21 Tales Read online
21 Tales
Copyright 5-20-2017
Jerry L. and Richard E. Cameron
Cover art: Jacob Weaver
Table of contents:
1 A Deal is a Deal rc
2 Doggie jc
3 A Friend of a friend rc
4 The Stalker jc
5 The Daily Post rc
6 A Recluse jc
7 The Pano rc
8 Bert the Shoe Man jc
9 A Simple Kidnapping rc
10 The Banyan Tree jc
11A stroll in the Moonlight rc
12 Human Interest jc
13 The Arraignment of the Witch Taylee White rc
14 The Kid jc
15 Missionaries rc
16 Serving Papers jc
17 Water Street rc
18 Stars fell on Alabama jc
19 The Rider rc
20 Scrabblers jc
21Go Devil 61rc
1: A Deal is a Deal
Elmer moved his red checker forward one square on the worn board and sat back, and then he leaned over the arm of the rickety old wooden chair and deposited a large dollop of spittle and tobacco juice in the direction of a Pepsi can which he had the forethought to carefully secret in the adjoining shrubbery.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Elmer addressed his opponent’s unspoken question. “Nurse Ratched will cut my nuts off if she catches me a chewin’!” he gibed his adversary, “I know ya would love to see that! King me!” Elmer saw himself as the character Randle McMurphy, in ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. And, like McMurphy, Elmer was ever alert to the nefarious plans to “institutionalize” him.
Helping Elmer in his fantasy was Head Nurse Alice “the Destroyer” Stroyer, who not only relished her role, but, she even resembled her fictional counterpart. Like Nurse Ratched, Stroyer was of “stout” build, stood tall enough to look most men in the eye, possessed a vast amount of bosom under an equally expansive area of stiff, starched uniform, and she tolerated no “crap” from anyone, especially Elmer.
As Elmer’s opponent looked over his options in response to Elmer’s last move, Elmer propped one thin leg up in an adjoining chair and slid the leg of his coveralls up so he could scratch the thin white limb, and then, he pulled the white work sock up and allowed the thick-soled Doc Martin work boot to plop loudly to the floor.
“Did I tell you, that’s my favorite leg?” Elmer asked across the table.
Then, without waiting for a response, he chuckled to himself. The joke was particularly funny since the Doctors had removed the other one a few months earlier. The cause was gangrene caused by diabetes; but, Elmer gleefully told anyone who would listen that “they” cut it off to keep him from escaping. His checker foe blew a stream of acrid smoke towards the lowest limbs of the oak tree.
Elmer snickered, “I managed to get into the pill cart!” the other man arched his eyebrows in feigned surprise. Elmer continued, “I gotta tell you my latest with Nurse Ratched.” Elmer rubbed a three-day growth of mostly-gray, and decidedly scruffy stubble.
As he spoke, Elmer was fairly shivering with excitement, “This ain’t yer typical, garden variety no-crap story.”
Nobody had contested the story, but, Elmer was taking no chances.
“Now I coulda’ really screwed up the cart.” Elmer puffed out his chest. “What with my knowledge of meds and such, But, nosir, I didn’t.” Elmer moved his king.
Elmer stopped to laugh at his own joke. “All’s I did was switch McMannis’ meds with Jackson’s.” The old man began a fit of laughter that almost dumped him to the floor. “McMannis and Jackson, get it?”
Then he explained, “McMannis gets a laxative every two days and Jackson gets a sedative.” It took Elmer two tries at explaining the situation because he wasn’t able to finish the sentence without doubling over in laughter. His competitor moved a checker.
Tears ran down his thin face as he continued, “McMannis is pretty mellow; but, he became downright depressed because he couldn’t shit.” The little man wiped at his face and stopped laughing only long enough to move the king before expelling a glob of tobacco juice haphazardly and not at all successfully in the direction of the can.
“But, Johnson,” he continued, “was the best, He was higher than a kite and every time he got wound up, he’d shit his pants!” the other man glanced towards the nearest window and smiled.
