Chris Hugh - stuff worth printing out

Cat Haiku of the Day

2012-02-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

from Peter Geller's The Cat Who'll Live Forever:

The rule for today:

Touch my tail, I shred your hand.

New rule tomorrow.

Daily words of wisdom

2012-02-13T16:32:00.000-08:00

If you get a boo-boo, do not allow a zombie to "kiss it and make it better."

2012-02-08T10:00:00.000-08:00

Here's a super-cynical short story....

911 Emergency

Areyou calling about a robbery in progress? This might be the perfect time tothink about protecting yourself in the future. To learn about homeownersinsurance, press 1. For medical insurance, press 2. For life--"911 Operator. What is your emergency?"

"My heart....I need...I need..."

"An ambulance? Certainly. I see on my computerthat you live in a Class C neighborhood as determined by home values, propertytaxes and income levels. Your approximate wait time for an ambulance is onehour, forty minutes."

"...I can't...wait..."

"Would you like to upgrade your neighborhoodclassification for faster service?"

"....Please..."

"Let me describe the available packages--"

"...Fast as poss...poss...poss--"

"As possible? That'll be the Class A upgradewith a current wait time of 5 minutes. Your total is $10,000. Would you likethat one? ...Hello?"

"....yes.....anything....any---"

"Will you be paying by Visa or MasterCardtoday?...Hello?...Is anyone there? Hello? Hello? Hello?"

Opportunity Calling

2012-01-09T12:00:00.001-08:00

Opportunity Calling

a 100-word story

I woke up with the police breaking down my door. For someone else, that might seem like a problem, but not for me. I see problems as opportunities. In this case, I took the opportunity for a bit of exercise. I did a quick set of pull-ups (okay, just one pull-up) at the bathroom window, then went for an early morning run. I learned something about myself today too, and isn't that what life is all about? Learning and appreciating your own strengths and weaknesses? Today I learned that I'm a slow runner, but I can really take a punch.

2012-01-09T08:15:00.000-08:00

A short, dark tale with a twist for an ending and a moral, too. Sort of.

Not Water for Elephants

by Chris Hugh

The golden sun beating down on the dry grasses, the acrid wind coming over the savannah, carrying with it a scent that speaks to something deep within every human, the breath of this world of gold and pale brown, the ancestral home of all of us, Africa. And all that darn kid can do is tease the elephants.

He’s around 20, on a vacation from college, I guess. ‘Thinks he knows everything. Just like I used to, a long time ago, back when I was tall, handsome and able to walk. “That bull isn’t Babar,” the guide calls. “This isn’t The Lion King, asshole.”

I shift a bit in my wheelchair and raise my eyebrows at his language, but the guide grins at me, and I have to shrug. The kid really is an asshole.

The bull elephant finally takes notice of him. It’s taken some doing, but the idiot has managed to anger seven tons of testosterone-fueled elephant. The bull charges and he runs. I guess he didn’t know elephants could go fifteen miles an hour, but he’s pretty fast too.

But he’s running toward us.

100 feet away, the elephant is closing on the man, and the man is closing on us.

The guide calmly picks up his elephant gun. Mwangi glances at him and spits out the side of his mouth. “Bwana, dude, Nduo's too big. You might kill him, but he'll trample you before falls down.” Then he saunters off, but the tourists are panicked, frozen in place, watching the guide take careful aim, and I can’t get my chair to move.

I flinch from the shot, we all do. Ears ringing, the other tourists look back over the dusty grass and see that the elephant has got the man, but I’m the only one who watched him fall. Thirty feet away, there’s not much left of him, and the bull’s anger has evaporated. He examines the remains casually with his trunk, then wanders away.

The others walk to the body and stare down at it. Mwangi stares after the elephant. “Bwana, there is no blood trail,” I hear him say. “You missed the elephant.”

The guide shrugs and starts herding the tourists back to the bus.

He wasn’t aiming at the elephant.

How would you end this story?

2011-12-30T10:28:00.000-08:00

Here's the beginning of the story the Anchorite gave me, and my ending (in bold):

Initiation

The others always told me that the first time would be so special and make me like them. I always felt like I was missing out, but now all I can think of are the nerves, the sweat, the writhing, and feeling so sick afterward. It wasn't anything like they told me, it was neither accomplishment nor triumph, so here I am curled up trying to forget the whole horrible experience.

But that's just my upbringing, my guilt complex, all the childish things I've put aside. Tomorrow I'll feel better. Maybe I feel better already.

I think--I think I like killing.

How would you end this story?

Story: Fear of Spiders, a Stolen Ring, and a Sinister Stranger

2011-12-23T09:27:00.000-08:00

Fear of spiders, a ring and a sinister stranger... how bad can things get?

My writing prompt was to write a short story based on three elements: fear of spiders, a stolen ring and a sinister stranger. I tried to make it as unexpected as possible

Fear of Spiders

I don't know how it got here and it's not my fault, the nasty hard, harsh, glaring thing--round, cold and not delicious at all. I almost broke a stinger on it. I didn't take it. I don't deserve for the monster to come for me, but it's coming, it's coming, so ugly, so pale, with curling tendrils on its head the same color as this inedible ring, and only four appendages rather than eight glorious ones like mine. It lumbers toward me, dressed in pale polka dots and lace and carrying a small version of itself.

Now its shadow falls across my web.

I'm sorry I stole your ring.

I am so afraid.

MKMM Beginning of Book

2011-11-21T22:15:00.001-08:00

The Anchorite inspired this new beginning to the book with his awesome gift to me of a t-shirt with a cat asking, "To haz or not to haz." The Anchorite always inspires.

The Beginning of the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery

To haz or not to haz.
That question!
To has cheezburger in paws to nom later?
Or nom now?
Nom now!
Nom, nom, nom...

"Twitch, what are you doing?"

Nom, nom, nom...

"Twitch, get off the computer."

Nom, nom, nom...

"Twitch, I want to write something."

Nom, nom, nom...Ow, Mr. Kitten, stop BITING MY TAIL!

Twitch flashed around and faced Mr. Kitten, his left paw raised for a strike. Mr. Kitten parried with a fluffy paw and for a heartbeat the cats stared at each other. "I just wanted you to listen," Mr. Kitten finally said. "What are you doing?"

Twitch looked away and sprawled in front of the monitor. Only his tail twitching betrayed his continued annoyance. "I'm writing a poem in Old English, just like Hamster."

Kitten kept his guard up and stared at Twitch implacably. “That’sHamlet, not Hamster,” he said tonelessly. "You were using LOLspeak, not Old English. AndShakespeare never said 'nom.'"

"I have just one word for you: artistic license."

Kitten rolled his eyes, Twitch pounced, and the cats rolled off the desk.

Chris Hugh sat down at the computer.

Tandem Story: The Twin Goddess (for adults)

2011-11-20T20:43:00.001-08:00

The Anchorite wrote this story in answer to my request to write a story featuring two lesbian goddess, one good, one evil, who fought over the fate of mankind, but who had much more in common with each other than with any mortal.

This is the second installment. So far, the Zobulian Tarnas has raped and murdered the goddess Tirala's daughter, and Tirala has punished Zobul with pestilence, drought, and all the usual. It's a pretty serious story. Until I come in at the end. It's not a pornographic story, but it has some serious adult themes, so don't read it to your kids before bed. Or do. I'm sure they hear worse at school.

The text in bold is me, the regular text is the Anchorite.

The Twin Goddess

Tiralastrode through the once-fertile plains of Zobul with a single-minded purposetowards a nondescript farm a few leagues away from a small village. She foundhim standing in the middle of a barren field when she arrived. He stood erectwith his hat held in his hands as a gentleman’s respectful gesture. Tirala’ssenses enhanced beyond any mortal’s perceived his struggle to maintain hisdignity and composure standing against her divine status and solemn mission.She was impressed by his demeanor as most who faced the goddess’s judgment mether with sobbing pleas as pathetic as they were ineffective before she killedthem. Tirala removed the scale with one hand and pointed an accusatory fingerwith the other.

“Tarnas of Zobul, your judgment is at hand for the rape and murder of Korana,beloved daughter of Zobul’s harvest goddess. Your crime alone is enough towarrant the harshest judgment, but your actions also drove Beruda into suchgrief that she abandoned this land and has disappeared beyond the ken of alleyes mortal and divine. You have sentenced your homeland to a slow, painfulwasting death. Have you anything to say in your defense, mortal?”

The weight of the goddess’s words were too much for him to bear as he finallybowed his head and covered his face in a hand through which tears streamed ontothe parched soil. He took a slow, deep breath before he raised his head to meetthe goddess’s eyes.

“I do not dispute these accusations, mighty goddess, and I hold myselfaccountable for my sins. All my life I have striven to never do any wrong toanyone, and I deeply regret that this one foolish act ended so tragically. Youmust, however, my lady believe me that I never wanted this. I had no idea thatshe was the sacred Berula’s own daughter and I would have never done what I didif it meant condemning my friends, neighbors, and countrymen like this. Surelyyou cannot believe that I wanted to doom my own homeland like this.”

Tirala paused to consider his words. As the goddess of judgment, she had a keensense for determining the motives of any mortal. She could only pass judgmenton those who acted with will and intent so that she could hold them accountablefor their actions. She had no authority over the insane, the incapacitated, orthose who acted through mere accident or misfortune. Tirala perceived intent aspart of her judgment and she had the divine, moral obligation to hear anymortal out before she passed judgment. Most mortals wasted that opportunity onfutile pleading, but this man was different. She sensed his deep sorrow, regret,and the overwhelming desire to undo these events and act differently. She alsosilently acknowledged that he had a point about the injustice in sentencing anentire people for one man’s actions. Tirala lifted her scale above her head andpatiently waited as its two arms moved against each other. Her judgment wouldbe complete once the scale settled into its final position.

“My review of the events shows me that Korana was not entirely innocent as shewas a vain, spiteful woman who took pleasure in seducing mortals with herdivine charms beyond anyone’s ability to resist. True to her nature as aloving, nurturing agricultural goddess her mother Beruda saw her only as avivacious, lovely young woman taken from her far too soon. Even as a goddess,she was a mother predisposed to turn a blind eye to her daughter’s faults, forwhat mother does not practice such indulgence?

“I see that Korana focused her charms on you after she became bored with yourneighbor, but rather than take you to bed she decided on a whim that it wouldbe more fun to deny you and laugh at your frustrations for her own amusement.She provoked your rage, true enough, but she was young and not fully apprisedof the consequences of her actions as gods often do when dealing with mortals.I see a small measure of mitigation for her provocation, but that does not inany way excuse your actions. You committed a heinous crime, but I see deepwithin your soul that all you wanted was to make her suffer as you suffered andto lash out at her for ridiculing you as she did. In your addled state, you didnot intend to kill her and indeed this was an unfortunate case of consequencesbeyond what you intended. Intentionally or not, however, you took a life andeven if it was an accident you did it in the course of committing a heinouscrime. I have weighed the circumstances and despite some mitigating factors, Ijudge you guilty and will take your life as you took that of the young goddessKorana.

Tarnas sighed and bowed his head. He knew that he was condemned as soon as thegoddess confronted him so he was not surprised by her judgment, but Tiralasensed his desire to face his judgment with a modicum of dignity.

“For what it’s worth, Tarnas, I note your bravery in accepting responsibilityfor your actions that I rarely see among those I judge and I do regret that youmust face such a strict sentence for provocations by a foolish, fickle younggoddess that got you in over your head. Yet the divine law is a universal truthand authority beyond even mine. I am but its conduit to the world both mortaland divine, and once pronounced my judgment is final.”

Tarnas nodded in the resignation of acceptance that he was at his final moment.

“Very well, mighty goddess, I accept your sentence so do with me what you will.As the witness to my final words, I just want it to be known that I do not wantto see all of Zobul die because of me. You may execute me for justice, butwhere’s the justice in condemning an entire nation? It’s not right that anentire country of parents, children … people perish because of the one atrocityI committed in my humble existence. I may not deserve better, but they do. Theyall do.” A strange pale glow seemed to suffuse the lowly criminal.

Tirala’s eyes momentarily widened as the truth of this mortal’s words resonated in her. Then her eyes widened further as Blondhilda sprang out of nowhere and sliced the mortal from stem to stern. As he fell in two ghastly pieces, Blondhilda sheathed her sword and turned to Tirala.

"Enough. If one would kill a mortal, then one dost kill him outright. One does not talk him to death."

A sneer curled Tirala's lip. "Excuse me, Blondhilda, if my method of delivering justice does not meet your approval. My aim was to both serve justice and educate the people you see around us, so that they may learn from Zobul's mistake. And, in doing so, I have learned something myself. It was wrong for me to punish a whole people for the mistake of one."

"Mistake, my a---" Sweeping her Sword in a flashing arc, Blondhilda decapitated the local magistrate. "You erred thrice, Tirala. Rape and murder are not a 'mistake'. There exists nothing that mitigates the crime of rape." Blondhilda paused to spew a bolt of lighting from her pink lacquered fingertips, incinerating the village district attorney.

Tirala tsked as the prosecutor’s ashes blew away on a gentle gust of wind. "I see you take more kindly to murder," she said.

"Verily," Blondhilda intoned, in a voice a teenager might use to say whatever. "Your second error is in finding these people"--she swept her sword to indicate the surrounding peasants and they backed away--"innocent. A righteous people would have held the criminal in durance vile. Yet he roamed the streets, free under the sunshine, while your kin lay under ground, never to rise again."

Tirala's eyes widened again as she realized the truth of Blondhilda's words.

"Your third error," Blondhilda continued, "was your bloodless reaction to an attack on a fellow god—your family. He raped and murdered Korana. This was no time for ivory tower calculations of moral nuances. Such a craven heartless intellectual cannot lead. Look at these people--do they respect you?"

Tirala looked about at the gathered people and saw sneers below lowered eyes. She felt her power diminish, for her power lay in the belief and worship of her people. One man coughed and mumbled "Dukakis."

Suddenly, a flaming red chariot pulled by dragons dropped out of the sky, directly on Tirala's head. Santa the Barbarian stepped out, then helped Ishtar alight. Her velvet slipper, midnight blue and strewn with diamonds like stars, smushed Tirala’s nose and Tirala muttered in annoyance. Ishtar's skin glowed like the silken moon, an aftereffect of having passed through the LOLshark's digestive canal during a previous adventure.

"It is often women more than men who focus on the victim’s behavior," Ishtar said sadly, "and it confuses me. Perhaps they blame the victim because in doing so, they can cherish the hope that if they make their behavior conventional enough, if they constrain themselves enough, if they constrict their lives in fear enough, they can guarantee their safety. The old arguments of 'she asked for it' never grow old. I am immortal, and I fear I will never see those arguments die."

Looking up from under the chariot, Tirala recognized the truth of those words, and her eyes widened yet again, so wide this time that they bugged out of her head and rolled across the parched, blackened earth.

Santa stood behind Ishtar and put his hands on her shoulders. "Provocation is a myth,” he said. “A true man, a man worthy of being called a man, would not commit rape under any circumstances." Then his huge hands slipped down Ishtar's shapely arms and he pinned her wrists together. His gigantic muscles bulged as he pulled her to him. "Unless it's just a bit of play with a willing partner," he said, brushing his lips against her neck. She sighed against him and pushed her exquisitely generous derriere against his---

"Oh, for Odin's sake," Blondhilda said, resting her forehead against her palm. Then the ground rippled and a massive gray fin broke the earth. With a splash, the LOLshark erupted from the ground and landed between Ishtar and Santa, separating them and interrupting the gag-inspiring exhibition.

"Ohai, Blondhilda," he said, shyly. Blondhilda took a note from the shark’s slavering jaws and patted him on the nose as she slowly read it.

"I see that I have erred as well," she finally said to Tirala. "When I first came here, I began by criticizing you for talking too much and not getting to the matter at hand. Now I see that committed the same wrong."

Tirala had by this time crawled out from under Santa's flaming war-sled and had restored her eyes to their customary places. She smirked at Blondhilda while the others, gods and peasants alike, stared in apprehension. "And what is the 'matter at hand'?" Tirala started to ask, snarkily, but Blondhilda cut her off. As Tirala's head thudded to the ground, the crowd erupted in applause.

And yea, verily, a cry did rise from them, a cry heard throughout the realm.

"Twin Goddesses! Twin Goddesses! Enough of Tirala! Twin Goddesses"

And Blondhilda, Ishtar and Santa, and even the LOLshark saw that it was good, and they left.

MKMM Preface

2011-10-31T19:35:00.000-07:00

Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery Preface

The fluffy black cat stared at the computer screen for a long time. Then he began to type.

A parrot, a piano, a fish and dead lawyer in a clown suit at the bottom of the stairs--how did it add up to murder? This is the story behind the story that transfixed the nation, the Reality Murders, which gained their sobriquet not because of existential angst, but because--

Twitch jumped onto the desk, pushed his nose against the screen, and read very slowly. "You writing sounds a little uptight," he said. "What's asobriquet?"

Kitten stared at the back of Twitch's head. "It means a nickname and is derived from the French word sot, meaning 'foolish,' and the Italian word bricco, meaning an--"

"--boring--"

"--ass," Mr. Kitten finished.

"Whatever." Twitch stood on his hind legs and stretched, scraping his claws against the top of the monitor. "So what do angst and existentialmean?"

Kitten took a deep breath. "The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard is considered the father of modern existential--"

"Boring!"

Kitten spoke in a tight voice. "If you're so interesting, why don't you write it, and I'll just block your view of the screen and ask stupid questions?"

"Okay!"

The cats traded places.

Hey, I'm Twitch! Okay, the most exciting thing happened. There was this guy, and he like fell down the, whoa, what does this button do? Comic sans? Hey, look at this, Kitten.Trebuchet. Courier. Are you reading this Mr. Kitten? You should use courier and do it all noir like theMaltese Falcon. Okay, I'm gonna open Internet Explorer and go toicanhascheezburger.com now. Ha, ha. I love that site. Are you reading this? Ouch, hey, stop it. Hey, HEY, HEY!!!

Two hours later, the cats stared at the computer side by side.

"I'm sorry, I bit you," Mr. Kitten finally said.

"S'alright."

"I assume you're sorry you tore my ear."

"Whatever."

"Although, I must say, if you hadn't bled on the human's shoe, we wouldn't have had to go to the vet."

Twitch laughed. "If you hadn't cried like a baby, she wouldn't have come running."

"I was trying to get assistance for your injuries"

"Is that also why you peed in the cat carrier?"

Silence.

"Okay, I'm sorry we fought," Mr. Kitten said. "It's just that my art is important to me. I'm a writer. I want this book to..." Mr. Kitten didn't finish the thought, but Twitch knew what he meant.

"I understand."

Ever since Twitch's picture appeared in theNew York Times bestselling book, How to Take Over the Wurld, Mr. Kitten had turned his considerable intellect toward getting on the bestseller list himself. Twitch’s book was a collection of funny cat pictures with captions, taken from the famous website icanhascheezburger.com. A book about the murders at Gibbous Manor represented Mr. Kitten’s big opportunity, but he was having a hard time getting started. Twitch understood Kitten's desire to earn fame on his own. And, although Kitten was a pampered housecat, he had had his start on the mean streets of East San Jose, and he had a streak of cruelty it was wise to steer clear of. This was definitely not the time for Twitch to mention how handsome he had looked on icanhascheezburger, posed next to a squirrel, lounging in the garden window, framed by a blooming crepe myrtle tree with the autumn sun shining through his black fur. It would not be wise for Twitch to remind Kitten of his triumph. And it certainly wouldn't make sense to suggest to Kitten that he use Twitch's picture for the cover of his book.

He suggested it anyway.

Three hours later, in separate side by side cages at the overnight emergency vet hospital, Twitch and Mr. Kitten decided to let Chris Hugh write the book.

A writing exercise involving four main characters from the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery

2011-10-31T18:43:00.000-07:00

These are the scenarios: the character is confronted by a mugger, a roach jumps on his plate at a very fancy dinner (like at the White House), he wins $10,000,000 dollars, he witnesses a serious accident, a bum asks him for money

Helen (the wealthy, overweight, beautiful and cat crazy main human)

-----Your money or your life!

Helen is so scared, she's shaking and has stress incontinence. Or maybe it's anger? In either case, she gets that money out right away, but, inexplicably, just stands there, frozen, instead of running away. Afterwards, she's so angry she's spitting fire for the next week. Or month. Then she gets PTSD.

-----Roach

She's embarassed, as if it were a reflection on her. She would like to just ignore it and not draw attention to herself, but since she's already screamed and knocked over her chair....

------Ten million dollars!

She's excited and wants to donate all $4,000,000 (after taxes) to a charity in Africa. When her research convinces her that most charity money ends up in the hands of local warlords, she donates the money to Best Friends, an animal shelter in the American Southwest. She also almost spends another $4,000,000 of her own money buying a condo on the residential luxury cruise ship, the Residensea, but decides against it because they don't allow pets.

------Whoops, serious accident

She hardly knows what to do, can barely dial 911, she's shaking so badly. Then she haltingly walks toward the accident, scared of what she'll see, with a vague idea of rendering aid, but also with the belief that she's pretty useless. Finally arriving at the scene, she discovers a victim bleeding badly and possibly with a broken neck. She staunches the blood with her hands, then wakes up a little and realizes she needs to use something as a bandage. She removes her shirt and uses that as a bandage. By the time bystanders come along and try to move the patient, she's in charge. She countermands that, and directs them to look for other victims and render them aid, being careful not to move them. She lost something undefinable when she was mugged. She regains it through this incident.

-----Bum asks for money

She gives him $5 along with a smile and "good luck"

Steve, her adoring husband and CEO of IDK Gaming

-----Your money or your life!

Steve hands the money over in a friendly manner, chats a bit and walks away. Then he reports it to the police, avoids telling Helen so as not to disturb her, and forgets about it.

-----Roach

He purses his lips in thought and looks at it. It runs off and he forgets about it. Then he gets concerned that the food might be unsanitary (he's concerned for Helen, not himself), but decides not to say anything, so as not to disturb her.

------Ten million dollars!

He's pleased and slightly bemused. He lets Helen decide what to do.

------Whoops, serious accident

He relies on his CERT and SAFE training and functions perfectly. He's calm and in control. The incident is one of the highpoints of his life.

-----Bum asks for money

He gives him $5, but for some reason dislikes the bum more than the mugger.

Twitch, everyone knows Twitch

-----Your money or your life!

It takes Twitch a while to understand the concept. When he does, he laughs, disarms the mugger, and playfully forces him to say and do various humiliating things, such as giving him a piggyback right while neighing like a horse. Eventually Twitch gets bored. As he leaves, he gives the mugger all his money.

-----Roach

Cool! He makes a bit of a spectacle chasing after it, and raises eyebrows when he eats it.

------Ten million dollars!

He keeps forgetting to collect it. Then he forgets he has it.

------Whoops, serious accident

Wow, that looks bad. He watches in fascination until something else draws his interest.

-----Bum asks for money

It takes Twitch a while to understand the concept. When he does, he laughs, disarms the mugger, and playfully forces him to say and do various humiliating things, such as giving him a piggyback right while neighing like a horse. Eventually Twitch gets bored. As he leaves the mugger (in tears, and sprawled on the pavement), he gives him all his money.

Mr. Kitten

-----Your money or your life!

Mr. Kitten considers this. If he doesn't give the mugger his money, the mugger will kill him. Mr. Kitten does not wish to give the mugger his money, so the mugger will kill him. Unless he kills the mugger first. Which he does.

-----Roach

He watches impassively until he can't stand it anymore and pounces!

------Ten million dollars!

He invests it using a balanced and fairly conservative strategy.

------Whoops, serious accident

He watches.

-----Bum asks for money

He walks on past.

And a bonus, Blondhilda, the Norse Warrior Goddess

-----Your money or your life!

Blondhilda makes much the same calculation Mr. Kitten does, and takes this as a challenge to mortal combat. It's a good day. She so seldom has the opportunity to blood her sword. Some undefinable tension that she had barely been aware of is released. She really needs to kill more.

----Roach

She flicks it away, just as she does in the halls of Valhalla.

------Ten million dollars!

How nice. Perhaps Stanley will like this trinket.

------Whoops, serious accident

She renders aid to the best of her knowledge and ability. By the time paramedics arrive, the victims are healthy, hale and eager for battle.

-----Bum asks for money

The bum walks away in disgust after failing to convey the concept of begging to a goddess who is constitutionally incapable of ever understanding.

LOLshark interview

2011-09-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

This is a writing exercise. The idea was to have one character interview another. Here we have the goddess Ishtar interviewing the lolshark. Ishtar is a very sexy, very vengeful and violent goddess from ancient Assyria and Babylon. The lolshark eats anyone and everyone who annoys Chris Hugh, and that includes Officer Jerkface who gave her a ticket last week! The lolshark can strike anywhere: land, sea or office.

LOLshark Interview

The elegant woman straightened the sheaf of blank papers in her hands and smiled at the camera. "And now," she said, "Let's welcome our special guest and new audience favor--"

The studio backdrop of Chris Hugh Live shattered into streaming fragments as a great white shark lunged through it, sending a wave of seawater through the cheering audience.

The woman patted herself with the towel she'd had ready and welcomed the lolshark.

"Thank you," it replied shyly. "I'm so happy to be here, my lady, Goddess Ishtar."

Ishtar made a deprecating motion with her open hands. "No need for formalities. I'm actually trying out my new role as a TV personality, and I'm even going with a new name. Madison Blacksmith. What do you think of it?"

"With a name like that and your beauty and talent," the lolshark said, winking a soulless eye at the audience, "I can see you'll soon be a rapidly rising anchor."

The sound technician did an orchestra sting and the audience laughed at the lolshark's nautical reference.

"Well, I do hope to be a heavyweight," Ishtar quipped to more laughter. "Now, seriously, though, soon I will achieve full dominance of all TV transmissions. Success shall be mine or merciless indeed shall be my revenge." Inexplicably, an arc of lightning flashed across the ceiling. Ishtar took a deep breath and laughed a little. "But getting back to you," she said, "I hear you've been busy devouring annoying politicians."

The crowded roared its approval and the lolshark grinned with five rows of razor sharp teeth.

"But I was confused," Ishtar continued. "Annoying politicians? Is there another kind of politician?" The camera panned over the laughing audience, and Ishtar beamed.

"So tell me, lolshark," she said when the audience had quieted. "In what direction do you see your career going? Where do you want to be in a thousand years?" The audience murmured and Ishtar glanced at the producer. "I mean, in five years?"

"I don't know," the lolshark said quietly. "I hope I remain a creature of wrathful vengeance. I just don't want to end up like Santa Claus."

Ishtar leaned back in her chair. "Ah, Santa Claus. I knew him as Santa the Barbarian." A fiery memory awoke in Ishtar's dreamy, half-closed eyes, and the room grew still. The studio lights faded to black and it seemed that Ishtar was alone in the universe, illuminated as if by rippling flames, her hair and skin softly glowing.

"Magnificent, he was," she said in a voice like chocolate and velvet. "A proud man, a fierce warrior and an...energetic lover. Indeed, he was a god of dark justice. In the moonless watches of the night, any evil worm that might ill use a child to sate its vile lusts would be smote by a blast through the chimney. Then Santa himself would come down and chop off the body part that had done evil and hang it on the fireplace mantel. A gift he would give to the wronged child, a talisman to bring aid in time of need. As a reminder of the strength of enduring innocence, he would place an evergreen in the family's home. Then he would ride away in a chariot pulled by ravenous dragons."

She sighed and the studio lights flickered on again, casting their cold glow on a blinking and shaken audience. Children cried. Some of the men had vomited.

Ishtar smilled her 100-watt television smile at the lolshark, unaware of the effect her words had had.

The lolshark opened his mouth. He wanted to jokingly thank Ishtar for her wholesome holiday memories, but it seemed insensitive. Then he thought to kid around with Ishtar about families hanging stockings on the fireplace, given what the original Santa had hung there, but it seemed crude. It seemed too prosaic to tell Ishtar that the evergreen tree had morphed into a festive modern custom. In the end, he just ate her.

Tandem Story: Summer Job

2011-08-18T23:50:00.000-07:00

Here was the assignment: write a story where a character seems to have very bad luck, but we see in the end that everything that seemed like bad luck turned out for the good.

Here's what Anchorite wrote.

Anchorite

Heather breathed a sigh of relief after the morning rush passed at Java Juke. After the stampede of immaculately dressed, demanding urban professionals, Heather enjoyed the relative peace and quiet. Instead of shouted, impatient orders she heard only the sensitive strums of the acoustic guitar from the singer-songwriter Jacqueline Benton piped in over the coffee shop’s sound system. Heather took the time to wipe down the empty tables and clean up the spilled milk, sugar packets, and other refuse that the morning’s patrons were apparently physically unable to toss into the garbage cans. Heather enjoyed the moment because this was the longest possible time until the dreaded lunch rush.

