The Fast Food Wars

Randy Beechman looked every inch the Westside Regional Director for McDonalds that he was. His belly swelled in direct proportion to the shrinking of his hairline. His arms were round and beefy, capable of hefting a fifty-pound bag of frozen fries and yet wobbling if you poked them like so much jell-o squeezed into the shape of a bicep. Even his clothes spoke to his job: button-up white short sleeved dress shirt with the red-and-yellow of the company colors on his tie. His pants were black, polyester, and roomy even on his bulk. His belt was cinched tight around his ample waist, pouches and pockets holding the gear of his profession in easy reach.

The day was warm, and Randy pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket to mop at his brow for the fifth time. The air conditioning was bombed out, and it was summer in Los Angeles. Or as he liked to think of it: the pit of Hell.

The door chime beeped, and from his seat behind the manager’s desk, Randy could see that pimply-faced teen cashier (What was her name? Oh yeah, Angela) look up from behind the counter. She gasped, then turned towards Randy’s door and nodded. “It’s them, sir,” she said in her whiny, nasal voice.

Randy returned the nod and hoisted himself to his feet. “Them,” would be Phillip, the manager for this particular store, and a couple of the burger jockeys. Randy poked his head out of the door, checking to make sure the coast was clear, then he stepped out fully and his eyes sought Phillip. At first, he couldn’t see the man, only the two minimum-wage burger flippers. He hadn’t bothered to learn their names, and mentally he just called them “the white teen” and “the latino teen.”

Randy started to frown, to ask them where Phillip was, when the burger jockeys shifted and he spotted the manager. He was laying on one of the larger ‘family style’ tables. He wasn’t moving. His face, what there was left of it, was frozen in a rictus of pain. The rest of it was clearly the source of the pain. Randy was no doctor, but he’d seen enough casualties in his life. That was a third degree oil burn over 72% of Phillip’s face.

“What happened?”

The two burger nukers looked at each other. The latino one spoke. “You were right sir, KFC is having a sale on chicken nuggets, $.10 less than us for a 10-piece. We did it by the textbook: Tim and I,” he gestured at the white teen, “we flanked Phil while he went from car to car on approach. We never saw it sir. We never saw it.” The skinny boy began to blubber, so Randy turned his attention to the other one, Tim.

“What happened?” Randy repeated.

Tim cleared his throat, glanced at Angela, and then turned his attention back to Randy. “They has those radios for when you take drive-in orders in the parking lot, sir. Like In-n-Out does? And they had someone up on the roof, with what we assume was a spare fry cooker. We got near the door and suddenly we heard a sound from above. We looked up, and that fat bastard was dumping oil on Phil. We fired off a couple shots, then retreated. Philip stopped moaning around the time we were passing the 99 Cent Store. We figure that’s when he bit it.”

Randy was silent for a moment. Suddenly, he slammed his meaty fist on one of the tables. “Parking lot radios! I TOLD Corporate we should invest in those. No one has been able to touch In-n-Out since they started using them! Damnit!” He continued to fume for a minute or two before noticing that everyone was staring at him. He forced himself to relax, to adopt a normal tone of voice. Management Training 101. “All right. Not your fault guys. You couldn’t have known. Phillip should have been more cautious. It’s a manager’s duty to think of these things. Put your guns back in the walk-in and hang up your aprons. You have the rest of the day off.”

The two teens grinned and hurried to obey. No one likes losing a manager, but a half-day off is worth its weight in gold. They left Randy to contemplate Phillip’s body in silence while Angela hid back behind the counter. There was no doubt about it, Randy was forced to admit. The annual summer fast food wars were getting worse each year.

The Castle of the Sultan

In response to Ozlem Yikici’s Triptych Turkish Delights flash fiction challenge.

Sabiha sits primly on the edge of the couch in her room, waiting.

Two days prior, Davran and the American, Sam, are shaking hands. The bet is decided, the prize and conditions set. The of sundown two days hence, they will leave the hotel at the same time. Then, anything goes. The first one to reach Sabiha wins her hand. Listening to all of this, Sabiha wonders if she has a say in the matter. Her eyes stray to the handsome American, Sam, with his shaved face his hot, eager eyes. She needn’t look at Davran, she has known him all her life. For the first time she can remember, there is the possibility that she will not marry him. She wonders at how hard her heart is racing.

The sun has been down for half an hour. Davran made his way to the base of the cliff wall. The trees have long been cut away some six meters from the wall, giving the guards atop a clear view down. Still, the bends in the wall allow for occasional blind spots, spots Davran well knows from his days as a boy. Above him, he can hear the sounds of music and people talking. It sounds like a party.

