Keep Close My Yellow Dog

When your dog truly is your best friend…

Published in Dysfictional 2 and Dragons and Dreams

Reginald trembled.

“What’s wrong, Reg?” I asked.

“I’m not entirely sure…” he began, then vomited his recently-eaten dinner onto the floor. “Oh my… I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t know what came over me. Here, I’ll clean it up.” He started lapping the puke up off the floor.

“Gross! Reg – NO!” I cried, running to grab some paper towels.

Reginald had a brilliant mind, and a witch couldn’t ask for a better familiar than the little yellow dog, who had once been a powerful wizard and lord of the manor in which we currently resided. But alas, his canine nature still took over sometimes.

After cleaning up what remained of Reggie’s mess, we turned our attention back to the issue at hand.

The angry woman upstairs hadn’t slowed one bit since her very unwelcome arrival. I could hear the sounds of her tantrum as she raged overhead, her footsteps thundering from room to room on the main floor of the house. Dishes rattled on the shelves as she slammed cupboard doors in her frenzied search for whatever it was she was looking for. The ceiling over my head muted her furious mutterings so that I could only hear snippets of what she was saying but the message was clear. She was displeased with every single thing she laid eyes on, especially me. My very presence in the house infuriated her. Each time she neared the stairwell that led downstairs to my quarters, where Reginald and I had been hiding since her arrival, something kindled her rage anew and set off another slamming, screaming tantrum.

The fact that she had arrived at all meant my banishing spell had been ineffective. This puzzled Reggie, since banishing was one of his specialties and he had helped me cast the spell. He had been feeling ill since her arrival and I knew it had to be connected somehow. We were beginning to suspect that the spell might have been turned back on us. Her energy was apparently toxic to Reggie but didn’t seem to have any adverse effects on me. I noticed however, that my energy didn’t appear to be doing her much good. I wasn’t sure why, but something about me seemed to repel her, which suited me fine because it kept her at bay, upstairs and away from our quarters. A temporary solution, but not ideal by any means.

If a banishing spell didn’t work on her, then what? A binding? Or…

Reginald glanced up at me from beneath the fringe of golden fluff that served as eyebrows, his chestnut eyes filled with the sadness that accompanies generations of wisdom. He shook his furry head slowly.

Damn that dog! He licked his nuts purely for entertainment and thought nothing of eating his own barf, yet he always seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Miranda, no,” he said. “First of all, you know the consequences of manipulating the dark forces. And second, it won’t work. Hexes only work on mortal beings.”

“What are you saying, Reg?” I asked, even though I already knew what the little yellow dog was getting at. I just wanted to hear it from him.

“She’s not human.”

“Then what is she?” Reggie’s theory made sense. It explained why our fail-safe banishing spell had failed in this instance. The spell only worked on humans and, to a lesser degree, on animals.

“I’m nmff nmfff mrtnfffnff,” Reginald said.

“Would you please look at me when you’re talking to me?” I scolded.

“Sorry,” the dog said, pulling his nose from where it had been momentarily buried in his not-so-private parts. “At first,” he continued, licking his lips, “I suspected she might be a succubus because of her humanoid façade. But now I know that’s not the case. A lower entity like a succubus would not have any effect on my powers. We are dealing with something far worse. And yes, you are correct. She wants you dead.”

I rubbed my arms to quell the gooseflesh that had risen – a sure sign that my familiar was speaking the truth. There was no doubt she wanted me dead; I’d suspected that from the beginning but up until that moment I’d felt confident, cocky even, that I could handle the likes of her.

She was the estranged stepdaughter of Harold, my former master. Harold was a kindly old wizard who had employed my mother before me and her mother before her, as domestic servants and apprentices. It might seem strange to an outsider that I would choose a life of servitude in these modern times, but it was the tradition of my family and the wizard was kind and fair. He had taken me under his wing at an early age and mentored me in the magickal arts, having apparently seen the same potential in me that he had known in my mother and grandmother. Harold had been my guardian since I was ten years old, after my mother was killed in an auto accident. Harold owned the ancient mansion and its expansive grounds, which had been passed down through his family for generations since Reginald’s time. In keeping with tradition, Harold’s next of kin was to inherit his home and all of his possessions after his death.

Wherein lay the problem – Harold had no children related to him by blood and he had outlived all of his other relations, having died at the age of 125. He did, however, have two stepdaughters by his late wife Esmerelda, who, according to Harold, was a sweet and loving woman until after their wedding. As soon as the honeymoon was over, she made an instant transformation into an evil, screeching battleaxe just like the one who now raged overhead.

The stepdaughters, who had not visited Harold even once since their mother’s death, intended to walk in and take over executorship of the estate because they were ‘related’ to the old wizard by marriage. The moment he died, the man who had meant nothing to them suddenly became ‘dear old Dad’. They became the grieving ‘daughters’, sucking up condolences from Harold’s acquaintances like the bloodthirsty leeches that they were. Reginald and I were left to grieve for our beloved mentor in private.

The stepdaughters strongly objected to the terms of the simple Will Harold had left. He had made provisions for me and all of my descendants in his Will, stating that we would always have a home and place of employment in the manor for as long as it remained standing or our family line died out, whichever came first. Until that time, the house was not to be sold, rented or renovated. Erin, the screaming stepdaughter, could not evict me nor could she sell the house as long as I, or one of my offspring, (of which I had none) were alive. Which was why she wanted me dead.

For the first time since I had accidentally conjured a shit-demon from the sewers of Hell, I felt genuine fear. The wizard had taught me that fear would defeat me faster than even the most formidable of foes and had spent years conditioning me to be fearless. I had heeded his teachings carefully and in my bravado my power grew.

With Reginald as an ally there was no spell I could not cast, no charm I could not repel and no mistake I could not undo. He was an ancient soul and a very powerful wizard in his own right. I had no idea how old the little dog was, but Reggie had been with me for as long as I could remember. Formerly known as Lord Reginald, he was the original owner of the manor and of course, one of Harold’s ancestors. The estate had been passed down through the generations from one descendant to another but the bloodline ended with the old man. Harold’s first wife had died without bearing him any children. His second wife died soon after the wedding, leaving behind the two greedy stepdaughters who were now trying to lay claim to the estate. The real father of the two girls was a mysterious dark wizard from somewhere in Europe, where the older sister currently resided.

Now Erin had returned, claiming to be the one chosen as executor of her “father’s” estate. She had commandeered the entire upper section of the house, leaving Reg and I banished to our downstairs quarters. She was livid about something. I could hear bits and pieces of her mutterings as she stormed around and slammed doors, apparently still searching for something. She ranted about being “attacked” and something about “the chosen one” and “absolute power”.

I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I had a feeling that if she found what she was looking for it would mean trouble for Reggie and me. All I knew for certain was that she was dangerous and we would have to be on guard at all times. I had already suggested to him the possibility of us leaving but he refused. This had been his home since he had staked his claim on the land and built the home back in 1672. No psychotic demon bitch was going to drive him out of it.

The problem was, how did we get rid of her?

* * *

The second stepdaughter, Maria, arrived the following week. She appeared to be the polar opposite of her sister –articulate and soft-spoken with a British accent that made her sound cultured and snobbish. She seemed quite reasonable but it was all just a façade, which I saw through immediately. Her invitation to come upstairs and join her for tea appeared to be a friendly gesture but I was immediately on guard. I wasn’t stupid. She didn’t want my friendship any more than I wanted her and her screeching shrew of a sister in my home.

I wasn’t about to eat or drink anything offered by those two vipers, so I concocted a little invisibility potion with Reggie’s help. I dropped my teaspoon on the floor and politely asked Maria for another one. While she was gone I dripped the potion over my tea and scone, making it appear as if I had consumed them.

When she noticed my empty teacup and plate, she offered more but I declined, then the interrogation began. I suspected the refreshments she had tried to trick me into consuming probably contained a potion or spell designed to act as truth serum.

She was a master manipulator but I played along with her little game, curious as to what information she was trying to extract from me. She asked me about myself and about my family – did I have any siblings, cousins, uncles or aunts? I guardedly explained that I was an only child and the last of my family since my mother’s death.

“And what about my father?” she inquired. “Did dear Harold ever mention any cousins or nephews I might not have known about?”

Her referral to Harold as her ‘father’ pissed me off because she was no relation to him whatsoever. I knew Reg was listening quietly from the staircase.

“No,” I replied coolly, “Your STEP father did not mention any other relatives other than those you would already know about. Can I ask why you would want to know?” I wanted to slap the fake smile off of her duplicitous face.

“No reason, dahling,” she crooned. “I just want to ensure that all parties get their share of any inheritance they may be entitled to.”

“If I understand correctly,” I said, “Harold’s Will was quite clear and simple. I don’t see what you would find confusing about it.”

She reached over and patted my hand in a condescending manner that made me want to conjure another shit-demon just for her. “No need to fret, my dear. It’s just a lot of complicated legal jargon that I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

What the hell did she think I was, the village idiot?

“I’m sure I understand just fine,” I replied.

“Sure you do, dahling. Sure you do,” she purred. “There is, however, one wee issue that may need to be addressed, and that is the quality of care my father was receiving prior to his death. Erin and I have reason to believe that there was a certain level of neglect that may have contributed to his untimely demise. You understand, of course, that we will need to have our attorney look into this.”

“What exactly are you implying?” I snapped. “That I caused his death due to neglect? First of all, the man was 125 years old, which is admirable even considering the fact that he was a wizard. Secondly, how the hell do either of you think you can know anything about what went on here, since neither one of you bothered to visit him even once? I’m SURE the level of care he was receiving was TOP priority for both of you!”

I couldn’t stand being in her presence a moment longer. I stood to leave.

“Thank you for the lovely cup of tea,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I really must get back to work. I have a million things to do.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed, “I’m sure you are quite the busy little lass.” She waved her hand at me as if swatting away a fly. “Off you go, then.”

I fumed as I made my way back downstairs. How dare she dismiss me like a common household servant in my own home? Frankly, I preferred the screaming banshee to this one. At least the banshee spoke her mind. I furiously swept my fingernails across the stone wall of the stairwell, sending a spray of blue and green sparks in my wake. It wasn’t good to lose control of my anger this way. The last time someone had pissed me off that much, my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend had grown a curly tail like a pig.

I closed the door to my room and threw myself on the bed. Reg hopped up and curled up beside me.

“I hate that sneaky, underhanded skank!” I raged. “Who does she think she is, treating me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of her shoe?”

Reg leaned over and licked my cheek, then sighed and rested his nose on his paws. “I know, milady. I know. We will get through this somehow. There has to be a way. Harold never would have left us without an avenue of escape. We just need to find it. He was a crafty one, you know. He wouldn’t have left the solution in plain sight for just anyone to find.”

I reached over and scratched between his ears. “You’re so wise, Reggie. If you weren’t a dog, I’d marry you.”

“I could accuse you of species discrimination, you know,” he teased.

I laughed and hugged the little dog. “You always know how to make me laugh. Thanks!” I kissed his wet nose, then wiped my mouth. “Ew! I keep forgetting where that that nose has been!”

“A dog’s mouth is supposed to be the cleanest thing there is,” he replied, feigning indignation.

“Yeah, you keep believing that, fur-face,” I laughed.

With my best friend curled in my arms, we both fell asleep.

* * *

“Miranda!” The voice was a mere whisper. Then it came again, louder this time. ‘Miranda!”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes sleepily although I had a feeling I was still asleep. In an instant I was on my feet, but I didn’t remember actually standing up.

“Miranda!” The voice was more commanding, and seemed to be coming from the other side of my bedroom door. I crept to the door, looking over my shoulder for Reggie, who was still curled up on the bed asleep. That was strange, because the dog’s sensitive ears surely would have picked up any sound sooner than my human ones.

I opened the door, noting the absence of the usual grating creak of the metal hinge. I was enveloped in silence; even my footsteps were silent.

Now what?

“Miranda!” Right beside me this time.

I whirled to face the speaker and came face to face with none other than Harold, the elderly wizard.

“Harold!” I whispered, falling into his arms purely from reflex.

The old man’s embrace was surprisingly solid, but he felt cold to the touch.

“Miranda, dear, dear girl,” he said softly, holding me in his icy arms.

“I’ve missed you so much, Harold!” I wiped tears from my cheeks, hating myself for crying. He’d always taught me to be strong and here I was letting him down during what might be my last opportunity to see him.

“There, now,” he soothed. “You needn’t fret, my child. All is not lost. I made plans well in advance to ensure that no one can harm you.”

“But now that you’re gone, everything is different! Those two women are evil! They don’t care what you wanted, or what your Will says. They intend to take everything and force me and Reg out into the street!”

“I would never allow that to happen. I’m surprised at you, Miranda. Haven’t you any faith in me at all? Everything you need is right here. Everything will be all right, I promise. But,” he hesitated, waving a finger in front of my face, “in order for things to work out, you will have to make a decision, and it may not be an easy one for you to make.”

“Just tell me what I need to do, and I will do it!” I said, “I don’t care what it is! I will do it!”

Harold smiled, his bright blue eyes twinkling as much in death as they had in life. “Ah, you may say that now, but you don’t yet know what will be asked of you. You are a strong girl; I raised you that way, as your dear departed mother desired. Your strength may become your downfall. Think carefully on this decision.”

“I will do whatever is required of me. I will do anything for you, Harold!” I insisted.

“We shall see…” he laughed brightly. “We shall see…” His apparition was beginning to fade. I could see through him now, to the stone wall beyond, where he was reaching for a sharp rectangular stone. His hand passed through the stone as I watched, then he stepped through the wall and vanished.

I sat up in bed, a sob still caught in my throat. My cheeks were wet with real tears I had shed during the dream. Reg lifted his head, instantly alert.

“What’s the matter, Miranda? A bad dream?”

“Yes… well, no, not exactly,” I replied. “Upsetting, yes. Reg, I saw Harold!”

The dog’s ears pricked up and he cocked his shaggy head, giving me his undivided attention. “Really? Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes! In fact, I think he was trying to show me something. He said I would have a difficult decision to make.” I bounced out of bed and dashed to the door without bothering to put on a robe or slippers. The coldness of the stone floor went unnoticed beneath my feet as I flung the door open and made my way to the spot where I had last seen Harold in my dream. Reg followed at my heels.

“He was right here,” I said, “and there was a stone… there! This one!” I touched the sharp rectangular stone and discovered it felt loose. I wiggled it and then pulled. It slid out, revealing a hidden space in the wall. Inside the space was a plain brown envelope. I pulled out the envelope. It was sealed with a glob of wax bearing the wizard’s insignia. Harold had always been kind of old-school with that sort of thing: his wax seal; his insistence that I spell the word magic with a ‘k’ on the end, like the old-world Pagans did…

Reg stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the envelope. “It’s definitely from Harold,” he confirmed. “No one but him has touched it.”

I replaced the stone and we scampered back to the privacy of our bedroom to open it.

Inside was a letter written in Harold’s handwriting, along with two additional sheets of blank paper.

What the hell?

I read the letter aloud to Reggie:

“Dearest Miranda,

If you are reading this, then it means I am no longer in the land of the living. I’m guessing that my two wretched stepdaughters have arrived and are trying to lay claim to that which is not theirs.

They are powerful entities, make no mistake. Regular magick will not work on them, as I’m guessing you’ve already discovered.

Their father, Vernon, is a formidable demon descended from Lucifer himself and it is from him that they get their powers. Erin, as you know her, is actually one of several incarnations of Eris, the Goddess of Chaos. Maria, the manipulator, was once an irresistible siren who lured many a sailor to his death back in the old days. Neither of them is to be trusted, but Maria is especially treacherous because she is very skilled at gaining the trust of her victims before destroying them. Because I know exactly who and what these two women are, I possess the ability to render them powerless.

Miranda, dearest child. I love you like my own and it is to you alone that I will pass this knowledge. These evil witches can and will be stopped and it is up to you to do it.

But first, my child, I must let you in on a secret.

The Last Will and Testament that Erin and Maria have is a fake. The real one is here, in this envelope. My attorney also has a copy but like this one, it will not become visible until the charm I have placed on it is removed. You are the only one with the power to remove the charm and enact the real Will.

In order to do that, I will first need a promise from you, and the decision will not be an easy one.

My stepdaughters believe that there is no legitimate heir to my estate but I tell you now, that is not the case. I have a son from my first marriage. My second wife Esmerelda despised him and sought to eliminate him from the moment she married me to ensure that her daughters would inherit my estate when I died.

At her request, I sent my son away to boarding school, never to return. I told my wife that he had contracted pneumonia while at school and died. It was a lie, but she believed it. In order to protect my only son and my family’s lineage, I lied about his death and sacrificed a lifetime of fatherhood to a wonderful child. I regret every day that I couldn’t be his father, but you must understand that I did it out of love. It was the only way I knew of to protect him from the evil that had infiltrated my family.

