Stuart R. West's Blog, page 30

Crime in our Time of Quarantine

The other day my wife tore herself away from perusing the latest electronic headlines with a gasp. "I can't believe it," she said.

Used to our president's daily cup of lunacy, I sighed, replied, "What's he done now?"

"No, for once it's not him," she said with a head shake. "Even during this pandemic, people are still shooting each other."

My wife is one of the last truly noble idealists. 

But I'm not. It all made perfect sense to me. It took all of my control not to go over there, muss up her hair, and give a Mr. Cleaver condescending "don't-worry-your-pretty-lil-head, June" chuckle over it all. (But I knew better...besides, now would be the absolute WORST time to end up in the hospital with a head concussion.)

For you see, an increase in crime during the quarantine makes perfect sense to me.

I ticked off the reasons. "Law enforcement is thinly stretched and I would imagine taking precautions themselves, thus hindering their ability to perform to the best of their abilities. Also, since most employees are at home now, places are ripe to be robbed. Crooks can just break into a bank, no security guards, no risk of getting shot. And criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot...wait, that's "Batman"...I mean, crooks are predators."

As she thought about it, I could see her unflagging faith in the over-all goodness of humanity dim a bit. "Yeah...I suppose. And with everyone wearing masks, it's harder to identify them. Plus, they have an excuse to wear gloves, so no fingerprints."
(If my wife ever decided to go over to the dark side, she'd make a great criminal mastermind with her devious mind.)

Further case in point, recently my daughter sent me a list of scams taking advantage of the ongoing pandemic. There are stimulus check scams: these scumbags are asking for bank and personal information or even going as far as to ask for a fee! Honestly, unless your personal check has the Orange One's personal signature on it (along with an accompanying orange Dorito make-up thumb-print), it ain't kosher.

Scammers are also imitating health organizations and selling fake supplies and/or once again, asking for personal financial information. There are charity scams, hospital and provider scams, the list goes on and on.

This is truly vile and reprehensible behavior. I mean, daring and ingenious heists are one thing, but this? Taking advantage of a world's collective fear is beyond even an Ocean's 11 type of starry-eyed, Hollywood-styled romance.

I've even heard fear-mongers discussing the possibility of the United States adversaries taking advantage of our vulnerability during this time.

America's leadership isn't helping. Our commander-in-chief is so busy covering his own arse, he's creating his self-created "fake news" by making up stories daily and pointing fingers at everyone except for himself, blaming the virus on China, Democrats, Obama, journalists, and...oh, I dunno...the movie Cats, maybe?
Enough! White flag waving! 

On the other hand, I hear a lot about the generosity of many people from all walks of life. Millionaires donating scads of money (hear that, Trump?). Poor people volunteering to help. Communities coming together, supporting, and helping to bring food to the elderly. People are lining up in the streets (taking necessary precautions, natch) and applauding the brave health-care givers at the ends of grueling shifts. Likewise, this list of kindness goes on and on.

Maybe my wife has the right idea after all.

Be safe. More importantly, be kind.

(Week five of captivity and bored outta my gourd! Who woulda ever thought eating, drinking, and binging Netflix could get so boring? Somebody take Tiger King...please!)

Everyone's New Favorite Hobby: Voyeurism!

In the great 'tine of 2020, I would imagine I'm not the only one who's taken up the fine art of what I like to call watching the neighbors. However, my wife refers to it as spying or worse, voyeurism.

Let me clarify something... I've pretty much been a voyeur for the last eight years, the length of time I've been working from home. Nothing happens in my 'hood without me knowing about it. And I've seen some really interesting things. There was the goth daughter of "Captain America" who used to secretly smoke at the back of the house. One day I waved at her and she flew into full-on panic mode. (Like I'd ever rat her out to "Captain America". Couldn't stand the guy with his outdoor Neil Diamond sing-alongs and grill daddying.)

There was the ludicrous neighbor who used to take his beer cans into the street, spread 'em out, then drive back and forth over them in his pick-'em-up truck. Keep in mind this was before recycling. His huge-ass grin kinda explained it all.

