Wait. I��ve still got a few tools upstairs for the shelving I was going to put in Tyler��s room. He went up and retrieved what he had.

Frank started with the hammer and pounded on the plastic for several minutes. He didn��t even scratch the surface. He tried the drill next. Nothing. The tip of the drill bit couldn��t get any purchase on the smooth plastic wall, and it kept slipping off to either side. He tried prying at the sides with a screwdriver and he succeeded in removing some wood, but the plastic just seemed to continue behind it.

What the hell is this stuff?

He thought for a moment. If he couldn��t get through the plastic, he��d just punch a hole someplace that wasn��t covered. The roof. He could patch it up later, but first, he was going to break out of this prison and give those responsible a piece of his mind. If his family had to be quarantined, so be it, but they deserved an explanation at the very least.

He grabbed his tools and started for the attic. He passed by the living room and noted that Gillian��s Island was no longer on the television. Instead, there was a message. He dropped his tools and approached the screen.

It was in white lettering on a black background. It read, ��Stop what you are doing. It won��t work, but it may damage your house.��

So there is someone there, thought Frank. Watching us. Maybe they can hear us, too.

��What the hell do you want?�� Frank shouted. ��Why have you done this?��

��All in good time,�� read the screen. Then Gilligan��s Island resumed.

Frank turned, picked up his tools, and climbed the stairs. He met Shauna coming the other way, drying her hair.

��What were you yelling for?�� she asked.

��I��ll tell you in a little while. I want to try something first.��

He proceeded to the end of the hallway and reached up for the trap door rope. He pulled it and the access ladder swung down. He climbed up and flicked on the lights. It was dusty and warm. Scattered around were several boxes of Christmas decorations, memorabilia, and photo albums. There was also an old bicycle of Shauna��s. He didn��t remember hauling that thing up here and wondered why they hadn��t stored it in the detached garage instead.

Frank thought about where he should make the hole and decided the southwest corner of the roof would be the easiest to climb down from. He proceeded to the spot, plugged in his electric drill, and started to penetrate the wood.

My circular saw would be really useful right now, he thought. But it��s in the basement. I��ll just drill enough holes to weaken the wood. Once I get my hand saw into the gap it��ll go a lot quicker.

The drill went through the board easily but it stopped way too early. He tried another location and the same thing happened.

Oh, no, he thought. It couldn��t be, could it?

He drilled several more holes close to one another until he confirmed that yes, it could be.

The same hard plastic sheet was apparently covering the roof.

It surrounds the entire house, Frank realized. The only way out is through the locked door in front.

Defeated, Frank gathered his tools and descended the ladder. He found Shauna in the living room, standing in front of the TV screen.

��What does this mean?�� she asked.

The screen read, ��I told you.��

Frank yelled, ��Why are you doing this? Are we contagious? Is this virus going to kill us?��

��There is no need to shout. I can hear you,�� read the screen.

The letters disappeared. Then it read,

��The shielding is for your protection, not ours. None of you have a virus.��

Once again, the screen darkened.

��Supplies will be delivered and trash picked up in the front hatchway at 0900 each day. The inner door will be locked from 0830 to 0930. If you require anything in particular, just say so.��

Then they were treated to Gilligan��s Island.

-��

Three weeks later, Frank and Shauna were still speculating about what was meant by the statement that the shielding was for their own benefit. Had there been a nuclear war? Or some kind of deadly chemical release? Was the atmosphere outside toxic or radioactive? Or was the rest of the population infected with a lethal virus? Were their neighbors similarly trapped in their homes? How far did this problem extend? Was it city-wide? The whole United States? Global? And why did they seemingly age by a year or so at the start of their confinement? Had they been comatose? If so, how did they all manage to come out of it at the same time?

There were many more questions than answers. The person on the other end of the television signal refused to give them any useful information. The response to each of their questions was ��All in good time.��

The children seemed to adapt to the situation much more easily than their parents. Thankfully, they were able to access more than Gilligan��s Island on the television. One only had to request a specific show verbally, and it would be broadcast. But nothing later than the date of their incarceration was available. They could even watch the news, as long as it was a rerun. But all programming after August 16th, 2020 was off-limits. What happened that day? Did TV and cable stations no longer exist? Frank and Shauna had no way of knowing.

They received no mail. They couldn��t check their investments. They didn��t know who was paying their bills, or even if they were still getting any bills.

They had to be somewhat guarded in what they said because it soon became apparent that their keepers could hear even whispered conversations within the house. Frustrated and fearful, the family fought more than usual. Being cooped up in their home, as spacious as it was, grew old fairly quickly. One day, Frank decided he��d had enough. He was determined to find out what was going on, even if it cost him his life. Just after 8:00 am, while Shauna was homeschooling the kids, he wrote her an explanatory note in case things went wrong and left it under a pile of books on the kitchen table. Then he snuck into the front hatchway and hid beneath some trash bags. He heard the inner door lock as usual at 8:30. Then he sat quietly, waiting for the outer door to open at 9:00.

It never did. At 9:30 am, the inner door unlocked again. Frank gave up and went back into the house. The television was displaying a message:

��That was very foolish. You could have died. Deliveries and trash pickup will be withheld for two weeks.��

Shauna was distinctly unhappy when he told her what happened. Frank slept on the couch for the next couple of weeks.

-��

A month passed. Shauna was finally speaking to Frank again following his failed attempt at leaving the house. Besides the fact that he had apparently put himself in physical danger, the two-week cessation of deliveries had turned out to be a real hardship. Their keepers only delivered a day��s worth of food and supplies at a time, and their refrigerator and cupboard only held about five to seven days�� worth of backup. Even with rationing, they were running out of food by the tenth day. Repeated appeals to their keepers were ignored. It became painfully obvious just how dependent they were on the people outside.

Which is why, when the television screen gave them the following instruction, they decided not to object:

��In preparation for the grand opening, please remove all curtains, shades, and other window coverings and place them in the hatchway. An explanation will follow your compliance.��

They did as instructed, and the kids helped. The plastic sheeting outside was translucent, so the window treatments really didn��t serve much of a purpose anyway.

��What do you think they mean by ��the grand opening��?�� asked Shauna as she removed the living room curtains from their hooks.

��Maybe we��re finally getting out of here,�� said Frank.

��Oh, God, wouldn��t that be nice?��

��Yeah, but don��t mention it to the kids, in case I��m wrong.��

They finished the job and placed everything in the front box. They closed the inner door and heard it lock. There was a tone from the television behind them. The screen read:

��You may now ask three questions.��

��Let��s think about this before responding, Shauna,�� said Frank. Then, for the benefit of their providers, he said, ��We want to speak among ourselves for a few minutes. We will tell you when we are ready to ask our questions.��

��Understood,�� read the screen.

��Should we send the kids to their room?�� asked Shauna.

��No, Mom, please!�� said Tyler.

��This affects them, too,�� said Frank. ��They should stay.��

After a few minutes of discussion, Frank said, ��We are ready. Question 1: How long must we remain locked inside our home?��

��For the remainder of your lives,�� read the screen.

Shauna screamed, then collapsed and fell to the floor, crying. Frank stroked her hair and said, ��Question 2: Why?�� Shauna picked up her head to read the answer.

��The outside atmosphere is toxic to humans.��

Frank sat down heavily on the sofa. ��How is that possible?�� he asked.

��Because you are no longer on Earth. This is the planet you call Proxima B, circling the star you call Proxima Centauri. You are approximately 4.3 light-years from your home planet. We welcome you to your new home.��

��That��s ridiculous! Do you think we��re idiots? How can you expect us to believe such a thing?�� Frank shouted.

The translucent plastic covering around their house suddenly cleared. They could see out. This was not their neighborhood. The ground was reddish, and the structures around them were unlike any buildings men had ever designed. And the stars in the sky were all wrong.

Not to mention the two moons, one of which was either very large or orbiting very close. It dominated the night sky.

��Wow,�� said Juliet.

��Cool,�� exclaimed Tyler.

Frank rushed into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.

The windows clouded over and Gilligan��s Island resumed.

-��

Three days later, the screen read:

��Are you prepared to ask more questions?��

��Yes,�� said Frank.

��Good. We know our guests need time to adjust, so we try not to overload them with information right away.��

��How did we get here?��

��We brought you. Our ships travel at a maximum velocity of 20 percent of the speed of light, but they need considerable time to accelerate and decelerate. The journey took approximately 200 of your earth-years.��

Shauna put her arms around Frank for support. ��200 years? We��d be dead,�� said Frank.

��No. You were in stasis. Your body functions were slowed down. Physically, you only aged about one year during the trip.��

��I suppose that��s why we felt sluggish and sore when we first got here.��

��Yes. And our planet is about 30 percent more massive than Earth, so you no doubt had to struggle with the extra gravity. But you all seem to have adapted well.��

��There��s no going back, is there?��

��No. We do not intend to return you to Earth. Even if we did, you would not recognize it. It would be another 200-year journey. Also, because of relativistic time dilation effects at near-light speeds, clocks move slower while you��re on the ship. By the time you got back to Earth, it would be approximately the year 3025.��

The screen went blank for a moment, then this message appeared:

��And given the recent history of your species, we are not certain your planet would still be habitable by then.��

The screen blacked out again.