Now, it is time for my son to step forward and claim his birthright, but in order to ensure that he is safe from the clutches of another evil harridan such as the one I married, I have already chosen a bride for him. She is kind and pure of heart, and at his side, they will carry on my family name with pride.

Miranda, you are betrothed to my son. But I will not force you to marry him against your will. I will not infringe on your free will, for as you know, that is not how positive magick works. YOU must make the decision.

I ask you now, are you willing to accept your betrothal and marry a man you have never met? If your answer is yes, my two wretched stepdaughters will never bother you again. If you choose not to, I will not love you any less and will respect your decision. But I will be powerless to protect you from them.

If you agree, simply sign the bottom of this page… in your own blood, of course. Then, you must burn this piece of paper.”

* * *

I looked at Reggie, who gazed back at me with those soulful brown eyes I had grown to love so much.

“What should I do, Reg?” I asked, though I already knew what the answer would be.

“As Harold said, Miranda, it is your decision and yours alone,” the dog said.

“There is no other way,” I said, reaching for my Athame, the ceremonial dagger I kept on my altar. I sliced my index finger, allowing the blood to flow onto the bottom of the page, then used the same finger to write a rudimentary signature. I held the paper over a candle flame. It burned about halfway, then vanished in a shower of sparks, leaving not a single trace of ash.

“So now what?” I wondered aloud.

“Miranda, look!” Reg whispered.

The two blank pages were no longer blank. I picked up the first and read the words, Last Will and Testament at the top.

“It’s the Will!” I gasped. “The real one!”

“What’s this?” Reg asked, nuzzling the second page with his nose. “It looks like a spell!”

“It does indeed! I bet this is the spell needed to banish those two!” I looked at Reg with a sly smile. “What do you say, puppy-dog? It can’t be any worse than a shit-demon!”

“With those two shit-demons upstairs, I say let’s do it!” Reg grinned as only a dog can, his long tongue lolling out the side of his furry mouth.

* * *

We read the spell carefully to ensure we didn’t make any mistakes. We painstakingly gathered the ingredients, set up the right number and color of candles and cast the circle as precisely as I ever had.

Into the cauldron went various herbs and a few rather obscure ingredients, a splash of water from the pond and three hairs each from me and Reg. Together we chanted the strange incantation then closed our eyes and waited for the outcome.

There was a flash of heat and the smell of sulfur but we kept our eyes tightly closed in accordance with the instructions of the spell as unknown forces swirled around us.

Finally all was silent.

“Miranda?” Reg whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Is it over?”

“I think so,” he said, “but I feel kind of strange. My collar is too tight.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed. “Are you ok, Reg?” I opened my eyes, slowly at first, then gaped in awe at the sight before me.

My little yellow dog was gone. Where Reg had been sat a young man with blond hair. He was naked except for a red leather collar around his neck – the same collar Reg had worn.

“Reg?” I asked.

“It would appear so,” he said. “Would you pass me a blanket? It’s a bit chilly without my fur.”

I grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it over his shoulders so he could cover himself, then removed the collar from his neck.

“You are Harold’s son? All this time, and you never told me?”

“I didn’t know, Miranda. It seems my father erased my memory of who I was in this lifetime, for my own protection. It’s all coming back to me now. I am the original Lord Reginald but I was also reincarnated as Harold’s son. Turning me into a dog and shielding my memory was the only way he could keep me close by while still protecting me. And of course, he placed me in your very capable hands, frozen in time so that I would return to my human form the exact same age as my betrothed when the spell was broken.”

He smiled, melting my heart from the inside out. His eyes were the same gentle brown ones I had fallen in love with when they were fringed with shaggy yellow fur. Now, they were set in a chiseled, handsome face befitting of the nobility that he was.

“I’ve agreed to marry you!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering my vow.

“Yes, I hope you’re still ok with that,” Reg said. “I don’t think Father wrote a divorce clause into the spell.”

My heart thudded and my face flushed like a schoolgirl meeting her crush for the first time. “Of course I’ll marry you, Reg. Didn’t I say that once?”

He smiled, all pearly white teeth, with no tongue lolling out of his mouth this time and pulled me into a loving embrace.

“You have no idea how much I have longed to hold you just like this,” he whispered in my ear.

* * *

Our wedding was a simple but elegant garden ceremony with just a few close friends to witness. We were joined on a pretty little stone footbridge that arched over the fish pond in the estate’s expansive garden. It was a beautiful June day; birds chirped, frogs croaked and flowers bloomed everywhere. Sparkly orange and white fish slid through the water below the bridge as we said our vows.

After the ceremony, Reginald scooped me up into his muscular arms and carried me over the threshold into OUR manor, to begin our new life together.

As we made our way to the bedchamber I joked to my new husband, “I guess I will never have to see you with your nose buried between your legs anymore!”

He chuckled, a mischievous glint in his chestnut eyes, “I believe that is now your department, milady!”

“Once a dog, always a dog!” I laughed, giving him a playful kiss on the nose. “I wonder what ever happened to those horrid step-bitches?” I mused.

“Who cares?” Reg replied. “Father said the spell would take care of them and they would never bother us again.”

“Good point,” I smiled and gave him another kiss, this one deep and sensual.

* * *

A Great Blue Heron stood below the bridge where a wedding ceremony had taken place a few hours earlier. She picked her way slowly through the water lilies, arching her graceful neck to get a better view of the water below. This pond was one of her favorite fishing spots, for the frogs were abundant and the humans always kept it well stocked with Koi.

A large golden body flashed past her feet, frantically diving under the rocky ledge that had been built to shelter the fish. The heron was patient; sooner or later the fish would forget she was there and emerge once again.

* * *

“Move it, you selfish bitch!” Erin screamed at her sister, her words nothing more than bubbles.

“I was here first, dahling. Find your own refuge,” Maria bubbled. “Frankly, it’s your fault we are here to begin with. If you had gotten that brat under control right from the start…”

“When our father finds out about this…!” Erin began.

“What? What exactly will he do? He’s the one who sent you away to begin with because he couldn’t stand you, you hateful wench! As far as I’m concerned, you deserve to be bird-bait!”

Up above, the shadow of the heron loomed, waiting…

Published in Dysfictional 2 and Dragons and Dreams

Pod People: Invasion of the Laundry Zombies

We always knew it was a bad idea to eat Tide Pods… Published in Dysfictional 3 and Weirder Tales by WPaD.

Ernest sat up in bed. “ You hear that?”

Louise looked up from her book. “What’s that, dear?”

“There it is again! It’s the basement door. It’s those damn zombies.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just the wind.”

“Wind my ass!” Ernest muttered, glancing at the shotgun leaning against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. These days he kept both barrels loaded, just in case. “It’s zombies, I tell ya! I thought I told you to get rid of those fucking laundry pods.”

The door rattled again. Ernest had installed sturdy new locks, but they would never give up as long as what they desired lay on the other side of the door.

“Dammit, Louise! This is your fault!”

Louise peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “Seriously, Ern? And what do you expect me to do with them? Just throw them away? I paid good money for those, and I can’t buy them anymore. I’m not going to throw away perfectly good products! Besides, they get the laundry so clean and bright!”

“Clean and bright isn’t worth risking our lives.”

Louise gave him one of those looks reserved for naive children and simpletons. “Isn’t it? Stain-free clothes are worth a little risk. Don’t be a coward, Ernest.”

Ernest opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He knew when he was licked.

“Ok, fine, use them up then. How many are left?”

“I bought the Mega Pack from Costco. I got in on the sale just before they pulled them from the shelves. It was one of the last ones, and I was lucky to get it. People are so rude. Fighting, clawing, just to save a few dollars.”

“Isn’t that the same thing you were doing?” Ernest pointed out.

Louise shrugged. “Well, I got them, so I’ll be damned if I’m just going to throw them away.” She sighed. “I’m sure going to miss those things. They get the laundry so clean and bright.”

* * *

What had started as a stupid YouTube stunt turned into a disaster of epidemic proportions. The idiots who ate Tide laundry pods experienced unfortunate side effects from the chemicals contained in the detergent. Brain function slowed. These individuals, clearly short on brains to begin with, became shambling, babbling shells of their former selves. (one still might argue that it was an improvement) The other, more disturbing effect was the hunger. The Pod People craved the colorful packets of toxin and would go to any lengths to obtain them. They possessed an uncanny ability to sniff them out. Stores stopped selling the detergent after the first few weeks of the epidemic to stop the looting. Citizens were ordered to turn their Tide Pods over to authorities. Anyone found with the pods in their possession would not be eligible for police protection in the event of zombie attack. Attacks were the biggest concern, because bites were the way the plague was spread. And Pod People were bitey little fuckers. They were faster than they looked, in spite of their shuffling gait, and inordinately tenacious when focused on something they wanted – that something being Tide Pods, of course. A bite from one of the Pod People would transfer the toxins that flowed through their veins. Victims of bites began to crave laundry pods, overcome with an irresistible urge to eat them. If not apprehended and incarcerated, they wouldn’t rest until they found and ate some of the detergent. Over time, brain damage set in, transforming them from desperate junkies into shuffling, mumbling zombies. Pod junkies were more dangerous than full-fledged zombies because they still retained some of their (albeit limited) intelligence and still looked like regular people, aside from their desperate, pod-craving behavior. They were also contagious; a bite or scratch from a pod junkie was all it took to spread the addiction.

* * *

And now someone was trying to open the basement door, attracted by the scent of those godfucked laundry pods Louise was so bloody insistent on keeping. Ernest hoped it was just a zombie and not a junkie. Pod junkies were crafty enough to find a way past a locked door. Zombies just bumped against the door like a trapped Roomba until something else caught their attention. Either way, Ernest knew he was in for another sleepless night. He checked his guns to reassure himself they were loaded, and prayed the locks would hold.

* * *

The next night Ernest awoke sitting in his recliner, where he’d dozed off while watching TV. He heard a sound in the laundry room downstairs. He raced to the bedroom to grab his shotgun. The locks hadn’t held after all. One of the bastards had gotten in and from the sound of it, was in the laundry room chowing down on Tide Pods.

A fucking pod junkie.

Ernest cussed silently and crept toward the sound, shotgun at the ready. The hunched figure in the laundry room had its back to Ernest. He raised the gun and clicked the safety off. The junkie stopped munching and turned to face him, streaks of blue and orange running down its chin.

“Clean and bright!” Louise giggled. “Yummy! And they make everything clean and bright!”

Louise wiped an arm across her mouth and Ernest saw the deep red scratches on the underside of her arm. The scuffle at Costco had yielded more than just a bargain on detergent.

“Join me, Ern. It’s Heaven! Heaven, I tell you!”

“Stay back, Louise. Don’t make me – ”

Louise lunged at Ernest and he squeezed the trigger.

Mesachie Man

A bit of fiction based on some local folklore. ~ Published in Dysfictional 3.

Trevor shifted the Jeep into third gear and accelerated. “Pass those beers around, bitches! We are officially off-road now!”

The road to Port Renfrew was a paved public road, but technically it was also a logging road, which created a grey area where the law was concerned. They could still get busted for drinking and driving, but the odds of meeting a cop out there were next to nil.

The Tall Trees Music Festival didn’t start for another three days. By leaving early, they planned to avoid the traffic and inevitable police presence on the normally deserted road. They would lay claim to a prime camp spot and be all set up by the time the crowds arrived.

“This is going to be sweet! Three days of music, sunshine and partying!” Cassie handed Trevor a beer and taking a second one for herself. Cassie’s best friend Nina Charlie was in charge of the refreshments. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the back seat, between her boyfriend Gordon and a cooler full of beer. The cargo space of the Jeep overflowed with camping gear. Coolers were stacked in the space beside Nina for easy access.

The road from Mesachie Lake to Port Renfrew wound through nearly sixty kilometres of scenic wilderness. There were no houses, stores or gas stations, and limited amenities in the tiny towns at either end. Every year, thousands of hipsters converged on the small seaside community of Port Renfrew to listen to live music and “commune with nature” at the Tall Trees Festival. “Communing”, for some, consisted of getting wasted on drugs and alcohol and passing out in their own filth. Paramedics were on-site around the clock and the first-aid tent was well-equipped with overdose kits.

The musky aroma of cannabis drifted from the back seat.

“Pass that up here, Gordo!” Cassie said, turning in her seat to take the joint from Gord. She inhaled deeply and then held the joint to Trevor’s lips. He sucked a lungful of the sweet smoke and then sputtered, trying to keep from coughing.

“Zmooth,” he croaked. The four of them busted up laughing. Everything was suddenly a lot funnier.

They crossed a bridge over a deep ravine. A jade-green river snaked between the cliffs below.

“Gosh, it’s so pretty,” Cassie said, looking down. “Hard to believe nobody lives out here.” She had lived in the city all her life, and had never seen any place so utterly unoccupied.

“This is the real deal, baby! Real Canadian wilderness. I promised you an adventure, didn’t I?” Trevor reached over to caress the front of Cassie’s blouse, then leaned in for a kiss. The Jeep swerved, and Cassie recoiled with a gasp.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!” she slapped his shoulder lightly. “Keep your eyes on the road and your hands off my tits!”

“I got it. Don’t worry, I grew up driving these roads.” Trevor gripped the wheel and glared at the road, embarrassed at being spurned in front of their friends.

“Fuck! How do people get here without a truck? This is crazy rough!” Cassie said.

“Most of them come from Victoria. The road through Sooke is better. That’s where most of the crowds will come from. Only us redneck types take the back way,” Nina told her.

Trevor jerked the wheel to the left and veered off the pocked pavement of the main road onto a narrow gravel road.

“You guys are going to love this. We have two days to kill and I’m going to treat you to one of Cowichan’s best kept secrets. There’s a little lake up here where we can camp, rave, fish and swim, and best of all, we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

Nina and Gord high-fived each other and whooped.

“Sweet!” Nina squealed. “I haven’t been to Lost Lake in forever!”

Trevor laughed. “See? My girl Nina knows what I’m talking about!”

They were climbing now, and the road had degraded to the gravel equivalent of a moguled ski hill. Trevor downshifted and put the Jeep into four-wheel drive. The vehicle bucked and bounced, turning their beer to foam.

“How much farther?” Cassie asked.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Trevor said, steering around an outcropping of rock. “Pretty soon you’ll see a little slice of paradise.”

The Jeep bucked down the road for some distance, then the front wheel dropped into a large pothole with a loud BANG. The force of the impact hurtled them forward. An avalanche of tents and sleeping bags buried the occupants of the back.

“Ow!” Cassie rubbed her chin, which she had bumped on the dash. Luckily they hadn’t been traveling very fast.

Trevor killed the engine. “Everyone okay?” He turned to see Gord and Nina emerging from a pile of camping gear.

“Yeah, bro, we’re cool. But that didn’t sound good. Sounded like something broke.”

“Yeah. Gonna check it out now.” Trevor got out of the Jeep and Gord followed. The girls joined them.

“Looks like a broken axle.” Trevor and Gord squatted beside the front wheel, which twisted sideways at an impossible angle.

“What does that mean?” Cassie asked, “Can you fix it?”

“It means we’re fucked,” Nina said.

“Yep,” Gord agreed. “This beast needs a tow truck.”

Cassie rushed to the vehicle to retrieve her phone.

Trevor chuckled and shook his head, glancing up at the treetops. “Oh, honey, you’re so cute. There’s no signal out here.”

“WHAT? No, there has to be some bars somewhere. We’ll take a walk until we find a signal.”

“There’s nothing.”

“What about at the festival grounds? We can’t be that far from there. We could walk.”

“We’re about halfway. It’s about thirty clicks to civilization in either direction. Plus, we’re another five or six from the main road”

“So we can walk it if we have to.”

“Yes, but not now. It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. You do not want to be out here in the dark.”

“But somebody’s bound to come by. What about the festival crowd?”

“They won’t start coming through here for at least another day or two. And they will be on the main road. Nobody’s going to come up this way. Besides, we will have gotten a tow truck by then.”

Cassie shivered, realizing the truth of what he was saying. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere, at least for the night.

“Your call, friendos. Do we hike to the lake, or camp here?”

Gord and Nina were already pulling camping gear out of the back of the Jeep.

“I vote we hike to the lake,” Nina said. “We were going there anyways. Might as well go ahead with the plan and enjoy our adventure, we came this far. At least we’ll have plenty of water there.”

“Seconded.” Gord looked at Trevor. “Bro?”

“Yeah. I’m up for a hike. The lake is way nicer than the side of the road.”

Cassie huddled close to her boyfriend. She was nervous about leaving the relative safety of the vehicle, broken as it was, but it was obvious she didn’t have a say.

They stuffed their backpacks with camping supplies, which included as much food and booze as they could carry, leaving the coolers behind. They set out down the dusty road, laden like pack mules.

