Dad's Friend Charle

            It took a lot to get Dad to open up and once it did, it took just as much to get him to stop. That’s not to say that he wouldn’t talk. There’s a big difference between talking and saying something. He was shy, my mother was the outgoing one between the two.

            This afternoon, two days after Christmas we sat on the back porch drinking beer in unseasonably warm East Texas weather. He took a sip of the Shiner Blonde and licked his lips. All my life he had drunk Miller Lite, but in retirement had expanded his taste in beer.

            “I had a friend named Charlie,” he said, starting his fifth or sixth tale of life in Van Zandt county in the 70s. I didn’t mind. His stories were genuinely entertaining. The stuff the best fiction writers couldn’t come up with. “Charlie was a smart son of a bitch. Van Zandt County was dry back then. There were all these places on the county that sold beer.

            “Charlie, like I said, he was smart. He would take a cooler full of ice to the beer store and he had done the math and knew how far he had to drive from each of these liquor stores it would take to get the beer nice and cold. He had taken into account things like how the beer and ice could react to bumps in the road.”

            A smile began to emerge as Dad told the story.

            “So he would map his route home from each of these places and with his calculations he would know how far he had to drive so that the beer and cold so he could pull over on his way home from the liquor store and have himself a beer.”

            We both laughed.

            “What happened to him? What’s he doing now?”

            The smile slowly disappeared off Dad’s face and he was quiet. I rolled my lips up and darted my eyes across the room waiting for him to speak again. I began to wish I hadn’t asked.

            “He ended up being a real bad alcoholic,” Dad said.

            I eyes dropped to the ground and I tried to think of a way to change the subject.

            “When I was off at college, he hit a kid and killed him. He spent some time in prison. He got out and got a job sweeping up at a machine shop.” Dad went quiet for a moment again and then finished his story. “He only drinks at home now.”

Poem About the First Girl I Kissed (Poetry)

The first girl I kissed didn’t want me to.

Our fate was left to the spinning bottle.

The memory cannot be framed. It’s out of balance.

A focused image of blurred lines.

I lean in.

She pulls away.

To Whom it May Concern

This was one of the first short stories that I wrote and liked. I like it, but it's interesting to note how different it is—at least to me—than the stuff I write now. This story was an honorable mention in a writing contest and was published in Chapparal Magazine in 2018. Enjoy.
Part 1

Mistakes      

My first mistake was not getting that stupid door fixed. The garage door had been screwed up for almost a month. It still worked, mostly. But it wasn’t working now. When I needed it to work more than I’ve ever needed anything to work in my life, it wouldn’t budge. It was a stubborn hunk of crap, it wouldn’t even consider budging. I can cuss the thing all I want, but that isn’t going to get it open. My head is beginning to pound. Christ it hurts. I can rub my temples all I want but it doesn’t seem to do any good. I’d kill for an Aspirin or a Tylenol. More than anything, I’d kill to get out of this garage.

            My second mistake was leaving my cell phone in the house. I always forget the stupid thing. Leave it laying on top of the toilet, or in the kitchen cabinets. It’s always somewhere except my pocket. It's never in my pocket where it should be. And today, when I need it more than ever, it’s sitting on the back of the toilet or on the kitchen cabinet.

            I cuss the garage door like I’m in a Martin Scorsese movie. I’m pretty sure I made half of them up. Why not, no one can hear me. That’s another problem I have piled on my plate right now. I’m at the house, alone. In the garage, no one can hear you scream.

            Mistake three and four, both involve locks. One to the car door and the other to the door leading from the garage to the house, both of them keeping me trapped. In my haste, I didn’t bother to check, to make sure I wouldn’t get myself trapped.

            So, here’s my predicament. I am currently locked outside my car, that in the garage, but I am also locked outside my house because you guessed it, the keys to the house are on my key ring that’s locked in the car. Oh yeah, also the car is running.

            I left that god-forsaken cell phone in the house, so I decided to run inside and get it. But the door was locked when I got to it. So, I walk back to the car but its freaking locked too. So now I’m trapped; trapped in behind a rock and a hard place, or rather, in between a thick wooden door and a busted garage door.

            The garage started acting funny about a month back. It wouldn’t always go up when it was supposed to, but if you kicked hard enough and shook and rocked the thing, you could get it up manually. Not today. My foot hurt from kicking it so many times.

            Back to the car, I know what you’re thinking. Break the window out, get your keys. It’d be better to have to replace a car window than it would be paying for funeral costs. Of course, I wouldn’t be paying the funeral cost; my wife would have to front that bill. Anyway, bust out the window, get the keys and get the hell out of there. Not so easy Jack. See, a while back I took my wife out to dinner in the city, while we were having our fantastic dinner someone decided that my car looked like the kind of car that would have goodies in it. So, some asshole broke out my window and stole a bunch of crap from my car, so when it came time to get the window replaced, I had shatterproof glass put in the car. The most expensive I could find. That’s just the kind of person I am, if it’s not the most expensive then it’s not the best. I had them replace all the glass in the car. Every bit of it; hindsight is 20/20, so they say.