��I am told you may have found that last statement of fact insulting. My apologies.��

��Why did you bring us here?��

��We collect species from all of our nearest celestial neighbors. Do not worry, we will care for you. Just act normally. Our people will observe you in your natural habitat.��

��In other words, you��ve put us on display. In a zoo.��

��Yes, your analogy is accurate. A zoo. The grand opening is tomorrow. Sleep well. And to prepare you, here is a picture of what we look like.��

The picture appeared.

The kids screamed and ran from the room.

Shauna fainted.

Roger ran for the sink.

��There is no need for alarm. We are your friends. Your keepers. We will take excellent care of you, for the duration of your natural lives. Enjoy your stay with us.��

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on August 17, 2020 08:00

Night Fishing

Roderick Petters turned the car onto the lake access road just as the sun was setting, its golden rays illuminating the trees on the other side of the deep blue water. However, the beauty of the scene was lost on Rod, who had other things on his mind and in his trunk.

As he approached the boat launching area, Rod saw two policemen in the process of pulling their patrol craft out of the water. Oh shit, he thought. Not now. What the hell are the cops even doing in this small lake? There��s no way to turn around without arousing suspicion. I��ll have to talk to them. He pulled his vehicle off to the side to allow them plenty of room to exit. He got out of the car and waved. One of the officers waved back. They finished loading their motorboat onto the trailer and drove it out of the water. Then they both started wiping the boat down.

Rod didn��t want to, but he figured he��d better make the first approach. He sauntered over to them and said, ��Evening, officers.��

The older of the two men looked up and nodded. ��Good evening, Sir. Planning to do a little night fishing?��

��Yes, indeed. Seems like it should be a perfect night for it.��

The officer looked up at the sky. ��You got that right. After a hot day like this, those fish will be huddled at the bottom of the lake where the water��s cooler. They��ll rise to the surface as the temperature drops. What are you going after?��

��Oh, I��m not particular. Bass, I suppose. Or bluegill.��

The officer nodded. Rod noticed his nameplate. Thompson.

The younger man finished wiping down the boat and joined them. ��Evening, Sir. Would you mind if we took a quick look at your fishing license?��

The older policeman smiled. ��Officer Blackhawk is all business, I��m afraid. But if you wouldn��t mind��

��Of course. I figured you might ask. Got it right here.�� Rod gave him the document and Officer Thompson gave it a quick glance. He handed it back.

��Yep, everything��s in order. You got a working cellphone with you, Sir?��

Rod thought it a strange question, but he said he did have a phone.

��Would you mind checking it to see if you��ve got a signal up here?��

Rod pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at it. ��I��ve got two bars.��

��Should be good enough to make a call. Would you do me a favor, Sir? If you see anything out of the ordinary tonight, would you give us a ring? Here��s my card.�� He handed it over. Rod glanced at it and put it in his pocket.

��Sure, Officer Thompson. But what do you expect me to see?��

The officer peered at him. ��You new in town, Sir?��

��Yes, I drove up from the Twin Cities this morning.��

��So you ain��t heard of the recent troubles, then?��

��What troubles?��

��A few fishermen have gone missing in these parts. Three in the last two months.��

��We found their cars at the boat landing and their empty fishing boats in the water,�� added Officer Blackhawk. ��But so far there��s been no trace of the men.��

��At this lake?��

��One here. Two at Long Lake,�� replied Officer Thompson.

So that��s why they��re here, thought Rod.

��Don��t suppose you��d consider doing your fishing in daylight?�� asked Officer Thompson. ��The disappearances only seem to happen at night.��

Not bloody likely, thought Rod. But I��ll be sure to get out of here as soon as the job is done.

��I guess I��ll take my chances, Officer. But I��ll be sure to call if I notice anything.��

��Alright, then. We can��t stop you. Just stay alert, Sir.��

��Will do.��

The policemen nodded and walked to their car. Rod waited until they had left the area before starting back to his vehicle. He swung the car around and carefully backed the trailer into the water. He unhitched the boat and tied it to the dock.

Rod scanned the sky. The light was fading, but not quickly enough for his taste. He didn��t want to finish loading until it was fully night. Then he��d need to do it quickly, just in case those cops came back.

He sat in his car and smoked a cigar, waiting for the darkness to fall.

-��

Two hours later, he decided it was time. There was enough moonlight to see, but hopefully not enough for anyone to be able to observe him from a distance. Not that other people were around, but in these situations you couldn��t be too careful.

He positioned the car as close to the dock as he could, then he got out and opened the trunk. He carried his fishing pole and tackle box out to the boat. Next came some rope and two cored cinder blocks. Rod walked back to the car and stood still for a moment, listening for any nearby car or watercraft noises. Finally, he reached into the trunk and lifted out a large black duffle bag. He grunted with the weight and dragged the 5-foot sack down the dock. He hopped into the boat and carefully pulled one end of the bag inside, then he lifted the other end and set it gently down. So far, so good. He scrambled onto the dock and rushed back to the car, closing the trunk and parking it quickly to the side. He rushed back to the boat, untied the ropes, and pulled the cord to start the engine. Nothing happened.

��God damn it, don��t quit on me now,�� he muttered. He pulled the cord again and the motor roared into life. He sat down and guided the boat out to the middle of the lake.

It was a perfect crime, he thought. I��m in the home stretch now.

Things hadn��t been right with his wife Dolores for a long time. Rod suspected that she blamed him for their failure to have children, which clearly wasn��t his fault. But their marriage was beset by plenty of other problems which were at his door, not least of which were his drinking and womanizing. Still, she had taken him for better or worse, hadn��t she? When she told him she was considering filing for divorce, he was floored. How could she leave him? More to the point, how could her money leave him? Without her, he could kiss the mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul goodbye, along with her various properties in Hawaii, California, Switzerland, and Italy. He promised her the moon and swore he��d change his behavior, but he knew it was probably just a matter of time before his marriage and cushy lifestyle were history. He didn��t know what to do. And then he met Cynthia.

Cynthia Sanders worked at the Starbucks near his gym. She looked like a younger, prettier version of Dolores. The resemblance was uncanny, and the first time he saw her he was struck speechless. He turned on the charm, found her to be receptive, and started courting her. Given his wife��s current disposition, he was more than usually circumspect in keeping the affair a secret.

Rod told Cynthia he was married right from the start. He figured his plan would never work if Cynthia didn��t trust him implicitly. He went out of his way to please her, buying expensive gifts and taking her on lavish trips whenever he thought he could safely get away with it. He let several months pass before hinting at the possibility of removing Dolores from the picture. Had Cynthia not been willing to help him, he would have been in a real quandary. But as luck would have it, she went along.

The plan was simple. Rod convinced Dolores to join him for a few weeks�� vacation in Europe. They purchased their tickets. A week before their departure, he told her he��d need to delay his own flight for work reasons, but suggested she go on without him. She agreed, and they informed friends and relatives about her trip.

The flight left for London this morning, but Rod��s wife wasn��t on it. Last night, Rod struck Dolores on the back of the head with a lead pipe. He loaded her body in the car��s trunk and drove to Cynthia��s to spend the night. He gave Cynthia some cash, his wife��s passport, the keys to the European flats, and some old postcards Dolores had sent him from a solo trip she had taken several years ago. Rod had steamed the cards to remove the old postage stamps.

Cynthia flew to London using his wife��s passport and checked in at the Ritz as Dolores Petters. As she traveled around Europe, she��d mail back the corresponding postcards from each stop. She��d also make several calls to him at home, so that the phone records would corroborate her travel itinerary. After two weeks, she��d return to Minneapolis using Dolores�� passport, after which ��Dolores Petters�� would simply disappear. By the time Cynthia returned, Rod would have already flown to South America for an extended business trip, thereby ensuring he would not be a viable suspect in his wife��s subsequent disappearance.

After Cynthia had left for the airport, Rod hitched up his boat and drove to northern Minnesota. He threw the lead pipe into a lake on the way. Once the body was disposed of, he��d be free and clear. Cynthia was the only loose end. He had refused to give her any details of the murder or his plans to get rid of the body, so even if she turned on him later she wouldn��t be able to lead the police to any physical evidence. But she still represented a risk. Something would have to be done about that, and soon. He��d give it some thought during his South American trip.

Once Rod arrived at the center of the lake, he killed the engine and grabbed a length of rope. He passed it through the holes in one of the cinderblocks and the handles on the end of the black bag. He wrapped it carefully around the bag and block, looping it through several times. When the block was securely attached to the bag, he tied off the rope. He sat up and scanned the lake. He thought he saw a small light in the distance and his heart stopped for a moment. But the light didn��t reappear, and he decided it was just his imagination.

He lifted the unweighted end of the black bag over the starboard hull. That side of the boat tipped toward the water. He fed a length of rope through the handles of the bag and looped it three times around. Then he passed the rope through the holes in the second cinder block and lifted it carefully over the hull to rest on top of the duffle bag. He secured the block to the bag and wound the cord around several more times before finally tying it down.

