This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
No Returns For Any Reason
By Plot Roach
I wondered how much damage I could do with a plastic spork, if given the appropriate target. I was at work at the time, in the middle of an eight hour shift working retail at my crappy mall job. It was the fourth of July weekend and somehow I had pissed off my supervisor enough that she put me on the holiday shift. We were in the middle of an hour of dead time, with little or nothing to do, as customers were off stuffing their faces at the food court. There was a free sample dinner at Colonial Joe’s Chicken Café and it seemed like every broke trashy idiot in the state was taking advantage of it. If the owner of the café did not go bankrupt from it, he would be facing angry letters from customers and employees alike for the greasy cardboard he tried to pawn off as food and the skeletal crew he employed to try and handle the mass of people and their ill tempers.
Soon it would be my mess to deal with. With greasy fingers and in a drunken rage, these “customers” would gather in my store demanding specialty discounts and freebie samples. And if I did not comply, I would be the bad guy.
I work retail. I am always the bad guy. I constantly tempt people into buying crap that they do not need. And what is worse: I suggest that they use credit to afford it, even if they don’t have the pocket change to take the bus home. And I can help them with that, too. Because I can give them cash back. And the store takes a cut, of course.
And when they get the crap home and decide it’s not as pretty, doesn’t make them happy or any of the other things that I promised, they try and bring it back. And then I am forced to plaster a smile on my face, apologize for their unhappiness and point to the sign that reads: NO RETURNS FOR ANY REASON. And the moment will end with the customer cursing me out, and then threatening to get me fired, or worse, follow me home and kill me.
I hate my job, but I hate the customers more. Most of them are only here ‘just looking’, sucking up the air conditioning and asking me where everything is made and if every little symbol painted or stitched into something has some deep spiritual meaning that can alter their lives in a way that drugs, religion or good sex cannot. They’re cheap, they’re loud and they walk around the mall treating all the workers like their own personal slaves. There’s one specific jerk who tries everything to return whatever he buys, the day after he buys it. It happens at least once a week, and sometimes as much as three times a week.
So when I saw him slink in, clutching that little white plastic bag with the store’s logo on it, I knew what he was going to do. He walked up to the front register, where I had been perched like a stone gargoyle for the past half hour trying to eat my lunch, smelling of alcohol with his hands coated in chicken grease. And the bastard had the balls to smile at me as he said: “There was a problem with me last purchase. I need to return it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. As you already know, here at the Knickknack Hut, we are unable to take returns. We suggest you take your complaint to corporate and in the future, review your purchase better before payment.” it’s the standard schlock I’m trained to say. If I deviate for it for even one syllable, I’ll be fired on the a spot.
“I thought that you would say that.” he said, and then pulled out a gun.
I don’t think of myself as jaded, but I think he was expecting more of a reaction from me than the yawn I gave him. It’s not that I wasn’t afraid. It was just that I had been working a full shift on top of taking a full load of classes at the local community college. No sleep + full time stress + idiot customers = please kill me. The math seemed sound enough. We have no security button, like the banks do, hidden under the front counter. And I would have to turn around to grab the phone, letting him have the chance to shoot me in the back. So I took the only shot I had: I pulled the spork from my mashed potato sample that one of the employees had brought over from Colonial Joe’s Chicken Café and stabbed him in the eye.
And let me tell you, he hit the floor like drunken teenage girl at prom. At first I thought that he was just stunned, then I saw the pool of blood spread out from beneath his head. Security later confirmed that he must have been dead before he hit the floor. I was so stressed at the time, that I drove the plastic spork with such force that it traveled through the eyeball and deep into his brain.
The police told me that it was the quick thinking on my part that probably saved countless lives if he had gone on a killing spree throughout the mall. The workers I would hate to see hurt, but the mall shoppers could do with a little thinning of the herd. The police were on the record that I did it in self defense, but I wasn’t so sure. If you’ve looked into the eyes of the mall worker who is selling things to you when you are being ’irate’, I mean REALLY look into them, thoughts of killing come as easily as the smile they have to plaster on their faces as they are forced to parrot the line: “Thank you, and have a nice day!”
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A Long Wait
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.
A Long Wait
By Plot Roach
It was the gunshot that woke her up. Unfortunately for her, the wound she received was also fatal. She had just enough time to wake out of the haziness of sleep to feel the pain before the blackness of death took her. Her spirit stood beside the bed, looking down at her body. The arm of it stretched out to the side table, having knocked the contents to the floor.
“What was I doing?” she asked her companion in the shadows.
“I think that you thought it was the alarm clock, so you went to hit the snooze button.” It said.
“Are you here for me?” she asked the presence.
“Yes and no.” it said. “I’m just ‘here’ like you.”
“Come into the light where I can see you better.” she pleaded. “I hate to be alone in death and I want to see my only companion.”
“It might bother you.” it said. “And it’s not the light that allows you to see or not see me, it’s my willingness to be seen.”
“Come to me anyway.”
“Alright, you asked for it.” It said and stepped closer. It was a sewer rat, about the size of a kitten and not nearly as cute.
“Oh” she said.
“I told you so.” the rat admitted.
“No, it’s just that… I thought you’d be…”
“Death? Your guardian angel? Maybe Jesus?” the rat asked.
“Well… kind of.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, well” she said. “You might as well be here. Someone needs to put the dead body to use. You might as well feed on it until the neighbors find me.” she said.
“That’s kind of you to offer and all. Not that I needed your permission. But it’s kind of a moot point.” It said, its whiskers twitching in what she assumed was either humor or frustration.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“I’m dead too.” the rat said.
“I thought that you were here because of me.”
“I am here because of you, but not in the way you think.” the rat explained.
“Huh?”
“Remember the poisoned rodent bait you put in that peanut butter and left out a few months ago?”
“Yeah…”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
“It’s different killing a rodent when you can talk with it, isn’t it?”
“Kind of.”
“Don’t feel so bad, I don’t hold a grudge or anything.”
“I’m glad, but… How come you’re still here and not in rat heaven or something?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe this is it. Maybe there is no Heaven or Hell. Maybe waiting around is only for rats and you’ll get to move on. Otherwise, it’s going to be one long wait.” the rat said.
“One long wait for what?” She asked.
“More company.”
“How so?”
“It seems that your neighbor botched his suicide and is being trundled off to the hospital as we speak. He’ll probably be in a coma for years…”
“How do you know that he tried to commit suicide?”
“It was the gunshot that killed you, remember?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” the rat said. “It’s going to be a long wait.”
A Long Wait
By Plot Roach
It was the gunshot that woke her up. Unfortunately for her, the wound she received was also fatal. She had just enough time to wake out of the haziness of sleep to feel the pain before the blackness of death took her. Her spirit stood beside the bed, looking down at her body. The arm of it stretched out to the side table, having knocked the contents to the floor.
“What was I doing?” she asked her companion in the shadows.
“I think that you thought it was the alarm clock, so you went to hit the snooze button.” It said.
“Are you here for me?” she asked the presence.
“Yes and no.” it said. “I’m just ‘here’ like you.”