Then there was the huge-ass blow-out I witnessed (aurally, not visually) by the neighbors catty-corner to the back of our house. The husband came home midday to find his wife in the arms of another man. Things got heated and loud. And I scribbled down notes, fodder for a future book.
Of course I wrote an entire book about the weird, mysterious and rude neighbors across the street, Neighborhood Watch . You'll have to read it to find out their story. (Coda: after the book came out, the dreaded neighbors packed up in the middle of the night and left, leaving behind all of their belongings. No one knows why and no one's seen nor heard from them again.)
Now everyone's catching up to my hobby, including my wife. While she's not really people watching, she is spending time looking out the upstairs window. In the past, we've had quite a few varmints pass through our Kansas suburban backyard in the past: a great granddaddy of opossums who liked to stay out all night and crawl beneath our deck in the mornings; squirrels that attack by throwing acorns when we leave the house; birds who just love to use my car and deck for target practice; bunnies (my wife's bane) who devour the garden; and a mysterious creature that leaves huge piles of scat at the bottom of our walk-out basement (a bear, gotta be a bear, based on the size of the pile. One with a sense of mischievous humor).

But I digress. Last week, my wife's in her upstairs office, supposedly working, but in actuality gazing out the window into the neighbor's yard. She pounds down the stairs and in a hushed voice, tells me to come quickly. In the neighbor's yard sat a large, horned owl. Just hanging out in a tree staring at us. Tossing some of that voyeurism right back our way. And if you've ever had a stare-down with an owl (with those large terrifying, unblinking orbs of eyes), it's no contest which species always wins.


And a lil white baby owl!Stranger yet, it's broad daylight. A portentous omen? A sign of luck? Or one goofy owl who can't tell time.

Anyway, my wife claims there was a smaller one hanging out with it earlier, but I never saw the two. Just that big large dude with the unblinking gaze into my soul.

What's the point of all of this? I dunno. Maybe nature's looking right back at us during the 2020 'tine.

But in lock-down, there's not a whole lot else to do. Who would have ever imagined watching movies, reading books, drinking beer, and overeating would ever get boring? 

I've read we're supposed to shut off the idiot box and take up a hobby. Enjoy real life. Enjoy the outdoors.

That's what I'm doing! Enjoying "real life" and the outdoors through the wide-screen bay window of my house! MUCH better than TV. (Pass the popcorn and crack open the beer! I'm not sure I recognize that new car in front of the randy nurses' house!).
Week four of captivity...

Stay safe.

Trump's Feel-Good, Down-Home, Ol'-Fashioned Remedy!

"Step right up, ladies and germs (wait, too soon?) for Donald Trump's amazing fix-it, feel-good, down-home remedy for curing that nasty ol' virus! Yes, sir, one small glass of this amazing concoction will do you up right, made you whole again! Better than snake oil, more effective than leeches, I'm talkin' a' course about Donald Trump's Lysol! Who would like to sample just a taste of this do-it-all miracle drink? How 'bout you, sir? No? What about you, madam? It's gonna be...great. It's gonna be...fantastic."

Okay, you get the idea. Yep, our president made the colossally bone-headed, extremely dangerous, absolutely unfounded, foot-in-mouth recommendation that we start injecting disinfectants. By Trump's clearly scientific standards, this means meth addicts have already got a foot up in the fight against COVID 19.

Wow, just...wow. Thank God Clorox, Lysol and other corporate Gods stepped up quickly and told everyone to not do what the president suggested.

But Trump's got his followers (although, really? Still?), so it's no surprise there was a huge uptick in sales of major disinfectants following Trump's suggestion. But, oh what a fickle world politics is, Trump has now turned his back on his Trumpites and refused to accept responsibility for the surge in popularity of disinfectants. There hasn't been a clear number of fatalities due to this major Trumplosion, but I'm sure they've occurred.

Backpedal, Trump, backpedal like the wind! Now he says it was "sarcasm." Hmmm...didn't sound like it to me. And even if it was meant to be sarcastic, I'm kinda thinking what you all are: sarcasm is exactly what I look for in a leader, right?