With one end of the bag and its attached weight now hanging over the side of the boat, Rod moved to the center and bent down to pick up the other end. He stood up and carefully balanced the bag on the edge of the boat for a moment, then in one swift movement, he lifted his end and pushed it over the side. There was a loud splash and the boat rocked significantly before settling down.

Rod looked over the side at the dark water and said, ��Goodbye, Dolores. And good riddance.��

He saw the light again. And then he heard the sound of an outboard motor being started.

��Shit,�� he muttered. He stepped to the stern and pulled the engine cord. Nothing. He pulled again. Nothing.

He picked out the outline of a fishing boat in the moonlight and watched as it came closer.

Rod began to panic and he tugged at the starter cord again. It snapped back and cut into his hand. But the motor remained quiet.

��Hello!�� shouted a voice.

Calm down, Rod thought to himself. The evidence is over the side. There��s nothing to worry about.

��Ahoy!�� Rod said as the motorboat drew alongside. It contained two men who had apparently been granted more than their share of testosterone. They were smiling, which only made them appear more threatening. The first man was dirty and unshaven in tattered clothes. He had short sleeves which exposed two extremely muscular arms covered in tattoos. More tattoos adorned his neck. The other man looked like a heavyweight wrestler. He had a sizable scar running down the left side of his face. There was a shotgun propped up next to his seat.

��We heard a big splash and wanted to make sure you were alright over here,�� the tattooed man said.

��Oh, I was just throwing a fish back, that��s all.��

��Izzat so? Seemed like an awfully big splash for a fish,�� tattoo man said.

��And I can��t help notice that your fishing rod is still in its case,�� said the wrestler. ��Were you fishing with your hands?��

��Um, I just put it away,�� said Rod. ��I��m done for the day.��

��Didn��t catch much, did you?�� tattoo man sneered, as he looked into the boat.

��You wouldn��t be dumping stuff in our fine lake, now, would you?�� said the wrestler.

��Because we really wouldn��t take kindly to that,�� added tattoo man.

��Not kindly at all,�� said the wrestler.

��I wasn��t dumping,�� Rod said.

��Uh-huh. You got a fishing license?�� asked tattoo man.

��Of course.��

��May we see it, please? We��re legally appointed conservation officers for this area.��

My ass, you are, thought Rod. But I just want to get out of here. He handed over his license.

Tattoo man peered at it. ��This license is expired. It must be destroyed.�� He ripped up the paper and threw the pieces in the lake.

��Hey!�� Rod shouted.

��There��s a $200 penalty for fishing without a license. Payable now. Cash only,�� said the wrestler.

��But that��s nothing compared to the penalty for dumping,�� added tattoo man.

��Yeah, the cops don��t like that kind of thing. They might even send some divers down to see what you dumped,�� said the wrestler.

��You guys are nothing but scam artists,�� said Rod.

The wrestler��s hand seemed to move a little closer to the shotgun.

Rod thought better of his objection. ��I��m sorry. I don��t want any trouble,�� he said. Rod slowly reached for his wallet, not making any sudden movements. He opened it up and pulled out $200.

��We��ll take another $100 to forget about the scam artist crack,�� said tattoo man.

Rod resisted the urge to respond and handed over $300.

The wrestler grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at Rod.

��Maybe you��d best give us all of it, asshole.��

Rod thought back to the three missing fishermen and wondered if they��d be finding another empty boat on this lake tomorrow. He handed over his wallet. Tattoo man removed the cash and threw the wallet into the water.

��Hey, what about the credit cards?�� said the wrestler.

��Them things is an invitation to get caught,�� replied tattoo man. ��They��re better off in the lake.��

��What about him?�� asked the wrestler.

��He ain��t gonna say nothin��. I��m guessin�� he don��t want whatever he just dumped to be dredged up. Ain��t that right, Roderick Petters? Who lives at 1215 Summit Avenue in Saint Paul?��

��That��s right,�� said Rod, sweating profusely now.

��Have a pleasant evening,�� said tattoo man.

The wrestler grimaced and spit into the lake. He started their engine and they went back in the direction they came from.

Rod exhaled, feeling he had come very close to death. He waited for the sound of their engine to recede. Then he moved to the stern and pulled the cord again.

Nothing. Shit. I need to get out of here.

There was a sudden noise, right behind him. Rod��s heart skipped a beat. He turned to see a fish flopping back and forth in the bow.

I��ll be dammed. The thing must have jumped right into the boat!

Rod approached the fish. It was incredibly ugly. He had never seen one like it before. Then again, he wasn��t really a fisherman, so what did he know?

Strange, it seems to have some kind of fishing line in its mouth. The line trailed over the side of the boat into the water.

It must have been in the process of being hauled in by someone when the line broke. Anyway, whatever. It��s your lucky day, Nemo. Not that anyone would want to eat a fish as ugly as you.

Rod reached down to pick up the creature and toss it back into the water. As soon as he lifted it, several sharp quills suddenly popped out of the fish and pierced his hands. Rod was too startled to even scream.

The fishing line tightened and pulled him toward the starboard hull. Now came the scream, but it didn��t last long. Rod lost his footing and was dragged over the side.

As he was pulled deeper into the inky darkness of the lake, he thought he glimpsed a light ahead. Then he saw the source of the light. He inhaled a lungful of water.

The luminous thing at the bottom of the lake was not even remotely human. Nor was it a fish.

Whatever it was, though, it had a fishing pole and knew how to use it.

-��

The next morning, police found an abandoned car and motorboat at Little Long Lake.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on August 09, 2020 13:00

Death on the Beach

The room smelled of disinfectant, sweat, and sickness. It was a warm Friday in Houston and the hospital air conditioning either needed maintenance or else some soulless administrator had set the temperature too high to save money. Robert Morticallo breathed in and out as the respirator operated. He hadn��t opened his eyes since the accident.

He shouldn��t even have been driving at the age of 92, thought his son William. What was he thinking? Now we��re paying $3,000 a day to keep him alive. Would he even want that?

William glanced over at his sister Ruth and her husband Tom. Ruth looked tired. She��d been spending too much time here over the past several days. Tom was sipping a cup of coffee and appeared to be somewhat bored.

The doctor walked in and examined Robert for a few minutes, then approached the family. ��Well,�� he said, ��there��s been no change since yesterday. Robert��s brain function has ceased. The machines are the only reason he is still breathing. There��s nothing more we can do. Unlike a coma, from which a patient can sometimes awaken, there is no coming back from brain death. I��m very sorry. At this point, it is up to you as the holders of his medical proxy to decide when to turn off the machines and let him go.��

William grabbed Ruth��s hand and his eyes asked her the question. She nodded, then turned away.

��Turn it off,�� said William quietly. ��It��s time.��

The doctor walked over to the machine and switched it off.

��How long will it take?�� William asked.

��It should be almost immediate,�� said the doctor.

��Shouldn��t he have stopped breathing?�� asked Ruth.

With an expression of surprise, the doctor swung around and placed his stethoscope against Robert��s chest.

��This �� isn��t �� possible,�� he stammered.

Robert opened his eyes and said, ��What happened? Where��s my goddamn car, and what the hell are all of you standing around here for?��

-��

One being who certainly wasn��t standing there was me. At the moment of the fortunate Mr. Morticalo��s recovery, I was relaxing on Lido beach, about 850 miles to the East. The regular crash of the waves upon the shore was quite soothing. I had left my robe in my hotel room and was enjoying the sun��s rays upon my body. The hotel��s reclining beach chair was very comfortable and there was a gentle, refreshing breeze coming in from the gulf. Life was good, I thought. I drained the remains of my pi��a colada and thought of that song, ��Escape,�� by Rupert Holmes. I smiled and signaled to the Cabana Boy for a refill.

He walked over a few minutes later with a fresh glass on a tray. ��I��ll put this on your tab, Mr. Azrael. Enjoy.��

��Add five bucks for yourself, Ramon,�� I said.

��Thank you very much, Sir.�� He turned and walked back to the cabana, taking the empty glass with him. I could tell he was starting to wonder about my ability to drink multiple alcoholic beverages without displaying any ill effects, and I resolved to slow my consumption rate. But these things were so darn tasty!

A mother and her six-year-old son walked by my chair.

��Mommy, I want to swim in the ocean!��

��I told you before, Johnny, we can��t go in. The red tide is here now. The water is filled with tiny little creatures that would make you sick. So you��re going to have to swim in the pool, sweetheart.��

��I don��t want the pool! I want the ocean!�� He stamped his little feet in the sand.

I sat up and waved my hand toward the gulf. Billions of algae suddenly decided that being alive wasn��t something they particularly wanted to do anymore. The water slowly lost its reddish hue as the deceased algae were pulled out to sea by the waves.

I smiled at the mother. ��It��s okay now. You can take him in the water.��

She looked a little confused for a moment, then she said to her son, ��It��s okay, Johnny. The creatures went away. We can swim in the gulf now.�� They walked to the water, laughing.

