The Knights

Hugo gingerly squeezed his legs and his horse took a few wary steps forward. His full plate armor glistened in the early morning sun as he poked his spear at the knight sleeping under the gently waving tendrils of the willow tree.

“Wake up Aaron!” he called, gently poking his comrade on the side. Aaron woke, startled and nearly tripping over his legs. His hand reached for his flamberge, a blade nearly as tall as him, which jutted out of the ground. Naked and filthy, he slapped the spear away with a wave of the hefty sword. His long, matted blonde hair tumbled near his waist and swayed like a field of wheat as he launched himself forward, tugging at the horse’s bridle. Swiftly, he pulled himself up so he could look Hugo in the eye.

“Don’t wake me with a spear, or that damned thing will find its way into your heart!” threatened Aaron. Hugo resisted belting his friend with an armored fist, but instead calmly explained that he had all ready tried the most gentle of measures of awakening his traveling companion and needed to resort to more drastic measures. “Bah!” dismissed Aaron as he leapt from the horse. “What’s the rush anyways? The dragon isn’t going anywhere. Bastard’s been asleep ten years, and he’ll probably be asleep tomorrow and next week, and for many months to come. Another morning won’t make much of a difference.” Despite his grievances, Aaron started to dress for battle in his suit of boiled leather and chain mail. Tucking his open-faced helm under his arm and slinging his sword onto his shoulder, he walked slowly beside Hugo.

Hugo looked down on Aaron and smiled at the bull headed knight. Aaron never rode war horses; he always had a love for swift animals and prided himself on his acrobatic prowess. In truth, Aaron was less of a knight than Hugo, but he certainly was a better fighter. Hugo never underestimated his friend’s skills; while Aaron may never had jousted in a tournament, he had proven himself again and again. Despite his laziness, he made for a good traveling companion. He had good eyes and knew his way around a battlefield. Aaron loved Hugo as a brother, and had an equal respect for the accomplished knight’s skill.

“So the dragon will know. I’ve heard that too many times. ‘The dragon is old, the dragon is wise,’ Bah! The dragons are a blight on the earth and an affront to the gods. A snake with feet and wings; liars and thieves the lot of them.” complained Aaron as he walked through the thickly wooded forest. The trees shaded them from the sun and kept them cool as the day became warmer.

“Just another mile and we’ll find out where the truth of the matter is. There’s good and bad in all things; I saw a giant save a child from a well and I’ve watched a serpent-man lay his life down for his human comrades. Villagers always say these things are evil, but they never truly know, do they?” Hugo said softly.

“Bah, I say! Bah! I never heard any of those stories from anyone but you. You’re young and full of ideals that just don’t hold up in the real world. A giant may save a life, but how many will he take in a month? Anytime he’s hungry, that’s one less kid in the world and one more pile of dung. I say track ‘em and kill ‘em.”

“I hope you aren’t thinking of talking to the dragon like that.” said Hugo, trying to make the phrase ring as a warning to his friend’s ears. Aaron responded with silence; they were getting closer to the creature’s lair and he was starting to get on edge. Hugo strapped his shield to his arm; the leather straps groaned as he fastened the stag emblazoned shield’s buckles tightly. He said a quiet prayer, hoping that his God would bless him with the power to overcome the dragon peacefully. Aaron’s mind simply focused on his task. He would not pray to his gods, because he didn’t want to owe them any favors. He sneaked through the woods towards a giant cave that expelled a sulphurous and skunk-like stink. A purring sound rumbled out of the cave; the sleeping dragon simply stayed inert, oblivious to the possible dangers that lurked near it. Aaron entered the cave first, followed by the mounted Hugo.

“Awake, Thule! Awake and listen to me!” called Hugo, masking the sound of Aaron’s steps as he picked his way through a heap of gold strewn on the floor of the dragon’s lair. The dragon stirred in the darkness and opened its cat-like eyes. Sleepily, the dragon considered the mounted knight.

“What do you want!” boomed the dragon’s voice, “I’m tired and need rest. Why did you wake me?” Hugo felt the hot, rancid breath of the dragon wash over him. He slid his spear into its sheathe on the saddle and produced a small sack of gold. The dragon’s eyes flooded with greed as the bag flew through the air and crashed heavily to the ground. The dragon pulled at the bag’s drawstrings with its immense claws and let the coins spill out.

“Ask, then, if it is a question you want to ask.”

“I want to know where the father of dragons is.”

The dragon chortled deeply, not knowing that Aaron was in the shadows, readying his sword. “He is deep within the earth, at its core, far from the sun. Seek him at your peril. Why do you ask?”

“My reasons are my own.” responded Hugo, his hand on his spear.

“Keep your secret; your gold is good.”

“How do I get to the lair of the father of dragons?” asked Hugo. The dragon’s eyes narrowed evilly.

“What do you want with him!” demanded the dragon, whose ire was rising. Aaron tumbled out of the way as one of the dragon’s feet crashed into the ground near him. Aaron wanted to plunge his sword hilt deep into the creature, but he knew that Hugo would chastise him severely. Instead, he waited.

“He has something that is mine, and I wish to reclaim it.” responded Hugo. Tension rose as the dragon crawled forward slowly. Stalking Hugo, like a cat stalks a ball of yarn, the dragon licked its lips. Hugo began to worry when he saw the drool dripping from corners of the dragon’s mouth. Hugo pulled his spear from the saddle sheathe and drove his spurs into his horse. The dragon roared, blowing a stream of fire at Hugo. The thrust of the flame drove Hugo from his saddle with a force greater than any jousting lance could. The shield absorbed the heat from the flame, and glowed brightly. The dragon snapped its jaws at the prone knight, but whirled its scaly head about as Aaron plunged his sword into the dragon’s belly.

The dragon shrieked and rolled as Aaron held onto the sword with two hands, pushing and pulling the sword back and forth, aggravating the grievous wound. Hugo found his footing and launched his spear at the dragon. It found its mark deep in the dragon’s skull. The creature shrieked again weakly and then stopped stirring. Battered but uninjured, Aaron tugged his flamberge from the dragon’s carcass.

“Where do we go now?” asked Aaron wearily.

“North, to find another dragon. One will know where the father of dragons is; one will be able to tell me how to get back my soul.”

