"A Bucket of Rocks"
by Tony Noland
"Ah, hang on just a sec."
Her glass of pinot gris is almost to her lips when he says it. She almost spills a drop when she stops it without taking her first sip.
"I, uh... I just wanted to ask, I mean, before you drink that, I wanted to ask..."
She lowers the glass, sets it back on the table next to her menu. Off to a poor start, the date is shaping up to be one of those where you drink too much. Now, when the drinks had arrived and they had something to do that would give a perfect excuse for not talking, he wants to talk. His beer sits untouched in front of him.
"Do you want this?"
Unaware and unintentionally comic looking, her eyebrows are up and her mouth is open in surprise. Does she want this? This? Another first date? Another evening wasted, spent dancing the same old stupid dance, circling, posturing? Another night of bad theater, playing the starring role of Single Woman against a fill-in-the-blank guy playing Single Man? Why would she want this?
"Because it looked like you really would have rather had the beer."
Oh. He was asking her if she wanted his beer. Good Lord.
"The only reason I ask is... well, look." He takes a deep breath, then rushes on. "The fact is, I don't really like beer. I ordered it because that's what guys are supposed to drink. Every time I go out on a date I drink beer when I'd really rather be drinking wine. It's stupid that there's a gender thing tied up in it, and maybe it's just me being too concerned with how I'm presenting myself here, and..."
She says nothing, lets him have his say.
"OK, and now I'm talking too much, even before drinking anything. It's just that I thought I saw you hesitate when ordering wine, and then when she brought the drinks, it looked like you would really rather have had the beer. The long and the short of it is, I think I could really get to like you, and I want to get off to a good start." His mouth twisted into a half-smile. "I'd like to get off to any kind of a start on a date without a bunch of b.s., to be perfectly honest. So, what I'm trying to say is, do you want to trade drinks?"
Her answer is not that long in coming, but long enough that it's obvious she is considering carefully how to respond.
"Actually," she says, "I don't really care for beer. I ordered the wine because I like wine."
"Oh. Ah, right. Well... right, sorry." For three seconds, a complicated swirl of emotions plays across his face, ultimately settling on a mixture of disappointment and grim resolution. Another one of those dates where you drink too much.
His bottle of Heineken is almost to his lips when she laughs out loud. He spills a bit onto his lap when he stops it without taking his first sip.
"I'm just kidding," she says. "I would really rather have the beer. I'm just... well, it's hard to admit that someone has you pegged so well."
He grins. She does the same.
The waitress, working up another check over at the cash register, hears the laughter and she smiles. First date. Thank God it seems to be going well. They always tip big when they laugh.
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Bach-wards
by Tony Noland
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STOP!
Don't start reading here! Go back to the beginning of this story, and Choose Your Own Adventure!
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Seven separate signs declared that Franny's Diner 'n Diesel served breakfast all day. Patricia Lonnigan assumed that the coffee was straight from the Diesel half of the establishment. Put on a big urn at sunrise and let it boil for the rest of the day - that was the only way to get a brew like this, thick enough to chew.
She didn't care.
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Just Enough Power - 2
by Tony Noland
A thin cloud of old cigarette ash flew up as Meng-Shiu Tong slapped the newspaper onto his desk. "That fucking little bitch has gone too far this time, Simon. Too far!"
Jolian Simon lowered the sheaf of documents he'd come in to discuss and closed the door behind him. "You mean Lonnigan?"
Tong snatched the paper off his desk and threw it at the old man. "Of course I mean Lonnigan! I specifically told her to put the Acrobat in a coma, and what does she do? She screwed it up. One simple little assignment, and she screwed it up. Look at that, it says he's conscious. Conscious for Chrissakes! I wanted him dead in the first place, I never should have agreed to send in your goddamned prima donna for a simple gun job. Never!"
"She sent a full after action report. The Acrobat is taken care of."
"He's conscious and talking to his family! I wanted him out of action, and he's up kissing his wife!"
Simon shook his head. "The Acrobat is awake, but he's bewildered and terrified. He's not talking to anyone, and he doesn't even recognize his wife," he said. "The spy we planted in the household says the entire family is paralyzed with indecision about what to do."
"I ordered her to put him in a coma, goddamn it."
"Yes, you did. And I seem to recall saying at the time that a coma was no better than dead. If he were just in a coma, instead of shipping him off in a casket, he'd be shipped off to a quiet bed somewhere. Either way he's instantly out of the picture and one of his people would take over. This way, they don't know if he's going to get better or not. That whole organization is out of the picture for the weeks, maybe months for the medical testing, and we'll be able to solidify -"
"Don't you say one more fucking word in defense of her actions, Simon. I have just about had it with both of you."
On the muted television that hung in the place where the bookcases used to be, a smiling woman was excited about the forecast for the next five days. Clear and sunny, although there was a chance for some rain on the weekend.
"If my services are no longer required, Mr. Tong, I -"
"Don't give me that Mr. Tong bullshit, either. You worked for Uncle Quing-Mei until he died, now you work for me until you die, is that clear?"
Simon stooped to pick up the newspaper from the floor.
"Never threaten."
"What?"
"You should never threaten. If you're going to kill someone, just do it. A threat is a warning, and you should never give a warning to a target."
"Don't lecture me on how to run my show, Simon. It's exactly that kind of insubordination that I don't need. I don't want to kill you, I just want your little protege to do as she's told."
"Lonnigan is one of the best operatives this organization has. She's smart, experienced, talented, and fully capable of -"
"Her Talent is a joke. It's like the whole rest of the world has guns and knives and she had a sharpened paperclip."
Simon drew a deep breath before speaking. "It's precisely because it's a low-grade Talent that she's so effective. She's completely outside the arms race among the nanotech weaponry, the Talent booster implants and major native Talents. Those kinds of energies are too easy to detect and defend against, but Lonnigan always has the element of surprise. She's a formidable woman."
"She's a woman, and that's the problem. You can't trust women to do what they're told, they always think they know better than you. I say a coma, she doesn't listen, she gets fancy because she thinks she knows better than me."
"I don't think she intends to be insubordinate. She was just... using her best judgment."
"No! That's not what I want! I don't want people to use their fucking best judgment, I want people to do what the fuck they're told! Why can't she understand that? Why can't you, Simon? What, are you part woman, you gotta question every single goddamn thing I say?"
Simon set his reports on top of one of the piles on the desk. "Your uncle found my counsel useful."
"Counsel, yes. Argument and contradiction, no. It's been almost two years, Simon, what's the matter with you? Why can't you get it? Uncle Quing-Mei isn't running things around here. I am. You do what I tell you to do. Is that clear?"
Lips pursed, Simon squinted at the floor for a moment before speaking. "That's a contact from Sung Bo Kim."
"What is?"