The four friends arrived at the lake within the hour. The setting sun painted the treetops with majestic golden hues, but down below darkness crept over the forest floor. Cassie fought panic with every step, but there was no turning back. Finally they stepped out of the woods into a small clearing surrounding the glistening green gem that was Lost Lake.

“It’s so pretty! she breathed, in both awe and relief at being free from the creepy forest.

The group shrugged off backpacks and began to unpack.

Gord tossed a tent to Trevor. “We might as well set up right away. We’re here for the night.”

Trevor nodded. “Yeah, we are. We can walk out to the main road in the morning and catch a ride to call a tow truck. There won’t be time to fix the Jeep, but with any luck we can borrow something else to drive and still make the festival.”

* * *

The four friends sat around a crackling fire under a starry, moonlit sky. With the abundance of beers and joints, it felt almost like a regular camping trip. If they’d reached their destination as planned, the scene wouldn’t have differed much, except they would have had the Jeep and its booming stereo to scare away whatever lurked in the darkness.

Cassie had never been camping before, except for road trips in her parents’ RV. Those trips had always been to campsites with showers and electrical hookups. Sometimes even swimming pools. She couldn’t understand why her friends seemed so comfortable in such rustic surroundings.

She’d had to pee for hours, and didn’t know what to do about it.

Nina stood and pulled a small flashlight from her pocket. “Back in a minute. Gotta use the ‘facilities’.”

“Wait!” Cassie said. “Can I go with you?”

Nina shrugged. “Sure, c’mon.”

Cassie followed Nina away from the campsite, into a small grove of trees. She wondered what happened next.

Her eyes widened in horror as Nina squatted next to a tree, then pulled some tissue from her pocket.

She couldn’t possibly… but there were no other options.

Noticing her hesitation, Nina said, “You want me to wait for you?”

“Yes, please. It’s so dark out here. You got any more of that tissue?”

* * *

The girls were almost back to camp when a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the darkness.

Cassie grabbed hold of Nina.

“What the fuck was that?”

“You promise you won’t freak out if I tell you?”

“No. Yes.”

They walked back into the safety of the firelight and Nina grabbed two fresh beers from her backpack.

“Did you guys hear that?” Cassie asked.

“Sounded like a cougar,” Gord said. “When they’re mating, they sound almost human.”

“No way! That was – wait – there are cougars out here?” Cassie’s terror refreshed and rose a few levels.

“And wolves too. Actually, Vancouver Island has more cougars per square kilometre than anywhere in Canada. You didn’t know that?”

“It wasn’t a cougar,” Nina said.

Trevor met her eyes. “No, I’ve heard cougars, and they don’t sound like that.”

“Well, if it wasn’t a cougar, then what the fuck makes a noise like that? Jesus, it sounded like someone got murdered out there.”

“Light a joint, Gord. You guys up for a story?” Nina’s dark eyes glinted with a hint of mischief.

“Is this one of those tribal tales from your family?” Gord asked.

“Yessir, it is. But Trevor should know it too. His family has history here too.”

“You’re talking about the Mesachie Man, aren’t you?” Trevor said.

Nina nodded. “When the white people first settled this area, they chose to build their towns and mills at various spots around the lake. One settler, by the name of Frank Green, chose Mesachie Lake as the site for his mill. When he found the spot, he fell in love with it – pretty little place in the mountains, nestled between two lakes. He couldn’t believe nobody had already settled there. Not even the local tribes had claimed it. My grandfather liked to tell us kids the story. Apparently, the reason my ancestors didn’t use the land was they believed evil lived there.”

“Frank Green?” Gord said. “That’s your last name, Trevor.”

Trevor nodded. “I’m named after my great-grandfather, Trevor Green, who was Frank’s son.”

“So you know this story?”

“I know it well. It’s part of my family history as well as Nina’s. Frank settled the area, built a mill and a small town sprang up around it. Not much, just a church, a school, and about sixty homes, owned by the mill, where the mill workers lived. Frank’s wife, Louie, they called her, was curious about the area, and why the natives never lived in the area or even fished in the lakes. She talked to the locals, and they told her a story of a horrible man-beast that lived in a cave nearby. Rumor had it, the thing escaped from a ship that ran aground on the reefs outside Port Renfrew. It was said to have been part man, part ape and was en route to a freak show in San Francisco or elsewhere up the coast. Most people nowadays figure it was just an ordinary gorilla on its way to a zoo. Anyhow, they believed it found the Robertson River, remember that bridge we crossed?”

Cassie nodded, remembering the dark green river in the ravine.

“Well, legend has it, this creature followed the river inland and took up residence in a cave in Mesachie Mountain, which overlooks the town of Mesachie Lake. That’s where we turned off the main road toward Port Renfrew.”

Cassie remembered turning at a flashing amber light – away from the last inkling of civilization.

“So what was it? Did anyone ever find it?”

“No, but if it was a gorilla, it would have died at some point,” Nina said. “The stories from my family go way back to the early 1800s, as far as we know. And there have been reported sightings of something throughout the 1900s, as recently as the 90s. Whether or not it’s the creature from the legend or just a bear is impossible to know, but if it is the same thing my ancestors saw, then there had to be more than one of them.”

“Did anybody ever find the cave where it lived?”

“Nobody knows. There are plenty of caves in these mountains. It could have been in any one of them.”

“Come on! You guys are just fucking with me! Trying to scare the city girl with Bigfoot stories!”

“No, I swear, this is real history from my family and Nina’s,” Trevor said, putting a protective arm around Cassie’s shoulders and pulling her close.

“And there have been a lot of unexplained disappearances over the years. People have just walked into the woods and never returned. Like that guy years ago who took his dog for a walk and disappeared.”

“I remember that,” Gord said. “The dog came back but he didn’t. His remains turned up eleven years later, in a place far outside the search area. It didn’t make sense for him to have gone way up there.”

“The thing was,” Trevor added, “He was something of a legend in these parts. A serious outdoorsman. He knew these woods like his own back yard. The kind of guy you would call to help search when someone went missing. Not someone who would ever get lost out here.”

“What about that old woman last summer? They say she had dementia and drove onto these back roads and got lost. But when they finally found her she was eleven kilometres from her car. How does a woman in her eighties hike that far into the wilderness?” Nina said.

“And that other guy. They found his vehicle running on the side of the road with the driver’s door open, wallet and cell phone inside the vehicle. They also found blood in the vehicle and in the trees nearby. They searched for months, but when his body was finally found it was miles away in a place nobody would have looked.”

“Did they say what all those people died from?” Cassie asked, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

“Nope. The cops are always very hush-hush about these things, for the privacy of the families. They said there was no foul play in any of the cases, but they all sound fishy as hell to me. I mean, what makes anyone just drop what they’re doing and make a beeline into the deep woods? Where were they trying to get to?”

“Or away from.” Nina said. “One reason for charging blindly into the woods is to escape from something.”

“Stop it, Nina! That’s not funny.” Cassie said.

“I’m not trying to be funny, just stating facts. Panic makes the illogical seem logical.”

Trevor saw the terror on Cassie’s face and leaned down to give her a kiss. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll keep you safe from the Mesachie Man.”

The shriek echoed through the night again. It sounded closer this time. A wolf howled in the distance, as if in reply.

* * *

WOMAN RESCUED AFTER THREE-DAY ORDEAL IN WILDERNESS

A confused and dehydrated woman found wandering on Pacific Marine Route has been unable to offer police any answers. An abandoned vehicle and nearby campsite was found, but police have confirmed the vehicle was not registered to the woman.

Foul play is not suspected. Police believe the campers may have been en route to the Tall Trees Festival in Port Renfrew when their vehicle broke down. They are being sought for questioning at the festival.

The unidentified woman was admitted to hospital and treated for dehydration and minor injuries. She has been detained for psychiatric evaluation.

Anyone who has further information regarding the whereabouts of the woman’s alleged companions is asked to contact police as soon as possible.

* * *

“I need you to take this patient. I think you could make better progress with her than I can.” Dr. Phillips handed Cecily a file.

Cecily read the name. “Cassie March. What do we have here?” Cecily wasn’t a psychiatrist like Dr. Phillips. Her specialty was counselling victims of rape and other violence.

“Female, twenty-three years old, catatonia due to post-traumatic stress.”

“The source of the trauma?”

“That’s just it – we don’t know. She won’t talk to me. In fact, I can’t even enter the room without putting her into hysterics.”

“Does she react the same way to everyone? What about the nurses?”

“No, she seems ok with the nurses. It’s just me she has a problem with, or men in general, though the physical examination didn’t indicate sexual assault.”

“What were her injuries?”

“Aside from dehydration, just bruises and abrasions. The sort of thing you’d expect from someone who was lost in the wilderness.”

Cecily peeked through the observation window.

A young male orderly was in the room, putting fresh towels in the bathroom. The patient seemed undisturbed by his presence. The patient sat quietly on her bed, muttering to herself.

“What’s she saying? Has she said anything intelligible?”

“She just repeats the same phrase: ‘Mesachie Man’, over and over. I think someone may have done something to her, but I’ve made no progress because of her obvious fear of men.”

“She doesn’t seem bothered by all men, David.” Cecily nodded toward the fresh-faced orderly. “Maybe there’s something about you specifically that bothers her.”

Dr. Phillips stroked his bushy beard, remembering that he was overdue for a trim.

“Hmm… I wonder what it could be?”

Junkyard Dog

Kind of a familiar story – teenage girl, a creepy junkyard. What could go wrong?

Published in Dysfictional 3 ~ Available worldwide in paperback and ebook.

“Hurry!”

“Just hang on a minute! I have to clean my makeup off.”

My friend Jeanette wasn’t allowed to wear makeup. Her parents were Christian nutjobs. Whenever we went out to a movie or a party, she spent the first half hour in the bathroom, putting on her face. And then there was the ritual frantic face-scrubbing on the way home. The fact that Jeanie was a wannabe Goth didn’t help matters when we were already late.

We reached Jeanie’s street.

“Am I clean?” She tilted her head under the streetlight for me to examine.

“Almost. Here.” I licked my finger and scrubbed a remnant of eyeliner from the corner of her eye.

“Gross! What are you, my mom?”

“Next time, maybe you should ask your mom to check.”

“Touche.”

“I gotta run. I am so fucking late.”

Jeanie was already running. “See you tomorrow!” she called over her shoulder.

I was in so much shit. We never should have gone to that party. I knew it was too far for us to attend and make it home in time for curfew. The “movie” we were supposedly attending ended more than an hour ago, and the theatre was only six blocks away. I should have been home already, even if we had stopped for a bite to eat afterward. Fuck. I was going to be grounded for next weekend, and Owen had finally asked me out.

Maybe I could take a shortcut.

I glanced toward the woods on my right. My home lay on the other side of those woods. The safe, well-lit route took me on the outskirts of the forest, a twenty-minute hike if I speed-walked. I was due home five minutes ago. My parents were lenient if my lateness was within reason, but a half hour? No.

If I cut through the woods, I would be home in ten minutes, tops. I usually avoided that route; the forest was thick and dark even during the day. Plus, I had to pass by the junk yard, with that creepy old guy and his scary dog.

Ten minutes. If I jogged, I could make it in five.

“Suck it up, Buttercup. Let’s do this.”

The rusty chain link fence surrounding the junk yard leaned and sagged to the ground in some spots. Not much security to keep intruders out. Apparently intruders were not a problem. I’d never seen Old Man Jenkins in person, but from the stories I’d heard, the only thing scarier than him was his dog. The junkyard was the site of many Halloween dares and club initiations. One time, bullies tied some poor kid to that fence and left him there for the dog to attack from the other side. Nobody knew what breed the dog was; some said Mastiff, others said it was some kind of wolf hybrid.

One thing I knew for certain: that fence did not look high enough or strong enough to contain a large dog. I hastened my pace; I was already past the halfway point and the forest loomed ahead. Pass one scary obstacle, only to face another.

The corner of the fence came into view. Almost there.

I heard a low growl behind me.

“Shit!” I whispered under my breath. I walked faster.

The growl escalated to a savage frenzy of barking, then I heard the rattle of the chain link fence as something hit it, hard.

I felt as much as heard the THUD of large paws hitting the ground. The dog had jumped the fence.

I ran.

I had almost reached the forest when my foot struck a rock and I fell face-first on the ground. I covered my head with my arms to protect myself from the impending attack.

Vicious snarls filled the air, followed by screams. Human screams.

The screams were not mine.

I braved a peek.

A massive black dog stood over its victim, snarling. With a flash of white teeth, its jaws snapped and tore the throat out of its kill. Then the beast turned its head in my direction. I covered my eyes with my hands. I didn’t want to look, but peeked through the cracks between my fingers.

The beast reared onto its hind feet and then morphed into the shape of a man.

“My dear, are you all right?” a deep voice said.

The man approached me, holding out his hand. He wore a baseball cap and grimy overalls, but his eyes were friendly.

I took his hand and allowed him to help me to my feet.

“Yes, I’m okay. What happened?”

“That man was following you. He would have followed you into the woods if my…dog hadn’t caught him. I’m so glad he didn’t hurt you.”

“You’re…you’re… from the…”

“Bart Jenkins. That’s my scrap yard there. You need to be more careful, my dear. This place isn’t safe for young ladies at night. Lots of creeps and drug addicts around. Can I offer you a ride home?”

I accepted Bart ’s offer of a ride, and even arrived home without getting grounded. I returned the next day to thank him and stayed for a cup of tea. We became good friends and I visited him regularly over the years, but I never did see a dog. He swore he had one, but claimed the animal was “shy” and kept out of sight whenever visitors were around.

The animal I saw that night was anything but shy.

Don’t Stop

*Photo by* **Burak K** *from* **Pexels**

Since this is your first night and all, I’ll just ride along and keep ya company. I’ll help out if ya need it, but otherwise, I’m not even here. Just think of me as a ghost or somethin’. There ain’t a lot to this job, just cram them papers in the mailboxes or bag and chuck ‘em in driveways. Just a lot of driving is all. Oh yeah, you’ll log a lotta miles. We call this route the car killer. Oh, people scoff, sure, after all it’s a paper route, but it’s not like you’re a little kid on his bike throwing a few papers after school. This here’s a real job, and it ain’t for no kids. It pays well, but there’s good reason for it. You’re out here at night, all alone, in all kinds of weather. This ‘little paper route’, as they call it, bought me a shiny red Jeep and paid off my mortgage. Which reminds me, ya might wanna look into upgrading your vehicle to something with four wheel drive. This lil’ sports car you got is cute, and it’s prolly good on gas, but son, you gonna want a four-by when the roads git nasty. You’re gonna be out here before the snow plows most nights, and ain’t nobody around to help out if you get stuck. No cell service either, in most places. If you get stuck, you’re on your own.

You’ll do fine kid, if you just remember one thing: Don’t stop for nothing or no one, no matter what you see. Don’t pick up hitchhikers. Don’t offer rides, and for the love of god don’t stop to offer assistance. If you see someone broke down beside the road, keep moving. Do NOT stop! Ya hear me, son? Even if it’s a wreck. You keep drivin’. Get a safe distance away, find some cell service and call 911. That’s how you help. Don’t never, ever stop, no matter what you see.

I done this job for years, and I tell ya, I seen a lot of things. It’s a different world out here at night. People have no idea. While they’re asleep in their beds, things happen that they don’t see during the day. Animals prowl around, that’s a given. But there are other things, too. Things they don’t see in their happy lives during the day.

Things look different in the dark. Guess you noticed that. No color out here. One of the other drivers I worked with, she had a route over in Dexter, I think. Anyhoo, she dyed her hair all kinda crazy colors. Pink, purple, blue. Every few weeks she’d have a different color. She said it was because she lived in a black and white world, out there at night, and she craved color, like someone would crave a kind of food or something. Her brain wanted to see colors, on account of she slept all day and only saw the night. Ain’t that a thing? I guess it makes sense, though.

Anyways, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. Different. Things look different in the dark. Especially when it’s foggy. Things look like shit they ain’t. A trash can looks like an animal. A tree stump looks like a person standing there. Now, I ain’t no scardey-cat. I seen combat in my time. I been around the block a few times. But this job, it plays games with your mind. Make you see things that ain’t what they seem. I tell ya, there’s one thing that’s always scared the shit outta me – seeing a person somewhere where a person ain’t got no business bein’. Like you’re on a deserted road in the middle of the night, miles from any house. If you see a person out in the middle of nowhere, you can be sure of one of two things: Either that person is in trouble, or they are trouble. You don’t wanna find out first hand. Folks have disappeared on these roads. Full grown men, some of them. Remember that guy awhile back? Vehicle left running on the side of the road. Wallet, cell phone still inside. But the guy was just gone.