            I don’t have many tools in my garage; I have a workbench that has never really been used as a workbench. I come out here to have a few beers when the wife starts to get bitchy or I just want to spend some time to myself. All I have to even bang on that window was this ten-inch monkey wrench. At least I think it’s called a monkey wrench. It’s one of those that plumbers use all the time. I hit the window as hard as I could. Want to know what happened, this is kind of funny. The damn thing bounced off the glass and flew out of my hand. It landed where my wife’s car would be park had she been home. I tried a few more times, repositioning myself so I can control the recoil. Nothing. I cursed the car and window and wooden door to the house just about as much as I did the garage door.

            I even tried hitting the garage door with the monkey wrench but that didn’t work. I tried hitting the door to the house, but the wrench wasn’t heavy enough for the heavy door. I inspected the garage door like there was something I could do about it. Really, I don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. I went to college so I wouldn’t have to work on my own stuff. I know it sounds, I don’t know, dickish. But it’s true. I don’t like working on cars, or anything else for that matter. So, if that makes me a dick then I admit it, I’m a dick.

            Mistakes, God I’ve made a lot of them, not just today but my whole life. You don’t make it fifty-seven without, you know, screwing people over or whatever. Normally they didn’t cross my mind. Not one at all, just another day, but when you’re facing your own mortality, you kind of get the thinking about that shit. Now, first things first, I’m not a bank robber, or serial rapist or anything. I don’t have a kiddie porn collection and I’ve never cheated on my taxes. Well, fuck it; I cheat on my taxes, but who doesn’t. And if you don’t you should. Those guys are the real pricks. I don’t kill people or anything like that. But I’ve still made my fair share of mistakes.

            Like this garage door. Four hundred-thousand-dollar houses in this neighborhood and I get the one with a messed up garage door. I didn’t buy in some foreclosure deal either. I could afford it so I bought it. Of course, it probably wasn’t messed up when I bought it but that’s not the point. I guess there really isn’t a point in dwelling about the house. It is what it is.

            I looked at the Bentley, hardtop, and silver in color. I wanted a black one. Well, I wanted a red one, but the wife, her name is Jennifer by the way, didn’t like the red one. The only black on they had at the dealership was used, and I don’t buy used. I could have waited to get a black one. But I didn’t want to wait. I know I’m sounding like a dick again, but I don’t care. Think what you will about me. I have enough money that personal opinion doesn’t really matter anymore.

            I look around the room. All the time I spend in this room and I don’t really know what’s in here. No windows, I already knew that though. The attic is on the third floor so no chance of climbing out that way. Other than the Bentley and my small, sad workbench, I call it sad because he doesn’t ever actually get used as a workbench, and the tool that goes with it, there’s not anything worthwhile. I don’t see anything that is going to be what gets me out of this current situation.

            I try to keep my nerves about me but it’s not the easiest thing to do. I cuss the car out again. Then without thinking about it, I kick the driver’s side door. I instantly regret doing it. Not that it really matters I guess. I cuss myself, not so much for locking myself in the garage, but for kicking my car. Hmm, I sit down on my stool shaking my head. I don’t know how long until the car exhaust kills me, and I’m trying not to think about it. What I keep thinking about is that I’m positive when I die I’m going to have a stupid look on my face. I just know, like that woman who works at the gas station where I fill up my car. She’s always got the stupidest look on her face. Sometimes, when I see it, I just want to slap her right across that stupid face of hers.

            That’s not fair. I don’t guess it’s her fault she’s an idiot, doomed to a life of working at a gas station for minimum wage. Forced to live a repugnant life like that, I’d rather stay in this garage than trade places with her. I’ll probably shit my pants when I die, I read that somewhere, that when you die you shit your pants. What’s that old saying? Hope for the best, expect the worst. Well, that’s what I’m doing, hoping someone will find me in here before I choke to death, but I’m expecting to die with a dumb look on my face and shit in my pants. That’s reassuring. I practice the looks I’ll end up with. The look Jennifer will see when she eventually finds me.

            That’s when it hits me. They’re going to think I killed myself. Jennifer won’t get anything insurance money if I kill myself. The thought of that pisses me off. I’ve paid out a lot of money over the years to make sure my family is taken care of when I’m gone and they aren’t going to be paid because I committed suicide. But this isn’t suicide, at least not on purpose. There’s has to be a way to tell them this is an accidental death and not suicide.

            There are a few drawers in my so-called workbench; there might be a pen and paper in there. I swivel the stool around and open the drawer. I have to rummage through it for a minute before I had the pen, the paper I found right off the bat.

            Okay. Let’s do this. I put the pen to the paper, but the words don’t come to me. How the hell am I even supposed to address this letter? To whom it may concern? Dear ladies and gentlemen? Does it even matter? So long as I get the message across that it wasn’t suicide. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Part 2

Death

          How long does it take to die from breathing in car exhaust? I don’t know. I never had a reason to know before. If I had my phone I could probably Google it. What? That’s about the dumbest thing. If I had a phone I wouldn’t Google anything, I’d call someone and get some help. I put the pen back down to paper.