“Come into the light where I can see you better.” she pleaded. “I hate to be alone in death and I want to see my only companion.”
“It might bother you.” it said. “And it’s not the light that allows you to see or not see me, it’s my willingness to be seen.”
“Come to me anyway.”
“Alright, you asked for it.” It said and stepped closer. It was a sewer rat, about the size of a kitten and not nearly as cute.
“Oh” she said.
“I told you so.” the rat admitted.
“No, it’s just that… I thought you’d be…”
“Death? Your guardian angel? Maybe Jesus?” the rat asked.
“Well… kind of.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, well” she said. “You might as well be here. Someone needs to put the dead body to use. You might as well feed on it until the neighbors find me.” she said.
“That’s kind of you to offer and all. Not that I needed your permission. But it’s kind of a moot point.” It said, its whiskers twitching in what she assumed was either humor or frustration.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“I’m dead too.” the rat said.
“I thought that you were here because of me.”
“I am here because of you, but not in the way you think.” the rat explained.
“Huh?”
“Remember the poisoned rodent bait you put in that peanut butter and left out a few months ago?”
“Yeah…”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
“It’s different killing a rodent when you can talk with it, isn’t it?”
“Kind of.”
“Don’t feel so bad, I don’t hold a grudge or anything.”
“I’m glad, but… How come you’re still here and not in rat heaven or something?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe this is it. Maybe there is no Heaven or Hell. Maybe waiting around is only for rats and you’ll get to move on. Otherwise, it’s going to be one long wait.” the rat said.
“One long wait for what?” She asked.
“More company.”
“How so?”
“It seems that your neighbor botched his suicide and is being trundled off to the hospital as we speak. He’ll probably be in a coma for years…”
“How do you know that he tried to commit suicide?”
“It was the gunshot that killed you, remember?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” the rat said. “It’s going to be a long wait.”
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Blue Baboon
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Blue Baboon
By Plot Roach
She stared at the picture of the blue baboon on the wall. It was in a lineup with other, more natural toned, members of its own kind. It was a poster with the caution: which one of these things doesn’t belong here? It was an inner office ad for workers who were not performing their duties. A not so subtle reminder that one was always being watched and to not stand out from the crowd.
Melissa waited for her turn to be summoned into the office. She was being called in for her yearly performance review, as was a third of the office. Rumor had it that they needed to cut back on staff in order to stay on budget, she wondered if the interview would really give her the chance to defend her worth to this company, or if it was just a legality that the company had to perform before they could fire what they considered dead weight.
I so don’t deserve this, she thought. I know no one likes me here, but why not just transfer me? I do my job well. I keep my head down and don’t add to the gossip mill. I even came up with new ways to make the system better. Why would they do this now?
She was busy thinking of all the things that could go wrong during the interview. She could crack a joke and the interviewer could become offended. She could not know the answer to what they asked, and end up looking like a fool. God help me if I fart, she thought. Maybe an enchilada wasn’t such a good choice for lunch. The more she worried, the more certain she was that hers would be the next head on the chopping block.
She mentally listed all of her assets and all of her expenses. If I move into a smaller place, she thought, or take in a roommate, I might be able to make rent. If I commute to work via carpool or take the bus, that will be another bill I can bring down to minimum. On and on things she deemed frivolous expenses, like cable and the daily latté, were numbered among the things to skip until a new job could be had.
If they fire me on good terms I can collect unemployment, though it will take at least two weeks to get to me. I wonder if I can blow the interview in such a way that they will HAVE to fire me, she thought. Nothing that is illegal or unsanitary… Jut something that is weird enough that they have to think twice to keep me in the company. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that if she was about to be fired, this would be the way to go. If I act weird enough I can always claim that they were prejudiced against me and maybe file a lawsuit against them…
A few minutes later she was called into the office. Three very tense men and one woman sat opposite her at a very long table. Melissa took her seat, after dusting it off with a handkerchief. Let the games begin, she told herself.
“Melissa Winnepo?” Asked a man who sat in the center of the interviewers.
“That’s my cubicle slave-name. I call myself ‘the Princess of Paperclips and Office Supplies’.”
“Uh…Very Well. Can I call you ‘Princess’ for short?”
“If you must.” she said, waving a dismissive hand at him.
“What do you bring to this job?”
“Individuality, hope, forgiveness and a damn good batch of deviled eggs when we throw a potluck party.”
“I see… Where do you hope to be in another ten years?”
“On the moon, if they can ever get the space program up and running at full speed again. But I’ll only ride first class, mind you. Do you think that they have champagne flavored Tang?”
“What has this company taught you?”
“How to keep my head down, not get noticed and the best way to blame others for my own mistakes.”
“Between one to ten, ten being best, rate how well you fit in at this company.”
“For the purposes of this exercise, I will consider tie-dye green to be a number.”
“And?…” the interviewer asked, clearly waiting for a number.
Melissa sighed. “Somewhere between 8.5 and Pittsburgh.”
“If you had to identify with any creature, alive or extinct, on Earth, which would it be?”
Here’s the rule breaker, she thought. “A blue baboon.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they stand out.”
“Very interesting, we’ll need a few moments to consider your answers, Princess.”
They began talking amongst themselves almost before she left the room. Here comes the unemployment line, she thought to herself, passing the rest of the group to be interviewed that day.
“How bad is it?” a man asked her as she passed.
“An absolute nightmare.” she said, returning to her cubicle.
By the end of the day, the interviewers had made their decision. More than a few workers were escorted out of the office by security officers, carrying what little possessions they had decorated their cubicles with. A few left the interviewing office very pale, but with shaky smiles. They had survived this round of layoffs, but were unsure what the future might hold for them. Melissa tried to tell herself that it did not matter one way or the other. But inside she was shaking and sick.
They called her in last and she was certain that not only were they going to give her a pink slip, but also give her a nice white jacket and padded cell to go with it.
“Your answers were very… unique and honest.” the interviewer said. “We had a hell of a time trying imagine what you do here at the office.”
Oh, here it comes, Melissa thought. She braced herself for the worst, what she hoped that she had prepared herself for.
“We decided that your time here was a waste of your imagination and ingenuity. So we’ve decide to give you a position in management. You’ll be in charge of keeping morale up in the workplace. We hope that someone of your immense skill, having already survived the ‘trenches’, so to speak, will know what we need to keep things fresh and lively, so that productivity improves. Everyone knows that a stale workplace makes for a slow employee.”
“You’re giving me a promotion?” Melissa asked.
“Unless you want to stay working in the supply room for the rest of you career?”
“No, I think I’ll land on my feet soon enough.”
“That’s what we thought.” the head interviewer said. “Do you want your paycheck made out to ‘Princess’ or…?”
“Melissa Winnepo will be fine.”
Blue Baboon
By Plot Roach
She stared at the picture of the blue baboon on the wall. It was in a lineup with other, more natural toned, members of its own kind. It was a poster with the caution: which one of these things doesn’t belong here? It was an inner office ad for workers who were not performing their duties. A not so subtle reminder that one was always being watched and to not stand out from the crowd.