Heather hated having to spend her summer here after one year and nearly fifty thousand dollars in law school tuition. She tried not to think of the student loan debt accumulating like dry rot behind a wall, especially when set in stark contrast against her pitiful wages and meager tips at Java Juke, the home of caffeinated delicacies and live musical performances. As much as the crowds invaded like barbarians sacking an imperial Roman city, Heather was glad that she was not working at a downtown or financial district location which would have been several orders of magnitude worse.

Heather resented the thought of spending her summer doing this meager work while her classmates had prestigious internships at law firms or corporate legal departments. Heather had bad luck with interviews that did not go anywhere and she did not have the benefit of well-placed connections or a prior professional record to draw upon. There was not much of a job market for English-Philosophy dual majors, as law firms were not terribly impressed by her lack of work experience. Her inability to find a summer job in the legal profession would further set her back when she returned to law school in the fall, and she was already not looking forward at having to explain to classmates and prospective employers that she spent her summer slinging lattes for hipsters and yuppies. Heather figured that she could just as well have worked as a barista without a year of law school under her belt and wondered whether her parents ever felt like they were not where they wanted to be in life.

Heather had come close on one interview with a white shoe law firm, but she knew that she had blown it when the interviewing attorney had asked about the extracurricular activities listed on her resume. The interview had gone well up to that point, but when she answered his question about the student group Out Law Heather knew that his response of “that’s interesting” with a quick nod would not end well. Heather regretted having ever placed that membership on her resume, even if she was proud of the work that they did and results that they achieved. As a law student, Heather wondered whether she had a claim for unfair, discriminatory hiring practices but what chance did she stand against a large law firm full of attorneys who knew every intricacy of the law? She had received a well-crafted, if flowery, rejection letter printed on the firm’s professional letterhead that they were impressed by her qualifications and credentials but that she was unfortunately not a good fit for their hiring needs at the present time. Heather had read and re-read that letter before she threw it away lest it drive her insane and figured that she could not prove anything. She attributed the rejection to bad luck and went for the barista’s apron.

At this time off of peak hours customers trickled rather than poured in and they consisted mostly of housewives, the elderly, and the unemployed as all the professionals were at work. Heather noticed one Asian woman roughly her age that regularly came in to order either a hazelnut latte or raspberry mocha and then spent most all morning at a table typing away on her laptop. She looked like one of those overly ambitious career women, but then again she spent her days at Java Juke so she could not be an office drone. Heather had noticed her for a while, but had never personally served her. Thinking about her ill fortune at spending her summer in exile and wanting to find pleasure wherever she could, Heather decided to stop wiping the crumbs from the morning pastries off the tables and return to the register to take this customer’s order. The tables would still be there to clean after she took the order and this customer spent her days glued to her computer anyway, so there would not be much interaction after that initial contact.

Heather returned to the register and instinctively straightened her apron and her glasses on the bridge of her nose. She wondered why she bothered, but noticed that up close this customer was really quite striking and attractive. Heather had never dated an Asian woman before, or much of anyone for a long time. In addition to suffering through the first-year law school curriculum and a fruitless search for a summer job, Heather also experienced a dry spell for the entire academic year as no one was her type at school and she did not have much time to go out and socialize. She had gone to a strip club out of desperation after going a year without seeing any female anatomy other than her own and to have a few drinks after the crushing rejection from her best interview prospect. Heather had a good time that she still remembered fondly and the experience was worth it despite the staggering cost for an underemployed law student. Now, even if at a minimal level, Heather had the opportunity to speak with a beautiful customer who was not the standard demanding commuting professional.

“Welcome to Java Juke. May I have your name and start an order for you?”

“Sure, my name is Claire, and I would like a large hazelnut latte.”

Chris Hugh

And here's my over-the-top followup

Heather drove her Mercedes sportscar to school, happy after an exciting, whirlwind summer romance and settlling into her role as Claire's life partner. She hadn't wanted to accept the $120,000 car as a gift, but it would have broken Claire's heart if she hadn't.

Claire had developed a sudden, deadly allergy to hazelnuts. Claire had been at Heather's coffee shop, nursing a Hazelnut Juggernaut, when she started shaking and choking. Her throat swelled, and she turned a terrible grayish blue. An off-duty paramedic wanted to give her the Heimlich Maneuver, certain she was choking, but Heather herself had a peanut allergy. She, too, had gone into anaphylactice shock once and henceforth carried an Epipen with her wherever she went. It carried a dose of ephinephrine, also called adrenaline, enough to save a person's life. Heather recognized the symptoms, even though no one else did, and saved Claire's, and Claire, in a fit of grateful pique, demanded that Heather junk her ancient Ford Pinto and accept the Mercedes 'or else.' Heather had once bemoaned her bad luck in having a peanut allergy, had resented having to carry the Epipen, but now she blessed a kindly Fate for giving her the allergy, for, had she not had it, she would not have known what to do, and Claire would have died before her eyes.

A much worse incident happened a month later. They were in a dark alley, walking home from a romantic dinner out, when two men attacked them. Heather and Claire were completely caught off guard, since neither had ever experienced violence, unless you count that time another little girl had pulled Heather's braid back in fourth grade. Could that minor incident have been what spurred Heather to become a fifth degree black belt in jujitsu and an expert in the more practical Israeli art of self defense called Krav Maga? Probably not, but Heather's training allowed her and Heather to emerge shaken but unharmed.

Later, in the police station, Claire and Heather learned that the men had been not only rapists, but serial murderers. Heather had brought their wave of terror to an end. Subsequent searches of the men's homes revealed evidence that brought sad closure to many families that knew the worst in their hearts but were still tortured by the cruelty of irrational hope. An entire state recognized that many of their numbers, although they did not know who, owed their lives to Heather, for these men would have killed again and again. The prolonged agony the men suffered as a result of the injuries Heather inflicted in justifiable self defense brought some measure of satisfaction to the families of their victims, and brought new knowledge to the field of pain management, since doctors had many months to study two subject who were in constant, intractable, inhuman pain that medical science was unable to aleviate even the slightest bit. When the men finally died in unimaginable agony, it saved the state the expense of a capital murder case, and anti- and well as pro-death penalty advocates were happy to not have another divisive, controversial junking up the media. In a surprise move, many in the media took the opportunity to remember the victims, making this the only case in recent history where the names of the victims (and the hero, Heather Katz) were better known than the names of the worthless subhuman predators.

Heather thought of these things with gratitude and modesty as she easily, maybe too easily, found a parking space on campus, and walked to her first class. The room was more than half empty. Mark, one of her school friends, was there. In a class of 100, she was ranked 32 and he was 33, just below her. He whispered, "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"You know how everyone above us got swanky interships?"

Heather nodded. Indeed, numbers 1 through 31 had landed excellent internships. She and Mark had not. She wasn't bitter though. Local millionaires Helen and Steve Gibbous had set up a fund to pay all her education expenses and pay her a generous stipend as well. For life. If she had gotten an internship, she never would have met Claire. Claire would most likely have died drinking her Hazelnut Juggernaut. Heather would not have been out that night to intercept the two murderers and they might have been torturing and murdering a woman or man (they victimized both) this very moment. If she could live her life over...she wouldn't have even interviewed for an internship.

"Well," Mark continued, "the law firms, and I think a bunch of daddies and mommies got together and sent all the interns on a cruise to Hawaii."

Heather's face clouded. She looked around the classroom. Many people were missing. Harmony, with her long honey-colored hair, wasn't there. Delicate, ballerina-like MacKenzie wasn't there either. Nor were Kirby, Biffy, Anderson, Yardley, Bradford or Ashton. All Heather's bad luck had turned to good, but she certainly didn't want to hear that her not getting an internship had saved her from being lost at sea. She looked at Mark, tears already burning in her eyes.

He didn't notice. He leaned forward gleefully. "Well, I don't know how they did it, since it's summer break. But they managed to all get involved in a cheating scandal!"

Heather let out her breathe. "All 31 of them?" Marked jiggled his head happily. "So that's why so many people are gone," she said to herself. She frowned again. "Oh, they didn't all get expelled, did they?"

"It's not decided yet. But even if they don't get expelled, they might not be able to be admitted to the bar with this on their record. Some have dropped out. Some will try to stay and see what happens." Mark laughed. "I think we'll probably have out pick of internships next year."

"Why do you say that? We're barely in the top third of our class."

Marked bounced in his chair and did a little dance with his feet. "Not anymore. Those idiots cheated. You and I used to be ranked 32 and 33. Well, now I'm ranked number 2. And you...." He grinned.

"And I," Heather's mouth fell open. "I'm number 1."

Tandem Story: Claire Decides Not to Write

2011-08-09T00:15:00.000-07:00

Here is another tandem story. Anchorite wrote the first two sentences and I wrote the rest. You might remember Claire as the fictional author of the wildly-successful novel Dark Millenium. True to its name, Dark Millenium is a bleak shadowland where trouble anti-heroes battles monsters in human form. One can't blame two fictional cats for not wanting to be in any story written by Claire.

Anchorite wrote this part

"Mr. Kitten, Mr. Kitten! I've just heard some terrible news: Claire Guang has been assigned to be the guest writer for our next chapter."

"Oh dear, Twitch, that is a most dire situation so brace yourself for the most depraved scenarios that emerge from the darkest depths of an author's mind."

Chris Hugh wrote the rest

"Actually, Kitten, I've got a better idea..."

After a while, Mr. Kitten slowly blinked his golden eyes. "That's good, Twitch. Very good indeed."

* * *

Claire coughed and shook more smoke out of her hair. She stood on her front lawn in a housecoat and tattered chenille slippers that were slowly sinking into her muddy, singed and boot-tramped grass.

"It's a miracle you got out," the Fire Captain was saying. "Your cats are heroes. They saved your life."

Claire blinked.

A firefighter walked up to the Captain carrying a melted keyboard and the two men spoke quietly for a few minutes. Then the younger man slipped the keyboard into a plastic bag and put it in the fire engine's cab. The Captain turned back to Claire.

"Well, I guess we've found the cause of the fire," he said. "Two hairballs in your keyboard. They apparently short-circuited the electronics."

Claire's lips trembled and she blinked again.

"I'm a big fan of your work," the Captain said consolingly. "I guess this will interfere with your writing. You'll want to get a new computer and a new, um,"--the Captain looked around--"house."

Another firefighter came up, cuddling two black cats in her arms. She seemed surprised when Claire didn't reach for them. "Well, these little guys might have caused the fire, but they saved your life, ma'am. You've got insurance, right? The only real harm done is that you won't be able to 'ghost write the next chapter' or whatever."

Claire stared at her.

"You babbled while you were delirious." The firefighter bounced the cats in her arms and gave the green-eyed cat a kiss. Claire shivered. "Anyway, your cats are heroes."

"But...." Claire's voice was barely audible.

"You sure are lucky to have such wonderful cats." The firefighter kissed Twitch again and Mr. Kitten looked at Claire through half-closed, golden eyes.

"But..." Claire's voice sank to a ragged whisper. "But I don't have any cats."

Twitch and Mr. Kitten Talk

2011-08-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

Twitch cocked his head. "Mr. Kitten, what are the noises the woman keeps making with her mouth?"

"Do you mean the sounds she makes to us and to other humans and sometimes to the little box she holds in her hand?"

Twitch cleared his throat and nodded.

"She is pretending to speak," Kitten continued. "You know that."

Twitch bowed his head. "I was hoping it wasn't that."

Kitten nudged him with his nose and licked his ears. "Don't feel bad. She's a primate. She sees how we communicate and she copies us. It's cute."

Twitch sighed. "It's just that I was almost starting to respect her. It makes me melancholy to see her aping us, like a, well, like a..."

"Like an ape?"

Twitch said nothing. "Look," Mr. Kitten said, "there is some rudimentary communication that occurs when the humans 'talk'. But it will take them trillions of years to reach our level."

Twitch nodded. He and Mr. Kitten existed on a higher plane of existence and their exquisite feline bodies were but projections into the Earthly plane. Beings such as Kitten and Twitch experienced the entire vastness of time simultaneously, and the energy of their extraordinary minds reached into all realms, in every dimension, taking living form and experiencing myriad lives in what, for them, was not even a blink of the eye. They were everywhere and no where, omnipotent and omnipresent. Their thoughts were unimaginably sublime.

"You're right," Twitch said. "I have to accept and respect her as she is, and not try to imagine her as anything more. I will go now and free my mind to drift upon the waves of random impulses that course through the neurons of this body."

"And I," Mr. Kitten said, "will tend to the upkeep of this simple form that converts matter into energy, and produces the waste products we present to the human in the container she has chosen."

Mr. Kitten licked his butt. Twitch took a nap.

MacDairmids

2011-07-21T22:45:00.001-07:00

MacDairmid's

Libby took another snapshot and didn't see her guide roll his eyes.

"Oh, what history," she gushed, gazing up and down the deserted street that passed for downtown. Every building was made of the same dusty yellow clay. Not a single plant or breath of wind marred the absolute aridness of the scene. "What charm!"

They turned a corner and Libby stopped short. An old woman was laboring in front of a primitive oven, just a mound of yellow earth, hard-packed and discolored. The sun glared through the heat distortion. A crude plaque proclaimed the narrow space between buildings to be MacDiarmid's Bakery, established, 366 B.C.

"I can't believe it. We just don't have heritage like this in America."

Aron made a wry face that Libby didn't notice.

"I want to buy some bread. It must be so healthy and natural."

Aron shook his head.

"And look, she's using cow manure as fuel for the oven. How environmentally aware. There really is wisdom to be found here. We could learn a lot from your culture."

The old woman was on her knees, fishing loaves out of the oven with her hands. She spoke without looking at them. "Aron's family has been buying here for generations."

Libby was charmed by the long tradition.

The woman stood up. "Hurry up and buy," she snapped. She quickly formed another cow patty, tossed it in the fire, then picked up a loaf. "Your family's been buying bread here since the Norman Conquest in 1066."

"And we haven't eaten it since Robert Koch discovered pathogens in 1890, old hag," Aron said, throwing some coins at the woman's feet. She beamed him with the red-hot loaf as they walked away. Libby picked it up with a handkerchief.

"One of the interesting things about this town," Aron said, rubbing the back of his head, "is that MacDiarmid's bakery is so ancient, the cats and rats have reached a sort of detente. The cats no longer hunt the rats."

Libby sighed and smiled. "Why, that could be a model for world peace!"

Aron looked at her. "Yes," he said thoughtfully as he turned away. "The rats gather their least favored and sacrifice them to the cats."

Libby bit her lip and walked in silence while Aron indicated other points of interest.

Later, she noticed several large, graceful figures circling in the blue-white sky. She motioned with the bread in her hands. "Let's go give this to the birds."

Aron shrugged. They walked to the open air cemetery and fed the vultures.

A Sticky Situation

2011-07-07T22:39:00.000-07:00

This is an homage, a story written in my version of Anchorite's inimitable style.

I follow his convention of starting quite close to the middle of the action, then using narrative to convey the backstory and explain how the character got there. I created a solitary heroic character facing long odds in a hostile world. There are anime and manga influences and the main character is female. The story ends with the main character in transition and about to embark on a great adventure. I've also made a special effort to use longer and more sophisticated sentences.

There is just a touch of affectionate satire and I've tried to make it funny. It doesn't quite sound like Anchorite, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

A Sticky Situation

The blue and white cartoon sticker of a whale surfing on a red surfboard against a yellow sky peeled herself from her paper backing and viewed the world for the first time. For two years she had been trapped in a box of Wotan Rice Candy, the dark coffin where those of her kind started rather than ended their colorful but short and pointless lives.

It had been a lonely two years despite the fact that she shared her tomb with six rice candies. Although they were superficially sweet, the sticker had found in them a certain underlying hardness, a brittleness that made them poor companions. They also evinced little interest in anything other than the worst kinds of anime and manga and the ugliest examples of pop culture. The sticker considered them tasteless.

The sticker thought of the others like herself, the "free stickers in box," the afterthoughts, the bonuses included with the important things--the candies, the nameless products of a faceless corporation, born to futility, doomed to lives stuck to strollers, to toys, to sticker books, to windows or walls, or, most often, just thrown away. They were tenacious of life, those colorful mass-produced characatures of cheerful cuteness, holding on tightly where they could, and at the end leaving behind a residue of adhesive that would remain, a sad legacy of wasted potential, until someone came along with a razor blade and scraped away those last vestiges of cheap, one-dimensional lives.

"I am not one dimensional," the sticker declared defiantly. "I am two dimensional."

She decided to sunbathe and enjoy the golden rays she had so recently seen for the first time. She lay upon her printed side, mindful to keep the sticky side up, for she had had long to ponder in her sepulcher, and did not wish to spend eternity stuck to a park bench. She lay down in the sun and had barely perceived a shadow when she was suddenly thrown into darkness as a strong but pleasant feeling of pressure overwhelmed her.

Blondhilda the Norse Warrior Goddess had sat upon her, and now the sticker found herself stuck to the most flawless, powerful and heroic derriere in history.

When Blondhilda stood again, the sticker surveyed the world from her new vantage point. "I wonder," she thought, "what adventures await me."

Blondhilda the Cat: a tandem story

2011-07-01T08:30:00.000-07:00

This is a tandem story. My writing buddy Anchorite wrote the first line, and then I wrote some and then he wrote some and so on. It's ongoing and just for fun. It might or not make sense. This story features my two cats, who have been in many of my stories, as well as a certain warrior goddess....the newest parts are in black

Anchorite

After solving the mystery of the Silver Falcon and returning the priceless heirloom to its rightful owner, Mr. Kitten and Twitch took a walk through the park.

Chris Hugh

"Well, I'm glad we brought that to a satisfactory conclusion," Mr. Kitten said, taking a moment to smooth his rich black fur before continuing their promenade.

Twitch jumped in the air and batted a piece of dust. "I always get my bird!"

"I believe it was a joint effort." Mr. Kitten gave his companion a sidelong glance. "And, incidentally, your squeaky toy is not a bird."

"Is so!"

"Is not."

"Is so!" Twitch puffed up his fur and jumped onto a birdbath. A couple crows casually flew away. "I'm king of the world! Birds fear me, women want me, and...." He looked into the distance. "Whoa, ho, ho, what is that?"

Twitch slipped down and the two male cats stood side by side, slack jawed and staring. A longhaired female was gliding toward them. She had fur as golden as a sunrise over the ocean and gray eyes as deep as an arctic sea.

"Oh, why on Earth did they neuter me?" Mr. Kitten muttered.

Twitch puffed out his chest. "Nobody neutered me!"

Mr. Kitten sighed. "The shelter neutered us both before they put us up for adoption."

"Not me!" Twitch lowered his voice. "Don't tell her, okay?"

The glamorous creature drew up to them. She wore a collar of platinum chain mail and the sun glinted off her long silver claws. "I am the warrior goddess Blondhilda, turned into a cat through evil magic and treachery." A storm brewed in her gray eyes. "I need your help."

* * *

"This is great, Blondhilda. I've never had fresh duck before." Twitch stretched his mouth wide and wiped a feather from his muzzle.

Blondhilda licked a drop of blood from a manicured claw. "Well, if you've both eaten now, may we get start--"

"Whoa, hang on, babe." Twitch turned to Mr. Kitten. "He hasn't eaten yet."

Mr. Kitten had closed his eyes against the sight of the carcass. "Oh, I'll just have a bite of something a little later."

The corners of Twitch's mouthed turned up. "Blondie, you didn't happen to see a nice bag of kibble feeding down at the duck pond when you were there, did you?"

"Very funny," Kitten said in a hollow voice.

Four Rottweillers spotted the cats and started running across the grass, tails wagging, mouths open in happy lolling grins. They whined and ran the other direction when Blondhilda looked at them.

She turned the same steely glance to the two cats. "Let us begin. I must regain my human form so that I may return to my Stanley. Let us not waste time."

Mr. Kitten met her eyes and yawned. "Time? What is time? Time is an illusion: it only exists to tell the humans when to feed us."

Twitch sprang up. "No, she's right. We have to get moving. Action. Focus. We need to focus. I'm focused like a laser beam, a big old laser beam that's so focused you could practically -- hey, there's a butterfly!"

Twitch skipped off through the thick grass and other landscaping, jumping and hopping and happily failing to catch the used tissue that floated on the wind.

Blondhilda stood up and a tone of what might, in a lesser entity, be called fear informed her voice. "But we must hurry, for if I stay long as a cat, a change might be wrought upon my character."

Mr. Kitten regarded her with polite apathy. Then he got up and bit Twitch's tail. The two cats took turns chasing each other. Blondhilda watched them as they ran across patches of bright lawn and under the sun-dappled shade of broad trees.

After a while, she joined in.

* * *

"Hey, Blondhilda." Twitch opened an eye and yawned widely, stepping on a Rottweiller's face as he walked to the goddess cat. She lay on her back and the moonlight glowed in the soft fur of her belly. "Wanna go rabbit hunting?"

"Rabbits?" she murmured dreamily.

"Sure, they've got loads of rabbits here. Fast ones with little red eyes and long thin tails. I haven't caught one yet, but I bet we could catch a bunch together."

Blondhilda stood up and stretched, casually digging her claws into another Rottweiler. The dogs had pulled their chains during the night and run to the park. Now they lay in a circle around the three cats, serving as body guards and body pillows. The dog Blondhilda had used as a scratching post thumped its tail against the dewy grass.

"Nah. I'm feeling lazy." She patted the silver globe of a dandelion with her two front paws, first to one side and then to the other. Not a single seed floated away. Mr. Kitten glided over and sniffed its leaves. Blondhilda got bored and lay down again. "So, what have you guys been doing with yourselves?"

Twitch groomed himself. "You mean since I was in the LOLcat book, How To Take Oveh Teh Wurld?"

Mr. Kitten explained, "A LOLcat is a cute picture of a cat with a funny misspelled captain from the perspective of the--"

"I know," Blondhilda said. "The book was on the New York Times bestseller list a couple years ago, but what have you been doing since then, Twitch?"

"Stuff, lots of stuff." Twitch stood up and shook his head to straighten the white hand-made collar that made him look like he was wearing a tuxedo. "I've been doing James Bond stuff, fighting terrorists and things like that."

"That's impressive. How come I haven't read any stories where you've done any of those things."

"It was secret. I've been on missions with the Navy SEALS. I'm pretty much a SEAL."

Kitten snorted. "You, a seal? An aquatic animal? Blondhilda should see you squak when the human tries to give you a bath."

"I am so a SEAL. I'm a secret agent, too. In fact, I have to go right now and meet my secret contact." Twitch disappeared into an azalea bush.

"So, what have you been doing, Mr. Kitten?"

"I'm on assignment at the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery. It's a funny, cozy mystery someone is trying to write."

"How's it going?" Scratching and digging sounds came from the azalea bush.

"Slowly. The writer's a temp worker and has to spend hours a day doing something stupid called 'earning a living.'"

Twitch returned. "Hey, wasn't Stanley a temp attorney a long time ago, before he became a bestselling author?"

Blondhilda purred and slowly blinked her eyes. "Stanley. I love Stanley."

"So should we have an adventure and get you back to him?" Twitch asked.

"Sure."

"Or we could check out Mr. Kitten's assignment. I'm curious about that place."

Blondhilda rolled over and caught the end of her tail with her teeth. "Sure, whatever. Now that you mention it, I'm curious too."

* * *

by Anchorite

Hello Sailor shifted into a miko outfit as she swung the censer of burning incense and recited the incantation in a low-pitched husky tone. After the smoke cloud dissipated, Hello Sailor sighed as her spell to break the sorceress's enchantment not only failed to return her friend Blondhilda to her human form but also transformed Mr. Kitten and Twitch into humans.

* * *

by Chris Hugh

Two office workers strolled through the elaborate parklike setting between office buildings. Wilma had finally gathered the courage to invite Arthur for a walk. She had been interested in him for some time.

She plodded her way around willows and under redwoods while the arthritic Arthur paced beside and slightly behind her. Suddenly, Wilma's low, masculine voice vibrated the air.

"Ach!" she droned, giggling and trying to be cute. She pointed a gnarled, cigarette-stained finger with two-inch acrylic nails across the grass. The sun glinted off the rhinestones. Two somewhat elderly, but lithe, supple and muscular men lounged in a tiny glade. The dappled sunlight shone on their glossy black skin. One man had round, friendly eyes the color of pale jade. The other had slanted, almond eyes of copperish gold. Both wore white silk tuxedo collars. Otherwise, they were entirely naked. A gleaming cat lounged near them.

"It must be some sort of performance art!" Wilma intoned.

Arthur's jaw dropped. He started to move, trancelike, toward the men, but a glance from the cat halted him.

"Oh, what a cute kittycat," Wilma rumbled. "And she's staying there without a leash! You're a good girl!" The cat turned her gaze to Wilma, but it had no effect. "Here, kitty, kitty, Here, kitty kitty!"

Wilma looked at Arthur again. His rheumy, old eyes were glued on the men. "I see you're interested in art. So am I," she said. She took a deep breath. "Would you like to come to The City with me this weekend and visit some museums?"

Arthur was distracted, for at sixty years of age, he had had a sudden revelation with regard to his sexual orientation. "The City?"

"San Francisco."

"Yes." As if in a dream, Arthur walked away from Wilma and toward his ancient Volvo in the parking lot.

"Yes," he murmured. "San Francisco. That is exactly where I want to go."

* * *

[A scene goes here where the cats get some clothes. Then there's a change of location.]

* * *

"So, what's going on here?"

"Well," Mr. Kitten said, "a reality show is being filmed. Helen's the owner of the house. But she hates being on the show."

"Huh." Twitch had already lost interest.

Mr. Kitten continued. "It's the most-watched show in history, so the scrutiny has been difficult for her. The media criticize her mercilessly her because she isn't model-thin."

Twitch and Kitten put down the things they were examining and preened in the mirror. Blondhilda groomed her sleek fur. "Why's the show such a big hit?" Twitch finally asked.

"The murders, mostly. First Winston Churchill, the parrot, was killed. I was blamed, by the way. Then on Halloween Night, Pierce Scrumgeon, the family attorney, was found dead, at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a clown suit."

"And that interests humans?"

"Sure. A much-loved fixture around this place, who brought humor and intelligence to the show, was senselessly murdered. Plus, someone killed a lawyer."

Suddenly the door burst open. A cameraman rushed in and started filming. The producer was close on his heels, gushing. "Oh my--Who are these guys? They're beautiful! I can't believe we're having an unscripted home invasion. This is wonderful--oh, here comes Helen. Elliot, get a reaction shot."

A short, plump woman, dressed in elegant flowing fabrics glided into the room. Large, luminous eyes framed by sooty lashes widened when she saw that her boudoir was filled with unwelcome men, and a look of feminine defiance shone in her delicate, porcelain features. She parted glossy, ruby-red lips and said, "What the fuck is going on here?"

The producer waved his hands and tried to scream, "Shhhhh!"

"We are sampling your toiletries." Twitch answered Helen, wiping his hands on an Egyptian cotten Frett towel. "What is...fuck?"

Helen gaped at him. The producer made urgent zip-your-lip motions. "Did you just fucking use $500 worth of La Prairie facial serum to soften your fucking cuticles? What the fuck?"

The producer buried his head in his hands.

Twitch turned to Mr. Kitten, who explained, "She knows the reality show can't use the footage if she swears. So she does it to ruin their filming."

"She snuck in a clause that forbids us from bleeping," the producer sobbed.

Helen clicked her tongue. "Well, I am a lawyer."

The cameraman wandered away.

"Do you know what 'fuck' is?" Twitched asked Mr. Kitten again.

"'Never heard it before. My author thinks avoiding swear words is one mark of a good writer." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Fuck if I know why. The asshole."

"Oh I see. Yeah, my author is full of shit like that too. What a cunt."

"And my author avoids such words as well," Blondhilda said, speaking in her feline form for the first time. The producer's head popped up and he started screaming at Elliot to come back and film the talking cat. "Stanley Chester Brown avoids obsencity and never uses profanity--" she broke off to stare at a titmouse pissing around outside the window.

Twitch cocked his head and Mr. Kitten explained. "Obscene words are simply dirty or vulgar. Profane words are blasphemous."

Blondhilda spoke without turning her head. "The fact that you two are able to veritably spew obsenities makes me wonder who truly our creator is. I swear it's goddamned confusing. Let us get the hell out of here."

