Militia Camp Massacre

What follows is my submission to Flash Fiction Friday, a fairly new writers blog created to fill the void when the other FFF had run its course. Since this is the haunting season, predictably the prompt for Cycle 4 (as it is called) was to incorporate at least one classic monster into any genre we would like. I incorporated the ones I was weaned on, the best of the best.

Militia Camp Massacre

The boys had gotten soft. Jeez, they had not been out terrifying the citizenry for years. Just holed up here at the castle stuffing their faces, watching old movies and playing video games. I know Frank had to have picked up another 150 pounds. Drack had gotten so lazy, he had his meals delivered by a nice kid  from the local blood bank. Those losers over to the SciFi horror gang had been grabbing all the headlines.

I was no better. Hell, I hadn’t made any waves since Clarice gave up looking for me, got married, got pregnant and left the FBI. What do I do? I take over as the guardian for a bunch of washed up B movie monsters from the 1930s. It was time we took back what was ours.

“Okay guys gather round. “

No response.

“Guys?” I walked into the game room. Frank and the Doc Jeykyll were lost in a game of nine ball. Frank must have been losing. As I walked in, he smashed his cue stick over Doc’s noggin.  I smiled.

“How much he into you for Doc?”

“Huh?” Doc was always a tad slow on the uptake what with that awful crap he drank every day, but he swung his face in my direction and smiled that unnerving smile of his. “Uh yeah Hannibal, the stupid bastard is down four games at the moment. He’s gonna owe me bigtime.”

Drack spoke up. “Whoa there my fine fearsome friend.” He and Wolfman were hunched over a game of Chinese checkers. “You boneheads still owe me big after last night’s poker game. Especially you Doc. Whatever possessed you to draw to an inside straight I’ll never know.” Jekyll’s smile disappeared and his eyes glowed as he flexed obscenely long fingers.

Wolfman glared at Drack and howled. Drack looked at him with mock surprise.

“I did not cheat, you flea bitten loser.  Can I help it if you can't keep a poker face longer than five minutes. Remember, I cleaned you out first.”

“Guys, guys, guys. Cool your jets. We have to pull it together. Time to put on your game faces and get down to business. You guys have been sitting on your laurels and your asses for so long, John Q Public has forgotten you even exist. Don’t you guys have any pride left? Look at you. Sorriest bunch of has been monsters as I have ever seen. “

This got a rise out of them. They rushed me snarling and growling. It was just like old times. “Now that’s more like it……………. What we need is a plan. A night of horror to bring some pride back to the crew and let the World know who really makes them pucker with fear. Who’s with me?”

All hell broke loose. Frank toppled a few columns causing the game room ceiling to cave in. Wolfman shredded those new satin curtains I had installed so Drack could wander around in his whitie tighties during the day, And the Doc, well, he just drooled, wrung his hands and cackled. It almost brought a tear to my eye.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I took on this crew of loose dogs. Not a one of them had a clue about teamwork before I hooked up with them. But that was part of their charm I guess. Spontaneous Evil without any direction can create wonderful fear. I just had to get them headed in the right direction and look past their individual foibles. When they were on a roll, no other crew could touch them. Nothing but blood and fleshy tidbits left in their wake.

I finally had their attention. So I went over the new mission. They were suspicious at first. Sending them all out together was not their style. They were more comfortable as solo acts. The occasional cameo appearance to help a friend was okay, but none of them wanted to play second fiddle, especially at this time of the year. Top billing at Halloween would make them strut for a month. But I explained to them that an awesome performance by an ensemble cast would magnify their images. They settled down and focused as best they could.

“Okay guys, let’s make this Halloween one to remember. This excursion has to involve all of you so I'll cover any camera and sound work.  If I can chip in with a slice here or a dice there, I will.  But this will be your show, your chance to shine.  All we need is the where and who gets your special kind of attention.  We all know this caper has to go down in the dark of night.  Nothing  scares like bloody fangs coming out of dark shadows or body parts dripping blood in the soft light of the moon.  So where and who guys?  It's up to you."

Doc Jekyll was first to speak up. “How about a high school basketball game? Lots of cheerleaders and uptight teachers to disembowel.”

Wolf Man yipped.

Drack looked at him. “You always want it to be in the woods fer chrisakes. Come on guy step outside of your box for once. Besides, where in the woods are we gonna find enough delectable victims for all of us?”

Frank raised his hand.

“Frank, you don’t have to raise your hand.” I was never going to get used to this 7 foot monster who acted like a first grader. It was too bad his brain sat out so long before it was installed.

Frank slowly dropped his hand. Looking sheepish, he mumbled, “Well we could invade a militia camp. Uh, you know, they are popping up all over the place now. That way Wolfman could stay outside and that would make him happy. Besides, I don’t like those militia types. Bunch of wannabe badasses.” Frank clenched his massive mitts.