I drained my drink and waved to Ramon. What the hell, I thought. It��s a vacation, after all.

I love Florida.

-��

On the other side of the Atlantic, Ian Wilson��s black cab swung into the driveway just off of Kensington Gardens near the High Street and the driver whistled. Posh neighborhood, he thought. Very posh. This rider should stand me a nice tip, then. Unless he��s a bloody git.

A man was standing at the side of the road with a suitcase and a carry-on bag. ��Tha��s wha�� I��m talkin�� abou��!�� said Ian to himself. ��It��s an airport run, innit?�� He came to a stop and rolled down his window. ��Good day, Sir. Where to, Guv?��

��Heathrow,�� said the man. ��And I��m running late. There��s an extra fifty quid in it if you can get me there in twenty minutes.�� He opened the passenger door, threw his bags inside, and got in.

The cabbie pulled onto Kensington High Street. ��Ah, I��ll try me best, Guv. But traffic can be a bitch this time o�� day.��

��I know. That��s why I��m offering fifty quid.��

Congestion on the High Street made for slow progress. Ian looked at his passenger in the mirror and said, ��I��m gonna try to use the back roads to get over to the M4. Hang on, Gov.�� He made a sudden left on to Allen Street. ��SHITE! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL DID HE COME FROM?��

The cabbie slammed on his brakes, but to no avail. He struck the pedestrian full on. The man launched into the air and was thrown over the cab. Unfortunately, he came down right in front of another car which hit him decisively and sent him flying into the plate glass window of Waterstone��s Bookstore. Glass flew in all directions as the unfortunate victim impacted head first, finally connecting with a bookshelf before his limp body crumpled to the ground.

Ian pulled the cab over to the side of the road and got out, saying, ��No, no, no, this can��t be happening.�� He met the other driver, who was similarly stunned. They started to discuss what to do. Meanwhile, Ian��s passenger got out with his bags and ran to the High Street to hail another cab.

��Bloody git,�� muttered Ian. ��He��s a material witness.��

The sound of falling glass came from the bookstore behind them. The two drivers turned to see the victim standing up and carefully brushing glass shards off his jacket. He waved to them. ��Hallo? I��m fine, guys. Perfectly fine. I don��t even seem to have any bruising. It��s the oddest thing, innit? Damned lucky, I��d say.��

-��

On Saturday I had reached page 95 of Terry Pratchett��s book, Mort, and couldn��t stop chuckling. What an imagination. Sir Terry was only 66 when he passed away, as I recalled. A shame, really. Ah, well, they all have to meet their maker sometime. Or meet me, at least. I reached for my Mai Tai, debating whether the switch in cocktails had been a good decision. I watched the sunset and noticed three people on horseback approaching along the shoreline. I shaded my eyes. It couldn��t be them, could it?

Yes. It could.

I probably should have recognized them sooner, based on the color of the horses. White, black, and red. Maybe the cocktails were starting to affect me after all.

They stopped their horses in front of my beach chair. They declined to dismount.

��You look like death,�� said the figure on the red horse.

��Does that surprise you?�� I asked.

��No, not particularly. But I do wonder why these humans don��t seem to have caught on. Shouldn��t they be screaming and running away in fear?��

��Oh, they see what I wish them to see. Which at the moment is a balding Jewish man in his mid-50s drinking a pi��a colada. No, forgive me, a Mai Tai.�� I took a sip. ��Would you like one? I can call Ramon over.��

��No, thank you,�� said War.

Famine raised her hand. ��I��d like to try one, please.�� War gave her a dirty look.

I waved Ramon over. ��How about you, Pestilence?�� I asked.

The figure on the white horse said, ��Will it be sterilized?��

��Um, no, I don��t believe so.��

��Good. Okay, then. Sure. Why not?��

I looked back at the first figure and coaxed, ��Come on now, War. Don��t be stubborn.��

��Yes, yes, alright,�� said War. ��Just a small one.��

Ramon arrived. ��A round of Mai Tais for my friends and me, Ramon. If you please.��

��Of course, Mr. Azrael. On your tab?��

��Indeed. Room 666, as I think you know. Thank you, my boy.��

Ramon walked away. As soon as he had gone, I asked, ��Well, comrades, I assume this isn��t a social visit. Has the end of the world come already? If so, I��m very disappointed. I had been planning for another few thousand years, at least. It would��ve been nice to get a little advanced notice. I��ve got some stock market investments that will take a few days to liquidate. I hope I��ll be able to get that done, at least?��

��There��s no need to liquidate anything. The End of Days is still a ways off,�� said Famine.

��as far as we know,�� added Pestilence. ��The Big Guy plays his cards close to the vest sometimes.��

War jumped off his red steed and said, ��Now what��s all this about a work stoppage, Azrael? Are you having problems with management? Because if so, we��d like to know.��

��No, no, nothing like that. I simply wanted a few days off, is all.��

��I see. But I wish you had told us first. Don��t you realize the grief you��ve caused us?��

��Grief? How so?��

��Good God, Man, isn��t it obvious? You can��t have a war without death. It isn��t done. It��s not civilized. I��ve had to allow truces to be called all around the globe. The newspapers are picking up on it, and they��re wondering where all this peacemaking is coming from. The ceasefires don��t make sense because there��s no reason to stop the fighting.��

��Well, a ceasefire does prevent unnecessary deaths on both sides of the conflict,�� I suggested.

��And when has that ever been a sufficient reason to call a halt to some good old-fashioned bloodshed?�� War crossed his arms and turned away in a huff.

��I agree with War,�� said Pestilence. ��Armed conflict without death is just silly. The same goes for me. What��s the point of creating a world-wide contagion if at least some of the people who are infected don��t die?��

��Yes, and it won��t be long before people realize that starvation no longer has negative consequences,�� added Famine.

War turned around. There were tears in his eyes. ��Let��s face it, Azrael. Without you, our lives are meaningless. O Death, where is thy sting?��

��Oh, stop it, all of you. You��re being melodramatic,�� I said. ��Ah, here come the cocktails. Thank you, Ramon. Take another five for yourself.��

Famine and Pestilence got down off their horses and grabbed some beach chairs. Ramon handed them their drinks. War remained standing, but he accepted the glass and took a sip.

��Mmm, quite tasty,�� he said.

��Thank you, Sir,�� said Ramon. He walked back to the cabana.

��Now, look,�� I said. ��I��m not quitting my employment. I simply want a long weekend off. Is that so bad? I��ve been doing this job for over 3.7 billion years without a break. Except for the occasional office party. Heh heh. Do you remember the night Lucifer got drunk and brought the comet down upon our heads? What a practical joker.��

��Wasn��t that the one that wiped out the dinosaurs?�� asked Pestilence.

��Oh, I remember!�� said Famine. ��The skies darkened and the plants died out. The herbivores had nothing to eat. And when they starved to death, the carnivores soon followed.��

��Oh yeah. And the few who were left fought each other to the death for the remaining food,�� recalled War.

��Good times, good times,�� said Famine.

We four comrades stared out at the water, reminiscing.

After a time, War said, ��Thank you for the beverage, Azrael. It was surprisingly refreshing.��

��Don��t mention it,�� I replied.

��Now will you please GET BACK TO WORK?�� asked Famine.

��No. I��m not ready yet,�� I said.

��But you��re messing things up for all three of us,�� said Pestilence.

��You��re returning to work even if we have to drag you there ourselves!�� threatened War.

The three of them got out of their beach chairs and approached me, menacingly.

I raised my hand and commanded, ��STOP!�� in my iciest tone. They stopped.

��You know my power. I can kill with a word. Or a look. Don��t test our friendship.��

They stepped back. War stammered, ��You �� you can��t kill US! We are anthropomorphic beings. We can never die!��

��Who said anything about killing you?�� I glanced at the horses.

��You wouldn��t,�� said Pestilence.

��Wouldn��t I?��

��You couldn��t,�� said Famine.

��Yes, I could,�� said I. ��If I so choose.��

��I think this whole thing has gotten out of hand,�� said War. ��Why don��t we move along now, and let our dear friend Azrael enjoy the rest of his weekend?�� They mounted their horses.

��A wise choice,�� I said. ��No hard feelings?��

��No, of course not,�� said War.

��No harm, no foul,�� said Pestilence.

��We just wanted to make sure you were all right,�� said Famine.

��I am Death,�� I said. ��What could possibly happen to me? Fare thee well, fellow horsepersons.��

They spurred their horses and galloped away into the distance.

Ramon stopped by. ��We��re closing up for the night, Mr. Azrael. Last call.��

I carefully considered my options and ordered a Tequila Sunset.

-��

After two days with a mortality rate of zero, the humans appeared to be getting the message. It wasn��t universally perceived as good news, however.

��A World Without Death: Overcrowding and Resource Scarcity Imminent,�� said The New York Times.

��Churches Empty. Morticians and Clergy Demand A Return to Mortality,�� said The Washington Post.

��Real Estate Prices Skyrocket,�� said The Wall Street Journal.