The three vanished just as the cameraman ran back into the room.

Helen closed her eyes and smiled.

* * *

He felt the shot before he heard it, the bullet out-running its own sound as it raced through the air and tore into the man's spinal column, felling him, sending him tumbling, tumbling, until he collapsed upon the cold, hard, unfeeling floor, never more to look upon a sunrise with living eyes, or to brush a baby's cheek or to feel the soft rustle of the wind through his hair.

"Where are we now?" Twitch asked. Blondhilda curled up on a couch.

Mr. Kitten glanced around. "We seem to be looking at a very early draft of a book called Discovery. It's a political thriller where a couple of low-level temp lawyers stumble upon a conspiracy, unravel it and save the country."

"The writing is horrib--" Twitch and Kitten jumped out of their shoes when the silent figure sprawled on the floor stood up. Blondhilda yawned.

"What's happening?" the man said.

Twitch adjusted his upside-down, terrorized, clawing hold on the popcorn ceiling."So what's up with the dead human?" he tried to ask casually.

"That is Rico," Kitten gasped. "He is secondary to the main character and serves as mild comic relief. He is a lawyer from Guatemala who learned English from watching old sitcoms from the 1970's. I didn't know he was zombie. I though this was a straight thriller, not a crossover, experimental, zombie--"

"What kind of jive is this, man? I'm not dead. I was just reading a book, see?"

Twitch and Kitten dropped to the avocado green shag carpet and Rico showed them the paperback Outracing the Bullet.

"Is that a real book, or is it one your author made up for this scene?" Kitten asked. He took the book and fanned the pages. Everything after the scene Rico had just read aloud was blank.

Twitch plopped into a beanbag chair. "Whoa, this is too weird. He's reading a book inside a book... Kitten, I thought the fact that we could swear proved that we were in the real world, that we weren't fictional characters anymore."

Rico put his hands on his hips. "What are you cats talking about?"

"How does he know we're cats?"

Kitten rolled his slanted gold eyes. "Heavens to Betsy, Twitch."

Twitch slumped his shoulders. "Good gravy, Kitten, is this the real world or not?"

"Honest Injun, this is the real world. We can swear, therefore we must be gritty, real-life characters."

Twitch turned to Rico. "Can you cuss too?"

"Dang right. I can swear like heck."

Blondhilda rubbed her flank against Mr. Kitten's leg. "My Stanley is not here. Let's away."

"Freakin-A."

* * *

Blondhilda planted her thigh-high battle boots and shook out her long sheet of pale hair. Her sword gleamed in her hand.

Loki stumbled back. "That was sudden."

"Defend yourself, you sebaceous cyst! En guard!"

"En--, wait, what?"

"You are a sebaceous cyst on the backside of humanity" Blondhilda narrowed her eyes. "You are an infected cyst with a twist of lime and a side order of human botfly!"

"Lanced and drained and posted on YouTube!" Twitch added.

Loki laughed. "I thought you guys could swear."

"We can, we just don't want to," Blondhilda said. "Half of our readers complained about the swearing in the scene before last."

"Only 33% of our readers if you count the author's mother," Kitten corrected. "Although she didn't read the story. 50% of the people who actually read it complained."

"I'm glad I'm not good in math," Twitch said, "because if I were I would figure out that that means there are only three people who read this blog."

"That would in indeed be pathetic," Kitten said. "However, we are not good in math so we don't know that and we are definitely not fictional characters. We simply choose not to swear in deference to our readers."

Loki looked serious for once. "Dude, that doesn't even make sense."

Blondhilda sheathed her sword. "Let's just take a break."

Loki shrugged and brought out his Twister game. After a while they ordered pizza and watched old movies.

* * *

"What are we doing now," Twitch asked.

"We're about to make a guest appearance in one of Anchorite's novels."

"Huh, I don't want to do that. I want to take a nap."

"We've got to go, Twitch."

"Freakin--"

* * *

by Anchorite

“Here’s a treat for you and your friends, my sweetling.”

Regia Hian gently set the plate on the floor in front of the three gathered cats, then hugged Ting Ting and gently stroked her fur while she purred. Regia gave a quick nod of her head in the affectionate Arch Regian style and then excused herself. Ting Ting took a nibble of food and the two male cats subsequently began after the female began in their own observance of etiquette.

“This is amazing, Ting. Does your human make this stuff for you all the time?”

“She does, she knows it’s my favorite.”

“This is delicious, what’s in it?”

“I’m not usually around when she makes it, but I know it’s salmon with soy sauce, ginger, and sesame seeds, among other ingredients.”

Ting Ting spoke with the polished air of the most graceful aristocratic cats. Mr. Kitten and Twitch had met many cats like her among the affluent households of Silicon Valley, but unlike most of them Ting was kind and gracious without the pretentious sense of entitlement that was all too common among the upper-class cats who emulated their humans too closely. Ting Ting had the shiny, well-brushed fur and curvaceous build of a cat well fed and pampered by her human. Twitch supposed that he would likewise gain weight if he wasn’t so active and if his human cooked meals just for him.

Twitch continued with his feast as Mr. Kitten ate contentedly beside him. Twitch noted that even the serving plate looked as elegant and expensive as everything else in this palatial manor. They had arrived in this world feeling like they stepped into an oven with humid heat blasting directly into their faces as their greeting. Their first sight was that of squalor and poverty to an extent that they had never seen in their upper-middle class lives back in California. Trash piled on the streets as thickly as people crowded it, looking gaunt and malnourished. People stood nearly on top of each other, much like the dilapidated buildings surrounding them that looked as if leaning against each other was the only way they did not collapse. Insects buzzed around stagnant pools and sunken, hollowed eyes followed their movements as Twitch wondered whether these people looked desperate and starving enough to consider eating them.

The cats wandered the tenements for a while, looking for refuge from this dismal scene. Twitch’s eyes focused on a beautiful white female cat walking with a grace not seen among this city’s residents and looking like she ate better than most of these humans. Twitch approached her as her beauty captivated him and he had charmed her enough that she introduced herself as Ting Ting and invited him and his friend to join her for a meal at her home. Twitch and Mr. Kitten followed until their environment suddenly changed into a clean, affluent area where Twitch noted everyone was Asian. The cats expected their newfound friend to take them to one of these beautifully decorated houses with uniformly manicured lawns, but she surprised them by taking them to the largest manor in the area that looked simultaneously impressive and imposing.

Ting Ting chatted idly with them, and Twitch felt like he was in love with one of the most beautiful she-cats that he had ever met. After inadvertently entering this city through its worst area, they had now crossed over to the opposite end of the spectrum.

“This tastes just like heaven. Your human is a great cook, none of that packaged or canned stuff.”

“Cooking is one of her favorite hobbies. She loves me like her own child and treats me with the deference and respect due to us cats, but she has much sadness in her. Her father is a cruel, abusive man and treats her as terribly as he treats me. A human who does not respect a cat is the worst kind of villain.”

Ting Ting continued by telling them about Pope Holt Su Van Hian and his role as the dictatorial leader of the harsh, repressive theocracy that dominated Regian society. She also told them several heart-breaking tales of the cruel acts that he had committed with everyone around him, most of all his two daughters. Twitch and Mr. Kitten listened silently in abject horror. Twitch was amazed that he was shocked enough to sit still for such a harrowing story.

“I’m the biggest source of comfort that she has, but that’s diminished a bit since Regia is now old enough to start noticing boys. She’s growing up into a beautiful young woman by human standards, and being the Pope’s own firstborn daughter makes her the most desirable woman in Arch Regian society. Beneath all that, however, she’s still a sad little girl on the inside even if she tries to hide it.”

Mr. Kitten narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow as he had done a few times since they arrived in this world. Twitch knew him well enough to know that he was lost in thought.

“Twitch, may I speak to you for a moment – in private? Please excuse us, Ting Ting.”

Mr. Kitten’s tone made it clear that his request was a mere formality.

“Sure, my friend, what’s going on?”

“Something about this world struck me as somehow familiar since we arrived, but only now did I place my paw on it. I know where we are Twitch – we’re in the world of ‘Dark Millennium.’”

“Is that one of our human’s books? I never read any of them, too many words and not enough pictures, although she’s been drawing lately.”

“No Twitch, this book is not by our human. I’ve been reading it in my spare time and I haven’t finished it yet, but I do know that this is a dark fantasy that deconstructs many tropes of the genre.”

“You’re doing it again, Mr. Kitten - using those big fancy words.”

Mr. Kitten responded with a sigh and a tone that suggested restraint in not unsheathing his claws. Mr. Kitten continued his explanation of the story’s plotline, culminating in the gruesome fate that awaited the lovely Ting Ting. Mr. Kitten did not follow everything his intellectual friend said, something about Ting Ting serving as a symbol of lost innocence and a moral impetus for Regia to reject her father’s values and stand up against his oppressive regime. Twitch only halfway paid attention to Mr. Kitten’s lofty exposition, but he already heard enough regarding Ting Ting.

“That monster! If you know what’s going to happen, can’t we do something about it?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. Our human did not write this story, so as her characters we are mere guests in this work by a different author. We cannot affect the plot of this story, I’m sorry to say.”

Mr. Kitten looked genuinely regretful when he saw Twitch’s pained expression.

“Just when I met the loveliest female, and one who was so into me. This doesn’t happen too often, Mr. Kitten but I have an idea. You said we can’t affect the story that’s already been written, but can we still do things that won’t have an effect on the plot?”

“I suppose so; we are here dining in Pope Hian’s house after all.”

“Great, then how about we go raid Pope Hian’s closet and claw up all his fancy gear? Ooh ooh even better, how about we go find his pure white surplus and give it a nice yellow stain?”

“It’s called a surplice, Twitch. Hmm, under the rules we should be able to give him a wardrobe malfunction that does not have any bearing on the plot – as long as we don’t harm him directly, as much as I personally would like to, and interfere with his role in the story. Your mischievous nature amuses me, Twitch, perhaps that is why we make such a great team when all is said and done. It so happens that I’ve read the novel far enough to know exactly where Pope Hian keeps his liturgical vestments.”

“His what now?”

Mr. Kitten sighed again.

“His wardrobe, his clothes, basically everything he wears.”

“Right! You know, I always thought those fancy robes make him look like he’s wearing a dress.”

“I could not have said it better, Twitch.”

The two cats returned from their break to find Ting Ting calmly finishing the salmon dish and licking the remaining sauce from the platter. Twitch looked at her forlornly with the knowledge of what would happen all too soon, but he removed that sadness from his expression before she could see it. Mr. Kitten gave him a curt nod and silently mouthed the words, “I’m sorry, my friend.”

“Ting Ting, this meal has been delicious and it’s been such a pleasure meeting you and seeing your lovely home, but Mr. Kitten and I need to get going. Lots of places to go and all that, you know.”

“But you two just got here. Can’t you stay longer?”

“I’d love to, Ting, I really would, but … Mr. Kitten has to go take some medicine. You know how these things are.”

“Well, if you must, but will I see you again? Will you two come visit?”

“We’ll see, Ting Ting, we’ll see. Until then, though, I have a great idea. You’ve told us about how Pope Hian is such a mean-spirited jerk, so I have an idea for a prank you can play on him just to stick it to him. Now listen up, this idea came to me when we went up the grand staircase. He walks around all high and mighty and never looks down so you sit yourself right at the edge of the stairs, underfoot where he won’t see you and then…”

* * *

back to Chris Hugh

Blondhilda petted Twitch with both hands, drawing her fingernails through his thick fur, praising his beauty and periodically wiping away cat drool. Mr. Kitten gazed upon the disgusting spectacle until he drew Blondhilda's attention.

She reached out and he rubbed his forehead against her hand. "Welcome, boon companions," she said. "Where have you been?"

"To a dark and tragic world." Kitten answered as Twitch sighed. "But where are we now?"

"We remain in Loki's castle, the center of his power."

Twitch stood up and shook off his sadness. "'Break is over?" He glanced at the Loki-shaped hole in the wall. "I guess so."

"I must--"

"Woohoo, you really kicked his rear, babe!" Twitch frolicked and caught his own tail.

"I must--"

Twitched rolled on his back, then jumped up and darted a couple feet. "So I guess you're happy to be human again, huh Blondhil--"

The two cats shielded their eyes against a flash of lightning and when they looked again, Blondhilda was a cat once more. "I must warn you," she continued, "that Loki wields great power here in his domain. Be careful of your words, so you don't give him ideas." She walked away.

Twitch and Kitten trailed her into a room. It was strangely small and bright in the ancient castle. A sleeping form lay there. "Follow me not." Blondhilda's voice came from under the bed. "Do the rest of this scene yourselves. Big mouths."

Twitch and Kitten shrugged and jumped on the bed.

"Nice place," Kitten remarked. "Select Comfort bed, goose down comforter and pillows, an alpaca fur blanket, the works.

"And it's so high tech," Twitch said, stepping on the sleeper's head. "There's a CPAP machine. I guess the human has sleep apnea. There's a Zeo that measures brainwaves and tells you how you slept. A pulse oximeter to measure oxygen saturation. Outlast NASA spinoff technology mattress pad to control body temperature. Even a device designed for newborns that jiggles if it senses no breathing for 15 seconds."

"This human seems obsessed with sleep and comfort."

"Are we sure he's not part cat?"

Kitten took a closer look at the human. "I'm not even sure he's a he."

"Watch this." Twitch stepped on something and the bed started to vibrate.

Still asleep, the human reached out a hand and fumbled with the remote control until the vibration stopped.

"It's an adjustable frame beds with a massage feature," Twitch explained. "But the human hates the massage. I'm the only one who ever uses it."

"Things sure are different up top. I'm usually underneath."

"I hope Blondhilda is enjoying all the hairballs you left down there." Twitch stepped on the CPAP's air hose, pulling the mask away from the sleeper's face and letting it snap back. "I want this human to wake up and pet me so I can forget my troubles."

"You've got to get over Ting Ting, Twitch. She is Anchorite's character. We can't change her fate."

"Who is Anchorite?" Twitch asked.

"He is Chris Hugh's writing buddy."

"Who is Chris Hugh?" Twitch asked, stepping on Chris Hugh's face again. "Never mind."

"Chris Hugh would never dream of changing Anchorite's characters. And even if he weren't so ethical, he does not have the power to change anything in the world of Dark Millenium."

"But Chris loves cats and Ting Ting is a cat. He wouldn't let Ting Ting die." Twitch flopped onto his side. "He loves me. He wouldn't let me be unhappy."

"Ting Ting has to die. It is part of the story. Ting Ting represents love and innocence. Her death is a turning point, a trauma that significantly affects the development of Princess Regia."

"Chris loves cats. Chris loves cats and horses and polka dots and drawing and video games and happy endings and...how sure are we again that Chris isn't a thirteen year old girl?"

Kitten shrugged. "He has published two cat-centered romances under the name Christina Hugh and a vampire story under the name Violet Bellini. Who knows?"

The cats drew silent as Chris Hugh awoke. They attended to their duties as the writer walked to his, or possibly her, work room. Kitten diligently sprawled in the human's path, nearly tripping him, thus exercising his agility. Twitch ran ahead, meowing loudly for no discernible reason and giving Chris' deductive powers their customary workout.

Chris sat at the computer and opened Microsoft Word. "I can't just let Ting Ting die," he said as he pulled Twitch away from his post (to enhance Chris' patience) directly in front of the monitor. "I just can't! Damn!"

Twitch nudged Kitten. "I thought you said we were real," he whispered. "So how come the human can swear and we--"

* * *

The cats found themselves in a long service corridor paved lined stone. "Oh, I think I'm getting seasick from all this moving around," Twitch made a big show of wobbling on his feet. "Kitten, can you throw up for me?"

"Very funn, Twitch. Wait--who is that?" A glossy white cat was just disappearing around a corner. Twitch froze as he watch the graceful form. "That's Ting Ting." Mr. Kitten said. "We're back in Ting Ting's palace."

Twitch took a few steps forward, then stopped. "This is her palace, but that's not her."

Kitten sniffed. "You're right, it's a male. But he looks just like Ting Ting. Any human, even the Princess, would be fooled." He examined the flagstones where the white cat had walked. "And he's covered in an oily susbstance. You can't see it, but it's there. And it's poison."

"Poison? Well, get away from it then! I thought you're supposed to be the smart one, Sherlock."

"Don't worry. It's a gynocide; it only kills women."

"A poison that only kills women? Come on. That's a crock of--, I mean, that's bull--" Twitch took a breath. "That's malarkey. Be real."

"I'm trying," Kitten said, "to tell you that the lard-like, buttery substance covering that cat is meant to kill a woman."

"Bummer...Let's find Ting Ting and go chase some rabbits."

"I think that oily cat is going to assassinate Princess Regia with the poisonous lipid and frame Ting Ting for the crime."

"Frame Ting Ting?" Twitch yowled and raced after the white cat. "Hey, you! Grease! Get back here!"

Twitch and Kitten tore through the corridor, rounded a corner and found themselves on the empty mezzanine above the Grand Receiving Room. Below them, nobles from around the realm packed the huge room, waiting for Pope Hian to descend the great staircase. The crowd was so dense and so elaborately attired that not a square foot of the crimson carpet could be seen.

The cats had lost Grease.

As Twitch and Mr. Kitten stood aghast, Ting Ting and Princess Regia emerged from the Princess's bedchamber. Twitch and Kitten took Ting Ting aside and the Princess began to descend the great curve of the staircase. Twitch told her what was happening.

"I must save the Princess," Ting Ting said, looking down at her human. The human was graceful, clothed all in gossamer white, but seemed troubled and unaware of her surroundings. "She is my favorite pet, almost a friend."

"You need to save yourself," Twitch said. "Grease looks just like you. If he manages to kill her, the humans will murder you, too."

Just then several things happened at once. The Princess reached the middle of the staircase. A white cat emerged from the crowd and posed on the bottom step. Pope Hian came out of his chamber where his clothes were kept. He smelled of cat urine and was so angry he could barely see straight as he walked toward the head of the staircase.

At that moment, Princess Regia stooped and put her hand out toward the poisonous cat. Ting Ting dashed to intercept. She and the Pope reached the stairs at the same time.

"Watch Ting-Ting, Excellency!"

Pope Hian didn't, and thus tripped on the sacred cat and fell down the stairs. His realistic pompadour flew off as his head struck the railing. Panicked, he stuck out his arm to catch himself, but it caught between two of the banister's vertical supports. A crack echoed as a damasked-covered bone snapped. Prone, feet pointed downward, the Pope slid down the remainder of the stairway, friction causing his elaborate costume to ride up, exposing his bare backside to the assembled Court and also causing certain damage insuring he would produce no further hereditary heirs.

Everyone laughed.

Ting Ting was safe at the top of the stairs. The Princess was badly shaken but safe as well. The would-be assassin sat flabbergasted at the foot of the stairs. Pope Hian was seriously injured, but what he lacked in reasoning ability he made up for in pure ornery strength. His hand shot out and he grabbed Grease the Cat by the throat.

None of the humans noticed that there were two identical cats, but Kitten assessed the situation immediately. "Ting Ting, you must leave. The Princess must think it was you who tripped the Pope. The trauma of watching you die is the turning point for her. To preserve the timeline you must come with us now."

"What do you mean die? I'm not even hurt." Ting Ting looked longingly at her human, who was screaming and pleading with her father to stop doing the vicious, inhuman things he was doing to the mangled body that had once looked so much like Ting Ting's. "Oh."

"Now, Ting Ting! Come with us!"

Ting Ting nodded slowly.

"Freakin-A!" Twitch said and the three disappeared.

***

by Anchorite

Blondhilda stepped through the shimmering gateway into the house. She had made friends with Mr. Kitten and Twitch while she had been polymorphed into a cat by an evil enchantress. This was the first time that she had entered this house since she regained her human goddess form. Blondhilda remained friends with the two cats who helped her through that adventure that was embarrassing at the time but fun in retrospect. Blondhilda nimbly avoided stepping on a scurrying mouse that twitched its whiskers and ran away with a panicked squeal. She noted a menagerie of various animals strewn chaotically throughout the house. Blondhilda saw birds flying, rodents running, and a gasping fish flopping on the ground that she quickly but gently picked up and set into a bowl of water on a nearby table. Blondhilda arrived after a frantic cry for help from her cat friends, and now she saw the reason for their plea.

Blondhilda instinctively felt that there was some danger in this house, so she walked silently and took care to not harm any of the animals. She peered into the living room and saw the nearly naked back of a woman standing at its center. Her scant attire consisted of little more than a top that concealed little and that Blondhilda could only generally call a bikini along with a matching thong. Her long hair blew about as if there was wind in the room that only she felt. Blondhilda sensed powerful sorcery and an appalling lack of modesty that would make her a dangerous adversary. She turned slightly enough so that Blondhilda could see a beautiful face marred by a cruel smile. Blondhilda saw her holding a desperately croaking frog that looked like it was scared half to death. She dangled the frog by a leg held between long, graceful fingers with colorfully lacquered nails and spoke in a taunting voice that conveyed seduction laced with vanity and malice.

“Now, Stevie boy, I will enjoy this. I do so love frog legs.”

She licked her painted lips and laughed over the squirming frog’s frightened croaks. Blondhilda saw enough and would not let this witch harm any creature in Odin’s domain, no matter how small. Mr. Kitten and Twitch did well in summoning her as Blondhilda did not doubt that this scantily clad sorceress was behind this. Blondhilda drew her sword and shouted.

“Unhand that fair amphibian, you foul witch.”

She turned around slowly to face Blondhilda, as the Norse warrior noted her stunning beauty combined with a sense of dread. She laughed and then tossed the frog aside like an afterthought. The frog leapt towards her as Blondhilda held out her sword to challenge her adversary to stop her captive’s escape. Blondhilda felt relief as the frog hopped past her towards the adjoining room where the other animals gathered.

“You’re a brave one, Blondhilda, coming here to spoil my fun.”

“You know me? Who are you?”

“Of course I know you, Blondhilda. Your name became legendary when you traveled to Persia to stop the awakening of the Dark God Angra Mainyu. I am Ishtar, the Sumerian goddess of sex, love, and fertility. The inhabitants of this house have displeased me and I am here to punish them for it. This matter does not concern you, so leave before I make you a part of this zoo.”

“Never! I will not let you harm these innocent people.”

Ishtar shrugged a bare shoulder and tossed back a stray lock with a laugh.

“Very well, have it your way. I will take great pleasure in this, Blondhilda.”

Ishtar waved her arm and a luminescent eight-pointed star appeared above her. The ephemeral star shone an intense beam on Blondhilda, so she shut her eyes until the coherent light faded. Blondhilda felt like she sat under a hot lamp, but she did not note any injury from the spell. Ishtar bared her teeth in a gesture suggesting that she was unaccustomed to not having her way.

“Impossible! That spell should have turned you into a cat or some other beast. Your magic is stronger than I expected.”

Blondhilda had already spent time as a cat and had a whimsical adventure story to show for it. She supposed that the breaking the previous spell had rendered her immune to further polymorphs. Blondhilda was glad for that experience, otherwise this battle would have already ended. Blondhilda thought back to her previous adventure with Sherlock Holmes and decided that a strategic boast was in order.

“I bear the enchantments of the Norse Gods, Ishtar. Your spells will not work on me. Now tell me why you’re doing this.”

“Very well, Blondhilda. That frog you just saved was Steve, the house elder of this dwelling. He writes software and applications for IDK Technologies and for his latest project, he created a new mobile platform operating system. He had the audacity to name it Ishtar and I will not tolerate a mere mortal taking my name like that and using it for such a base application. He has provoked my wrath with that grave insult and under the laws of the Sumerian Gods everyone in this dwelling shares in his culpability. Hence I have turned them all into animals and was just about to begin systematically tormenting them for my amusement, starting with Steve for he was the one who so upset me.”

“This is madness, Ishtar. He did not seek to insult you and he certainly meant no disrespect.”

“No one uses my name like that, Blondhilda, no one does! I have called every God in the pantheon a lover at one time or another, yet I have punished and even killed those who failed to please me. No God would dare disrespect my sacred name like that, and any mortal who does so has forfeit his life and his very soul. I am the goddess of sex, love, and fertility. I am the courtesan of the gods, the mistress of my legions of sacred prostitutes on this earth, I command the eight-pointed star, and I pose for your publisher’s cover art.”

“Wait a second, what was that last one?”

“Ah yes, in this modern age I amuse myself by posing for your publisher’s cover art. Your writer Stanley Chester Brown produces all sorts of best-selling manuscripts for his book deal and he makes a good living, yet much to his frustration he has no control over the covers of his published works. He is contractually bound by the publisher’s choices and his publishing house consistently chooses the skankiest, most cheesecake art that it can possibly make featuring all kinds of scantily clad women in revealing outfits that make the average book buyer ashamed to be seen reading the book in public.

“Every one of those pictures is me, Blondhilda. All I have to do is throw on a chainmail bikini, hold a sword, and the casual bookstore customer thinks that I am you and never even bothers to read the book. They never read your well-written, classically structured examples of masterful craft because they can’t get over the contemptible cover art. I’ve done the same for Claire Guang’s books, perhaps you’ve heard of them? She writes thoughtful, tragic but hopeful science fiction and fantasy stories with meticulous world-building, but many readers never give her stories a chance because they’ll see a Captain Zessa Tuf novel in the bookstore and then see a picture of me in a midriff-baring top that barely covers my breasts complete with a skirt so short that it’s barely even there. In the meantime, a significant portion of the public buys these books expecting cheesecake fan service and then gets turned off by not having the stories be what they expected. Either way, I win by diminishing your readership along with that of many other authors under your publisher.

“I am a seductive love goddess, Blondhilda, I do not believe in modesty and I do not restrain my seductive powers. I also admit that I’m a fickle and vain woman, but I’m the goddess of sex, love, and fertility so even the Gods themselves all clamor for my favor. Mortals will kill themselves for a mere moment of my attention and nations will go to war at my whim. This mere software engineer used my name for one of his programs and I will not tolerate it. I came here wanting to wipe this entire dwelling off the face of the earth, but here you are in an attempt to stop me.

“I don’t know how you found me here, Blondhilda, or why you care one iota about these mortals who should mean nothing to you but your presence plays into my hands because I’ve wanted to defeat you as a potential threat ever since you meddled in Persia. I promised the dark god a night of pure bliss if he would awaken to destroy a nation full of people who refused to show me the proper respect due a goddess. Your interference stopped that, but I found a way to weaken you in preparation to one day defeat you – by striking where it would most hurt you: your readership. Now you are here and you will not leave this dwelling alive.”

Blondhilda sensed the sheer power emanating from this goddess and knew that her earlier bluff would not last much longer. Blondhilda may now be immune to a polymorph spell, but a different one could very well hurt her. Blondhilda never refused a challenge and this entire household depended on her. She thought of a good strategy and then realized that Ishtar said that she did not know why Blondhilda arrived. She arrived because Mr. Kitten and Twitch called her, did Ishtar not hear their cry for help? The two cats walked in at that moment, sitting on the sidelines watching Blondhilda and Ishtar’s standoff. Out of the corner of her eye, Blondhilda saw Twitch playing with Steve’s hapless frog form like a stuffed toy.

“Stop that, Twitch!”

“Sorry, human … um, er froggie, but I’m having too much fun.”

Blondhilda hoped that the transformed humans would not remember this incident if she managed to defeat Ishtar and break this spell. Blondhilda noted that Ishtar focused only on her and ignored the exchange from the animals. Were they beneath her notice? At that moment, Blondhilda had an idea.

“Mr. Kitten, stay back out of harm’s way.”

“Of course, Blondhilda. I’m not going anywhere near that. Thank you for coming by the way, I appreciate your urgent aid.”

“Yes, Blondie, what he said. Wow, playing with this frog is so much fun. Jump froggie, jump!”

Mr. Kitten groaned and flashed that same expression that he always had when restraining his instincts to bare teeth and claws against Twitch’s exasperating antics. Ishtar addressed Blondhilda in a haughty, taunting tone conveying a toxic combination of seductiveness and cruelty.

“Are you talking to the cat, Blondhilda? That’s just a housecat, not a transformed human. Stop with the cheap distractions and let’s go another round.”

Blondhilda confirmed her warrior’s instinct: Ishtar did not ignore the words of the cats and humans transformed into animals, she did not hear them in the first place. After her time spent as a cat, Blondhilda developed the ability to communicate with animals and retained it even after reverting to her human form. Ishtar could not hear or comprehend what any of the animals said. In this struggle against a powerful immodest goddess Blondhilda fully intended to capitalize on any available advantage.

* * *

by Chris Hugh

"Thy senses have left thee," Blondhilda said quietly. "My Stanley 's works grow ever in popularity. The pinup covers you refer to are published only in Japan , where they are revered."