Davran dips his hand into the bag of chalk hanging from his belt. He rubs his fingertips together, finds a grip, and begins his ascent. He has timed it carefully, knowing from long experience exactly how long it takes the guard to make a circuit. He knows the times where he will be vulnerable to detection, when he must stop and wait, clinging to the side of the wall like a tick on the ear of a goat.

The guard has passed. Davran climbs again. He smiles to himself, knowing that there is no way that the American, Sam, could possibly make this ascent at the same speed. Davran has the advantage of location knowledge, and of experience doing this exact thing. Granted, it has been over a decade and he has put on a few pounds, but the upstart American, Sam, with his shining teeth and his shaved chin, does not know the way.

Davran breathes hard at the top. The way was long and difficult, and he schools himself against looking down. He will not fall. He has done this before. The guard’s footsteps retreat, and Davran slips over the top. Now it is a simple matter of staying in the shadows, behind the trees until he reaches the house proper. There, he blends in with the serving staff as they rush too and fro delivering drinks and food and warm, damp towels to the party guests.

Sabiha’s door is in front of him, and he pushes it open in triumph. His grin fades. Sabiha sits primly on the edge of the couch in her room, waiting. And with her is the American, Sam.

Sam’s perfect white teeth gleam as he smiles at Davran. “Let me guess, you went up the wall?” He makes a vague gesture towards the rest of the house, the music and the food and the people. “I just asked Sabiha for an invitation to the party.”

Davran’s head hangs in defeat. His hand inches back to where he keeps a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

Демон

The Monster Inside saw its prey from across the playground and smiled. It began to stalk the sweet, tender morsel.

Donald saw the little angel as she jumped off the swing, the petticoat of her little frock billowing sweetly around her thighs. He licked his lips nervously, glancing around out of habit. A bad one, that, it made him look exactly like the pedophile he was. He would have to break that habbit, he told himself and not for the first time. But the girl was moving, crossing the playground and waving bye-bye to her friends. It was time to hunt.

Donald slowly stood, giving the little blond-haired moppet plenty of time to pick her direction. East, she went, and East he followed. He was careful to keep a good distance, half a block or more. Enough to keep her in sight, but not so close that he actually looked like he was following her. This technique had worked successfully six… no, seven times before. He almost forgot that one in Seattle. She had been so lovely, how could he nearly forget her?

He wondered if they had found her body yet. Not that it mattered, there was nothing to connect him to her. He picked his little playthings at random, and never near his hotel. Just like this little angel.

She turned North and he followed her. His pulse was beginning to quicken, he knew. He tried to keep himself calm. Sweaty, nervous-looking middle aged men in rain coats following little girls tended to stick out in people’s minds. He raked his thinning hair over his pattern bald spot, ordering himself to calm down. As extra insurance, he pulled out his cell phone and pretended to talk into it. Pedophiles never discussed business on phones while hunting, right? Everyone knew that.

The blonde darling skipped a few steps, and then turned and walked down a flight of stairs to the lower level of a tenement. He heard the door shut behind her. No sound of a lock being thrown, and she didn’t call out to anyone. A latch-key kid then. They were the best.

Donald glanced around to see if anyone was looking, and then followed the girl down the stairs. He eased open the door and slipped inside. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the substantially dimmer light inside. The room had clearly once been a laundry room, long since abandoned to that purpose. Graffiti covered the walls. The paint was faded and peeling. A perfect place for the hunt to end.

His little blonde angel was standing near the far wall, facing him. He smiled his most reassuring smile. “Hello little girl. Can you help me?” he edged closer.

“You can help me,” she replied. The lights dimmed and some… thing… emerged from the girl: smoke and shadow and cold, with long claws and teeth like the Reaper’s Scythe.

Donald screamed.

Angie watched impassively until the Monster Inside was done and back within her. She dipped a finger in Donald’s blood and added vertical line to the twelve already present on the wall behind her.  Her dimples appeared as she smiled.

(Week) Night of the Living Dead

In response to my own flash-fiction challenge, Sunday in the Park with Freddie.

“Hey, deadboy, isn’t it past your bedtime?”