I seen some shit out here though. One night, there was a wreck. I stopped, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. Car was twisted, like it’d hit a steel pole doing a hundred. Just wrapped around something. But there it was, in the middle of the road. Whatever it hit, just wasn’t there. I thought maybe an animal, like a bear or moose… but there was nothing, you understand? No blood, no fur, no nothing. I figured for sure I was gonna find a dead body, or someone near death. But the driver’s seat was empty. Nothing. No blood. Airbag wasn’t deployed. If the driver wasn’t wearing a seatbelt they woulda gone through the windshield. Windshield was intact. No way someone coulda wrecked a car like this and not been hurt. And yet they were gone.

In fact, it was right around here somewhere. Yeah, it was that road. The one you’re turning onto now. I always hated this one. Just one delivery, way down the end of the road. Pain in the ass. And way out in the middle of nothing. The wreck was right there up the road. See that red Jeep? Was right there.

Wait – what’re you doin’, son? Don’t stop! Didn’t you hear a word I told you? Don’t stop! Just drive on by.

Aw shit. Now you’ve done it. Sorry kid, you’re on your own. I ain’t stickin’ around for this one.

This is where I get out. Seeya.

* * *

Kevin looked at the stack of undelivered newspapers on his passenger seat and stifled a yawn. He was going to have to get used to this new schedule. He wondered how the other drivers did it. The old guy who had had the route before him had done it for years, up until he died. The pay was awesome, but he couldn’t imagine doing it long term. He figured the job would be extinct soon. The younger generation didn’t read paper newspapers, and the current customers were dying of old age. He gave it five years max.

His GPS announced that he needed to turn on the next street. He made the turn. Damn, it was dark out there. No streetlights. Just trees and fog.

A dark shape on the roadside caught his eye. As he neared the object, the twisted image of a wrecked vehicle became clear. A red Jeep, from the look of it.

“Holy shit!”

He screeched to a stop beside the wreck and jumped out, leaving the car idling.

* * *

“Looks like we need a new carrier for route 8020.”

“Shit! Again? You thought that last kid was going to work out. He seemed really stoked about the pay.”

“Maybe so, but he no-showed last night. And the route was only half finished the night before. We got a lot of pissed off customers. Can’t have that. We need someone reliable. That literally is the only requirement for this job. Just show up and do it from start to finish. Is that really so difficult?”

“What are you going to do until you find someone?”

“I’m the supervisor, so I’ll have to do it until we get another driver.”

“Damn it, Gary, are you serious? I really hate the thought of you out there all night while I’m stuck at home alone.”

“You aren’t alone. You have the kids. And the dog.”

“Still, though. I wish you didn’t have to.”

“It’s part of my job. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. It’s just temporary.”

Blind Trust

What good is a romantic story without secrets and lies? (and death, because that’s how I roll) No marriage is perfect… This story was published in Creepies 3 by WPaD and also in my Dysfictional 3 collection.

This year, Gina’s gift to her husband would be extra special. It had been years in the planning; an interminable wait list, clandestine phone calls, hasty arrangements with the help of her sister when the time finally came.

Keeping the secret from Stuart had been agonizing; usually, they told each other everything. Conveniently, he was away on business when Gina and Maxine boarded a taxi for the airport. She told him her sister was recovering from surgery and needed an extra set of hands around the house for a couple of weeks. It was a half-truth; she did stay with her sister in Boston, but it was Gina who was recovering from surgery.

Gina had spoken to Stuart on the phone several times while she was away, but hadn’t told him she was returning early. He wasn’t expecting her for another day. The surprise would be perfect. His birthday wasn’t for another week, but she would give him his gift as soon as he arrived home that evening.

The sunset faded from orange to purple as the taxi pulled up at the curb. Gina stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes after getting out of the car, savoring the view.

The first thing Gina did when they reached the house was remove Max’s harness. She wouldn’t be needing it anymore, but she had left it on for the flight so Max could fly as a guide dog and not as a pet. The German Shepherd gazed up at her, puzzlement in her amber eyes. Gina reached down to stroke her head.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. As of now, you’re retired from active duty. Let’s go inside and get some dinner, shall we?”

Gina brought her suitcase into the bedroom. Though previously accustomed to navigating in darkness, she now noticed the dimness of the room with the curtains drawn.

She clicked the switch on the lamp and gasped. She saw its beauty with her own eyes for the first time. In truth, she was seeing it through someone else’s eyes; those of a young man killed in a motorcycle accident, whose family had donated his organs.

The lamp was one of Stuart’s creations, handmade in his workshop. His art took many forms, mostly jewelry and small figurines carved from hardwoods – yew and walnut, he told her. He had a process for curing the wood that hardened it to almost a porcelain consistency, except much stronger. The lamp was one of his finest pieces.

He had made the lampshade as well, from soft calfskin leather, scraped thin in places to create an intricate design of tree branches, which would light up when the lamp was turned on.

Even though she couldn’t see it, for years she had felt the design with her fingers and formed a picture in her mind’s eye. The base of the lamp formed the trunk of the “tree”. The curve of the wood mimicked a tree trunk perfectly, right down to its graceful curve and non-uniformity of its shape. On the surface he had carved a heart with their initials inside. Tiny bumps covered the surface of the trunk, each painstakingly carved by her husband. It was a Haiku, written by him and inscribed in Braille for her:

Sun may fade from sight

Love for you burns ever bright

My eternal light

Now, for the first time, Gina saw the lamp in all of its glory, and it was exquisite. The glow of the lampshade projected the intricate tree branch design on the walls, giving the illusion that she was surrounded by forest. Gina caressed the shade, which she had felt hundreds of times, but now she could see what her fingers felt.

What unusual leather, she thought. It was unlike anything she remembered from the days before she lost her sight. She had expected it to be more of a tan color, but this was a pale cream shade with a pinkish hue. A muted floral design decorated the edge of the shade. The trunk looked different than she had expected as well. She had always envisioned it being the deep brown of walnut, but it too was a light cream color, almost white.

Stuart was a true artist. She wished he would give up his sales job and focus on his craft, but Stuart insisted that the things he made weren’t worth selling.

“I do this because I enjoy it, dear. Nobody wants to buy a bunch of homemade junk. Knowing that you like them is enough for me,” he had told her.

* * *

After feeding Max and making some dinner for herself, Gina contemplated calling Stuart to find out when he would be home, but resisted the urge. She didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but the anticipation was too much to bear. She paced nervously, stopping to stare at herself in the hallway mirror every time she passed. She had been born with blue eyes; now they were brown. She compared her reflection to the wedding photo of her and Stuart that hung on the wall next to the mirror. It was hard to tell the difference from the photo, but she found it unsettling nonetheless.

Gina turned on the TV but couldn’t find anything interesting to watch. What to do? She could take Max for a walk, but it was dark out. She chuckled. Too dark! Darkness had never been a problem before. Maybe she could take Max out into the yard at least. She hadn’t looked at her garden yet. She shoved her feet into her shoes and slipped into a light jacket. It was late spring, but a chill lingered in the air. She called Max and opened the sliding door to the backyard. Max stayed by her side at first, waiting to be harnessed. Once she understood that her mistress didn’t require her assistance, she bounded across the yard and busied herself sniffing all the nooks and crannies.

The tulips were in bloom near the shed Stuart used as a workshop. Their colors stood against the darkness, bathed in a glow from the window. That was odd. He must have left a light on.

Or perhaps it wasn’t odd at all. Gina knew nothing about the methods he used in creating his art. Maybe part of the wood-curing process required light of some sort. She didn’t know because she had never seen. She had never even been inside his workshop.

I shouldn’t. I should wait for him to show me. It didn’t feel right to snoop, as curious as she was. She would ask Stuart to give her the grand tour when he came home.

Maybe just a little peek. What harm could it do?

Gina tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open a crack and peeked inside. A curtain hung in front of the door, obstructing her view of the inside of the shed. She pulled the curtain aside and entered her husband’s workshop.

Something tickled her hair and she jumped back, startled. Eerie shadows danced on the walls. A string swung next to her shoulder. She brushed it away and looked up. The string was connected to a chain, which was attached to a dangling light fixture. The swaying bulb was the sole source of light in the workshop.

The workbench was cluttered with tools and debris from partially finished projects. A bit of wood here, a scrap of leather there. A pale stick of wood was clamped in the vise, a work in progress judging by the half-worn sheets of sandpaper and fine layer of dust on the bench below. She caressed the graceful curve of the piece with her fingertips, wondering what it was going to be. It always amazed her; the way Stuart could create such elegant contours from an ordinary chunk of wood. She couldn’t wait to watch him work.

A large barrel sat in one darkened corner of the room. Curious, Gina lifted the lid to peer inside. A powerful odor assaulted her nostrils. The barrel was filled with some sort of dark liquid with a strong chemical smell. Things floated inside the liquid, but she couldn’t see what they were. She wasn’t about to poke around in that nasty stuff. Her toe bumped against the barrel, causing the liquid to slosh a bit. Something floated to the top. A recognizable shape, but no – it couldn’t be that – it had to be a trick of the light. Gina used the pull-cord to swing the light bulb in the direction of the barrel. Back and forth it swung. Light splashed over the barrel, then dark. The thing disappeared between the surface of the liquid. She kicked the barrel again and swung the light.

Light. Dark.

Light. The thing came into view again. The light swung, revealing the shapes of skeletal fingers.

Gina screamed.

The bulb swung another arc, illuminating the far corner of the room. A wooden crate came into view. It overflowed with sticks much like the one currently clamped in the vise. Now she saw that they weren’t sticks at all, but bones.

Human bones, she was certain. What else could they be?

She stumbled backward, scrambling for the door. She ran outside and tripped over Max, who had heard her scream and come to her rescue. She landed face down in the grass. Max whined and rushed to lick her face.

She heard vehicle approaching and headlights flashed across the driveway. Stuart was home. Gina ran to the house with Max close on her heels. She dashed inside and ran to retrieve the Max’s harness from her bag. With shaking hands, she slipped the harness on the dog and fastened it in place. She dove onto the couch and managed a few deep breaths to appear calm before the door opened and Stuart walked in.

“Hey, beautiful! You’re home. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up at the airport.”

She took care to look past him rather than at him to maintain the illusion of blindness. But she did see. She didn’t miss the dark splotches of red on his grey t-shirt. He looked like he’d been in a fight.

And won.

“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, I know how busy you are. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother, sweetness.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

She smiled and kissed him back, keeping her eyes downcast for fear he would see that they were different.

“I’m going to take a shower. Have you eaten yet? We could order pizza,” Stuart suggested.

“Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t eaten. Pizza would be fine. I’ll call while you’re in the shower. You want the usual?”

“Whatever you like, my love.”

Gina couldn’t fathom eating, but she knew she needed to keep up appearances. She couldn’t let him suspect anything was wrong.

* * *

A week passed. They celebrated Stuart’s birthday with dinner at a nice restaurant and she gave him a watch as a gift. She maintained her façade of blindness, kept Max harnessed and allowed the dog to guide her everywhere she went. Max knew something was different, but Gina’s secret was safe with her.

She wracked her brain to devise a way to escape her predicament. Leaving Stuart without an explanation didn’t seem like a viable option. She was afraid of him now. A homicidal monster lurked beneath his kind and loving exterior, and she had no idea what it would take to trigger his wrath and turn that monster on her. She needed to know more about what motivated him to do the things he did.

She waited patiently and watched his daily activities. Soon a pattern emerged. Monday through Thursday he was home for dinner, but on Fridays he worked late. Or so she had always thought.

One Friday night she looked out the window and noticed the light was on in the shed. Stuart was out there, and yet his van was not in the driveway. Gina slipped out the front door with Max in harness and walked around the block, where she discovered Stuart’s van parked in the alley behind their house. It seemed he was parking in the alley and sneaking in through the back gate. He didn’t want her to know he was home.

As she watched, a truck pulled up behind his van. A strange man got out and the two of them unloaded a large plastic-wrapped bundle and together they carried it through the back gate and to his shed.

A chill ran down Gina’s spine. She didn’t have to think very hard to guess what was inside that bundle.

Who was the man? Stuart had an accomplice? She tried to get a look at the license number, but it was too dark.

What was she to do? Call the police? With what evidence?

She didn’t even know what kind of truck it was. She couldn’t tell a Ford from a Dodge because she had never seen different types of vehicles up until now.

Gina realized she had a long way to go in acclimating herself in the sighted world before she could be a reliable witness to anything.

Gina spent the following week studying everything she could to fill her brain with visual information – books, websites, and just going for walks with Max and taking in the sights in her neighborhood. She had sworn her sister to secrecy about her sight restoration. The neighbors still believed she was blind, and it was easy to fool them as long as she wore her dark glasses. She could carry on conversations while studying the minute details of a person’s face, clothing, and immediate surroundings and no one was the wiser.

She spent hours in the attic, searching through old boxes, some of which had been there prior to their marriage. The house had been in Stuart’s family for generations. She found old photos of his parents and grandparents and marveled at the resemblance he bore to them. Another box held photo albums from a more recent era, from Stuart’s childhood through to adulthood. She pulled a white album from the bottom of the box and gasped when she saw the photo on the first page. It was a wedding photo, of Stuart and another woman. He hadn’t told her he’d been married before. Why?

Then again, it wasn’t the only thing he hadn’t been honest about.

She flipped through the pages, studying the woman’s face. His previous wife was in other albums as well; vacation photos, mostly. There they were standing in front of the Grand Canyon, and here on a beach in Mexico. His ex-wife had a nice figure for a bikini, curvy but not quite plump, and had a lovely floral tattoo down the length of her thigh – some sort of delicate vine with little pink flowers on it. What kind of flower was that? She was sure she had seen it before, recently. It had to be recently, since she had only had her sight for a few weeks.

* * *

One afternoon Gina gathered the courage to take another look in the shed. She let Max run loose in the yard. Stuart wasn’t due home for hours.

The sludge barrel was empty. It smelled foul and strong. No hands or feet to be found. The same crate of bones sat in the corner. In the daylight they somehow didn’t look as ominous. What should she do? Take some of the bones to the police? That would probably be the best way to proceed. She crouched beside the crate and reached toward it.

“I see I’m not the only one with a secret,” Stuart said behind her.

Gina screamed and leaped to her feet. She stumbled backward, tripping over more bones.

“How long, Gina?”

“I – don’t – know what you mean,” she stammered.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you hide it from me? Jesus, Gina, you can see!” Tears shimmered in his eyes. “It’s a miracle, and the biggest event of your life – of our lives – I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t share it with me.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. I wanted to surprise you, I just – I didn’t know when to tell you, and then I found… I found…” Gina looked down at the scattering of bones at her feet.

“I guess I owe you an explanation. I should have told you. But it was easier to let you think I was crafting with wood. People find bones a bit creepy, even when they’re just animal bones.”

“Animal bones?”

“Of course! Gee whiz, Gina, what the hell did you think they were?”

“But I came in one night, and I saw… in that barrel… it looked like…” Gina looked down at her hand and spread out her fingers, then looked back up at Stuart.

“A hand? Is that what you thought it was?” He laughed. “I think I understand now. Sweetie, have you ever seen a human skeleton? Or an animal one for that matter?”

“Well, no, I guess not,” Gina admitted.

Stuart put his arm over her shoulders. “Come with me, darling, and I will show you. I think we can clear up this whole misunderstanding.”

As they walked back toward the house, Stuart hugged her close and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I can’t believe you can see! I want you to tell me all about it!”

Gina’s heart warmed with renewed love for her husband. He had already forgiven her lie and suspicion. She beyond embarrassed that she could have suspected he was a murderer.

Back at the house, Stuart sat Gina in front of the computer and showed her pictures of bones on the internet.

“You see? This is a human hand, without the flesh. Does that look like what you saw?”

“Yes, actually, it does.”

“Now look at this. This is a bear paw. Do you see the resemblance? Once the flesh is removed, the toes actually have a finger-like appearance. Could this have been what you saw?”

Gina hung her head. “Yes. The lighting was poor, and I only saw it for a few seconds. It could just as easily have been this that I saw.”

“Just for comparison, this is a fox, this is a wolf, and this – this is the fin of a whale. All mammals share the same characteristics in their skeletal structure.”

“Who was that man I saw you with? I saw you and another man carrying a bundle into the shed.”

“That was Lars. He’s one of the hunters I work with. He brings me carcasses after he’s stripped them of meat, so that I can clean the bones and make things from them. That was a bundle of moose bones we were carrying. I almost have enough for a matching pair of rocking chairs. I wanted to try my hand at building something larger.”

“That sounds amazing.” Gina hung her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“Hey,” Stuart said, taking her in his arms, “Don’t do that. What’s the matter?”

Gina sniffled. “Being blind most of my life, I’ve always had these pictures in my mind of what I thought things looked like, but now that I can see, everything is so different! I feel like I’m in an alien world, and I don’t know what to trust anymore.”