"That." he said, indicating the papers he'd brought in. "Kim is one of Vincelli's biggest allies."
"I know who the fuck Sung Bo Kim is."
"Well, he's prepared to bargain. It seems he went to go visit the Acrobat. He found him healthy looking and conscious, but paralyzed from the waist down and unable to speak or think coherently. The fact that the Acrobat kept pissing himself in terror seems to have affected Kim rather profoundly."
Tong picked up the report, glanced at the first page, then threw it back onto the desk.
"Kim wants to make a deal with you." said Simon. "It's not a bad offer, but we can squeeze a lot more out of him than he's put forward. He's very upset."
"Where is she?"
Simon shrugged. "Not back yet. She's driving instead of flying. It's a security measure."
"I want to see her. Tell her to be here, Thursday night. Ten o'clock."
"Here? Your office?"
"Yes, here, goddamn you, now get the fuck out. You tell her, Simon. Tell her to be here at ten o'clock sharp. I want to debrief her personally about her assignment."
The councilor nodded, as if in thought. "Alright, I'll tell her." He turned to leave. When he was at the door, Tong said, "Oh, and you be here too. I think it would be best if you were here for that particular conversation."
As Simon left, before the door closed behind him, Tong picked up the phone.
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Oh my God! I've been incredibly busy the last week or so, and I can FINALLY say why. Last Thursday, I got an e.mail from the office of Kay Ryan, the Poet Laureate of the United States. As part of a program to re-orient the No Child Left Behind educational reforms, the Obama administration wanted to do away with, or at least de-emphasize, standardized testing. Don't get me started on standardized testing, but OK, fine. That whole thing had to take a backseat to the health care fight, but now that the new bill on that has been signed into law, Obama apparently wants to come off that bounce and dive right into the education reforms. So where do I come in? Well, in order to get any Republicans to sign onto this AT ALL, he has to promise a back-to-basics approach that the conservatives will agree to. As it was explained to me, part of that was to include reinstating rote memorization as an instructional tool. Obama (who is certainly no dummy), wanted to encompass modern teaching methods, yet get Republicans to back the reforms. In what I think is a damned clever move, he is actually putting the Poet Laureate to work as part of this educational reform effort. It's taken a thousand phone calls and a lot of faxing of contracts (tricky, since I don't have an agent), but to make a long story short, I will give you one guess, ONE GUESS, whose poem about semicolons will be read by Ms. Ryan in the kickoff ceremony at the White House TONIGHT as an example of the kind of teaching tools that can transform American education. It was brought to her attention after my alma mater, the University of Chicago, featured it on National Grammar Day. Obama taught at the U of C, and apparently surrounds himself with fellow Maroons. I can't know if he himself actually read my "Ode to the Semicolon", but he'll hear it tonight. I would be so very, VERY much more colloquial in expressing my excitement, were it not for the fact that my visitors have gone from ~20/day to ~9000 in the last 36 hours, since it was announced. To all of the new guests, welcome! Feel free to check out the links at the top for more information about me and my writing! For all of my regular readers, I'm sure you won't be surprised when I say that today, April 1, 2010, is a day that I will remember for a long, long time! I just found out something incredible!
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It is a day for rumination on the nature of mankind. My first tweet setting up this April Fool's day joke was read by people who follow me on Twitter. Through RTs, it was also read by my 2nd order followers, people who don't follow me directly, but who might be peripherally aware of me.
One of these 2nd order followers ("X") was fooled by the gag. As with everyone who I knew to have been taken in, I contacted X at the earliest possible moment to reveal it to be an April Fools joke. (I have no way of contacting the people who read it, believed it, and went away without commenting or tweeting about it, since I don't know who those people are.) Several of my followers had already publicly tweeted about it being a joke, so the cat was out of the bag, at least to an extent.
It turns out that X doesn't like April Fools day. The jokes, the gags, the attempts to lure people into believing things that aren't true - all of this makes this the worst day of the year for X. In fact, X feels that, in the case of a writer with a blog, an April Fool's joke is not just a silly piece of throw-away stupidity, as in the case of the iCade Arcade Cabinet.
The theory goes that, specifically for writers, running the risk of alienating forever a fraction of the people who read (and fall for) the joke. That fraction of people will now associate me with a stupid April Fool's joke, rather than with the deathless, inspiring prose for which I have heretofore been so widely admired. As a consequence, when my Great American Novel comes out, those people will think, "Ah, he's that jackass who pranked me. I will not buy this book!"
With respect to this lingering distaste for me and my work, X feels that the fault is not with X for X’s reaction, but rather with me for having put an April Fool’s joke on my blog. Or maybe it’s for having made the joke about my work, instead of about something unrelated. Or maybe it’s because the joke was too plausible. Hard to tell.
I follow X, but X doesn’t follow me. X expresses opinions in a forthright manner, and this is no exception. I will admit that such forthrightness directed at ME is a little uncomfortable, but such is life. I’d like to say two general things about X’s response.
First, X expressed these opinions about this joke, and about me, without naming names. There was no "that Tony Noland is an asshole". Rather, X used this episode as a starting point for a discussion about the impact of our actions in the public sphere, and how it could impact our careers as writers. That discussion is a useful one to have.
Second, this is not the first prank posting I've done, nor do I expect it to be the last. I didn't intend to be mean-spirited about this joke, and I made a reasonable effort to telegraph it as a gag. Perhaps those who don't know me and my sense of humor didn't catch on instantly. Many people did, and thought it funny, to one degree or another.
So, what conclusion do I draw? It's not that I need to stop making jokes, or change my sense of humor. It's that you can't please everyone, and changing your style in order to avoid offending a small percentage of potential readership will suck the life out of you and your writing.
As a writer, that's a good lesson to learn.
"The Running Bug"by Tony Noland @TonyNolandThis science fiction adventure ran as a serial on Twitter, March 24-26, 2010. Each episode was posted hourly, around the clock, tracked by the hashtag #run. This was an experiment in 24/7 engagement, author to reader. Did you see it on Twitter? Did it work? Feel free to leave a comment, brief or extensive, to let me know what you thought of the content, form or logistics. Suggestions for future serials are welcome.
Update: A special tip of the hat to @Doublelattemama and to @FutureNostalgic for their enthusiastic support of this story with RTs and the #runpancakes hashtag on Sunday, March 28, 2010. PJ and Sam, thank you!