The jeers mocked me as I shuffled down the street. I slowly turned my head to look, and as I suspected, it was Bret and his football jock buddies. They were hanging around outside the coffee shop on Main, looking all clean and neat in their letterman jackets and copious hair product. I tried to avoid looking down at myself in comparison, but it was inevitable. Old jeans with more holes than fabric, sneakers a size too small that only fit because my big toes had fallen off last summer during the school camping trip, a moldy tee shirt with faded print reading Bite Me. Yeah, I’m so ironically hip it hurts.

They knew they were safe, mocking me. They were right, it was a week night and I was late getting home. I didn’t have time to chase them down. Mom was already going to be mad at me. The only silver lining was that, since her larynx had rotted away, she has to write out her complaints. Hopefully she’ll accidentally chop off her fingers soon.

Stupid Bret and his stupid friends. Just because they still had pulses, they thought they were so special. Part of the ‘clean,’ as the living liked to style themselves. As if we could help being dirty. YOU try living your life with maggots in your nostrils and gangrene slowly eating away at your limbs and tell me how clean YOU manage to stay after a few years.

The worst part was that these jerks used to be my friends. I used to be on the team, till that damned cheerleader from Penn Hills bit me. Now, all they did wa

Still, sometimes you have to put in appearances. As they hooted and laughed at me, I turned suddenly towards them. Well, as suddenly as I could. My left leg had been feeling fairly fragile lately, I didn’t want to risk snapping an ankle. Getting to homeroom on time was hard enough as it was, I didn’t need that kind of complication.

There was no way I could possibly catch them, by myself, at my speed. Still, it was gratifying to see the smug expressions vanish as they scrambled to their feet. The table clattered over, spilling their drinks as they struggled to get clear of the roped-off dining area with the signs declaring that it was for ‘Breathers Only.’  The alarm on their faces was almost worth the price of admission as I opened my mouth wide and pantomimed biting them.

They bolted. I smiled gingerly and continued on my way home. It was a week night, and I had to study for that algebra test tomorrow.

The Windows, My Eyes

In response to Haley Whitehall’s October Flash Fiction Horror Contest.

The killer took shelter in the old, abandoned Whitehall house. The police gathered in the overgrown weeds outside to discuss an entrance plan rather than simply rushing in. After all, the killer was still armed with the knife he had used to murder his partner.

The house looked haunted and decripit in the moonlight, every window long shattered and what paint remained was colorless and dull. No one had entered the house since the last owners killed themselves twelve years ago. The police fingered their guns nervously.

Caution was thrown to the wind when someone inside the house screamed, high pitched and shrill. “Crap, someone lives there?” Officer Armstong found herself running forward with the rest, bursting through the door sagging forlornly on one hinge. “Spread out.”

The police fanned out, weapons at the ready. Floorboards creaked and broken glass crunched underfoot as they searched for the killer and the source of the scream. Armstrong took the surprisngly intact stairs to the second floor, followed shortly by Harrison.

In the second room, they found the body. It wore the clothes of the killer, and even held the same knife, although the body was years old: desiccated and bony. Before Armstrong had a chance to process this, another scream came from downstairs.

She and Harrison rushed back down, to find Hamilton in the doorway of the kitchen. Just beyond was another body, similar to the first. Only this one was wearing a police uniform. The service weapon was clearly visible in the light spilling in through the delicately-paned French window.

“What the hell?” Armstrong whispered softly, crouching down to turn the body over. The nametag said it was Officer Mayer. Everyone stared at the body in mute horror.

Behind them, the front door quietly shut. No one had entered the house since the last owners killed themselves twelve years ago, and it was hungry.

#

Detectives Lansdale and McCoy met up at the car. “What do you have?” Lansdale asked his partner.

“A bunch of liars,” McCoy snorted, looking at two empty police cruisers parked in front of the Whitehall house. “The neighbors keep claiming that place has been abandoned for years. If that’s the case, who has been mowing the lawn? Who has been washing the windows?”

Lansdale nodded, looking at the house. “For that matter, if it’s abandoned, who is that little girl waving at us from the second story? I think she wants to tell us something. Let’s go inside.”

The Creature Over the Bed

Billy tried to ignore it for as long as he could. The shuffling, the breathing. It was the Creature, he was sure of it. The Creature over the Bed. He had heard it every night for going on three weeks. Always the same. The night would start off well enough, sometimes he was even able to grab a little sleep. But then it would start. There would be a stomping sound, then a loud groaning creak. Harsh whispers he couldn’t quite make out would issue from thin air. Finally, the shuffling and the breathing. The horrid, horrible, ghastly breathing.