Part Two

El Monstruo (Part Three)

The wind flooded over el Monstruo’s body. Sitting on a rocky over hang, he watched the swirl and rush of the incoming tide. He kept his baggy white linen pants clean by balling up his shirt and using it as a cushion. His muscles were relaxed, yet his mind was stirring as wildly as the ocean. Without a job, he wouldn’t be able to stay in Little Arkham much longer. If he couldn’t pay his rent, he would have to move back in with his mother. El Monstruo began to feel like he was a failure, just like Julie said he was. El Monstruo thought back to when he was Grant, to when he had goals and a future.

He wanted to be a physical therapist; he wanted to help people like a doctor would, but he didn’t want to see too much blood too regularly. He wanted to see people overcome their problems through his help. Julie liked that; she liked just about everything about him. His head dropped into his hands as tears welled up in his eyes. She had always been there for him, and he had always been there for her, but yet that wasn’t enough. Their dates would turn slowly into debates and their debates would quickly become arguments. Most nights together involved at least a little yelling. There was love in their relationship, but it was insignificant compared to the animosity that always dwelled just under the skin. He was uncertain why he asked her to marry him.

Was it because I thought it would let us overcome the widening gulf between us? Was it because I truly thought that love would conquer all? Or was it just because I knew that she was the only woman that would ever dare love me

? The cool breeze washed over his sun warmed skin. I can’t stay here much longer, or I’ll get a sunburn. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Rita silhouetted by the sun.

“Hey there, hero. What’s good?” she asked flippantly as she sat next to him. She was a contrast to his bulky form: short and nearly skeletal, except for a tiny bulging belly. Her hair was short and she smelled like the sun. Her smile brought a smile to el Monstruo’s face.

“I’m not much of a hero, and there’s not much good going on. I’m gonna need to leave soon.”

“Why soon?” asked Rita with concern.

“Because I have only two-thousand dollars left in the bank. It’s enough for a couple months, but then I’d be broke. I can’t get another job at the shops, and unless I finish classes when the fall hits, I’m heading down bum road.” Rita wanted to hug her friend, to pull him close and tell him everything was going to be fine. However, she also wanted to keep her distance from him; while she cared for him, she didn’t want to suddenly become his rebound girl.

“You could always get a job at one of the bars. I heard Arouna talking about your fight at the four S, and was wondering if you’d come in and be a bouncer for him. You know how it gets down at his place.” said Rita with a smile. She didn’t know if it was the best suggestion, but she felt compelled to make it. El Monstruo considered her suggestion with his thumb and index finger rubbing his chin. Rita watched him closely. She wasn’t sure what the whole mask business was about, but she knew it had something to do with his break-up with Julie. He didn’t seem like he went insane, but she wondered just the same. The wondered if he was even safe to be around.

“I’ll go talk to him about it.” said el Monstruo at last. He looked into Rita’s honey-brown eyes and saw love there, or at least concern. He stood up and grabbed his shirt from the ground and slid his arms into it. He looked at Rita’s thin, long legs as they took in the sun’s rays. He furtively studied her small breasts until her eyes again met his. “I might as well get going now, right?”

“Right, I guess.” answered Rita, still smiling. He saw him looking at her and felt equally awkward and flattered. He seemed to like what he saw, but it was hard to tell with the mask. She abruptly stopped her thoughts from wandering down that path. She didn’t want to be the rebound girl, and she didn’t want to be the girl going out with the guy in the mask. She watched as he left, his shirt still unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze.

El Monstruo walked the mile and a half to the piers. He looked at the myriad of restaurants and tourist shops. It wasn’t terribly unlike the street of shops he had worked on before, though it was a younger crowd at the piers. He made his way through the jungle of tourists and found Arouna’s bar and grill, The Freeky Tiki. He looked at the ramshackle place that was frequented only by tourists and let out a sigh; the decor was tacky and outdated, but the drinks were cheap and the food was serviceable. The dimly lit dining area was empty, while the bar featured a couple of guys who seemed far too young to be drinking downing shot after shot of a clear liquor. He assumed it was Zima.

“Hey! Look who it is! The Monster himself. How are you big guy?” Arouna’s smile was wide and yellowy and his African accented words spilled together musically. The tall barman gave el Monstruo a pat on the back and a shake of the hand, guiding him to a table in the corner. A busty statue of a hula girl stared down at the pair as Arouna laid out the terms of employment. “You come in around five, sit down, watch the TV and look like a mean man. Then, if anyone starts shit, you stop it. I don’t care if you bust their heads, just don’t damage any of the decor. This stuff’s not cheap you know?” El Monstruo stared in disbelief at the last statement, his mouth nearly dropping open in shock.

“The pay is all right. Eight-seventy usually, more now because of the tourists and the trouble they bring. There’s a room for you if you need it, and you get anything on the menu at half price, just no drinks.” It was well known that while Arouna served the cheapest liquor in town, he never drank it. He also expected that none of his workers would either. Arouna leaned back and folded his hands behind his head as he reclined. “Sound good, big guy?” asked Arouna.

“I need a job, so yeah.” replied el Monstruo unenthusiastically. Concern flashed across Arouna’s face.

“You aren’t happy to be working here?” he asked.

“I just don’t know what I want.” replied el Monstruo truthfully.

“Well, God says that if you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything. Think on it, big guy. If it’s for you, then you’ll see that soon enough.”

“Yeah, but I need the job now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” said el Monstruo, all ready eyeing the young drunks at the bar. His fists balled tightly and veins began to bulge on the back of his hands.

“You only start at five,” reminded Arouna, “and you only stop what people start. Got it?” El Monstruo’s fists relaxed as he stood up.

“Maybe you should card those guys at the bar?” suggested el Monstruo.

“I all ready did.” assured Arouna. “Their I.D.’s were fine enough.”

EL Monstruo leered at the guys at the bar with contempt. He asked where his room was and Arouna showed it to him. Might as well save a few bucks and stay here. The room was small, with a bed, a closet, a bathroom, and a television. It wasn’t much, but it would be home.

To Part 4

El Monstruo (Part Two)

Richard’s hands clasped each other tightly. Sitting at his desk, he studied Grant. His office seemed filled with Grant’s presence. A tiny fan oscillated in the corner, fighting against the summer heat. Joyce had come home quaking with fear earlier in the week. She felt like Grant was intimidating her, and she left it to Richard to address the problem. The pudgy, round man wringed his hands nervously. The stared at the eyes behind the mask; that seemed to be all that was left of the Grant that he hired four years ago.