��Where Has All the Toilet Paper Gone?�� said USAToday.

��The End of the World: What Happens When the Earth Becomes Uninhabitable and We Still Inhabit It?�� said The Economist.

��Up to Our Necks in Cockroaches? If Bugs Can��t Die Either, We��ve Got Big Problems,�� said Insects Illustrated.

As people adjusted to the thought of not dying, many became bolder. Crime rates increased. Thrill-seekers took bigger risks.

Unfortunately, many people failed to account for the possibility they could still be hurt. Badly. And for the moment, death was no longer a release.

-��

Sunday was another fine day on Lido Beach and I enjoyed the gentle breeze as I sipped my mojito. An anthropomorphic entity could get used to this kind of thing. But after reading this morning��s newspaper I knew I��d have to get back to work very soon. Leave it to the humans to turn immortality into a curse. They were wrong about the bugs, though. I wouldn��t let those things multiply without restraint. I may be the grim reaper, but I��m not a sadist.

The truth is, I don��t spend much of my time dealing with plants, organisms, or animals other than man. I let nature take its course with the lesser living entities. Which is not to say I won��t step in now and again. Like with the red tide the other day. Or Grumpy Cat.

I looked out at the water, which was fairly calm today. A few swimmers and body surfers were enjoying the algae-free waves. And off in the distance was a bearded man walking on top of the water, coming this way. None of the humans paid him any attention. He reached the shoreline and made a beeline for my chair.

��Hello, Boss,�� I said, as he arrived. ��I wasn��t expecting to see you here in Sarasota.��

God shrugged and said, ��I��m everywhere.��

��Of course, you are. Pull up a beach chair. Hey, Ramon!��

Ramon trotted over. He was making pretty decent money this weekend, thanks to yours truly.

��I��d like a Death in the Afternoon,�� I said when he arrived. ��And put whatever my esteemed friend is having on my tab, including $10 for yourself.��

��I��m afraid I��m not familiar with Death in the Afternoon,�� Ramon replied.

I looked at his youthful form. ��No, of course you��re not. Not yet, anyway. But the drink was invented by Ernest Hemmingway. A flute of champagne with a jigger of Absinthe.��

��I �� I don��t think we have any Absinthe.��

��Yes, you do,�� said God. ��It��s right behind the gin. Go look again.�� God pointed. I knew that even if the Absinthe wasn��t there before, it was there now.

��Um, ok. And you��re having?��

��I��ll take a Three Wise Men,�� said God. ��Equal parts Johnnie Walker Scotch, Jack Daniels Bourbon, and Jim Beam Whiskey. On the rocks, please.��

��Haha. Three Wise Men. Got it. I��ll be just a few moments.�� He trotted to the cabana.

��So what brings you to Florida?�� I asked.

��I��m everywhere,�� God repeated. ��But I did wish to speak with you.��

��About ��?��

��This little vacation of yours is causing me a spot of bother, Azrael. The Birth Angels are asking why they can��t have some time off as well. The Tooth Fairies are complaining about working conditions and they��re picketing the Pearly Gates. And Santa��s elves are threatening a work stoppage. That one is particularly vexing to me since they already get 363 days a year off. I told them this was God��s Kingdom, not France, and if they didn��t get in line I��d give their cushy jobs to the Tooth Fairies and solve two problems at once. I never did see the point of collecting baby teeth anyway. I think that was one of Lucifer��s ideas before he fell.��

��I��m sorry about all that. The other three horsemen of the apocalypse aren��t happy with me, either. I suppose I didn��t foresee all of these impacts when I requested some time off.��

��I did,�� said God. ��I��m all-knowing, you know. But since you��ve been a good, steady worker over the past several eons, I decided to grant your request anyway. I hope you enjoyed your vacation. Now, do you feel sufficiently relaxed to return to work? I��m afraid if you don��t restart soon we��ll become hopelessly backlogged.��

I didn��t respond immediately since Ramon was arriving with the drinks. We took them from the tray and I said, ��Thank you, Ramon. And now would you be so kind as to total my cabana bill? I��ll be checking out today. I need to return to work.��

��Yes, Sir. I��ve enjoyed serving you, Mr. Azrael. I hope we��ll meet again soon.��

��You shouldn��t,�� I said. ��But thank you for the thought.�� And I smiled.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on July 13, 2020 13:00

Old Hand Game

In May of 1972, Samuel P. Rockefeller was watching the Mets lose another ball game when the telephone rang authoritatively. He briefly considered ignoring it, but years of experience as a secret agent compelled him to answer the call, as it could be a national emergency. Sam had recently retired from a national security agency that was so secret it didn��t even have initials. Only the President and the highest echelon of his security advisors knew what the agency��s name was, or that it existed at all.

Sam put down his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and extracted himself from the La-Z-Boy recliner, which he considered to be the second-best investment he had ever made. His best investment was currently displaying a Pep Boys auto parts store commercial.

Sam Rockefeller had never been particularly gifted at financial transactions, a fact his ex-wife and her lawyer frequently bemoaned. As it happened, they didn��t know the half of it, which suited Sam just fine.

He picked up the receiver. ��Yeah? This is Sam. Make it good, I��m in an important meeting right now.��

A familiar voice on the other end replied, ��Is that right? And would the other participants in this meeting happen to be Dr. Pabst and Professor Lazyboy?��

��You know me far too well, Roger.��

��Yeah, either that or else you failed to find at least one of the spy cameras we placed in your apartment.��

��Another one? Damn it. I knew I should have checked behind the crack in the crown molding.��

��Don��t worry. You can disable it. We have more. Anyway, Rock, I��m calling to inform you about a little job we��d like you to do.��

Sam Rockefeller disliked the nickname ��Rock,�� but he��d given up trying to get people to stop using it decades ago. It was a natural fit, given his muscular build. And in the case of some jerks (like this guy), telling them he disliked it would just encourage them to use it even more. He moved on to his next objection.

��Um, you know I��m retired, right? Can I refer you to the third sentence, first paragraph above?��

��I know, I know, Rock. But guess what? Your retirement doesn��t mean shit to the agency. Check your exit contract. If we have an assignment for you which is, and I quote, ��in the national interest,�� unquote, you��re required to come back and get the job done.��

��Yeah, and what if I say no?��

��Well, as I read this contract, which just happens to be sitting in front of me, paragraph 73 says, ��refusal to serve your country can result in revocation of your government pension and other retirement benefits.�� I��m guessing that would be a bad thing for you. Am I right?��

��Why can��t some younger agent handle this?��

��We need an old hand on this job, Rock. Someone with plenty of experience. You were requested for this job specifically, by the Chief himself. He said this assignment was in the national interest and so you couldn��t refuse.��

��Crap. What��s the job?��

��A simple termination. You��ve done dozens of these, Rock. Execute this assignment with extreme prejudice.��

An assassination, thought Sam. Goddamn it.

��Who��s the target?��

��You��ve obviously been away too long, Rock. Even if I knew who it was, which I don��t, I couldn��t disclose the name over an unsecured phone line. Just check your mailbox as soon as you hang up the phone. You��ll be compensated for your time and expenses at the standard rate, plus a fifty percent bonus payable when the job is completed. Check with Laurie and she��ll make travel arrangements and get you whatever supplies you need. It was great talking with you, Rock. You know where to find me if you need anything.��

��Yeah, Roger, thanks for calling. And now let me tell you just how pleased I am to be serving my country again after all the crap you put me through before I left ��

The phone line went dead.

Roger Roshambo always had been an asshole, Sam thought. He walked to the mailbox. Inside was a plain manila envelope. He ripped it open and removed an 8-by-10 black-and-white photograph with some detailed information on the back. It typically provided the target��s name, aliases, known addresses, places frequently visited, a deadline for completion, and other relevant data. The top of the page was marked, ��Memorize and Destroy.��

Before reading it, Sam turned the page over and looked at the photograph.

��Oh, shit,�� he said.

-��

Halfway around the world, Yvonne LePapier entered the La Cave bar in the Montparnasse section of Paris and made her way to the back room. Two guards at the door checked her credentials and allowed her to enter. A small, mustached man was sitting at the only table, with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. He nodded as she entered and poured the wine.

��Bonsoir, ma cherie,�� he said.

��Bonsoir, Monsieur,�� she smiled as she took her seat.

��Shall we speak English? I��m making a trip to Orlando with the family next week and I need to practice.��

��Yes, of course. As you wish.��

��Also, I asked for guards who did not know English. They are hard to find. Everyone seems to speak that ugly language nowadays. Not that I think these men would risk their jobs by listening in, mind you.��

��Why all the secrecy tonight, Henri?��

��I have a confidential assignment for you this evening, my dear. A job requiring finesse, discretion, and the use of your special skills.��

An assassination, Yvonne thought. Interesting. She took a sip of the burgundy.

Henri was not in any particular rush, and they worked through the bottle of wine slowly, discussing the current politics within the Service de Documentation Ext��rieure et de Contre-Espionnage, or SDECE, the French equivalent of the U.S.��s CIA. When the bottle was empty, Henri stood and offered his hand.