Billy was too old to believe in monsters, or so he told himself night after night. And  yet he would lie there, wide awake with is eyes screwed shut. Maybe if he didn’t look over the edge of the bed, then the Creature couldn’t get him. This was his only solace, the only hope he had to cling to during those long, lonely nights.

There was tangible proof, also. Sometimes when Billy woke up in the morning, things would be moved around. Sometimes it was an old pair of shoes, or sometimes it was an old, splintery Louisville Slugger, but things would not be where they were left the night before.

Billy tried speaking to Sioned about it once, but she was too busy with the laundry. “Oi, lad, these clothes’ll nay wash themselves!” she teased him, and he never spoke with her about it again.

He tried talking to Angus about the issue. He found Angus at breakfast, eating his usual bowl of honey-laced porridge, and his mouth was full and somewhat sticky, so he could do naught but shrug helplessly. He tried to talk to Angus again later, but found him busy with his tools, too intent on resoling an old boot to be of much help.

Billy thought about trying to talk to Old Man Jake, but if he had to be honest with himself, Billy would admit that Old Man Jake scared him almost as much as the Creature did. So there would be no help from that angle.

In the end, he talked about it with Alice, as usual. She was his closest confidant, despite being only a girl. She was the only one in the house who had time for him. When he asked her about it, she smiled shyly and told him she had all the time in the world for him. So he told her about the Creature and his restless nights and the horrible heavy breathing.

Alice listened closely, toying with the hem of her white nightshirt. As he finished his tale, she thought for a moment and then whispered, “You must confront it. It is the only way you’ll ever be safe. Bring a flashlight, and just… confront it.”

Billy struggled with this advice for a couple of days before snapping. He brought the flashlight, and lay there, waiting. Once he heard the voices and then the shuffling, Billy leapt out and shone his light at the Creature.

“Mo-om!” the Creature yelled, “Come cuick! The Thing Under the Bed has a flashlight!!!!”

In response to my own Flash Fiction challenge, Sunday in the park with Freddie. Come on folks, let’s see what you have.

Il Masque

In response to Sonia G. Medieros‘ October Flash-Fiction challenge: Masks.

I remember the first time I saw her. We were walking in opposite directions along Dearborn. She was going north towards Harrison, and I was going south towards Polk. I saw her through the ocean of lunch-time pedestrians. She shone like the sun, red and gold and radiant.

In a world full of Bautas, Donna Gattas, and Medico Della Pestes, she was a brilliant gold Luna Lux with crimson filigree and feathers.

The richness extended to her dress, a low-cut, off-the-shoulder scarlet affair that stopped just an inch above her knees. Stockings, heeled sandals, and full-length opera gloves of gold lame completed the ensemble.

I stopped and stared, awestruck by her beauty. She nodded politely but sweetly as she passed by, evidently well aware of her effect on men. I turned to follow her, but the press of bodies around me slowed me down and she turned the corner. As if someone had flipped the switch that controls the sun, the color and light went out of the world in that instant.

I spent every lunch for the next six months on that street, looking for her. There was no question of me simply missing her; with a face like that, she would be impossible. She was too vibrant, too colorful in a city of drabness, to miss. Six months I spent looking for her every lunch break, to no avail.

At work, I would search the internet for her. Surely she must be unique, I thought. The filigree, the tiny little ruby cluster dangling from from the gentle curve of the top of her face, the crimson feathers. Surely there couldn’t be another girl out there with a face that incredible. Looks like that were fairly common in Brazil and some of your larger Columbian cities, but all my searching turned up nothing in the States.

After a time, I began to despair. Then I grew angry. What right did she have to walk around just once, setting my heart afire, and then vanish. I stopped looking for her at lunch. I stopped searching the internet for her. In time, I was able to convince myself that I had forgotten about her. In more time, I was able to start looking at other women without comparing them too negatively to my phoenix-colored Luna Lux.

I began to date. Casually at first, but then I began spending more and more time with Susan, a cute little black-and-brown Gatta. After two years, we married. Another three years passed before we had our first child, and by that time I was a junior Senior Editor. We had moved out to the suburbs, and I took the L in to work each day. Our child was born in April, a sweet little Volto/Moretta in gray and silver with blue highlights.

Today, I had to pick my daughter up from kindergarten, as her mother was busy late with a client. And I saw her again, my brilliant Luna. She was a teacher at my daughter’s school. A few of her feathers had begun to droop, but she was still as beautiful as I remembered.

And that, officer, is why I may have had a little too much to drink tonight.

The Venice Accord

The meeting was to take place on the Boardwalk in Venice. We came from miles around, each making our way through the darkened streets lit by the occasional fire that hadn’t gone out yet.