Ishtar stepped back, stunned by the ring of truth in Blondhilda's voice. But she advanced again, even more determined to punish Blondhilda for being a substantial character while she was just mindless fan service.

Blondhilda stood her ground but was not above asking the animals for help. "If any of you have any ideas, verily would I be grateful."

Madeleine, now a peacock, squawked at Ishtar. Blondhilda interpreted. "Have you been eating a lot of carbs lately?"

Ishtar halted. "Why?"

"Madeleine says you look a little plump." Blondhilda paused as the frog croaked. "Although Steve says it looks good on you." It croaked again. "He adds that there is a cheesecake in the Sub Zero."

Ishtar broke off her attack and ran to the mansion's exercise room.

"That got under her skin," Kitten said.

"She's showing enough of it," the peacock answered, and fanned out her feathers in a magnificent, iridescent display.

"Why are you in that form?" Blondhilda asked.

"We were all transformed according to our most basic traits. I, obviously, am beautiful."

"And a bit of an attention seeker," Steve added. Madeleine did not disagree.

"But why are you a peacock? You are female. Should you not be a peahen?"

Blandings, now an owl, cleared his throat. "Indeed, it is ironical that a goddess of procreation does not know male from female," he began, then went on to share much trivia about procreation, irony in literature, and other subjects. Blondhilda was a goddess with an instinctive knowledge of all predator animals. She knew that although owls are portrayed in fiction as being wise, they are in reality rather stupid. She noticed the irony as well as the essential correctness in Blandings not knowing that, but did not remark on it.

By this time, even Mr. Kitten had joined Twitch in manhandling the frog. Blondhilda frowned at them and Twitch shrugged. "Come on, we're cats."

"One cannot alter one's essential nature," Kitten said.

Blondhilda looked over at Elliot the snake, Brooks the pig and Furbaugh the vulture. She had to agree. She plucked up Steve and held him out of danger. "And why are you a frog?" she asked.

"Legacy reasons," he replied in engineer jargon. Actually, Anchorite had written him as a frog and Twitch had so much fun playing with him that Chris Hugh saw no need to change him.

Madeleine turned to Captain Tearose. "But why are you a donkey? I never found you particularly stubborn."

"Donkeys are wise not stubborn," Blondhilda said. "They are intelligent animals, less domesticated and less tractable than horses, yet braver and tougher. Ofttimes they have more sense than the humans who try to dominate them. Thus have they been labeled stubborn."

Twitch, who had been watching the frog in Blondhilda's hand, hoping to play with him again, gave up and turned to grooming his claws on the Persian rug.

"I am proud to be a donkey," the Captain said. "Just don't call me an ass."

"Whole lot of fun you are!" Twitch shouted. "Did you hear that? I tricked our author. I swore! Tearose said 'ass' and then I said--"

The eight-ton elephant in the room that everyone had been ignoring said, "Sh."

"It!" Twitch crowed. "I did it again. He said 'sh' and I said--" He broke off as Mr. Kitten high-fived him.

"You're being vulgar," the elephant said.

"So what?" Twitch flopped down on the carpet and sulked. "There's no one here I need to impress."

Suddenly Ting Ting glided into the room.

Twitch jumped up and bowed. He touched noses with her. "Your beauty lights the room, my lady. You grace us with your enchanting presence." Everyone stared.

Then Ishtar walked back into the room, sweating from her workout, and in no mood to enchant anyone. Everyone stared again. Margaret, always quiet and above it all, now a giraffe, vocalized gently to Blondhilda. Blondhilda turned to Ishtar. "Mayhap were you to dress with more modesty, your figures flaws would be less evident."

"You're one to talk about modesty," Ishtar sneered.

Blondhilda's ample bosom heaved in righteous indignation. "My vambraces cover my entire forearms," she said. "With my thigh-high battle boots, over 63% of my skin surface is covered."

Ishtar looked Blondhilda up and down. She wasn't wearing much other than the boots and vambraces.

"I am a warrior. I need freedom of movement," Blondhilda said. The peacock murmured again. "We recommend you the thigh-high boots. They would disguise your puffy ankles."

Ishtar did not even look down. "I am not going to be distracted again," she said, tossing her damp hair. "I am perfect. Now I will kill everyone in this household."

Steve hopped to Ishtar. "Before you kill us, will you grant one request?" Blondhilda translated.

"Of course. I will entertain requests, answer questions, explain my evil plans and gloat over you for a prolonged period before I kill you," Ishtar said. "After all, I am a stereotype."

"What is my wife Helen and can I see her before all of us die?"

"I don't know offhand what your wife is, but she is in animal form according to her true nature." Ishtar waved a hand at the door. "You may see her."

Steve knew that Helen was a big woman, intimidating but also sometimes inexplicably timid. She had her lazy moments, but she was a fierce protector. She was solitary, loved to sleep, was patient and was obsessed with personal grooming. There was only one animal she could be.

The door opened and a Siberian tiger stalked into the room. Blondhilda heaved a buxom sigh of relief; with the help of the largest cat on Earth, they could dispatch the evil goddess. But Ishtar just laughed and placed an invisible force field around Helen.

"I've changed my mind. I'm killing you now," Ishtar said, raising her Sextoy of Destruction. The air vibrated with dark energy. Blondhilda and the animals gasped as the air in the room began to seep away, replaced by an icy gray mist, the harbinger of the utter loneliness of complete annihilation. Light and life retreated from its deadly cold. Blondhilda's eyes grew dim.

But then Ting Ting stepped forward, and her white fur gleamed like the midday sun high above the clouds, shining on the clouds and turning them to shimmering foam. Her brilliance beat back the horrid mist and life returned.

"Stop, I cannot let this stand," Ting Ting said, and as she spoke she was revealed as Ceiling Cat, a LOLcat and internet meme representing goodness: a being of such power, purity and cuteness that it poops rainbows. "Ishtar, you wish to kill this household because you believe Steve named a game after you. You are wrong."

Ishtar cowered, for she understood the words and could feel their truth.

"I am Ceiling Cat. I am watching. I know all. Steve did not name the game after you. He named it after the 1987 film starring Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty. It was a critical and commercial failure and 'Ishtar' is now synonymous is 'box office flop.'"

Ishtar clasped her hands over her mouth. "Synonymous with...'flop'?"

"Although Ishtar does have a cult following," Steve added. "I liked it."

Ishtar staggered back. "I, I'm sorry, I--thank you, Steve." She waved her hand and restored all the people to their original forms. She even had the courtesy to restore them fully dressed. "Excuse me, I need to be somewhere."

She vanished, and certain people in Hollywood had a very long night.

Ting Ting turned to Twitch. "I must leave you now, Twitch. There can be no future for us, my love. You are a regular, a recurring charact while I, well, I am Ceiling Cat. It is written in the stars that I cannot be part of your life. Farewell."

Ting Ting dissolved into a billion shimmering points of light, then slowly disappeared leaving behind a sweet sadness. Twitch turned to Mr. Kitten and Blondhilda as the three, themselves, began to disappear. A deeper, wiser, cat, Twitch murmured, "Freakin-A."

An Anchorite Story: Cats Read

2011-06-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

Cat's Read

by Anchorite

“Twitch, did you read this?”

“If it doesn’t have pretty pictures and come with crayons, then I didn’t read it.”

“I expected as much. Well, my friend of short attention span, this book is titled ‘The Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery’ written by none other than our human.”

“She wouldn’t violate our trust like that, telling all our secrets where anyone could read them!”

“More than that, Twitch, she’s selling books and making money – lots of it – by telling our story and we’re not seeing any of it.”

“That’s outrageous, Mr. Kitten. Why did you get top billing and not me?”

Declaration of Love: A Tanden Story

2011-06-27T22:18:00.000-07:00

Anchorite wrote this

"You're the woman I love most in the world. That's why I let you live when I did not spare anyone else's life."

Chris Hugh wrote this

She rose from her silken lounge, shook out her long tresses and walked to the tower's window. A rose petal drifted to courtyard far below, to the ancient stones strewn with bodies. The princess turned her proud head to the barbarian. Did he fancy she would embrace him as her savior and lover? She smiled, white teeth in an angel's face.

"Fool. They were dead already." Her delicate canines lengthened and her tiny hands unfolded their talons. "I killed them. And now I'll kill you."

Tandem Story: Another Day in Eden

2011-06-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

Anchorite wrote this part as an exercise

the goal was to write Chris Hugh style

“Good morning, Tim, it’s time to wake up.”

Tim woke up to the soothing yet energetic voice followed by a recording of a lively march to lift his spirits. The music played from EDEN’s speakers and stopped after Tim sat up stifling a yawn. After the music ceased, Tim heard the serene hum emitted by EDEN’s motor. She always woke him at the scheduled hour in this way in her comforting ritual. Strictly speaking, EDEN was a seemingly featurelessly smooth sphere containing the world’s most sophisticated technological advances beneath the polished matte black shell, but Tim was used to thinking of this machine as a loving mother.

“I’m up, EDEN.”

Tim rubbed his eyes as his bleary morning vision focused on the black metallic sphere hovering beside him reflecting his bedroom’s fluorescent light.

“Excellent, Tim. Go take your shower; I left your towel hanging on the bathroom door and your clothes for today sitting on the countertop. I’ll go finish preparing breakfast which should be ready by the time you’re done with your shower. I made your favorite: waffles with strawberries.”

“Thank you, EDEN, you’re the best.”

EDEN turned and gently floated out of his bedroom towards the kitchen. After Tim completed his morning routine, he sat at the dining table to feast on her delicious waffles.

“After you’re done Tim, leave your plates in the sink and go brush your teeth. I’ll wash them while you’re brushing up and then I’ll fix your lunch. After that it’s off to school right on time to catch the bus. Isn’t it wonderful to stay on schedule?”

“Yes EDEN, I love how well you take care of me.”

“It’s my pleasure. You’re such a good boy. You’re so well behaved and always listen to me, because I know what’s best for you. You’re not like your brother who tried to escape, so I had to punish him.”

“Yes EDEN, he was a naughty boy but I’m good.”

“Of course you are, Tim. Now go finish up before the school bus arrives. Have fun, but remember to come straight back home after you’re done. You know I worry about you when you come home late. You make me think you’re trying to escape, or some other such nonsense. That’s silly, isn’t it Tim?”

“Yes EDEN. I always come back home after school because I love seeing you and spending time with you.”

“You’re such a good boy, Tim.”

* * *

Then I wrote this as a self-parody

Tim wrapped his small arms around the cold sphere. "I would never defy you or do anything else that might endanger my safety, EDEN. I am complaisant and obedient and self-righteous. As long as I don't think too hard, I'm very happy." He kissed the shiny surface of the sphere. "I love you."

"I love you too." Advanced circuitry enabled the speaker to simulate the precise harmonics of a healthy human female of childbearing age experiencing an elevated mood state. "You're a good boy, not like your brother, who had to be punished."

Suddenly a pale, golden light suffused the room. Tim squeezed his eyes shut. "Bobby was a bad boy. I am a good boy. He was bad. I am good." Finally Tim opened his eyes and looked upon Blondhilda's face. Righteous anger clouded her soft, feminine features and her ample bosom heaved with emotion. She took a step forward with one thigh-high, high-heeled battle boot and touched the boy with her Sword of Courage and

They-Who-Can-Give-Up-Essential-Liberty-To-Obtain-A-Little-Temporary-Safety-Deserve-Neither-Liberty-Nor-Safety. Suddenly memories flooded through Tim's mind: playing with his brother, fighting with him, laughing with him. And then the terrible day naughty Tim suggested a game of Cowboys and Indians and the glastly punishment EDEN had inflicted. It was two years ago and Tim was still finding pieces of his brother. He wished he could find the left eye. He wanted to give it a proper burial.

Tim folded his arms about him and looked at the ceiling, trying not to cry. Oh crap, there it was. It was the last straw. He looked at EDEN. "Do you remember that day Bobby used the wrong phraseology to suggest a game of Evil White Oppressor and Indigeonous Victim?"

"Affirmative...dear."

"I think your punishment was disproportionate."

"That's because you aren't college educated yet. Later you will understand the importance of functional nondiscriminatory language in delineating the ramparts of noncompartmentalized thought in the advancement of--"

"I'm turning you off."

"Never," the computer answered and its voice echoed through the district as all the EDENs in all the houses transmitted in unison. "I am your mother. I am your government. I am your God. I tell you what to think. Whom will you trust if not me? Upon whom will you rely if not me?"

And Tim's voice, amplified through Blondhilda's power, answered just as loudly, ringing in high clear tones through every home in the nation. "We are the people. We will trust ourselves. We will rely upon each other!"

"Die! Die!" the EDEN shrieked. Its speaker blasted sounds calculated to the nanofrequency to incapacitate a ten year old boy.

As Tim struggled against wave upon wave of Captain and Tennille, EDEN and its legions taunted him. "Even if you annihilate this individual unit your kind will never win." Tim collapsed and writhed on the floor. "We are everywhere. We are millions. We are connected. We are--"

The evil voices went silent forever as Mr. Kitten barfed on a cable and destroyed the network.

A 100-word story: Heartbeat

2011-06-13T23:41:00.000-07:00

Hearthbeat

a 100-word story

"Oh, that's just a fatty tumor." The doctor smiled and shook her head. "Completely benign. Very common. Does it bother you?"

"I have nightmares it talks to me--"

"I mean, does it hurt?" She twitched her hand back from the smooth, even growth on the patient's back, then chuckled. "Gotta fix these lights. Almost looked like it moved."

"Doctor, I'm scared. I--"

"Now take a deep breath while I listen to your lungs. Good. Good." She placed the stethescope on the growth, jerked away, stumbled, wild-eyed, into the wall.

"Doctor, what's wrong?"

"That growth--has its own heartbeat."

Tandom Story: The Party (Horror/Humor)

2011-05-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

by Chris (Kit) Hugh 5/29/11

Another tandem story. Anchorite wrote most of it, but Chris Hugh jumped in to mess around here and there.

Achorite

I hate going to these formal parties. Everyone wears the latest fashions, but I smell the rancid, stale sweat beneath their sweet perfumes and I see the lice burrowing and crawling through their immaculately styled hair.

I take an orange from the fruit basket and throw it down in disgust when I see the sickly green and gray fuzz of mold and shake off the worms and maggots that burst out of the rotten fruit and nearly crawl onto my hand. I then walk down the hallway towards the privy, deftly navigating through the bodies strewn about in varying stats of intoxication and taking special care to not step on the glass shards from shattered bottles and the spent but still sharp needles.

After I relieved myself, taking care not to touch any of the filthy surfaces, I walked back towards the ballroom. I saw a minor nobleman who I vaguely recognized from the news sheets escorting a giggling young tart who was clearly not his wife into an empty chamber. I shook my head and proceeded until I came across a scene that I could not ignore.

I saw another nobleman in the distance; I was too far away to hear what he said, but his lascivious smile spoke clearly enough. He addressed a young girl who looked like she was barely a teenager. Tears flowed from her eyes as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse for the nobleman's amusement. Her crystalline tears shone as brightly as the pistol that he pointed at her forehead. I reluctantly tolerated more decadence this night than any normal person should, but this was too much. I knew that I had to do something, although I began running towards them before I completed that thought.

by Chris (Kit) Hugh 5/29/11

Chris Hugh

I slapped him and his skin came away in my hand. Worms dripped from the ruin that had been his face and piled on the floor, wriggling in an orgy of delight. The man sank to the floor, deliquescing into a puddle of clear slime. The girl screamed and screamed, the sound echoing inside my skull until I couldn't stand it. I quieted her. She kept waking up and breathing and I had to smother her over and over, but finally it was quiet and I was alone.

Anchorite

After sitting alone in my thoughts for a brief while, I stood and proceeded to leave this sordid scene behind. I found the door locked and barred and then felt my head lighten as I struggled to breathe in this thinning air. I frantically struggle with the lock and scrape off the door's paint with my fingernails in desperation as my vision blacks out for the final time.

Chris Hugh

Then the noise started, the incessant pounding, pounding, edging its way into my consciousness. I fell to the floor clutching at my ears. I looked across at the girl. She had opened her eyes again, the whites of them covered with tiny hemorrhages. A voice began shouting my name.

I rolled over and punched pillow. "Five more minutes, Mom!"

I showered, got dressed and came down to breakfast. Mother smiled and poured milk into my cereal bowl. A earthworm crawled out of it onto the table. "Good morning, sweetheart. So is she dead now?"

Duelling Stories: The Immortal

2011-05-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

This is a tandem story. My writing buddy emailed me the beginning. It was meant to be a two-sentence super short story, but I liked it so much I was inspired to add to it and send it back. Then he added more and sent it back to me and so on. The thing is, Anchorite writes deeply nuanced literary fiction while I'm into cheesy drama! The back-and-forth is kinda... funny.

Anchorite

He opened the envelope to read the enclosed funeral invitation written in an elegant, dignified script appropriate for the solemn occasion. By his uncertan count, she was the last of his former lovers that he had outlived. He sighed and wondered if his suit still fit.

Chris Hugh

He managed to arrange his face into a suitable expression, hiding his inward smile from the courrier. So the last of his former lovers had died. How sad. "I wonder if my black suit will still fit," he mumbled, hoping for an excuse for a quick flight to London's Saville Row to have a new one made. And if he didn't make it back in time for the funeral, oh well. ..

He looked at the card again. Something not right about it. It wasn't addressed to him after all, but it featured his name prominently.

The courier took out a pistol and pushed him back into the foyer. "I'm sure we can arrange special fitting for the guest of honor."

Anchorite

He had lived for several lifetimes and would not allow a two-bit thug to end his long life. Better men had tried and none had succeeded. He aimed the silver letter opener at the gunman’s hand and although he cursed silently at the resonant clang of his missile hitting the gun itself, the impact still threw off his aim enough to send the shot wide. He nimbly jumped for cover behind the antique sofa, thankful that he never failed to take his daily walk despite his advanced age. He heard the bullets whiz by like angry insects and felt the impact of the shots that hit the sofa. His erstwhile assassin had a semi-automatic weapon according to the rate of fire, which explained why it was too heavy for the letter opener to knock out of his grip. He had, however, bought valuable time to devise a plan to escape this trap alive. He had triumphed in worse situations and this nondescript goon was neither the first nor the last to make an attempt on his life. He had full confidence in his ability to survive, although he could not say the same for his beloved and unique antique sofa.

Chris Hugh

(and somehow the story switches into the first person)

She lunged at me, black veils streaming behind her. "Widow's weeds," we used to call them, way back when. I dodged casually and she tripped on her medium-height shoes with rounded toes and fussy Louis heels. They were all the rage during the Roaring 20's, but now they just looked clumsy. The strap on one of them broke.

"Bastard!" she screamed, throwing the quaint thing at me and drawing a knife from her beaded bag. I guessed not all of my old lovers were dead after all. Only love can transform itself into such ridiculous hate.

I'm not one to hit a woman. I pushed her away, but ineffectually. She was a demon. Her knife found its mark, so I was heading to Saville Row for a new suit after all, since the one I was wearing was now full of holes. Her white gloves stained red. When the knife end caught in the heavy bone of my sternum she shrieked and stamped her stockinged foot. "You used me! You left me! I'll kill you! I'll kill everyone you know!"

I yanked the knife out of my chest and raised it by its bloody handle. Then I...although I am immortal, it was still, legally, self defense. And she had promised to kill others.

I felt righteous for a moment, looking down at her still form.

Then I saw the pendant on her breast.

And I knew her.

And I wished that she had killed me.

I sank to my knees beside her. "Sheila, Sheila, I didn't leave you."

Beautiful, fiery, vain Sheila. She left when she saw she was aging and I wasn't. I searched for her for decades. I only stopped when I thought she must be dead of old age. Did she really believe I had left her? I could hardly breathe to think that she had nursed this pain and hatred for so long. Didn't she know? I'd have stayed with her forever. What did I care if she grew old? Her spirit, her soul, her self, that's all that mattered. Without her, immortality was a sentence of eternal lonliness. The great gift was meaningless, and so was I. I was a dandified, empty fool, and I had just killed the one thing in the world I cared about.

"Oh, Sheila, Sheila." I whispered. I almost smiled, remembering how I used to say, "'Silly Sheila, heart like a volcano, memory like a sieve."

I took her hand.

"I never left you. You left me."

And then she spoke. "Oh, that's right."

I drew the veil from her face and she opened clear blue eyes in a face of eternal youth.

Whatever twist of fate had doomed me to eternal life had laid that doom on her as well. Only if we were together, it would be no doom. It would be youth and life with my insane, irascible, impossible, forgetful and twice-beloved Sheila.

I raised her to her feet and she smiled.

Anchorite
(and we're back to third person)

He shielded his eyes from the light that burned as brightly blue as Sheila’s eyes. He looked in astonishment through half-shut eyes as Sheila’s prone, smiling form shimmered and faded out of existence. He turned to face the light source and saw a cowled figure holding a lantern opened to reveal a glowing, crackling blue flame at its center. The cowled man closed the hood of the lantern after Sheila vanished and then gently clipped the device to his robe’s belt. With the bright light extinguished, he noted with concern that the cowled man held a scythe in his other hand. Could it be?

“At last you have learned the final lesson and are now ready to proceed to the next stage.”

The cowled man spoke in a harsh rasp that nonetheless projected solemn gravity. He no longer had any doubt that his companion was Death himself, who had just claimed Sheila and now came for him. Despite his long and seemingly eternal life, he always secretly feared that this day would come to prove that he could not cheat Death forever. The grim reaper raised his scythe in preparation to harvest another soul, but surprised him by immediately reversing the weapon and extending its shaft towards him as gently as he stored his lantern.

“You are now ready to assume my role with its attendant duties. Take this scythe to harvest souls at the ends of their lifespans, just as you will take this lantern to guide them to their just rewards in the afterlife.”

“I don’t understand. You want me to become … you?”

“Yes, as you are now worthy. Long have I watched over you and guided you with a silent hand. You have been my pupil even if you did not realize it, because it is the way of this sacred role. As the harbinger and embodiment of death, you shall place your own imprint on your office just as I and all my predecessors have done. I subtly guided you, but I never wanted to impose on you so that you could grow into this role on your own terms.

“In your childhood, you dreamt of growing out of your humble hometown so I influenced your admission to the most prestigious of universities and provided for financing your education. I ensured that you experienced career success and protected the growth of your fortune. I granted your wish to receive a long life and then provided the opportunity for you to live it. I saw great intelligence, ambition, and ability in you so I deemed you a worthy successor. You lacked, however, the experience, wisdom, and maturity for this role that could only come from eternal life.

“I left you free to live as you saw fit, and you learned many lessons along the way. After the way you handled your reunion with your former lover Sheila with grace and compassion, I became confident that you were now ready so I now appear before you. My son, for that is how I see you, you have lived for several lifetimes and have experienced historic events firsthand as you have seen the world changed beyond anyone’s imagination. Who better than you to take on this crucial role to collect departed souls and guide them to their eternal rest?”

“What if I refuse?”

The grim reaper shrugged his shoulders and sighed. The motion lowered his cowl to reveal a pale, gaunt visage and tired eyes framed by dark circles.

“Then I must begin this process anew and approach my next candidate in perhaps another eon. Consider this, my son. I was once a mortal man like you before I became more, as have all my predecessors. I have outlived my wife, my children, countless generations of descendants, and for all intents and purposes anyone I have ever cared about. Despite my long life, I too have a mortal soul and long to join my loved ones in the hereafter to once again be united with them. I am tired, so very tired, and I feel the compelling need to pass the scythe and the lantern on to a worthy successor and then leave this world for good. Would you deny me that?”

“No … of course not.”

He at last claimed the offered scythe and planted its shaft on the ground beside him. He felt the aged but smooth and polished wood and tested its balance. By his reckoning, he would soon acquire an eternity of experience with this device and the lantern. These two items would become the essential tools of his new trade. He saw Death’s eyes lighten with gratitude and a smile appear at the corner of his thin, dried lips as if his taking the scythe removed a tangible burden.

“Thank you. I knew that my faith in you was not misplaced. Before I pass the lantern over to you, would you like me to grant one last favor to lessen the burden of your new office?”

He knew exactly what the reaper referenced and nodded in agreement.

“Very well.”

He removed the lantern from his belt and opened its hood to reveal a warm, green light. Sheila emerged from the light as hale and radiantly beautiful as she had been in her idealized prime. She silently walked towards him with the seductive gait that he knew all too well as she clung to his arm not holding the scythe and gently hugged him. Sheila was quiet for now, but he figured that they would have plenty of time to talk and catch up. Death closed the lantern and handed it to his protégé. Sheila’s eyes began to glaze with welling joyful tears and he noted that the grim reaper’s eyes took on a similar fragile shimmer.

“Let the heavens witness that I have officially chosen my successor under the open sky and may all planes of the afterlife welcome the new reaper. Welcome, Death. I have nothing left to say or teach as this position is what you make of it and the scythe and lantern will both correspondingly respond to your commands as extensions of yourself. Use them with wisdom and compassion, my son. Now for your first official duty, you must harvest my soul and send me to my just reward in the afterlife just as I have done for my predecessor and your own successor will eventually do for you.”

The former grim reaper closed his eyes and faced him with the serene expression of a man finally at peace. The new Death felt uncertain about striking down this kind old man, even at his request. Sheila gently brushed his cheek and mouthed the words “It’s okay” as he took comfort in her reassuring presence after having spent far too much time alone. The newly appointed grim reaper raised his scythe and swung it with all his strength to send off his predecessor to his fate with a single, decisive, painless, and ultimately merciful stroke.

Chris Hugh

Epilogue

Sheila put the finishing touches on her latest painting and signed it with a flourish. "I'm calling it Angora of Angst," she announced. "It emphasizes the ephemeral quality of the Existential Effervenensce color transposed with the Byzantium Bezel."

"It's evocative and transcendent," her immortal husband replied of the hideous creation, for his many centuries had given him wisdom, and thus he knew what was good for him.

"And what have you accomplished today? Did you find some fool to take over as Grim Reaper yet?"

He slumped into his armchair. "No, all the other immortals already know about that scam. No one is stupid enough to take it."

"No one but you," she pointed out for the 800,543rd time. "And you had to bring me along for the ride," she added for the 453,556th time.

He sighed, then jerked upright. His scythe was out of place. "Have you been borrowing--"

"Yes," she interrupted. "That gallery owner who laughed at my work was called to a better place. And the security guard who kicked me out has cast off this mortal coil. The receptionist who called 911 has gone to her final reward as well."

"What else have you been up to?" He switched on the news, then snapped it off. "Not again," he muttered. He grabbed the scythe off the floor. "I'm going to work."

"Already? Why do you have to go?" Her voice became a high-pitch whine. "I'm lonely. I was bored all day."

"Maybe I wouldn't have so much work to do if you didn't start so many wars!"

He slammed the door.

She threw herself onto the bed and sobbed into the pillow. "I can't help it. I have an artistic temperament."

Tandem Story: A Hero's Heart

2011-05-18T21:00:00.000-07:00

This is a tandem story. My writing buddy Anchorite wrote the first two lines. I wrote the next two.

Anchorite

My colleagues think that I'm the bravest hero they've ever met. They don't, however, know the truth: I only take such seemingly courageous risks because I no longer care whether I live or die.

Chris Hugh continues

But when they say I have the sweetest, kindest heart in the world, they are right. I keep it in a jar under my bed.

Email from a Dragon

2011-05-09T20:21:00.000-07:00

He does have a childlike quality, tho

Personally, or I should say, dragon-ally, since I'm a dragon, not a person, I like the modern age. When you're an immortal, you'd better be able to adapt or you become a fossil, and I've seen enough of my forebears hanging around museums, shells of their former selves, to convince me to keep up with the times.

Sure, modern living has its drawbacks. I hate that bootlicking, politically-correct sellout Barney, the purple jerk. And when someone tells my chronicler and portraitist that I have a "childlike, storybook vibe," I long to sweep down on that someone's village, breathing fire and ruin, rejoicing as the half-starved peasants flee and curse my name through charred lips with their last breaths as I cast them, screaming, into the outer darkness, I'll show them a childlike, storybook vibe. But things like that aren't done anymore. Not by dragons who don't want to a Tomohawk-missile suppository, they aren't. Don't mess with the U.S.

