THX 0477's Stories

Stella Star and The City of the Super-Apes: Lovers Parted

2008-05-11T20:24:49Z

Dr. Munroe shuffled to where his lover lay, stooping to kiss her furry head, “I shall return for you, my love.”

“Like hell you will,” Stella muttered.

“What was that?” the doctor snapped, his face going red.

“Nothing. Now…let’s…go,” Stella said back in slow, over-enunciated tones, like you might address a small, stubborn child.

The doctor, hurt and offended, huffed, “There’s no need to be condescending; I am a genius you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, a real genius,” Stella snarked as she led him into the hallway, “Genius with a monkey fetish.”

The mad doctor, now showing his mad side, twirled and screamed, “She’s an ape! An ape! Why is that so hard to understand?“

Stella thumped him in the middle of the forehead with the butt of her .38, “I ain’t here for understanding, doc, just a bounty. Now march, lover boy.”

In minutes they were in the hanger where Stella had stashed her gyro-plane, ‘Ol Gertsy’. The jungle air wafted in through the hanger doors, moist and sweet, a heady aroma. Wait, open doors?

Gramps and His Memory

2008-05-09T18:36:43Z

“Freshen that up for ya, Dennis?” The waitress was loud, too loud for mid-afternoon. Dennis sighed when he realized he was old enough that she was too loud for any time of day.

“No, time. I best be gettin on.” He fished the crumpled bills, leaving a nearly exact 15 percent tip. Old habits. Old haunts.

A glance at the yellowed clock confirmed what he felt in his bones. Somewhere deeper, an ache resurfaced, a bittersweet memory. Hands bent by years of hard work and arthritis gripped the steering wheel to assist entry. Tears came to dry eyes as Dennis remembered.

“Thanks for pickin me up, gramps.”

“Anything for my little Joanie-bear.”

“Ah geez, gramps, come on. I’m 16 now.”

“Don’t matter. You’ll always be my Joanie-bear.”

“Love you too, gramps.”

With a rough flannel sleeve, Dennis smudged away the tears. He didn’t have time for memory. He didn’t have the energy for it, to be honest.

“Always,” he muttered with a huff, backing out, and guiding his truck along familiar routes.

The Dragon and The Sphinx

2008-05-09T14:11:25Z

The room fell silent save for the rhythmic tapping of Lady Huxtable’s boot toe on the wood floor. Her thin, nearly lipless mouth approximated a smile, but her dancing black eyes belied a vastly disparate emotion. Her slim figure barely disclosed any breath beneath her fashionalbe waistcoat, though the stray lock of hair from her tightly pulled bun betrayed a hurried trip up the stairs.

“Sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she let slip between pursed lips.

Rising, the sphinx come to life, Lord Windham bowed deeply, “Lord Geoffrey Windham.”

She regarded him sternly, then in an off-handed tone, “Hmm, there you are, and I still haven’t had what I’d refer to as the pleasure.”

Not missing a beat, Lord Windham said candidly, “I’m so glad you could join us. I was just saying how indecent it was for Miss Delacourt to be entertaining me without you present. Would it be to forward of me to suggest tea?”

“Among other things,” Lady Huxtable quipped, eyes locked on the charming lord.

A Dance for Cole

2008-05-08T18:20:15Z

Prim as ever, Cole sat in the metal chair, legs crossed daintily and the chair backed away at an angle from the bare table. He sighed his usual melodramatic sigh when Agent Lefleur came in grumbling over a stack of papers.

“So we shall dance again, Agent…” Cole began.

“Nope,” Agent Lefleur cut him off, “No dancing analogies.” He sat and began to arrange his papers. Cole considered this man, this bulky figure. The man’s gray eyes peered out from coarse features topped with an untamed mane of dirty blond hair. This lumbering hulk playing at the cerebral game of detective would have struck Cole as funny. It would have if it were doggedly directed towards him.

“Very well,” cooed Cole, “But does that mean no pleasantries altogether?” No response. Cole sighed again and glanced at his watch. He’d been waiting an hour.

With a click the tired tape recorder was started, “Okay, May four…”

A knock came, and the door was flung open, “Agent, it’s one of the girls! She’s called 911…like, now!”

Cops and Donuts and Other Cliches

2008-05-08T18:08:01Z

The interrogation, such as it was, took place at the donut shop a few shops over. I almost laughed at the irony, but thank goodness I didn’t. The cop didn’t look like he’d appreciate the humor as much as he was appreciating a cruller and a boston cream.

His mouth half full, he started amiably enough, “So, I made some calls, checked you out. Clean rap sheet. No truancy. Still, I got two buts.”

I almost made a crack about he looked like a three or four butt man to me, but thankfully I was still a little numb from the excitement.

“But 1, you run with tough characters, real regulars on the naughty list.” He paused, let that sink in, like I didn’t know, Like I’d give a crap. “But 2, the perps are saying you and your pals were in on some scam with them, that you’re just as guilty.”