========================#run The sole of my right shoe flaps with every stride. I hadn't wanted to run barefoot so soon, but so be it. At least I'll be quieter. #run I push the shoes into a snowdrift. The spies won't be able to get anything from them. The bugs are strictly intramuscular. #run Rock salt digs into my heels, even through the calluses. Road crews must have been out prepping for the ice storm. #run I've been running since midnight, but now I've got a strong, icy tailwind. Only another 35 miles to go. The wind chill feels great. #run I know I won't really need to eat for another couple of days, but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break, even now. I miss coffee. #run The gallon of molasses and rum I drank is keeping the bugs happy, thank God. So much easier and faster than eating four jars of jam. #run I should get off this road before the sleet gets much worse. I don't want to be seen by someone pretending to be a simple jogger. #run Gasping, grunting as they run, pushing through the pain of the wall, getting that sweet rush of a second wind. I remember it all. #run The poisonous buildup of lactic acid in muscles pushed past the brink of failure - burning, tearing pain. I remember that, too. #run Now, when it's too late, when I can't feel either pleasure or pain when I run, I wish yet again that I'd never taken that contract. #run It was natural that they came to me. How many molecular biophysicists are also mammalian physiologists who run marathons? #run Such a ridiculous idea. Nineteen separate grant proposals rejected! And then came the Army, with gobs of money and infinite patience. #run "Sure, I can make your soldiers tireless and unstoppable. What's holding them back is how their muscles work." God, what a fool I was. #run If the money had come from a company, they would have wanted results sooner, and I never would have been able to do it. #run The nanoengineered retroviruses worked as my simulations predicted. Only on the forty-first round of testing on mice, but regardless. #run The necropsies showed the virally-enhanced streptococci had invaded all of the muscles, and were happily degrading the lactic acid. #run Without any buildup of metabolic toxins, the muscles could go at 140% forever, or until the cells started to tear themselves apart. #run As long as their blood supplied their muscles with glucose and oxygen, the mice could happily run four mouse-marathons in a row. #run Invasion of the cardiac muscle was a surprise, but their improved hearts turned out to be a complementary, even synergistic mutation. #run Synergistic coordination of degradation. It amazes me that I used to talk like that. I had no idea what that would really mean. #run The mice were willing, even eager to run for hours and hours. I was blind. I paid no attention to that eagerness, that compulsion. #run Army doctors didn't understand what I'd done and were skeptical about the results. If only I hadn't been so arrogant, gotten so angry! #run It was so childish, injecting myself with the culture, just so I could show them it worked on humans. I had no idea what I was doing. #run None of the mice had shown any notable discomfort, let alone the kind of incredible agony that makes you wish for death. #run Every muscle in my body, even the little ones in my feet, pulsing and throbbing like I'd been dipped in flaming kerosene. #run When it stopped, it was like turning off a switch. I expected to be sore for days from those horrible muscle cramps. Instead… nothing. #run That first run afterwards, the one I took to clear my head - that was like a dream. Ten miles in fifty-five minutes, and I felt great! #run I was itching to show those smug Army guys how well it had worked, hungry to prove myself. Itching and hungry - that's how it started. #run I was ravenous, but I vomited everything up. Steak, salad, even the toast and coffee. It was the last coffee I ever had… #run The only thing that tasted good was maple syrup with vodka. I had five. My gut churned, but I felt no pain. Just the itch to run. #run They doubted me, said they'd cut the funding. I blew off steam with fifteen miles in the morning, another eighteen that afternoon. #run I know I sounded crazy in the final conference call. I was on my cell, talking as I ran. The itch was so bad, how could I *not* run? #run My heart ached, my legs burned unbearably. Initially, a steady pace of 160 beats per minute scratched the itch. Then it took 170. #run The sun rises, blocked by a thick mass of sleet-heavy clouds over my shoulder. My training watch says 205 bpm. Another 24 miles to go. #run Every runner I see - they're all Army spies. They think I don't know that they're watching me, waiting for me to stop. But I know. #run There's one, heavily swathed against the sleet. She stares at my bare feet, T-shirt and shorts as I sprint past. She is one of theirs. #run No Army simpleton is going to pretend not to believe me, then take credit for my work! I burned down the lab at the University. Ha! #run My order from the wholesaler arrived yesterday. Fourteen pallets of Briar Rose Black Molasses, thirty cases of generic 151 rum. #run I have everything I need. Glucose, alcohol and space to run, to work, to sweat, to give the bugs the lactic acid they need. #run The sleet is so thick now, I can barely see. The road is so slippery, I feel like I'm swimming. Faster… I have to go faster! #run I'm right here, jerkface - get on your own side of the road. Hey, look out, you fool, look out! LOOK OUT! #run Ahhh… what happened?… Blood? A car?... I have to get out of this ditch, must get up, must run, must… where is my left leg? #run Somebody, please help me… no, not the blood, I have to get up… the pain is unbearable… the itching… please - help me run… please… This concludes "The Running Bug". For more fiction, visit http://www.TonyNoland.com #run=============================
I really do want to know what you think, so please feel free to comment, ask a question, make a suggestion for next time, anything at all. Thanks!
Just Enough Power
by Tony Noland
Two inches of twenty year old scotch in a chipped glass. A twelve dollar cigar brought to life with a disposable plastic lighter. Aderesto "The Acrobat" Vincelli's big leather chair groaned as he leaned back. He squinted through the first clouds of gray-blue smoke at the naked woman in front of him. Unlike so many who had been on that hard wooden stool, she wasn't hiding utter terror with a pretense of calm. Her hands, her eyes, her neck: these told the Acrobat that she wasn't pretending. She truly wasn't scared, not of him nor of Benny's 9mm.
Which meant she was either crazy or powerful. The uncertainty was her protection for the next three minutes.
"Sounds like a load of crap to me."
She inclined her head before responding, as though he'd merely voiced an opinion instead of a death sentence.
"Oh? I'm surprised you take that position."
"Shut the fuck up. I had you scanned before you were stripped, you know that?"
"I assumed as much."
"Then don't try to bullshit me. I know you got nothing. No weapons, either external or internal. No psi-booster circuitry, no nanotech, no artifacts of any kind. So don't tell me you're some kind of messenger assassin when you got nothing to do your killing with."
She nodded. "I see."
"Well? Is that all you got to say? Tell me why I shouldn't duct tape your face and give you to my boys for a week before I send what's left of you back to Meng-Shiu and tell him what he can do with his 'message', whatever it is."
"It's my job to deliver Mr. Tong's message. As it happens, I do have one minor native Talent."
One second later, Benny's nine was up and against her temple, pushing her head slightly to the right.
The tip of the Acrobat's cigar brightened and dimmed.
"Bullshit. The scanners would have spotted any significant concentration of native Talent organelles."
She shrugged with her eyebrows, not moving her head."Like I said, it's a very minor Talent, a rudimentary form of shielding."
Benny's finger pressed against the trigger, held taut and steady.
"Again, I call bullshit. If you had power sufficient to project a bulletproof shield, I'd know it."
"Oh, it's not bulletproof, not even close. However, it's more than strong enough for me to do my job."