��It was lovely to see you again, my dear.��

They shook. ��Same here, Henri.��

He reached down and collected a sealed manila folder, which he handed to her. ��Even I do not know the contents of this envelope, my dear. Please open it after I have left the room. I will direct the guards to wait ten minutes so you are not disturbed, then to depart. I hope to see you again soon.��

��Au revoir, Henri. Enjoy your visit to Disney World. I��ve heard it��s fabulous. I have some friends who attended the grand opening last year.��

��I did not say I was going to Disney World.��

��But you are, aren��t you? Young Marie and Phillipe would surely raise havoc if you didn��t.��

��Oui, oui. C��est vrai, bien sur. Bonne nuit, Yvonne. It has been a pleasure.��

After Henri had gone, Yvonne ripped open the envelope and looked at the photo inside.

��Merde,�� she said. She read the information on the back and used the candle on the table to set the document aflame.

-��

Sergei Nozhnitsy enjoyed his job at the KGB. He particularly liked to see the look on people��s faces when he told them where he worked. Unfortunately, he often had to go undercover and hide this information, posing instead as an accountant or a mineworker or some such menial. Ba, he thought. How can people do such work? Give me a job where I hold people��s lives within my control. Give me employment which causes grown men to grow weak with fear and women to become obedient and submissive. Long live the KGB!

Sergei was nicknamed ��the scissors�� by his co-workers for several reasons, not least of which was his surname ��Nozhnitsy,�� which means ��scissors.�� But he was also highly proficient with sharpened weapons of any kind, from sickles to swords, from rapiers to razors, from daggers to darts, and from scimitars to scissors. Moreover, in his younger days, he was a skilled practitioner of the martial arts. His ��flying scissors�� kick was particularly effective in bringing down an opponent. It was performed by leaping into the air and simultaneously striking the victim in the chest with one of his legs, while the other leg bashes into the back of their knees. Truth be told, now that Sergei was in his mid-50s he hadn��t been practicing his martial arts moves as much as he used to. Still, you wouldn��t want to meet him in a darkened alleyway. Or anywhere, for that matter, if you happened to be his current assignment.

It was a fine clear morning in May, unusually pleasant for Moscow. Sergei walked along Arbat Street, thankful the muddy slush from the last two months had finally melted. There is a special word for it in Russian: slyakot. The gunky mixture is a pedestrian nightmare that reappears on the Moscow streets at the end of each winter. It takes forever to melt; and when it finally does, the dirty water has nowhere to go since most of Moscow��s streets lack sufficient (or any) drainage. Omnipresent potholes can cause a person to find their leg submerged halfway up the tibia without warning.

Although KGB headquarters were located in the Lubyanka Building (also the site of the dreaded Lubyanka Prison), Sergei felt fortunate to have an office in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a short walk from Arbat Street. Part of his duties involved keeping an eye on the diplomatic corps, particularly those comrades who had travel privileges to western countries. He had foiled several defection attempts and two large smuggling schemes. A certain amount of illegal trade was allowed, of course. It was one of the perks of a diplomatic job. But when the comrade in question became too greedy, the KGB was liable to step in. In practice, there was a certain amount of leeway in determining exactly where the line was drawn. More senior diplomats were allowed more discretion. But the limits also depended upon one��s political standing. A diplomat who fell out of favor with the Kremlin could suddenly find that behavior that was once countenanced was now deemed unacceptable, earning him a one-way ticket to Lubyanka. To the basement, where the prison was. Most of the intelligent comrades avoided going too far afield of the generally accepted standards for appropriate corruption, knowing that doing so could back and bite them later.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was located in one of the ��seven sisters�� buildings. These were seven similar-looking skyscrapers built from 1947 to 1953 and designed in the Stalinist style. They were dotted around the city and were intended to serve as highly visible reminders of the majesty of the U.S.S.R. The Moscow State University building was the tallest, at 240 meters. Two of the sisters were hotels, and the remaining three were used for a combination of residential and office space.

Sergei��s official title was Director of Security and Special Projects, but pretty much everyone at the ministry knew he was KGB. He breezed right past the queue waiting to be frisked, interrogated, frisked again, and hopefully granted permission to enter the building. He gave a curt nod to the soldiers guarding the main doorway who knew him on sight and would not even contemplate questioning him, much less frisking him. He rode the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, silently hoping that one of the frequent power outages didn��t interrupt his ride.

He unlocked his office door to find a note on the desk which read, ��new assignment.�� Apparently, another KGB operative had been sent here last night. Sergei walked over to the wall safe and dialed the combination to open it. Inside was a sealed manila envelope. There was a small x drawn in one of the corners.

An assassination, Sergei thought. About time.

He ripped it open and stared at the photograph inside.

��Nyet. Nyet. Nyet. Krap.�� Sergei shook his head and spit into the trash receptacle.

-��

Three days later, Yvonne LePapier received a telegram which read, ��Looking forward to visiting Aunt Marie and Uncle Pierre at their home in Lyon. Has it really been four years since we last met? Dress appropriately and bring no gifts. Rupert.��

(A similar message was received by Sergei Nozhnitsy. It concerned an upcoming visit to Aunt Natasha and Uncle Vanya in Minsk.)

Yvonne took out her cigarette lighter and set fire to the paper, dropping it in the ashtray when the flame approached her fingers. The message was a request for a meeting at a safe house in Dijon, to be held four days from now at the usual hour of 3 am. ��Dress appropriately�� indicated she should be especially careful not to be tailed. ��Bring no gifts�� meant to come unarmed. Fat chance under the circumstances, she thought. Still, it was a point of honor within the spy community that a mutually-designated safe house was a place where all who entered were protected from harm. She had no intention of using her concealed weapon unless someone else made the first move, in which case she hoped she��d be fast enough to avoid a sudden death.

The meeting outside Dijon took place as arranged. Yvonne approached the remote cabin in the woods cautiously. Even though she had been friends with these two men for over 25 years, her recent assignment had thrown their relationship into question and she couldn��t afford to take any chances. If the others had heard any whispers about her assignment, they��d be feeling the same insecurity. Therefore all three of them would have to be extremely careful not to make any sudden movements tonight.

She gave the usual secret knock at the door, and a voice said, ��Enter.��

Rock and Sergei were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with their hands placed flat on the top.

This is bad, Yvonne thought. She made sure her hands were clearly visible as she approached her chair between them. She sat down and put her hands flat on the table.

��Hello Yvonne,�� said Rock, pleasantly.

��Good evening,�� said Sergei, with a slight formal bow.

Yvonne forced a smile which she hoped looked genuine. ��Gentlemen. It��s nice to see you both again.��

��Who are you trying to kid, Yvonne? You could cut the tension in this room with a knife,�� said Sergei.

��Yes,�� said Rock, ��and you know all about knives, Sergei, as we��ve come to respect. Well, I called for this meeting and so I will begin. First, though, can we all agree that no violence will take place tonight, no matter what information is disclosed?��

��Agreed,�� said Sergei.

��Oui, d��accord,�� said Yvonne.

��Me too. Okay, then. I recently received a disturbing assignment, and I��m wondering whether the two of you were charged with a similar task. I am now going to reach for a piece of paper with my left hand, very slowly.��

��Understood,�� said Yvonne.

��Proceed,�� said Sergei.

They both watched him like hawks. Using two fingers, Rock removed a paper from his inside jacket pocket and carefully placed it face down on the table. He turned it over.

It was a photograph of Sergei.

��Shit!�� exclaimed Sergei.

��Ooh, la,�� said Yvonne.

Yvonne watched carefully, but Sergei made no sudden movement. It was almost as if he had expected this.

��Very well,�� said Yvonne. ��I will go next. I have been instructed to terminate you, Rock.��

Rock simply nodded. He and Yvonne looked at Sergei.

��Da. Da,�� Sergei said, leaning back slowly. ��I am ordered to kill you as well, Yvonne. No offense.��

��None taken,�� said Yvonne.

The three spies stared at each other for a few moments.

��I have reason to believe that these simultaneous assignments are not due to coincidence,�� said Rock.

��Oh, you think?�� said Sergei.

��Even if that��s true, what do we do about it?�� asked Yvonne. ��I��ve never refused an assignment, and I��m not sure what would happen if I tried.��

��I have never refused either,�� offered Sergei, ��but unfortunately I do know what would happen.��

��Nor I,�� said Rock, ��although I��m technically retired now.��

Sergei snorted. ��Ha! You haven��t been retired, Rock, but you certainly will be if you decline your assignment. I��m familiar with how your no-name agency operates, and it��s the same as the KGB. We are simply more open about it.��

��Why do you think this is happening, Rock?�� asked Yvonne.

��I suspect that none of these three assignments have official backing from our respective agencies. They were manufactured and slipped to us by someone who wishes us to kill each other until there is only one of us left.��

��Why?�� asked Yvonne. But she already knew the answer.

��Someone found out about the gold, of course,�� said Sergei. ��They don��t wish to fight all of us at once, so they thought they��d have us do the difficult work for them. Two of us will die. Then they��ll approach the last man standing ��

�� or woman �� added Yvonne.