Trump's cabinet members (Fox newscasters?) have warned him to stop going off page with his shoot first, duck later comments. How'd he respond? "Fine, these briefings are a big waste of time anyway. I'm taking my disinfectants and going home!"

Ooh. How so...so...*swoon*...presidential.

I'm reminded of two people: 1) the aforementioned snake oil salesman; 2) the late (not so great) Reverend Jim Jones. As everyone (excluding some millenials--Hey, it's sarcasm!) knows, Jones was a crazy-ass religious zealot in the jungle of Guyana who coerced 909 followers to drink the poison Kool-Aid. Sound familiar?
But what do I know? To try to make some sense of the post-Trump world, I took it out on my characters and stories in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley . Things get kooky (but I'm kinda thinking "kooky" is the new "normal").
 

Health PSA From My Daughter!

My daughter works in a small Kansas town bank.

Today, on her facebook feed, she posted this:


PSA: Microwaving cash does not stop the spread of Corona. Actually that's the worst possible thing you could do while at home. Don't do it. That is all.

This PSA has been brought to you by things people have actually done.
Okay, constantly I'm mind-boggled by the utter cluelessness of people. My daughter said that things didn't turn out so well for her customer who said she had done this. (And there were even more customers bringing her the same lame-brain, microwavable pandemic fix-it-all).
In fact, it blows my mind when I consider how far some people will go to microwave various items.

A friend of mine had a post-college girlfriend. Yet, on day, she was mysteriously wasn't present. I said, "everything okay in La-La Land?"

He rolled his eyes, told me she'd blown up her kitchen.

"What???"

"She didn't know foil was metal. I asked her, 'what do you think foil's made of?' She said, 'How was I supposed to know aluminum is metal?'"

La-La Land died a quick death after this encounter.

But, wait! It doesn't stop there! (The less said about a cat in a microwave the better.)

I hear you saying, "Well this is all nice and fine, Stuart, but surely there are some things people wouldn't microwave...like a lava lamp."

Au contraire! Some enterprising hipster slacker did just do that! I suppose he wanted to turn his microwave on with some decorating.
CD's, spray paint, a watermelon (which admittedly looks pretty cool exploding inside a microwave), gummy bears, a light bulb, chewing gum, soap, a highlighter, a phone, a Furby (my personal favorite; this evil entity should be microwaved everywhere), and, um, a dildo have all been victims to the microwaving craze. Someone even found a way to microwave a microwave! Talk about "meta."
SO...during your Coronacation, I hope I've given you all food for thought and some fun things to try when you get bored! But wouldn't it be safer if you picked up a book? Hey, just so happens I've written 23 of 'em. WHICH CAN BE FOUND HERE!


 

The Most Dangerous Woman in Kansas

I walked into my mom's apartment with my customary greeting, expecting to hear sighs of ill health. The way we roll. "Hey, Mom, how're you doing?"

Instead, my mom backed away. "Stop. Stay where you are." Hand out, like some kind of cop or something.

"Why?" I worry she might be sick. "Is something wrong?"

"No, but I'm dangerous!"

Now there are many words to describe my mother, but "dangerous" wouldn't top anyone's list. Well, except for the fact she still thinks Trump is a wonderful, "God-fearing" leader. And, let's not forget when she was still driving past her expiration date, Mr. Magoo-ing her way through orange cones and stop signs. I'm sure she was pretty dangerous then.

But now?

I had no choice but to play along. "Okay, Mom...why are you dangerous?"

"Because it's what everyone keeps telling me. About this virus."

Well. First thing's first, she doesn't really see or talk to anyone. Who are these mysterious people proclaiming her dangerous?

"Mom, you're not dangerous."

"But it's what everyone keeps telling me!" She shakes her head, ticked off that I'm not getting it.

"You're vulnerable, not dangerous!" I raise my voice to get my message across loud and clear. Hard of hearing that she is, I repeat it three times.

"You don't have to yell at me, Stuart!"