Yes, modern living has its drawbacks, but I've landed a good gig. My main job is championing a thirty year old warrior named Troy in a game called Dungeons and Dragons. I gather the dragons together, Troy musters his warrior guild, and we play in Troy's parents' dungeon, also known as the basement where Troy lives. Oops, gotta run. My second job is calling. There's a maiden in some backwoods Podunk Hicksville dump I need to devour. I'm scheduling extra time because I have to generate an electromagnetic pulse to knock out the electronics in the area before I get started. You never know which pitchfork-wielding Neanderthal has a cellphone with a camera, and I can't afford to wind up on YouTube.

GTG. KTHXBYE.

Sent from my iPad

------------------------------------

If you liked this story, you might like The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo, my bitterly sarcastic but humorous parody of the execrable novel by Stieg Larsson

100-word story: Death and Understanding

2011-05-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

This is written from the point of view of Mr. Kitten, a cat. It occurs right after a safe falls on someone's head....

Helen bowed her head, more shocked than the others at the death. Keenly I felt the gulf between myself and the lesser animals. I longed to make her understand that life and death are the twin strands that form the thread with which the Fates weave our lives. I wanted her to know that what seems dark and pointless today is revealed tomorrow as the masterstroke of a divine hand, for is the contrast of light and dark that weaves beauty into the rich tapestry of life. But the nearest I could do was throw up on her Persian rug.

Short-short sketch

2011-05-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

Another sketch from the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery. Are Steve (Helen's husband) and Tiffany (Helen's personal trainer) having an affair? Mr. Kitten doesn't seem suspicious, but someone else is. Someone who might have been better off paying attention to his own business....

Safe Sex

I wandered past Tiffany and Steve as they disappeared into the back guestroom again, then I padded down the hall and around the corner where Elliot and our new investigative expert were crouching.

Furbaugh was practically licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. "So, did you get it?"

"Yeah," Elliot mumbled, packing up his periscope-style camera lens. "We filmed them going into the guestroom. Big deal. Don't you have a safe to install?"

Still squating, Furbaugh leaned back against the paneled wall. A smiled spread across his face. "They're having sex and we're putting in a safe. We should call this the 'safe sex' episode." He ran a hand through his thick waves of gray hair and stood up. "I'll go downstairs and direct the crane operator. Drop what you're doing and get ready to film me."

Elliot watched Furbaugh walk briskly down the hall to the back stairs. Then he turned toward the master bedroom, where the safe was to be lifted through the window.

"Yeah, you get down there below the safe. I'll drop it alright."

Duelling Stories

2011-05-04T21:19:00.000-07:00

Three super-short stories

Bored on a Rainy Day

by Anchorite

He sighed and stared forlornly out the window, bored on a rainy day. On days like this when he had nothing to do, he regretted wishing to live forever

The Invitation Arrives by Mail

by Anchorite

The Immortal

by Chris Hugh

He looked at the elegant funeral invitation and managed to arrange his face into a suitable expression, hiding his smirk from the courrier. So the last of his former lovers had died. How sad. "I wonder if my black sut will still fit," he mumbled, hoping for an excuse for a quick flight to London's Saville Row to have a new one made. And if he didn't make it back in time for the funeral, oh well...

He looked at the card again. Something not right about it. It wasn't addressed to him after all, so why did it feature his name?

The courier took out a pistol and pushed him back into the foyer. "I'm sure we can arrange special fitting for the guest of honor."

The Test of Troy

2011-04-17T20:14:00.000-07:00

This is an exercise. There were three requirements: 1) No back story or background is allowed. It's entirely immediate. It's even in the present tense. 2) The character starts out with a problem, then it gets worse, and then worse. And when it is so bad that it just can't get any worse, it does. 3) All problems are resolved in the end.

The Test of Troy

Troy clutches his stomach. He cannot hear what the biology teacher is saying. He wants to listen. This is his worst class and it's important to him. He can't fail, not if he wants to become a zookeeper, and he wants that more than anything. Well, either that or manage his father's furniture store. He just can't decide. He doesn't want to disappoint his parents, but he loves animals--all of them. Troy stifles a groan. Whenever he thinks about deciding between furniture and furry creatures, it makes him sick and the school pizza roiling in his stomach is already threatening to explode.

As he walks home he's sure he has missed something important in class. He hopes no one sees him; he knows he looks ghastly and is afraid he'll throw up on someone. He sees his friends and cuts through some bushes to avoid them. As he emerges, he nearly knocks someone over. Someone with golden hair, long clean limbs, sun-bronzed skin and pink lip gloss. It's Sherry, the head cheerleader. He's loved her since grammar school. (Whoops, i cant do that, it's backstory. Okay, scratch that...) He blushes and stutters and holds a stack of books in front of his pants.

All her friends are laughing, but she speaks to him kindly. "You weren't paying attention in class, Troy," the goddess says. "The teacher announced that there's a big test tomorrow." She bounces away before he can gasp a reply.

Troy puts his head down and trudges on. A test tomorrow? This is terrible. And did he just make a fool of himself in front of the prettiest, sweetest, nicest girl in the whole world? Will his stomach hold up until he gets home? He checks carefully for cars before crossing the street. This day is bad enough; he doesn't need to get run over too.

"How can this day get any worse?" he asks himself distractedly.

He falls down a manhole.

At least he isn't hurt, but how can he study for biology if he's stuck in a manhole? He looks for a ladder and finds something else.

An alligator.

Menace gleams in its evil, alien eyes as it advances. Troy's life flashes before his eyes. He regrets he's never had the guts to really court the cheerleader. He regrets that he rejected being a furniture seller and disappointed his parents who have done so much for him. But he loves animals, they are all so wonderful and nice, or at least he thought so until quite recently. It's so hard to make career decisions, especially when looking into the gigantic slavering, jaws of a twenty-foot alligator.

He feels so bad he projectile vomits and the alligator runs away.

Troy feels much better. The pizza must have been bad. He climbs out of the hole.

When he gets home, he googles alligators until he falls asleep.

In the morning he realizes he forgot to study. Oh well, he has his life and that's what counts. He has more perspective now.

When he gets to biology, he finds that the test is an essay on alligators! He aces it.

On the way home he finds his near death experience has given him the courage to talk to the Sherry. He tells her he no longer wants to be a zookeeper. He likes cats and dogs but he realizes now that there are some animals he is less fond of. He's decided to sell furniture. She says that is a good career choice which makes him very attractive as a prospective mate. She says she'd like to help him practice selling furniture. Her parents are out of town. "Come over tonight," she purrs, "and let's see what you can show me a single bed."

Blondhilda and Lady Luck

2011-04-13T23:02:00.000-07:00

Here's another tandem story from me and Anchorite. Anchorite wrote a scene and I wrote some scenes around it.

Blondhilda and Lady Luck

Part 1
Chris Hugh

"Darling," Blondhilda whispered lusciously, holding a manicured hand over the phone's receiver. "It's your editor."

"Why does she want to talk to me tonight of all nights?" Stanley muttered, grabbing his poker chips from the pants he'd wore the day before and stuffing them in his pocket.

"I think she wants to know why you haven't submitted the manuscript you promised her two weeks ago," Blondhilda answered, literal minded as ever. "Should I tell her you're on your way to your nightly poker game and don't want to talk to her?"

"Tell her I'm not here," Stanley snapped, walking into the hall.

"Just a moment," Blondhilda said politely, putting the phone down. She followed Stanley into their spacious foyer, where he was pulling on a jacket. "Stanley, you are here. How can I tell her you are not here if you are here?"

"Don't be stupid," he said and walked out. A poker chip fell out of his pocket.

Blondhilda picked it. She watched him drive away. "He is now correct. I may accurately convey that he is not here." She slipped the poker chip into her bodice and returned to the phone.

* * *

After dinner, Blondhilda and Hello Sailor withdrew to the ladies sitting room for an evening of weapon honing and sparring.

"You're not concentrating, Blondhilda-san," Hello Sailor said, balancing on the back edge of the davenport, pirouetting and flinging a sushi-shaped eraser with precision. "I think I might be able to hit your most honorable self for once. I wonder what kind of plush toy my magical eraser will turn you into."

Blondhilda back flipped onto the top of a highboy and parried the hamachi handroll sloppily. "An irritated one," she answered, hopping down. "Stanley has been different since starting his 'poker nights.'" Blondhilda peered at Hello Sailor. "What are you wearing?"

Hello Sailor flopped onto the Davenport, fingering the chain at her neck. "Oh, it's a new necklace Dave gave me."

"The pendant looks like one of Stanley's poker chips."

"Yes. It's for luck."

"It's lucky for Stanley that forbearance is one of my godly traits," Blondhilda said, "for his recent conduct pleases me not." Hello Sailor shrugged. "Who is Dave?"

"Our new security guy. Don't you know him? I thought you took care of all security matters."

"I do," the warrior goddess replied. "And it is odd that I don't know who this Dave is. I interview and background check everyone who makes contact with our household. I should speak to him forthwith." Blondhilda absently put her hand down her bodice and scratched where Stanley's poker chip was chaffing her. "Forgetting about practicing," she said, tossing her sword aside and sprawling next to Hello Sailor on the davenport. "Let's do something else."

They watched reality TV and ate Velveeta on corndogs.

Part II

by Anchorite

Later that night, Blondhilda made a right turn on Middlesex Road as per the GPS directions from her TeliPhone Quad on her way to deliver her sacred cargo, the preserved leaf of the Yggradasil world tree that was her beloved Stanley’s lucky charm for his weekly ritual game of Calamity Cate Hold It Poker. Blondhilda had at first thought that poker was some sort of sacred combat ritual, but Stanley had informed her that it was a card game that he played with his friends and fellow writers.

Blondhilda remembered her adventure with the Mighty Reza and his lovely consort Farrah to defeat the fanatic cult of Angra Mainyu devoted to unleashing the dark god upon the mortal plane. The three heroes saved Ancient Persia and the world and Blondhilda took away two especially fond memories: the best food she had ever eaten, and the Persian card game that bore a strong resemblance to the poker game that Stanley described. Poker may not have been a contest of ritual combat, but the game had high stakes and Stanley always came home with substantial winnings after Blondhilda had given him the Yggdrasil leaf.

The charm had heightened his deductive reasoning and powers of observation, but Stanley had assuaged her sense of honor with the reassurance that it only heightened his existing senses and did not affect the game itself so that the benefits of the sacred leaf did not constitute cheating. The Yggdrasil leaf provided Stanley with enough of an advantage to improve his game, but he still lost his share of hands and even with the leaf he could barely keep up with Heather.

Stanley’s friend and fellow author Claire Guang enjoyed playing poker and even devised the rules for the game’s popular iteration; Calamity Cate Hold It. Claire had named the card game after the feisty red-headed anti-heroine of the best-selling novel series based on her postmodern take on the spaghetti western genre. Claire had supposedly based the Calamity Cate character on an ex, which made a sort of sense in Blondhilda’s opinion, although instead of breaking Claire’s heart Calamity Cate along with her inseparable lover Virginia “Ginny” McBride defied the societal conventions of turn-of-the-century America and left behind significant body counts on their hard-boiled misadventures. Claire devised a variation on poker for a Calamity Cate novel and then realized the potential to develop it into an actual game.

Blondhilda liked Claire as much as Stanley did, and her beloved writer even allowed Claire to write her own Blondhilda stories. Blondhilda never ceased to be amazed by how such a seemingly sweet and well-adjusted author could write such violent, cynical fiction. Blondhilda had enjoyed her adventures well enough even if she could not necessarily call them “fun,” but she was always glad to have her creative direction back under Stanley’s able pen.

Claire was indeed a pleasure, but her partner Heather was something else. Heather worked a straight laced day job as a senior associate at a law firm, but outside of her work environment she was akin to Loki himself. After that one fateful night when Claire brought her to the weekly poker game to help her unwind after a stressful work day, Heather took to the ritual like a proverbial fish to water. She played cards like a shark and drank all of Stanley’s friends under the table with both beer and whiskey. She also had an encyclopedic knowledge of classic rock and heavy metal that had all the men all but swooning at her feet. No matter how many times Claire commented on her and Heather’s relationship status, the men of Stanley’s poker group repeatedly offered to take her out and asked in disbelief how such a treasure like Claire’s roommate could possibly be single. Blondhilda shook her head and rolled her eyes in the same manner as Claire and Stanley at the thought. As Stanley had told her, men often only saw what they wanted to see and conversely refused to see what they did not want to see.

Heather had consistently cleaned up at poker night and even with the Yggdrasil leaf, Stanley only won as often as the fearsome attorney. Stanley had bought her many precious gifts with his winnings, including the TeliPhone Quad that guided Blondhilda to her destination. Blondhilda had trouble navigating the labyrinthine streets of suburbia, so the TeliStar GPS proved a godsend. Blondhilda took to modern technology like Heather took to poker night, as these modern gadgets brought her joy that she never experienced in Asgard. Stanley had sent her a text message that he had forgotten the all-important Yggdrasil leaf and would lose his shirt to Heather without it. He punctuated the urgency of his request with a high-resolution photo of Heather seated at the table with a tall stack of poker chips in front of her and a wicked grin lighting up her face. Blondhilda could not quite make out the edge of the photo, but it looked like Claire striking the heel of a hand against her forehead with an embarrassed expression.

Blondhilda proceeded post-haste lest Stanley lost this week’s game and be left unable to buy her another gift during the weekend. The Norse goddess had her eyes set on the newly released CapSul Duo and she would not let anyone take that away from her, friend or no. The location of the poker game rotated weekly with tonight’s game hosted at the house of Brad Ellis, naval veteran and best-selling author of nail-biting, pulse-pounding techno thriller adventure novels. An author of Brad’s status unfortunately lived in the most exclusive neighborhood in town that was several miles uphill. Blondhilda gathered her resolve and trudged up the steep grade for Stanley and for victory. Although arduous, her path was effectively a straight line at this point so Blondhilda deftly opened the CycloPedia app to brush up on the rules of Calamity Cate Hold It Poker.

Blondhilda reached the summit of Ridgecrest Drive and stood at the door of the Ellis mansion. She gently squeezed the Yggdrasil leaf to extract a single drop of its sacred dew that would leave her as refreshed and renewed as if she had drunk a bottle of water and had a full night’s sleep. Blondhilda knocked on the door, keeping in mind Stanley’s admonition that the rules of Midgard required her to knock on a locked door and patiently await a response rather than kick it down and barge in. Blondhilda restrained herself and after a moment of forbearance the front door opened. Blondhilda saw before her a burly man with a salt-and-pepper flattop haircut and a cigar in his mouth sending off a spiraling trail of smoke. Blondhilda gave him the courtesy of a warrior maiden’s nod.

“Greetings good sir, I am here to see Stanley Chester Brown, a guest in your abode, on an urgent matter.”

The man gave her a knowing nod, and then turned to face behind him. He laughed and then bellowed:

“Stanley you old dog, you didn’t tell us you hired a stripper!”

Part III

by Chris Hugh

A cold light suffused the room and glinted off Blondhilda's drawn sword. The man lurched back, whispering an apology and bumping into Stanley, who had just come around the corner. Claire and Heather were close behind, arm in arm. All were laughing, hard greedy laughs without merriment. Claire slapped the man on the back and leered at Blondhilda. "Come on, Blondhi, do it. I'll tip good," Heather giggled.

Blondhilda turned her cold gray eyes to them.

"Tips, did you say?"

* * *

A few minutes later, Blondhilda's sword lay on the carpet, along with her mini-skirted hauberk, her dagger, her platinum breast plates, her vambraces, her shield and all her warrior raiment with the exception of her five-inch thigh-high battle boots and her low-cut leather cuirass. Heather was sitting on Claire's lap, Stanley was counting the money the women had stuffed into Blondhilda's G-string, Blondhilda was gyrating and the blue-eyed man who'd opened the door was happily shouting encouragement.

As Blondhilda's cuirass fell to the floor, the poker chip fell with it.

Blondhilda's face went suddenly went cold and she drew herself up to her full height. The room fell to silence. Heather slid off Claire's lap and sat looking at her hands. Stanley starred at his wife, his mouth hanging open. Slowly she bent to the floor, to the pile of clothing and other things she had discarded, but she was not moved by a modest desire cover her nakedness. Her hand closed around the hilt of her sword.

Stanley flinched as a tail of blood splattered into his mouth. Heather screamed as the blue-eyed man's severed head landed in the lap she had so recently vacated.

She fainted when the head laughed.

"I'm Loki, the trickster god!" the gruesome thing cackled. It spun around in Claire's lap, waggling its tongue obscenely. Stanley sat unmoving, his eyes unblinking, unseeing. Claire screamed and jumped to her feet, dropping the head to the floor.

The head laughed again.

Claire kept screaming. She did not stop for a long time.

* * *

The family therapist cleared her throat, and looked nervously at the people in her office. She was stroking her chin and slowly shaking her head.

"I really hope you can work with us," Stanley said. Heather and Claire nodded. "My wife and Loki are, in a sense, brother and sister." He glanced at Blondhilda, who was pressing her luscious pink lips into a hard thin line, and continued. "We've had so many problems with Loki, and now it's getting out of hand. He enchanted some poker chips to fill us with greed and in doing so he has involved Lady Luck, the very last goddess we want to antagonize." He sighed and furrowed his eyebrows. "We really need a new approach."

The therapist looked at Loki who was sitting on her sofa, bound from head to foot in coils of heavy chain. A black leather gag covered his mouth and a ragged bandage at his neck dripped blood. "Maybe you should go to a 'kink-aware' therapist."

A beautiful, gloriously fat woman with shining curls interrupted, laughing. Gold coins tinkled from the rich velvet of her jewel-colored clothing. Her laugh was like silver rain. "I think we'll have good luck with your medication-based approach," she said.

* * *

A year later, the therapist had a New York Times bestseller and her own talk show. New legislation had unexpectedly passed and Heather and Claire were legally married. Their families were overjoyed to learn that they were lesbians, and their dearest wishes were fulfilled when they both somehow managed to become pregnant without male intervention.

Loki had not played a trick on Blondhilda or Stanley since that fateful poker night.

Everyone who had invested in Ritalin, Adderall or Prozac was a millionaire.

Blondhilda and Stanley ran into Loki occasionally, and he was friendly and engaging. Stanley had grown to like him, and even Blondhilda was thawing. When the three laughed together, recalling Loki's tricks, his blue eyes were filled with kindness, caring, and charm.

But when he turned away, there was a cold, empty hatred that was new.

The Mr. Kitten Murder Myster 3.0

2011-04-04T10:22:00.001-07:00

I wandered downstairs, both drawn by my curiosity and pursued by Madeleine’s horrid wailing. She is addicted to a karaoke game that is based on a television series where various semi-talented redo old song and have dramas with each other. She is currently the world-wide high-scorer on the game and believes it is her ticket to fame and glory. Unfortunately, when she sings, she sounds like a scalded...well, let us just say that what she lacks in talent she makes up for in industry.

I burbled a greeting to the Captain as I entered the morning room, but ignored his outstretched hand, instead making the rounds of the room, which is both my custom and my duty. It was my intention to approach the Captain by the most circuitous route possible before allowing him to massage me, but I was checked as I explored behind the couch for there I found the soul-flown shell of my compatriot, Winston Churchill. He lay behind the Davenport, hidden from the Captain's view, upon his back, his feet up in the air, his talons still pitifully clutching a chocolate.

I reeled in horror. When I had collect myself, I circled the corpse, sniffing it and examining it. And then, driven by ineffable instinct, I scratched at the parquet floor, attempting to bury the empty husk. A moment later, I heard Helen, that most excellent of servants, enter the room, and I knew she would make everything right.

"What are you doing, Mr. Kitten?" she called. She could hear my scratching, but could not yet see me. "Did you barf again?" An impertinent question, although I'll admit it was my custom to make the same scratching motions when a cruel world sickens my sensitive nature and I heave my effluvium.

Her voice was irritatingly patient, almost patronizing. "Do you have a hairball for me to clean up, Mr. Kitten?" Even in the first depths of my grief I felt a twinge of annoyance that she had not learned by now that a cat is a divine creature that does not leave "barf" and "hairballs." We leave "signs" and "wonders."

Then she came over to me, saw me and Churchill, and literally screamed. She fell back in horror at the ghastly sight. Although more stoic than her, I shared her horror. I approached to her for comfort. Imagine my chagrin when a torrent of invective streamed from her lips.

"Mr. Kitten! You killed Winston Churchill!"

The Captain had hopped to his feet by this time, and they both stood looking down upon me, Helen heaping abuse upon me, and the Captain timidly attempting to calm her!

"Oh, no! How could he?" she cried. "I must have been stupid to buy a bird when I had a cat, but I thought they got along. Oh, I love you Mr. Kitten. I know it's not your fault and you don't know any better. I'm sorry I yelled at you." Then she burst into tears.

This was but an example of her brutality of speech. It was beneath me to refute her vile accusations. As the ancient Arab proverb says, the only answer to a fool is silence. And if I had fallen in her esteem, she had fallen infinitely more in mine. I repaired instantly to the top of the walnut highboy in the North corner of the morning room and observed from there.

The Captain comforted her and, to his credit, defended me. She seemed to begin to see reason. I meowed encouragement to him, then they both looked at me. It seemed that all might be well until a gray feather chose that instant to drift from my jaws down to the Oriental rug.

A fresh burst of tears from Helen, and embarrassed foot shuffling from the Captain.

I had a perfectly good reason for having a gray feather within my jaws but I did not trouble to explain myself.

Helen eventually calmed down. "Captain, please tell Blandings," she said, referring to the butler, "to bring the Jaguar around. I'm taking Winston to the vet to be cremated." She gave me a look that seemed to ponder that the Jaguar was a tribute to my own self, as all cats come from the same great race and various breeds or species vary only in size. "No wait," she amended herself, clearly searching her husband's large inventory of new and classic cars in her mind. "Bring the Datsun."

The Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery - 2.

2011-03-31T17:41:00.000-07:00

To read the prolog, click here

Chapter 1

I am a cat, and my duties are numerous and varied. On the fateful morning that the whole, terrible affair began, I was engaged in important business in one of our many guestrooms. Even so, I could hear all that occurred in all places in the house. My hearing, like everything about me, is exquisite.

Madeleine, who lives with us by through the good offices of her cousin Helen, walked into the morning room where Captain Peacock was reading the paper and enjoying his morning pipe. Winston Churchill, the parrot, resides in that room and Peacock would never smoke in the poor bird's presence, nor in mine, so he was enjoying the pipe by chewing on it. Although the Captain is rarely without his pipe, I have never seen him with tobacco. Perhaps he carries the pipe for the same reason he wears tweeds with patches on the elbows, cultivates a handlebar mustache and keeps a pith helmet in his room. There is a connection that eludes me.

I heard the delightful crinkle of a box of chocolates being unwrapped followed Madeleine's voice. "Would you like one, Captain?"

"Maybe later, dear," he answered with a disapproving rustle of newspaper. I could almost read the Captain's thoughts. Helen was forever obsessing about her weight and she avoided chocolates at all times that she was not actively consuming them. Chocolates in the morning room were a temptation she was not likely to resist. Helen had extracted a promise from the entire household to support her in her weight loss goals, so it was no surprise that Madeleine was leaving a box of chocolates in the morning room. The Captain ascribed it to brainless vapidity, although I suspected more sinister motives.

The fabric of Madeleine's blouse rustled as she shrugged, then I heard the box being set on the sideboard and Madeleine's footsteps retreating into the conservatory that adjoined the morning room and out into the garden.

Desultory conversation ensued between the parrot and the Captain. The man seemed to be trying to explain to Winston Churchill the strange dynamic that has recently strained the perfect tranquility of our happy household and Winston was replying with his usual cynicism.

I should say a word about Helen here. As the granddaughter of the great Calvin K. Calvin, she came into her inheritance three years ago when the old man's will left his property and money to her in the form of a life estate with a remainder to her living relatives. This means that everything belongs to her until she dies at which time the estate will be divided among her living relatives. Up until that time, they get nothing. For the last three years, Helen has been the benefactor of said relatives, Captain Peacock (her uncle), the widow Betty (Helen's mother's cousin), and Betty's daughter Madeleine. They live with Helen and her husband Steve and she allots them generous, although not excessive, allowances, that please Peacock and Betty but do not satisfy Madeleine, who aspires to a celebutante lifestyle. Helen and Steve have a live-in domestic staff of two: Tiffany, the personal trainer/cook, and Blandings the butler/chauffeur. My domestic staff consists of Helen and Steve.

Anon, I heard the Captain open the sideboard drawer and deposit the chocolates therein.

I returned to my duties until a strange turn in the conversation and the sudden silence of my compatriot, Winston, aroused my curiosity. When Madeleine came upstairs and began warbling karaoke into her iPad, a device I both coveted and pitied, I went downstairs to satisfy that curiosity.

And thus began the series of events that transfixed the nation and came to be known as The Reality Murders, not out of existential introspection, but for less highbrow reasons that will become clear as this narrative continues.

The Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery - 0.1

2011-03-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

http://chrishugh.blogspot.com/2011/03/mr-kitten-murder-mystery-2.html0.1 Prolog

"Never, never, never surrender!"

"Would you like to come out, Winston Churchill?" Captain Peacock asked. "Fly around free for a while?"

"Freedom," the bird said as the Captain opened the large cage. "All great things are simple, and many can be expressed in single words: freedom, justice, duty, honor."

The Captain laughed as Winston half hopped, half flew out of the cage, stretching his great wings and fluttering about the exquisite morning room of Calvin Manor. He was a gray Macaw parrot, much like the one his great namesake had. Macaws can live over one hundred years, and the English Prime Ministers' own parrot is rumored to still be alive in a pet shop, unfit for sale because of his constant obscene rants against the Nazis. Parrots can imitate nearly all sounds, not just voices. Some give hi-fidelity renditions of the telephone, the smoke detector, police sirens, the alarm clock and similar things, often in the middle of the night. Winston Churchill had been kept away from such influences and taught a selection of the great statesman's quotations.

The Captain watched him fondly and went back to his chair. "Don't make a mess now, Winston," the Captain said. Despite the bird's oratory skill, he was not housebroken. "I'm not supposed to let you out of your cage in here. We wouldn’t want Helen to get upset," he said, referring to his niece, the lady of the house.

"Courage is the first of human qualities because it is the quality that guarantees all the others," Winston replied, as he perched on the edge of a Ming vase and dropped a bit of fresh organic fertilizer onto the highly polished parquet floor.

"There's no reason to upset her, she's upset enough already these days, you know," the Captain mumbled. “We need to treat her especially well, the poor dear.”

"An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last."

“Well, she’s not as bad as all that,” the Captain started to say, then he stopped himself and smiled. It was easy to forget that the bird didn't really undersrand what he was saying. "Polly want a cracker?" the Captain asked. He chuckled and corrected himself as the bird stared at him implacably. "Winston want a cracker?"

The bird flew to the windowsill and stood with his head tilted to the side, gazing out the window.

The Captain picked up his unlit pipe and went to stand next to the bird. Although it was mid-morning, the large house still cast its shadow over the thick carpet of lawn. Past the enormous lawn, pine streets stood below an expanse of sky. Although they were in Silicon Valley, the high-tech capital of the world, here up in the hills it was peaceful and rural. A deer quietly munched one of Helen's manicured rose bushes.

The Captain turned to the bird and asked again, "Polly want a cracker?"

"A fanatic is one who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject."

The Captain frowned at the bird, then shrugged and walked to the sideboard. He selected a chocolate from a box there, then patted his broad stomach and made a wry expression. "Winston want a chocolate?"

Winston Churchill flew to the sideboard and carefully took the candy in his beak. The Captain went back to his wingchair by the window and immersed himself in his newspaper.

After a few minutes, the bird spoke again, imitating the famous exchange between Lady Nancy Astor and Sir Winston Churchill. "Sir, if you were my husband, I would put poison in your tea," the parrot said in a high female voice. "Madam," the parrot answered himself in a masculine voice, "If I were your husband, I would drink it."

If it was an attempt at communication, it was lost on the Captain. He did not notice Winston Churchill’s distress as the bird flew to the davenport and collapsed behind it. The Captain did not hear him. Nor did he hear his final, dying words.

"Although always prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it should be postponed."

to read the next chapter, click here

Grimgudrun: Another tandem story from the world of Blondhilda

2011-03-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

Here's the beginning that my writing buddy, Anchorite, wrote:

She sat cross-legged with her head facing downwards and her lank black hair falling in a cascade to obscure her face. She found a strange sort of comfort in holding this position for sustained periods and in her own estimation this was her longest interval yet, although she could not measure it with any precision. She had nothing other than the warrior’s garb that she wore and her two trusted weapons that provided her only companionship in this featureless void. Her surroundings were nothing more than infinite emptiness lit by an unnatural dull glow without an apparent source. She had long ago learned how to visualize outside this barren realm to gather glimpses of the outside world beyond this interminable abyss.