Melissa waited for her turn to be summoned into the office. She was being called in for her yearly performance review, as was a third of the office. Rumor had it that they needed to cut back on staff in order to stay on budget, she wondered if the interview would really give her the chance to defend her worth to this company, or if it was just a legality that the company had to perform before they could fire what they considered dead weight.
I so don’t deserve this, she thought. I know no one likes me here, but why not just transfer me? I do my job well. I keep my head down and don’t add to the gossip mill. I even came up with new ways to make the system better. Why would they do this now?
She was busy thinking of all the things that could go wrong during the interview. She could crack a joke and the interviewer could become offended. She could not know the answer to what they asked, and end up looking like a fool. God help me if I fart, she thought. Maybe an enchilada wasn’t such a good choice for lunch. The more she worried, the more certain she was that hers would be the next head on the chopping block.
She mentally listed all of her assets and all of her expenses. If I move into a smaller place, she thought, or take in a roommate, I might be able to make rent. If I commute to work via carpool or take the bus, that will be another bill I can bring down to minimum. On and on things she deemed frivolous expenses, like cable and the daily latté, were numbered among the things to skip until a new job could be had.
If they fire me on good terms I can collect unemployment, though it will take at least two weeks to get to me. I wonder if I can blow the interview in such a way that they will HAVE to fire me, she thought. Nothing that is illegal or unsanitary… Jut something that is weird enough that they have to think twice to keep me in the company. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that if she was about to be fired, this would be the way to go. If I act weird enough I can always claim that they were prejudiced against me and maybe file a lawsuit against them…
A few minutes later she was called into the office. Three very tense men and one woman sat opposite her at a very long table. Melissa took her seat, after dusting it off with a handkerchief. Let the games begin, she told herself.
“Melissa Winnepo?” Asked a man who sat in the center of the interviewers.
“That’s my cubicle slave-name. I call myself ‘the Princess of Paperclips and Office Supplies’.”
“Uh…Very Well. Can I call you ‘Princess’ for short?”
“If you must.” she said, waving a dismissive hand at him.
“What do you bring to this job?”
“Individuality, hope, forgiveness and a damn good batch of deviled eggs when we throw a potluck party.”
“I see… Where do you hope to be in another ten years?”
“On the moon, if they can ever get the space program up and running at full speed again. But I’ll only ride first class, mind you. Do you think that they have champagne flavored Tang?”
“What has this company taught you?”
“How to keep my head down, not get noticed and the best way to blame others for my own mistakes.”
“Between one to ten, ten being best, rate how well you fit in at this company.”
“For the purposes of this exercise, I will consider tie-dye green to be a number.”
“And?…” the interviewer asked, clearly waiting for a number.
Melissa sighed. “Somewhere between 8.5 and Pittsburgh.”
“If you had to identify with any creature, alive or extinct, on Earth, which would it be?”
Here’s the rule breaker, she thought. “A blue baboon.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they stand out.”
“Very interesting, we’ll need a few moments to consider your answers, Princess.”
They began talking amongst themselves almost before she left the room. Here comes the unemployment line, she thought to herself, passing the rest of the group to be interviewed that day.
“How bad is it?” a man asked her as she passed.
“An absolute nightmare.” she said, returning to her cubicle.
By the end of the day, the interviewers had made their decision. More than a few workers were escorted out of the office by security officers, carrying what little possessions they had decorated their cubicles with. A few left the interviewing office very pale, but with shaky smiles. They had survived this round of layoffs, but were unsure what the future might hold for them. Melissa tried to tell herself that it did not matter one way or the other. But inside she was shaking and sick.
They called her in last and she was certain that not only were they going to give her a pink slip, but also give her a nice white jacket and padded cell to go with it.
“Your answers were very… unique and honest.” the interviewer said. “We had a hell of a time trying imagine what you do here at the office.”
Oh, here it comes, Melissa thought. She braced herself for the worst, what she hoped that she had prepared herself for.
“We decided that your time here was a waste of your imagination and ingenuity. So we’ve decide to give you a position in management. You’ll be in charge of keeping morale up in the workplace. We hope that someone of your immense skill, having already survived the ‘trenches’, so to speak, will know what we need to keep things fresh and lively, so that productivity improves. Everyone knows that a stale workplace makes for a slow employee.”
“You’re giving me a promotion?” Melissa asked.
“Unless you want to stay working in the supply room for the rest of you career?”
“No, I think I’ll land on my feet soon enough.”
“That’s what we thought.” the head interviewer said. “Do you want your paycheck made out to ‘Princess’ or…?”
“Melissa Winnepo will be fine.”
Monday, July 4, 2011
Ghastly
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Ghastly
By Plot Roach
Sarah rearranged the tiles in her hand before setting them down on the game board. Her favorite word was “ghastly”, and she used it in the game every chance she could get.
“Again?” her older brother, Aaron asked. “Don’t you know any other words to use in Scrabble?” He set down five tiles, with ten tiles yet to be used.
“Yes” she said, adding “fiends” to the board before running out of tiles and thus ending the game.
“I don’t know why I bother playing this game with you.” he said.
“Because you’re a good brother.” Sarah said. “Ready to play again?”
“How about we do something else?” Aaron asked, a mischievous look in his eye.
“What do you have in mind?”
A few minutes later they piled into the family car with their parents and went to a little swap meet at the edge of town. They picked up fresh corn for dinner, a handful of toys from a second hand dealer and Aaron sidled up to Old Tom, a friend of the family for years, to pick up a paper bag that had been stapled shut. He slipped the man some money and smiled as he handed the bag to Sarah.
“What’s in it?” she asked, trying to peek into the bag.
“Don’t open it here.” he said. “It’s a surprise.”
“So what’s in the bag?”
“A surprise for later tonight. So let’s keep this between just us, okay?”
Once back home, they unloaded the groceries and helped their mother in the kitchen. Dad fired up the grill and everyone got into the mood for the holiday.
“I wonder what they do in other countries for the fourth of July.” Sarah wondered.
“I think we’re the only ones who celebrate it. Seeing as England’s probably still sore that we won our freedom from them and all. And I can’t think that any other country would care.” Aaron said.
Sarah giggled and helped their mother prepare food in the kitchen, as Aaron help their father set up the picnic table and chairs. Within hours, they were ready, and so was the feast: hot dogs and burgers fresh from the grill, hot buttered corn on the cob, and a hot apple pie cooling under a dollop of vanilla ice-cream. They ate until they nearly burst. The last rays of sunlight creeping away from their home as their parents cleared away the rest of the food.
“What’s the surprise?” Sarah asked, their parents too busy with the clean up to wonder what their children were up to. Aaron pulled her to the side of the house and opened the bag, showing her the fireworks he had bought off of Old Tom at the swap meet that morning.
“But aren’t those illegal here?” Sarah asked
“We’ll be careful.”
“But they might start a fire with the weeds and stuff.” Sarah said.
“That’s not why they are illegal.”
“Then why?”
“You see, when monsters see the lights of the fireworks, they know that there are some well fed plump American kids on the other end. So they follow the lights and snatch up the kids, never to bee seen again.” Aaron explained.