The Acrobat's eyes flicked and Benny pulled the trigger. The guide rod shot forward on its spring and the firing pin struck, coming within one sixty-fourth of an inch of the round in the chamber. The impact made an echoing musical note, like that of a small bell rung at the bottom of a lake. The thug drew back his arm to smash the useless pistol across the bridge of her nose. His own momentum carried him backwards as the nerve impulses at the base of his brain met a barrier they could not cross. He hit the floor, twitching.
The woman stood gracefully, taking a moment to watch Benny's eyes widen and weep as his heart and lungs lost their coordination. To her side, the soft ringing echoed as the Acrobat pulled the trigger of the .38 revolver he'd yanked from his desk drawer. He threw the gun at her and missed. Ducking down, he stabbed again and again at the red alarm button under his desk, but the contacts would not close, the signals would not travel down the wires.
She stepped over Benny's twitching soon-to-be-corpse and came around the desk. The Acrobat had stopped moving. His head flopped over as he looked up at her.
"You're a healthy man, Mr. Vincelli. Even after I've finished paralyzing you from the waist down, in all likelihood you'll live another ten or fifteen years. Of course, you won't be aware of them. I'm also going to pinch off the blood supply to some of the more important centers of your brain. In a few minutes, you won't be able to process language, recognize faces or build long-term memories anymore. All of this will be accomplished with a single stroke, if you'll forgive the pun." She smiled.
Around a mouthful of drool, the Acrobat mumbled, "... kill me... instead..."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. Mr. Tong's instructions were quite specific about the message I'm to send."
Intelligence fading, his eyes formed the last question he would ever have the capacity to ask.
"Oh, the message isn't for you. It's for Mr. Tong's other competitors, the ones of actual significance. You are the message, one they'll be able to contemplate for a good long time. Goodbye, Mr. Vincelli."
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Another Glass of Chardonnayby Tony NolandCarol couldn’t go on sitting there, just sipping her wine and wiping her lips. As much as she hated the old saying about bridesmaids and getting laid, if she didn't make a move on this guy, some kind of a move, she’d be kicking herself for weeks. It wasn't just the tuxedo; Daniel would have been heart attack gorgeous wearing jeans and flip flops. No, it was everything about him. His eyes, his hands, his ass, everything. Out of the corner of her right eye, she watched him. He wasn't just incredibly cute; he was articulate and funny, like a young Harrison Ford. Indiana Jones-type Harrison Ford, not Han Solo. Carol had definitely hit the lottery in the groomsman department. Her brother's other friends were obviously preening in their rented tuxes; Daniel looked like he'd been born to wear his. He was graceful, muscular, and a great dancer, although he didn't make a big deal out of it. Please, she thought, please let him not be gay. Ever since the wedding ceremony - hell, ever since the rehearsal last night - she had been dropping hints and flirting like crazy. He seemed to be receptive and had returned the banter, but was letting her make the moves. Ellen, Carol's sister, had been hitting on him too, but Carol didn't think he'd been paying her any attention. She hoped not. One final swallow finished off her wineglass. She wiped her lips, then lowered her hand to set her napkin on her lap. Eyes fixed front, with a deep breath, she slid her hand over onto Daniel's lap. He stiffened, but said nothing. She paused, then pressed his left thigh with her open palm. Daniel wiped his own lips, then moved his left hand under the table. He rested it on her wrist, gently pressing her hand to him. Carol flushed and squeezed him. His fingers closed lightly around her wrist; she slid her hand farther over, wanting to make her intentions clear. After a moment, she reached her target. Not gay, she thought, not at all gay. His left hand around her wrist, he gently urged her on, placing her hand firmly on top of... another hand? What the hell? Was he some kind of pervert? Touching himself with his right? It was then that she felt the other hand try to pull away, its long fingernails scratching hers. Carol tried to pull back her own hand, but Daniel's fingers around her wrist held it in place. The other hand, the one with the fingernails, was also unable to escape. Carol couldn't help but have her hand side by side with someone else's, pinned down on top of Daniel. Carol leaned forward to see who was sitting on the other side of Daniel, just as her sister Ellen did the same. They both sat back, bolt upright. Daniel, both of his strong hands under the table, held them in place in his lap until they calmed down, and the danger of a public scene was passed. He turned back and forth from Carol to Ellen, giving each the kind of smile that would light a cigarette across a crowded bar. Then, slowly, he released their wrists and lifted his own hands to the table. He leaned back in his seat to see what they would do.
A thousand swallowed humiliations explode: fingers deathclaw-like, in a blind and savage rage, he recaps the damned toothpaste. Again. #vss --
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This Little Light of Mineby Tony NolandHalf a sausage pizza and seven beers into the evening, Peters was bored. He put a DVD into his laptop, adjusted his headphones and started to watch a sermon on forgiveness and tolerance. He fast-forwarded, skipping to the middle. “- for then as for now. Jesus was speaking to you! Reaching out over the centuries to put these words in YOUR heart! In today’s reading from Luke, the thirteenth chapter, Jesus tells a story of a tree that produces no good fruit. So what does the master do? He orders the gardener to cut it down, stop wasting the soil, get a better tree in there. He wants a return on his investment, doesn’t he?
But the gardener says, no sir, give that tree another chance, sir. I’ll feed it, and water it and take care of it, sir. Give it another chance, sir, another chance to produce. If it does, well and good. If not? Zip! Onto the fire! Now, brothers and sisters in Christ, when you hear that story, where are YOU? Where are YOU in that story?
I know what you’re going to say, you’ll say, Pastor Jim, that’s an easy one! I’m that sad and sorry tree, the one that’s letting everyone down. The master is God who’s ready to cut me down, and the gardener is Jesus who’s come to redeem and save me. And if I don’t do good, zip! Onto the fire I’ll go! And I’ll say good for you, that’s a good interpretation.
But hold the phone! I say, hold the phone just a minute, brothers and sisters. Is that all this gospel has for you? Not at all! There is more to this than meets the eye! What if you aren’t the tree? What if you, and I mean YOU, born a sinner the same as I was, what if YOU... are the gardener? What if Jesus is asking YOU to step up and feed your fellow man? Feed him and protect him and support him? To hold him accountable, sure, but to begin... with love?
Or what if YOU are the master? After all, what did the master do? He called it like he saw it, and was all set to do the right thing according to the world's values, the correct thing, the profitable thing! But what did he end up doing? Why, he stayed his hand! He tempered justice... with mercy. Mercy, brothers and sisters! He listened to the gardener who said, oh, no, give this poor wretched sinner of a tree just one more chance! The master turned aside from a straight profit and loss mentality, a return on investment mentality, a worldly mentality and accepted the notion of mercy that the gardener offered.