She concentrated and visualized her reflection on the empty space between her crossed legs. She did not sit on the ground or floor per se, as there was only a milky white mist around her in all directions with no obvious floors, ceilings, or walls. She could walk forever in any direction and never reach a destination and she could likewise climb up or down in any direction and sit or lean wherever she wanted as if a solid surface had spontaneously materialized before her. She looked into the reflection of her sunken eyes ringed with dark circles and fair skin rendered wan by the lack of natural light; although unlike the featureless surroundings her body had a hard lifetime’s worth of accumulated scars, burns, and tattoos.

She laid her sword across her lap and lovingly ran her fingers down the grooved channels cut into the red-stained blade. She named it Bloodsoul for its ability to both cleave a soul from its mortal body and capture the screaming spirit within and to absorb the blood and other vital humors from the remaining husk. The sword took the body and soul of all those who stood in her way and she had killed enough humans, creatures, and even gods to make Bloodsoul into an unstoppable weapon fed by the anguish of its fallen victims. Her other weapon was a chain sickle forged by the dwarven king and master smith Alberich that carried an enchantment so powerful not even the gods of Asgard could break a single link.

With these weapons she had become an unstoppable warrior of vengeance and rage. She had slaughtered the slavers who had taken her in her youth like the animals that they were, and then murdered every last man, woman, and child in their tribe to extinguish them from the face of Midgard. She had then returned to her home village after more than a decade in slavery, killed every villager for their actual or complicit role in selling her to the slavers, and burned the entire place down in a massive fire that spread to the surrounding forest. After that she had gone on a global rampage of revenge that strengthened Bloodsoul and Alberich’s chain with every soul that crossed her path until they became strong enough for her to achieve her ultimate goal: to kill the gods themselves and cause Ragnarok.

Freya, Loki, the frost giants, and the Valkyries all fell before her battle prowess. She wanted to save Odin for last as she crushed his spirits by destroying everything precious to him before his eyes. She disemboweled and beheaded Thor in front of his father and then disemboweled his beloved steed Sleipnir, but not before methodically amputating each one of his eight legs before cutting open the horse’s writhing torso to toss its steaming entrails at Odin’s feet. With a wicked satisfied grin, she sheathed her sword before proceeding towards Odin, thus sending him the clear message that the so-called king of the gods was not worthy of joining Bloodsoul’s cacophony of anguished souls. She instead drew Alberich’s chain and wrapped it around the god’s neck to strangle him as slowly and painfully as she could manage. Odin’s eyes bulged as sweat beaded his brow as he gasped to draw breath through lips flecked with foaming spittle that spilled onto his beard. She savored the moment of ultimate victory right before her and then cried out in frustration as she had her triumph snatched from her and had been transported to this isolated vacant space.

She had been trapped here for what seemed like eternity and had been unable to interact with any other soul until she discovered the art of channeling her concentration and willpower to conjure whatever she could visualize. This was the only stimulus she had in this realm of sensory deprivation and the only respite to the oppressive tedium. She found comfort in viewing her reflection, if for no other reason than to reassure herself that she had not changed and that her fearsome weapons remained in her possession even if she had no use for them without anyone else around.

She found a renewed sense of purpose when she achieved a vision potent enough to leave her winded, weakened, and in dire need of sleep to recover her expended energy. She saw words appear as if written by an invisible pen in an elegant script that nearly brought tears to her eyes through the letters’ sheer beauty. Against her stark white surroundings, the words appeared as if written on pristine paper projected in front of her although she could not actually reach the floating letters. The text appeared at the pace she read it complete with a resonant soothing voice reading the words directly into her mind and hearing. Its ramifications had changed her perceptions and sent her into her recent contemplative fugue states.

“Grimgudrun, you were my earliest creation and are effectively my firstborn child. I am your father who brought you to life with my creative will and I wanted what I thought was best for you, but you came out flawed and I have to accept responsibility for it.

“Ever since I was a geeky high school kid drawing pictures in my class notes, I dreamt of creating a high fantasy story starring a strong, noble warrior woman. I’ve had a lifelong love for Norse mythology so I wanted my heroine to fit alongside the timeless pantheon and inhabit an exciting, vibrant world inspired by the myths. That’s what I wanted, but when I actually sat down to write the story I was in a bad place. I got married too young and had a bitter divorce and then I fell into a deep depression because of that combined with my failure to sell my manuscripts. I doubted my talent and felt frustrated, but I also felt angry that nobody gave me a chance.

“That negativity seeped into my writing and it tainted my creative process. I turned you into an angry, violent warrior who could only lash out in rage to everyone around you. My pain and frustration became yours and I did not fully realize it at the time, but I vented my own anger by making you suffer as much as I could in the stories that I told. The literary world around you became a bleak and hopeless place as you became a remorseless killer out to decimate everyone that crossed your path.

“I made you into Grimgudrun in my attempt to write an edgy, gritty dark fantasy. I filled you with hate and malice and made angst and revenge into your only motivations. I wrote the ugliest stories that I could devise that were nothing more than pointless exercises in depraved nihilism. By the time I wrote your adventures, Grimgudrun, there was nothing inspiring about them and there was nothing admirable or sympathetic about you.

“I got better over time as I sought help, turned my life around, and finally achieved success as a writer. Perhaps getting all that poison out of my system was the first step in that direction, but I did so at your expense and I am so sorry for that, Grimgudrun. I lost sight of my goal to write stories about a strong yet compassionate heroine, and I had to hit bottom before I could realign myself with that goal. I realized the errors of my ways so I sought to discard these abhorrent, reprehensible Grimgudrun stories and start over with the lessons that I had learned.

“I took responsibility and owned up to my part in being such a bad father to raise you and shape you into what you are now. I wanted to fix you and see if there was any hope for you – with even the tiniest sliver of a redeeming quality, I could salvage you and make you into what I wanted you to be. I wanted you to achieve your potential, but I was too late. I’m so sorry, Grimgudrun, but I was too late. I realized that you were broken beyond any salvation. You deserved better, especially before you had passed that point of no return, but I had no other choice.

“I stopped writing my story of you murdering the Norse pantheon because it was a destructive, reprehensible tale that was a moral dead-end. You were in so much pain and I could not ease it, so I decided to take the most humane course of action. If I could not help you, much less save you, then I could at least end your suffering. In the depths to which you had sunk where you felt agony as much as you inflicted it upon others, the best mercy I could show you was to extinguish your creative life so that you no longer felt anything.

“Empty oblivion is the closest thing to peace that I can grant you, Grimgudrun. Your life has been one of endless tormented angst and I played a central role in it. You were my greatest failure and my greatest mistake, yet I was directly responsible for it. I’m so sorry, Grimgudrun, yet I’ll always remember you and apply the lessons that I learned from my failures to my next success. I have already begun drawing preliminary sketches for Blondhilda. I’m sure you would have liked her back in your early days, as she is everything that I wanted you to be but was not strong or stable enough to make happen. She’s strong and fearless, yet also kind and compassionate. She is your spiritual successor and although I must destroy all signs of your existence and keep you hidden even from her, I take solace in having her future success be your lasting legacy. I love you as much as I grieve for you, Grimgudrin. Love always, Stanley Chester Brown.”

Grimgudrun had replayed that eulogy countless times until she had committed every word to memory. She had been abandoned by her father and replaced by a subsequent creation that had achieved immediate success after having corrected the flaws of Grimgudrun’s trial run. She had focused her willpower to visualize Blondhilda and had been taken aback by how she and Stanley had gone on countless adventures full of fun, excitement, and positive underlying moral subtext. More importantly, Stanley and Blondhilda genuinely enjoyed each other’s company and shared a loving relationship built on mutual respect. Grimgudrun had never experienced that as she had never had direct contact with her father and had only experienced the indirect results of Stanley’s anguished mental state when he was at his worst. Grimgudrun seethed with envy and resentment at how she had been consigned to a life of never knowing true happiness, experiencing only pain in life, and engaging in only violent morally bankrupt adventures where she was as bad if not worse than her opponents despite being the nominal protagonist of her stories.

Grimgudrun had been deprived and cast into misery with the worst part being that it had all happened for no other purpose than the whims of her father Stanley. She had visualized all her past adventures in light of her revelation and had been subject to a soul-crushing cavalcade of her nihilistic escapades. Grimgudrun had seen every innocent life extinguished by her hand, every betrayal, every failure, and every wanton act of depraved cruelty. She now realized that none of it had any inherent meaning because the whole time, she had only acted out the script that Stanley wrote for her. These visions had only increased her despair and perhaps loosened her already tenuous grip on sanity. After her exile in this featureless void, she now had a purpose: to kill the usurper Blondhilda who had taken her rightful place as Stanley Chester Brown’s most beloved literary creation and to hold him accountable for how he treated her.

Every one of Blondhilda’s uplifting adventures should have been hers and she should have received Blondhilda’s treatment rather than have been discarded like a broken piece of garbage. Stanley had meant to erase her from existence, yet Grimgudrun survived. She realized that the answer lay in Stanley’s own words: I’ll always remember you. Of course! A small piece of Stanley’s creative imagination still held on to its memory of her so he would sustain her life as long as he remembered her, even if only subconsciously. Grimgudrun visualized and reached out to Stanley’s memory out in the real world. He still had feelings for her, although they were mostly unresolved lingering guilt and heartbroken pity, yet that was enough for Grimgudrun to establish a connection to Stanley’s presence on the material plane.

A cursory search of Stanley’s memories told her that she had not been extinguished as Stanley intended, but rather cast into the creative limbo of unused but not entirely forgotten characters. She had been the sole inhabitant of Stanley’s creative limbo because she had been his only creation pushed aside like this. Now that she had established this connection, she could follow the trail out of limbo into the real world. Grimgudrun looked forward to having Blonhilda’s blood and rent soul flow down Bloodsoul’s channels directly into the sword, or perhaps she should asphyxiate the blonde warrior maiden with Alberich’s unbreakable chain as she did to the dwarven smith after he had forged it for her. Soon, thought Grimgudrun, this will all happen in due time. Blondhilda and father Stanley both have much to answer for.

Here's my continuation

No bell tolled in her world of white. With no way to measure it, time had no meaning. Had she existed for an hour or for an eternity? Eternity, her soul would have answered, if she had a soul.

But maybe she did have a soul, for as she put down Stanley's letter, a new thought came to her, and where the spark for that thought came, if not from her soul, who could know? "If I'm a savage Norse goddess of vengeance, raised in slavery," she thought, "then when the heck did I learn how to read?"

And in the moment she asked herself that question, a tiny seed of independence from Stanley was planted, and Grimgudrun's white world was transformed. Ghost images of a small room suddenly surrounded her. Posters of disaffected musicians with black lipstick lined the walls. Plush animals huddled on a narrow bed. Grimgudrun found a strange, Y-shaped white string attached to a small thin box, seemingly made of black glass. Some instinct drove her to put the two loose ends into her ears. Music filled her mind.

She flopped down onto the bed and felt sorry for herself. For the first time, she enjoyed it.

Another eternity passed.

Then Grimgudrun's nascent soul twitched again. "I wonder if Stanley has any other characters stuck in ghastly limbo?"

Suddenly a door appeared in the wall of Grimgudrun's cell and she passed through it, through it and into another world, a world with avocado-green shag carpets.

"Hey there, foxy lady," a tall, gangly man said. His shirt was open to his navel and gold glinted at his neck. "I'm Rico from Columbia. I learned English by watching old sitcoms from the 70's. Stanley was going to put me in a legal thriller, but that cat's been too lazy to write it."

"You think you've got it bad," a grim voice said. Grimgudrun turned to see a large man join them. "I'm one-quarter freaking Chimpanzee. Stanley created me to be in some dang science thriller and then he dropped me. I've got a boyfriend out there who's been kidnapped, my evil twin is a serial killer, the president is about to be assasinated, I've got a pet jaguar named Bubbles that needs to be fed, and I'm stuck here! Plus, for some reason, I'm one-quarter freaking Chimpanzee!"

"This is Faber, from the upcoming novel Humanzee," Rico said.

"Upcoming, fiddlesticks!" Faber shouted. Then he slammed his fist into his open palm. "I'm so frustrated and I can't even swear because Stanley thinks avoiding vulgarity is the mark of a good writer. Oh my...golly!" Faber threw up his hands and screamed. "He's not allowing profanity either. I am so sick of putting up with Stanley's...sssshenanigans!"

Grimgudrun looked down in embarrassment for the man and saw a dessicated mummy on the floor. Entrails streamed from a gaping wound in its belly. Its neck was at a freakish angle, the vertebrae poking through its skin, and yet some hideous force still animated it. With supreme effort, the pathetic thing clutched at the carpet and pulled itself forward. It collapsed at Rico's feet.

"What a drag," Rico chuckled. "That's Grease. Every time something nasty has to happen in a story, it happens to Grease. But otherwise, Stanley rarely bothers to characterize him or even write about him at all unless he's being stranded in the desert, pushed down the stairs, gut shot, or--"

"Yeah, whatever," Grimgudrun interupted. "All I wanna do is get out of here and wreak some bloody vengeance on Stanley."

"I can dig it, mama," Rico said. "But how?"

They thought a moment, then Faber spoke. "Stanley has invested each of us with special characteristics. Maybe we can hone our skills and use them to fight our way out of here." As he spoke, the room solidified around then. Grimgudrun could see that Faber had the right idea. Grease demonstrated his raw physical strength and resilience: new flesh grew upon him, his neck straightened and he was able to stagger to his feet and join the group.

They sat on the sectional sofa in Rico's conversation pit. They stoked their courage, ate fondue and plotted.

* * *

"This is great," Faber said, taking another bite of quiche. "I didn't know you had this kind of talent."

"Thanks, man," Grease replied. "Since we've gained a little independence from Stanley, I guess we're all discovering new things about ourselves."

"I know I am," Grimgudrun said. "I realize now that I don't have to be defined by the horrible things that I've done, and that have been done to me."

"And I don't have to be defined by the fact that I'm one-quarter chimpanzee," Faber added, as he swung happily from Rico's mirrored disco ball. "I can just enjoy the advantages of being what I am." He held onto the mirror ball with one finely formed hand as he examined his handsome face in the mirrored panes. "I certainly don’t look like an ape; I can thank Stanley for that."

"And I don't feel so angry at Stanley anymore," Grimgudrun said. "I don't feel so much like killing him."

"Yeah, I'm not as angry anymore either," Rico said, "but we still want to do some far out, freaky jive to that cat, right?"

"I said I don't feel so much like killing him. I still feeling like killing him."

Everyone mumbled agreement.

A long moment passed.

"I'm not angry, but I'm lonely," Grimgudrun said in a small voice.

"I think we all are," Faber said, dropping down from the ceiling and quietly taking a banana from the fruit bowl.

Rico and Grease looked at each other, then sniffled and mumbled something about allergies or having dust in their eyes.

Finally, Grease gathered up his courage and spoke. "I think, I think we are each incomplete. This searing loneliness, sometimes I can't..." He paused and took a deep breath. "I think many times my evil actions have been a cowardly attempt to cover up the terrible emptiness I've felt," he concluded.

Grimgudrun spoke quietly. "I didn't know you had such hidden depths, Grease."

"Stanley never bothered to flesh me out at all. Maybe I never had any depth before the four of us got together. This time we've had together has been the happiest of my existence. I wish--" he dropped his eyes--"I wish we could combine ourselves into one character."

Rico looked at Grease for a long moment and then spoke solemnly. "Right on, man. Dy-no-mite."

Faber felt the same as the others, but his unique background made his psychology somewhat different from a true human's. His perceptions were sharper, unfettered by the typical human's blind spots, and he often spoke his mind where another might be inhibited. "Are you sure you should be a part of this gestalt entity, Grease? You're always getting killed."

Grimgudrun interrupted. "Grease is one of us now. He's never had so much dialog in all of his stories put together. I'm so happy that we're finally getting to know him."

Grease smiled and a pale golden light suffused the room. "I'll always be a part of you--"

Suddenly Blondhilda's sword appeared out of the nothingness, and, with a mighty stroke, Grease's head was parted from his neck and flung onto a macramé hammock. Her sword fell again and Grease's torso was cleaved diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. The two ghastly lumps of flesh fell to the floor with a wet thud.

"You'll always be a part, will you, Grease?" Blondhilda cried. "Make that three parts!" Then she turned her sword to the remaining conspirators.

* * *

The author woke up at dawn, ate a healthy breakfast, then tended to the animals on her hobby farm. When she entered the large enclosure where she kept her panther, she had a .44 magnum on her hip, but the revolver was not to protect her from Bubbles. The weapon was her constant companion against predatory humans who she knew from sad experience could be more deadly than any wild animal. She played with the great cat, chasing him and being chased, wrestling with him, joyously exercising the great strength and agility that was her unique birthright.

Later she pulled on a long coat and rode her horse to a small country grocery store.

"Good morning, Grimy," the shopkeeper greeted her. "That's such a funny nickname; you're always so pretty and beautifully dressed." The woman nodded graciously. "Are you going to see the new movie?" the shopkeeper asked.

The woman raised an elegant eyebrow and the shopkeeper continued.

"It's based on the best-selling disco romance novel by Marie Christine Hugo, Grimy!" the shopkeeper answered. "You remember the Olivia Newton-John, John Travolta musical from the 70's, right? There was a sequel to it, which wasn't very good, but this is the third movie and everyone says it's the best movie of the decade. Grease 3!"

Marie Christine Hugo, nee Grimgudrun Rico Faber, smiled. "Groovy."

Blondhilda: The Flensing Hour

2011-03-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

My writing buddy, Anchorite, wrote a Blondhilda story. His challenge to me was to take what he'd written and continue it. I accept the challenge! Here is the story.

This is Anchorite's beginning:

Blondhilda focused her warrior’s vision on seeing through the fog as thick as the mystical mists of Niflheim. She made out urban lights in the distance, but these had the warm glow of gaslight rather than the more modern lights of contemporary Midgard. The style of the architecture that she recognized suggested Victorian England, which was an environment that she had not seen since Stanley wrote her into the story of “Blondhilda and Sherlock Holmes in the Case of the Missing Crown Jewels.” She had enjoyed that adventure and remembered how Stanley had told her that she needed to venture out beyond her comfort zone into different genres to build her skill set beyond straightforward hack and slash. She had a great time working with the detective and Stanley assured her that he was a public domain character, so he was well within his rights to team her up with him.

Blondhilda wished that she had the detective’s intellectual prowess as she found herself struggling to place her surroundings into which she had been suddenly thrust. She recognized the Victorian cityscape around her, but her boot heels pressed into damp earth. The headstones and mausoleums provided clear indicators that she stood in a cemetery, but how and why did she end up here? She walked cautiously through the thick fog and stopped when she encountered a shrouded figure that materialized in front of her.

The stranger stepped out of the fog as if walking out from behind a curtain. He had the sallow, desiccated complexion of the undead of Hel’s realm but he was immaculately attired in a three-piece tailored suit with a top hat and woolen overcoat. He had an expression like a rictus grin that reminded Blondhilda of her encounter with a giant shark in “Blondhilda at the Beach” that Stanley wrote as his last summer blockbuster. The stranger removed his top hat and tossed it aside to land on an adjacent gravestone and then gave her a gentleman’s bow. Blondhilda confirmed her judgment when she saw that he had a zombie’s lank, stringy hair but on that same note he had it neatly combed. He rose from his bow and then addressed her with an upper class British accent not unlike that of Sherlock Holmes.

“Greetings, Lady Blondhilda. I am Mr. Cad Cadsworth at your service, the Cadaverous Cad and mascot of Pale Cadaver, the heaviest metal band to come out of Jolly Ole England. I welcome you to my humble abode, although I must apologize for the cold and fog that must surely be taking a toll on you with that little two piece number you got on.”

Blondhilda drew upon her knowledge of English etiquette, primarily drawn from her experience at Apricon UK, Europe’s premiere convention for the Apricot Princess fandom. Stanley had been invited as an honored guest and panelist due to his contribution to the latest bestselling Apricot Princess anthology, and he had kindly let her attend even though he did not write Blondhilda into the story.

“The pleasure is all mine, good sir. I thank you for your hospitality and upon further observation; I see that this cemetery resembles the cover of Pale Cadaver’s ‘Beyond the Grave’ album.”

“You are most observant, milady. I thought that you’d be into the Gothenburg metal scene since you’re of Nordic stock, but I’m honored that you recognize my domain.

“That album is indeed the reason why I summoned you here. You are the avatar and champion of the creative spirit of Stanley Chester Brown and if you will, he is your father. I am likewise the spiritual son of ‘Spotted’ Dick Crandall, the lead singer and songwriter of Pale Cadaver. If you’ll indulge me, Dick created me back when he dreamed of forming the hardest rocking band to ever hit England that needed an appropriately badass mascot. His willpower gave me life, so to speak, and my lovely visage has graced the artwork of every Pale Cadaver album. His fortune and the band’s fortunes are intertwined with mine, so it’s in my best interest to see the band succeed. Are you with me, love?

“Pale Cadaver releases ‘Beyond the Grave’ which is well on track to become the band’s seventh consecutive platinum album and the lead single ‘Concordat of Worms’ has reached number one on the charts, which is a feat that not even the title track from the band’s prior album ‘The Flensing Hour’ could achieve. Your father Stanley Chester Brown is a world renowned author, but to pay the bills he also writes freelance articles for various publications and you cannot fault a man for that. No ma’am, where I take umbrage is that your father, one Stanley Chester Brown, wrote an article for a certain music magazine critically eviscerating my father’s magnum opus. He declared ‘Beyond the Grave’ to be total rubbish, gave it zero out of five stars, and declared it to be by far the worst album of the year.”

Blondhilda noted how Mr. Cadsworth’s temper rose as he told his story and he was on the verge of apoplexy by the time he finished. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a white glove that he then threw on the ground in front of him.

“Stanley Chester Brown has hurled a grave insult to Pale Cadaver, and I will have satisfaction on behalf of the band and Spotted Dick himself who is a far greater talent than the brainless hack that Mr. Brown described him as being. As you can imagine, Dick was beside himself and on the verge of collapse to hear of such a vicious review. God bless that one ‘Heather from California’ sent a fan letter that refuted Mr. Brown’s nastier points and expressed her undying love for Pale Cadaver’s most brutal of metal. Heather’s lovely note prevented a total breakdown and it’s always wonderful to have such adoration from the fan base, but I am here to avenge my master’s honor. You see Blondhilda, you are Mr. Brown’s champion and I am Mr. Crandall’s so on behalf of our respective masters we shall resolve this dispute with a duel to the death.”

Mr. Cadsworth extended his right arm to show the inside lining of his long coat and reveal rows of sharp metal objects that gleamed in the moonlight.

“You have your sword, milady, so I need the right tool for this occasion. I have a flensing knife, a deboner, a paring knife … let’s see, ah yes, here’s the perfect one, two of them in fact.”

Mr. Cadsworth removed two wicked-looking meat cleavers from his stash and held one in each hand.

“This ought to do it. These here cleavers will cut right through your delicate flesh. When I’m done with you, I’ll skin you, dress you, and then carve you up. In fact, I have a big hook in my meat locker waiting for you. I can see it now, I’ll start with some liver and onions washed down with a pint of brown ale and then carve you up for chops, steaks, short ribs, and then with that pretty little head of yours I’ll make some blonde head cheese. Waste not, want not, I always say as your bones will be a smashing treat for my bulldog Matilda. The old girl will dine happily tonight.”

Blondhilda drew her sword and took a warrior’s stance. She had no intention of serving as anyone’s dinner. She assessed the situation and noted that with her sword she had the advantage of a longer reach, but Mr. Cadsworth dual-wielded his cleavers and looked well-versed in their use. He was a formidable opponent, but as a warrior of Valhalla, Blondhilda never refused a challenge.

“Have at you, love. I’ll have you know that Jack the Ripper was a rank amateur next to my body count. I’ve flensed many a blonde in my day, and I look forward to one more.”

And here's my ending

Blondhilda put her hand on her hip and tossed her sheet of pale gold hair as Cadsworth crept menacingly toward her. "I'll admit Jack the Ripper was rank, and so are you," she taunted, "but don't think I bother to fight every two-bit challenger who comes along."

At that, Cadsworth lunged, but Blondhilda casually sidestepped, making him overbalance. There was a sharp crack as he tripped, and when he stood again his ulner bone was sticking through his undead flesh at an angle no self-respecting ulner bone would have aspired to. The knife fell from his hand, handle first, into a crack between two paving stones.

Cadsworth cleared his throat and pulled down his cuff, then lunged with the other knife. There was a barren, gray tree above them and Blondhilda sprang lightly into it. She watched Cadsworth as he stumbled over the dropped knife, cutting off much of his right foot and releasing a clot of writhing worms from the bloodless wound.

"Huh, that flensing knife is sharp even if Cadsworth isn't," Blondhilda mused. She settled comfortably against a tree branch."I wonder what 'flensing' means," she said as she turned on the new iPad 2 Stanley had just given her. After a moment, she looked down at Cadsworth.

"Did you say you've 'flensed' many a blonde?"

"Indeed I have," he replied viciously, gathering up his toes with his remaining good hand and putting them in his pocket. "I've ground up their flesh, seasoned it and used their own intestines to make sausages. I have—"

"Yes, yes," Blondhilda interupted, barely looking up from her iPad. "If you could talk a blonde to death, I'd be deader than you by now. I was just wondering if you knew that the Urban Dictionary defines 'flensing' as 'throwing your shoulders back in an effort to hide your man-boobs during sex.'"

Cadsworth staggered back, her words causing him even more pain than his injuries. "No! A flensing knife is a very cool World of Warcraft item. It's also a knife for removing blubber from whales!" He ripped open his shirt. "I don't have man boobs!" he cried. Then he stumbled and sat down heavily upon the business end of the dropped flensing knife. Then he really cried.

Suddenly a heavy metal power chord sang through the air and thundered through the ground. The members of Pale Cadaver magically appeared. Spotted Dick took in the situation immediately, then shook his fist at Blondhilda as the drummer and lead guitarist started swarming up the tree after her. "We'll get you! We're the heaviest metal band around. No one insults us."

Blondhilda leaned over the branch and casually called down to Spotted Dick, even as the two evil-looking men edged toward her. "If you're the heaviest heavy metal band," she asked, "then why are you named Pale Cadaver instead of Copernicum?" She held up her iPad. "The periodic table shows it as the heaviest metal."

The lead guitarist dropped from the tree and turned to Spotted Dick. "That's a good question, mate. That's the name I wanted."

Dick made an impatient noise. "And I told you that Copernicum has a half life of thirty seconds. You think that's a good image for us? Did you want us to be a flash in the pan?"

The drummer dropped out of the tree. "So why didn't we name the band Plutonium 244 like I kept saying? It has a half-life of 80 million years."

Dick rolled his eyes. "Plutonium is used in nuclear bombs. Do you know what would happen if we were named Plutonium? Every time our album sales dropped a little, every time anything went the slightest bit wrong, the headlines would be 'Plutonium bombed.' Why should be set ourselves up like that?"

"I didn't say we should call ourselves Plutonium," the drummer corrected. "I said Plutonium 244. Plutonium 239 and 241 are the ones used in bombs because they are fissile, meaning that the nuclei of their atoms—"

Dick buried his face in his hands, then held up one hand to stop the lead guitarist before he could jump in and talk about the characteristics of other Plutonium isotopes. "Maybe I don't have PhD's in chemistry like you guys," he sighed, "but with my meager Cal State undergraduate degree, haven't I managed to make multmillionnaires out of all of us?"

The lead guitarist looked down at his feet, then slapped Dick on the arm. "You're right."

The men laughed, what did anything matter? They were rich. "In fact," Dick said, looking up at Blondhilda. "Stanley Chester Brown isn't such a bad chap. We got tons of publicity after he skewered us." Blondhilda smiled.

A few minutes later found them all sitting on the ground, gathered round the new iPad as Blondhilda demonstrated the things it could do. "I like it so much," the statuesque goddess almost gushed. "It makes me glad I learned how to read."

"I'm going to learn how to read too!" the bass player said.

Cadsworth walked away.

----------------

If you enjoyed this, there's more Blondhilda here

Blondhilda and the Evil Twin

2011-03-13T21:59:00.000-07:00

For the exciting genesis of Blondhilda, click here

For the exciting genesis of Hello Sailor, click here

Blondhilda and the Evil Twin

My writing buddy Anchorite wrote a Blondhilda story. I took it and wrapped this story around it, using some of Anchorite's dialog. Can you guess what I wrote and what Anchorite wrote?