Excuses and maneuvers ran through my head like rats on crack. I let my puzzlement look like innocent shock to be so implicated.

“Gosh,” I offered, “I was just tryin to help, officer.” I think he bought it.

Off to the Body Bank

2008-05-07T17:24:14Z

The ennui and drudgery of another day on the assembly line washed over Terrick Smith, robbing him of joy and sensation. His mind wandered back over recent events, the fights, the hastily chosen words, and all that booze. But she’d come back. She always did.

Surprisingly, it was someone else’s scream that pulled him back from his melancholy wonderings. An assembly line, like any machine, even the new-fangled thinking kind, was cold, heartless and efficient. And it had coldly, heartlessly, and efficiently pressed his arm between two sheets of white hot metal which was now formed into the exhaust screen of a DBX -7 Stratocruiser.

Muttering swears and curses, Terrick shook off the glove on his free hand and waved off the panicky coworkers. There was no pain, which was a bit surprising, though not shocking enough to overcome the frustration. He’d gone 5 months without an accident. He had stuff to do.

But now he’d have to go there, the Company Body Bank for a new hand. And that’d take all darn day.

Small Things

2008-05-07T14:54:49Z

Gordo’s scar, the one at the inner edge of his right eyebrow, was creeping toward the left eyebrow at an alarming pace. His brow thusly knotting together Gordo fussed and strained at the arrangement of what might as well have been alien technology before him. The sun assailed the stale air inside his Metro making the task no more easy.

Small things frustrated Gordo. Thick fingers were not made for tiny buttons and miniscule switches. Twisted as he was, Gordo knew for what he was intended…heavy work, real work. Given rough impliments, heavy metal, and an ample supply of oxygen and acetyline, he was the Michaelangelo of the junk yard. An artist he was.

This plug here. That slim card there. Hit these numbers. Press that. Sigh.

Taking a break from his directions, Gordo looked around. The day was still. Even the birds seemed to have given up flying for the heat. Sweat traced the grooves in his face. His breath came slow and heavy. But Gordo smiled and returned to his work, important work.

On a Walk

2008-05-07T14:39:36Z

Though the surface calmed almost as quickly as it had been disturbed, the water rippled quietly along. Tiny wavelets lapped uselessly against the dingy, brown grass at the water’s edge. The world of the pond struggled to come back to equilibrium.

Tara shoved the pistol back into her purse, disgusted with it and herself. A twinge of pain among the reverberations of gunfire in her hand bade her look. A slowly opening palm revealed two tiny slits of red between the decimated remains of the dandelion’s progeny.

“Silly girl,” the voice nagged, “You only ever succeed in hurting yourself when you’re hurting others.”

Face going ever more placid, Tara’s eyes drifted with the breeze towards the factory and humble housing complex across the lake. Her mind simmered with possibilities and exigencies, eroding what little reason and decency had been left. In her private world of chaos, there would be no balance.

Light, still uncertain steps carried Tara around the edge of the lake on the winds of fate.

Time on His Mind

2008-05-06T15:54:54Z

4 girls. 4 months. and 22 days.

Slack-jawed and bleary-eyed Agent Lefleur sifted back through the notes, photos, reports, and dictations that covered the desk of his motel room. His hand reached absently for a coffee cup he’d thrown against a wall an hour ago. Time nagged at his mind and crept down his spine.

22 days.

The town freak, the hunchback of Bastrop, LA, seemed so likely a suspect. But he was in custody, drunk and disorderly, for abduction number 3.

4 girls.

The town, an old Southern town, was full of secrets. And he, an outsider, a damn Yankee no less, was stuck prying those secrets from swamp-dirtied fingers. Sure, everyone wanted to help, but nobody wanted to say, least of all the gun-happy coot circling town.

4 months.

And that drama teacher, the one with the preacher’s smile and the devil’s eyes, he just stuck out there. Clean. Gentile, he thought the word was around here. Too slick. Too something.

22 days.

Time to ask questions. Time for answers. Time to act. No time.

Vain Pursuits

2008-05-05T22:47:48Z

De Grave wound his way through the London streets as he did most nights, from one privileged diversion to the next. He rounded a corner, his thoughts and smile dancing in the flickering street light. A stealthy pair of boot-clad feet traced his steps with quick agility.

Checking his pocket watch de Grave shrugged and turned left, only half sure of his destination, yet entirely unaware of his traveling companion. Darting eyes marked his movements from within the shadows of a riding cloak. For every step he took, his pursuer took three, aware of everything the night might hold.

As the infamous London fog began to roll in off the Thames, the trail ran into a dead end. The Swank and Tower, a popular locale for brandy and cards, opened its doors and concealing arms to de Grave. As those doors shut, so ended the night’s chase.