“Oh, yeah. And how come no one has even told me this before?”
“They didn’t want to scare you. And besides, the grown ups have never seen it happen. They’re too busy watching the fireworks themselves to see the kid get snatched.”
“You’re weird.” Sarah said.
“You’re just scared.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then prove it“, he said, holding out a brightly colored box.
They waited until full dark before they lit off the first of the fireworks, laughing as the sparks colored the sky. Sarah was playing with a sparkler near the end of the driveway when she first heard the noise, like a deep breathing echoed in a cave.
“I hear something.” she told her brother.
“You’re just trying to get even with me for the story” he said.
“No, I really did.” she said, still hearing the breathing, but this time it was closer.
Her brother set up the next batch of rockets to light when Sarah saw movement from the corner of her eye. Something dark slithered out of the sewer grate next to the end of their driveway. “There it is!” she called to her brother, but he was too busy with the fireworks to care.
If I don’t do something fast, it will get us, she thought. She quickly grabbed one of the rockets her brother had just lit and aimed it at the dark thing, even as her brother began to yell at her. “Do you want to blow your fingers off? Put that thing down!” But she ignored him, and aimed at the beast.
Three shots burst forth from the small firework rocket, lighting up the night, and the creature with it. Aaron froze when he saw the thing, though Sarah advanced until she was within touching distance of the monster. Fire from the rocket set its hair on fire and it shrieked off into the night.
The following morning they set out to look for the thing, finding it in an overgrown hedge at the edge of their property. It looked like an ape, covered in purple hued hair. It had great webbed wings, like a bat and a set of teeth that reminded Aaron of a shark. In the night, as it was attacking, it seemed more impressive than the half burned, shriveled hulk they now studied.
“It’s so…” Aaron began to say, at a loss for words.
“Ghastly.” Sarah finished.
Ghastly
By Plot Roach
Sarah rearranged the tiles in her hand before setting them down on the game board. Her favorite word was “ghastly”, and she used it in the game every chance she could get.
“Again?” her older brother, Aaron asked. “Don’t you know any other words to use in Scrabble?” He set down five tiles, with ten tiles yet to be used.
“Yes” she said, adding “fiends” to the board before running out of tiles and thus ending the game.
“I don’t know why I bother playing this game with you.” he said.
“Because you’re a good brother.” Sarah said. “Ready to play again?”
“How about we do something else?” Aaron asked, a mischievous look in his eye.
“What do you have in mind?”
A few minutes later they piled into the family car with their parents and went to a little swap meet at the edge of town. They picked up fresh corn for dinner, a handful of toys from a second hand dealer and Aaron sidled up to Old Tom, a friend of the family for years, to pick up a paper bag that had been stapled shut. He slipped the man some money and smiled as he handed the bag to Sarah.
“What’s in it?” she asked, trying to peek into the bag.
“Don’t open it here.” he said. “It’s a surprise.”
“So what’s in the bag?”
“A surprise for later tonight. So let’s keep this between just us, okay?”
Once back home, they unloaded the groceries and helped their mother in the kitchen. Dad fired up the grill and everyone got into the mood for the holiday.
“I wonder what they do in other countries for the fourth of July.” Sarah wondered.
“I think we’re the only ones who celebrate it. Seeing as England’s probably still sore that we won our freedom from them and all. And I can’t think that any other country would care.” Aaron said.
Sarah giggled and helped their mother prepare food in the kitchen, as Aaron help their father set up the picnic table and chairs. Within hours, they were ready, and so was the feast: hot dogs and burgers fresh from the grill, hot buttered corn on the cob, and a hot apple pie cooling under a dollop of vanilla ice-cream. They ate until they nearly burst. The last rays of sunlight creeping away from their home as their parents cleared away the rest of the food.
“What’s the surprise?” Sarah asked, their parents too busy with the clean up to wonder what their children were up to. Aaron pulled her to the side of the house and opened the bag, showing her the fireworks he had bought off of Old Tom at the swap meet that morning.
“But aren’t those illegal here?” Sarah asked
“We’ll be careful.”
“But they might start a fire with the weeds and stuff.” Sarah said.
“That’s not why they are illegal.”
“Then why?”
“You see, when monsters see the lights of the fireworks, they know that there are some well fed plump American kids on the other end. So they follow the lights and snatch up the kids, never to bee seen again.” Aaron explained.
“Oh, yeah. And how come no one has even told me this before?”
“They didn’t want to scare you. And besides, the grown ups have never seen it happen. They’re too busy watching the fireworks themselves to see the kid get snatched.”
“You’re weird.” Sarah said.
“You’re just scared.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then prove it“, he said, holding out a brightly colored box.
They waited until full dark before they lit off the first of the fireworks, laughing as the sparks colored the sky. Sarah was playing with a sparkler near the end of the driveway when she first heard the noise, like a deep breathing echoed in a cave.
“I hear something.” she told her brother.
“You’re just trying to get even with me for the story” he said.
“No, I really did.” she said, still hearing the breathing, but this time it was closer.
Her brother set up the next batch of rockets to light when Sarah saw movement from the corner of her eye. Something dark slithered out of the sewer grate next to the end of their driveway. “There it is!” she called to her brother, but he was too busy with the fireworks to care.
If I don’t do something fast, it will get us, she thought. She quickly grabbed one of the rockets her brother had just lit and aimed it at the dark thing, even as her brother began to yell at her. “Do you want to blow your fingers off? Put that thing down!” But she ignored him, and aimed at the beast.
Three shots burst forth from the small firework rocket, lighting up the night, and the creature with it. Aaron froze when he saw the thing, though Sarah advanced until she was within touching distance of the monster. Fire from the rocket set its hair on fire and it shrieked off into the night.
The following morning they set out to look for the thing, finding it in an overgrown hedge at the edge of their property. It looked like an ape, covered in purple hued hair. It had great webbed wings, like a bat and a set of teeth that reminded Aaron of a shark. In the night, as it was attacking, it seemed more impressive than the half burned, shriveled hulk they now studied.
“It’s so…” Aaron began to say, at a loss for words.
“Ghastly.” Sarah finished.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
From Crystals to Diamonds
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
From Crystals to Diamonds
By Plot Roach
I kicked open the door to the bar, letting it bang against the wall and add another dent to the collection there. I knew Larry would be mad, but I needed to make an entrance. He would just plaster it over anyway, like he had all the others.
When all eyes were on me was when I made my way in, my sneakers clomping down on the floor with the sound of heavy army boots. I've always been a heavy walker. You could ask my mama about it, if she was still alive. She used to yell to high heaven every time I came running through the kitchen, telling me that I would wake the dead with a heavy footstep like that.
So it came as no surprise when the inhabitants of the Bermuda Shots Bar turned to me and gave me a look like I was walking with a dead man over my shoulder. Of course, it probably helped that I was.
The formerly alive body was one of my dealers, Chris. Formerly one of my best friends as well. But when your man steals thirty thousand dollars and another forty grand worth of crystal meth from you. You have to put friendship aside for business. Which really sucked since we had been friends since preschool. Damn I hate to end relationships like that.