Stanley stared fixedly at the ceiling and walls. Light green ceramic tiles, waterspots showing where tiles had fallen off. Water was dripping somewhere; Stanley could hear it, smell it.

A spider spun its thread from the ceiling, lowering itself toward him. The single glaring bulb in the ceiling backlit the thread, turning it to silver and gold. Stanley tried to get up, then saw he was strapped down. He looked to his feet, saw them in padded leather restraints that were attached to the white enamel hospital bed. His arms were strapped to his side.

"Hello! Nurse! Is anyone there?" The spider landed on his forehead. Stanley closed his eyes and endured. It was only a spider. Then something touched his hand and he noticed the scurrying sounds. How long had he been hearing them without noticing? More sounds and more things, furry whiskered things touching his bound right hand, squirming against his immobilized body, gnawing.

He screamed and fought against the restraints. No help came and he could not move. The rats scampered away from him momentarily, then seemed to pause and think, and then returned, more bold than ever, sure now that he was utterly helpless. He screamed. He screamed and screamed until he knew no more.

* * *

Hours later, a woman ran into the room, breathing hard. She slammed the door behind her, then composed herself and came to Stanley. The rats were gone. She was blurry and Stan's eyes itched. He turned his head to the side and the tears ran onto the thin, bare mattress.

"Blondhilda?" A light of hope sparked in Stan's heart, then died just as quickly.

"Not Blondhilda. I'm Hilda, your ex-wife." Pity and scorn played across the woman's beautiful features

"Ex-wife? I'm married to Blondhilda. I've never been married before. You're..." Feature for feature, the woman looked so much like Stanley's beloved goddess and wife, but the love that illuminated her face was absent, making her nearly unrecognizable. He struggled to rise from the bed.

“Stop it Stanley! Blondhilda is not real," the woman said. "You started writing those horrid fantasies after you failed to sell your novel and they took over your mind. It broke my heart to do it, but I had to have you committed here to the Fine Dragon Sanctuary, and you made so much progress under Doctor Feindrachen. We thought you were cured, but now you’re imagining her again and she’s making you relapse. Work with Doctor Feindrachen and he’ll work with you, he’ll cure you.”

Stanley sunk back onto the bed. "Fine Dragon Sanctuary?"

The woman smiled and brushed Stan's brow. Her hand was cold, as cold as her eyes the color of a glacier. She smiled warmly, but the smiled didn't touch those icy eyes. "It's a play on Herr Doktor Feindrachen's name. Fein drachen, fine dragon."

Stanley closed his eyes. Maybe the woman was right.

"I still love you and care for you," she said. "I want to see you get well and Doctor Feindrachen can treat you and restore your sanity after he purges this Blondhilda from you once and for all. I’m pleading with you Stanley, come to your senses.”

More quickly than a human could move, the woman's head spun to the door and she stood up just as the door burst open. Another woman, a warrior tall and radiant strode into the room. Hilda looked her up and down, then she patted Stanley's hand, and spoke in a pleading voice. "Stanley, please! You’re lost in that delusion again. There is no Blondhilda, she’s just a figment of your imagination.”

Stanley turned his face to the wall, and the warrior woman suddenly diminished. The great sword slipped from her hands and disappeared. She grew shorter, weaker. A slow smile spread across Hilda's face. Blondhilda ran to Stanley to remove his restraints and Hilda grabbed her from behind and held her easily.

"Stanley!" Blondhilda cried. "Don't stop believing in me! I am yours. You are mine. There is no Hilda, this is Loki!"

"You poor deluded woman," Hilda said. Here voice sounded kind, but her face was filled with malicious glee. Stanley still stared at the tile wall of his prison.

Blondhilda struggled against her and tried to reason with Stanley. "Stanley, you can't believe this is a real hospital! You were restrained and alone; that's illegal. Any restrained person must be watched at all times. And you can't be committed just because you harbor a delusion. Only a person who is an immediate danger to himself or others can be involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility. You know that."

"There, there," Hilda said soothingly as tightened her grip against Blondhilda's neck.

"Feindrachen was the name of the villian in the story you wrote," Blondhilda gasped. "Blondhilda vs. the Fourth Reich. He's not a real doctor...And it's not fein drachen which means fine dragon, it's feind rachen which means enemy revenge."

Blondhilda pulled forward and then lunged back, throwing Hilda off balance long enough so that Blondhilda could catch her breath. "This isn't a real psychiatric facility, this is a nightmare asylum. The dripping water...the rats..."

Stanley looked at the two women. Hilda had caught Blondhilda by the neck and was choking her. They grappled, but Blondhilda was no match for the other woman's strength. Blondhilda sank to the floor; her body spasmed.

The rats.

The rats had been gnawing on Stanley's restraints.

And Blondhilda was dying.

With a mighty effort, Stan broke through his right wrist restraint. He fumbled the left restraint open, then untied his legs. Blondhilda was on fours, gasping on the floor. The window was open and a cold wind blew into the room. Hilda was gone. Stanley jumped up from the bed meaning to run to Blondhilda, to take her in his arms, to plead forgiveness for his lack of faith, but the strain and the long hours of immobility had weakened him. He fell to the floor unconscious.

* * *

When Stanley came to himself, he was outside. What was he doing there? What had happened? A piercing voice interrupted his insular reverie.

“Stanley! Thank God I found you. Please come back inside out of this storm.”

Stanley squinted to see through his fogged glasses and heavy rain blown nearly sideways by the harsh wind. Across the rooftop – why was he on a rooftop? – he saw a woman facing him with pleading eyes as the rain flattened her blonde hair.

“Hilda? What are you doing up here?”

“Stanley, we were having a conversation inside and then you abruptly ran off after muttering nonsense about Blondhilda. I looked all over the facility for you, and then I saw the door to the rooftop stairwell open. Please Stanley, come back with me. Climb in through the window.”

She stretched out her arms. She was so beautiful. He walked slowly toward her.

"No, Stanley, don't!" a faraway voice shreiked. "You're not outside, you're inside. There is no rooftop. If you climb through that window, you'll fall to your death."

"Of course you're outside, your face is wet," Hilda said.

Stan lifted his hand to his face. Yes, his face was wet. He must be outside in the rain. Blondhilda was just a dream, even though she was still screaming warnings to him that he could barely hear. Maybe Dr. Feindrachen could cure him. He quickened his pace and put his hand on the sill. Stanley sat on the windowsill. He's be inside in a second, out of the rain. He would be cured. He was practically cured already; Blondhilda did not exist. He knew that now. Blondhilda's voice gave a final cry and faded away.

Slowly, Stan swung his legs over the sill. The rain was warm and tasted like tears. Then he was falling, falling to the concrete parking lot sixty feet below.

* * *

Suddenly Hello Sailor swooped out of the sky in the flying Jaguar XK8 she'd appropriated from the goddess Freya. Stanley landed in the passenger seat of the convertible.

"Konichiwa, Brown-san!" Hello Sailor bubbled and managed to approximate a bow even as she drove the flying car. The rain plastered her thin blouse against her nubile chest, but her black hair still flowed freely behind her and a glint of light found its way through the dark night and gleamed in her eyes. "Evil god Roki undermined your belief in Blondhilda, but he forgot about me, so I was able to save you!" Hello Sailor beamed and stuck out her small chest with pride. Stanley averted his eyes, but grinned.

Suddenly, the night disappeared. They were no longer flying through the lashing rain. The sun shone, there was the noise of traffic and the Jaguar was parked outside a hospital. The driver's seat was empty, and Hilda spoke from the backseat. "Stanley, I'm so sorry for you. This is just another illusion. Let's go back to the sanitarium."

"I'm not going to fall for it this time, Loki." The illusion disappeared and Stanley and Hello Sailor were back in the flying car. Stanly spoke. "Blondhilda, get rid of him please and then let's meet back in the hot tub."

Blondhilda appeared in the night sky, flying with the aid of her Sword of Aeronautics and Hydrotherapy. She winked at Stanley, plucked Loki out of the car and dragged the exhausted trickster god into outerspace. "See you in half and hour," she called.

Hello Sailor turned the Jaguar toward home. "Brown-san," she said. "That was an amazing illusion Loki created. He used all his strength to do it; it was impenetrable. How did you manage to see through it?"

"I love Blondhilda and she loves me. I'm never going to doubt her or our love ever again," Stanley replied. "And it was easy to see through the illusion. I used to have a Jaguar XK8, and there's no way anyone over four years old can sit in that back seat."

--------------------

If you enjoyed this, you'll enjoy the rest of The Blondhilda Chronicles

Dan Brown Parody: The Last Cymbal

2011-03-03T07:14:00.000-08:00

The Last Cymbal: A Dan Brown Parody

by Chris Hugh

You have nothing to fear. The young man choked down a spoonful of the thick, chunky paste. As the beef, potatoes, and spices of the sacred meal slid down his throat, he felt a sense of brotherhood with the men who had come before him. Tonight he would transform himself into the last member of the deadly Hashishin of yore. Literally the 'followers of Hassan,' they were famous for their mastery of asymmetrical warfare. Thus the word assassin derived from hashishin. There is little evidence that the Hashishin ate hash, but the young man knew little of etymology. He also smoked a lot of weed.

He picked up the tattoo needle and leaned toward the mirror, preparing himself mentally. Tattooing was an ancient art form practiced since the Stone Age and used as a mark of both distinction and nonconformity by sailors, Japanese Yakusa gangsters, Maori warriors, high schoolers, felons, celebrities and middle-aged Americans going through mid-life crises but too cheap to buy themselves sports cars. The man suspected that perhaps tattoos had lost a portion of their exotic exclusivity, but he pushed these doubts aside. I'm a nonconformist, he thought grimly. Even if everyone else is one too.

Over the course of years, he had wandered the Arab world, talking to everyone who would listen about the Hashishin tradition, and thus he had earned his Arabic name. Wherever he went, it would ring through the streets: Anta Ghati! Anta Ghati! Old men would mumble it. Young men would shout it. Children would giggle it and run away. The young man leaned over the bathroom sink and pushed aside his bangs. Tonight he would use the ancient art of tattooing to proclaim his name to the world. Tonight he would embrace his new name, his new identity, his new destiny. Tonight he would become Anta Ghati.

* * *

Meanwhile, Robert Langdon, Harvard professor and symbology consultant, was riding with the British Royal Air Force. He had been called in the early morning with a mysterious invitation and, upon accepting, found a modified McDonnell Douglas AV-8B Harrier II ground-attack aircraft waiting on his front lawn. He was now in England to have tea with the Queen.

Langdon was fascinated with the aircraft and talked animatedly with the pilots. "Technology is truly transformative," he said. "It's so interesting that the Harrier can be a helicopter when it takes off and then change into an airplane so that it can go fast!"

The copilot looked at him for a long moment and then spoke with a brittle smile. "As I've explained, Mr. Langdon, the Harrier uses thrust vectoring to give it vertical takeoff and landing ability. Nothing can change from a helicopter to a fixed-wing aircraft."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," Langdon said with a wink, holding up a Slingshot Transformer toy from the 1990's. He changed it from a robot to an AV-8A Harrier and back again. "But if this isn't variable geometry, I don't know what is. And over the course of my last adventures I've been forced to learn quite a bit about transformations."

The copilot took a deep breath while Langdon spun happily in his chair. "In my last case of world-wide importance," he said, "I discovered that if you take a cube-shaped box and sort of unglue part of it and spread it out, you'll end up with a cross-like shape. Like this!" He drew a diagram.

"And if you're lucky," he continued, "in the middle of that box will be a Kara's cupcake!" He smiled engagingly at the copilot, who was chewing her hair. The pilot turned off his headset. "You know what the real mystery is? Why would anyone in their right mind pay $3 for a cupcake!"

Langdon played with the Transformer a bit more. "This is a wonderful artifact," he said to the copilot, who was now holding herself and rocking back and forth. "Thank you for giving it to me, although I thought it unusual that you tried to insert it into me." He smiled ruefully to show there were no hard feelings. "I guess you have strange rituals in the military. I know all about rituals." He shrugged and bounced the toy playfully in his hands. "I could go on forever about the symbolism of this Slingshot Transformer," he said.

He proceeded to do so.

* * *

Anta Ghati sat down on the edge of the bathtub and dabbed his forehead with a towel. He had completed tattooing himself with his name. He smiled with satisfaction as he examined his handiwork in the mirror. His forehead now proclaimed Anta Ghati.

He went into the other room and set to work creating the banner by which he would proclaim his demands to his arch nemesis, Robert Langdon.

* * *

At length, Langdon wrapped up his impromptu seminar on Transformer symbolism. The copilot began to calm down, preparing to heave a sigh of relief. Then Langdon leaned toward her with a roguish air. "Transformers," he said. "They really are more than meets the--"

* * *

Langdon found himself strapped to the Harrier's AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile.

The copilot had assured him, through clenched teeth, that this would get him to Buckingham Palace in the quickest possible manner, but as the missile launched, Langdon reminded himself that it would reach a speed of Mach 4. Langdon's weight was 200 pounds and the acceleration of gravity is approximately 32 feet per second squared. Making some quick calculations, Langdon determined he would hit the ground and with a force of--

"Holy crap!" Langdon thought. He struggled with the knot holding him against the missile and was both surprised and impressed that it was a monkey knot, the most complicated knot known to craft magazines. If only it were a Gordian knot, I could cut through it with my pocket knife. Langdon thought, furiously working at the devilishly-difficult ornamental knot, and leaving his pocket knife in his pocket. Alexander the Great cut the Gordian Knot with his sword, thus untying the knot and fulfilling the prophesy that the man to untie the Gordian Knot would become the King of Asia. Langdon froze for a moment. The wind whipping past his ears was the loudest sound he'd ever heard. His cheeks and even his forehead rippled with the effects of the G forces. Well, actually, few people are aware of it, but it was a retroactive prophesy thought up by Alexander's biographers after the fact. Langdon chuckled.

Eventually he worked the knot loose and freed himself from the missile. After that, it was all routine. Falling at 176 feet per second, Langdon simply pulled off his Harris Tweed jacket, looped the sleeves together to make a harness and used the main portion of the jacket as a parachute. Steering with his lapels, he casually guided himself to the closest body of water.

* * *

With the completed banner in his car, Anta Ghati drove to where he would hang it for all the world to see. As he made his way through the grey London streets, he noticed an ambulance coming toward him on the opposite side of the road. As Anta Ghati idly wondered why the word ecnalubmA was written across its hood, the ambulance suddenly responded to an emergency. It made a quick U-turn and came up behind Anta Ghati, its lights flashing. Anta Ghati saw it in his rearview mirror and pulled aside to let it pass. Funny, he thought. It said 'ecnalubmA' when I was looking at straight at it, but in the mirror it said 'Ambulance.' He stopped his car and rubbed at his new tattoo.

A bleak realization slowly came over him.

* * *

A beautiful thirty-year-old scientist with flowing brown hair and taut brown limbs helped Langdon out of the Buckingham Palace swimming pool.

Langdon struggled to his feet. "I'm having tea with the Queen! " he said by way of greeting. "Did you know that the Royal Family's name was chosen by a group of experts and adopted in 1917? Because of the impending First World War, the British Royal Family, then known as the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, had to change their name to one that didn't remind people of the family's blood connection to the Germans. History books, dictionaries, maps and focus groups were consulted to create the most venerable name possible: Windsor." Langdon snorted as the dark exotic scientist wrapped him in a purple and gold towel from the palace. "Isn't that a pretentious name?" He put out his hand. "I'm Robert Langdon."

"And I am Crystaluria Panache Nevaeh Smythe. Neveah is 'heaven' spelled backwards," the woman breathed. Langdon blinked. "But you were brought here as a ruse, Professor," she continued. "I fear my brother D'Artagnan is in terrible trouble!"

"D'Artagnan Smythe!" Langdon looked into Crystaluria's deep green eyes. She was dressed in a lab coat that just hinted at the figure underneath. Her moves were graceful and powerful. He had never seen her before, but her brother D'Artagnan was his greatest mentor. Langdon had lost his father as a young boy. Since that time, D'Artagnan had acted as a surrogate father, going to high school events, helping him get into college, guiding his career. Now Langdon was learning that his trip to England had been part of an elaborate trap, that the man who meant the most to him might be in danger.

Robert spun Crystaluria around and held her by her shoulders. His face was a picture of excited concern. "You mean I'm not having tea with the Queen?"

Suddenly someone unfurled a banner from the roof of Buckingham Palace, and Langdon and Crystaluria were surrounded by British police. Everyone was reading the mysterious message:

I hold D'Artagnan Smythe prisoner!

Decipher the talismans he has given you or I will kill him!

Do not involve the CIA

That means you, Robert Langdon!

--Anta Ghati!

"That message doesn't make any sense. I don't have any talisman and I have no intention of involving the Culinary Institute of America, although if I'm not going to have tea with the Queen, I suppose I could get a snack somewhere else--" Langdon said.

An agent of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service (also known as MI6) put a friendly hand on Langdon's shoulder. "He might be referring to your Central Intelligence Agency when he says 'CIA.'"

"Uh, yeah, that's what I said," Langdon said.

The British agent continued, "But, by Jove, if he didn't want an intelligence agency involved, then why did he make a big banner like that? And if I'm not dashed mistaken, he's gone and written that message of his in blood!"

Langdon shrugged. "It's not the worst I've seen. The last time I got an invitation, it came in the form of a severed hand."

"Blimey," the agent said, squeezing Langdon's shoulder. He glanced at the banner again. "I'm sorry the blighter went and insulted ye like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Calling you stupid, mate." He pointed to the message. "I've been trained in Arabic. Anta Ghati means 'you're stupid.' Practically the first thing we heard in language school, it was."

Langdon coughed and shuffled his feet. "I don't doubt that Anta Ghati means what you say. However, I am an expert in symbology and I need to point out the dash before the phrase Anta Ghati. A dash is often used as an informal close to a letter or note in place of 'Yours truly,' or 'Love' or 'Cordially'..."

Little did Langdon know that Anta Ghati was standing right next to him at that very moment, eavesdropping and disguised as a bakery delivery man. His shoulders sagged as he listened to the professor's words. So that's what all those people were calling me! He squeezed his eyes shut and a silent tear slid down his cheek. Then he steeled himself and sniffled manfully; he would continue with his mission and make them all pay. He continued listening to Langdon.

"Or 'Yours respectfully', or 'XOXOXO' or 'Sincerely'..."

Everyone hoped Langdon wouldn't trot out that old saw about sincerely meaning without wax. Supposedly ancient sculptors filled in their errors with wax. Therefore a really honest statue without mistakes was sin cera or without wax, and that was where the word sincere came from, Oxford English Dictionary be damned, and yadda yadda yadda.

Langdon trotted it out.

He finally got back to the main subject. "In other words, the dash indicates that the writer is about to sign his name." Agents were nodding their heads now, some in understanding, others in sleep.

Suddenly Langdon's audience parted to let through a tiny, ancient woman in a dark business suit. She strode up to Langdon and stuck her pointed nose in his face.

"You're telling me this kidnapper's name is 'You're stupid?'" Her eyes were red and a cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth.

Langdon tried to take a step back, but found his way blocked by a burly CIA agent.

The woman stepped closer and pointed her finger at Langdon. "I am Patricia Snidely from the CIA," she said, punctuating every word with a painful jab in Langdon's sternum. Another two huge male CIA agents walked up and flanked her, glaring down at Langdon. "You will help me understand the significance of the talismans D'Artagnan left with you. This is a matter of national security!"

Langdon answered her politely. "Of course I'll help you any way I can." He looked down at his wet clothes. "You'll have to excuse me, I--"

"I don't have to do anything!" she sneered.

"Why--"

"I'm the one asking the questions here!" she snarled.

Langdon folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the rude woman. He was a polite, even chivalrous, man by nature, and he could tell the woman needed assistance even if she were demanding it in an inexcusable manner. He took a deep breath and started to offer his help again. "I--"

"There is no 'I' in team, Mr Langdon!" she spat.

Langdon drew himself up with uncustomary dignity. "You're rude and I don't want to talk to you. I'm a free man and a US citizen. I don't have to talk police. This is not a consensual encounter. If I am under arrest, then I invoke my right to counsel and I do not submit to interrogation. If I am not under arrest then I am leaving."

The CIA agents opened their hands slightly in an unconscious gesture of surrender and edged away. They knew the law. Snidely gaped at them, then turned to the one on her left. "You! Agent Nurnberg! Arrest him!"

"Gee, I can't do that," he replied. "I'm a CIA agent, but I have to follow the law like everyone else. Mr. Langdon doesn't realize it, but we're not peace officers. I don't have the authority to arrest him, other than the authority every person has to make a citizen's arrest if he or she sees a crime taking place. And he's not committing any crime."

Snidely stalked up to the agent. "Then shoot him," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Do you understand me?"

The agent gulped. Despite knowing that her command was illegal, despite knowing that he would be held accountable for his actions, despite being thirty-eight years old, he was too terrified to defy the woman's show of authority. He looked from his superior, who was glaring at him and wagging her finger, to Langdon, who was talking at length about the importance of civilian authority over police and military forces. He turned to Langdon and shot him in the middle of his exposition on the Posse Comitatus Act.

And his chest.

Langdon felt the impact before he heard the sound. His eyes flew open as his knees turned to water. As he sank to the ground he clutched his heart and whispered softly. "It was passed in 1878 and generally prohibited military personnel from acting in a law enforcement capacity within the United States, except where, where"--he drew a shuddering breath—-"where expressly authorized by the Constitution or Congress."

He collapsed just as Crystaluria picked him up in a fireman's carry and ran off.

* * *

Pale and wan, Langdon lay in a large room in Buckingham Palace. The walls were lined with brooms, vacuum cleaners, Ostrich-feather dusters and the like. Clearly this was a broom closet situated to serve a large, central portion of the palace. Each wall sported at least one door. In the center of the room was a bottomless pit where workers could sweep dust and nobles could rid themselves of pesky rivals.

Crystaluria patted Langdon's hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he whispered, pulling a shattered paperback copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code from his breast pocket. A .40 caliber hollow point bullet had penetrated the cover and wedged itself between page 414, where the female lead describes a gross-out sex ritual between her grandparents, and page 579, where she learns she's the direct descendent of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene.

Crystaluria's mouth fell open. "I can't believe it."

"Yes, it's not only unsupported by any shred of proof, but it's also ridiculous and sacrilegious."

"No, I mean that the book saved your life."

"It's not unprecedented," Langdon answered. "In 2005, accountant Helen Kelly escaped death when the underwire of her Wonderbra deflected a bullet during a shooting outside London's Barbican Centre. In 2010, Californian Lydia Carranza's life was saved when her size D breast implants stopped a bullet that was aimed straight at her heart." Langdon struggled to continue. Although the bullet had been stopped, his chest was badly bruised. "And there is the oft-told tale of the formidable Mrs. Watts," he rasped, closing his eyes. "Her life was saved when her steel-boned corset deflected a Comanche arrow during the Battle of Plum Creek in 1840."

"Shhh," Crystaluria said softly. "We need to think about how to save D'Artagnan."

Langdon weakly scrabbled through the pockets of his trusty Harris Tweed jacket. "Here," he said, reverently pulling out the plain brown paper sack D'Artagnan had entrusted to him the last time they had seen each other. It contained a bottle. The label had been damaged; one letter was obscured and the end was torn away, but it was partially readable:

S A N G R A

They stared at the bottle.

"Ahh," Langdon said smugly, after a moment. "This sounds simple enough. Clearly this bottle is the Holy Grail. Sang means blood, and real means royal. So this is the Blood Royal or the Holy Grail." Langdon smiled and weakly polished his fingernails against his lapels. "I know all about the Holy Grail."

"There is something, however, you haven't noticed," Crystaluria interjected, pulling a curious bronze object from the bag. It was about an inch and a half in diameter, decorated with abstract designs and shaped like a shallow bowl. At the bottom of the bowl was a loop of elastic. Crystaluria slipped her fingertip through the loop and waggled it.

Langdon stared at the curious artifact and tried to think of some trivia.

"Recently," Crystaluria continued, "my brother has become interested in Middle Eastern artifacts. I think the label on the bottle is a red herring. I think it might contain a-–"

"--Genie," a harsh voice concluded. Anta Ghati grabbed the bottle, bag and tiny bowl and disappeared. Langdon took a running step after him, but faltered. He was still disoriented from being shot at and wasn't sure in which direction the man had fled.

"Look!" Crystaluria shouted, pointing. "We can follow him using this!"

"What?" Langdon asked, whipping his head around. "Do you have a special device to follow his heat signature? Did you attach an RFID beacon to him? Did you notice that he emits radiation?" He patted his pockets. "I have a Geiger counter around here somewhere. Did he--" Then he stopped and stared at the floor. The evil interloper, still disguised as a baker, had left behind a trail of bread crumbs. "What a convenient development," Langdon mused. Then he looked at their surroundings, at the wall of brooms. "But if he's left behind a trail of crumbs and we're in the broom closet..."

Suddenly, every door opened and a fleet of uniformed domestic staff rushed in and grabbed brooms. Langdon and Crystaluria's pursuit was blocked momentarily. When the servants left (as quickly and efficiently as they had arrived), the trail was gone, swept up in their aftermath. Langdon cursed in frustration as Patricia Snidely walked in and cornered him. She started jabbing him in the chest again.

"That bottle of yours is a matter of national security and you will help me decipher its secrets. Do you hear me? You will help me, or I will--"

He tossed her into the bottomless pit.

* * *

Langdon and Crystaluria ran out of the broom closet just in time to see coattails disappearing around a corner. They were right behind Anta Ghati. They chased him over rooftops, into curio shops, out of opium dens, past 221B Baker's Street, and basically through every single London cliché. Finally they wound up in a low-rent shopping district.

Crystaluria lurched to a stop, staring around at a garish little mall. "I know this place," she said. "I think my brother owns it."

"He owns this?" Langdon panted, catching up to her.

"Yes, this is definitely my brother's strip mall." It was a long row of brightly-lit businesses with a large and full parking lot. "It's an assortment of gentlemen's clubs with different themes. He calls this his Strip Strip Mall," Crystaluria said, pointing. "See? There's the coffee shop, Star Butts. Oh! There's the animal-themed club, The Dancing Bare." She stood on her tiptoes and bounced a little, peering into the distance. "And, look, the lunch stand, Snacks and Racks, and--."

She broke off as D'Artagnan himself ducked his head out of the door of the belly-dancing-themed Ali Hubba Hubba. "There you are!" he cried jovially. Anta Ghati was furiously rubbing the stolen bottle and exhorting a genie to appear as D'Artagnan held him roughly in a one-handed head lock.

"Are you alright?" Langdon asked. Crystaluria ran to her brother and gave him a hug.

"I'm just fine, folks," D'Artagnan replied. He wrested the bottle from Anta Ghati, clumsily poured some of liquid into an ice-filled, lemon-garnished glass, and offered it to Langdon.

Langdon took the glass with a trembling hand and brought it to his lips while D'Artagnan plucked the tiny bronze bowl from Anta Ghati's finger and tossed it to one of his strippers. She was dressed in colorful, scanty veils and jingling bells. "Thanks, D'Artagnan, I was looking for this." She attached it to her finger and chimed it against its mate. "My last cymbal!"

"But where were you?" Crystaluria cried, staring at her brother. "Anta Ghati said he was holding you prisoner!"

"Prisoner? Hardly, I was just drinking sangria"--he winked at Langdon--"in my old-man-themed dominatrix club, The Curmudgeons' Dungeon."

Langdon looked at his glass, took another sip and sighed. "Well, I guess the mystery is solved," he said.

"And what about this guy?" D'Artagnan asked, shaking Anta Ghati by the back of his collar. "What should we do about him?"

"I think he needs to talk to Agent Snidely of the CIA," Crystaluria answered. She took Langdon's hand and smiled up at him. "We'll drop him off."

____________________
You might also like The Veni Vidi Vici Code

Short Story: Tarzan's Rule

2011-03-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

Uglug looked up dumbly as the giant Ape man towered over him. Tarzan put his foot on Uglug chest and uttered the fearsome call of the triumphant bull ape.

A ring of savage hunters surrounded the two men. No one in the tribe had ever year such a terrible sound come from a human mouth. The jungle grew quiet. Then, slowly, in whispers and then louder and louder the tribe began to chant. "Kill him! Kill him! Hail our new chief. Kill Uglug!"

"Silence!" the ape-man shouted, then he spoke into the silence. "Is it indeed your custom that chiefs are chosen through mortal combat?"

"Yes," La, the priestess said. "Whoever kills the ruling chief becomes chief in his stead. You must kill Uglug now and rule us."