Drack started o speak up and then stopped. Doc looked over to the Wolfman and the Wolfman looked at me. No one spoke. I think we were absolutely caught off guard at such a brilliant suggestion coming from the dumbest among us. Christ, I had to remind the big lug every day how to tie his hob nail boots. From the mouths of babes………………..

The silence continued as the gears turned and churned inside each warped mind. I could feel the excitement building without so much as a word of discussion passing between us. So I ended it.

“It’s a lock then guys. Militia Camp Massacre here we come.  Just save me a few brains and maybe a liver or two.  I seem to be running low.”

"Now go out there and spill some blood!"
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1100 words or so. I know it is silly. But come on.  Monsters are silly. Real Life is so much scarier.

Image from Deadly Movies

Crotch Pullers

Anxious citizens hold signs with one hand and pull at their crotch with the other.  They understand what pulling on their crotch does, but have less of a clue about that sign they so boldy raise.  Standing in large groups, their anger multiplies with each fool who joins their fray.  They say they know why they are unhappy, but cannot put a finger on the cause without the words and ideas fork tongued agitators pound into their tiny brains.  Blind to anything beyond what their own hands can grab, these anxious citizens turn ugly when they realize that they have consumed their way into the Asian Giant's arms.   And instead of owning their responsibilty, they pass the buck up or down.  It makes no difference as long as they can return to the safety of their own denial.

They blame those with less.  They point fingers at those with more.  The mistrust that once lingered on the fringes now directs their focus and they refuse to admit their culpability in the downturn of their own lives.

The bosses know this about these anxious citizens.  Using sleazy pseudo slogans, they embark in  subtle campaigns to first turn the anxiety into anger and then collect it into mass movements that will enhance their bottom lines.  They employ ministers, politicians, and the guy down the block to carry their message of hope without substance.  They promise nothing other than change.  They assure us that by tearing down what we have built will magically build something new and better.  "And it won't cost you a dime.  Matter of fact, we will give you some money back."

From where this money will come is not explained.  For if we are to believe the redfaced ringleaders, there is no money to give, yet somehow they will give it.  And the anxious fools do not see the contradiction.  All they have is their anger and a desire to tear something down. 

And so it goes.


Keep it 'tween the ditches.....................................................

Happiness

The piece I wrote over at Thinking Ten a couple of weeks ago.  As it was inspired by my own recent efforts to put a new roof over my head, it sort of ties in with the home improvemnet mode I find myself hard into.  Anyway it was based on the prompt - "What else should I be?"
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Happiness

“What else should I be? Or better yet, what else could I be? I’ve been pounding nails for……….”


“Don’t give me that crap Ben, You love building. You also love to whine. Now hand me that lead flashing and let’s finish this bitch.”

Ben and Rene had grown up on the same street in the same factory owned houses in the same mill town many years ago. Just as they hit high school, the woolen mills shut down and moved south. With no jobs to go to, they decided they would become builders. At eighteen years old, they were sure it would be easy.

Those first years were rough. Between them they barely had a clue of which end of the hammer to hold. They fed off the crumbs and bones tossed them by other builders more established and experienced. Rip and tear jobs, rehab projects for shady slum lords looking for the cheapest possible fixes, roofing too high for the regular crews in town. They built their business doing what no one else wanted.

All this ran through Rene’s mind as he scrambled up the 10 pitch roof to grab the lead flashing. He reached down to pick it up and realized something. They were back where they started. Over the previous 40 years they had built a strong business. They had owned lots of equipment, ran lots of crews, and pissed through millions of dollars. And what had it gotten them? Both of them alone again at 60 years old on some roof low ball bidding just to put food on the table again. **

Handing the lead flashing to Ben, Rene started in again. “Ben we are back where we started. 40 years of hard work and what do we have? Yeah, we both own our homes, and we both managed to save the best trucks and some tools after the bank was through with us. But…………” Rene looked off into the distance over the town they had lived and would likely die in.

“But what?” Ben was not the philosopher of the duo. He was a simple man. Give him a job to do, he did it. Anything else was a waste of time.

“Well, I was just thinking about how we always seem to end up where we began. Ashes to ashes and all that shit. Ever think about that?”

Ben sighed hard. Rene was not in the working groove today. He stopped tapping the lead into shape around the corner of the brick work of the chimney and stood up. He put a hand on Rene’s shoulder and looked at him. “Bottom line guy, are you happy?”

Rene looked at Ben. Then they both looked out over the community that had fed and clothed them for so many years.

“Yeah Ben, I guess I am. Standing here on a roof with you makes me happy.......... Now let’s finish this bitch.”
_____________________________________

Later.............................................

Pool Anyone?