“Shh,” he said. He held her against him, stroking her hair. “It’s ok. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. Just tell me what you need so I can be there for you.”

“I have everything I need. I have you.”

She felt ashamed for thinking he could be capable of anything so unspeakable. Her husband had an odd hobby, granted, but his art was beautiful and she couldn’t have been more proud of him.

She decided not to mention the old photo albums and wedding photos she had seen. Whether or not he had been married before was none of her business unless he chose to tell her. It was a conversation for another time.

* * *

Later that night, after a romantic candlelit dinner, Stuart led her upstairs, where they made love by the dim glow of the handcrafted lamp. Along the edge of the lampshade a faded design was visible – a delicate vine with little pink flowers.

**Published in Dysfictional 3 ~ Available worldwide in paperback and ebook.**

**Published in Creepies 3 by WPaD ~ Available worldwide in paperback and ebook.**

Chernobyl Charlie

This story isn’t my usual dark and weird style; it’s more of a warm fuzzy, but it’s one of my favorites from Dysfictional 3. Just a tale about a boy and his dog…

~*~

The old man placed another log on the campfire. black-and-white-dog-sitting-down-e1556774673359

“You kids ready for a story?”

“Yes!” Kylie and Joel chorused together.

Every summer, his daughter-in-law Laura brought the grandchildren on weekends for a backyard campout. The kids got to sleep in a tent and enjoy fireside stories, just like they’d done with their father. Since loss of her husband, a Marine, Laura tried to maintain a connection with his side of the family. The old man appreciated the effort she made. The kids enjoyed his stories and he enjoyed telling them, and boy, he had a lot of stories.

“Get comfortable, ‘cause tonight I got a great story for ya. This one’s about Chernobyl Charlie.”

“Wait!” Kylie ran to the tent to grab her blanket. She returned and nestled in her lawn chair with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Okay, I’m comfortable now.”

Her brother rolled his eyes. “Ok, are you ready now? I want to hear the story.”

The old man began,

“There once was a boy, we’ll call him Nathan. This boy only wanted one thing for his entire life: a dog. He didn’t want anything else, not ever.

Every year, his parents would ask him what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday, and his answer was always the same:

‘I want a dog!’ he’d say.

And every time, the answer would be the same: ‘No’.

It wasn’t that his parents were mean, or didn’t want him to have a dog. It was just that they lived in an apartment, and weren’t allowed pets in the building, other than fish or birds. Birds gave him the creeps and goldfish just weren’t the same. Fish were boring. They just sat in a bowl. You couldn’t take them for a walk or pet them or play ball with them.

But one year, the year he turned twelve, Nathan’s life changed forever.

His father had started a new job a year ago, and was making more money. Enough money that they could finally buy a house. A whole house! With its own yard and everything! Most importantly, there was a fenced area for a dog! This year, when Nathan’s parents asked what he wanted for his birthday, the answer was yes. He could have a dog.

His mother agreed to the dog on one condition: they would adopt, not shop. No pet stores or fancy breeds; they would find a shelter dog that needed a home. Nathan was fine with that. Any dog would be a great dog, and he would love it with all his heart.

They registered with the SPCA and a bunch of other rescue groups, looking for a dog that would be a good fit for their family. One day, Nathan’s mother called him to look at something.

She was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open to some website.

Nathan took a look over his Mom’s shoulder to see what she was looking at. The screen had a picture of a group of dogs on it.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘There are puppies available for adoption, and you’ll never guess from where. Chernobyl!’ she told him.

‘Isn’t that place like, radioactive or something?’ he said.

His mother explained, ‘According to this, hundreds of dogs roam the woods in the exclusion zone near Chernobyl. They are the descendants of pets that were left behind in the evacuation. Some of the puppies are being brought to the U.S. for adoption. The adoptions will be done through the SPCA, and we’re already registered with them. We can ask to be put on a wait list for one of these puppies if you want.’

It sounded pretty cool, but Nathan had some concerns. He asked his mom, ‘Is that even safe? Like are they mutants or anything?’

‘No, not at all,’ she told him, ‘Many of the dogs are perfectly healthy. No radiation sickness, and they are carefully vetted before they are put up for adoption.’

Nathan was sold. ‘Cool! I want a radioactive puppy!’

‘And if we don’t get one, we will find another shelter pup that needs us, agreed?’ his mom said.

‘Okay!’ Nathan said.”

“What happened that they had to evacuate, Grandpa?” Kylie asked.

“It was a meltdown!” Joel said. “We learned about it in school. Some kind of power plant in Russia. It went nuclear. Like, psssh!” He made a sound that mimicked an explosion and motioned with his hands.

“Well, it didn’t actually blow up, but it was really bad. It happened back in the eighties. They used some pretty dangerous stuff to make electricity in the old days. The power plant at Chernobyl had a bad accident. All the land around it became poisoned from radiation, and the people had to evacuate. The place is still deserted today. You can see pictures on the internet of all the empty buildings. There’s even a deserted amusement park. And nobody can go there even now, because it’s still radioactive.”

“But what about all the animals?” Kylie asked.

“A lot of them got left behind to fend for themselves. Some died, and some just went wild. There was still a working power plant there, thirty years later. And the workers started feeding some of the wild dogs that were running around. And, as dogs do, some of them became friendly again. Eventually, some rescue organizations got wind of it and started to capture the dogs. The wilder ones got checked by vets, fixed so they couldn’t have any more puppies, and then set free again. And they started catching the puppies and finding homes for them.”

The old man took a sip of his coffee, which had gotten cold, and continued the story.

“June twenty-fifth was a date Nathan never forgot, because it was the happiest day of his life. School was out for the summer, but most importantly, the time had come to bring home the new puppy. Surprisingly, their application for a Chernobyl pup had been accepted and they were minutes away from meeting their new family member. Nathan and his mother paced the waiting room of the SPCA, too excited to sit down.

They didn’t know much about the puppy, other than it was a male, approximately four months old, and would grow to be a medium to large-sized dog. The breed was anyone’s guess, but it was said that some of the wild dogs had been running in wolf packs, so the puppy might even have had some wolf in it.

A woman came from the back room, holding a wriggling bundle of black-and-white fur in her arms. When the puppy saw the new people, he squirmed away from the woman. He ran to Nathan, slipping and sliding on the floor on huge, clumsy feet. The puppy whined and wagged his tail so hard his whole body wagged. He licked Nathan’s face, covering it with dog slobber, but Nathan didn’t mind.

‘I’m going to call you Charlie, and we’re going to be best friends!’ he told the dog.”

“Oh!” Kylie squealed. “Just like –”

“Will you shut up and stop interrupting!” her brother said.

“That’s ok. She’s just excited. Right sweetie?” The old man gave Kylie a knowing wink.

“Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Charlie. He named the dog Charlie, and they were the best of friends from that day forward. They were inseparable.

To most people, Charlie seemed like an average puppy; he liked to chew, had boundless energy and loved Nathan more than life itself. As far as Nathan was concerned, Charlie was exceptional. He was bright and obedient, and easy to train.

Charlie loved to fetch, and his favorite toy was the Frisbee. After he had shredded several regular Frisbees, Nathan bought him a special chew-proof one designed for dogs. Every day they walked to the dog park, rain or shine, to play fetch. Charlie didn’t really need a leash, but Nathan put one on him to and from the dog park to keep the neighbors happy.

One particularly blustery autumn day, Nathan threw the Frisbee and a gust of wind caught it, sending it sailing over the fence and onto the busy street next to the park. Charlie was in hot pursuit. Without missing a beat, he leaped over the fence – a six-foot-high chain link fence it was – and dashed into the traffic. Nathan didn’t have time to wow over the amazing feat of fence-jumping he’d just witnessed – he had to get his dog.

He dashed through the gate, shouting, ‘Charlie! Stop!’ but Charlie was on a mission.

Nathan was too late. The driver of the truck couldn’t possibly have stopped in time, even if he had seen Charlie.

It happened in slow motion, to Nathan’s eyes. The big eighteen-wheeler mowed Charlie down and ran over him, first with the front wheel, and then both sets of wheels on the trailer. He watched in horror as Charlie was flung like a rag doll from one set of dual wheels into the path of the second set.”

“No!” Kylie cried. “You didn’t tell us he was going to die! I don’t like this story.” She looked like she was going to cry.

“Shh! Don’t interrupt!” Joel hissed.

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” the old man assured her.

“Anyhow, there Charlie was, lying in the road, just a limp bundle of black-and-white fur. Nathan’s knees felt weak. He wanted to collapse, but he willed himself to stay standing. He wasn’t going to leave Charlie out there in the traffic, even though he knew it was too late to save him. Tears streaming down his face, Nathan ran toward the scene of the worst horror imaginable.

He reached the edge of the road, and then the unthinkable happened.

Charlie stood up, shook himself off, and walked over to pick up the Frisbee from the street. He trotted happily over to Nathan, holding his head high in the air all proud-like. All he cared about was that he’d gotten the Frisbee. He knew he was a good boy.

Nathan checked him over, and he looked fine. Not a scratch on him, just black marks on the white part of his fur from the rubber tires. He rushed home to tell his parents, but they didn’t believe him. They thought he was exaggerating, but they brought Charlie to the vet just in case.

Dr. Michaels found nothing wrong with him. No injuries of any kind. She explained to Nathan in a condescending way that the wheels of the truck had missed Charlie when the truck passed over him.

‘But what about those black marks in his fur?’ Nathan said. ‘That’s rubber from the tires. I saw the tires run over him.’

“That’s probably grease from the underside of the truck,’ Dr Michaels said. ‘See? That reinforces what I was telling you. The truck straddled him. The tires missed him. He’s one lucky dog.’

Nathan didn’t argue further, but he knew what he’d seen. The most important thing was, his best friend was okay.

Fall turned into winter. Charlie loved the snow as much as he loved everything else. He found fun in everything he did. He learned to ride a toboggan and tried to fetch snowballs. He discovered hockey, which Nathan and his friends played on the frozen pond. Charlie was an excellent goalie.

One day in the middle of a game, they heard screams. Nathan and his friends rushed to help, with Charlie racing alongside.

A crowd of kids were gathered around, and it turned out a small child had fallen into an ice fishing hole. Usually they’ll put some kind of barrier or safety cones to let skaters know there’s a hole, you know. But this jerk, whoever the fisherman was, had just left an open hole there.

The little boy had been skating with his mother. She had already called 911, but time was running out. The poor woman was in hysterics.

Nobody could reach the kid; the hole was too small and the kid had sunk too deep. By the time someone got there with something to cut the hole bigger, it would be too late. That little boy was a goner.

Charlie pushed through the crowd and slithered into the hole like an eel. Nathan wouldn’t have believed the dog would fit, but he did. But how was he going to get out? Now they had lost Charlie as well. Nathan peered into the depths of the hole, trying to get a glimpse of Charlie or the little boy, but saw only blackness. Minute after agonizing minute passed.

They heard sirens in the distance, but Nathan knew help wouldn’t get there in time.

There was still no sign of Charlie. More than five minutes had passed since he dove through the hole in the ice. Nathan started to think that this time Charlie wouldn’t be so lucky.

And then, he saw a glow under the water. The light grew brighter, and then Charlie surfaced, holding the collar of the little boy’s jacket in his teeth. The boys pulled the child out of the water and passed him to his mother.

Nathan helped Charlie climb out of the hole. The dog shook the water from his fur nonchalantly, as though he had just taken a fun little swim.

Nathan hugged him tight and told him what a good boy he was.

The paramedics arrived and performed CPR on the little boy and wrapped him in blankets, then carried him to the ambulance.

The boy survived, thanks to Chernobyl Charlie.

And then there was the time when Nathan was sixteen, and he took a camping trip with a few of his friends. And Charlie, of course. Charlie was a great camping buddy because he was also a night light. You see, he glowed with a soft greenish light when he was happy. All it took was a belly rub or a scratch behind the ears to turn the light on. Or telling him he was a good boy; that worked too.

So, on this camping trip, the boys hiked a ways into the wilderness, to a spot beside a nice little lake. They planned stay a couple of days and do some fishing. The first day, they caught a nice bunch of trout. They cooked a few over the fire for dinner, and packed the rest in ice in the cooler.

Well, it turned out, a bear had caught the scent of their fish. Late at night after the campfire had died down, the bear came into the camp to steal the fish. It was a big bear, too. A Grizzly. The boys had hung all their food in a tree, the way you’re supposed to when you’re camping, but this bear was determined. Mr. Grizzly smelled that food and wasn’t leaving until he found it.”

Kylie shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “This is scary.” She glanced over at the tent, where she and her brother would be sleeping that night.

“Don’t be a fraidy-cat. There aren’t any Grizzlies around here. Right Grandpa?” Joel said.

“Right. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe. I promise there are no Grizzlies here. Remember, the boys were high in the mountains, out in the wilderness.”

“What happened next?” Kylie asked.

“Well, the boys woke to the sound of the bear rampaging through the camp. And I’m not gonna lie, they were plenty scared. They had hung up the food, but not all of it. They had snack foods in the tent with them. A bear’s nose is sensitive enough to detect even a small amount of food. They didn’t have anything to use as a weapon. All they had was an axe, and it was beside the fire.

Charlie started growling. Nathan tried to shush him, but he wanted out of that tent something awful. He started tearing at the door of the tent until he found an opening in the zipper and forced his way through. He charged at the bear, barking and snarling like he’d lost his mind.

He chased the bear away from camp, and in the distance the boys could hear the sounds of a horrible fight – snarls, roars, branches breaking. Once again, Nathan thought his dog was done for.

A while later, Charlie returned. He was covered in blood but otherwise just fine. The boys were pretty shook up. They cut their trip short, packed up the camp and left as soon as it got light. On the hike back, they came across a gruesome sight on the trail. The remains of a large Grizzly bear. The bear had been ripped to shreds. Like it had gone through a meat grinder or something. One of the boys commented how lucky they were that the marauding bear had killed another bear instead of them.

Nathan knew that the bear hadn’t been killed by another bear.

Chernobyl Charlie just panted and smiled. He knew he was a good boy.”

“Time for bed, kids! Say goodnight to Grandpa!” Laura had joined them sometime during the part about the bear.

“But Mom! He’s not done the story yet!”

“I’m done for tonight. We’ll tell more stories about Chernobyl Charlie tomorrow.”

“Give Grandpa a hug.”

Kylie and Joel hugged their grandfather.

“Goodnight, Grandpa. Thanks for the story,” Joel said.

“What happened to Charlie? Like, did he live with Nathan forever?” Kylie asked.

“Well, you know, sweetie, dogs don’t live as long as we do, but I’m sure he had a good long life. Charlie was pretty special.”

After the children were tucked into their sleeping bags, Laura returned and sat next to the fire.

“You know, Nate, I wish you wouldn’t tell them scary stories before bed. Grizzly bears? Can’t you make up something a little, I don’t know… nicer?”

“What’s nicer than a dog that saves the day? Besides, it’s all true.”

“I mean, I know you believe it’s true, but seriously. It’s pretty far-fetched.”

“I promise I’ll tell them a ‘nice’ story next time, ok?”

“OK. Thank you.” She stood and gave him a hug. “You’re a good grandfather. I appreciate all you do for them.” With that she went into the house.

“Don’t mind her, Charlie,” Nate said to the old black-and-white dog that lay at his feet. “I know how special you are.”

Charlie thumped his tail on the ground and a soft greenish glow emanated from his body. He knew he was a good boy.

Published in Dysfictional 3: Down the Psycho Path

Vacation

As promised, here’s the sequel to the previous story, Battle of the Bean. This one will be published in WPaD’s upcoming anthology, Goin’ Extinct Too, scheduled for release in the first half of 2020.

abandoned7

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“How much farther?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m bored. Can’t we stop somewhere?”

“Will you stop harassing me? We will get there when we get there.”

“Don’t yell at the children, Dax. They’re just restless. They’ve been cooped up in this vehicle for ages. Can’t we find a place to stop so they can get some exercise?” Sky said.

“Where would you suggest?”

“I’m sure there’s someplace suitable around here. How about that place?”

“What if it’s no good?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Scan it.”

Dax entered the coordinates into the computer and read the results.

“Sounds ok, but might be some kind of tourist trap.”

“Well, we’re tourists, so it sounds perfect.”

Dax sighed. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to stop and stretch our legs for a while. Maybe we will find a nice place to camp.”

“That’s the spirit. We’re on vacation. Let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.”

* * *

The place looked promising. Clean air, trees, plenty of water. The children scrambled out of the vehicle and rushed toward the beach. Within moments they were splashing happily in the water.

Sky nuzzled her mate. “See? That was all they needed. Why don’t you relax while I find us something to eat?”