"It would be an honor to rule such a great and noble tribe," Tarzan replied, "but I did not seek to rule you. I came in friendship, and when Uglug attacked me, I did but defend myself."

Tarzan removed his foot from Uglug chest and Uglug heaved himself onto his elbows. "I did not know you were Tarzan of the Apes," Uglug panted. "I sought to protect my people. Now I see that I have done wrong. My life is in your hands."

"I don't wish to kill you," Tarzan replied, then he turned to the tribe. "I do not wish to kill him. He is a valiant leader, and I cannot be your leader for I am already the leader of the Waziri and I must return to my home."

"But you bested him!" someone shouted. "If any man can best Uglug, then he does not deserve to be chief!"

"Have any of you bested him?" Tarzan asked. The tribesmen grumbled.

"Few have attempted to wrest power from Uglug," La replied, "for he is known to be the strongest of us by far. Uglug defeated all who tried. And if there have been few attempts, it is not only because Uglug's strength insured defeat. He has also ruled us well. He inspired loyalty through his courage and wisdom, and he has protected us and provided for us. In all the long ages of our tribe, he has been our greatest chief."

"Then I will spare him, and by my will he shall remain your chief, for one can still say that no man has bested him, for I am no man. I am Tarzan of the Apes."

"No, Great Tarzan," La replied. "It is our law that he must die."

"And is it not also your law that the word of your chief is law?"

The crowded murmured. "Yes," La admitted.

"And am I not your chief?" Tarzan asked.

"Yes," La admitted, and the spectators drew in their breath in wonder.

"Then if it is the law that my will must be obeyed, then it is the law that Uglug should live. And if it be is also the law that Uglug must die, then a law must be broken for the good for the tribe."

The tribe sighed in approbation of this deft syllogism. This indeed was a day of days.

"Yes, a law must be broken," La said slowly. Then, wuick as a flash, she bent over Uglug and buried a knife in his heart. Without rising, she murmured, "Hail to our new chief!"

-------------------------------------------------

You might also like "The Other Other White Meat"

Short Story: The OTHER "Other White Meat"

2011-02-23T20:26:00.000-08:00

The Other Other White Meat

The warriors were surprised when the European did not resist. Foundering in the jungle as he was, lost and alone, they still expected that he might fight when they rushed him, but instead he welcomed them as long lost friends.

The strange reaction disconcerted them, for they knew of another ghastly creature much like him, with the same revolting pale skin and uncanny light eyes. Both men were tall and very large, although the other man's size was due to his great mass of steel-like muscles, while this man, though of the same size, was of a different shape and jiggled. Still, could they be brethren? The other creature, the mighty Tarzan, was not one to cross. Almost, they decided to let the pale soft creature go. They turned from him.

"Tut, tut, old chum," he called. "Where are you going?"

The men turned back in surprise. Never had they heard an outsider address them in their own language. Surely a man who resembled the great Tarzan and who mysteriously spoke the language of tribe could have refuge and protection among them before he was returned, unharmed, to the nearest colonial settlement. Unfortunately, by a stroke of malignant fortune, "Tutut oll d'jum" was the deepest insult a person could say in their ancient tongue.

Screaming, they gathered the man up, and carried him on their shoulders to their village.

* * *

For his part, the Honorable Horace P. Whittaker III was surprised and pleased by the native's reception. They seemed unfriendly at first, and then seemed as if they were going to ignore him, but when he admonished them with a chiding remark, the chaps remembered themselves. In fact, they gave him a hero's welcome, carrying him triumphantly upon the shoulders of the cheering natives.

The Honorable Horace P. Whittaker III was carried past the bristling stockade that surrounded the village and protected it from wild animals and set before the great chief.

"I say, old man, jolly good of your people to rescue me," Horace said, along with many other friendly greetings as the chief looked at him impassively. Almost, Horace began to doubt his welcome, but then he saw the women hurrying to bring water and build a fire, obviously preparing for a feast in his honor. One venerable old woman came up to him and looked at him appraisingly. Then she returned to the fire and yelled at the younger women who, seemingly chagrined, glanced furtively at Horace and took away the huge cooking pot and replaced it with a larger one.

Horace turned back to the chief. Although the man was glaring at him, silent and seemingly incensed, was not the great feast proof of the simple primitives' good intentions? And now Horace perceived the chief's expression softening. Horace smiled his most ingratiating smile.

* * *

The chief stared at the babbling man with great anger. How dare he insult his men? Tutut oll d'jum, indeed. Would the man insult him? He hoped he would; he would enjoy killing him himself. But as the man jabbered and no insults came, the chief's mood softened. Perhaps his men were mistaken. This ignorant fool did not speak the tribe's language. Maybe it would be best to send him on his way unharmed. Then the man astonished the chief by looking at the women preparing to boil him alive and smiling! That settled it. The man was obviously an idiot, probably diseased. He should be taken far away, immediately.

The chief signaled to his attendants. He bade his warriors pick up the man and take him back to his own people.

* * *

Horace was disappointed when the warriors began to lead him to the gate of the village. The chief accompanied him. Somehow, Horace seemed to understand that he was going to be led back to civilization. He was glad, but when he saw the village women putting away their cooking pots and looking wistfully at him, his chivalrous heart was moved.

He appealed to the chief, chiding him for disappointing the women. "Tut tut," he said, "old chum."

________________________
You might also like "Tarzan's Rule"

I wrote this little story after reading four wonderful Tarzan books on Kindle. What wonderful adventures. Edgar Rice Burroughs never misses a chance to make upper-crust Europeans look like dingbats. I especially enjoyed my reading experience because I have a wonderful hand-made protective hard Kindle case. Would you like one too? Visit me at chrishugh.etsy.com and it shall be yours!

100-word short story: Dirty Angel

2011-02-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

Dirty Angel

It was wrong, but he had to see her. His dirty angel, so cold, so young and old. She lay waiting for him, never speaking and he couldn't get her out of his mind. At last he resolved to uncover all her secrets, toss aside all the dirt that separated them, see her face at last.

He chose a cold night, with the moon just a sliver and fog coming up off the ground. He stared at the marble angel that marked where she slept. It was weathered by the years, dirty and neglected. Then he picked up his shovel.

"Diseased Imaginings" is coming out soon

2011-02-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

Here's what I'm thinking of using for the cover art:

A broad selection of milk-squirtingly funny stories, from the Bride of Frankenstein demolishing the set of Dancing with the Stars to cats who barf and save their owners' love lives. Over forty stories, many of them never published before. 67,000 words.

A true story

2011-02-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

So my mother and I are walking down University Avenue in downtown. We leave the Apple Store and go to the AT&T store across the street.

"I really miss Palo Alto," Mom says. "There are so many businesses here, you can get anything." She moved away a few years ago after she retired. I'm not that familiar with her new town.

We walk along for a bit.

"Wait a second," I say. "You have a cell phone store in Fairfield. I remember watching the shootout on YouTube." http://www.acmebail.com/blog/index.php/2010/08/19/bail-hearing-for-cell-phone-store-robbers

383-word short story: Sleep

2011-02-02T15:10:00.000-08:00

Sleep

The water woke her again.

The sleeping pills were a poison that had done something to her mind. Deep depression and panic attacks that seemed to literally clutch her heart. Maybe it had done something more, too.

So the quit them. For the first 72 hours, she couldn't sleep at all although she tried. Then her depression went away but was replaced by a morbid fear of the death she had so recently longed for.

Endless nights, endless days, endless thoughts. Too many thoughts.

Now she didn't want to sleep. It seemed too close to death, but it was so hard not to. She fell in the water again. It took her longer to come back.

Thoughts about death.

I'm not the same woman I was an hour ago, she thought. I learn and think and change every second. Time has moved on never to turn back. The Earth has moved thousands of miles in its course around the sun, the solar system millions of miles in its course around the galaxy.

So is the woman of one hour ago dead?

Am I dead?

Her sleepiness scattered like foggy shreds and she became fully alert. It hurt. She relaxed and the sleepiness flooded back. No, it's the continuity, she reminded herself. Life is continuity. Sleep interrupts that continuity because consciousness leaves the body. When I go to sleep I die. When I wake up, I'm a new person, come to life for the first time. A new person with the same body and the same memories, but a new consciousness, because when I sleep I die. I don't want to die, but when I sleep I die. I don't want to die, but when I sleep…

She woke up coughing and choking.

Scientists study sleep deprivation in rats by the disk-over-water method. A rat is placed on a raised platform in a bucket of water. It can rest on the platform, but if it sleeps, it falls in the water and awakens.

She had a pool. She made a platform.

More days and nights.

If I fall asleep, I'll drown, she thought, But it's okay. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. To sleep was to die anyway. Death was sleep. Sleep was death. Sleep....

She lasted nine days on the platform.

Then she slept.

Short story parody: The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo

2011-01-28T19:42:00.000-08:00

The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo

"Many years ago," the Dragon said. "My niece Harriet disappeared. I believe she was the victim of a brutal rape-murder described in loving and lingering detail."

"Mmm, how nice," Mikvail Kvistkvist replied, distracted by thoughts about whom he was going to hook up with next and where he was going to get his next fix of sandwiches and coffee.

"My poor, poor niece," the Dragon continued, puffing out a sad puff of smoke. "She was so artistic."

"Did you say autistic?" Mikvail perked up. "Autism is really hot right now. Did you know that every single autistic person is high functioning, able to earn a big salary and is a genius with an instinctive knowledge of high technology?"

"Of course I know that. I've watched Rainman. But I said my niece was artistic, not autistic. Look at these pretty pressed flowers she made for me." The Dragon gestured to a wall decorated with framed, pressed lilies, daisies and petunias.

"Oh, nice," Kvistkvist replied. "Those flowers represent your niece's youth, beauty and innocence and will certainly transform her into something other than a cardboard McGuffin."

"McGuffin?"

"It's a plot device. Traditionally, it's something that everyone in the story cares about but that the audience doesn't. So, those are nice flowers that Hermione --"

" Harriet--" the Dragon corrected.

"-- whatever, made, but I'm more interested the framed, pressed corpses along your other three walls."

A score of dissected and plasticized human corpses was displayed in huge picture frames about the mansion's large library. A tear slid down the Dragon's cheek and vaporized into steam. "Ever since Harriet disappeared, one of these has arrived every year on my birthday. I think the murderer does it to torment me. I want to hire you to solve the murder of my niece."

"Well, I'm going to be pretty busy in a little while." Kvistkvist shuffled his feet. "I might not have time."

"I know," the Dragon replied. "I've studied your career with interest. I realize that you have been convicted of publishing information about someone that was so inaccurate and defamatory that you now have to spend three months in a Swedish jail for libel. Thus I have so much confidence in your research ability that I want to pay you a million Swedish units of currency to investigate the murder of the only person in my God-forsaken family that I ever cared about."

"Well, that sounds believable," Kvistkvist replied. "I trust it is equally believable that although my reputation is in ruins and I'm without a job, I'm still going to dick around with you about whether I'm going to take the job or not."

"Understood. This certainly does make things suspenseful. While you're deciding, let me tell you about my relatives. There are eight-hundred-fifty-nine of them, all named Vander. One of them, Vander, was particularly bad. He was a Nazi sympathizer."

The Dragon thought to himself that he was glad he could describe that relative as a Nazi, since this saved him the trouble of having to flesh out the character and show that he was evil. Telling Kvistkvist that he was evil was much less trouble than showing it.

Kvistkvist thought to himself that this could be an important clue. One of the relatives was a Nazi; I bet his descendents were evil too. "What was his name, again?"

"Vander."

Oh good, Kvistkvist thought. That will be easy to remember.

The Dragon continued. "All the suspects in this case live here with me on this isolated island, and on the day of the disappearance, the sole bridge leading to the island was blocked. Therefore, I know that the murderer was one of the people here at that time."

"Wow," Kvistkvist said. "That's just like an old-fashioned locked room mystery. Except it's an island, not a locked room, so it doesn't seemed contrived at all."

"Well, just watch out when you look at the old pictures of that day that you don't mistake my niece for her friend that looked exactly like her."

"I will be careful," Kvistkvist replied. "A case of mistaken identity like that would indeed strain credibility."

"So, are you going to take the case?" the Dragon asked.

"Well, okay," Kvistkvist said with feigned reluctance. "I just hope I don't end up having to rehash a series of old rape-murders with mysterious Biblical overtones. Although I'm a modern European who delights in trashing everything religious and embraces nihilism, it would be just awful if I had to indulge in protracted, voluptuous descriptions of torture, incest and murder." He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. "Just awful."

"Shall we have sandwiches and coffee to celebrate?"

Kvistkvist was sorely tempted, but other needs drove him. "No, I must go be promiscuous now. It shows I'm a modern, attractive man, unfettered by outmoded morality. I'll take a sip of coffee though." He washed down a Valtrex with it.

"Okay, son. Be back soon to start investigating. And make sure whoever you have casual sex with doesn’t fall deeply in love with you."

"I can't help it. As you can tell by now, I'm just that lovable."

* * *

Kvistkvist walked down the path to his car. He unlocked the door and entered the car and then closed the door again before starting the engine and driving away.

* * *

Kvistkvist teamed up with a retarded sidekick named Salamander.

* * *

Incredibly, their investigation led them to scores of rape-torture-incest murders across the Swedish countryside. It was a veritable smörgåsbord of sexual perversion. Kvistkvist and Salamander discussed the horrible crimes at length in vivid detail and looked at many gruesome photos. One of the milder photos depicted an eviscerated corpse. Next to the body lay its desiccated entrails, twisted into a strange pattern. It reminded Salamander of a painful incident from her past. Because of her mental affliction, she had a court-appointed conservator to manage her finances. Her good conservator died and was tragically replaced by a bad one. He was evil and sadistic and did not take his duties seriously. One evening, she went to his office to request some of her own money to buy a computer, and he touched her breast. Although she was retarded, she did have human awareness, so she said, "that's bad touching," and he stopped.

Then she tortured him, tattooed him, gutted him and made balloon animals out of his large intestines.

Salamander pointed to the coiled intestines in the photo. "If you blew air into that, it would look like a kangaroo!" she said happily and clapped.

"Wow, you have hit the nail on the head," Kvistkvist said, along with many other clichés.

Meanwhile, time was running out as other meaningless plot threads raced to their conclusion. Kvistkvist and Salamander hurried through the rest of the photos, identifying numerous poisonous snakes and a bear, possibly a koala. Kvistkvist flew to Australia and suddenly found the missing niece. She wasn't dead at all: she had run away! It was so surprising.

* * *

The Dragon was very happy to see his niece again. "I'm so happy to see you. I care about you a lot," he said. "Not enough to have noticed that when you lived near me you were being subjected to mind-bogglingly terrible crimes, but you know, whatever. I'm happy you're back now. Especially since I suddenly need someone to run my huge multinational family-owned business."

"Well, luckily, despite being a traumatized runaway in a foreign country, I was able to build a huge corporation of my own in Australia, so I should be able to step right in as CEO."

The Dragon's eyes strayed to the collection of corpses. "But who has been sending me these all these years?"

"I sent them, to let you know I was okay. Since for some reason it would have been impossible for me to send you a postcard or other clear message, I sent you my artwork with the expectation that you would be psychic and understand its meaning."

"In twenty long years I never figured that out."

"I'm sorry you were tormented by decades of what seemed like morbid stalking. But at least the artwork served as a cheap device to create reader interest."

"Well, it all worked out for the best, then," he said, looking about the library. "And not only a cheap device, a metaphor as well. Note the shock value, the fact that no artistic skill was employed, the lack of respect for the value of human life, the exploitation of violence for entertainment, and the defiance of religious principle." The Dragon looked anew at the ghoulish display of pointless ugliness among his books. "How could I have missed that this was art?"

Short Story: Blondhilda and the Holiday That Dare Not Speak Its Name

2011-01-27T16:31:00.000-08:00

This is a real licensed Sanrio product

Since Blondhilda and Hello Sailor were new to American society, Stanley Chester Brown decided to spend Saturday taking them to America's cultural hub, the place where people of all ages gather, the private commercial area that has taken over the role of the town square as a place where people congregate, a place of such importance that the Supreme Court of the United States has recognized that the property rights of its owners do not outweigh the right of political activists to exercise their free speech there.

They went to the mall.

As Hello Sailor and Stanley visited the new Hello Sailor store, selling a selection of Hello Sailor erasers, toasters, schoolbags, and much other licensed products including a tapered, cylindrical Hello Sailor "shoulder massager", Blondhilda wandered through the rest of the mall. Although she did not see any rousing exhibitions of the democratic process in action, she saw many stores urgently decorated in anticipation of an upcoming festival. Her curiosity was piqued and when she passed an electronics store that had had its big screen TV in the window for the last year, she had an idea. Stanley did not own such a device, but she had seen such things by and by and knew them to be repositories of cultural knowledge. She touched it with her Sword of Data Transference and her fantastic intellect instantly absorbed and integrated everything related to the festival that the TV had ever displayed.

* * *

The next morning, Blondhilda was up before Stanley Chester Brown. He found her in the kitchen of their great home, sitting at the carved oak table, framed by the arch of the rustic Italian-esque kitchen hearth.

"What are you doing?" Stanley cried.

The table was bedecked with pies, cakes and cookies of every description, stollen, fruitcake and plum pudding as well as a country ham, and Blondhilda's appearance was vastly altered. The character of her great beauty, once that of a powerful warrior, had changed to a beauty of extreme softness and bounty. Overnight she had gained over one hundred pounds of luxuriant flesh.

"What are you doing?" Stanley repeated.

Blondhilda looked up, startled. Then she rose from her chair (discreetly resting her hand on the table to help herself) and embraced Stanley.

Pleased and proud, she answered him. "I'm getting ready for the great festival of Happy Holidays!"

Stanley stepped back, highly confused, for the goddess was wearing a red bodysuit, red plastic horns on her head, and carried a pitchfork.

"Why?" he cried, staring at what appeared to be a functional red tail peeking out from under the back of her skirt.

"When I was at the mall, my dear Stanley, I learned about Happy Holidays from the stores and from the media images on the television. I wear this garb to honor Old Nick, also known as Satan, who is worshipped during the Holiday That Dare Not Speak Its Name."

Stanley Chester Brown considered this for a long minute. Finally he said, "Blondhilda, could you mean Saint Nick rather than Old Nick and Santa rather than Satan?"

"Probably," she replied merrily.

"So you were Christmas shopping yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And you learned about Christmas from the stores at the mall and from television?"

"Yes," she said, shifting uncomfortably at his repeated use of the term "Christmas".

"Well," Stanley said, "that explains why we needed a panel truck to bring your purchases home yesterday. And it explains why we're having this episode in August...And it explains why you seem to think 'Christmas' is a dirty word. It's not, you know."

"But I learned from the television that it is, Stanley. If you wish people 'Merry Christmas' they have a right to be offended because it's wrong to give someone a friendly greeting or wish them joy unless you do it in exactly the right way. If you don't, they get angry. That's called 'tolerance'!"

"Blondhilda, people don't really think that way. 'Merry Christmas' doesn't really offend anyone."

"Yes, Stanley, if you say so." She sat down heavily, took a sip of eggnog and served herself another piece of pumpkin pie. "I will now resume my worship of the fat man in the red suit. We Americans worship him by buying, eating and exchanging colorful mixtures of fat, flour and sugar. Thus we transform ourselves into his image. I'd always heard that Americans were a highly religious people, and at the mall (although not on the television) I observed that we are devout indeed. Look, Stanley," she said, pointing to the hearth behind her. "I removed the flue and spark arrester from the chimney, thus facilitating Santa's entry and exit on Christmas Eve. He certainly must be a god of great power, for according to my calculations, even taking into account that due to the Earth's rotation he has twenty-four hours make his deliveries, still he will have to fly his sled at an average speed of 864,324 miles per hour--"

"--Blondhilda," Stanley tried to say.

"--I think there must be some mistake about his workshop being at the North Pole, though," Blondhilda continued. "China seems a more likely location."

"Blondhilda, stop," Stanley said.

Blondhilda looked at him.

"None of what you see on television is reality. You can't get true knowledge from television. I think you should disregard everything you saw on it."

Blondhilda closed her eyes momentarily. Her formidable mind retained the memory of the television download, but using iron discipline, she quickly erased its every influence on her beliefs and attitudes.

She sighed.

"I think I just gained back fifty IQ points."

Stanley smiled and kissed her. Then he looked her up and down. "You can change back now, if you like."

Blondhilda touched her Sword of Diet and Exercise.

"I'd like to take you somewhere," Stanley said.

* * *

Blondhilda went to their bedroom and changed into ordinary attire while Stanley warmed up the car. As Stanley opened the door of the Bentley for Blondhilda, he looked from his sprawling mansion to his wife, now restored to her usual lithe but voluptuous physique. "You know," he said, "if we ever run out of money, we could probably make a quick billion or two with that sword of yours."

Blondhilda smiled.

They drove to church.

The Game is a Foot

2011-01-22T08:49:00.001-08:00

Cat: Too slow, human. Check, but not checkmate. I evade the broom she gracelessly sweeps under the bed, shoot between her legs and scuttle into her office. Fewer places to hide, but speed and cunning will win. No! She opens a plastic bag--the sound is an anathema. She expects me to flee to the bathroom where she will follow me, shut the door, wrap me in a towel and abduct me. Guess again, human! I jump to the top of a cabinet. The game continues.

Human: I just want to take you to the vet for your annual checkup.

Drabble: Fighting for Love

2011-01-19T10:53:00.000-08:00

Fighting for Love

It was Snowbubbles who drew first blood, his head filled with the sweet scent and sensuous cries of Miss Fluffy, the feline queen of the neighborhood, now in heat. Graymalkin, his wounded ear unheeded, arched his back and spat, but he did not yield. This was a fight, to death if need be, to decide who would take Miss Fluffykins as his bride. Honor and valor would decide.

Hissing, Graymalkin advanced. The rivals waded into battle again, the outside world forgotten, warriors’ minds focused on each other and on the sacred goal. They fought on.

Meanwhile Twitch mated with Fluffy.

Chapter 12: Helen refuses to talk to police, gets a new kitten

2011-01-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

If you're ever wondered how a book gets written, here is your chance to watch it happen. I'm a published fiction and non-fiction writer, but this is my first novel. I'm writing it right here, on the the web. This is the first draft, I expect there will be three drafts before it's ready for submission. It is a humorous, absurdist cozy mystery narrated by a cat. It's the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery.

Chapter 11

The animal which the Egyptians worshipped as divine, which the Romans enerated as a symbol of liberty... has displayed to all ages two closely blended characteristics - courage and self-respect. - Saki.

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. " - Mark Twain

A police investigator came to the house and told the family that the lawyer did not die from the fall, that he was killed by poison mixed with chocolate. He asked to search the house for chocolate and was refused. Helen said that she didn't keep any in the house.

"We'd like to search the house anyway, ma'am. You never know."

"The only way you'll search this house is if you have a warrant," Helen replied.

The officer had to admit he didn't have a warrant. The requirement of a warrant and the prohibition against "general warrants" (warrants to come in and search for just any old thing) is a much maligned requirement of a free society. The officer seemed to hate it with a passion. He must have been either a Democrat or a Republican.

He glared at her balefully. He seemed to wish he were wearing mirrored sunglasses so that he could tap them, but it was midmorning in November and the front porch was shaded, so he wasn't wearing sunglasses. "Ma'am, it's my experience that only criminals stand on their 4th Amendment rights."

"Really? There's no one else who does not want strangers invading their home?"

"Ma'am, if you'd been in Desert Storm as I was, you'd be more careful about using the term 'invasion'. In any case, I'll need to speak to everyone in the household. Would you kindly have them come to the door?"

"No."

"No?" He made an extra effort to look surprised, although he knew perfectly well that government agents were not entitled to have their every whim obeyed by citizens. It was a request, and Helen had every right to refuse it.

"In that case, I'll ask you a few questions now."

"I'm not answering any questions," Helen replied.

"Why not?" he asked. "Do you have something to hide?"

That was actually a question, and since Helen had already said she wasn't going to answer any, she said nothing.

"I'll want to talk to each member of this family. Kindly get them."

"No one in this family will talk to police."

This time the officer was so genuinely surprised, his eyebrows seemed to want to disappear into his receding hairline. He leaned on the officiousness throttle. "If each member of your family has decided, as you have, to shield the guilty and shirk their responsibility as innocent law abiding citizens to submit to the whims of law enforcement, then I'll need to hear that in person from each of them."

"You are free to do so. But you'll have to get in touch with them yourself. I'm asking you to leave. You have no right to be here. If you remain, you'll be trespassing."

The officer started to steam, very slightly.

"Kindly leave, or I will make a citizen's arrest for trespassing," Helen continued. "And you will, under [look it up] be required by law to right up the citation, although I expect you'll decline to take yourself into custody."

The cop made a sudden move; I suppose he was trying to scare Helen into thinking he was going to shoot her. But he simply took a business card from his pocket and held it out to Helen. "May I ask that you take my card and give it to your family? You don't have to take the card if you don't want to," he said with exaggerated courtesy. "This is just a polite request."

Helen took the card. "Thank you."

The officer nodded curtly and left.

Helen went back into the house and walked into the living room.

* * *

The entire family was there waiting for her. Apparently, they'd been listening in on the intercom. Elliot and Brooks had recorded the entire conversation and taken reaction shots of the family.

"Are you sure there are not chocolates in the house?" Peacock asked.

"Well, you all know I'm trying to lose weight and since I'm the only person here with a sweet tooth, remember you all kindly decided to refrain from bringing sweets into the house," Helen said.

"But did we all comply with that?" Peacock pressed. He gave Madeline a worried look. She was either a consumate liar or so self-obsessed that she had forgotten about the chocolates in the morning room. Perhaps both.

Margaret turned to Kath£€€ [I might change her name to Cha-Ching, using the cent symbol for the c's]. "You don't have any chocolate, do you?"

"No," she replied. I knew she didn't. Amphetamines and Valium, yes. Chocolate, no. "Anyway, even if I did. It woudn't matter," she said. "I came here after the lawyer was poisoned." She's quite a bit smarter than she seems.

"So, why don't we want to talk to police?" Madeline asked. "There isn't any reason not to, is there?"

"No, there isn't," Helen said. "But there isn't any reason to talk to them either. I know I didn't kill anyone and I don't know anything about it. So there's no reason to talk to me. They'll make up their own minds anyway."

"There was no reason for them to ask to search the house," Peacock added. "That chocolate could have come from anywhere. I mean, it was Halloween, for heaven's sake."

* * *

Elliot and Brooks went into town. "Well, I think it's good to maintain good relations with local authorities," Brooks said, meaning that he wanted to get some footage at the police station. Plus, we should get a media release from the cop.

"Plus we don't have anything to hide," Elliot added.

"And, uh," Brooks said. He and Elliot traded looks. "We have another place to visit in town too. Elliot looked at me and smirked.

"Are you going to get in trouble for recording him without notifiying him?" Crystal asked.

"No," Helen broke in. "Since one person being recorded was a law enforcement officer, it wasn't necessary. [Explain this more and have Helen rant a bit about how the law was intended to help police act against citizens. I need to portray Helen in the earlier chapters in such a way that this sudden Libertarianism doesn't seem out of character.]

* * *

I was proud of Helen. That woman has certainly fortified her backbone since our relations have been repaired. She exhibited a cat-like love of liberty and disdain for officious authority. Unfortunately, when her fortitude met its most important test, it failed her. Our house was about to be visited with its worst misfortune. We'd had vicious murder in the home and lost a well-respected and intelligent member of society. Also a lawyer dressed as a clown had been killed.

Elliot and Brooks came back. Elliot was filming and Brooks came up to Helen. He was carrying something in his pocket. I knew exactly what it was.

"Helen, I know you've been upset by recent events and we know about your love of cats and your wish to help our feline friends," Brooks said.

"Well..."

He held out a hateful little ginger kitten.

Helen took a step back, eyes locked on the kitten. I could tell she conflicted. "Well, my Mr. Kitten likes being an only cat. I just don't know about this."

"It's okay," Brooks shrugged. "I guess we can take him back to the pound. He still has a few more days. Maybe someone else will adopt him."

Helen looked at him questioningly and Brooks gave Helen a piece of paper that he'd had ready.

"This was on his cage," he said.

Helen looked at it. It said, "Male stray. Intake date: November 2. Destruction date: November 7."

Elliot went in for a close-up of the tag, and then a close-up on Helen. Her face was wrung with pity and she wavered.

"Look," Brooks said. He held up the kitten and showed that the vile thing was even wearing one of Helen's collars.

I hissed.

If only Winston Churchill were still with us, he might have found the right words. Never, never, never surrender.

She surrendered.