What follows is my fiction piece for the first challenge tossed out by Icarus' Flight to Perfection, a new writing blog.  The challenge was actually a choice of three options.  I chose the four word prompt:

Trip, Tryptych, Pick, Tropic

Pool Anyone?

Jim was not sure why his mysterious employer had sprung for the private Leer jet. This trip did not seem anything more unusual than most of his journeys overseas seeking ancient relics and icons. There was a time constraint though. He had to locate and return the 8x4 foot triptych in less than two weeks.  It would have been a two day trip on commercial carriers.  The private jet made sense.

Jim smiled at the thought of sneaking such a large work of art through the various borders he would have to cross to see it safely ensconced in the gallery basement in So Ho. But that was his shtick, his claim to fame. He had never once failed. If the pockets were deep enough, he always found a way out and then in before anyone noticed.

As he twirled the swizzle stick in his third scotch on the rocks, he ran through his transport options. None of his go to schemes would fit. The time line was too narrow, the object apparently too big. He considered the method he had used on a recent trip to the tropics. That early Mayan statue had been a monster. But he worked it out and 2 months after he was back in the States, a barge off-loaded 300 tons of bauxite. All he had to do was cut open the hull with a torch and there it was.

Jim buried his concerns and ordered another scotch. He knew a solution would come to him. Worrying about it before he had a chance to see the triple panel of golden figures was wasted effort. “And Lord knows,” he thought, “I never waste effort when I can get wasted on good scotch.”

~*~

Sally was on the phone. She had no clue why Jim wanted to know where he could find two new chalk boards in southern Kazakhstan, but assured him she would. Jim was always requesting the oddest things. She had become used to it. And since he paid her way more than she thought she was worth, she did not ask questions, she found answers to his. But chalkboards in Kazakhstan? She knew it was not going to be easy.

It was not easy. There were no suppliers she could locate. So she searched for schools that might have what he needed. She called him back several hours later and directed him to the International School in Almaty about 200 clicks from where he was. They would not be new chalk boards and he would have grease the right hands, but for a price, they were available. Meet a man name of Sergei Nimogushij at 4:00 PM local time tomorrow. He will take care of you. Says he has several to pick from.

“Perfect Sally. Have I told you recently how much I love you?” Jim rung off shaking his head. Having her at his back had made all the difference for his operation. Her ability to find the tools he needed was almost magical. Wasting only enough time to check out his load on the thrashed Maz flatbed he had rented, he slapped the driver awake and they beat it for Almaty.

~*~

“Uh Mr. Jim?”

Jim opened one eye and looked at Viktor serenely threading his way through the insanity of downtown Almaty. “What is it Viktor? And for the last time I told you it is Jim not Mr. Jim.”

“Mr. Jim we are almost to the International School. You wake up now okay?”

“I’m awake.”

Viktor pulled up in front of the school and Jim hopped out. “Wait here Viktor, I need to find a man.”

~*~

At 3:15 AM three days later the same Leer jet that had dropped Jim in the middle of central Asia taxied into a hangar at an airfield in New Jersey. Waiting for them was a rather large group of police - state, feds, US Customs and international. Jim stepped off the plane and acted mildly surprised.

“What the Hell fellas? What is going on?”

“Jim McDermott?”

Jim just smiled.

“Are you Jim McDermott?”

“Why yes sir I am. And who might you be?”

“Inspector Vladmir Puchennik of the antiquities division of the Kazakhstan National Police. We have been notified of a possible illegal transfer of a national treasure. May we search your plane?”

“Not my plane Vlad. But be my guest.”

The crowd of cops descended on the plane. Two hours later, they gave up their search and left frustrated. Vladamir walked into the customs office and sat down next to Jim. Leaning over he whispered in his ear. “Okay Mr smart guy. I know you have smuggled the tryptych into this country. That we have not found it does not mean we won’t. How is it you Americans say ?.............One day your ass, it will be mine.”

“Whatever you say Vlad. One day could be a long time away.” Jim got up and left.

~*~

“Well Mr. McDermott, I am impressed. I had my doubts given the time frame constraints, but you came through. My client is pleased to no end. You will find your fee in your bank account by end of business day tomorrow.”

Jim looked up from his scotch and soda. “Well it was a tough one. I hate being rushed. I didn’t have a solution until the fifth or maybe it was the sixth scotch on the plane. Then I noticed the undersized pool table. The rest of the scheme just fell into place. I had a tougher time finding chalkboards in that damn country than finding someone who could re-felt a pool table.”
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About 900 words.  I would say it was a tough one, but I guess it was not.  Once I got rolling, the story such as it is, wrote itself.

Been avoiding this blog the last few days.  Not sure why.  Maybe it has something to do with not having anything on my mind but mundane issues like the roof, the trim on the eaves, and other boring homeowner concerns.  Well, the roof is basically done and now I can move to the next chore on the list that goes on into infinity and beyond. 