            Dear Everyone.

            Ha. I laugh at that. Dear everyone. I mark it out with the pen and think long and hard for a second. Whatever.

            Dear Everyone. I know it looks like I’ve killed myself but I am leaving this note as my last words. No, I didn’t kill myself. Turns out I’m just kind of an idiot. I left my phone in the house and went to get it but when I did I left the car running and accidentally locked my keys in the car. I am truly sorry and I wish the best to everyone.

            After giving a quick glance over, I am satisfied, or at least as satisfied as you can be with writing a note like that. Now all I can do is sit and wait. Wait for something to get home. I don’t know when Jennifer is coming home tonight. I don’t even know what she is out doing. I guess that makes me a shitty husband, but I don’t care. I’m dying, that’s what I care about. Not to sound mean or anything. Not that it matters anyway, I’m about to die.

            But now that I think about it, I have been mean. Not only mean but I’ve done some pretty bad stuff, I’ve screwed the ones I care for more than once; funny how you can have a clear conscience until you’re about to die. I haven’t been to confession or church let alone, for about five years. Easily, probably longer, hell I don’t even remember the last time I went to church. I went last year but that was for a funeral so I’m not counting that. My head is still pounding, and the coughing is coming a lot more frequently, and violently. Might as well, there are things I can’t take to my grave, my wife needs to know because once I’m gone; she’s going to have quite a shock.

            Jennifer, there are some things I need to tell you. Some things you are going to need to know after I’m dead and gone. First off, you probably don’t need to know this one but I need to clear my conscience on this one. I have never truly been faithful to you. I’ve had numerous affairs, with a lot of women that you know. Not like your sister or anything but I totally would have if I could have gotten away with it.

            Why did I write that? I scratch over it until I’m certain you can see it through all the ink. That wasn’t really the thing I wanted to write but with my pounding head and coughing, I’m started to get a little woozy.

            Cindy, from my office, is the most recent one. But certainly wasn’t the only one. Don’t be mad at the woman. Most of the women didn’t know I was married or I lied to them about our marriage. I would tell them that we were separated or that you were having an affair as well. Second, everything you know about our life is a sham. You can call me a stockbroker or investment advisor or any of those other lines I’ve used before, but in reality, con man is the better word to describe me. It was all a Ponzi scheme. Think Bernie Madoff. So be prepared. It will come out when they find my body. You’ll be all over the news. Everything we own is stolen, so it will most likely be taken back from you. I’m sorry. I got greedy, I wanted to give you the world and I will end up destroying your life. I wish things weren’t like this but it is.

            My head has quit hurting, which is probably a bad thing. I can feel my brain growing lightheaded. I guess it’s better than dying with a splitting headache. Though I’m still worried I will crap my pants. God, I don’t want to crap my pants. But I deserve it if I do. I deserve this death that is fast approaching.           

            I wish I could say that my confessions to my wife were all that I needed to make but it’s just not true. I need to write a note to my brother Chris.

            Hey Chris. So I died, died like a dumbass at that. But there is something I need to tell you before I die. Since I can’t call you, it’s obviously written on this piece of paper. If it seems kind of rambly it’s because the fumes are starting to get to me. On to business. Look, dad didn’t cut you out of the will. I did. Before he passed, when he was in the final stages I had him sign a new will that I drafted myself. I’m sorry, I was pissed that you were never there when he was dying and I wanted you to think he was too. Truth is he was never pissed about you not coming to see him. I know it was hard. He didn’t even recognize me most of the time when I was over there anyway. I would tell you I can give it back to you but it’s not going to happen, everything I own will be seized upon my death. Also, that money I invest for you, it was a scam. Your money is gone. Sorry.

            The room is spinning now. I had to push through the dizzy spells to get all that out to Chris. I think about the note I left for him. I screwed him out of his inheritance and then I screwed him out of the money he invested with me. My own brother.

            I struggle to keep my head up. It’s hard at this point. All I really want to do is lay down. Close my eyes and go to sleep. I fight to keep my eyes open, there’s more I want to get off my chest, though I’m not sure that I can get it all out before I’m a goner.

            Friends and family. I can’t tell you all the things I’ve done to betray your trust. Mostly for money, though not all the time. All of you that have invest money with me, it’s gone. You won’t get it back. I’ve hidden a lot of the money but if I say where it will be taken away but the authorities. Though they will probably find it sooner or later. Christ, I don’t know where to start and where to begin. Aside from money, I probably slept with your wife. I was pretty good at that. I wish I had more time but I think it’s over for me. I think I just coughed up parts of my lungs and I have never been this tired. Good night.