Chris was thrashed, or at least his body was. I had messed him up pretty badly with the interrogation. A jumper cable, a car battery and a chest full of Black & Decker power tools will do that to a man. Now my garage was a mess and I was walking around with a corpse.
I'm not the only man to make an example out of a dealer who crosses me. One drug lord a few cities over takes the pinkie fingers of those who disappoint him and wears them around his neck like some kind of Amazon witch doctor fetish. And there's this woman in another state who puts her enemies in her garden, giving a fresh rose (fertilized by the dead) to her next victim just before she puts a hit out on him.
Ears, fingers, even privates -I've heard it all. I went a little overboard by carrying the whole body, so sue me.
I wasn't really worried about cops, they don't come to this side of the city unless there's about five cars all coming together. Safety in numbers, I guess. So my biggest worry carrying a corpse around isn't the law so much as how badly my former friend will stain my clothes. I drop my dead buddy on the bar and order a drink. The bartender doesn't bat an eyelash as he slides a beer in my direction. "Anything for your friend?" he asks with a crooked smile.
"No." I answer, "He's the designated driver."
The silence in the bar is broken up with nervous laughter. Men return to their game of pool, hookers flirt up with potential johns, and even the roaches feel safe enough to resume scurrying in the shadows. "But my friend would like to know where his loving girlfriend is at the moment." I say, tossing the bartender a rolled up ball of cash. He gives a quick nod to the back of the bar as he pockets the bills and I hear the back door open and someone dash out of it.
"Figures." I say. "Think you could watch over my pal here?" I ask the bartender and he just shrugs. I dash out the back.
The good thing is that it's Thursday and the back gate is locked. It's only unlocked for the dump trucks every Friday and Tuesday. My quarry, all three hundred pounds of her, is trying -unsuccessfully- to scale a chin link fence. The only thing she manages to do is make the fence sag under her weight.
"Drop to the ground, Crystal." I yell. It shouldn't be hard for her, she's only a few inches off the ground, after all.
"Don't shoot me, Davis. I didn't have a thing to do with it." she pleads, her face bawled up like some creepy crying babydoll.
"How do you know what I’m asking for if you had nothing to do with it?"
Her face goes blank, I’ve got her now. "Where's my goods, Crystal? Give them back and I’ll let you go."
"I don't have them... At least not all of it."
"Damn" I swear, "How much is left?"
"Chris gave most of the money to his mama -she has cancer real bad and needs an operation."
"Like I never heard that one before. And the 'crystal', Crystal?"
"I took some and gave the rest to friends. It's all gone now, Davis."
"Well, damn." I say. "Now I’ve got to make an example out of you, too."
She screams and hollers, pleading for mercy. No one comes, because that's the city we live in. I cut her a few times and bash her head in with a loose brick from the alley wall. Now I’ve got another body to lug around.
I leave her there and go back to my beer, dead Chris is waiting right where I left him. "Your girlfriend says 'Hi'." I tell him and settle into my seat.
"You gonna move the bodies?" the bartender asks.
"Yeah, as soon as I know what to do with them." I say.
A shadow moves in on me like the Reaper and I've got my knife out before I even feel the handle of it in my hand. It's a woman, granny aged and dressed like she doesn't belong here. Maybe she's lost or her car broke down. Still, I don't put the knife away just yet.
"I think I've got a solution for you." she says and hands me a flyer. It's about custom jewelry. And she goes on to tell me that she's been in the area talking to the local funeral parlors about her product. One thing we don't have a shortage of in this town is bodies, and she's got the answer we're looking for. Well, at least she's got the answer I’m looking for. She'll convert the dead bodies, for a price, into something lighter and a little more flashy for yours truly.
A while later, I stand in front of my dealers, handing out parcels needing to be distributed. I rub the diamond studs in my ears. One is Chris, the other is Crystal, and my men know it. It takes a while for the bodies to become diamonds. There’s a process where they have to be cremated before the ashes can be pressed into diamonds. But the old lady worked a miracle. No more blood on my clothes or backaches from lugging dead bodies around. And no evidence for the police, should they actually try and clean up the crime in the city.
I make sure Chris and Crystal shine when I wear them out in public. I want a reminder in plain view for anyone who wants to cross me. I’ve got plenty of ear left to pierce, but no one's disappointed me yet.
From Crystals to Diamonds
By Plot Roach
I kicked open the door to the bar, letting it bang against the wall and add another dent to the collection there. I knew Larry would be mad, but I needed to make an entrance. He would just plaster it over anyway, like he had all the others.
When all eyes were on me was when I made my way in, my sneakers clomping down on the floor with the sound of heavy army boots. I've always been a heavy walker. You could ask my mama about it, if she was still alive. She used to yell to high heaven every time I came running through the kitchen, telling me that I would wake the dead with a heavy footstep like that.
So it came as no surprise when the inhabitants of the Bermuda Shots Bar turned to me and gave me a look like I was walking with a dead man over my shoulder. Of course, it probably helped that I was.
The formerly alive body was one of my dealers, Chris. Formerly one of my best friends as well. But when your man steals thirty thousand dollars and another forty grand worth of crystal meth from you. You have to put friendship aside for business. Which really sucked since we had been friends since preschool. Damn I hate to end relationships like that.
Chris was thrashed, or at least his body was. I had messed him up pretty badly with the interrogation. A jumper cable, a car battery and a chest full of Black & Decker power tools will do that to a man. Now my garage was a mess and I was walking around with a corpse.
I'm not the only man to make an example out of a dealer who crosses me. One drug lord a few cities over takes the pinkie fingers of those who disappoint him and wears them around his neck like some kind of Amazon witch doctor fetish. And there's this woman in another state who puts her enemies in her garden, giving a fresh rose (fertilized by the dead) to her next victim just before she puts a hit out on him.
Ears, fingers, even privates -I've heard it all. I went a little overboard by carrying the whole body, so sue me.
I wasn't really worried about cops, they don't come to this side of the city unless there's about five cars all coming together. Safety in numbers, I guess. So my biggest worry carrying a corpse around isn't the law so much as how badly my former friend will stain my clothes. I drop my dead buddy on the bar and order a drink. The bartender doesn't bat an eyelash as he slides a beer in my direction. "Anything for your friend?" he asks with a crooked smile.
"No." I answer, "He's the designated driver."
The silence in the bar is broken up with nervous laughter. Men return to their game of pool, hookers flirt up with potential johns, and even the roaches feel safe enough to resume scurrying in the shadows. "But my friend would like to know where his loving girlfriend is at the moment." I say, tossing the bartender a rolled up ball of cash. He gives a quick nod to the back of the bar as he pockets the bills and I hear the back door open and someone dash out of it.
"Figures." I say. "Think you could watch over my pal here?" I ask the bartender and he just shrugs. I dash out the back.
The good thing is that it's Thursday and the back gate is locked. It's only unlocked for the dump trucks every Friday and Tuesday. My quarry, all three hundred pounds of her, is trying -unsuccessfully- to scale a chin link fence. The only thing she manages to do is make the fence sag under her weight.