But I kinda do since she refuses to get a hearing aid. "Mom...you're considered elderly which makes you more vulnerable right now. I'm probably in that category, too, now. That's what 'they' mean."

Still shaking her head, she's not gonna budge. "Everyone says I'm dangerous, Stuart. You just don't get it." 

I get that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, so I'm just gonna live with having a dangerous mom.

Be careful out there, folks. And if you see my mom coming...RUN!

In fact, why not "run" safely to Amazon, and check out the new rerelease of the final book in my Secret Society serial killer, darkly comic thriller series, Killer King , put out by those fine folks at Crossroads Press? Go on...I'll wait for you right here.

How Not to Murder Your Spouse while Quarantined

My wife's under the impression that during our current time of quarantine, there will be a huge explosion of babies come January and February.

I beg to differ. Not even having completed our first week of being quarantined, I believe that spouse murder will be on the uprise in the near future. But fear not, for I have an easy plan to guarantee you stay out of jail, as long as you adhere to my rules! (Hell, I might even throw in a free, used Popeil Pocket Fisherman.)

1) Get a safe or panic room. Okay, maybe you can't afford one (or perhaps no one's willing to come out and install it these days). Barring that, double-check to make sure the lock on your bathroom works. Men, I'm aiming this one primarily at you, as we all love a good peaceful sit-down.

2) Separate your work spaces. So, when we moved my wife's office home, we ended up on our dualing computers, sitting across from one another. Cute...for five minutes. That's when I made the decision to work exclusively on my laptop downstairs and she could have the top floor.

3) Hide all sharp cutlery. This isn't particularly a problem at our house as most of my knives from my bachelor days wouldn't cut through hot butter. Of course, this could lead to an even more grueling death if bludgeoning seems the method of choice.

4) Load up on alcohol. A must! And, apparently, you all agree with me, as booze sales are skyrocketing. Right now, WalMart's stock is thriving because they're the one-stop shop: booze, toilet paper, candy, and hand sanitizer, something for the whole family!

5) Drink lots of alcohol. (This step should be self-explanatory). 

 6) When in doubt, bake it out! Yep, instead of fighting or blowing a gasket over some dumb little irritant, go bake brownies. Your spouse will appreciate it immensely.

7) Read! E-books are cheap, you don't have to go anywhere to get them. So shut off the damn TV and open a book.

8) At the end of the day, greet your spouse back from a hard day at the office (okay that last part is "pretend," but it works!). Don't forget to love them, make them feel welcome, kiss them, hold their hands (after proper sanitation, natch), and take a walk.

There you have it! Your Stay-Outta-Jail card! I swan, I really should be charging you guys for this.

Be careful out there.

Hey speaking of ebooks, did you know I have a ton of 'em available at Amazon and other fine ebookeries? No? Huh. I can't believe I've neglected to let everyone know! Well, check 'em out, fine entertainment to take your mind off reality for a while: http://bit.ly/StuartRWestBooks