      

            I glance over the note, but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t going to notice any misspellings anyway. I push it off the side and set the pen down. I stand up but quickly lose my balance and fall flat on my ass, which actually turns out to be much more comfortable. I put my hands together and put them under my head. I close my eyes, ready for the big sleep.

            Goodbye cruel world. What a fucking cliche I am.

Part 3

Life

          My eyes flutter open. I’m alive? No friggin way I’m alive. I struggle to lift my head up, but it proves to be too heavy for my weakened body. But I’m alive. I can’t believe. I thought for sure I was a goner. I can feel the smile run across my face. I made it, Jennifer most of come home early.

            Jennifer. Oh, that’s not good. If she found me then she must have found my note too. I open my eyes and see Jennifer sitting in the chair by my bed. I’m in a hospital. My brother Chris is sitting in the other chair, taking a nap. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, and no way of knowing. I try to get out of the bed, but I hear a clang and my hand seems to be attached to the bed poles.   

            I looked over at my hand and see that I am handcuffed to the hospital bed. So, they definitely found that stupid note. When I stirred, it awoke my brother and wife. They both look over to me. Neither one of them seems to be really happy about seeing me. In fact, they look kind of pissed and I can’t honestly say I blame them. Stupid note. Stupid stupid note. Chris got out of the chair and walked over to the door, he doesn’t bother to look at me and I don’t blame him. The door is shut, and he knocks. A few seconds later a man walks into the room. He looks me over and flips me his badge. A detective. Great. He searches quickly through his pockets and pulls out the note I left in an evidence bag.

            “Let me explain.”

            

Homecoming

Previously published in Equinox Magazine

            You sit alone staring into the night sky. It’s a ritual now. Something you have to do every night. Waiting for the spaceship to come back and take you away. Like you were promised so many years ago. You wait until you hear the world coming to and then you pack up your lawn chair and a thermos of coffee and the remnants of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

            You yawn and rub your eyes.

            You check your watch. There’s not much time left before work. Maybe enough time for a nap. Or shower. Not both.

            Nap.

            Sleep is as elusive as the spaceship you watch for, but you’re used to it.

            You’re up immediately when the alarm goes off. You usually lay there, stuck in some state somewhere between asleep and awake until the last minute. You’ve got to see Dr. Santos today and you don’t want her to know you’ve been up all night again.

            You pull your hood up. Wild hair sticks out, ready to face the world.

            “Jonathon,” the receptionist says. “Dr. Santos will see you now.”

            You tell her thanks quietly and politely and get up and walk down the hall that leads to Dr. Santos’ office.

            She says hello as you enter. You return the courtesy.

            “How are you doing?” She always jumps right in. Something you have grown to appreciate.

            “I’m actually doing well.”

            “Are you doing okay without your medication? I’m still not convinced that was the best route.”

            “I’m doing fine.”

            “Are you doing your cognitive therapy workbook?” 

            “Yes,” you lie. Flipping through the pages every now and then and half-assing a couple of exercises count as “doing the workbook,” right?

            “And the exercises are helping?”

            You shrug. “They're not hurting.”

            She watches you for a moment. Looking for a tell.

            “Have you been sleeping?” Always her second question.

            “No, not really.”

            “Are you staying up all night watching for spaceships?”

            “No.” Defensively. Did you slip up and clue her in? Did she catch a tell? “Work has been a bit stressful, it’s been keeping me up a little late.” You wait silently as she looks you over, you are still unsure if she is not you or not. “I put in for that promotion like we talked about.” You mime throwing a hat.

            “That’s good, Jonathon.” She seems genuinely excited for you.

            “Yeah, I’m hoping I get it, but you know. If I don’t it’s not the end of the world.” The spaceship is coming to get me anytime now, anyway so what does it matter, you think.

            “You have to put yourself out there.”

            You nod. “I got invited to go bowling with some folks from work.”

            You see a visible change in the doctor’s face. “Are you going?”

            You don’t answer right away.

            “You should go.” She says.

            “I don’t know,” you say. “I don’t know those guys really well.”

            “Well then go. Get to know them.”

            You nod slightly. It would interfere with your other plans.

            You’ve watched the skies for a long time now. Since you were 12. When you first met him. The one who promised to come back for you. To take you away. To a place where you belong.

            No one, your parents, teachers, friends, believed you when you told them an alien had come to visit you. He said you won’t understand why they have chosen you, you can’t understand it now, but when he comes back for you, the purpose will become clear and it will all make sense.

            They tried to silence you, the ones who didn’t understand. Your parents. Teachers. Friends. Tell you not to talk about the secret knowledge that you’ve gained from your communications with higher beings.

            Your parents put you on medication shortly after you met the being from the Pleiades stars. The medication blocked the Pleiadeans from being able to contact you. The alien hasn’t contacted you in years.

            But you remembered the promise they made. To pick you up and take you away from here. Away from war. Hate. Bigotry. Simple mindedness.

            You enter and bowling alley and begin to look around. “Jonathon.” Todd says and waves you over.