Don’t you see, brothers and sisters? We find so much in the Gospels if we only open our hearts to Jesus and let him –“ Peters paused the DVD, Pastor Jim Dennet frozen on-screen, open-mouthed and sweaty. The guy had more charisma than three politicians. These inspirational DVD sold plenty; between them, the books and subscribers to the newsletters and websites, Dennet’s ministries made more than thirty million dollars a year. He looked over at Dennet's daughter, finally asleep on the bed. He'd give it another twelve hours, then call again with the next set of instructions. He reached into the cooler for another beer. ==========
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Parole Boardby Tony NolandEleven dead flies lay on the floor in front of the judge. Charlie Lund figured they were real, though no one else noticed them. Well, someone else might have noticed them, but had pretended not to. People frequently pretended not to see things, even things that were really, truly there. The more uppity the person, the more likely it was they would pretend not to see. The flies made a kind of a pattern on the floor, with glowing blue and green lines connecting them. The lines were Not-Real, so they were all for him; he was sure no one else could see them. The lines jiggled in time with the voice of the lawyer They'd given him. Popping and slipping, the lines moved from fly to fly like an electric connect-the-dots. At first they made different shapes dancing among the tiny corpses. After a bit, they settled down, the green lines making a bent sort of "C" and the blue lines that wove among them making a lopsided "L". He thought that was pretty funny, that the dead flies were spelling out his initials with their glowing lines. It was like they were cheering him on, his own private fan club, shouting his name out in their buzzing little dead fly voices. He smiled at that, but the judge looked at him when he did. After that, he didn't smile, but used his paying-close-attention face. He looked from his lawyer to the judge and back, and only watched the cheering dead flies sidelong like. The judge was a woman. That was the capper as far as Charlie was concerned. That was just the absolute cherry on top. It was bad enough he had a lawyer who was probably a fag. There had to be a dozen judges who could have sat as the head of his parole board, maybe a hundred. He knew why They had made sure he got a whore for a judge and a fag for a lawyer. It was because They liked seeing him squirm; he was a danger to Them and They knew it. He could see Them among normal people and he knew how much of society They controlled. They wanted him to crack, stay locked away. Well, he would show Them this time. He would be cool cool cool, and he would get out. And then things would be different. Oh, yes. Very different. Silence stretched out; the judge was waiting for him to speak. Charlie pursed his lips and got to his feet. As he did, the dead flies lifted up from the floor, swooping and calling his name. He was thrilled that they were Not-Real, too. Charlie faced the judge and folded his hands, holding his smile inside as the dead flies crawled all over the judge's snotty bitch face. The glowing strands flowing from them braided themselves into a spiky noose around her neck. The flies were chanting his name, saying Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight, Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight... But he couldn't do that. Not here. Not yet. Not until later, after he found out where the judge lived. With his serious-but-really-sorry look firmly fixed, Charlie drew a deep breath and began to ask for his freedom. ==========
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The Green Fields of Homeby Tony NolandWater ticked and groaned in the pipes as the center pivot irrigation came to life. Dozens of rainbows flashed over the bean field, dancing in the spray. The sun-shot mist covered the undulating rise of greenery as Plot 621 rose up to meet State Road JJ. "And what did he say when you laid down the law?" Tom Wallott didn't respond, but continued leaning on the side of his pickup, watching the rainbows move over the land. His neighbor, Bill Campbent, snorted. "I thought so. You didn't, did you?" "You think that second pivot is running a little strong?" "Don't change the subject, Tom. We both know damn well the pivots are calibrated properly. Why on earth didn't you just spell it out for Tom Jr.? He knows what's at stake, he'd do the right thing." Tom reflected that the main thing about Bill was that Bill was a horse's ass. It used to irritate the hell out of him, the way Bill would give advice on matters he knew nothing about. Since Donna died, though, Tom had come to a sort of peace with lots of things. It wasn't Bill's fault he was a horse's ass. He couldn't help it. "Thomas knows his own mind," Tom said. "We talked about it, one man to another. He's married and has own his life to lead in Wichita. He knows his affairs better than I do; he's made his decisions and I respect his judgment on them." "Tom, him going off to Kansas for college is one thing, but turning his back on the farm completely? That's just wrong! Your great-great-grandfather cleared and claimed this land. Father to son, it's been worked ever since. Farming is in your family's blood. Doesn't that mean anything to him? And what are you going to do without a son to carry on? Sell out? You can't do that and you know it." The leaves in the field were rippling, soaked with the false rain being sprayed on them. Thousands of years old, that water. For age on age it sat down in the aquifer, Tom thought, until just now. It was my soil moisture sensor that sent the signal, my control panel that closed the contacts, my electricity that fired up the pumps to draw that ancient water up to push these plants to produce on command. On my command, he thought. Tom adjusted his cap, mopped the sweat from his brow. June 14, 1974 was just such a day as this - bright and hot. It was two weeks to the day after he'd graduated from Iowa State with a degree in soil science, and a minor in English literature. The day his father laid down the law, the day Tom had boxed up his books and come home to do the right thing. The plants were leaning, bent with the weight of the water. Bowed down, they were slowly being pushed face first into the mud of his great-great-grandfather's land. "You know, Bill," Tom said, "the calibration must be out of whack. That second pivot is running too strong." ==========
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This story is a sequel to Nom de Plume. You don't have to go read that one first, but it helps.================================================ Truth Lies Beneathby Tony Noland"It's gonna be just another sequel," said Marcus. "I don't think so." replied Annie. "Jorge Amaroso said he wanted to remake the original, not just add another sequel to the franchise." "And what director ever says, 'I'm just doing this film because I know everyone that saw the first eight movies will come see this one'? It's a slasher flick, no matter how much money he spent on it or how he dresses it up as a re-imagining or a reboot or whatever." "What do you mean, dresses it up?" "I mean they should have just called it 'Blood Picnic IX' and be done with it. 'Blood Picnic: Origins' sounds like a comic book." "Look, did you see the trailer?" "Sure, I watched it on YouTube, it looked great. They always put the best parts in the trailer. I saw the teaser last year; you know, the one that was just a campfire on a deserted beach? Practically everybody in the theater laughed when we figured out what movie it was about. 