From as far away as Santa Monica, Culver City, and Marina Del Rey we came. One family, a yuppie couple and their daughter, traveled all the way from Cheviot Hills, picking their way along Palms. We walked mostly in silence, each of us absorbed in his or her own thoughts on the subject we knew would be discussed at the meeting. It was the most pressing question of our time, and it deserved careful consideration. This was not a thing to be decided lightly.

I nodded to an engineer from Symantec, still wearing his name badge. He nodded back, but we were soon separated by the flow of other walkers. Ever since the Outbreak, it has been too dangerous to drive cars. With no street lights, you never knew what you were going to run into.

The press of bodies grew deeper and deeper as we turned onto Market Street. The meeting place was at the very end, near the skate park. As I tried to find a decent place to stand where I could see the concrete bench the speaker would use as a make-shift stage, a bikini-clad girl in roller skates bumped into me. She shot me an apologetic smile, glancing down at her skates. Clearly, they would be a problem for her now, but what could she do? We all had problems. I, myself, had left early even though I had only been a couple of miles away when the call went out for the meeting. I knew that my shattered fibula would slow me down, and I was not wrong about that. I arrived towards the back of the pack, only a few minutes before the speaker began.

I used the time to scan the crowd. It was a grim sight. There were very few in perfect health. One of the first victims of the Outbreak was, logically enough, health care. To my left was a woman in a waitress outfit with a Coco’s badge, sporting what looked to my untrained eye like a particularly nasty head wound. On my right was a man in a business suit, holding his daughter who was clearly missing her left leg below the knee. In front of me, two teen aged girls stood. One was helping the other to stand, as her friend had a clearly and badly broken ankle. No one spoke, but the groans of pain from the injured masses threatened to drown out the crash-boom of the waves coming in just yards away.

Finally it was time, and the speaker shuffled up onto the bench. He had to be helped up by a couple of other guys, and he swayed for a moment as he took his place. I recognized him. He had been a local politician before the Outbreak. Somewhere along the lines he had lost his suit coat, although he still had his tie. His white shirt front was dark with blood, and from the way he held his hand to his stomach, I guessed that he had been stabbed there.

As he stood, looking out at us, the crowd gradually fell silent. He took his time, judging the moment to perfection as we all gazed up at him, waiting. Wisely, I felt, he skipped any speeches or preliminaries. We all knew why we were here, what the issue at hand was. For what was probably the first time in his life, he chose to forgo the self-aggrandizement of public speaking and instead get right to the heart of the matter. He called for a vote instantly.

“Braains?” he asked.

As one, seven thousand voices replied in unanimous consent, “Braaaaaaaaiiinnssssss!”

And so it was decided.

Torquemada’s Tale

On the Post-a-Day site, the author at one point challenged people to write in a certain way that is normally considered ‘bad from.’ This tale is in the same form. Comment below if you can figure out what is wrong with it.

Screaming was performed by the prisoners as tongs that were hot were applied by inquisitors with experience. Walking was done along the path by the Head Inquisitor, and smiling happened upon his lips. Nods were given to this torturer or that as along his way meandering occurred.

“God, me free please set!” was cried by one victim as burning of his toes with pokers that redly glowed were applied there upon. “Nothing wrong is what I have done!”

A smile of cruelty was formed upon Torquemada’s countenance, and leaning forward he did do. “Shutting of your mouth will occur,” was said by him, “unless confessing to the crimes for which accused you have been you wish to do?”

Sobbing tears of sorrow and pain were wrung forth from the prisoner’s eyes like rain would be falling from the sky in spring.

Waited for a moment did Torquemada before shaking his head occurred. “No?” was asked by himself, and then did shrugging happen with his shoulders. “Very well then, more applying of the tortures will you do,” was ordered by him to the apprentice torturer. Nodding was done by that worthy, and the gathering up of a whip could be noticed to happen.

A loud screaming from the victim’s mouth was heard behind him as walking away was done by the head inquisitor. Other victims to see he had more of that day.

“Has any recanting of witchcraft been done by this one?” was asked of another junior inquisitor by the leader.

Shaking of the junior inquisitor’s head occurred as, “No sir, afraid not am I,” was said by  him.

Looking at the latest victim was done closely by Torquemada. “Aware of her identity I am,” was said by him. “The daughter of a neighbor she is, and wanted her for my own has been done by me for quite some time now. You will be having her brought to my room.”

“Yes sir,” was said by the junior inquisitor.