            You look around the bowling alley and feel like you’ve immediately made a mistake. Anxiety begins to build. Your feet feel heavy, it’s those damn ridiculous shoes they make you wear. Your pace feels sluggish and it feels like you’re lifting your feet too high when you’re walking.

            “Let me introduce you real quick.”

            You’re introduced to Megan and Thomas.

            You check your watch.

            “I can’t stay long,” you say. “I got somewhere I gotta be.”

            “Nonsense,” Thomas says. “Let me get you a beer.”

            You remember what the Pleiadeans said about drinking alcohol, that it interferes with their ability to contact you. 

            “No thanks. I don’t drink.”

            You are forced to make small talk, but you avert you’re eyes and speak in low mumbles. Your skin feels like it’s crawling away. You try to force a smile, but it feels unnatural, so you stop. You can fill your breath shudder. The anxiety hits your diaphragm. You ball a fist quickly. You shake your hands quickly to unclench them.

            You throw the ball down the lane when your turn comes up. You pay no real attention to the outcome. You guess that is was okay based on the group’s reaction.

            It seems like forever for the ball to return.

            You throw the ball again, this time failing to knock over any pins.

            Thomas gives you high-five and then wraps his arm around you. A smile, this time natural slowly creeps and you nod.

            “Great throw.” Thomas says.

            “Thanks.” The words don’t feel forced this time. It’s almost like they came out all on their own and you let your guard down a little.

            “I think maybe I will have a beer.” You say after you’ve sat at the small, uncomfortable bench.

            “Right on. What do you want to drink?” Todd asks.

            “I don’t know. I’ve never had a beer before.”

            “Alright.” Todd says and curls his bottom lip. “Probably just start you off with like a Bud Light or something.”

            “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll be right back.” You excuse yourself and slink away to buy a beer.

            “Just in time.” Todd says when you return and points to the electronic board above the ball return showing your name.

            You sip the beer and mess up your face. You scrape your tongue across your teeth. You don’t like the beer and set the bottle down, content to let it sit on the table for the rest of the night.

            You step up and throw the ball. Watching as it rolls down the aisle.

            What if they come for you right now?

             You shake the feeling away and throw another ball, this time not waiting for the ball return to send yours back.

            They don’t know where to find you. They’re looking for you and they don’t know where to find you.

            “Hey, that was my ball.” Megan says.

            “I’m sorry.” Eyes down and speaking softly.

            You excuse yourself and rush to the restroom. You splash water on your face and hyperventilate.

            “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.”

            The words are disembodied. They don’t sound like your voice. Your vision tightens. The edges blur and all you can think about, all you can focus on is what the Pleiadean told you all those years again.

            “We’ll come back for you and then you’ll understand.”

Todd walks toward the bathroom as you exit.

“Are you okay, man?” He asks.

You don’t answer, you just try to go around him, but he steps and blocks your path. You shove him hard enough that he ends up on the floor.

“Get the fuck out of the way.” Spittle flecks spray as you retch the words in livid gasps, menacing and full stinging venom. 

You don’t see Megan or Thomas. You just leave. They wouldn’t understand the importance anyway.

            You sit in your car for a moment, collecting yourself. You breathe out hasty short bursts, trying to expel the anxiety. A trick Dr. Santos told you. You reach over and grab the workbook sitting in the passenger seat. You had the forethought to bring it with you.

            You dig through the pages until you find something familiar.

            The book tells you to cover one nostril with your thumb and breath in slowly through the other, holding each breath for about a second and then exhaling, alternating which nostril gets the thumb. 

            At first, the breaths are rapid and shallow. You are unable to hold them in for a second. You breathe in and release it with explosive force. 

            Soon, you find your breathing has returned to something close to normal. You still feel jumpy, and your heart rate is still fast, but at least the breathing is better. That’s a start.

            You drive home. You have to pull your foot off the gas pedal. It wants to press down, press the pedal all the way to floor. Blow past lights and stop signs and any other hindrance that might be out on the road tonight.

            When you get home, you start the coffee. You make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and cut it in half. You pour the coffee into your thermos, grab your camping chair, and head to the roof.

            You sit down and finally can relax. You feel the tension slowly leaving your body. A long sigh escapes and you close your eyes and gently breathe deep into your belly.

            You look up and watch the skies. Waiting for the spaceship to come back and take you away. 

First Chapter of a Thing I'm Working on

First things first, I don't have a title for this yet. Secondly, any feedback is appreciated. This is the first chapter of a new thing I am working on and I want to get a response to it. Thanks

Dustin

Chapter 1

            Valencia Martini rushed to the small station at the bank to sign his paycheck, in his haste, he pushed past an elderly woman almost knocking her to the ground. He turned and sneered, he was, after all, a villain—at least he wanted to be one. Working your way up to full-time villainy was a long process and Valencia didn’t exactly have the work ethic. Plus, gigs had dried up, making it harder to put in the hours.

            He signed the check, the first one he’d gotten in nearly six weeks. Henchmaning wasn’t paying the bills so he had turned to professional hostaging to bridge that pay gap, which wasn’t panning out for Valencia either.