�� or woman,�� continued Sergei, ��and pressure them to reveal the location of our treasure.��

��This makes sense. But how can we prove it?�� asked Yvonne.

��We can��t,�� admitted Rock. ��No one at our respective agencies would ever confirm an assassination order, even if it is legitimate. Especially if it is legitimate. That��s the beauty of this plan.��

��Da. I agree. There is no way to tell for sure whether these orders are properly sanctioned. So what do we do?��

��Well, as I see it, we have two options,�� said Rock. ��Option one, we carry out the assignments and may the best man or woman win. But not here, and not tonight. We must allow each other the courtesy of getting away from the safe house and planning our respective operations.��

��Yes, agreed,�� said Sergei. Yvonne nodded. ��And option two?��

��We quietly ignore the orders and accelerate our planned retirements, simultaneously trying to figure out who, if anyone, has set us up.��

The three spies looked each other in the eyes without speaking for several minutes, carefully weighing the pros and cons of each option. Then the meeting continued and each of them spoke his or her piece, while the other two tried to determine whether the message they were hearing was a truth, a lie, or (most treacherous of all) a subtle mixture of both.

They had been measuring each other��s words for many years, but that didn��t make it any easier.

-��

It was June of 1945, and Germany had declared an unconditional surrender the previous month. The war in Asia was ongoing, but it only seemed to be a matter of time before it would be brought to a close as well. In another two months, the atomic bomb would be dropped and the world would enter a new era, not necessarily for the better.

Troops of many nations were camped all over Europe and were slowly beginning to make their way home. While they waited for their return orders, allied soldiers and partisans celebrated.

Three young people in their mid-20s huddled around a table in a French wine bar near a small town called Avallon, about 100 miles southeast of Paris. There were several empty bottles of wine on the table. U.S. Army Lieutenant Sam Rockefeller poured another glass for his newly-made friends from Russia and France. Russia was still an ally at this point, although the strains between Stalin and the West were already apparent. Colonel Sergei Nozhnitsy savored his wine and secretly dreaded the return trip to Russia. He had heard a rumor that Mother Russia had not been treating her triumphant heroes with much warmth upon their homecoming, particularly those who had had direct contact with foreigners. He hoped his march home wouldn��t end in a government-sponsored train ride to Siberia. Across from him was a smiling Yvonne LePapier, who had distinguished herself as a leader of the underground French resistance. Now that the war was over, she was actively on the lookout for Frenchmen who had collaborated with the enemy, all of whom were all scrambling to change their identities and cover up their wartime treachery.

��You know what I��d like to see before I leave this country?�� asked Sergei.

��A woman��s bedroom?�� asked Yvonne.

��Nyet, nyet �� unless you��re offering, perhaps?��

��Non. Non. Pas moi. But I know some girls ��

��Spasibo, nyet. I��d like to explore some of the caves near here. In Arcy-sur-Cure, I think they call it.��

��Are you sure those are the kind of caves you want, mon cher? They are cold and depressing. Now, these girls I know, on the other hand ��

��I agree with Sergei,�� said Rock, a little shakily after his excessive wine consumption. ��Let��s go to the caves. Can you take us there, Yvonne?��

��Well, I suppose ��

��Good. It��s settled then. Let��s meet here at 9 am tomorrow and head out. I will commandeer a jeep for the trip.�� Rock stood up. A second later, he sat back down again. ��Let��s, um, make that 11 am.��

The next morning the trio set off for the mountains, where they discovered several small caves suitable for exploration. After an exhausting day of spelunking, the sky began to darken and they returned to their jeep. Just as the vehicle was about to reach the main road, Sergei said, ��Rock, pull over. There��s something in the ditch.��

Rock stopped the jeep and they jumped out. Down in the ditch was the wreckage of a German transport truck, lying on its side. The driver was dead. Several bodies of Gestapo policemen were strewn around the area, some in pieces. Flies were everywhere.

��What a mess,�� Rock said. ��They must have driven over a land mine. I��ll need to report this.��

��Let��s look inside the truck,�� said Sergei.

��It could be booby-trapped,�� said Yvonne.

��Not likely, if all of these guards were inside,�� said Rock. ��But it probably won��t be pretty. You should stay back, Yvonne.��

��Are you kidding? Whatever it is, I��m sure I��ve seen worse. Lead on.��

They clambered down and peered inside the truck.

��Holy shit!�� said Rock.

��Mon Dieu!�� exclaimed Yvonne.

��Blin!�� muttered Sergei.

Inside were numerous gold bars, along with the bodies of two Gestapo.

Rock whistled. ��They must have been taking this to a storage site when the truck blew up. The Krauts�� top brass have been hiding cash and artwork all around Europe, hoping they��ll be able to retrieve it later.��

��You still want to report this, comrade?�� asked Sergei.

��You mean report finding an overturned German truck full of bodies and no cargo? Yes. Yes, I do.��

The three allies looked at each other, then looked at the gold, then looked at each other.

��I��ll drive the jeep up closer,�� said Rock.

��Sergei and I will begin unloading,�� said Yvonne.

It took the rest of the night. They transported the bricks to one of the small caves they had found. A few days later, Yvonne found them a more secure storage location and they spent another night transporting the treasure to its semi-permanent home. Several years later, the comrades moved it to an even better spot.

There were one hundred and fifty gold bars in all, each one weighing 400 ounces, or 27 pounds. Each brick was worth about $200,000. The total value in 1945 was around thirty million U.S. dollars.

They were smart about it. They left the gold untouched for a decade, figuring that the French and Americans were still on the lookout for war-time booty. Then they began selling off three or four bars per year. This metal is relatively easy to melt down if you have the right equipment, so they divided each brick into smaller, more manageable pieces and sold it off through black market contacts they had developed. They deposited the cash into numbered Swiss bank accounts and were careful not to visibly overspend their money. Eventually, each of them obtained some false identity documents and used them to purchase a retirement property in a foreign country with no extradition treaty. The spies planned to divide the remaining gold and all disappear simultaneously. After being pushed out of the agency, Sam suggested the time had come. But for one reason or another, the others weren��t ready.

-��

A week following the Dijon cabin summit, Rock was the first to complete his assignment. On May 28, 1972, Pravda reported that Sergei Nozhnitsy, a decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, was tragically killed in a freak building collapse. Rock passed along the news clipping to Roger Roshambo without comment.

��Rock crushes Scissors,�� Roger quipped. A few days afterward the bonus payment mysteriously appeared in Sam��s Chase Manhattan bank account.

Unfortunately, Samuel P. Rockefeller never got to spend the bonus money. He never even got the chance to argue with his ex-wife��s lawyer about whether he was legally entitled to spend the bonus money.

The following week, Rock was seen entering his apartment at 7:00 pm by two agents who had been tailing him ever since he returned from Europe. The agents had a good view of the only door and windows and were absolutely certain Rock never left the apartment that night.

At 7:15 pm, the agents both dropped their coffees in their laps when Rock��s apartment exploded.

Thankfully, no one was hurt because the adjacent apartments turned out to be empty at the time, and the coffee was not very hot.

Except for Samuel P. Rockefeller, that is. He was quite dead, as was confirmed the next day based upon the dental pattern of his charred remains. Roger Roshambo and the two coffee-stained agents viewed what was left of his body.

��This is LePapier��s work,�� Roger said to his agents. Disgusted, he pulled the white sheet over the corpse��s crispy head. ��Paper covers Rock,�� he said. ��I��m sorry, Sam. I��ll avenge you. Have no doubt of it.��

Roger drove to the office and asked Laurie to book him a flight to Paris, with an open return.

-��

A team of initial-less agents had been tracking the movements of Yvonne LePapier for several weeks. Per their instructions, they reported the addresses she visited but did not follow her inside. Of particular interest to the agent-in-charge were any self-storage sites or remote locations she visited.

One night in late July, the spies-on-duty followed Yvonne to a storage facility located 30 miles south of Tours. They watched as she unlocked the chains securing one of the units and carried a canvas bag into the room. A few minutes later she exited with the bag, now apparently heavier, relocked the door, and drove off. They reported her movements as usual.

The following night, Roger Roshambo drove to Tours after confirming with his operatives that LePapier was safely tucked in for the night. He arrived at the storage facility and broke open the lock with some heavy-duty bolt cutters. He opened the door and stepped inside, feeling for a light switch on the wall. He found it and flipped it on. Two men in black suits and sunglasses were sitting in the back corners of the room, pointing guns at him.

A female voice behind him said, ��Don��t even think about trying to use the door, Mr. Roshambo. I have no qualms whatsoever about shooting you in the back where you stand. This I will do immediately if you make any sudden movements.��

Roger took a breath to speak but the voice said, ��Don��t talk. Please follow my next instructions to the letter, remembering there are three guns trained on you and we are all excellent shots. First, without turning around, drop the bolt cutters and kick them back toward me. Good. Now, with two fingers, remove your gun and throw it into the middle of the room. Well done. Third, kick off your shoes and kick them toward your gun. Bon. Now, put your hands on the wall. Spread your legs and bend forward. That��s it. Thank you.��

Roger felt a man��s hands frisk him roughly from behind. It was a thorough and professional job.