Elmer repeatedly slapped his leg and then he stopped and carefully reached across the board, plucked a red checker, plopped it onto an adjoining square and announced, “King Me!”
“The Destroyer” looked out the heavily-barred window just in time to see Elmer arc a huge projectile of tobacco juice into the flower bed.
“That little son-of-a-bitch, he’s a chewing that damned tobacco again.” The woman rocketed her bulk into the air with a swiftness that caught many an unwary patient by surprise, and shouted over her shoulder to an orderly, “Get one of the rooms ready, I’m dumping that little prick into a padded cell for a week.”
She muttered to herself as an afterthought, “It’s bad enough that the little asshole plays checkers by himself all day, but now he talks to himself and moved pieces for both players.”
Head Nurse Stroyer woke to a slight motion and she thought it felt as if she were on board something that was slowing down. There was a domed roof of sorts directly overhead and it seemed only three or four feet above her. She had a sense of time that suggested that it was night, but blurred light seemed to be flashing past her peripherals. Before she was able to focus to the left or right; however, she was aware that the surface under her was hard, but, somewhat upholstered. A quick touch showed it to be carpeted; a close, tight, nap, but carpeted nonetheless.
Motion! Yes, she clearly felt it; it was as if a car pulled off a highway. There was the turn to the right, the bump that signaled a change of road surfaces, and a distinctly different feel to the road surface. Then the nurse felt another slight bump that was immediately followed by the distinct sound of a bell.
‘Service Station!’ Her mind leaped at the thought.
With great effort, the nurse rolled to her left side. Her vision cleared and she saw that she was still in her uniform and her first thought was that she’d done something she never allowed herself to do, she’d lain down in her clothing; but, the ridiculousness of the idea immediately settled over her and she began to focus on solving the question of where she was, and more importantly, how she got there.
The surface on which she lay was flat, it was carpeted, and she was positive that she was in a vehicle of some sort. Then she realized that she was laying full length and she could dimly make out an outline of some type. With great effort the nurse stretched her right arm and at less than full length she struck a wall.
“A wall?” she thought, “Impossible! I can see past it!” Then her functions sorted the information; the window has to be in a wall, it has curtains! It has to be a wall, no vehicle has curtains. Well, none except motor homes, and this was clearly not a motor home.
She could just make out the sign, “Stick’s Garage and Bridge.” Nope, no other vehicle had curtains except a van or a hearse.
“Hearse!” her mind screamed her awake.
Head Nurse Stroyer rolled herself to the right, and toward the faint sound of voices.
She raised her head past some obstruction in the window and look out to a scene from a bad movie. It was dark, and slightly foggy, and what light there was came from single bulbs around a gas station that had to be a set from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. An old Hitchcock movie; one of the black and white ones.
A gaunt figure was apparently pumping gasoline, she could hear the familiar ‘ker-ching’, but, it was the voices that attracted her attention.
“Yep, I guess he never knowed when he challenged me that I ain’t too smart at most things, but I never lost a game of checkers,” The voice added, “Lessen I wanted to”
That voice!
“He wanted to play fer my soul, but ah tol’ him what I wanted was my leg, a body that would never corrupt, a Cadillac car, an unlimited credit card, and a woman.”
The voice continued, “He said I could have any woman whose soul he owned, but, ah tol’ him, ah wanted one particular woman, and damned if it didn’t work out.”
The figure pumping the gas stepped aside and by lifting her head, the prone woman could see the men. One was heavy and bearded, but the other was slight; both wore bib overalls.
The slight man had his back to the car. The heavy man shook hands with the slight man and the smaller man turned toward the car; he had two legs and both seemed to work fine. He walked over to the car and peered in, his face no more than two or three feet from hers, his stubble and his red nose clearly illuminated in the glow of bulbs over the pumps.
His eyes were brighter than ever before. He smiled and walked to the front of the car, opened the door, and got in behind the wheel.
A couple feet in front of her head she could hear the hum of an electric motor winding down a window and she clearly heard the unmistakable sound of someone spitting.