"Drop to the ground, Crystal." I yell. It shouldn't be hard for her, she's only a few inches off the ground, after all.
"Don't shoot me, Davis. I didn't have a thing to do with it." she pleads, her face bawled up like some creepy crying babydoll.
"How do you know what I’m asking for if you had nothing to do with it?"
Her face goes blank, I’ve got her now. "Where's my goods, Crystal? Give them back and I’ll let you go."
"I don't have them... At least not all of it."
"Damn" I swear, "How much is left?"
"Chris gave most of the money to his mama -she has cancer real bad and needs an operation."
"Like I never heard that one before. And the 'crystal', Crystal?"
"I took some and gave the rest to friends. It's all gone now, Davis."
"Well, damn." I say. "Now I’ve got to make an example out of you, too."
She screams and hollers, pleading for mercy. No one comes, because that's the city we live in. I cut her a few times and bash her head in with a loose brick from the alley wall. Now I’ve got another body to lug around.
I leave her there and go back to my beer, dead Chris is waiting right where I left him. "Your girlfriend says 'Hi'." I tell him and settle into my seat.
"You gonna move the bodies?" the bartender asks.
"Yeah, as soon as I know what to do with them." I say.
A shadow moves in on me like the Reaper and I've got my knife out before I even feel the handle of it in my hand. It's a woman, granny aged and dressed like she doesn't belong here. Maybe she's lost or her car broke down. Still, I don't put the knife away just yet.
"I think I've got a solution for you." she says and hands me a flyer. It's about custom jewelry. And she goes on to tell me that she's been in the area talking to the local funeral parlors about her product. One thing we don't have a shortage of in this town is bodies, and she's got the answer we're looking for. Well, at least she's got the answer I’m looking for. She'll convert the dead bodies, for a price, into something lighter and a little more flashy for yours truly.
A while later, I stand in front of my dealers, handing out parcels needing to be distributed. I rub the diamond studs in my ears. One is Chris, the other is Crystal, and my men know it. It takes a while for the bodies to become diamonds. There’s a process where they have to be cremated before the ashes can be pressed into diamonds. But the old lady worked a miracle. No more blood on my clothes or backaches from lugging dead bodies around. And no evidence for the police, should they actually try and clean up the crime in the city.
I make sure Chris and Crystal shine when I wear them out in public. I want a reminder in plain view for anyone who wants to cross me. I’ve got plenty of ear left to pierce, but no one's disappointed me yet.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Scavenger Hunt
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Scavenger Hunt
By Plot Roach
The last rays of sunlight crept over the edge of the buildings, their shadows stretching into the coming darkness. A battered and dusty truck pulled up to the curb of one of the streets, belching a black cloud into the city as it rattled to a stop. Six human figures leaped from the bed of the truck as two more exited the cab.
The old woman handed out bags to each of them, keeping one of them for herself. They each knew what was expected of them this night. And what items they were required to collect.
“Time is fleeting“, the old woman reminded them as night kissed the city and she wandered over to the first house. As she stood upon the porch, she began her transformation. Her hair became thick and dark, dispelling the grayness of her age. Her breasts filled and became perky, as the wrinkles melted from her like snow during a spring thaw. She rang the doorbell and began to chant. The man who answered the door did not know what hit him. She walked past him as if he was nothing more than her manservant, and she the owner of the dwelling. She surveyed the contents of the house and nodded her approval at his prized buck that was stuffed and mounted at the corner of the living room. “Nice rack.” she said, running her fingers along one of the tines of an antler.
“I was about to say the same for you.” he laughed, closing and locking the door behind him. His mind filled with the promise of what they might do together once properly introduced to this temptress. But all thoughts of sex were gone when she pulled the skin from his still living body.
A few streets down, a small boy knocked on the door of another house. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” he said to a young mother. “But I’m lost and I don’t know where my mom is.” He looked shyly down at the baby blue tiles that lined the floor.
“Oh, you poor boy!” the mother said, “You come in and we’ll find her. You just sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.” she said, ushering him into the kitchen where she put a plate of freshly baked cookies and a tall glass of cold milk in front of him. She called her other children into the room to keep him company and picked up the phone. “I’ll just call the police and I’m sure that they will find her in no time.”
“That won’t be necessary.” the boy said, an odd gleam in his eye. “I’ve found what I was looking for.”
Moments later a man, no longer playing the boy, looked shyly down at the kitchen tiles, stained red instead of their original baby blue.
In yet another home, a police officer was interviewing a man regarding some vandalism in the neighborhood. The officer remarked on the man’s glass eye and asked him about it.
“Oh this.” the man said, sighing. “I got this back in my college days. Some friends and I were at a party. When we left the driver was too drunk to drive. We ended up in a car accident and I lost my eye. Still, I got off lucky compared to a couple of the others who never made it out alive.”
“How much would you sell it for?” the officer asked.
“Oh,” the man laughed, “Its been with me for over twenty years now. I wouldn’t give it up without a fight.”
“I was hoping that you would say that.” said the officer, his eyes glowing in the lamplight.
All through the city, different homes were subject to a scavenger hunt of the morbid kind, as their residents gave up their lives as well as their belongings. As the darkness thinned into the first hours of dawn, the men (and one woman) reconvened at the truck, lugging their bags with them. They emptied the sacks of their contents and the woman sorted through them in the bed of the truck. Beside the animal trophies she had gathered, there were various bits of jewelry, and other effects of the dead as well as several fresh human skins. They would need these for future transformations and future forays into the human world. In order to look like those that they had killed, they would need a personal item from each, and in some cases, even their skin.
While they had walked in this neighborhood looking as they had, Coyote had taught them that they should never use the same skin twice should they be recognized as what they were and hunted by mankind.
“Oh” said one young man as he pulled something out of his pocket. “I almost forgot about this.” He tossed the glass eye into the mess. “He put up one hell of a fight.” he said, rubbing a black eye.
Meanwhile the woman held up a mummified lizard and demanded to know who had brought it.
“It looked neat.” one man admitted. “And doesn’t Lightfoot have a spell for making gold that requires a mummified corpse?”
“But a lizard?” the old woman asked.
“The spell doesn’t say what kind of corpse, just that it has to be mummified.”
The old woman shrugged and put it back in the pile. She placed the items back into their respective bags and the men piled into the back of the truck.
“What I want to know is what’s up with the stray toaster?”
“Brokenclaw killed the last one, so we needed a replacement. Said the old woman.
“How can a toaster be a ‘stray’?” asked another man.
“Do you see a collar on it? No. It belongs to no one. Now it comes with us, the rest of the strays.” said one of the men.
“It’s a toaster, not a dog.”
They laughed as the truck pulled out onto the street, once again belching its toxic fumes into the air. They gave no last looks or thoughts to the civilized, yet unprotected, world they left behind. The men scratched and pulled at clothing that felt too tight. Limbs began to throb from their shape changing. And each agreed that it had been a long, if fruitful, night. The sun was rising and their desert retreat felt far away. By the time the truck returned to their ramshackle home, the woman was the one driving. She was forced to unload the night’s plunder herself as her companions had already escaped the confines of the truck. She watched them with a crooked smile on her wrinkled lips as they raced across the hot desert sands, howling at the sun as their tails streaked out like flags behind them.