'Blood Picnic VIII' was so terrible, I still can't believe they're doing another one." "That's just the point! This isn't going to be just another sequel. This one is going to be true to the original book!" Marcus blinked. "There was a book?" "Yes, you moron, of course there was a book, the book came first." "Well... so what? It probably sucked." "No, it didn't. It was actually pretty good. There was a lot of subplot that got left out when they made it into the original movie." "Hold it, subplot? In 'Blood Picnic'? Give me a break." "Seriously, the book is completely different. OK, OK, that's too strong, it's not completely different. The basic facts are there, Carl Scrimshaw is a psycho father driven to revenge against the people who hurt his daughter. The big thing though, is that in the book, she was his stepdaughter, and the father was actually one of the people sort of responsible for the boating accident. Or at least, he thought he might have been. That's a little unclear. I thought it was just bad writing, but after a while, I realized it was because the father wasn't sure. It was his stepdaughter, and he wasn't really sure he loved her, see? The guilt and uncertainty arising from that complicated parent/child relationship, mixed with his guilt over the accident is what drove him crazy, not simple rage. He went after them because it was a way for him to project the culpability away from himself." "Project the culpability? You're bananas. This is 'Blood Picnic', not 'My Dinner With Andre' or 'Citizen Kane'. You know, scary teen slasher flick? Don't make it out to be more than it is, Annie." "I'm talking about the book, not the first movie. In the book, it was a group of men and women, a bunch of bigwigs in the park commission who caused the boating accident. When the father goes after them, it comes across as the powerless fighting against the powerful. They took away that whole dynamic when they changed the victims into teenage girls for the movie." "Because who wants to see a bunch of middle aged farts in bikinis, right?" "Exactly. Didn't you ever wonder why the killings got more and more outrageous, more sadistic?" "Well, I'm no student of culture, but I'm going to guess it was to heighten the tension? Or is that too obvious?" "Ha ha. When you get to hear the inner voice of the father in the book, you realize that it's because he's trying to expiate his own remorse through murder, but it doesn't work. With each one he killed, his guilt and self-loathing grew, and he's driven to more and more extreme methods, trying to avoid admitting to himself that he's as much to blame as anyone. Finally, when he's run out of people to kill, he has to face his own conscience. His guilt drives him to kneel at his stepdaughter's bedside so he can confess and beg forgiveness for everything he's done." "And so she can tear his throat out and possess him like a demon for the next seven slasher movies. Wow, Annie, that ranks right up there with the 'Illiad'." She punched him in the shoulder. "They totally changed the ending! I'm not saying it's one of the great books, I'm saying there was more to it than just blood and screaming girls with big boobs." Marcus started to say something, then, seeing Annie's scowl and crossed arms, changed his mind. "Annie, come on, it's just a movie, OK? Or a book, whatever." "It happens to be one of my favorite books." He stared. "You're kidding, right? 'Blood Picnic'? I thought you liked Proust and Updike." "Call it a guilty pleasure, alright? It was one of the first books I ever read that had an actual subtext. Yes, it's a stupid little book, and yes it's blood and gore and sex, but there are elements of a really good story in 'Blood Picnic'. I'm not saying it was the only book that led me to become a writer, but it was one of the books that helped me to understand that books can have layers. It made me think about writing something that gives the reader something new with a second or third read." "So... if it was so good, why didn't any of that come into the movie?" "The first 'Blood Picnic' movie was really low budget. Besides, you said it yourself. Who wants fat, middle aged complexity when you can have a bunch of stuffed bikinis?" Annie sighed. "I just wish Billy Divine had gone on to write more. I read a few of his other books, the ones that I could find, anyway. They were technially competent, I guess, but still pretty lousy, just slasher thrillers. I think he was a guy who might have been a good writer if he hadn't spent all his time on genre crap." "Or maybe he only had one good book in him," Marcus said. Annie took off her glasses and cleaned them, then said, "I don't believe in that. A writer has has many good books inside of her as she has the time and energy to write." She put her glasses back on, and the silence grew between them. "Annie..." he said, "maybe Billy Divine was just a pen name. What if, once the writer developed his chops, he quit the slasher stuff and started writing real books?" Her eyes widened. Seeing her reaction, he said, "If that were the case, then maybe there's a bunch of great stuff out there by this guy, just waiting for you to discover." He smiled in an encouraging, hopeful way. "You know..." she said, "I never thought of that." ==========
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Nom de Plumeby Tony NolandMr. William J. Smith 2280 W. Pine St. Okemos, MI 48822 Mr. Charles Demereste Demereste & Associates Literary Representation 76 W. 54th St., Suite 600 New York, NY 10027 September 18, 1975 Dear Charlie, I got your letter of August 29; I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond. It's just that your discussion of a book tour to go with the release of "Blood Picnic" came as a surprise to me, especially after I thought I'd made myself plain. I had to give my response a lot of thought, since I'll admit, I was a little dismayed to hear that you'd already started making the bookings. I know that my position must sound a little crazy to you. I never expected Scribner's Sons to pick the book up and push it, certainly never expected them to make my appearing in public a non-negotiable. It's not that I'm ungrateful or that I have anything other than the utmost confidence in you to make B.P. a rousing success. After all, you've been my agent for twenty six years. If I can't rely on you by now, we're both in trouble! The fact is, Charlie, I need you to go back to Mr. Wilkins at Scribner and try one more time to get him to lighten up. Did you tell him that my face was burned when I was in fighting the Japs in '44? I never go out in public if I can help it. Kids laugh behind my back when I go to the grocery store; can you imagine me on a book tour? Hell, that's why I've never come to New York to meet with you. I simply cannot appear in public as Billy Divine. I hate to be a pill about this, but if he can make a non-negotiable, so can I. Don't think I won't walk away from this deal if appearing in public is a sine qua non. I'd hate to see the deal fall through and see you lose the commission, but there it is. Even without a tour, B.P. will sell well enough to make them some money, you know that. All of his talk about it being a new age of acceptance of disability is BS. His line about authors needing to be in charge of their own publicity is BS, too. People want to meet Billy Divine, the author of the great thriller? Tell 'em tough rocks and be done with it. If Salinger can hole up someplace, why can't I? Yeah, yeah, I'm no Salinger, but Charlie, you have to work with me here. I know this is the big break for both of us, but to be honest, Charlie, I'm not sure I want a big break at my age. Handle the details with Scribner as you see fit, but two things I won't budge on: no book tour and nobody - I mean NOBODY - finds out who Billy Divine is a pen name for. (It's a stupid name and I should have chosen something that didn't sound so obviously nom de plume-ish in the first place, but that's water over the dam.) Charlie, that brings me to the main reason it took me so long to respond. I've decided to hang up my Underwood. I'll send off the final draft of "The Howell Beach Horror" by parcel post when I mail this letter. That will be my last book. We've always worked well together, Charlie, and you know how stubborn I can be. Don't try to talk me out of it. If B.P. does well, then H.B.H. will too, as will the whole backlist, the ones that are still in print, anyway. In recognition of all of our years together, Charlie, I want you to up your commission from 15% to 25% for H.B.H and the future sale of anything on the backlist, including any future printings of B.P. Don't try to argue with me on that, either. You're a good man and you deserve it. I'm not going to get all sloppy in this letter and tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, or to thank you for taking a chance on an unknown rookie writer all those years ago. I'll save all that for later, after we sell H.B.H. Sincerely, Bill P.S. I'm serious, Charlie - no book tour, and NOBODY learns who I am! - Bill ////////// In a small house in Okemos, Michigan, a man pulls a letter from his typewriter, stands and stretches. At the window, he watches the sun rise through a line of clouds, low on the horizon. As dawn slowly pinks the sky, he sighs.