The automobile started smoothly and the window went up. The voice from the front softly asked, “Hey Alice… Air you a Jack Nicholson fan?”
2: Doggie Doggie
The man entered the small town. It was just another blasted remnant like all of the others he had seen. Rusty cars, blackened buildings, and the inevitable human skeletons scattered in the street in random patterns. He had witnessed this scene a hundred times in the last month. He was more concerned with the pack behind him than the dangers of poisoned gasses, mines, or holdouts.
The pack had cut his trail two days ago and would not give up. He had shot several of them but they kept following. He could hear them barking to each other no more than a quarter of a mile behind him now. He needed a safe place to hole up for the night.
He spotted a Mom & Pop motel named ‘The Texas Star’ that advertised ‘High Speed’ for a mere $49.50 per night. He wouldn’t need the internet this night, just a room that had a door that could be boarded up. “Yeah.” he said, “Just room with a strong door!”
The dog was lying in the only doorway that sported an intact door. “Shit!” The man exclaimed, as the dog rose. The man raised the rifle as the large gray dog shambled towards him wagging his tail. For some reason the man didn’t shoot. The dog stopped about ten feet from the man and sat down on his haunches. He gave the man a full tongue dog smile and raised a paw. It began to whine as its tail furiously swept the dirt behind.
The man cautiously lowered the gun and studied the dog, “You’ve had a hell of a time of it haven’t you boy?” The man muttered. The dog’s one ear was tattered and freshly bloodied. Its fur was matted and full of cockle burrs. The left front paw showed signs of a half healed earlier wound. The man said to himself and the dog, “You been in a few scraps no doubt! This close to the mountains your fur will be crawling with fleas and ticks.”
In the distance the pursuing pack howled. The dog dropped his paw, turned towards the sound, and growled. The hair rose on its back and he bared his teeth. For the first time the man saw the flag tied around its neck for a kerchief. The thing was filthy and torn but the red white and blue was still discernable. A large brass dog tag hung from a heavy leather collar. Now feeling no fear, the man approached the animal. The dog glanced at him but returned his attention to the direction from which the barks had come.
The man reached beneath the animal’s neck and gently slid the collar around. In the light of the waning sun he read the name engraved on the brass tag. “Friskie” he read aloud.
The dog turned to the man at the sound of his name. Whining he licked the man’s hand. At the edge of town a dog barked. Obviously alarmed, the dog turned toward the safety of the dark motel room door. “Not a bad idea Friskie.” The man said. Turning loose of the collar he straightened up and followed the dog to the motel.
He cautiously entered the darkened room and saw the three bodies on the bed. They were the faithful dog’s family, obviously. He glanced at the animal who was intently watching the street from its post in the doorway. The dog looked over his shoulder as the man leaned the rifle against the wall. The man wrapped the three desiccated bodies in the flowered bed spread and was moving them to the floor when the dog struck him. He tried to explain that he needed to move them in order to slide the bed against the door. He felt the bones in his hand crush in the animal’s jaws. The animal moved past the now useless arm and tore at the man’s throat. The gray animal shook the man’s body like a rag doll.
Releasing the now lifeless body the dog moved to the door. The pack was assembled in a semicircle in front of the door. The black bitch waddled up to the door her teats nearly dragging the ground. It was nearing time to whelp. After licking the fresh blood from the gray dog’s muzzle she entered the new den that he had found. She crawled painfully onto the bed and settled in the middle to give birth. Once again, as the leader of the pack, ‘Friskie’ had provided both food and shelter.
3: A Friend of a Friend
Not much bothered Wilbur, not even the knocking at the trailer’s door to wake him from a deep sleep. Well, it was more like crawling from a deep sleep than just waking up.
Naturally Allie just slept through the noise, and to be real honest, if anything she just rolled over on her side and simply resumed her sonorous snoring.
Wilbur managed to toss back his covers and fumble around for a pair of pants before he realized that he had gone to bed wearing them. The clock radio said it was 1:30 AM.