Fester's Party Barn

Hey-ho, something different this week at Twisted Tales as I hand the reins over to guest blogger, friend, and sister-in-law, Julie Pederson McQueen. Why am I doing this? Because I found her recounting of a recent family vacation horrifying and hilarious, the way we like things around here. (Oh! And because the last time I tried to keep up drinking with Julie, I ended up with a broken leg! That's the kinda gal she is, just sayin'!). Take it away, Julie...
So as I sit here, self quarantining with my family, it reminds me of another time that I went through hell...enter "Fester’s Party Barn," located in Piedmont, Oklahoma. Friends had told us of the fun and charm of this "quaint" tourist trap, so we loaded up the family. But wait...let’s start at the very beginning. First, it’s 98 degrees out & WINDY.  Second, the drive, the endless, torturous drive! Picture this: happy family on an October day heading out on an adventure to the pumpkin patch, anticipating the petting zoo, hayride, big slide, oh my! And of course, pumpkins!!! What could be more fun?!?! Turns out, staying at home.
Fester's Party Barn is in nowhere land. We get lost and the boys start complaining. We, being parents, threaten to “TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND GO BACK HOME!” If only we had done that. However, on the wings of a prayer and dumb luck, we finally arrive at Fester’s Party Barn with excitement in our minds and our hearts. So I’ve mentioned it’s October, time for Halloween, but it’s 98° outside and incredibly windy. Upon arrival, my husband and I, paste on our excited faces, and rouse the troops by shouting, “Yay! Come on, we get a free pumpkin, there’re animals to see, a hayride, a corn maze, and a big slide! Let’s go!!!” We forge ahead, fighting the winds of the plains. We may as well have been singing, “OooooOklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!” Parking far away, we enter the (according to friends) beloved Fester‘s Party Barn. 
At the ticket booth, we discover our Groupon (yes, I said Groupon) doesn’t work. The accommodating clerk gets us the nice fat discount anyway. Good thing, too, because after it was all said and done, it should’ve been free. First stop at Fester's is the “petting zoo”. So two minutes in there, yeah we’re done, let’s move along. There's hand sanitizer at every stop, which might've been our first clue. (Keep in mind, this is before Corona virus time.) So we move past the petting zoo and look at the other animals--donkeys, horses--Really, I'm not sure what they were because I think I blocked it out.  Next, we head to the refreshment/gift shop area for room temperature waters all around! I did mention it was like 98° right? Anyhoo, with brave parent faces strapped on, we say, "Hey, let’s do the hayride! Because it takes us to the corn maze that leads us to the big giant super duper slide!” We get on said hay ride, sans the hay, and we’re sitting on benches. A cyclone of wind  carries my husband's hat away.  Apparently, we'd been through a drought, so the corn maze is chest high for the boys, at best.  We wave at each other in the next rows, say, "hello, whatever." My husband, ever the cheerleader, rallies with, “It’s gonna be all right guys, come on we can do it, the big slide is ahead!” The “big slide" isn't so big, the size of the slide I had on my jungle gym when I was five. Our older boy was good sport enough to go down it even though he rode down it with his arms crossed, looking really annoyed. It was awesome. That was the best part. 


Then we got back on the wagon ride (no hay, remember?), went back through the nonsense to pick out our free pumpkin, the choices about the size of my hand. At this point, everyone's cranky. The boys were like, “I don’t even want a pumpkin!” I was kind of the same but trying to salvage a little bit of adulthood so I wouldn’t leave my husband alone in his attempts at fun, but the rest of us were done. We put our “pumpkins” in the back of the car--because the cup holders were full--and drove home in silence. 
Hey, guys and gals and monsters, it's me again, the usual author of this blog. While we're all hunkered down, trying to avoid the Vile-Cooties, and what-not, take back to reading. Your eyeballs ain't gonna like staring at a telephone and/or TeeVee screen for too long. Here're my (ahem) totally non-biased recommendations: http://bit.ly/StuartRWestBooks















 

The Lost Art of Hand-Holding

Okay, these days nobody wants to hold hands (or touch anyone else) due to a certain pesky virus that's sweeping the world. (But don't worry...just like all of you, I'm sick of hearing about CV and you won't be reading about it here!).

No, what I'm talking about is hand holding between couples. These days, it's rare to see couples strolling along and holding hands. And I know why this is...it's because their hands are always busy playing with their gawd-damn smart phones!

My wife and I are dedicated hand-holders. Whenever we walk in public we're attached at the hands. However, I've noticed a disturbing shift lately in how we're perceived.

I brought it to my wife's attention...

"You know...it used to be when we held hands in public, people would smile at us, their message clear: 'Sigh.  Ain't love grand?' But now, everyone's smiling at us in a different way."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah. Now, it's like sadness behind batted eyes, saying, 'look at the cute old folks in love.'"

"Nooooooooo!"

Yes, it's true. We now garner attention like tiny puppies instead of big, galloping, romancing horses.

The odd thing is, I don't ever remember holding my first wife's hand. Hand-holding's not everyone's cuppa joe. It got me thinking...where in the world did this practice start? It's hard to imagine cavemen holding hands. And if you swing that way, I imagine Eve grabbed Adam by the hand and pulled him toward that forbidden fruit, natch. But, where, oh where did this quaint custom start....?