Dax was feeling more relaxed already. The place was pretty nice, he had to admit. Maybe they could stay a while. It seemed like a great place to spend a holiday.

Sky wandered away, taking in the sights while Dax basked in the sun, lying on a large flat rock near the water. Some time later, Sky returned, her arms filled with tasty looking food.

“What are those?” Dax asked.

“I don’t know, but they taste good. Here, try one.” She handed a wriggling, furry creature to Dax.

“Children! Come and get something to eat!”

“But I wanna swim!” Chi whined.

“You can go back and swim after you eat something and warm up for a little while. You don’t want to get a chill,” Sky ordered.

Pouting, Chi and Dik left the water and joined their parents on the beach. Their reluctance quickly turned to enthusiasm when they saw the delicious treats their mother had brought.

“This is nice, don’t you think, Honey?” Sky said, gazing up at the brilliant blue sky.

“It sure is,” Dax agreed, “Why don’t we stay here for a while and camp? Looks like we have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Yes! Let’s do it.” Sky said.

“Yay!” the children shouted in unison.

* * *

The next day, the children did some exploring while their parents napped in the sun. They happened upon a strange object.

“Wonder what this is?” Chi said, examining the rounded metal thing.

“I think it’s some kind of lid. Help me open it.”

The steel door groaned open. They peered into the hole, closing their inner eyelids against the rising dust.

“What is this?”

“I’m not sure. Looks like some kind of ancient ruins. There’s a cave or something down there. Let’s go down and check it out.”

They scuttled down the shaft into the cavern below.

“Look there! Bones! What kind of creature is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not one of us. Look, only four appendages and it doesn’t even have a tail! Must be some kind of weird old fossil.”

“What’s that object beside it?”

Dik’s webbed, green-scaled hand reached for the metal object.

“Is it some kind of weapon?” Chi asked.

“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s food or something. Look, I can open it.”

Sniff. Sniff.

“What is that?”

“I don’t know, but it smells delicious! Should we taste it?”

“No, it might be poison. Let’s go and ask Mom first.”

“What’s this other thing?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like it was as important to this creature as that container. It died holding both of them.”

* * *

They ran back to their parents carrying the metal container and the other strange object they had found clutched in the arms of the fossilized remains.

“Mom! Dad! Look what we found!”

Dax and Sky examined the objects their children had found. The container was filled with dry, dark brown granules that had an intoxicating aroma. The other object appeared to be a collection of ancient writings, inscribed on thin sheets of a brittle, delicate material.

“I’ll scan this with the ship’s computer. Maybe we can decode it,” Dax said.

He scanned the documents and then left the computer to analyze the alien language. Meanwhile, the family went out to explore, starting with the cave the children had found.

It appeared to be some sort of underground home, accessed by a metal tube. The remains of a lone life form lay below. Nearby, they found some ancient ruins, above ground. Inside, they found the remains of another life form, and its death appeared to have been caused by a large hole in its head.

“What happened to these creatures?” Sky wondered aloud. “Do you think any of them are left?”

“I don’t know,” Dax said. Maybe those ancient writings will have a clue.”

“Let’s look around some more. These things are fascinating if nothing else.”

Some distance away, they found more ancient ruins that appeared to be untouched since the demise of the civilization that had built them. It was an archaeological marvel, this crumbling city, destroyed by some sort of war or disaster. They found more remains, lying where they had fallen. Whatever had happened, not everyone had seen it coming.

They explored until dusk, and then returned to camp. Dax checked on the ship’s computer to see if it had made any progress decoding the ancient language. It had. The results were amazing.

“Sky! Children! Come here! You have to see this!”

They crowded around the screen as Dax read what the computer had translated.

“According to what the being in the cave inscribed, this planet was once a thriving civilization, but it was destroyed by war. That cave was not a home, but a shelter, built to withstand the blast. It seems that poor fellow went down there to escape the war and ended up starving to death, even though he could have come back to the surface.”

“What made him stay down there?”

“He was protecting a substance more valuable than anything on the planet; the very cause of the war. It seemed this civilization worshiped the substance, until one day the plant that provided it became extinct. When the supply ran out, war broke out. They bombed themselves out of existence with their own weapons. That guy found a treasure trove of the valuable substance down in the shelter, so he went to ground and locked himself in. He had one container left when he ran out of water. He died down there, probably of starvation, locked in with his treasure.”

“The container! That must be the treasure!” Chi exchanged an excited look with her brother. “We just found the most valuable thing on the planet!”

“So, what exactly is this treasure?” Sky asked. “What makes it so valuable?”

Dax leaned over the screen again.

“It says here that it’s some sort of drink. They called it COF-FEE.”

This story is a sequel to Battle of the Bean, published in Dysfictional 2 and Goin’ Extinct by WPaD

Battle of the Bean

I’ve been working on stories for an upcoming apocalypse-themed anthology, including a sequel for this one. This was published in WPaD’s Goin’ Extinct and also in my own collection, Dysfictional 2:

It was the end of the world as we knew it, and nobody felt fine. Remember that song by R.E.M.? It’s been stuck inside my head since this whole thing began.

Anarchy reigned; society was in chaos. People rioted in the streets. Yadda-yadda apocalypse…

All because of one little thing. A tiny thing really. Not quite miniscule, perhaps the size of a pea, but a tiny thing nonetheless.

The all-powerful coffee bean.

We were warned of the impending extinction of our precious bean, but like so many warnings before it, we chose to ignore it until forced to confront the ugly truth.

It began early in the century, when farmers in Colombia noticed a troublesome blight affecting the Arabica plants. The blight, known as ‘coffee rust’, was a type of fungus that spread rapidly, despite all efforts to eradicate it.

Some blamed pollution, others blamed global warming, but regardless of who or what was to blame, Arabica crops in Latin America were wiped out by 2017, and from there it spread to crops in Africa.

Still, the public pooh-poohed. As long as Starbucks kept pouring eight-dollar lattes, there was no cause for alarm. The problem was far away from their sheltered yuppie environment. Cultivation was the farmers’ problem, not theirs. Even when the Arabica crops were gone and the price of that particular variety skyrocketed, people simply switched blends.

It wasn’t until every coffee plant on the planet was dead that we were willing to acknowledge that we had a problem. The problem escalated to catastrophic levels when the governments took control of the world’s remaining supply of coffee. Coffee disappeared from supermarket shelves. Starbucks went out of business. Coffee shops with boarded-up windows littered the urban landscape.

At more than ten times the price per kilo, coffee replaced cocaine as Colombia’s most lucrative illegal export. Coffee cartels waged war on each other in hopes of controlling the world’s dwindling supplies of the precious brown bean. Penalties for smuggling coffee ranged from several years to life in prison or even death by firing squad, depending on which country one was arrested in, but that didn’t stop an intrepid few from trying their luck.

Street value of an ounce of ground coffee climbed higher than that of gold. Users traded automatic weapons, priceless family heirlooms and even the deeds to their homes for a cup of espresso, just to get one more fix of that aromatic black nectar.

We tried consuming tea, colas and caffeine pills, but it didn’t take us long to learn that caffeine wasn’t what gave coffee its addictive nature. It turned out there was another ingredient we had overlooked. A mystery ingredient that latched onto the brain much like cocaine did. Suffice it to say, lack of this ingredient made some people very unhappy indeed. Scientists analyzed it, tried to isolate it and tried to synthesize it but to no avail.

The increase in violent crimes due to coffee withdrawal led to the legalization of marijuana. Pounds of Purple Kush, Amsterdam Indica and BC Big Bud now occupied the shelf space that had once displayed pounds of French Roast, Breakfast Blend and Decaf. A society of anxious, stressed-out bean-hounds became laid-back and complacent, sleepily smiling as they crammed their mouths full of snacks.

Of course, there were still the hardcore addicts, for whom nothing else but the bitter ambrosia would do. White-collar professionals became organized crime bosses, dealing the world’s most valuable substance to street addicts, some of them former colleagues. When the coffee finally ran out, one country accused the next of hoarding it, even though nobody had any coffee anymore.

With everyone at each other’s throats, the UN dissolved. Their final meeting ended in a massive brawl; a Battle Royal between nearly 200 delegates that resolved nothing. The situation deteriorated to the point of war, with everyone pointing warheads at everyone else.

With a bunch of coffee-starved world leaders holding their jittery fingers over the red button, I did what any sensible man would and went to ground.

I found the bomb shelter in my neighbor’s back yard after investigating the sound of a gunshot. I found him at his kitchen table, where he had been trying to snort lines of instant coffee before giving up and swallowing the barrel of his .357. Poor bastard – everyone knows there’s no real coffee in that instant stuff, but looks like he died trying.

I found a shovel and thought I’d do the neighborly thing and give him a decent burial but damn, the ground was hard! I tried a few different spots but kept hitting rocks, then at one point I hit something metal. Curious, I dug it up, and damned if I didn’t find a bomb shelter! Probably built during World War II and long forgotten under layers of landscaping. My neighbor probably bought the house without even knowing it existed.

So, when the threat of nuclear war became imminent, I packed some supplies and retreated into the shelter with plans to stay put for a few weeks or months until the coast was clear. I brought food, plenty of water, books to read, flashlights and batteries, but I needn’t have bothered to pack so much because when I got down there I discovered the shelves well-stocked. Sure, eighty-year-old canned goods might not be ideal, but they were better than nothing if it came down to it. I scanned my flashlight over the shelves and lo and behold! What did I see? Coffee! Cans and cans of magnificent, marvelous coffee!

I had packed a butane camp stove and a few cases of fuel, so I was all set to prepare hot meals. Now hot coffee would accompany those meals! This dark, dusty hole in the ground had suddenly become paradise.

I’m writing this down, partly to keep myself busy so I don’t think about coffee. I also thought it would be a good idea to record what became of our world just in case nobody else is alive to do it.

As close as I can figure, it’s been about six months since I felt the first of the bombs hit. My food supply is dwindling, even the really old stuff. If I have to eat another can of cold lima beans I’m going to scream. Who the hell puts lima beans in a bomb shelter? I guess I could leave the shelter, but as long as I have coffee in my possession I run the risk of getting robbed, maybe even killed for it. Lord only knows what’s happening up on the surface.

I’m down to my last can of coffee, but I’ve been putting off opening it because once it’s gone, then I truly will be out of coffee. After that I will leave the shelter and see what awaits me up above.

I’ll wait one more day to open it. I can go without coffee for just one more day. I’ve been saving one last can of butane to make it nice and hot. Cold food I can handle, but cold water won’t brew coffee.

See? One day wasn’t so tough. Why not make it two? If I have a cup of coffee every two days, it will last twice as long. If I wait one more day before opening the last can, that’s one more day before I run out for good.

I made it a whole week. Wow. That’s one more week before I run out. As long as I have that can of coffee, I’m the richest man on earth. I might also be the only man on earth, but… mere details.

Two weeks, and that damn can of coffee sits there unopened, mocking me, daring me to open it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Nice try, coffee can. I’m smarter than you. After all, you’re just a stupid can of coffee. I’m over you. I don’t love you anymore. I could quit you cold turkey if I wanted to.

Aw, fuck it. Since I know I can quit anytime I want, I might as well drink it and enjoy the last coffee on earth.

I’m doing it. This is it. I’m opening the can.

Tomorrow.

I’ve been out of food for weeks now, and starvation is weakening me more each day. The can of coffee still sits unopened, though. I have decided to save it until the very end. If the last thing I do before I leave this world is drink the last cup of coffee in that can, I will die a happy man. I’ll have to do it soon, though. I’m on my last two gallons of bottled water.

Maybe it’s time I left the shelter. There is probably clean water on the surface. Hell, I don’t even care if it’s contaminated, just as long as it will make a decent cuppa Joe. But… what if it’s total chaos up there? I’d be killed for my can of coffee for sure. I guess I could leave it in the shelter. Nobody knows it’s here. But what if I was followed on the way back, or worse, what if someone found this place – and my coffee – while I was away? Without my coffee, I have nothing. No, the only way it will be safe is if I stay and guard it.

When I finish the water I have open, I will open the last jug of water along with the can of coffee and brew a nice steaming cup of Heaven. When the coffee is gone, I will leave the shelter. If the world is destroyed, I’ll use the revolver I took from my neighbor’s hand and exit in likewise fashion.

NO! NO!!!! I went to open the last water jug and found it empty! DRY! All this time I thought it was full but I didn’t actually pick it up and shake it. The jug must have had a leak at the bottom because the water is long gone. No. No. No. I can’t live without water, because without water I can’t make coffee. A world without coffee is not one I want to face.

Goodbye world, whatever’s left of you.

* * *

The steel door groaned open. Two faces peered into the hole, closing their inner eyelids to shield their eyes from the dust that rose.

“What is this?”

“I’m not sure. Looks like some kind of ancient ruins. There’s a cave or something down there. Let’s go down and check it out.”

They scuttled down the shaft into the cavern below.

“Look there! Bones! What kind of creature is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not one of us. Look, only four appendages and it doesn’t even have a tail! Must be some kind of weird old fossil.”

“What’s that object beside it?”

A webbed, green-scaled hand reached for the metal can.

“Is it some kind of weapon?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s food or something. Look, I can open it.”

Sniff. Sniff.

“What is that?”

“I don’t know, but it smells delicious! Should we taste it?”

“No, it might be poison. Let’s go and ask Mom first.”

~*~

(Previously Published in Goin’ Extinct by WPaD)

goin extinct front cover1800x2700

The Immigrant

Might as well start at the beginning, with one of the first short stories I wrote, back in the 90s, before I knew the first thing about writing fiction. COVER_FINAL

Since then, this story has evolved and undergone some major rewrites.

Here is the latest edition, most recently published by WPaD Publications in their science fiction anthology, Strange Adventures in a Deviant Universe.

THE IMMIGRANT

~*~

“We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn’t want to meet.”

~ Stephen W. Hawking ~

~*~

Richard Simmons had apparently let himself go, and wandered into the wrong office in search of a soup kitchen. The man standing at the counter was not the real Richard Simmons, of course, but aside from his grimy, ragged appearance, he could have been the famous fitness guru’s twin.

Doppelgangers were a common sight in Phil’s line of work; immigrants had a penchant for imitating celebrities. But usually they chose movie stars or musicians, not… exercise enthusiasts. This one resembled a younger Mr. Simmons, circa 1980s, unbathed and wearing a hobo’s hand-me-downs.

As Phil understood it, the flamboyant star of Sweating to the Oldies and other fatties’ favorites was anything but poor. The nearly century-old Simmons enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, still in tip-top shape and sweating to the oldies even though he himself was now an oldie.

The man’s choice to duplicate Simmons was, in Phil’s opinion, too odd to be random.

“Passport please,” Phil said, holding out his hand.

The man handed him a gray rock covered with scaly pinkish flakes – some sort of fungus? Phil reflexively withdrew his hand to avoid touching the thing, even though he knew he would have no choice. Fighting to hide his revulsion, he forced his hand to extend once more and gingerly picked up the rock using only his thumb and forefinger. He placed it on the passport scanner, then glanced around his workspace for the bottle of hand sanitizer.

The machine beeped in acceptance and Phil pressed OK on the screen, making a mental note to sterilize all of the equipment after this fellow was gone.

He read the information on the passport scanner.

“It says here your first name is Richard.” Even the first name was the same as the human he resembled.

“Yes sir! But I believe I will use the shortened version of my chosen Earth name. I believe the appropriate nickname is Dick?” he pondered for a moment before nodding to confirm. “Yes, you may call me Dick.”

Phil looked at the screen again.

“Your last name is… Cheese? And you’re happy with that? You know you are allowed to choose another name before we finalize your papers.”

“Why would I want to do that, good sir? I have chosen my name with much thought. I am named for the man after whom I modeled my appearance. For a surname, it is common to choose a word one is fond of. On my previous visits to this planet, I developed a fondness for pizza. Cheese pizza.”

“Your name is Dick Cheese.”

The alien grinned, revealing a mouthful of jagged brown teeth. “Yes sir! Dick Cheese I am!”

Phil shrugged. “I guess it beats Dick Pepperoni.” He studied the screen once more.

“Ok, so your home planet is Istz?”

“Correct.”

“How long do you plan to stay on Earth?”

“That, my good sir, is undetermined at this juncture. The length of my stay depends entirely on you, and by that I mean all of you here on Earth.”

“What is the nature of your visit?”

“Business, sir. I am here on business, but it is also what you would refer to as a humanitarian effort. I am a scientist; a geneticist, to be exact. I have been contracted by the United Galaxies to design an alternate food source for Earth.”

Phil had never seen a scientist who looked like this man. In spite of his resemblance to Richard Simmons, it was unclear whether he looked Caucasian or otherwise, due to the layers of filth on his skin. Phil hoped they would at least ask him to wash his hands before he started work with any kind of food.