Her amber eyes flaring, Betty Hughley pulled back her hood and in very unladylike fashion swore under her breath. Her quarry had retreated where she could not follow…a men’s club.

Numbered Beers With a Blue Collar Moebius

2008-05-05T15:05:39Z

“You never let me do anything!” she shouted, stamping her foot with as much drama as her slight frame could muster. Her father didn’t even spare her a glance, his eyes transfixed by the near-infinite revolutions of gas-powered speed machines around an oval track, the moebius strip of blue collar America. He never looked at her any more, not since she turned 12.

“Sissy,” he said with a slow drawl, “Ain’t a safe world no mo’. You go on ta bed…fo I get riled.” The words, said so many times, lacked both feeling and weight, but the meaning remained. Leave. Get out of my sight. We both know where this will lead.

Face screwed up with adolescent frustration, Sissy hissed, “If momma was here…” The pffft of an opening beer can interrupted her and signaled the end of the conversation. This was beer number 8. You never discuss anything with daddy after beer number 8. Never.

All four children saw the cue, took the direction. They scuttled to their rooms, except Sissy who stomped and thumped.

All Hail the King [Louise Madison's Hear Ye Challenge]

2008-05-04T20:36:58Z

“ALL HAIL THE KING !”

And so they did, in echoing waves of adulation. The cry was taken up again and again, all the way from the Gate of the Wastes to the royal palace. To return a conquering hero is a heady thing.

But King Ferrious III felt no cause to exult. His eyes remained fixed foward, locked on the upper spire of the West Tower. Seven years at the campaigns, slaying his enemies, outwitting their generals, and suffering every privation, had left him a stranger to his own throne. Or more aptly put, left his throne a stranger to him.

Yellick the mage met him midway across the drawbridge with a deep bow, “Your return graces us as a testament to the gods’ favor on our kingdom.” The conniving man’s tongue flitted about his mouth as if he had not engineered a near total usurpation over the past two years.

King Ferrious dismounted, drew his sword and kicked the man to the ground, “Vile dog!”

From the ground he feebly attempted, “All hail the king?” before being run through by a royal blade.

Slow Cough and Sputter

2008-05-04T20:22:07Z

Guiding the old Ford like it was a part of him, Dennis Yunker idled out of the parking lot and on to Main Street. It might as well have been a part of him after 40 years of grocery runs and Sunday church. Make that 39 years of church. Dennis hadn’t been since Maude’s death.

Excepting Maude, the only thing that’d been with Dennis longer than the truck was the double-barrel shotgun in the rack behind his head. It was a trusted, faithful companion, not that he’d named it. He always said only narcissists and sociopaths name weapons. The truck’s name was Sue, not that he admitted that to anyone.

Dennis and his truck both coughed and sputtered up Main. The gun stayed silent. There’s a time and a place. Now was a time for watching and waiting. Close as he was to death, Dennis had no trouble being patient. His course was slow but determined. He would achieve his ends as surely as water flows downhill.

For the time being, there was a lunch buffet at Sizzler calling his name. And he hated to be rude.

New Partner, Different Dance

2008-05-03T23:47:14Z

Lord Windham left Samantha’s company only to be snatched up ever so quickly by Betty, practically iridescent in the candlelight. Without a word they were on the dance floor, though she was deferential enough to allow him to lead. And lead he did, to the far end of the ballroom from where Samantha entertained her new suitors.

“Your friend is quite…elusive,” Betty said, her voice warm and playful.

“De Grave is many things, as we both know,” Lord Windham replied as his eyes kept nervous vigil over the expanse of the ballroom.

“But is he, of all things, in possession of le cierge?”

“You’ve grown more forward since we last met.”

Both were silent for a time, letting the music and bustle take the place of conversation. There was much to be said. There was little desire to have it said.

The dance ended, and Lord Windham bowed, “Possible appearances to the contrary, I do have your interests at heart. When the moment is right, I shall act.” And with that, he slid into the crowd and was gone.

Pipe Dreams and Bad Plumbing

2008-05-02T14:35:28Z

April gave him a funny look and said, “You don’t talk to girls much, do you?”

His pipe dream of love in the mall burst due to bad mental plumbing and diarrhea of the mouth, Den let his head flop forward so he would only have to look at his knees. Sadly, he misjudged the distance and his forehead collided with a slightly sticky table, worsening his already embarrassed state. He tried not to talk.

But after an unbearable length of time, likely less than a minute, he confessed, “No, not really. Not since third or fourth grade.”

“Yeah, I remember,” April said in a surprisingly kind tone, “You used to sit by that blond girl, Jenny right?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever happened to her?”

Surprised at how well the conversation was going while he worked to keep his spit from dripping onto his jeans, Den answered, “She’s a skate punk now…shaved her head.”

A pause ensued, but this time April broke it, “Den. Thanks for being honest. What you said…well, it makes a lot of sense, sort of explains a lot.”