“Grant,” started Richard. The masked man winced when he heard the name. His large hands clasped the arms of the chair he was seated on. The color seeped out of Richard’s face as he watched the man he knew as Grant stand up, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling.

“I don’t use that name any more. I am now el Monstruo.” said el Monstruo in a gravelly voice. He felt his anger rising and worked to suppress it. “I see nothing wrong with the way I have been acting. I’m sorry if you think I did something wrong.” Richard smiled and bobbed his head like a horse. Richard was at a loss for words. Fear raced up and down his spine as he looked at el Monstruo’s arms; the shirt’s seams strained to contain the muscle bound frame of the man. The intensity of the moment shattered when both men heard Martha yell for help. El Monstruo crashed out of the office door to see a young man dressed in a polo shirt and a plastic Zorro mask tugging at the cash register’s open drawer.

Crime was not commonplace in the small seaside town of Little Arkham, though it was not terribly unusual for a trust fund punk to try a ’smash and grab’ robbery. Typically, the perpetrator would make off with twenty dollars and might end up getting a talking to by the police. However, the would-be robber that decided to thieve from Joyce and Richard’s Sea Side Shell Shop got much more than he bargained for. El Monstruo vaulted over the counter, kicking the thief in the jaw as he flew through the air. The thief recoiled as he heard the sound of his nose breaking as el Monstruo closed in on him with a right hook and an elbow. The young man threw a punch at el Monstruo, who dodged the punch and grabbed the thief by the forearm. Pulling the thief’s arm, everyone heard a sickening pop; el Monstruo let go of the arm and it dangled lifelessly at the thief’s side.

“Stop Grant!” yelled Richard. Tears dropped from Martha’s face as el Monstruo pulled at the collar of the thief’s shirt and tripped him, dropping him to the ground. El Monstruo buried his knee in his victim’s back and hooked an arm around his neck. El Monstruo pulled back with all his might, bowing the young man’s back unnaturally. Richard ran from the room and back to his office. He’d have to get the police to arrive quickly. When they did arrive, the young man was unconscious on the floor. El Monstruo had belted him hard across the back of his head and sent him into a dark, dreamless slumber. The officer worried that the boy was dead and threatened to arrest el Monstruo.

That night, Richard spoke to el Monstruo.

“I’m sorry, but even though it was a good thing, I can’t have you around. What if you killed him? You surely would have if the police didn’t show up. You’ll probably be charged with assault or something before this is all over. I’m sorry.” Richard waited in silence as el Monstruo’s fist clenched and un clenched.

“It was the right thing to do. What if he was armed, or worse?” replied el Monstruo.

“Nothing like that would happen around here.” insisted Richard.

“Not while I’m around.” interrupted el Monstruo. Richard watched as the man pulled off his green apron and tossed it onto the floor. El Monstruo left without another word or gesture. He walked out into the night, leaving the world he knew far behind.

To Part 3

Little Horn: Part One: Concerning Adrian

This is a story I wrote about a year ago. It is meant to be a trilogy, though I only wrote one part. I thought it might be interested to post this and get myself back into it. We’ll see if that works

——————————————————————–

“Sylvia, are you worried?” asked Jack as laid next to her and lovingly caressed Sylvia’s bubble like belly. Sylvia had received some strange news earlier in the day; the ultrasound had presented her and Jack with an unexpected issue with the unexpected birth.

“How could I not be worried? There’s something really wrong with my baby.” Sylvia brushed her long blonde hair out of her face and looked deeply into Jack’s eyes. Since he learned about the pregnancy, he had grown up quite a bit. He managed to start working full-time at the toy store rather than spending hours looking at the action figures available there. She had also noticed that he looked very tired, worried, and as though all the life had been sucked out of him. She knew he had big plans; she also knew that the baby would spoil many of those plans. He would have to put off college until she could get back to work. Even then, they had a wedding to plan before he could start working on a career.

“Our baby should be fine. There’s just a couple of bumps on his head. Nothing to freak out about. Probably just some glitch with the machine or something anyways, right?” Jack tried to calm Sylvia down, but she could not help but fret about the life within her. Jack was afraid of being a father, but he knew that Sylvia would be a great mother. He loved her because of her caring personality; he also loved her because she was a responsible while he was not. He found himself wishing that she were more responsible, for if she were, they would not have a baby right now, and if they did not have a baby, he would not have his mother calling him on the phone everyday.

“What if they are horns, Jack? What if our baby really has horns? What is that going to do to him?” Tears began to stream down Sylvia’s cheeks while Jack put his arms around her. He did so because he knew it was what he was supposed to do. He loved her and he felt that he should comfort her even if he did not want to. Everything in him longed to leave, to extract himself from the misery in which he had found himself embroiled. However, he played the part of the caring lover. He was an actor, and this role was an easy one to play. He would hold her until she finished crying and then he could get away from her.

Sylvia could not get the image out of her mind. The ultrasound showed them as clearly as chalk on a blackboard: her baby had a pair of tiny horns protruding from its forehead. The doctor had tried to calm her, saying that it could be a minor glitch with the machine. However, the latest ultrasound still showed the discreet, tiny bulges on her baby’s forehead. The doctor changed his theory from it being a glitch to the baby having a deformity. Thinking of bringing her imperfect child into the world tore away at Sylvia; she repeatedly asked God why He made her child like this and was forcing her to bring a deformed creature into such an image conscious society. She believed it was unfair that an imperfect child would be her burden.

The phone rang which disturbed Sylvia even further. She knew who it was on the line; it was Jack’s mother Bea, and Bea had a new reason to condemn their relationship. Not only were they unmarried and having a child, that child had horns, and Bea knew that, that meant the child was the Anti-Christ.

“Don’t let the machine pick-up. I don’t want to hear her voice,” said Sylvia quietly.

“Do you think I want to talk to her anymore than you want to hear her? Just let the machine pick up; she’ll leave a message and that’s it.”

“I don’t want to hear her, Jack! I’m sick of her judgments and I’m tired of her protests! It is hard enough living like this without that witch’s voice!”