Hands rubbing together was done and lecherous thoughts were thought by Torquemada. Plans were made in his head. Having her tonight he would be, oh yes. Definitely having her tonight he would be. A good day was it suddenly, and smiling he was as walking he did down the corridor towards his room.

——-

Dear lord that was hard.

See what I did there? The torture was all yours, gentle reader. All yours.

A Catchy Tune

This is in response to CMStewart’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Dancing.

George’s right foot tapped gently as he hung from the passenger safety strap on the L Red-line past Clark. Several other passengers glanced at him, some in annoyance and some with slight smirks, and that is when he realized he was humming also. He blushed slightly and turned his head to look the other way.

A catchy tune, the song had been stuck in his head all day. He had found himself nodding his head or tapping a rhythm on his desk from time to time during his shift at the brokerage. On the way to the restroom for his afternoon break, he had even caught himself performing a little hop-skip down the row of cubicles.

George had been profoundly embarrassed at the time, but luckily no one had seen him in the office. Now, here he was on the L, getting laughed at by total strangers for acting like a child. He needed to get a grip.

A catchy tune, although he couldn’t quite place where he knew it from. He figured he had probably heard it on the radio at Starbucks, or maybe in the elevator on the way up to 17 where he worked. Maybe something from one of Alice’s shows on TV?  No, he shook his head wordlessly to himself, not Alice. She only ever watches those soaps, and then more soaps. When she’s done with that, she watches soaps.

George managed to keep himself under control for the rest of the train ride, but as he walked the half a mile to his house he caught himself humming again. His feet seemed lighter, and there was a spring in his step he was unused to. 23 years of working at a soul-sucking job like his, he believed, was enough to destroy any lingering springs that 25 years of marriage hadn’t managed to shatter.

A catchy tune, he thought to himself as he opened the little white picket gate in the little white picket fence surrounding his house. The American dream, that house, full of microwaves and dishwashers and a tumble washer/dryer combo. And yet most of it, except for the microwave, went unused. Alice couldn’t be bothered to cook dinner, that’s for sure. That would involve getting up from the TV and her soaps. That would involve putting away that God-awful never-ending knitting project of hers.

George took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped inside. “I’m home,” he called out. He waited for a good half a minute, but Alice only grunted at him, never even looking up. George sighed deeply and set his briefcase beside the door. As he crossed the living room towards the kitchen, he did a skip-step and a small twirl, utterly out of place in the drab place he called home.  The song in his head was louder now, he could barely hear the whining of Generic Character A on Alice’s soap as he complained that Generic Character B was cheating on him with his evil twin step-mother or whatever.

A catchy tune, George began to whistle as he skipped into the kitchen and tossed a TV dinner in the microwave. He could almost place it, it was so familiar. He felt like there were words to the song, words he couldn’t quite remember. Something about a tool maybe? And a man’s name. He couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. The song was lifting is spirits like nothing had since that brief affair with is secretary at the time 12 years ago.  What was her name again? Oh well, didn’t matter.

George ducked into the garage while his food was heating up. A garage full of dusty memories and long-dead dreams. The kayak he bought when he was 20, right before he married Alice. He never did take that trip down the Kankakee like he meant to. And over there, hidden behind boxes of books he hadn’t read in over a decade, the box with photos from their wedding. He hadn’t looked at those in… well, it was a long time. George tried to focus, he had come in here for a reason. Oh right, the tool cabinet. The song, he remembered now, involved a guy named Maximillian Hammer, or something like that. He whistled as he picked up the big sledge.

A catchy tune even if he couldn’t remember all the words. It reminded him of his youth, when the world was still bright and full of promise and he could do anything. When he and his friends would sit around in Troy’s room and smoke pot, listening to Bob’s dad’s old LPs. Good times, those.

George whirled and leapt as he came back into the kitchen. His food was done, so he pulled it from the microwave and set it on the counter near the living room. Fork and knife side-by-side next to it, each pulled from the drawer and set on the counter with a theatrical flourish. He held the sledge upside down, the heavy head like that of a dance partner, and he twirled around the kitchen like Astair and Rogers. He twirled and spun into the living room, cradling the head of his imaginary dance partner for a moment before reversing his grip and lifting the hammer high. Alice never even looked up.

A catchy tune, and one he couldn’t stop humming as he ate his dinner, which had an odd, coppery taste to it that night. He looked down at the hammer and tsked. “You’re supposed to be silver, not crimson.” He shrugged and went back to eating, humming and tapping his feet.