Scavenger Hunt
By Plot Roach
The last rays of sunlight crept over the edge of the buildings, their shadows stretching into the coming darkness. A battered and dusty truck pulled up to the curb of one of the streets, belching a black cloud into the city as it rattled to a stop. Six human figures leaped from the bed of the truck as two more exited the cab.
The old woman handed out bags to each of them, keeping one of them for herself. They each knew what was expected of them this night. And what items they were required to collect.
“Time is fleeting“, the old woman reminded them as night kissed the city and she wandered over to the first house. As she stood upon the porch, she began her transformation. Her hair became thick and dark, dispelling the grayness of her age. Her breasts filled and became perky, as the wrinkles melted from her like snow during a spring thaw. She rang the doorbell and began to chant. The man who answered the door did not know what hit him. She walked past him as if he was nothing more than her manservant, and she the owner of the dwelling. She surveyed the contents of the house and nodded her approval at his prized buck that was stuffed and mounted at the corner of the living room. “Nice rack.” she said, running her fingers along one of the tines of an antler.
“I was about to say the same for you.” he laughed, closing and locking the door behind him. His mind filled with the promise of what they might do together once properly introduced to this temptress. But all thoughts of sex were gone when she pulled the skin from his still living body.
A few streets down, a small boy knocked on the door of another house. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” he said to a young mother. “But I’m lost and I don’t know where my mom is.” He looked shyly down at the baby blue tiles that lined the floor.
“Oh, you poor boy!” the mother said, “You come in and we’ll find her. You just sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.” she said, ushering him into the kitchen where she put a plate of freshly baked cookies and a tall glass of cold milk in front of him. She called her other children into the room to keep him company and picked up the phone. “I’ll just call the police and I’m sure that they will find her in no time.”
“That won’t be necessary.” the boy said, an odd gleam in his eye. “I’ve found what I was looking for.”
Moments later a man, no longer playing the boy, looked shyly down at the kitchen tiles, stained red instead of their original baby blue.
In yet another home, a police officer was interviewing a man regarding some vandalism in the neighborhood. The officer remarked on the man’s glass eye and asked him about it.
“Oh this.” the man said, sighing. “I got this back in my college days. Some friends and I were at a party. When we left the driver was too drunk to drive. We ended up in a car accident and I lost my eye. Still, I got off lucky compared to a couple of the others who never made it out alive.”
“How much would you sell it for?” the officer asked.
“Oh,” the man laughed, “Its been with me for over twenty years now. I wouldn’t give it up without a fight.”
“I was hoping that you would say that.” said the officer, his eyes glowing in the lamplight.
All through the city, different homes were subject to a scavenger hunt of the morbid kind, as their residents gave up their lives as well as their belongings. As the darkness thinned into the first hours of dawn, the men (and one woman) reconvened at the truck, lugging their bags with them. They emptied the sacks of their contents and the woman sorted through them in the bed of the truck. Beside the animal trophies she had gathered, there were various bits of jewelry, and other effects of the dead as well as several fresh human skins. They would need these for future transformations and future forays into the human world. In order to look like those that they had killed, they would need a personal item from each, and in some cases, even their skin.
While they had walked in this neighborhood looking as they had, Coyote had taught them that they should never use the same skin twice should they be recognized as what they were and hunted by mankind.
“Oh” said one young man as he pulled something out of his pocket. “I almost forgot about this.” He tossed the glass eye into the mess. “He put up one hell of a fight.” he said, rubbing a black eye.
Meanwhile the woman held up a mummified lizard and demanded to know who had brought it.
“It looked neat.” one man admitted. “And doesn’t Lightfoot have a spell for making gold that requires a mummified corpse?”
“But a lizard?” the old woman asked.
“The spell doesn’t say what kind of corpse, just that it has to be mummified.”
The old woman shrugged and put it back in the pile. She placed the items back into their respective bags and the men piled into the back of the truck.
“What I want to know is what’s up with the stray toaster?”
“Brokenclaw killed the last one, so we needed a replacement. Said the old woman.
“How can a toaster be a ‘stray’?” asked another man.
“Do you see a collar on it? No. It belongs to no one. Now it comes with us, the rest of the strays.” said one of the men.
“It’s a toaster, not a dog.”
They laughed as the truck pulled out onto the street, once again belching its toxic fumes into the air. They gave no last looks or thoughts to the civilized, yet unprotected, world they left behind. The men scratched and pulled at clothing that felt too tight. Limbs began to throb from their shape changing. And each agreed that it had been a long, if fruitful, night. The sun was rising and their desert retreat felt far away. By the time the truck returned to their ramshackle home, the woman was the one driving. She was forced to unload the night’s plunder herself as her companions had already escaped the confines of the truck. She watched them with a crooked smile on her wrinkled lips as they raced across the hot desert sands, howling at the sun as their tails streaked out like flags behind them.
Friday, July 1, 2011
The Best Thing Since Botox
Plot Challenge: zombie fish
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Best Thing Since Botox
By Plot Roach
Mark looked at the dead fish that ringed the small man made pond and swore beneath his breath. He had told Dave not to use the industrial strength bug killer anywhere near water sources, and once again the man had ignored him. He kicked one of the fish nearest the edge, looking down at the corpse. It surprised him that the scales were peeling away in sections and fluttered against the wind like the pages of a tattered book. He noticed the mouth gaping, still trying to live, despite the lack of water.
They must have jumped out to try and save themselves, he thought. Like people who jump from a burning building, taking their chances with death and fate as they fall to the ground. Wait a minute, he thought, it shouldn’t still be alive. He reached down and grabbed the fish, pulling it off in sections, as the body had plastered itself to the ground as it dried in the sunlight. He gagged and swallowed hard while looking at the pieces of fish that were left in his gloved hands. And remarkably, they continued to move, especially the gaping mouth.
What the hell could have caused this? He asked himself. He looked to the other fish and noticed that they, too, were still somehow ‘alive’. He pulled his walkie talkie from his belt and called over to George, one of his men. “Tell Dave I need to take to him as soon as he gets back from lunch.” He set the fish down on the ground next to one of its writhing companions. “And bring me a couple of big buckets.”
Moments later, Mark emptied the pond and put the contents into the back of one of the company vans. He would interrogate Dave a to which chemicals had been used, but in the meantime he wanted to study the fish a bit better. He made a promise to the owner of the property to replace the fish out of his own pocket. So this little exercise in the ‘unnatural’ better be worth it, he told himself.
At home he put the fish back in water. The ones that were still in good shape began to swim around. The ones that were little more than parts and pieces lay where they settled, but continued to move. When he added fresh goldfish, they were devoured instantly by the residents of the tank. Yet they ignored any manufactured fish food he added by hand. And when he reached in to retrieve a moving fish part, they swarmed him and began sucking on his hand.