            Ever since the emergence of superheroes and megavillains, the downside had always been collateral damage. Particularly that of the human population. Civilian casualties had been the downfall of The Slovakian, who had been a hell of a megavillain but was executed via planet ejection after his actions indirectly caused the death of roughly 14 million people.

            The megavillains were then forced to call a time-out and meet with many of the current superheroes in order to hash out an agreement on how to proceed.

            “You could just turn a new leaf,” said The Honorable Chief Justice. Chief Justice was the newest superhero to join the Super League, donning long black robes and for some inexplicable reason, a barrister’s wig.

            “I’ve got knives from the elbow down,” said Knives Akimbo, motioning toward his knives from the elbow down. “Anybody who hires me deserves to get robbed blind.”

            “Because,” Bat Ma’am chimed in, “if these idiots aren’t out doing megavillainy, how do we get to do superhero stuff.”

            The room was quiet.

            An agreement was arranged, a set of leagues, guild really—basically unions—would be set up. One for superheroes, which would issue patrolling licenses, gadgets, or sidekicks, everything your average superhero would need and one for megavillains that roughly did the same thing.

            Anytime a major act of megavillainy should be committed, then permits should be issued through the Hall of Megavillainy and Mild Annoyances, shortened by most to HMMA, or simply the home. The HMMA would review the megavillain’s plans and then suggest changes and ensure that it fell within all the necessary guidelines to keep the megavillain from being launched into outer space like what had happened with The Slovakian, who was seriously, a hell of a megavillain.

            After all the paperwork had been filed, the HMMA would make an assessment of what the megavillain would need to pull the job off and issue any permits, persons, and equipment.

            Once the approvals from the HMMA’s upper echelon, retired megavillains, and gangsters, had been completed, the megavillain who made the request was called into the home offices to go over any changes. If all parties were in agreement, equipment would be signed out to the megavillain along with however many bad guys the HMMA determined the job would need. Bad guys came in three tiers: thugs, goons, and henchmen. Thugs were the typical low-level street enforcer who typical would run away when or if superheroes showed. If they didn’t run away, they were dispatched quickly. Goons stuck around and fought it out even though they had little chance of actually beating the superheroes. Henchmen were where the money was. To be a henchman, one had to pose a serious threat to a superhero. The money was good, but the benefits were really what made it a primo gig.

            And Valencia wanted that henchmen gig. He had a sore tooth that had been bothering him for some time and was really ready to get it taken care of. He had a good spot on the crew of Incognito, the megavillain whose camouflage ability had been impeccable, but kept putting off a visit to the dentist and when the gig ended, he started kicking himself immediately.

            But here Valencia was, standing in line in the downtown First Bank of Whatever to put a meager $318.22 into his meager bank account from a professional hostage job he had the week before.

            Hostage had become a quick and easy way to get league points. If a megavillain planned a robbery that would require hostages and the paperwork was submitted and approved, then the HMMA would notify the banks or what have you in advance and supply hostages. The profession hostages would receive a small portion of the take, or $500 whichever was greater. But after HMMA’s cut and dues, state and federal taxes, Social Security, and pension, all that was left was $318.22.

            Valencia stepped to the teller. He was wearing his HMMA uniform which instantly made the teller nervous.

            “It’s okay,” Valencia said in a high voice that made him sound like the villain from some 80s action kid’s cartoon. “I’m just here to deposit…my check.”

            Valencia’s voice had been something he cultivated in his early days of villainy, but now it was proving to be more of a hassle than anything. Especially during his personal times when he was doing everyday things like grocery shopping. Anything he asked for it also sounded slightly murderous. “Came you tell me where I can find the Boric acid,” he said and the clerk’s alarm bells would suddenly go wild, “I’ve got…a bit of moth problem.” The dramatic pauses didn’t help either, but Valencia came from the method school of villainy.

            The clerk took Valencia’s check and deposit slip and punched a few keys on a computer. She said nothing, but Valencia could feel her silently mocking the number in his bank account. He forced a smile.

            “I know. Hard times…so to say.” He looked upward theatrically before returning his eyes to her. The teller looked at the ceiling to see what Valencia had been looking at, sighed loudly, and then returned to clickity-clacking the keyboard.

            “Want a receipt?” She asked dryly.

            “Please.” He answered.

            If Valencia had been paying a little more attention, if he hadn’t been so focused on putting that $318.22 in his bank account, and if he hadn’t been distracted by trying to find the right megavillain name for his ultimate ascension, he might have noticed the four men that were casing the building.

            The introduction of the guilds had certainly done a number on crime. There simply wasn’t as much of it. The punishments for committing a crime without HMMA approval was harsh and not really worth the trouble.

            To most people anyway.

            There will always be a subset of the population who are either too smart or too dumb to make it. The four gunmen casing the joint were too dumb.

            “Everybody on the ground. NOW!”