The half-awake, half-asleep man stumbled bare-chested and bare footed, from the single bedroom, past the bathroom, and moved his big body through the galley kitchen with its sink piled with dishes, dirty knives, forks, and pans.
Somewhere, almost to the door, Wilbur kicked a bottle and the offending container skittered across the small “living room” before it sought cover under the couch. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wilbur told himself to be careful because he vaguely remembered there being more bottles on the floor when he went to bed.
The knocking continued, rattling the aluminum storm door as Wilbur pushed aside the flimsy curtain that pretended to cover the small jalousie-paned window, but the frosted glass prevented him from seeing anything.
There was a small crank set into the frame of the small window and Wilbur gave the little crank a spin and watched the panes opened to allow the sleepy man to look out. Still, the window didn’t open enough so that he could see who was knocking; besides, it looked kind of foggy outside.
Wilbur reached over and flicked the switch that was intended to turn on the porch light, and it was no real surprise that nothing happened; the bulb burned out months ago. Wilbur, ever the pragmatic simply muttered, “Man, I gotta fix that.” He knew probably wouldn’t, so he simply wrung the doorknob and pushed the door open.
A single figure stood in the moonlight and there was a slight rasp in his voice as he calmly asked: “Wilbur, Dude, can I borrow a six pack?”
The figure was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, in a charcoal suit, a blue shirt, and a red necktie decorated with a full color image of Mickey Mouse. He wore uncomfortable-looking shoes and whenever he moved around white socks peered out from under his trouser cuffs.
Overall, the suit had an odd-fit; but, the look of the suit was not what caught Wilbur’s eye; it was the man’s pasty pallor, evident even in the moonlight. Even those who knew that Wilbur didn’t get excited over much got would have been surprised when Wilbur simple stated, “Uh, sure. A six pack.” Wilbur hesitated, “Yeah sure Skip, let me get one for you.”
The sleepy man left the door to the mobile home open; he simply turned and shambled across the kitchen. Wilbur levered open the door
of the green refrigerator; the one his mother gave him and Allie when they bought the single-wide and moved out of her basement.
The beer wasn’t hard to locate, Wilbur liked to find it when he opened the door, and he snagged a six-pack, deftly closing the door with his elbow as if the motion wasn’t new to him. Then, he snagged a full pack of cigarettes off of the top of the fridge… on the way to the door; he half-consciously tousled his thinning hair. Wilbur shambled back to the door; the beer cradled in his elbow, and leaned out, offering the six-pack to the thin man.
“Man, you are a lifesaver!” the youth in the suit softly spoke as he reached for the beer, “you want one, too?”
“Uh, Yeah, sure!” Wilbur replied; but there was a note of hesitation in his voice; something wasn’t right, but Wilbur figured he’d find out what when the time was right. He pointed to a group of old lawn chairs clustered around a well-used, in-ground fire pit. “You want to sit in the chairs?”
“That would be cool, man” the young man replied and the two walked side-by-side the short distance to the chairs; Wilber bare-footed, in his shambling gait and the young man almost awkward-like in his new, uncomfortable-looking shoes.
Wilbur pulled a bottle from the six-pack, flicked the top off with a deft twist of his wrist, and handed the bottle to the young man; then did the same for himself. The men clinked the tops of the bottles together and each took a drink prior to plopping down; neither man paid attention to the dew that had started to form in each chair. Wilbur ripped open the cellophane on the pack of smokes and shook two out. Skip’s fingers didn’t seem to be working too good. Holding the beer was about all he could manage. Wilber lit a cig and handed it to Skip.
Softly Wilbur asked, “Skip, you know I ain’t one to get into someone else’s business; but, Man didn’t we bury you a week ago?” There was no concern in Wilbur’s voice; it was just a question, nothing more, nothing less.
“Yeah, that’s a fact, Dude.’ The thin man replied, “I was slid into the old family crypt. Can you imagine that? My old man never expected to see me wind up there. He figured I’d rot in jail or maybe get ‘lectrocuted’. Can you imagine his surprise?” There was the same rasp; it was almost as if Skip was having some trouble speaking.