It startled him more than anything else. After he jerked his hand away from the melee, he noticed that they had left his skin smooth. They had eaten the calluses off of his palm and fingers that had built up over the years from his job as a landscape maintenance worker.
What the hell? He thought, comparing both hands. A fish that can breath in air and in water is weird enough, but what do I do with this? He took a specimen to a friend, Fred, who taught high school biology and made a hobby out of studying odd animals.
A few days later Fred returned the creature to him, stating that it was neither alive nor dead.
“How can that be?” Mark asked. “It’s still moving?”
“Well, it has very little brain function, and none of its major organs move with the exception of the digestive track. You’ve got a zombie fish on your hands.”
“So what do I do with it?”
“Make them into pets, I guess. It would finally be one that kids couldn’t kill -unless they chopped it into pieces.”
“No. The pieces still move.” Mark admitted.
“Incredible.”
“No, Creepy.”
“I have an idea…” Fred said. And went on to describe and idea he had while listening about his wife’s day at a day spa.
“They use these special fish to eat the bunions and crap off the bottom of women’s feet. It feeds the fish and performs the pedicure for the women, so everyone wins. But they stopped doing them when PETA complained that they put the fish in hot water for the comfort of the people, when the fish needed cold water to live in.”
“But these fish don’t even need water, much less care about the temperature…”
“Exactly. All we need to do is perform a few experiments, to make sure that we can make more fish. And that the pedicure is safe for humans.”
“Who do we get to volunteer for that job?” Mark asked.
“Leave it to me.”
Fred paid a homeless woman to sit with her feet in a plastic kiddie pool while the two men watched closely as the fish fed upon her. The fish only ate the first few layers of skin before turning away from the human host in search of something else to consume. They paid her and sent her on her way.
Fred called Mark the next day, telling him that later that night she had snuck back in and submerged her entire body and let the fish feast upon her.
“It took years off of her life.” Fred explained.
“She was only a half step and a banana peel away when we found her.” Mark said.
“No, you don’t understand. She was sixty when she began the treatment, and now she looks about thirty.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“I found her the next morning, alive and well, but fully transformed. She openly admitted to doing it on purpose because she liked the way it felt when the fish fed upon her. She said that ‘It tickled and then everything tingled.’ When I examined her body, I found that the fish rejuvenated everything that they had touched.”
“And this means?”
“We’re sitting on the best thing since botox.”
A few days later, their shop opened in the mall. Women lined up around the store and almost to the parking lot in order to procure a pedicure and perhaps a bit more. It was said that they could perform miracles at “Turn Back The Time Salon”, and everyone (including the fish) were just dying to give it a try.
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Best Thing Since Botox
By Plot Roach
Mark looked at the dead fish that ringed the small man made pond and swore beneath his breath. He had told Dave not to use the industrial strength bug killer anywhere near water sources, and once again the man had ignored him. He kicked one of the fish nearest the edge, looking down at the corpse. It surprised him that the scales were peeling away in sections and fluttered against the wind like the pages of a tattered book. He noticed the mouth gaping, still trying to live, despite the lack of water.
They must have jumped out to try and save themselves, he thought. Like people who jump from a burning building, taking their chances with death and fate as they fall to the ground. Wait a minute, he thought, it shouldn’t still be alive. He reached down and grabbed the fish, pulling it off in sections, as the body had plastered itself to the ground as it dried in the sunlight. He gagged and swallowed hard while looking at the pieces of fish that were left in his gloved hands. And remarkably, they continued to move, especially the gaping mouth.
What the hell could have caused this? He asked himself. He looked to the other fish and noticed that they, too, were still somehow ‘alive’. He pulled his walkie talkie from his belt and called over to George, one of his men. “Tell Dave I need to take to him as soon as he gets back from lunch.” He set the fish down on the ground next to one of its writhing companions. “And bring me a couple of big buckets.”
Moments later, Mark emptied the pond and put the contents into the back of one of the company vans. He would interrogate Dave a to which chemicals had been used, but in the meantime he wanted to study the fish a bit better. He made a promise to the owner of the property to replace the fish out of his own pocket. So this little exercise in the ‘unnatural’ better be worth it, he told himself.
At home he put the fish back in water. The ones that were still in good shape began to swim around. The ones that were little more than parts and pieces lay where they settled, but continued to move. When he added fresh goldfish, they were devoured instantly by the residents of the tank. Yet they ignored any manufactured fish food he added by hand. And when he reached in to retrieve a moving fish part, they swarmed him and began sucking on his hand.
It startled him more than anything else. After he jerked his hand away from the melee, he noticed that they had left his skin smooth. They had eaten the calluses off of his palm and fingers that had built up over the years from his job as a landscape maintenance worker.
What the hell? He thought, comparing both hands. A fish that can breath in air and in water is weird enough, but what do I do with this? He took a specimen to a friend, Fred, who taught high school biology and made a hobby out of studying odd animals.
A few days later Fred returned the creature to him, stating that it was neither alive nor dead.
“How can that be?” Mark asked. “It’s still moving?”
“Well, it has very little brain function, and none of its major organs move with the exception of the digestive track. You’ve got a zombie fish on your hands.”
“So what do I do with it?”
“Make them into pets, I guess. It would finally be one that kids couldn’t kill -unless they chopped it into pieces.”
“No. The pieces still move.” Mark admitted.
“Incredible.”
“No, Creepy.”
“I have an idea…” Fred said. And went on to describe and idea he had while listening about his wife’s day at a day spa.
“They use these special fish to eat the bunions and crap off the bottom of women’s feet. It feeds the fish and performs the pedicure for the women, so everyone wins. But they stopped doing them when PETA complained that they put the fish in hot water for the comfort of the people, when the fish needed cold water to live in.”
“But these fish don’t even need water, much less care about the temperature…”
“Exactly. All we need to do is perform a few experiments, to make sure that we can make more fish. And that the pedicure is safe for humans.”
“Who do we get to volunteer for that job?” Mark asked.
“Leave it to me.”
Fred paid a homeless woman to sit with her feet in a plastic kiddie pool while the two men watched closely as the fish fed upon her. The fish only ate the first few layers of skin before turning away from the human host in search of something else to consume. They paid her and sent her on her way.
Fred called Mark the next day, telling him that later that night she had snuck back in and submerged her entire body and let the fish feast upon her.
“It took years off of her life.” Fred explained.
“She was only a half step and a banana peel away when we found her.” Mark said.
“No, you don’t understand. She was sixty when she began the treatment, and now she looks about thirty.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“I found her the next morning, alive and well, but fully transformed. She openly admitted to doing it on purpose because she liked the way it felt when the fish fed upon her. She said that ‘It tickled and then everything tingled.’ When I examined her body, I found that the fish rejuvenated everything that they had touched.”
“And this means?”
“We’re sitting on the best thing since botox.”
A few days later, their shop opened in the mall. Women lined up around the store and almost to the parking lot in order to procure a pedicure and perhaps a bit more. It was said that they could perform miracles at “Turn Back The Time Salon”, and everyone (including the fish) were just dying to give it a try.
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