The answering machine picked up while Jack gave Sylvia a disgusted look. Sliding out of the bed and walking into the kitchen space, he slowly made his way to the telephone. His mother’s voice radiated from the answering machine, spreading its malicious message throughout the tiny studio apartment.

“I know you are there! You hussy! You bringer of ruin! Johnny showed me the picture! You have lain with the Devil and you have brought damnation upon us all!” shouted the sharp and nasal voice through the speaker. Jack picked up the phone and his mother’s continuing tirade greeted him.

“Calm down mom. I know, I know.” were the only words he spoke. Sylvia listened as Jack absorbed the abuse meant for her. She would have felt good about his valiant act if it were not for the fact that he never refuted any of his mother’s points. “Yes, mom, you are right mom.” were the only words she heard coming from across the room. She watched as Jack listened to his mother and felt her anger growing within her. Sylvia knew that the conversation’s topic was Bea’s desire for the baby’s death. Sylvia knew that Bea wanted nothing more than to have Jack back under her roof and Sylvia far, far away.

When Jack finished the call, he switched off the phone and tossed himself onto a beanbag chair. Sylvia got out of bed and waddled towards Jack, taking a seat in the couch across from him. The apartment was tiny and filled with an eclectic mix furniture and decorated with Jack’s action figures. Sylvia looked at the apartment with disgust and then looked at Jack with disdain.

“Why don’t you disagree with her?” asked Sylvia.

“Why bother? I won’t be able to change her mind. You know I want to stay with you and the baby, right? I mean, I work, keep you fed, clean the house when you can’t. Do you think I don’t love you?” responded Jack with venom in his voice.

“This isn’t about love, Jack; this is about you and your mother. I don’t want you to change her mind; I want you to tell her that you want to stay with the baby and me!”

“Didn’t I just say I wanted to stay, weren’t you listening?”

“I was listening; it is you who wasn’t listening. Why won’t you tell her?” Sylvia was becoming angry with Jack and watched as he smiled softly.

“I’m sorry honey. I know I should tell her, but I just can’t. She’s old, and I’d rather be able to remain on speaking terms with her in these late years of her life. I just let her let out everything she needs to, that’s all. She doesn’t want to hear what I have to say, she just wants me to hear what she has to say.”

“Well then, maybe she needs to wake up.” said Sylvia as she stood up and waddled towards the phone. Jack watched as she took hold of the phone and began to dial.

“Who are you calling?” he asked as he stood up, grabbing for the phone. Sylvia pulled the phone from Jack’s reaching fingers and continued dialing. She would call Bea and confront her. She’d tell her what she needed to hear.

“Don’t call her, Sylvia, please. It won’t do any good. Just put the phone down. I’ll call her tomorrow, and we’ll talk. I’ll tell her everything but I guarantee that she won’t care,” begged Jack as Sylvia hesitated dialing the final digit of the number.

“And if you don’t call?” demanded Sylvia.

“I promise I will,” said Jack as Sylvia switched off the phone. He wrapped his arms around Sylvia and embraced her tightly. He knew that he loved Sylvia, but he was so unsure of the situation in which they had found themselves. Both of them were young, and neither felt prepared to be a parent. The repetitive calls did nothing to assure Jack of his choice to stay with Sylvia. As he held her in his arms, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. He knew he would not call his mother; she would call as she always did and he would tolerate her harping until she hung up the telephone.

That night, awake and sitting by the window, Jack contemplated his fate. He could run away from everything and maybe have a chance to make his dreams come true. However, he wondered if his dreams should not change. He was to have a son now, and horns or no horns, he would want to be in his son’s life. Maybe he could talk with his mother and convince her that the child was not the demon seed she believed he was. If she did not listen to reason, perhaps he would just cut her out of his life and the life of his family. It would be better to be without her than to receive those daily calls.

As he thought, the night wore on. He contemplated what he could do in order to afford the operation his son would have to go through in order to remove the horns. He resolved that he would do whatever it took to assure a good life for his son. As dawn approached, Sylvia walked to the refrigerator and saw that Jack had fallen asleep at the table. She smiled at him and felt blessed to have him in her life. She believed that while times were trying now, they would get better soon.

“Jack.” she whispered softly in his ear.

“Wha?” muttered Jack incoherently. He stood up from the table and wandered towards the bedroom.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” said Sylvia, “I was rude and you were tired.”

“Not now. Sleep.” murmured Jack as he flopped onto the bed.

The next day, Jack fulfilled his promise and called his mother. Talking for over an hour, he said the words that Sylvia long wished he would say to his mother, “I love Sylvia.”

“Love or not, that is the Devil’s baby and you know it!” yelled Bea into the receiver. She had quite enough of her boy’s ramblings and sought a swift ending to the conversation, though Jack would not let her have it.

“It isn’t the Devil’s baby, mother. It is my baby boy,” said Jack.

“How are you so sure? Horns don’t run in my family, you know.”

“Mother, do I need to tell you how the baby was conceived? I was there, you know, and I remember it quite well.”

“Even if you were there Johnny, you don’t know what that girl has been doing?” said Bea viciously.

“And how do you know what she’s been doing? I don’t see you around here often. You haven’t even come to visit since we moved over a year ago. All you do is call and nag about this or that. You have been nothing but a burden since I moved out, and I’m through!” yelled Jack as he pressed the phone’s off button, hanging up on his mother.

“Jack, are you okay?” asked Sylvia.

“I just hung up on my mother. I just hung up on her and it felt good,” said Jack with a smile. He felt free and happy; with his mother’s rants out of his life, he felt happiness for the first time since he found out about the pregnancy. “I feel like I’m starting over again,” he said with relief.

“That’s because you are. I know that this wasn’t your plan, but maybe we can make a new plan?” asked Sylvia.

“I think that a new plan is in order. First, we’ll need a name.”

“For the plan?” joked Sylvia.

“No, for the baby.” said Jack with a wide smile on his face.

“I’ve all ready thought of a name: Adrian.”

“I like it,” responded Jack, “This is my son Adrian.”