I would comment on the recent elections but I am exhausted and pissed off.  This country does not seem to want to do anything but ask for immediate fixes by kicking out experienced help and replacing it with new unexperienced help.  And that's fine.  Maybe it will wake up both parties to the reality that being complacent is not going to work anymore.  And maybe if Obama does not have his party at his back with the power of a majority, he might just show us some of the sand he insinuated when running for office.

I don't regret voting for him.  He was and still is the best pick of the litter we had back in 08.  I did not expect him to have things fixed, just progress on fixing them.  For a variety of reasons, he and his party have disappointed me.  The lack of intestinal fortitude being highest on my list.

So I refrain from venting my spleen as we countdown to election time.  I have accepted the notion that my state will most likely have a poor governor once again.  If either party's offering wins, that is what we will have.  I have decided to vote for the dark horse just because I cannot give my vote to the front runners.

So just call this a a post to keep the process moving along.  I'll be back with something more when I can.

Green and Naive

I was 24 years old and had only been in Dallas for two hours when this employee card was made.   For insurance purposes I was  25 not 24.  Roger fudged the form he had to file with the insurance company.  Seems the insurance company would not insure any driver under the age of 25.  But I had come highly recommended by Ron, their top driver, and they needed a new driver immediately. 

Just prior to the snapping of this special Kodak moment I had been crawling around inside, outside and all around the sweetest almost brand new White Freightliner I had ever been inside of.  New everything.  Big motor, AC, air ride seat and it had a real sleeper.  I had never driven a truck with a sleeper.  If truckers had a heaven, this was surely it

It had only been 24 hours earlier that I told Don, my boss at Advanced Moving & Storage in Towson, Maryland, that I would not be humping furniture for him anymore.  I was headed for the brightly lit stage of RocknRoll.   His only question before he told me "Good Luck" was "How much does it pay?" 

I remember looking at him and saying, "Who cares?  It's RocknRoll.  My first tour is with the Who."

The following two and a half years wiped the grin off my face, but left me with no regrets.  It was no picnic pounding the highways with a band's equipment on board.   The night driving, asshole promoters and band managers, and sycophants that would do almost anything to use me to get close to their idols.   I would get more traffic tickets than I could count, I would suffer more than a couple of beat downs, robberies, and truck break ins.  I would find love and then have it snatched out from under me.  I would spend time in a couple of local jails for being too loose a dog.  All in all I have to say 1976, 1977, and 1978 were some of the most interesting years I can remember.

Later...............................................

Tear Down the Roof - Some Light at the End of the Tunnel - Chap 3 or 4 - Take Your Pick.

I had planned to make it into the bike shop on Thursday.  I figured a break from being the hump and grunt roof bitch would freshen my immediate outlook and leave me smilin once again.  I had not counted on a noreaster that was scheduled for arrival on runway Maine sometime in the wee hours of Friday Morning.

Shit.  There was still entirely too much of the roof still open to whatever elements that might happen by.  So Thursday morning I climbed back on the roof with my tool belt, my sawz all, many sections of bitcha-thane, and a couple of 50 pound bundles of  shingles.   I was going to button up as much as I could before the cold wind blew and the rain came in sideways.

I had given up hope that this time my local weather guy would be wrong and the storm would sweep to the south or better yet die of natural causes somewhere over New York City.  Every weather site, every weather bozo, everyone I talked to, listened to, or tried to ignore agreed we were in for some weather.  Bad weather.  Lots of bad weather.  Maybe 3 or 4 inches of bad weather.

I got busy.  Up, down, kneel, stand up, forget something on the ground, a hammer, damn out of nails again - all day long I fought my tendency to be unorganized.  By 7:00 PM I had only about 20 percent left to do.  By 7:00 PM my energy level was running a deficit.  It was time to quit and get down off the damn roof.  I covered the roof I couldn't get to, battened it down and climbed down the ladder.

The noreaster landed right on schedule.  The rain was coming from the east so hard Stubby would not step off the porch to do her morning business.  I had to pull on a rain coat and shoes and head out into the storm before I even had one sip of coffee in my system.  I figured while I was outside nursemaiding my weather intolerant mutt, I would check the roof to see how my make do tarping effort fared.  It held up just fine. 

Back inside and after some coffee and toast, I told myself I would head to the bike shop.  But I didn't.  I was so thrashed from my marathon roofing efforts, I convinced myself I needed a day off from everything.  I passed out and slept while outside Mother Nature pummeled us with as much moisture as she could muster.

Yeah I felt guilty, but not enough to roust my sorry butt out of bed.  I was tapped out and I knew it.  So today I hope I have recharged enough to at least open the doors.

We'll see.......................................................