Time to change agents again. He chides himself for being foolish with "Blood Picnic". Too good, damn it. If he'd skipped all the moral ambiguity and cut that final tearjerker scene with the stepdaughter, he could have avoided the literary overtones.
The key to staying safely in the obscurity of the mid-list is to keep the blood flowing and the tits showing, and leave it at that. From age to age, that's the kind of thing that gives a steady income without the risk of a best seller. After four hundred years of turning out penny dreadfuls, he should know that.
With the sun up and shining, he returns to the typewriter and feeds in a clean sheet of paper onto the platen. He consults a pad with some handwritten notes and begins to type.////////// Mr. W. James Smith 2280 W. Pine St. Okemos, MI 48822 Mr. Andrew Horowitz Horowitz, Klein and Goldstein 141 Arch St., Suite 232 Philadelphia, PA 19021 September 19, 1975 Dear Mr. Horowitz, A beautiful young bride is possessed by the ghost of a woman long dead, a woman whose animal passions killed her. Now, once again in a fresh young body, she is free to indulge her desires, no matter how depraved. The bewildered husband of the innocent victim, unable to satisfy the passions of his demon-possessed lover, is shocked to be faced with the most awful of choices: share his demon bride with other men or see her destroyed. Can he find a way to free his love from the clutches of this horror of horrors? This is the premise of "The Taking of Mrs. Jones", a supernatural thriller novel of approximately 80,000 words. The novel draws on my recent experiences in the more sordid parts of Vietnam, where I was injured in the service of my country. I believe the novel would appeal to young men of my own age. I have taken the liberty of including the first five pages of the manuscript. May I ask your opinion of it? I am seeking representation for "The Taking of Mrs. Jones." It is my first novel, and I would value your opinion of its merits and commercial potential. Please note that for the purposes of this novel, I am writing using the pen name "Daniel Cutlass". I have one additional supernatural thriller novel, nearly complete, written under the same name. I look forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, W. James Smith ==========
The sequel to this story is "Truth Lies Beneath".==========
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Ridi, Pagliaccio by Tony Noland"Excuse me, Mr. Maverick? Casey Maverick?" Knuckles whitened on the spoon's handle. Espresso swirled around it, arrested mid-stir. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt you, Mr. Maverick, but I just had to tell you what a fan I am." Withdrawn and laid aside, the spoon stained the saucer of the demitasse. "I'm Richard Betz." The young man held out his hand; after a fractional pause, it was accepted. "It's such a thrill to meet you; it's an honor to shake the hand of a such a great comedian!" "Oh?" Betz stifled a giggle. From his seat, the older man regarded Betz, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Mr. Maverick, I apologize, I don't want to take up a lot of your time, but - may I sit? thanks - I've got a question that I really hope you can answer. See, I'd love to be able to do what you do." "You mean you want to suffer?" Betz bit his tongue and turned red as he nodded, his face contorting with the effort of self-control. Finally, wiping his eyes, he said, "God, you are just amazing in person! No, I mean keep a straight face like that! How do you do that serious, flat-faced delivery without ever breaking it and smiling? You're better than Steven Wright or Buster Keaton. My friends tell me I'm a funny guy, you know, around the office and everything. They keep telling me I should do stand-up. I did it a few times on open mike nights, but I couldn't keep from cracking up. I thought maybe you might be willing to give me some pointers." "So... you want to know how it is that I'm able to say such funny things without laughing?" Betz couldn't help himself; his laughter snorts, and he took several breaths to calm himself. "Please?" The comedian drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then slid his espresso over to the the younger man. "Here. You drink while I talk. It's already grown cold and someone might as well benefit from it." "Ha! Benefit from it! That's classic! God, I can't believe I'm having an espresso with Casey Maverick!" Betz downed the cup eagerly and set it back on the saucer. "Now then, young man, please don't interrupt me, and I'll tell you everything you want to know." Betz made just one muffled squeak as his face widened into a huge grin. "I've tried many times to tell people the truth, Mr. Betz. No one ever believes me. They just... laugh. I used to do that, too. I used to laugh all the time back when I was Kasimir Marveski. I was the funniest guy I knew, at least in my own mind. I thought my obscure little jokes were hysterical, even if no one ever laughed at them. That didn't stop me from telling them, from laughing at my own hilarity. I was a happy man, Mr. Betz." He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, they were red and wet. "Until, that is, my wife left me. It blindsided me completely. She said a lot of things on the way out the door, but what cut me the worst was what she said last: '... and your jokes aren't funny'. Those were her final words to me before the door slammed. 'Your jokes aren't funny'. I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Betz, it made no sense for me to latch onto that the way I did. I was in shock, I suppose, but the thought just echoed, back and forth. I got it framed in my mind somehow that if I were actually funny, she'd come back to me. So, when the devil appeared and offered to make it so, I signed the contract without a second thought. From that moment, everything I said would be funny." Betz's eyebrows twitched and his grin widened fractionally. "You don't believe me," the older man said. "But it's true. The problem is, Mr. Betz, Satan has his own sense of humor. Did you know that? Not ten minutes after my blood was dry on the contract, the police called. At the morgue, they started giggling around me as I identified her body. At the mortuary, they snickered as I made the arrangements. When I spoke at her funeral, they roared. After someone posted a video of it on YouTube, I couldn't escape the publicity. "In the end, I had to leave my position at the university. You can't teach if no one takes you seriously, if they interrupt every lecture with giggles and guffaws. Fortunately, all the agents who'd seen the video made it easy to get work as a comedian. All I had to do was open my mouth. It didn't matter what I said. The agents negotiated the contracts for the stand-up gigs, the Comedy Central specials, the movies. I grew famous, we all grew rich, and my soul shriveled a little more each day." He put his hands together, fingers interlaced. "My mother died two days ago, Mr. Betz. I am expected to give the eulogy at her memorial service on Friday. I don't think I can face that again. That's why I came here and loaded up my espresso with puffer-fish poison, what they call tetrodotoxin." He sat in the silence, drumming his fingers. He looked at the wide, rictus grin on Betz's face, the saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. After a little while, the old man stood, put a few bills on the table and picked up his hat and newspaper. "But you know what's strange? I feel better for having had a chance to tell someone the truth, to talk about it without being interrupted with laughter." He patted his admirer on the shoulder. "You're a good listener, Mr. Betz. A good listener." ==========
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Note: Special thanks to Anastasia M. Ashman of Istanbul, Turkey, for being my muse this week. This story grew out of one of her tweets. Sen, Anastasia ederim!