 

Electrobots From Hell (Introductory Paragraphs)

It was eight feet tall and made of titanium; covered in spikes and arcane symbols, the stink of burning blood followed it where ever it went. The misanthropic Dr. Mortuum Violenzia’s greatest acchievement, MV1, lumbered towards an old brick mill. It was the amalgam of demon and machine, meant to rage across the landscape as part of an army bent on wiping out most of human kind. The doctor had sent forth MV1 in order to test its capabilities. Judging by it’s blood soaked appearence, he assumed its mission was a success. Having returned to the cluttered laboratory, the robot submitted itself for inspection.

“MV1, give your report.” commanded the doctor. He was middle-aged and neither handsome nor repulsive. His defining feature was that he looked so average. He could easily disappear in a crowd and never be found. He hated looking so average, so he tried to separate himself from the masses by dressing in a melange of bright colors and spiking his sparse hair in a myriad of directions. He waited impatiently for MV1 to connect itself to the computer terminal. Once it connected itself to the computer, images began to flash on the screen.

El Monstruo (Part One)

The following story is one that I’ve had boiling on the back burner for a while. There was a time that I considered starting wearing a luchador mask as part of my daily ensemble, but I decided that people would have an adverse reaction. Thinking about that, the story started forming in my mind: I thought about how much we rely on our face, and how much our face says about who we are. I then considered what would happen if that face changed. A new face wouldn’t only change the person who had the new face, but it would also change how the people treated said person.

————————————————————————————-

Grant was neither Mexican or a wrestler, but he loved the masks that Mexican wrestlers wear. He had fallen in love with the idea of becoming someone else, someone that is powerful and respected. That is why he started buying the masks; when he put them on, he felt like he was a hero. Although he was a student at the community college, he wasn’t too old to put on the mask and leap off the foot of his bed to come crashing down on the bed itself. He kept his infatuation hidden from his friends, his parents, his siblings, and even his girlfriend. Even when they were to be married, he kept his secret, but when he found out his fiancée was unfaithful to him, something snapped. He stopped being Grant, and he started being el Monstruo.

He ordered the mask custom made from the internet; it was red lycra with faux hair tumbling from its crown. White strips of vinyl were cut into the shape of fangs and bordered the opening for the mouth. The eye holes were bordered with black vinyl that gave the mask a concentrated, furious expression. When it arrived, Grant eagerly pulled it over his head. He dashed to the mirror and smiled happily for the first time in six weeks. He tugged at the laces, tightening the mask; tying the laces he marveled at himself.

“El Monstruo.” Grant said in his soft voice. That’s not the voice for me. I need something stronger. I need something grittier, more like gravel and less like pudding. He sneered and took a deep breath.

“I am el Monstruo.” said el Monstruo, rolling the r masterfully. El Monstruo spoke to himself in his deep, rich bass voice. He had to practice the language; he had to work today after all. He left the house, dressed in a white collared shirt and dark slacks. When he walked into the small gift shop, his co-workers looked at him suspiciously.

“What the heck are you doing? Who the hell are you, coming in here like that?” demanded Martha, the early morning clerk.

“I work here.” replied el Monstruo matter-of-factly as he made his way to the back room. Martha stared at him, astonished. She recognized the voice, but she refused to believe it was actually Grant. She knew that the break up with Kate had hit him hard, but she didn’t think he’d go this nuts. She shook her head when el Monstruo walked back out onto the sales floor wearing the green striped apron of an employee. She walked up to him scornfully.

“Enough with the joke Grant. This isn’t Halloween. This isn’t some freaky uptown record store. There’s no place for a costume here. Take that silly thing off.” Her condescending tone sawed into el Monstruo’s head. He wanted to grab Martha by the face and pull her tongue out; he wanted to pop her eyes with his fingers and crush her face. Instead, he just calmly said that his name wasn’t Grant anymore, and that she was to call him el Monstruo, or elMo for short. She just looked at him incredulously, then looked at his name tag.

“ElMo, huh? Well, I don’t know if Joyce and Richard will take kindly to that.” The door to the shop swung open as a small family of tourists walked in. El Monstruo smiled gleefully at them as they warily walked forward. The children smiled at him while the parents seemed to be afraid of contracting a disease from him.

“Hello folks!” he boomed happily, “A beautiful day today, huh?” El Monstruo thought it would be best if he tried to be as charming as possible. These people might not understand him if he were to just brood like he used to do. He didn’t want to seem like a freak. The parents feigned undivided interest in some painted shell ornaments while the children walked up to him.

“Mister!” said the shorter of the two boys, “Why are you wearing that?”

“Yeah. What’s with the mask; you ugly or something?” said the taller one. El Monstruo simply smiled and bent down to talk to the kids on their own level. His mind poured over the reasons for his transformation. Because I want to kill someone. Because I wanted to stop that feeling; I wanted to be someone else. I wanted to feel special again.

“I just wanted to do something different today.” he said. It wasn’t a lie, nor was it the truth. It was a good part of the truth. Just then, one of the owners came in. Joyce was dressed very professionally in a pink pencil skirt and a matching blazer. Her hair was well managed, though the style was dated and overly large. She nearly screeched in terror when she saw el Monstruo. She kept her cool; there were customers in the store, and there would be a better time to admonish Grant for his tomfoolery. Martha looked at Joyce helplessly, trying to wordlessly explain the scene.

El Monstruo walked over to the father of the family and made some small talk about the fishing down by the pier. Soon, he found out that the family were on vacation and had traveled from Connecticut to Little Arkham for a bit of rest and relaxation. He made some suggestions about restaurants. After they were out of the shop, he smirked at Joyce and Martha, who were astounded that he sold the family over one-hundred and forty dollars worth of post cards, souvenirs, t-shirts, and books about Little Arkham’s history as a fishing village.

Joyce’s disdain for Grant’s new mask faded as the sales climbed. Grant had become like a new person; he was out going and gregarious. The tourists seemed to love his outlandish mask, and soon he was the talk of the long line of shops that dotted the street. She was surprised to see how much better Grant had become as a worker.

“Maybe I should get Martha a mask like that. She could use a few more sales. You did great today Grant.” congratulated Joyce with a smile.

“I’m not Grant.” replied el Monstruo reproachfully.

“You can cut the act Grant. The day’s over.”

“It isn’t an act!” shouted el Monstruo as he pounded his fist into the counter. Joyce seemed to shrink slightly. She never noticed how big Grant was; his frame was huge and he seemed to fill up half of the tiny shop. He loomed over her with rage bubbling under his mask. The anger faded like a summer shower as he kindly asked if she wanted him to come in early on the weekend, because it would be very busy. Joyce, intimidated and confused didn’t answer.