Frankly, my usually competent research assistant, Ms. Google, let me down. However, she did uncover a few interesting facts:

*In the Chapel of St. Morrell in Leicestershire, England, archaeologists found a pair of skeletons who had been holding hands for 700 years! Now, that's commitment!


 *According to the "Touch Research Institute (and I wonder how hard it'd be to get a job there?)," holding hands stimulates the "vagus nerve" which decreases blood pressure and heart rate and puts people in a more relaxed state. (Vagus, of course, being Latin for "vague," kinda like this study, I think.)

*President (Junior) Bush caught some flack for holding hands with the crown prince of Saudi Arabia in 2005. The photo's just adorbs! I never thought lil' Bush had it in him, to be all touchy-feely. It must've killed him inside.

So, get out there, kick start your "vagus nerve," drop the damn phone, already, and grab your partner's hand. You'll feel better for it (unless you're Pres George W. Bush).

Speaking of ancient skeletons and buried secrets, come visit Gannaway, Kansas. Sure, it's a highly toxic area due to the abundant chat piles gathered from mining, and alright, the town's had its fair share of evil and murder, and okay, okay, okay, there is the small matter of ghosts running about, but hey, the Gannaway Bureau of Tourism has a pretty thankless job these days. Ask for Ghosts of Gannaway by name!
 

The Land of Ahhhhhhs!

Say it with me... "The Land of Ahhs." One of the Kansas state slogans.
How insulting. Not even the Chamber of Commerce or the Kansas Tourist Board or some schlocky advertising agency or whoever could come up with a better state slogan than to tip  an unimaginative nod toward The Wizard of Oz.

Sigh.

Honestly, when people visit Kansas, I doubt many mouths drop in awe at the beauty of our boring, flat landscapes. Or rednecks. Or good ol'-fashioned cracker barrel behind-the-times religious hypocrisy, racism and homophobia.
No, a tourist (and why in God's sake would a tourist end up HERE?) would more likely go "Kansas...AHHHHHHHHH!" You know, kinda like the Tokyo populace in all of those (English-dubbed for us real 'Mericans, you know; don't need no subtitles and don't get me goin' on all that Parasite hooey, either, by gum!) Godzilla movies: "Ahhhhhh, Ghidra!" (Time to digress a bit more: how come Japanese natives always know the names of the giant monsters before they're ever introduced? Did the English speaking audience lose something in the crappy dubbing? I mean, names like "Hedorah" and "Gigan" don't really just come naturally. Ah well, back to my regularly scheduled gripe...).

I can just imagine the brainstorming behind the Kansas slogan meeting...

"Bring me something new to the table! Go!"

"Um...how about this, sir? 'K...K...K...Kansas is C...C...C...Cool!"

"You're an idjit, Smithers! We don't need to remind the rest of the world we still have an active Ku Klux Klan here in Kansas. You're fired! Next!"

"Kansas rhymes with Schmansas and that means excitement?"

"How in hell is that supposed to make our state great again, Wilshaw? Doesn't even make sense! You're so fired, you're fired out of a cannon! Bring me something that pops!"

"Ah...well...um...'Kansas Pops Like Corn'?"

"If you're still standing here in the next five seconds, I'm gonna rip out--"

"Kansas, the Land of Ahhs."

"Who said that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Blowhard. I just...had...this idea about The Wizard of Oz and..."

"Dougie, the coffee boy?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'll go pack up my stuff and--"

"I like it! The rest of you are fired!"
On and on it goes. You should hear some of the other Kansas slogans. Well, hell, if you've read this far, I may as well list 'em: "There's no place like home (another insipid short-sighted Oz thing; like that's ALL Kansas has to offer. Hmm...maybe it is.);" "ARRR Kansas: The Pirate's Kansas (I defy ANYONE to even explain that one to me!);" "Kansas: As Big As You Think (well, Kansas is known as one of the most overweight states in the country);" and my personal favorite (which says it all) "Kansas: Stupid is the New Smart."