            Valencia turned to see the gunmen.

            “I didn’t see a sign posted,” he said and then turned to the teller, “are you…scheduled for a robbery today?”

            The teller dropped to the ground.

            “Guess not,” Valencia said.

            “I said get on the ground.” One of the gunmen said, not the gunmen who had actually made the announcement inviting everyone to get on the ground, Valencia noted.

            “Okay, okay,” Valencia said as he was getting poked in the back with the muzzle of an assault rifle, which had been banned in armed robbery per HMMA bylaws that came about after the Armed Conflict Agreements between both guild houses. Stun weapons were the only official HMMA weapon that could be used. Funnily enough, the agreement didn’t bar the use of laser or alien weaponry which were seeing an uptick in availability.

            “I’d like to see your permits,” Valencia said as he tried to find a sitting position on the ground that wasn’t hard on his bony butt.

            “Permits,” laughed the gunman who had lied about telling everyone to get on the ground. “We don’t need no permits.”

            This is going to get ugly Valencia thought and begin a mental list of superheroes he thought might try and break up the party. Bat Ma’am primarily only came out at night, which was a good thing. Bat Ma’am intimidated Valencia to no end. She was definitely the toughest of the superheroes, in his opinion.

            The fact that the robbery was on land highly ruled out Aqua Marine, but you never could tell when that dude was going to show up anyway. He half-hated Landers, as he called them, but also frequently showed up at their aid and when would talk about how it was such a predicament that he was in, always having to save the Lander’s ass and whatnot despite their treatment of oceans and his kind. Valencia thought he was kind of a douchebag, especially since Cityton was landlocked.

            The Honorable Chief Justice was the likely candidate. Showing up in his judge’s robe and barrister’s wig and swinging that giant gavel of his. Kicking in the door of the bank at any moment and offering up one of those dumb sayings of his: “Get ready to be spanked by the Hands of Justice.” Something along those lines. Valencia thought that The Honor Chief Justice was a bit of a loose cannon since he was fairly new to the world of superheroes and megavillainy, he was always trying to prove himself.

            Valencia thought there was a chance that Rubbermaid or whatever she was going by now, could show up, but since she had lost her lawsuit to Rubbermaid for copyright infringement, little had been seen of her. The problem when becoming a superhero or megavillain is that by the time that people started actually turning superhuman, all of the good names had been taken by comic books, tv shows and movies so there was little for a new superhero to choose from. The Slovakian had played it safe, he just went by the region of the world he was from—The Slovakian wasn’t actually  Slovakian. He was really from Plainsbury, Ohio and his given name was Peter Sites.

            Valencia was thinking that maybe things would work out so he wouldn’t spend most of his day at the bank. Maybe the robbers would be able to get in and out before any real response could be made. And maybe, he could get home, heat up a frozen burrito, and study for the villainy test needed to promotion from thug to goon. That was the thought in his head when the first police car pulled to a halt in front of the bank.

            Valencia cursed out loud.

            It didn’t take long for the police to surround the building. It took less time for them to cut the power to the building.

            The air in the bank was growing stale and stuffy. The HMMA uniform that Valencia was wearing wasn’t exactly clean. The fabric, mostly wool, clinched to the smells coming from the clothes like Lois Lane hanging on to Superman during a flyby through Metropolis.

            The four gunmen were arguing among themselves when the teller, who had been repositioned next to Valencia, raised her hand. She cleared her throat when the hand raising didn’t get their attention.

            “Bathroom?” One of the gunmen barked.

            “No. Can I move?” She said. Confusion washed over the gunmen. The teller nodded toward Valencia and then waved her hand quickly in front of her nose.

            “Hey,” Valencia said, then lifted the collar of his shirt and took a whiff. He tried not to shudder from the smell but his face betrayed him.

            “See.” She said.

            Valencia sat—knees up with his head between his legs, looking as pathetic as he felt, alone on one side of the bank lobby, while the rest of the hostages sat on the other side. He was sure he had hit rock bottom if it wasn’t rock bottom, he didn’t want to know how much worse it could get.

            Several hours had passed and all Valencia could think about was the $318.22 he wouldn’t be making from this hostage situation. He would have to see the HMMA tomorrow and make an appeal for lost wages.

            “When do you think we’ll be rescued?” One of the hostages asked.

            “Any minute now.” Another answered. “They’re probably on the way.”

            The conversation turned to times the hostages had seen some of the various superheroes around Cityton doing various charitable acts that were required for Super League membership.

            Valencia thought about telling the hostages that this was a non-sanctioned robbery and the wheels of superhero bureaucracy moved slowly under normal circumstances and there was no telling what kind of paperwork went into assigning a superhero to a non-sanctioned robbery. Even a superhero that was on patrol would have to call in and get clearance for something this big. He should have told them too, if for nothing more than to make them feel worse than they already did—just to get that extra little bit of villainy—but instead, he stared at the floor.