“I guess we’ll see how things go, huh?” el Monstruo said with cheer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss!” he said with a wave as he walked out into the night. The shop seemed like an airplane hanger with el Monstruo gone. Joyce shook with fear. She couldn’t work with him again; she was used to being in charge, but Grant’s new demeanor was more than she could handle. Pensive, she reflected that it was more of a new persona than a new demeanor. She convinced herself that Richard would know what to do.

To Part 2

 

Numbers on the Wall (Part Two, Ending Version 2)

The following piece of fiction contains bizarre and digusting images. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

(Ending Version 2)

“Hello.” said Roger. The line remained staticy, though Roger could hear a sound, somewhat like a voice echoing in a tin can. “Hello? I can’t hear you very well. Can you hear me?” asked Roger, not noticing an inky cloud puffing out of the reciever. When he saw it, he dropped the phone on the floor. The black smoke filtered out of the phone swiftly; in the cloud he could see the face of a young woman. He fell over himself, tumbling to the floor. The amorphous cloud grew; a dozen faces floated in the cloud. Each face was unique, except that every face writhed in pain, sneering with mouths lined with fangs. Roger pushed himself away from the apparition as dozens of arms and legs began to form on the cloud’s perimeter.

“What are you!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. He reached for a knife from his galley kitchen’s counter. His hand shook as he pointed the blade at the apparition. One of the hands swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. He shouted in pain as the thing pulled him towards itself. Its voice, echoed and tinny, called to him.

“We need you.”  it said as it wrenched his wrist around. Roger screeched in pain as the creature pulled at him. One of the mouths sunk its fangs into his flesh as several hands groped clumsily at him while others held him fast. Looking up at the apparition, Roger felt faint and powerless. He felt as though he left his body; he watched as the creature tore at his clothes. He watched as the mouths bit at him, sucking his blood. He winced as the scene became too disgusting to watch, but he could not look away. The apparition had many genitals; some male, some female. No! Stop! STOP! He tried to cry out, but the apparition was pulling his mouth open, pushing a tongue down his throat. He gagged, almost vomiting; he felt helpless and broken…

When he awoke, he was still bleeding. He pulled himself to the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash over him. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and spotted. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. He rushed from the shower and saw that his face was heavily wrinkled. I look like I aged 80 years! What the hell did that thing do to me? As he looked in the mirror, he could see the apparition behind him, a hand reaching out and clasping him painfully on the shoulder.

“We want more.” said the creature, speaking in Roger’s voice and looking at him with Roger’s youthful face.

“No!” screamed Roger pleadingly, tears welling in his eyes.

“Then another. Bring us another. If not, we will be back.” The apparition slowly disappated back into the telephone, leaving behind only a dial tone. Roger nervously grabbed at the phone and terminated the call. Naked and alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. His eyes fell on the torn clothes on the floor and the blood, his blood. He looked at the phone number and knew that there was only one way to deliver himself from the creature and what might be endless, nightly torture.

The next day, he went to the super market and went into the bathroom. He had taken a permanent marker with him; he started to write the phone number on the wall of one of the stalls. He felt guilt filling him as he scrawled ”For a Good Time, Call Annie” above the number. The words became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He left the stall, taking his marker with him, hopeful and fearful.  

 

The Government Tower, Or Quinn’s Story

This story was inspired by a conversation I had with my good friend Missie. The conversation was basically about preventing indolence via robotic companions that would persuade one to do whatever it was that one was not doing. I claimed that mine would be a robot with whips for hands. So, The Government Tower was born. I had considered making it much longer, but I’m not certain that it needs to be. Actually, I think that if it was much longer, it would fade into redundancy.

One thing you will note in this story is that it seems very personal; it is a reflection of my feelings as an artist working in an age that doesn’t always appreciate art, especially if that art comes in a written form. Sometimes it feels like you need to shoehorn something that is special to you just so that it fits into one or another market. An editor will say (not in these specific words) ”I like this or that, but you need to change everything that makes it unique.” Personally, I’d rather not make a dime than change a story based on making it more saleable. Maybe that’s why I’m on the fringe.

And yes, I left the ending that way for the enjoyment of the readers. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.

—————————————————————————————————————————

 

Another Icarus had gone by. Plummeting to the concrete ocean miles below, I could hear his scream come and go like a passing train. Out of morbid curiosity, I rushed to my window to watch him fall. I looked out at the clouds and craned my head out the window. There was no glass in the government tower, nor were there bars. The Icarus hit the building, leaving a short bloody trail before he came away from the building again, flailing limply. He shrank out of sight, and soon I couldn’t even hear his screaming. I returned to my desk and stared at the type writer; it was old and the letter ‘e’ would stick more often than not. I looked at the door to my cell and wondered when it would come.

I am Quinn, and I am a writer. However, as is typical, my work did not coincide with what society wanted. When I dropped out of college, I started living at The Fringe of the World, an apartment complex and bohemian paradise. Artists, actors, writers, musicians, and philosophers of every stripe were there. We were a community of people outcast by the working class and by the nobility. We were the tinder and fuel of a bonfire of creativity. Too frivolous to be workers and not serious enough to be nobles, the bohemians were both literally and figuratively on the fringe. As an uncontrolled creative force, it was not long before the government decided that it didn’t want us anymore. It started with a single government funded art show.

Government funded art had no soul, but the workers and nobles loved it. I remember one painting I saw at the first government art show: it was a zaftig woman wearing overalls that were too large for her. The apron front draped in such a way that there was a tantalizing peek of her bosom. She hefted a large mallet over her shoulder, and stood on a pile of rubble amidst a background torn by war. I remembered thinking that she looked as much like a man as a woman; her breasts were all that made her truly feminine. That was how government art always was; it was made to appeal to both men and women, both the rich and the poor. Every painting, every sculpture, every photograph had to speak to the entirety of the social order. It seemed to me that the goal was to entertain rather than inspire. It was then that I decided that I disliked the Government.