Phil pulled the completed forms from the printer, folded on the dotted lines and tucked them into a leaflet, which he placed on the counter in front of the immigrant.

“Here are your credentials in the form of Earth documents, written in the English language. I’m assuming you are familiar with the English language, since we’re currently speaking it?”

The man nodded vigorously, scattering bits of unknown debris on the counter top in front of him.

Phil shuddered inwardly. “Are you familiar with our standard operating procedures? If not, I can supply you with a manual.” Phil took a booklet from the stack beneath the counter and offered it to him. The immigrant grinned as he accepted the manual, giving Phil a clear view of the inside of his mouth. His mottled purple gums and serrated teeth were slathered with copious amounts of brown liquid, as if he was currently chewing tobacco and needed to spit.

“Thank you, dear sir. I will read it most studiously, even though I am sure there is no need. You see, my associates have been doing extensive research on this planet for many, many years. I have been thoroughly briefed in all of your primitive customs.” He gave Phil a small, polite bow before leaving the office.

A thick stench lingered long afterward, and no amount of air freshener seemed to cover it. Phil sighed and propped the front door open to air out the office.

As a licensed officer of Earth Immigration and Naturalization Services, Philip Edgar Zimmerman had taken a solemn oath to treat all forms of life with respect and tolerance, regardless of where they originated or his personal opinion of them.

Some days were more difficult than others.

Phil did his best to remain objective, but Dick Cheese perplexed him. In spite of his repulsive outer shell, the Istzite had been polite, almost to excess, and appeared intelligent. Phil wondered if politeness was his kind’s way of trying to compensate for offending the other senses.

He didn’t understand. The guy was supposed to be an advanced scientist designing a food source, and yet he was covered in filth, dressed in rags, and the smell… oh, that smell! How long was it going to last? Remnants of the immigrant’s odor lingered in spite of the fresh breeze from the open door. His disgust turned to annoyance at the immigrant’s suggestion that humans were inferior to a stinking hobo from some distant planet.

Phil glanced down at the screen, which still displayed the man’s credentials. Master geneticist, huh? A fine title for someone who hadn’t even mastered the fine art of personal hygiene! And he was there to create a food source? The idea of putting anything in his mouth that had been touched by that… man-strosity… made him want to puke.

Phil had never met an Istzite before. Curious to learn more, he entered “Istz” into the database and pulled up the planet’s fact sheet. The database contained information about all known worlds and new data was added daily, as increasing numbers of visitors from distant worlds made their appearances on Earth.

He scanned the two-page document, reviewing the specs on planet Istz. It was interesting but didn’t go into as much depth as he’d hoped. Phil was left with more questions after reading the document. According to the fact sheet, people from Istz appeared to neglect personal hygiene, but were said to be among the most highly evolved of all known societies. Istz had produced some of the greatest scientific minds ever known and they specialized in the biological sciences. How? Phil was baffled.

Apparently Istzites were one of the first extraterrestrial races to visit Earth. For centuries they had integrated into society undetected. Given their long history on Earth, it was no surprise they were able to blend so seamlessly into human society. Aside from his horrible mouth, Dick Cheese looked entirely human. Phil wondered again why he had chosen Richard Simmons as a model for his look.

The Istzite scientist had mentioned his colleagues conducting research on Earth for many years. If they already looked like homeless people, all one had to do was add a shopping cart or a few bags of empty cans and they fit right in.

Phil tried to imagine what planet Istz might look like. Was it an entire planet of skid row? He envisioned a malodorous, grime-covered population, smiling tobacco-juice grins as they slept in alleys, ate garbage, and performed other bodily functions anywhere and everywhere… if their species did that sort of thing.

The fact sheet also noted that Istzite society had no form of currency. Yet despite the absence of money, they wanted for nothing. The Istzites were considered one of the most advanced societies in the entire universe.

* * *

Even after closing the office and heading home, Phil couldn’t get the image of the smelly alien out of his mind. At home, Phil researched the world of Istz in more depth, querying various online databases. He felt a nagging need to satisfy his curiosity about the race and to understand how poor hygiene and advanced science could possibly go together. What he learned was quite fascinating. Istz society operated on the principle that everyone was equal. Everyone on the planet had exactly the same amount of everything. Nobody was ever in need and no individual possessed more than another. All things belonged to all inhabitants of their world, a stark contrast to the inequality between classes common to Earth. Was a world like Istz the alternative? Was this what true equality looked like? Equality was supposed to mean abundance and prosperity for all, wasn’t it? If all wealth on Earth were distributed equally, what would happen? Would the less fortunate masses affect the curve dramatically enough to reduce the global standard of living to squalor?

Was that what happened to Istz?

It didn’t make sense. According to the information Phil found on Planet Istz, none were poor, none were lacking and all were happy. They were said to be a highly evolved race with much wisdom to share.

Phil sighed and shut his computer down for the night. He had learned some interesting things about the Istzites without coming any closer to understanding them. Time to let it go.

He retired to his bed, where he dreamed of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, grinning at him with a gigantic mouth full of horrible jagged brown teeth.

* * *

The following day, the first thing Phil did was prop the office door open again and spray some air freshener. The janitorial service had done their job during the night; evident by the empty trash can and spotless floors and counter tops. He wrinkled his nose at the faint yet persistent odor of Eau d’Istz. That was some powerful stink! He wondered if the janitor thought he had a bad case of flatulence. The air freshener didn’t help much. Now the office smelled like an elephant had taken a shit on a lilac bush.

Phil hoped he wouldn’t encounter too many Istzites or he might never get the smell out of the office. He made a mental note to cross Istz off of his ‘bucket list’ of planets he wanted to visit in his lifetime.

How could these people stand to be around each other? Did they have no sense of smell? It reminded him of one of those old horror movies. A movie about Istz might be entitled “The Stink” or perhaps “Gross Encounters of the Turd Kind”. He could see the movie poster now. “In space, nobody can smell your stench!”

Phil chuckled at his made-up movie parodies, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear the air. If anything, the smell was stronger now.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Phil looked up from his daydream to see the snaggly tobacco-stained grin of Dick Cheese at his freshly polished counter, tainting his workplace atmosphere once again.

The mutant Richard Simmons look-alike leaned toward Phil, seemingly unaware of a slimy rope of brown drool dangling from his bristly chin.

“You forgot to return my passport, sir.”

Phil looked down, where the Istzite was pointing. Sure enough, the dirty grey rock with its questionable layer of pink was still on the console beneath the passport scanner.

How could he have missed that? No wonder the office still smelled the next morning! The tiny object must have had a stink all its own! Phil supposed he may have subconsciously forgotten to return the man’s repulsive passport out of dread to avoid touching it again.

Phil paused, still hesitant to touch it, then gritted his teeth, picked up the passport, and slid it across the counter to Dick Cheese.

His mind raced, filled with unanswered questions.

Should he ask or shouldn’t he? It was early in the morning and the office was quiet. It might be his only chance to learn about the mysterious yet repulsive people of Istz first-hand. On the other hand, he could let the reeking troll walk away and enjoy fresh air in his workspace again.

As the immigrant prepared to leave, Phil blurted, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Why most certainly!” Cheese beamed with delight. He looked like a rotting Dick-O-Lantern.

“Please don’t take offense to this, but I’m curious and I still have a lot to learn about other cultures,” Phil began. “Maybe you can tell me a little bit about your world, if you don’t mind.”

The Istzite’s grin grew impossibly wider, reminding Phil of the Cheshire Cat from his dream.

“I would be most happy to help if I can, my good sir. Ask away, by all means! And have no fear, for nothing you could say could possibly offend me.”

“Well,” Phil began, pausing to choose the right words, “I guess what I don’t understand is how your society works. I’ve done some research… after all, it’s part of my job to be familiar with the folks who come into this office. I’m not sure where to start… Ok, I’ve heard that you have no such thing as money where you come from, but you have to realize that that’s all we know here on good ol’ Earth.”

Dick Cheese nodded vigorously, his insane grin never fading. Phil’s eyes followed the brown rope of drool as it swung round and round, back and forth, making a wide arc before landing on his head and sticking in his filthy curls.

Phil released the breath he’d been holding, relieved it hadn’t landed on him.

“It is quite simple, sir, and it is something we plan to teach to all of you good people. The prime directive on our planet is cooperation. Everyone is equal. We do not separate ourselves into different classes as you do, and we all help one another, even total strangers. None of us are truly strangers to each other. We are all one and the same.”

The Istzite paused, driving an index finger up his nostril, right up to the scabby, hairy knuckle. Phil shuffled his feet and fidgeted with objects on his desk, pretending not to notice. The finger groped around for a moment, and then deftly popped out its prize. A pinkish gelatinous gob dangled from the tip of his blackened finger. Phil gaped in fascinated revulsion as a bruise-colored tongue slithered out and scooped up the dainty morsel before it could fall to the floor.

Phil gagged and tried to think of anything else; sex, flowers, famine, anorexia… anything to keep from losing his breakfast.

“As I was saying, sir,” Cheese continued, licking his finger and covering it with a sickening brown sheen, “the concepts we are trying to introduce here on Earth are the same as those on my world. Earth has made a great deal of progress, but more needs to be made. Throughout your history the various cultures of your planet have operated in a state of great imbalance. Humans always strive to outclass each other. A few have great excess while others have nothing. Your current system is unsustainable and will result in your extinction. In our world, concepts such as greed, gluttony and poverty are nonexistent.”

“That’s all good and well if everyone has food to eat and a roof over their heads,” Phil said, “but here on Earth, all that stuff costs money. And we have entire countries with no food and no money!”

“And whose fault is that?” Cheese asked.

“Well… nobody’s, I guess. It’s just the way it is.”

“Not true. But it is of no importance who is to blame. The issue at hand is fixing the problem and ensuring the survival of your species. My colleagues and I have come to teach you. The answer is to recycle. Use what resources you have to their utmost benefit, and then recycle them. That is how we live on Istz. We recycle everything.”

Phil shook his head. “Recycling? There has to be more to it than that,” he argued. “We already recycle everything that can be recycled.”

Phil spoke the truth. Earth followed stringent recycling regulations. It was against the law in developed countries to discard anything recyclable, and almost everything was recyclable.

Going green had its price, though. Due to heavy taxation and boycotts of goods not manufactured according to green standards, manufacturers in poorer countries were forced out of business, plunging those countries further into poverty.

Green living didn’t curb population growth, and starvation in third-world countries increased proportionally. Earth had made great progress, but unsolved problems remained. The bottom line was, you couldn’t feed hungry masses with recycled plastic, though some countries (which would remain nameless) had tried.

Phil wondered if the Istzite’s savage looking teeth were designed for grinding up garbage or something. The sight of his maniacal grin was like staring into bucket of rusty surgical tools.

Dick Cheese made direct eye contact with Phil and squeezed off a loud and apparently satisfying fart before continuing.

“We are most pleased with the progress you have made with your recycling programs here on Earth! You are ready for the next step. Yes indeed! The next step!” He bounced up and down, almost childlike in his enthusiasm, clapping his grimy hands and shedding a cloud of debris over his surroundings. “The people of Planet Earth have earned a gift. The citizens of Istz are very excited to have the opportunity to present you with such a valuable gift.”

Phil wasn’t sure he wanted a gift. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of the revolting creature before him having a part in anything on Earth. He couldn’t imagine what recycling had to do with it and hated himself for asking.

“Sorry if I lost you there, but I thought we were talking about recycling.”

“Of course we were, my good, good sir! Soon you will understand the connection. You see, the people of Earth have learned how to recycle many things; you have adapted to your new way of life very well. But you are unaware that there is another way to recycle. I am talking about food. Food is the single most important thing that can be recycled. We will show you how to recycle food, and once you have mastered the process, no one on Earth will ever starve again. It is different from what you are used to, but it is recycling nonetheless.”

A horrifying picture formed in Phil’s mind. The Istzite’s foul odor and brown saliva… suddenly he did not feel well.

The Istzite added, as if reading his mind, “I assure you, good sir, I am not speaking of recycling food that has already been eaten. Of course not! That would be offensive.” “… for you,” he added, making the statement less reassuring than it was meant to be. “What I speak of, sir, is a food source that is self-nourishing and self-recycling, derived from something humans already eat. Like the common chicken, for example.” Dick Cheese paused to ponder a blackened scab on his knuckle. “Hmm… yes, the chicken will do nicely, I think.” He raised his crusty eyes to meet Phil’s. “Everything has the potential to be recycled, if you know how.”

Phil sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought… here goes.

“One more question, then. And I hope you don’t mind if I get right to the point.”

“Oh, not at all sir! Please do continue!”

It was too late to turn back now.

“Once again, please don’t take offense – I just want to understand. It’s just that… from what I’ve read, you people are supposed to be more advanced than we are. But you gotta know that we find your kind pretty uh, well, repulsive, to be perfectly honest. I mean, you’re dirty, you smell awful and you look like skid row bums. Look at you – you’re a genetic engineer, for Christ’s sake! Couldn’t you find a way to engineer a bath and some clean clothes?” Phil winced at his own words. There – he’d said it, but it didn’t come out quite as diplomatically as he’d intended.

To Phil’s surprise, the alien threw his head back and laughed. Particles of stuff of unknown origin fell from his filthy curls, littering his shoulders and the surrounding area. Phil couldn’t help wondering what horrors he would have to sweep off the floor after Cheese left the office. Never mind leaving it for the janitor, he wasn’t leaving that stuff on the floor any longer than he had to.

“That is a valid question, my good sir, and you can rest assured that it does not offend me in the least. I will explain it to you, for the root of understanding is education.”

Again, with the condescending bullshit! Phil fumed.

The immigrant leaned forward, wafting sour breath across the counter. Phil shrank back to escape what smelled like dead fish rotting in an outhouse on a summer day.

The alien appeared not to notice Phil’s reaction and moved in closer still. “Many hundreds of thousands of years ago by your calendar,” he said, “my species evolved to a point where we became aware that appearances do not matter. It is what is inside one’s self that matters. I’m sure you have heard that before. It has become a favorite cliché on this planet since we introduced it. But humans have yet to capture the true essence of the phrase. You say you understand what it means, but you don’t. Not yet. With my help and that of my Istzite colleagues, people of Earth will soon be able to say, ‘It’s what’s inside that counts’ with full comprehension of what they are saying. We, the citizens of Istz, act on our wisdom instead of just speaking in empty idioms. But to give you credit, humans are fast learners for a primitive species. We have full confidence in you. You will evolve to our level of advancement in due time.”

The very idea that the odorous hobo before him represented the future of the human race was too much for Phil.

“Just a goddamn minute here!” he exploded. “You mean to tell me that with all the work we’ve gone to getting ourselves civilized, in the end we’re just going to turn into a bunch of… vagrants? I don’t buy it, not for a second! You can’t expect folks to live in gutters like garbage after they’re used to the good life. They won’t do it. I sure as shit won’t!”

To Phil’s surprise, Cheese responded with another hearty laugh, making him immediately regret his outburst.

“A predictable reaction, sir, no doubt about that! Don’t worry; we are not here to take away your precious baubles, nor your pieces of paper that tell others how important you are. There will come a time when you simply throw those things away because they have ceased to be of importance to you. It is part of the natural course of things as a race evolves. In my world we have no need for excess. We have no one to impress. Everything serves its purpose without need to replace it with something newer and shinier. Vanity is unique to your species; in time it will be abolished altogether.”

The Istzite paused, as if anticipating another angry outburst. When Phil remained silent, he continued. “The next time you visit your ‘skid row’, look closely at the people you see. Ask yourself, are these people mere derelicts – wastes of human life? Or are they perchance my Istzite colleagues, dwelling in the environment they find comfortable? A worthless burden to society, or alien scientists conducting research? How can you be certain of what you are seeing? Perhaps you will see me among them one day, working on my gift to humankind, as you make your way to your shiny clean office to do your job.”

The Istzite made his way to the door, then turned to address Phil one last time. “I leave you with this one thought, kind sir. Remember it well: How one looks to the eyes is irrelevant, for there are many worlds out there that do not rely on eyes to see. Appearance only matters to humans, my friend.”

If the Istzites didn’t care about appearances, it made sense why they had no desire to bathe or wear clean clothing. Still, Phil could not accept the notion that the human race was destined to end up like Dick Cheese and his ilk. The Istzites were mistaken. Aliens didn’t understand human nature. The human race Phil knew would not allow itself to be reduced to garbage in the name of evolution.

* * *

That night Phil dreamt of a gruesome Richard Simmons, who happily farted to the oldies in a grimy pair of short shorts as he pirouetted among a cluster of morbidly obese homeless people. He grinned a mouthful of rotten teeth as he shouted encouragement to his miserable audience, who sat waist-deep in trash.