Ta-daaaaaa! And how depressing. My point is it's pretty sad when the only thing the so-called Kansas brain trust can come up with about my state is either Oz allusions or stupid, unfunny t-shirt slogans.

I suppose I should be happy that the much ballyhooed and planned major tourist attraction, "The Land of Oz" was scuttled. Could've had something to do with sticking all of the Midwest's little people into Munchkin costumes for entertainment exploitation.

All of my books take place in Kansas. It's my cross to bear. But the one book that most typifies the dark little seeds planted deep below the beatific picket fences and farmlands and Rockwellian masks of Kansas is my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley . Read it and understand Kansas a little better and then stay away for the luvva Pete!

B.O.M.E. aka, "Basement of Monstruous Entities"

You've heard of C.H.U.D., right? A middling '80's horror film regarding "Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers?" Now do you remember it? The late John Heard and Daniel Stern? No? Doesn't matter. (Come to think of it, I believe I worked with several C.H.U.D. at my last job.)
Anyway, welcome to "B.O.M.E.," the Midwestern cousins of the C.H.U.D. Maybe not the entire Midwest, but my basement, for sure.

I first became aware of these terrifying nocturnal monsters when my wife decided we had to clean up the basement. Until that point, I had used the basement for a repository for all of the crap I thought I might find useful later down the road. You know, I'm talking large Styrofoam packaging pieces, broken chairs and lamps, ages old and mildewed children's toys, you name it. Far from a hoarder (but probably straddling the hoarder border), I never met an empty box I didn't like.

Anyway, the clean-up process was vast, requiring a rented dumpster. We filled that big boy up with at least 10,000 moldy videotapes, my empire of dirt. That was tough as I unloaded box after box of my lifetime savings into the dumpster. Hell, who woulda thought videotapes could get moldy?

Then the process of cleaning down the old, lumpy stone walls came next. You see, this ain't no yuppie finished basement we're talking here. It's a perfect place for a haunting. Built during one of the wars, the basement is a mess of bad wiring and plumbing, crumbling stone walls, the site of many a flood, webs of gargantuan arachnids, inexplicable leaves, and...yes, monsters.

"Honey," I called out to my wife, "you gotta come see this." I stood before a crevice in the wall, fingering an orange gelatinous goo (for you see, apparently I've not learned anything from watching '50's horror and science fiction movies).

She joined my side. "What?"

"Look...you ever seen anything like it?"

Clearly frustrated, she said, "No, get back to work."

But I knew. Yes, I knew the truth. B.O.M.E.

I had forgotten about them for several years. But they existed, I knew this in the darkest recesses of my haunted mind. One insomniac night as I lay in bed, I heard proof of them.

Thump...tump...timp...timp...thump...

I sat up, terrified. And listened to make certain it wasn't part of a half-lucid dream.

TUMP! Timp...timp...timp...

I lay in bed wide awake until the sun rose, listening to the horrific, foul creatures of the underworld using the network of our heating ducts for their transportation highway. Taunting me because I slept right next to a main vent. 

THUMP!
 I imagined all sorts of nightmarish creatures: there were man rats with huge, bulging eyes and teeth a bunny would be envious of; slithery, goo-dropping, albino slugs with large glaring eyeballs that waved on antenna stalks; and little orange-colored, bad-haired, narcissistic monster men taking over the basement.

My wife awoke shortly after the calamity had stopped. I told her of the monsters in the basement. She responded with a "yes, dear" and patted my poor, lil' over-worked head. 

I searched the basement (in the daylight, mind you) for physical proof of their existence. I found more orange goo. And strange pyramids of sticks, cracked acorns...and were those...bones?

I questioned my sanity until one fateful night when my wife heard them, too.

They're down there. Oh, yes, they are. And your basement may be next!

While on the topic of my spooky basement, it did inspire one of the creepiest hauntings I've committed to paper in one of my earliest books, Neighborhood Watch . Read it with the lights one. And don't say I didn't warn you. Like all of my books, it's 100% true!