Years later, when I was arrested, I was with a group of bohemians outside of a Government art show at the Metropolitan Museum. We were camped out on the steps, selling our wares and performing a few one act plays. Most people just walked by us, ignoring our work. Some would watch a dancer and yell for her to strip; others would try to haggle the price down to nickels for limited edition books, hand bound by the author. Then, as swiftly as a summer’s rain, the police were there. They were on us like a flood, washing away all evidence of our presence. They collected our work and used it as evidence against us in the trials that would follow. That is how I came to be in the Government Tower.

The Government Tower is the tallest building in a city of tall buildings. It stands alone on a plot of land central to the rest of the city, like a long length of spear jutting out of a beast’s back. The tower is miles high, and most of the cells are on the highest floors. “The prisoners are free to leave at any time,” I heard the warden joke once, and it was true. We were free to leave, but we would have to go out the windows. A fly would probably slide down the sheer sides of the Government Tower, so climbing down is a hopeless endeavor. That is why I called the ones that fall by my window “Icarus.” I like to fancy that they thought they could fly, but they broke their wings. I don’t want to think that life could become so bleak that a leap was the only solution. There was another way out of the Government Tower: reform. That is where It comes in.

It comes to each room once each day. It takes your work for the day, and looks it over. If the work is judged as appropriate, the prisoner is moved to a lower cell. If the work is not, then It administers punishment. The first time It looked at one of my works, I was trembling with fear. Its red eyes scanned the pages, evaluating the story I wrote. I had written something about a boy and his dog; it was touching and slightly melodramatic. I had hoped that it had a flavour that would please the government’s palette. It simply stored the sheets in his chest, and then, after a second a whirring rose. A clash of sprockets sounded as gears grinded to life; a snake-like leather whip emerged from It’s wrist. With a deft, sudden motion, the leather snapped a thin strip of flesh off my hand with a crack.

It turned without a word, and walked away, locking the cell door behind himself. I think of It as masculine. Perhaps it is because of the way the robot was crafted: wide shoulders and narrow hips gave It the appearance of strength. Blood stained iron was It’s skin; the head was wide and flat, resting on an unperceivable neck that hid within a tall collar. It was impressive, and frightening.

I considered the story again and rewrote it. I checked the grammar, spelling and punctuation carefully. Again It appeared and again I felt the brutal crack of its whip. For weeks I produced work; comedy, drama, horror, love stories and more. Each was read by the robot, accepted, and then the machine’s whips came to life, snapping through the air with grace and precision. Finally came the day that I stood on my window sill. I interrogated myself passionately, wondering where I went wrong. Was the plot too vapid? The characters too complex? Why couldn’t I get it right?

I looked down at the long fall and imagined how easily I could end my torment. A single step was all it would take. The wind whipped around me as I stood there considering my fate. The door opened and It entered. The robot stood ready to receive my work but I had none to give. Its iron talons crunched down on my wrist as it pulled me from the window sill and dragged me from the room. I kicked at the robot and grasped at the walls as it pulled me along. Down one flight of stairs we went, and into a cell I was tossed. It had been nearly six months, but I was one step closer to freedom.

I thought I had figured out the rehabilitation. It wasn’t meant to make me write the right thing, rather it was meant to break me of the habit all together. When It came again, I stood proudly with my hand extended. I had not written again. The mechanized beast grabbed hold of my hand and twisted it painfully, bringing me to my knees. I looked up at It’s emotionless eyes and felt tears welling out of my own. I had thought I figured it out, and my broken fingers proved otherwise. My hand swelled and pulsed pink. I could barely sleep due to the pain. I fell into and out of dreams and upon awaking I struggled to my type writer.

My fingers waltzed clumsily, like a drunken couple, over the keys. I wrote about my dreams and my pain; I poured my emotions out onto the paper and prayed that it would lead to my reprieve. I wrote a simple story:

“Jaime met a friend. The friend and Jaime hadn’t seen each other in quite a long time. Jaime was happy to see the friend, and Jaime was surprised to hear that the friend was to be married. Jaime had become sad, for Jaime did not want to lose the dear friend. Jaime pleaded for the friend not to marry, as the marriage would destroy him. The friend disagreed. The friend said that marriage was going to complete the life the friend always wanted. Jaime cried as the friend left. Jaime cried and wouldn’t stop crying even if his body dried out.” I read and re-read the paragraph, and then I heard It coming from afar. It’s heavy iron feet plodded, maybe seven cells away. Depending on what happened, I might have had time to change the story. I read it again and I tore it to shreds. I sat back down at my typewriter and furiously wrote my story. I needed an hour, not minutes. I started to type fervently, each paragraph punctuated with It’s heavy footfalls. I considered all I had created in my months in the Government Tower. A hundred lives, maybe a thousand, and all were quelled because of the Government’s guidelines. I had a choice: I could keep trying to please the Government, or I could be true to myself.

I will fold this story, and I shall take it with me. Perhaps it will give me the wings to fly out of this prison. If not, at least I will have created something I could take true pride in. I have led a life blessed by my muse, but to be true to her, I have only one course of action to take.

Numbers on the Wall (Part 2)

This story still contains adult content, similar but different from the first part. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

“The night,” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was soft and eerie, like an old recording. Roger strained to hear the quiet voice over the static. “Tonight is when I will come. Leave the door open. I cannot open it. I want to be with you.”

“Tonight?” Roger asked.

“Yes. Leave the door open.” responded the voice. Then, there was silence.

“But how will you know where to find me? You don’t know who I am.”

(Ending Version 1)

There was no response to his question, just static and silence. He thought he might have heard something. Was that a wimper? A moan? Roger became frustrated, as this was evidently some kind of trick. That voice was so creepy, so unreal. Maybe it’s somekind of ad? For a horror movie or something; viral advertising through graffiti. It sounds reasonable enough. Roger terminated the call with a button press. He watched television, checked his e-mail, ate some macoroni and cheese, and settled into his bed to watch more television. The late night talk shows weren’t keeping his attention; all day long he was obsessing about sex, and now it was on his mind again. I should be with a woman right now. It just isn’t fair! I thought for sure that the number was someone’s. Roger wallowed in his self constructed misery until he started watching a movie on Cinemax. It was something about witches and their need for the life giving powers that only a man could provide. It was when the red headed witch was “extracting the life giving power” from a man that Roger heard a loud banging on the door.