Reconciliationby Tony NolandThe fat man limped onto the stool next to the thin man, eliciting a crinkling noise from the almost new plastic. Everyone sitting at the counter made the same noises as they shifted and swiveled, eating and turning this way or that to face their companions. People spoke, silverware clinked, seats creaked. The thin man didn't turn to face the fat man. Cup and saucer already in hand, the waitress asked the fat man if he wanted coffee. He said yes, he did want a cup of coffee, please. She poured it for him, refilled the thin man's cup, then left. The fat man looked at the menu for a moment longer, then set it aside. "I liked this place better before it was no smoking." said the thin man. The fat man shrugged. He stirred his coffee, though he'd put neither cream nor sugar in it. "Was a new owner made the change. I been comin' here a lot, last couple of years. If it wasn't for that, I'd have maybe said a different place." said the thin man. The fat man sipped, said nothing. "It's just..." the thin man said, "breakfast don't taste the same without a smoke afterwards, you know?" His fork and knife were crossed on top of the rye crusts, forming a perfect right angle in the middle of his plate. Traces of yolk spiraled around the edges, drying into a halo above. The thin man wiped his lips, set his paper napkin on the plate. "So." said the fat man. "You called me. I came." The thin man turned his cup, back and forth. "It's been a long time, Michael. A long time." "Cut it. What do you want?" The thin man swallowed. "I was hoping that we could maybe work something out." "We? Who exactly do you mean by 'we'? You and the boss?" The thin man swallowed again, said, "Michael... I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. Kinda let him know I was sorry, you know? That I... well, you know what I mean." "You want me to tell him that you want to come back to the family? That you want to come home?" "Yeah, something like that." The fat man sipped his coffee. The waitress returned and the fat man asked for eggs and ham, please, no toast. She took the order and left them. "Michael, please..." "Forget it. I vouched for you when you ran away, remember? I stood before the boss and I vouched for you, you son of a bitch, because I thought all you'd done was steal. Anybody can make a mistake, I said. He got too full of himself but he's basically a decent guy, I said. Stupid ass fuckin' me. I didn't know you'd been makin' a power play, tryin' to overthrow the boss and get the big chair for yourself." "Mikey, I'm sorry." "Don't call me Mikey. Now you tell me, how do you think I looked when they told me what you'd done? There I am vouching for you, and I get that little piece of news. Tell me, genius, how do you think the boss was feeling on that day? Listening to me vouching for you, the favorite lieutenant, the one who was like another fuckin' son to him, who had just tried to cap him and take over. Tell me, whadda you think, good mood or bad mood for the boss? Whadda you think?" "I'm sorry!" "Not half as sorry as I was. It took me a long time to convince the boss that I was just a dumb ass who got taken in by you, you fuckin' snake. Care to guess what the boys were doin' to me as I was beggin' for my life? Me, the boss' go to guy, on the floor beggin' for my life, all because I vouched for you, for my good friend, you rotten piece of shit?" "Michael, please, I'm sorry! You're my only hope! I want to come home!" "Fuck you." The fat man stood and tossed a tenner onto the counter. "Hey," the fat man said, turning back. "I got an idea. If you want to come home so bad, why don't you try going to see the boss directly? Tell him to his face that you're sorry?" The thin man paled and shrank. "Yeah, I didn't think so. You got no balls, you lyin' coward. You never did. If the boss wants to see you, he'll send some of the boys down to get you. He knows where you live." The fat man picked up the thin man's mug and quietly spat into it. "You made your own hell, Lucifer, now you can fuckin' well burn in it. Don't call me again." ==========
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Philly's in the houseby Tony NolandLeft. Right. Left. Right. God, that pile's bigger than I thought. That broken concrete's gonna hurt. Damn straight it will. Forget it. Burn that bridge when you come to it, pal. Yeah, funny guy, won't be so funny trying to climb it. Never mind, figure out a way up once you get there. Climb it, get to the light, get out. One, two, three. See those sharp edges on the exposed rebar, Danny boy? Better protect the leg. Snag it on one of those and the pain's gonna be a showstopper. Yeah, right, protect it with what? Never mind. Figure it out when you get there. Leg hurts bad enough just to drag it. Pain would help wake you up, though, wouldn't it? Can't feel the elbows anymore, too torn up from the rubble. Gotta rest my arms for a minute. Gotta rest. I'm so tired. So tired. And cold. Thirsty. But not hungry. Not hungry. Hungry. Snickers bar... pistachios... pizza... ... so tired ... WAKE UP! Wake up, god damn it, wake up! Focus, you idiot, focus! Come on, chop chop, get moving, count 'em off, almost there. You can do this, Danny boy, you can do this, get your arms out there and pull, just get moving. Left. Right. Four more, then climb the pile and follow the light. Don't rest, just count 'em off. Left. Right. Left. Right. Christ, you lying bastard, it wasn't four, it's more like ten. Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's like that half marathon, OK? The Memorial Day thing, back in 2031? Couldn't have done that without lying to yourself about it, huh? Focus, just do it one mile at a time. OK, no problem, just rest for a minute. Elbows are taking the worst of it, and they'll probably heal. Just rest. Catch your breath, then get up there. Come on, you can do this. Rest just a minute. Just, just for a minute. So cold. Yeah, I know. You're cold and hungry and thirsty, and big fuckin' earthquakes aren't supposed to hit the East Coast and it's not fair and blah, blah, blah, and people in hell want ice water. Get over there. Use your arms, crawl god damn it, right now. Now, Danny, now! Left. Right. Left. Right. Almost there. Left. OK. OK. OK. Now, push up and get up there. We got water and blankets and food up there. Yeah, Danny, there's coffee and fried chicken and rum and cokes and pie and ice cold martinis with three olives and WAKE UP! Come on, Danny, doctors can't fix you if you don't get up there, can they? There's doctors and nurses and EMTs and all kinds of people. Leg's a loss, it's gotta be, but if you get up there, they can take it off clean, get you a nice clean stump to work with. They got blood and morphine and antibiotics up there, don't they? And if you don't get up there, an aftershock's gonna get you, boy. You hear me? Aftershocks gonna bring down this whole slab. Cheap ass parking garage concrete ain't gonna last forever, man. Come on, you lucky bastard. Everybody else was crushed flat, but you got eighteen inches. Eighteen inches, floor to ceiling, you gonna gripe about it? Waste it? More than anybody else got. You even got some rainwater to drink. You been lucky for three fuckin' days, jerkface, you think it's gonna last forever? Are you from south Philly or not? Philly's in the house, man. I bet Baltimore and New York got hit, too. Betcha they're climbing in New York. You just know they're climbing out of the rubble up in New York, you know that, don't you Danny? You gonna let New York show us up? Come on, Philly, whadda you got? Get up there. Get up there, Danny. Get out. Gotta get up there. I will. I will. I just need to rest for a minute. Just for a minute. Just a minute. So tired. Tired. Cold. ==========
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