��Turn around slowly now, Mr. Roshambo.��

Roger did. And found himself face to face with Samuel P. Rockefeller, whose fist immediately connected with his nose and his chin in quick succession. Roger dropped to the floor.

��Stay down,�� Rock barked.

��I thought you were dead. How��?��

��My death was staged. Several years ago, I acquired the apartment below mine under a false name. I cut a trapdoor into my floor. That night, I dropped down and was well away before setting off the blast.��

��Then whose body ��?��

��Does it matter? It was one I had dental records for, which I substituted for my own in the files. He was already dead, by the way, and not by my hand.��

��Ah. And I suppose the Russian��s death was also faked?��

��Of course it was,�� said Sergei from the corner. ��Did you think I��d be foolish enough to let this American amateur kill me?��

��Amateur my ass,�� said Rock. ��If I��d really wanted you dead, I��d ��

��Stop it, boys,�� interrupted Yvonne.

��How did you know it was me?�� asked Roger.

��We didn��t. Not for sure, anyway. But we knew it had to be someone fairly senior in one of our agencies. We decided to let them think their plan had worked, then we waited to see which rat showed up. The smart money was on you, particularly after you made the crack about Rock crushing Scissors. That was a stupid slip. You told me you didn��t know who my target was, remember? But how did you find out about the gold?��

��It was just a fluke. One of my other operatives happened to see you enter a Credit Suisse branch in Zurich a few years back. He mentioned it in passing and it got me thinking. Why would you need to visit Credit Suisse? After some digging and surveillance, I discovered you��d been routinely meeting with these two foreign agents. I eventually pieced the story together. I just never knew where the gold was hidden.��

��And you still don��t. Goodbye, Roger.�� Rock pointed his weapon at Roshambo��s forehead.

��Wait! You can��t kill me! Two agents are watching this location right now.��

��Bullshit. You wouldn��t want to share the gold with anyone, or risk being caught. You��re here alone. And no one will be looking for us. When they finally discover your body, the only prints they��ll find will be yours.�� Roger finally notices their gloves and hairnets.

��Besides, Roger, in case you��ve forgotten, Sergei and I are already dead. And Yvonne will soon join us in the Great Beyond. Or Brazil. I don��t recall which country she chose to retire in. Oh, and before you die I just want you to know that whether or not you turned out to be guilty, I always thought you were a complete flaming asshole.��

Before Roshambo could respond, Rock squeezed the trigger and placed six bullets into his head.

��Waste of good bullets,�� said Sergei.

��Yeah. But I��m rich. Let��s go. Don��t you still have to assassinate someone?��

��Da. I always complete my assignments.�� Sergei smiled at Yvonne. ��You all packed, my printsessa?��

��Ready when you are, comrade. Let��s go give those agents outside my house a fireworks show they won��t forget.��

The three old hands left the building and put a brand new lock on the door.

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on June 09, 2020 09:00

Thoughts on ��The Wonderful Wizard of Oz��

Just FYI, I��m copying below my Goodreads book review of L. Frank Baum��s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, to which I gave one of my ��highly coveted�� five-star ratings.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this book. Baum��s prose is excellent and the story is well-paced. Most of us have only seen the movie, of course. The film is fairly true to the basic story, but the book contains a number of important additional scenes. For example, it is apparent early on that the scarecrow, lion, and tin woodsman already have the qualities that they seek from the wizard, in abundance. On their trip to Oz, the scarecrow makes all of the intelligent decisions, the lion performs several highly courageous acts, and the tin woodsman repeatedly demonstrates his compassion. The trio only lacks self-confidence, which the wizard eventually helps them to attain.

There is an interesting theory that L. Frank Baum��s first book was an allegory about the gold standard, which was a major political issue back in 1900. In this interpretation, Dorothy represents traditional American values, the Scarecrow is the American farmer, the Tin Man stands for the workers, and the Cowardly Lion is William Jennings Bryan, who was a Democratic presidential candidate and ��rightly�� preferred silver over gold as a monetary standard. But Bryan (in some people��s views) lacked the courage of his convictions and he lost the election. The Wicked Witch of the West was Republican President William McKinley, a strong supporter of the gold standard, and the Wizard was Mark Hanna, the chairman of the Republican Party. And ��Oz,�� of course, is an abbreviation for the gold ��ounce.��

In the book, Dorothy��s slippers are made of silver, not ruby, implying that silver was the right choice for the economy and could solve its problems. The Yellow Brick Road represents the gold standard, which leads to the Emerald City. The green color of this city stands for paper money, which has no inherent value. The residents of the Emerald City are forced to wear green-colored glasses, which are locked onto their heads to make them believe that the city is beautiful and valuable. In fact, it isn��t; this is just another of the Wizard��s tricks.

Giving strong credence to this theory is the fact that Baum was a political activist in the 1890s and he advocated against using gold as a single monetary standard, due to its scarcity. He promoted using a system of ��bimetallism,�� where the value of the dollar would be set by tying it to fixed quantities of both gold and silver. This would supposedly make prices more stable and have other economic benefits.

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on June 05, 2020 08:00

Twenty-six Sentences

Around six a.m. on January 12, 1552, Milton Gimblesnout rose exhausted from his bed having not slept a wink, his mind all abuzz. Being careful not to awaken his snoring wife, he quickly performed his morning ritual and dressed for the day. Cacophonous rumblings could already be heard from downstairs, where his employees were busily setting the type, printing out pages, and proofreading syntax.

��Dammed if I know how I��m going to keep this publishing company from collapsing, with my creditors at the door,�� Milton muttered as he descended the stairs with his hair uncombed and his tie askew.

Edgar Manicotti, his second-in-command, met him at the bottom of the steps with his hat in hand, saying, ��There��s a well-off gentleman waiting for you in your office, Gov.��

Finally, a paying customer, thought Milton as he entered the room, extended his hand, and said, ��Welcome, Sir, and good day to you.��

��Good morning,�� said the somewhat evil-looking, dark-haired visitor, ��my name is Devlin Bezzlebub and I have an extremely important document that I��d like you to print.��

��How many pages?��

��It is but twenty-six sentences but I shall pay you one gold sovereign for each word, since this job will place your workers in considerable danger.��

��Jumping Jehosaphat, what on Earth do you mean?�� asked Milton, silently questioning the strange man��s I.Q.

��Knowledge of these cursed words brings a death sentence and eternal damnation, so the type must be set without anyone being able to read the document during setup.��

Lunatic or not, I can��t afford to turn down this man��s commission, the printer thought, and he agreed to provide one hundred printed copies of the murderous article by that afternoon at two.

Milton summoned Mr. Manicotti as soon as the customer had gone, instructing him to cover the source document and to have the other seven workers take turns setting the type, each of them reading only one word at a time, with strict instructions not to attempt to read the rest under pain of employment termination.

��No one is to read this confidential material, including you!�� Milton repeated as he dismissed him.

One hour later, a worker rushed into Mr. Gimblesnout��s office, wailing breathlessly, ��It��s Mr. Manicotti �� He��s dead �� He just slumped over and died �� How awful!��

Poor Manicotti, thought Gimblesnout, the man just couldn��t resist the temptation to look. Quaking slightly, he examined the body to confirm for himself that the man was dead, then he summoned the undertaker by dispatching his runner, a boy from Algiers named Faraj.

��Resume your work!�� he yelled, ��and do not read the document we are printing, as you were instructed by the late Mr. Manicotti.��

Signaling to one of his senior workers, Gimblesnout said, ��Henceforth, you shall assume Mr. Manicotti��s duties and your wages will be increased accordingly, Mr. Ash.��

��Thank you, Sir,�� replied a grateful but shaken Mr. Ash, ��I��ll keep the men working.��

��Unfortunately, we must finish this commission before we can suitably express our grief.��

-��

��Very nicely done,�� said Mr. Bezzlebub when he arrived to examine the copies, right on time. ��With respect to your payment, however, there is a slight problem since I can see that this is a document you��ve read. X your arms like so, and I will give you a suitably just reward for knowingly taking on a dangerous and evil commission that was clearly toxic.��

��You��re not going to carry me off to hell for this, are you, Mr. Bezzlebub?��

��Zounds, man,�� the Devil replied as the walls around them erupted into flame, ��where did you think I was going to take you, Valhalla?��

-��

Pete Simons

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on May 22, 2020 13:00

Pete Simons's Blog

February 16, 2021

What��s Going On

November 3, 2020

Review of Salman Rushdie��s novel, Quichotte

August 27, 2020

Uncooperative Characters

August 19, 2020

Question Time

August 17, 2020

Housebound

August 9, 2020

Night Fishing

July 13, 2020

Death on the Beach

June 9, 2020

Old Hand Game

June 5, 2020

Thoughts on ��The Wonderful Wizard of Oz��

May 22, 2020

Twenty-six Sentences

Pete Simons's Blog