It was past four in the morning, and it was unlikely that anyone he knew would be knocking at the door so late. Then he remembered the call; Tonight is when I’ll come my ass! It was a fucking prank. Tired and cranky, he pulled his flat sheet into a makeshift toga and walked to the door.

“I don’t know who this is, but you better fuck off.” He threatened weakly, “I’ll call the cops.”

“I said to leave the door unlocked.” responded a ghostly voice. Roger looked at the door and saw smoke billowing under his door. The smoke was also pouring in through the sides. Someone went through a hell of a lot of work to prank me like this. It has to be someone that knows my voice. Could it be Fat Brian? No way! Roger unbolted the door and opened it in a rage. He was determined to yell at someone over this outrage. The guts someone has to pull shit like this. Fucking asshole is going to…

Outside the door was the form of a woman clouded in a black haze. Her hair lashed around like tendrils; her eyes were white and unseeing. Her slender hand reached out for Roger’s sheet and tugged at it. She smiled coyly as she pulled herself through the open door. She was voluptuous and sensual; rather than be repelled by her, Roger felt himself drawn to her. The woman’s arms wrapped around him as she pressed her lips against his. Roger felt as though he was losing control of himself. He felt her lie him down; he felt her take his manhood within her. Pleasure flowed through his body as he heard one of the witches from the movie fake an orgasim. This is unbelieveable! It feels so good! 

Roger’s life changed that night. Over the next few months, he gained weight. His belly began to sag and he felt like there was something moving inside of him. When he went to his doctor complaining of nausea, they conducted a series of tests that concluded he had a large tumour growing in his stomach. The doctor told him surgery was the answer, and so surgery it was. However, when the surgery was over, the doctor spoke with Roger.

“Son,” said the doctor, ”I don’t know how to say this, so I will be blunt. The tumor wasn’t a tumor. It was something else…”

Roger was startled and aghast. Don’t let it be what I think it is! Please! Please! He silently prayed to God that the doctor wouldn’t say the words he didn’t want to hear. Don’t say that it was…

“a baby.” said the doctor.   

Numbers on the Wall (Part One)

The following story was inspired by a trip to the bathroom while I was at work. There were two telephone numbers written on the wall and I found myself wondering whose they were and why they would be writing their number on the walls of a men’s room.

————————————————————————————————————————– 

Warning: The following short story contains imagery that some may find offensive or distasteful. This story may not be suitable for all audiences, as it involves sexuality, adult-like themes, and some pottyish humor. Reader discretion is advised.  

 In other words: If you are offended by this story, try coming back later. I might have something more to your taste.

Shit! I need to piss!thought Roger as he raced to the bathroom closest to his cubicle. He had put off his trip to the bathroom as long as he could; he was beyond just doing a pee dance. It had become a full blown emergency. He pushed open the door to the men’s room with all the fury of an offensive tackle. He started to unbutton his pants as he slammed shut the stall door. He hated urinals with a passion; he couldn’t see why when in public, he had to relieve himself in such a public way. He let his bladder do its job and felt a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. As he finished, he decided that while here, he might as well tend to other pressing business that had recently occurred to him needed tending. He let his pants fall and he took a seat.

The beige partitions which made up the stall had very little in the way of graffiti on them. His co-workers were proud of their work place; at least most of them were. By the toilet paper container mounted on the wall, a very well drawn cartoon of the secretary at reception drew his eye. She was drawn with massively heaving breasts and pouty lips that Angelina Jolie would envy. A poorly drawn, disembodied cock was furiously discharging onto her head. Roger smirked, thinking about what it would be like to… Wait! What’s that?he thought as he spied a phone number written lightly on the wall in a bubbly, girlie script. He pondered it for a moment, then it left his mind once he flushed the toilet. He didn’t think about it again until lunch time.

He sat alone, reading a book about men stabbing each-other with swords. As his attention waned, he thought about the number. He thought about whose number it could be. It could be a guy, but the writing is so feminine. Well yeah, it would be, because it would be a gay guy. What if it was one of the cleaning ladies? That would explain why the number wasn’t washed off. Then again, the picture wasn’t washed off either. Maybe it belongs to the girlfriend of one of the guys? Maybe he’s looking to share… He thought of the possibilities and his mind raced. Could someone have put it up for revenge? Could it be an ex’s number? Then, a thousand neurons fired in his brain: Is a woman working here so hard up that she would secretly enter the men’s room and scrawl her own number on the wall? 

He thought about that possibility through the rest of the day; hardly able to concentrate on his work, his mind wandered to which woman the number could belong to. There was the young girl two rows over who always wore dresses; she had a very lean frame and long legs. He imagined what it would be like to have those legs wrapped around him. He imagined Irene, a zaftig girl from the third floor, dancing naked in his bedroom. The thought of her voluptuous body glistening in the morning light made it uncomfortable to continue sitting. He went back to the bathroom, furtively taking a sheet of copy paper and a pen with him. He quietly opened the door, and immediately smelled Fat Brian in the stall at the far end of the bathroom. Roger thanked God that the stall he entered earlier was empty. He breathed in small gasps as he wrote the number down. 

Roger heard Fat Brian flush his toilet, so he tried to rush out of the stall. A wave of anxiety washed over him: What if he sees me leave without flushing? He’ll think I left a submarine for another sailor to decommission. Roger flushed the toilet and heard Fat Brian stirring about, turning on the faucet. He knew he’d have to go out there and wash his hands. If he didn’t, he reasoned that Fat Brian would wonder why he flushed and then stood around in the stall. Roger put on his best bathroom face, which was a blank expression, and went to the sink. Fat Brian was violently rubbing a paper towel on his shirt; his big belly had settled on a wet spot on the counter, causing him no end of frustration.

“Look at this! Soaked!” ranted Fat Brian. “You’d think people would wipe the counter if they splashed it, but no! No one ever cleans up after themselves. It’s infuriating, you know?” Roger nodded his head in what could be construed as agreement, though it was more indifferent than anything else. He washed his hands as Fat Brian continued complaining in a never-ending burbling. Roger just continued feigning attention until he found a chance to leave when the boss entered the bathroom. Roger returned to his cubical and looked at the telephone number eagerly. He watched the clock as the last hours of his work day slipped away. He started planning on when he would call the number.

To Part 2 Version 1

To Part 2 Version 2