“C’mon! People! Peo-PLE! Don’t you worry about that ug-lee fat!” Cheese-Simmons sang, dancing nimbly over banana peels and fast-food wrappers with his finger up his nose. Ropes of tobacco-colored drool dangled from his stubbly chin, swinging round and round each time he twirled. “Just recycle it! That’s the secret! Eat that snot! Eat that fat! Shit on your plate and eat that too! Appearance doesn’t matter!”

* * *

As time passed, Phil tried to put Dick Cheese out of his mind, but never fully could. He didn’t look at homeless people the same way anymore. Derelicts looked the same as they always had, but now they looked out of place. Day by day on his trek to and from work, he found himself studying each grime-covered face for a Richard Simmons lookalike. He searched for clues such as jagged teeth, brown saliva or discolored tongues, but the homeless were oddly tight-lipped. No matter how closely he watched, he couldn’t catch one with an open mouth. None were as congenial as Dick Cheese. His stares were met with curse words and surly looks.

Was it all an act?

* * *

1 Year Later

Phil settled into his recliner after work, anticipating a quiet evening filled with Scotch on the rocks and mind-numbing televised entertainment. He grumbled and cursed to himself as he channel-surfed, finding nothing interesting to watch.

“Nothing on but goddamn infomercials!” It was only seven o’clock for Pete’s sake! He recalled the good old days, when the paid advertisements didn’t start until after midnight.

Something familiar made him pause. He laid the remote control on the arm of his chair. It was another advertisement, but he recognized the man on the screen. He turned the volume up and leaned forward for a closer look.

“Hello wonderful sirs and madams of Earth,” the man was saying. “My name is Dick Cheese, and I am a scientist from the planet Istz. As many of you already know, my colleagues and I have been working here on Earth for the past century, helping humans to learn cooperation and compassion for their fellow man.”

It suddenly occurred to Phil that a good way to teach people kindness and compassion would be to pose as poor people, offering others the opportunity to help.

On the TV, Dick Cheese continued. “You have made good progress. It is now time you were rewarded for your efforts, just as we promised long ago. I have spent the past year genetically designing a new food source for humans, and the time has come for the unveiling of my creation.” Cheese let off a thunderous belch, then continued.

“Some of you may have noticed my resemblance to a certain celebrity on your planet. I should explain to you that this resemblance is intentional. Even though my people place no value on appearances, we are well aware of their value to the human. Before I came to Earth, I altered my own appearance. After careful research, I chose an individual I believed would aptly embody my purpose for being here. I believe humans will be more receptive to a food source engineered by someone who resembles a trusted face in that field. Mr. Richard Simmons, as I understand, has dedicated his life to fitness and nutrition. He cares about the health of others and is committed to bringing humans a healthier way of eating. His is the face I chose to unveil my new food source to humankind.

Phil had to admit the alien’s logic was sound, but in a wrong, disturbing way. He turned the volume up further so as not to miss anything.

“You need not worry about this food being something strange and alien, my dear people, for I know how set you are in your ways. I have no intention of upsetting the status quo; I simply improved upon something that most humans already eat on a regular basis: the domestic chicken. My research has told me that the chicken is a food that the majority of you find delicious as well as socially acceptable, even for some who are on otherwise vegetarian diets. Much thought went into this decision, for my mission is to benefit as many people as possible. Very soon I will be officially unveiling the new food source. All you need to know at this time is that this revolutionary food source will end world hunger forever!”

Dick looked excited as he paced back and forth in front of the camera. He paused to dig around in one of his ears with his sooty index finger. He must have found something good in there because he stopped pacing for a moment to examine whatever he had extracted from his ear canal, sniffing it first before popping it into his mouth.

Phil covered his eyes, shaking his head. He couldn’t help himself; he burst into a fit of giggles, imagining how many viewers had just seen that revolting little display. It struck him as downright hilarious, the more he thought about it, and pretty soon he was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. Holy friggin’ God, did this guy ever have a few things to learn about marketing! What he had just done had to be at the top of the list of Things Not to Do When Trying to Sell a Food Source.

Phil got up to refill his glass of Scotch, having spilled some of it during his fit of laughter. He missed some of what Cheese said, but caught the last bit of the commercial, where the date of the unveiling was announced. The new food source was to be officially introduced to all inhabitants of Earth during a live broadcast before a studio audience, one week before Thanksgiving.

Phil noted the time and date of the broadcast and wrote it down on his calendar. This was something that he wasn’t about to miss. Phil grinned and raised his glass toward the TV screen in a mock toast.

“Thank you Dick Cheese, for giving me the best laugh I’ve had in weeks!”

* * *

On night of the live broadcast, Phil was ready. The table next to his armchair was well stocked with snacks, a bucket of ice and a full bottle of Scotch, to ensure that he wouldn’t have to get up to refill anything for the duration of the broadcast. He didn’t want to miss one second of the upcoming fiasco.

It wasn’t just Phil’s curiosity about the new food source that made him want to watch the program. He looked forward to the entertainment it promised. If he’d had a friend to invite over, they might have placed bets on how many times Dick Cheese committed a grievous social faux pas and of what nature. He figured he was in for a load of laughs, watching Cheese’s live audience react when he picked his nose, farted or possibly soiled himself while trying to sell them a new type of food. Those Istz guys had a lot to learn about humans, and Phil had a feeling Dick Cheese was about to get a much-needed education to knock him off his sanctimonious trash can.

Phil turned up the volume. The broadcast was starting. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation… this was it!

Dick Cheese appeared on the screen. To Phil’s surprise, he seemed to have made an attempt to look more presentable – a failed effort, mostly. His face was washed, sort of. It looked like he had wiped his face with a piece of his own grimy clothing, not really removing the dirt but just smearing it into streaks. Now instead of his overall dark-skinned appearance, he looked like he had been suntanning through a picket fence.

He was dressed in the exact same clothing he was wearing that day in Phil’s office, except the jacket buttons were lined up correctly. Phil found the effort amusing, though he was surely the only human who would notice.

Cheese began to speak. Most of it Phil had heard before; he spoke of what it meant for a species to achieve true equality. He said Earth was out of balance and he was about to guide the human race to its next step… blah… blah… balance and equality.

Boring! Let’s get to the good stuff, Stinky Cheese!

It appeared Cheese had hired some television marketing professionals to help him with his presentation because he was on his best behavior, to Phil’s disappointment. Good thing he hadn’t made any bets on this one, because he would have lost. Cheese managed to refrain from belching, farting or doing any other bodily functions during his presentation, and he managed to keep his grimy little hands at his sides for most of it without picking his nose or digging snacks out of his ears.

“I have researched the nutritional needs of the human species extensively,” Cheese said, “The new food contains complete nutrition, tailored to the needs of the human species. Even though you would recognize it as meat, it is not. It is a genetically engineered food, made to look like meat for the sake of familiarity. It is suitable for vegetarian and vegan diets as well as gluten-free and organic. You can survive by eating nothing else except for this food if you wish, secure in the knowledge that you are getting all of the nutrients your body needs to thrive. I started with an ordinary chicken, but the finished product is so much more!”

The low murmur of the studio audience increased in volume as the excitement mounted. Phil could almost feel the energy in his living room. He found the excitement contagious. He couldn’t wait to see it.

Dick Cheese paced back and forth in front of the camera, his movements animated, exaggerated. The wireless headset embedded in his grungy curls allowed him full freedom of movement. He transformed before Phil’s eyes, from polite scientist to maniacal infomercial pitchman.

“Do you want to see it?” He leaned toward the audience and cupped his hand over his ear in an absurd parody of one of those old TV wrestlers. The crowd cheered. They were eating it up. But would they be eating up the new food source?

After a few more rounds of, “I can’t hear you!” and a couple “Can I get a ‘hell yeah’?” Dick Cheese looked ready to proceed.

“Citizens of Earth! At long last, the time has come for me to reveal to you the greatest gift anyone has ever given you! I speak, of course, of a completely renewable food source. It does not require any special skill or environment to grow, and will end world hunger. Are you READY?” Once again he cupped his hand to his ear to encourage the cheers of the crowd.

Phil wondered if Cheese was enjoying the opportunity to cast off his polite demeanor and act like a complete jackass. It made him look more human, though perhaps that was the plan. Phil downed his Scotch and quickly poured himself another. It was turning out to be good entertainment after all.

“Using genetic technology exclusive only to my planet, I have ever so slightly modified one of your domestic chickens to create the all-new… DELICIOUS! NUTRITIOUS! CHEESE-HEN!”

Dick Cheese bowed low like a Broadway star in response to the crowd’s wild cheers. He stepped back and raised his arms to hush the crowd before continuing his sales pitch.

“The Cheese-Hen is unlike anything ever before seen on Earth and it is about to be unveiled, right here, right now, before your very eyes! You good people have the honor of being the first to see history being made! DO YOU WANT TO HEAR MORE?”

The crowd roared, “YES!”

Cheese’s tone grew serious again. The scientist had returned, for the moment. “The Cheese-Hen’s accelerated growth allows this amazing creature to reach full maturity in just two weeks, from hatchling to adult. This rapid life cycle ensures an immediate food supply for those who need it. And best of all, this amazing product is available to you, the general public, absolutely FREE! That’s right, you heard me! It’s FREE!”

The infomercial pitchman was back.

Phil shook his head in disbelief and laughed. This guy was Billy Mays, Vince the Slap-Chop guy and… well, Richard Simmons, all rolled into one creepy, filth-covered package. The badly scripted performance was probably orchestrated by the same marketing pros that brought the world such treasured products as spray-on hair. Cheese would have been better off sticking with his natural, polite persona, but he must have thought he needed selling… whatever this was.

Phil imagined the director trying to coach the alien:

“Okay, Dick, try to work with me here. No, get your finger out of your nose – think hygiene! Remember, you want people to eat this stuff. Get excited! And for God’s sake, quit farting!” Phil snickered at the mental image.

“What I am about to show you,” Cheese continued, “will revolutionize the way you eat! Imagine, a food that recycles itself! How many of you would like to eat nothing but organic food from this day forward, but can’t afford it? Where I come from, we never worry about additives and preservatives in our food. We always have plenty to eat and we never have to go grocery shopping. We don’t even have supermarkets! And now, for the first time, we, the citizens of Planet Istz, are honored to share our secret with you, dearest citizens of Earth!”

Dick Cheese leaned toward the camera and lowered his voice, as if sharing his secret with a single person, instead broadcasting it worldwide via satellite.

“My new chickens have been redesigned with a special gift; one unique to my species. This gift is now available to humans for the first time ever! Thanks to our advanced technology, a tiny bit of my own personal genetic material has been added to this special chicken, but don’t worry, it won’t affect the taste. The only real difference between this new, meat-free chicken and the old model is that the new chicken can feed itself. That’s right, farmers and would-be farmers! No more costly bags of chicken feed! No tending the flocks morning and night, because the flocks tend themselves! This is a completely self-sufficient food source! How is this possible, you ask? I’m going to show you, right now!”

Cheese walked offstage, beckoning for the cameraman to follow.

“Come with me! Let’s go see the flock, shall we?” The camera followed Cheese through the exit door and down a hallway to another door, which led outside. The audience remained inside the studio, watching on a large screen. He looked back and beckoned to the camera again. “Almost there, come on.”

Cheese continued to talk as he walked toward a large red barn.

“The mature chicken provides food for itself through a process similar to the one you know as cell mitosis. It is a simple process where, as you know, the nucleus of a cell divides in half, thus creating two identical cells. Now imagine if you will, a complex multi-cellular organism that can command all of its cells to divide simultaneously, creating an exact duplicate of itself. This is what the new chicken can do, and this is our special gift to you. The chicken will self-clone whenever it becomes hungry. It will then eat the duplicate, enjoying nourishment free from added hormones or preservatives. This creature is completely self-sustaining for its entire lifetime, thus eliminating the need for external sources of food. This, my friends, is how my people survive in a world without money. We recycle everything, right down to the cells of our bodies. Nothing is wasted.” Cheese paused and held a charcoal-colored hand up in front of the camera.

“But wait! There’s more! Act now and you not only receive the Cheese-Hen for free, you also receive complete instructions on how to rearrange your own genetic material so that you too can create a delicious, nutritious, fully organic duplicate of yourself! That’s right! You’ll get not one but TWO unlimited sources of food ABSOLUTELY FREE! Get your instruction manuals while supplies last!”

Cheese waved some papers in front of the camera. The camera zoomed in to reveal a page torn from an old newspaper with what appeared to be some sort of formulas or equations scrawled on it with a felt marker.

Phil lifted his glass to his lips and, finding it empty, quickly refilled it with Scotch, never mind the rocks. He didn’t like where this was going; not one bit. Phrases like ‘cell mitosis’ and ‘rearrange your own genetic material’ swirled in his mind. His stomach felt strange in spite of the warm scotch-induced glow and his head felt fuzzy. He couldn’t look away. He needed to see this. He gulped his drink, after adding another shot of liquid courage to strengthen his composure.

Dick Cheese had entered the barn and was approaching the enclosure that held the chickens.

“These new chickens,” he explained, “lay delicious eggs just like normal chickens. You can eat the chickens and their duplicates, or keep them for their eggs. When they reach adulthood, they will have the ability to feed themselves. This means you will never have to buy food for them. However, for the first few weeks of the fledgling’s life it is reliant on its parent for sustenance. Because the adult chicken already has the ability to feed itself, it merely has to share some of its own food with its offspring until they are old enough to feed themselves.” He paused, giving the cameraman time to steady and center him in the shot.

“And now,” he announced, “I will feed my young Cheese-Hens, to give you a demonstration of how it works. Just think! Soon, you too will be able to have this amazing ability!”

Phil watched, slack-jawed, as Dick Cheese changed shape, first thickening in the middle, then losing his shape altogether. His arms and legs melted into the greyish undulating blob of his body. Clothing and flesh blended until they, too, were part of the blob. He was no longer the filthy Richard Simmons look-alike that Phil had come to know as an alien named Dick Cheese. He was just a living, moving mass of… nothing in particular.

The blob formed the distinguishable shape of a man and then one half simply took a step away from the other. The result was two identical Dick Cheeses, each wearing an identical set of the same grimy, tattered clothing Cheese had worn the first day he set foot in Phil’s immigration office.

It was the worst thing Phil had ever seen, until the camera turned its attention past the Cheese twins and zoomed in on the flock of young chickens gathering around Cheese and his twin.

Phil didn’t notice when his hand dropped the tumbler of Scotch. It was oh, so much worse.

The most disturbing thing was the flock of chickens. These were the new Cheese-Hens people were expected to eat? The flock surrounded the two Dicks, pecking and pulling at their pantlegs in anticipation of the meal to come. One of them pulled a strip of flesh off of the Dick-clone and ate it the way an ordinary chicken might eat a worm.

The clone seemed oblivious that he was being torn apart. He just stood there grinning stupidly as the flock savaged him, tearing strips of flesh from his body. They were eating him alive, clothing and all! As the clone toppled to the ground beneath the pack of ravenous mutant chickens, Dick casually reached over and plucked an ear from his twin, holding it up for the camera before popping it into his mouth.

“Mmmmm!” He grinned a bloody tobacco-stained grin as he chewed the horrid appetizer. “Tastes like chicken!”

As Phil watched the young chickens strip the carcass to the bone like a school of piranhas, he recalled what the Istzite had told him back at the immigration office:

“Where I come from, appearances do not matter…”

What Dick Cheese had been trying to explain to Phil was now horrifyingly clear. He now grasped the meaning and depth of “It’s what’s inside that counts”, the phrase for which the Istzites claimed credit. Cheese was correct when he stated that people of Earth had not yet captured the essence of the phrase.

Phil had never seen anything like the repulsive “chickens”, and he never wanted to see them again.

The problem was, they didn’t look like chickens.

They were the same size as full-grown chickens. They behaved pretty much like normal chickens would, scratching at the ground and pecking at their food, stretching strips of muscle and sinew the way an ordinary fowl would a worm.

The appearance of the chickens, Phil couldn’t accept. There was no way; absolutely no way in hell he would ever eat them. He also knew with certainty that no person on Earth, no matter how hungry, would be persuaded to eat these “chickens”.

Nobody except for the Istzites would eat them, for they were the only ones who would be oblivious to the fact that each chicken was an exact, albeit smaller duplicate of Dick Cheese. The enclosure swarmed with dozens of miniature, filthy Richard Simmons look-alikes, dressed in identical tattered clothing, their vicious grins baring tobacco-stained serrated teeth, dripping blood from their recent meal of Dick Cheese’s twin.

COVER_FINAL

~*~

Mandy White is author of several books and numerous short stories. Her work often features characters and locations from her native country, Canada. She delights in twisting everyday surroundings into disturbing tales. Caution: if you happen to cross her path, you may find yourself in an upcoming story.

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