            Something hit Valencia on the head. It landed on the ground next to him and rolled around. Valencia watched the small object for a second and then realized what it was. A screw. He looked up.

            There was a vent directly above him and then he realized there was a person in the vent. He cocked his head from side to side. The vent was slowly pulled away. Valencia knew what was coming next. He scooted away. He didn’t want to be in the path of anything, or anyone that fell from it.

            In an instant, there was a body standing, dressed in black and armed to the teeth.

            “Guilty.” The figure growled in a low, gravely voice that barely registered above a mumble and took aim. “Sentenced to death.”

            He shot a grenade at the gunmen who Valencia had decreed a liar, who then splattered into the wall behind the teller station.

            There was a volley of gunfire and the remainder of the hostage takers was strewn about, emptied of most of their internal organs and bodily fluid.

            Valencia looked up to the rescuer and recognized Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

            “Judge,” Valencia said and nodded.

            “Valencia.” He pointed at the bodies on the ground. “You apart of this?” Valencia shook his head. “Good to see you then.” With that, Judge, Jury, and Executioner was gone.

            Judge, Jury, and Executioner was the only superhero who wasn’t a member of the Super League, which paradoxically made him a criminal. It was the very thing he despised the most, but the dramatic irony was lost on Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

            Normally, the sight of Judge, Jury, and Executioner would have caused Valencia to shit his pants, him not abiding by guild rules and all and having no qualms about shooting the organs out of any advisory with the stupidity to poke his head around the corner when Judge, Jury, and Executioner was just around it, but today was a welcome change.

            Valencia spent the rest of the evening talking to the police, which is never a fun activity to do when you are in am HMMA uniform and sound like fucking Star Scream.

            Feeling pathetic and defeated, Valencia walked toward his small efficiency apartment—only marginally bigger than the average prison cell. Thinking that the night couldn’t get any worse, Valencia opened his apartment door, hoping to heat up a frozen burrito in the microwave only to discover that the electricity to his apartment had been turned off.

            “Damn the torpedo!” He said dramatically, a thing he said often hoping to set him apart, but usually resulted in mockery. 

Feigning Private Ryan

            Ryan heard the unmistaken pop of gunfire in the distance. The shots weren’t directed at his platoon. Not yet anyway. Private Ryan wondered how long until the shots started zipping over his head. It didn’t matter, he thought, he had his plan. The one he always had, the one that always worked.

            He was 8 months into the war and bravery wasn’t the reason he had made it through Tunisia; bravery wasn’t going to be the reason he was going to now make it through Sicily.

            Private Terrance Ryan didn’t even want to join the Army, he had no interest in joining at all. He did join though, after a night of drinking just a little too much, to impress a girl. That was Private Ryan in a nutshell, thinking with his cock but he realized early the best way to make it through a war. When the gunshots started, he simply waited until it was the most chaotic, then found a nice quiet spot to play dead.

            A few bullets zinged feet above his head, he heard them slam into trees. It was soon going to be time. Once the bullets really started flying he would hunker down and ride it out.

            Ryan suspected that some of the other guys in his platoon were onto him but he didn’t care. He figured he would be going home soon. He didn’t want any medals and didn’t expect to rise any further in rank. Nope, he just wanted to go home.

            “Get ready boys!” Sergeant McMann yelled from his fox hole.

            Private Ryan was ready.

            The landscape erupted with muzzle flashes and the thunderous cracks from the gunpowder exploding, expelling deadly projectiles towards the platoon.

            Ryan fired three shots from his Garand, he always fired three shots. He didn’t know why he had chosen three but it seemed like a good number. After his three shots, he casually dropped his rifle then dropped to the ground, closed eyes and slyly smirked.

            Ryan laid there for a minute before he realized something was off. He opened one eye and saw the Private who shared his foxhole with him, Private Bartelli was down on the ground.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Ryan asked.

            “Same as you. Going home.” Bartelli answered.

            Private Ryan had a horrible realization; no one in his platoon was firing back. Not a single one. Not even Sergeant McMann.

            “Shoot them,” Ryan said to Bartelli.

            “Fuck you. You shoot them.”

            “Fuck you. This is my gig.”

            “Mine now.”

            Ryan peaked out of the foxhole. A group of Italian soldiers were out in the open, headed toward the platoon.

            “Get up and shoot them.”

            “No,” Bartelli said.

            “They’re coming.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “Damnit,” Ryan whispered but wanted to yell. He didn’t have a choice. Ryan looked down at his weapon lying at his feet.

            “Really!” He yelled. “No one is doing anything?”

            Silence.

           

Ryan had no choice. He picked up the rifle and engaged the group of soldiers that were advancing on their position. He killed eight of them. Wounded at least two more. The allies won a major victory in what was later known as the Ploy of Italy.

            Private Ryan received no credit for his part.

            

Not Cancer: A Short Short Story

            “It’s not cancer,” the doctor said. I thought this would make me feel better, but it didn’t. It made me feel worse.

            “If it’s not cancer, what is it?” I asked.

            She didn't answer.